Apparently:
The man suffered swelling to his neck and struggled to breathe
The flight in question was re-routed as a result: see here
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Terror in the Skies: When Chefs Strike
Will Al Qaeda© stop at nothing? Who knew that they had a catering corps?
Apparently:
a passenger on a Ryanair flight from Budapest to Dublin needed medical treatment after a jar of soup leaked in an overhead locker, dripping onto his face.
The man suffered swelling to his neck and struggled to breathe
The flight in question was re-routed as a result: see here
Apparently:
The man suffered swelling to his neck and struggled to breathe
The flight in question was re-routed as a result: see here
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Ted Hughes of the Towpath
I was walking alongside the canal today, when I found myself following Camden's equivalent of The Wire's Bubs & Johnny, pushing their supermarket trolley along the towpath and riffing with each other, with the tall rangy one pushing the cart as the wee Glaswegian ginger feller dodged and weaved as he recounted some anecdote that, judging from the motions conveyed, involved kicking someone in the head.
As I reached earshot, I overheard the 'wegian retort:
"They'll say yes, or they'll say no. It's St Mungo's, in'it, you just don't
know!"
That, my friends, is the poetry of the pavement.
As I reached earshot, I overheard the 'wegian retort:
"They'll say yes, or they'll say no. It's St Mungo's, in'it, you just don't
know!"
That, my friends, is the poetry of the pavement.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Steamroller, vb. archaic
I saw a steamroller on the Euston Road the other day, but then again, I didn't.
It was new one, which wasn't driven by steam, and therefore couldn't be a steamroller. Therefore, what was it?
It was new one, which wasn't driven by steam, and therefore couldn't be a steamroller. Therefore, what was it?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Erin Bode: The Little Garden
There are still some good songwriters out there, but is there anyone able to make a good album anymore?
Erin Bode knows how, check out The Little Garden. Beautifully weighted lyrics, superb arrangements, good live ambience and not a duff track.
An album that has had me listening on the floor with the lights out for the first time in years.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Overheard: Unfortunately
In a pub in London's Kings Cross tonight.
A group of young professionals arrive, and are taking their places at the adjacent table:
Her: "So you're moving!"
Him: "Yes, my own place; I've had enough of the arguments!"
Her: "And the sex in the kitchen!"
Well, dear reader, imagine my relief when they were interrupted with a request for their order, and I didnt' have to endure any further elucidation on the eluded to depravity!
I mean; in Kings Cross of all places!
Monday, August 11, 2008
Isaac Hayes: What Goes Around
OK, it my previous post I may well have dissed the Mr. Hayes at the very moment that he lie beside her exercise machine in need of help.
The Shoebox does not condone voodoo in any form, and does not take responsibilty for any events that followed yesterday's installment.
However, neither does his sad demise make his performance at the Empire last year any less inexcusable.
For the record, I also took exception to the careers of Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
That's Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
The Shoebox does not condone voodoo in any form, and does not take responsibilty for any events that followed yesterday's installment.
However, neither does his sad demise make his performance at the Empire last year any less inexcusable.
For the record, I also took exception to the careers of Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
That's Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Grumpy Old Men Do Wembley
I was given a couple of freebie tickets to this year's Charity Shield, and wanting the opportunity to view the new, overpriced, Wembley my brother and I went along to see Portsmouth v. Man Utd.
I often complain about not getting out enough in my old age, but everytime I do, I just get outraged at how crap things have got.
I saw Isaac Hayes last year, and what a pile of shite he was, yet the audience, susceptible to the marketing hype lapped it up.
And the modern game appears to be under the same curse. I do not need an announcer telling me to welcome my team to the pitch. I do not need the announcer to tell me that half time was now happening, and to be reminded that it was Portsmouth v. Man Utd in the Charity Shield. As for the pre-match "entertainment", it was some women being promoted by Simon Cowell being given essential exposure, whilst a handful of blokes rode around on "segways", no doubt helping to promote these ludicrous vehicles in Britain. And this just two days after the lavish olympic opening ceremony in China. It was mediocre embarrassing crap.
And the game was pointless and without atmosphere, but the crowd didn't seem to mind!
My brother and I hark back to an earlier age, were men queued for hours to get into a game, where you stood sardined in the terraces, listening to scratchy chart hits six months out of date until the teams ran out to thunderous applause/booing/rancour. No-one needed to be told who was playing because: a) it was printed in the fixture list at the start of the season, b) it was on the poster outside the ground when you turned up, and ultimately c) it was on the ticket. If that wasn't enough, the average football fan had enough nous to recognise that the bloke running towards the goal in the red shirt was George Best, and the bloke lying on the ground in the blue shirt was Ron "Chopper" Harris.
And the terraces, apart from being death-traps, had atmosphere. They were bear-pits. Working Class bear-pits at that, one huge beast swaying up a down the terrace during the course of the game. I was at Anfield as an eleven-year old, where my feet barely touched the ground, as I bobbed around like a small cork on a tidal wave of scousers. Barely saw the game, but my god, what a day!
Twenty years ago I took a couple of colleagues from Tennessee to Spurs v. Aston Villa, where Venables' side, with Linekar and Gascoigne were taking on Taylors' championship hopefuls, which included Dave Pleat and Gordon Cowans. Big Game. Tottenham still held 50,000 back then and the atmosphere was raucous, and had that mid-week floodlit edge to it.
As we awaited the arrival of the teams, my guests asked "where is the entertainment?, in the States we have cheerleaders, singers, presentations, plenty before a game!"
"This is a football match," I replied, "We're here to watch a game of football!"
When the teams came out and the roar from the crowd snapped at us, my colleagues were visibly shaken, and as the game got under-weigh, and progressed through the best possible scenarios that a game can throw up, they began to realise that this was something different, and increasingly so as the volume grew as the tension mounted. At the end of the game, with Villa winning the game and earning a torrent of abuse from the home support, our ears were ringing, and one of the Tennesseans turned to me a said "Oh, I see what you mean: the football's the entertainment!"
"Too fucking, right!"
But now? 84,000 people prepared to pay £50 a ticket, and £2.30 for a coke who want a day out and an opportunity to sit with like-minded people in their replica shirts.
Curiously, when the non-event ground to a halt at 0-0, we were told that it would go straight to penalties. Now tradition used to have it that a draw meant that the shield was shared, but no more, the consumers were to be given a winner!
My brother and I decided that it was time to go, and at least it gave us to opportunity to get to the tube before the crowd.
We were not alone, as we shuffled down the Wembley Way, we were joined by other men, exclusively over forty, none of whom wore a replica shirt, all equally disillusioned by what they'd seen. Modern life? Keep it.
I often complain about not getting out enough in my old age, but everytime I do, I just get outraged at how crap things have got.
I saw Isaac Hayes last year, and what a pile of shite he was, yet the audience, susceptible to the marketing hype lapped it up.
And the modern game appears to be under the same curse. I do not need an announcer telling me to welcome my team to the pitch. I do not need the announcer to tell me that half time was now happening, and to be reminded that it was Portsmouth v. Man Utd in the Charity Shield. As for the pre-match "entertainment", it was some women being promoted by Simon Cowell being given essential exposure, whilst a handful of blokes rode around on "segways", no doubt helping to promote these ludicrous vehicles in Britain. And this just two days after the lavish olympic opening ceremony in China. It was mediocre embarrassing crap.
And the game was pointless and without atmosphere, but the crowd didn't seem to mind!
My brother and I hark back to an earlier age, were men queued for hours to get into a game, where you stood sardined in the terraces, listening to scratchy chart hits six months out of date until the teams ran out to thunderous applause/booing/rancour. No-one needed to be told who was playing because: a) it was printed in the fixture list at the start of the season, b) it was on the poster outside the ground when you turned up, and ultimately c) it was on the ticket. If that wasn't enough, the average football fan had enough nous to recognise that the bloke running towards the goal in the red shirt was George Best, and the bloke lying on the ground in the blue shirt was Ron "Chopper" Harris.
And the terraces, apart from being death-traps, had atmosphere. They were bear-pits. Working Class bear-pits at that, one huge beast swaying up a down the terrace during the course of the game. I was at Anfield as an eleven-year old, where my feet barely touched the ground, as I bobbed around like a small cork on a tidal wave of scousers. Barely saw the game, but my god, what a day!
Twenty years ago I took a couple of colleagues from Tennessee to Spurs v. Aston Villa, where Venables' side, with Linekar and Gascoigne were taking on Taylors' championship hopefuls, which included Dave Pleat and Gordon Cowans. Big Game. Tottenham still held 50,000 back then and the atmosphere was raucous, and had that mid-week floodlit edge to it.
As we awaited the arrival of the teams, my guests asked "where is the entertainment?, in the States we have cheerleaders, singers, presentations, plenty before a game!"
"This is a football match," I replied, "We're here to watch a game of football!"
When the teams came out and the roar from the crowd snapped at us, my colleagues were visibly shaken, and as the game got under-weigh, and progressed through the best possible scenarios that a game can throw up, they began to realise that this was something different, and increasingly so as the volume grew as the tension mounted. At the end of the game, with Villa winning the game and earning a torrent of abuse from the home support, our ears were ringing, and one of the Tennesseans turned to me a said "Oh, I see what you mean: the football's the entertainment!"
"Too fucking, right!"
But now? 84,000 people prepared to pay £50 a ticket, and £2.30 for a coke who want a day out and an opportunity to sit with like-minded people in their replica shirts.
Curiously, when the non-event ground to a halt at 0-0, we were told that it would go straight to penalties. Now tradition used to have it that a draw meant that the shield was shared, but no more, the consumers were to be given a winner!
My brother and I decided that it was time to go, and at least it gave us to opportunity to get to the tube before the crowd.
We were not alone, as we shuffled down the Wembley Way, we were joined by other men, exclusively over forty, none of whom wore a replica shirt, all equally disillusioned by what they'd seen. Modern life? Keep it.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Oh, For Fuck's Sake
Want a glimpse of the future?
Forget muslim terrorism, We're celebrating China having the Olympics, whilst retro 20th Centurists Russia are INVADING their neighbours!
Forget the credit crunch, and global warming, our crazy cousins to the east are going to demonstrate their nihilistic hilarity as we all plunge into the void on their behalf.
Oh, for fuck's sake!
Forget muslim terrorism, We're celebrating China having the Olympics, whilst retro 20th Centurists Russia are INVADING their neighbours!
Forget the credit crunch, and global warming, our crazy cousins to the east are going to demonstrate their nihilistic hilarity as we all plunge into the void on their behalf.
Oh, for fuck's sake!
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Overheard
I was innocently sitting at my desk, minding my own business when I overheard the following exchange:
Young Man: "Was that brown before?"
Young Woman: "Something's different, OR WRONG!"
I mean: in the workplace, REALLY!
Young Man: "Was that brown before?"
Young Woman: "Something's different, OR WRONG!"
I mean: in the workplace, REALLY!
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Aussies Spurn Starbucks' Global March
There was a moment a couple of years ago when someone noticed that MacDonalds had REDUCED the amount of their junk food outlets in the UK.
Conclusions were drawn.
Well, it appears that Starbucks have met their match in Australia, where Bruce & Sheila have proven reluctant to abandon their perfectly adequate homegrown local coffee shops according to the BBC
Now all we need is a global recession. Ah! here's one right now!
Conclusions were drawn.
Well, it appears that Starbucks have met their match in Australia, where Bruce & Sheila have proven reluctant to abandon their perfectly adequate homegrown local coffee shops according to the BBC
Now all we need is a global recession. Ah! here's one right now!
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