I'm sorry to bring you the news that I witness the sight of aging thespian Simon Callow touting for business on a street corner in London's notorious King's Cross yesterday.
He was putting on the old "waiting for a taxi" mien; but I know what I saw.
Not bad for his age though, I'd give him that.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Mind The Gap
Why is it, that having waited five minutes for the underground train to leave, the eventual bleeping of the doors attracts one last passenger who runs on to the platform at speed and throws themselves at the closing doors?
And, more to the point, why is the human missile is ALWAYS wearing a backpack which inevitably gets stuck OUTSIDE the carriage as the doors clamp around it, forcing the driver to have to stop, open the doors, and then wait whilst a further group of tourist appear and attempt to enter the now crowded train?
If people with backpacks MUST launch themselves at the rapidly closing doors, why can't they adopt some form of Fosbury Flop to ensure that the offending backpack ends up on the inside of the carriage?
Look, it's only an opinion.
And, more to the point, why is the human missile is ALWAYS wearing a backpack which inevitably gets stuck OUTSIDE the carriage as the doors clamp around it, forcing the driver to have to stop, open the doors, and then wait whilst a further group of tourist appear and attempt to enter the now crowded train?
If people with backpacks MUST launch themselves at the rapidly closing doors, why can't they adopt some form of Fosbury Flop to ensure that the offending backpack ends up on the inside of the carriage?
Look, it's only an opinion.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Wogga Wogga Plane Incident Recounted
Posh commentator describes bizarre WWII aviation feat.
Note tragic post script.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Remember The War On Terror?
I have to plead ignorance on this one: but there was a terrorist hit on Jaipur yesterday.
Obviously, with the acts of God impinging elsewhere in Burma* and China, the act of man takes to the back pages; but let us not miss the point: more people were killed and maimed in Jaipur than in the London Bombings of July 2005, so why is the news buried?
(*Curiously, there IS oil in Burma, so I'm not sure why the forces of righteousness in the west (OK: America) aren't prepared to intervene against the Saddam-style military regime there in the face of the savage indifference against the suffering people. )
Anyway, if the human suffering of 9/11 ; Madrid & the London Bombings were supposed to bring humanity closer together, then let's allow the others in; put Jaipur on the front page.
Obviously, with the acts of God impinging elsewhere in Burma* and China, the act of man takes to the back pages; but let us not miss the point: more people were killed and maimed in Jaipur than in the London Bombings of July 2005, so why is the news buried?
(*Curiously, there IS oil in Burma, so I'm not sure why the forces of righteousness in the west (OK: America) aren't prepared to intervene against the Saddam-style military regime there in the face of the savage indifference against the suffering people. )
Anyway, if the human suffering of 9/11 ; Madrid & the London Bombings were supposed to bring humanity closer together, then let's allow the others in; put Jaipur on the front page.
Restructure At Work Time
I have to defend my position.
For my presentation, I have chosen the medium of dance.
Now, where are my lucky tights?
For my presentation, I have chosen the medium of dance.
Now, where are my lucky tights?
Monday, May 12, 2008
Annie Lennox: My Hell
What, with the beautiful weather, it was decided that we would spend Sunday at Kew Gardens.
However, on discovering that public transport to Kew was diminished due to works, it was decided that we would take the car on a rare environment destroying jaunt.
It took an hour and a half. For a fourteen mile journey. In searing heat, facing south on the A406 into the midday sun.
And then, as though the grilled log jam was not frustrating enough, on came "Desert Island Discs" featuring the insufferable Annie Lennox, with her own ludicrous brand of what she believes to be profound, but which the rest of us take to be "common sense".
It was also a revelation to discover that, according to Lennox, the concept of 'the teenager' hadn't been invented yet when she was that age. Annie Lennox turned 13 in 1967. Four years after Beatlemania.
One assumes she missed it as she was probably as sanctimonious at that age as she remained for the rest of her days.
I sat there, dehydrated and agitated by the relentless heat, shouting at the radio, like a car-bound dog tormented by children, shouting in the vain hope that the woman would just go cease to exist. The heatstroke must have taken leave of my senses, as it never occurred to me to turn the radio off!
One of the longest journeys of my life. She was only on for thirty minutes, but I feel like I'll never recover.
And there are no help groups for victims of Annie Lennox's insufferability. Dreadful woman.
However, on discovering that public transport to Kew was diminished due to works, it was decided that we would take the car on a rare environment destroying jaunt.
It took an hour and a half. For a fourteen mile journey. In searing heat, facing south on the A406 into the midday sun.
And then, as though the grilled log jam was not frustrating enough, on came "Desert Island Discs" featuring the insufferable Annie Lennox, with her own ludicrous brand of what she believes to be profound, but which the rest of us take to be "common sense".
It was also a revelation to discover that, according to Lennox, the concept of 'the teenager' hadn't been invented yet when she was that age. Annie Lennox turned 13 in 1967. Four years after Beatlemania.
One assumes she missed it as she was probably as sanctimonious at that age as she remained for the rest of her days.
I sat there, dehydrated and agitated by the relentless heat, shouting at the radio, like a car-bound dog tormented by children, shouting in the vain hope that the woman would just go cease to exist. The heatstroke must have taken leave of my senses, as it never occurred to me to turn the radio off!
One of the longest journeys of my life. She was only on for thirty minutes, but I feel like I'll never recover.
And there are no help groups for victims of Annie Lennox's insufferability. Dreadful woman.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Evening Standard: Police Shoot Barrister
Look, no-one likes it, but it's the only humane way to keep their numbers down.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Boris & the Dog Whistle Genius.
I'm receiving correspondence from the disbelieving colonies about the Boris cock-up.
Actually, the result of the London election is all about our closest colonial rivals The Australians, and their vindictive revenge upon us in the form of Lynton Crosby.
Having placed the Australian right wing in parliament in his home country, he took the Imperial Shilling to come fuck over the pommies by acting as Boris' puppet master's familiar and proving that, with the right degree of cynicism and low cunning, exploiting people's basest prejudices, you can actually get even the village idiot elected.
Crosby is the master of "dog whistle" canvassing; that is, getting your (xenophobic) message across to those inclined, without drawing the attention of decent society.
For further details, check out the earlier profile from The Guardian. I bet John McCain already has.
Actually, the result of the London election is all about our closest colonial rivals The Australians, and their vindictive revenge upon us in the form of Lynton Crosby.
Having placed the Australian right wing in parliament in his home country, he took the Imperial Shilling to come fuck over the pommies by acting as Boris' puppet master's familiar and proving that, with the right degree of cynicism and low cunning, exploiting people's basest prejudices, you can actually get even the village idiot elected.
Crosby is the master of "dog whistle" canvassing; that is, getting your (xenophobic) message across to those inclined, without drawing the attention of decent society.
For further details, check out the earlier profile from The Guardian. I bet John McCain already has.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Saturday Morning 3rd May 2008
Just woken up.
It was not a dream then; Boris is still there.
Oh Bugger!
It was not a dream then; Boris is still there.
Oh Bugger!
Henry William Windle Potts: Election Latest
A bad night all round really.
Our man came forth, with 633 votes.
Never mind: it was spiffing fun just to wear a rosette!
Hoorah!
Our man came forth, with 633 votes.
Never mind: it was spiffing fun just to wear a rosette!
Hoorah!
Friday, May 02, 2008
Nancy Banks Smith: The Point of the Guardian
When I first conceived this blog it was very nearly going to be a rant against the falling standards of the Guardian during the time I've been reading it all my adult life.
My ire has always fallen upon those tedious nobodies who got to write in the Guardian purely because of the networking they achieved at Oxford, or who their parents were.
They know nothing, and have the most vapid opinion on anything. Except for Big Brother, which is apparently " brilliant ".
Anyway, my point is that I was on my way to work this morning, despondent; not just over Boris and my city's awaited embarrassment in electing him, but also issues at work and life in general.
But then, within my paper, I turned to the TV review and was heartened to find a rare appearance from Nancy Banks Smith, which I welcome as though in the presence of one of those benificial angels in Wenders' Wings of Desire.
Nancy's considered too old for the review page these days, and only gets to write when the young thrusting attitudinal "post-modernist" ("Yeh, like, Brother Brother's like, really deep on so many levels actually: have you met my uncle, he's in publishing, give him your number, he'll get you a job, Yah!") wankers are on leave.
When I was a young adult, Nancy, along with Michael White (politics) Geoffrey Beattie (social-psychology in Sheffield) and Terry Coleman, (interviewing grown ups) were the reason one read the Guardian. They made you feel smart for reading them.
The current crop make me feel smart for the wrong reason; they are all well-connected half-wits who are beneath my respect.
Anyway, Nancy lifted my mood with the dismissal of a poorly written comedy, a review which included the following:
You would be looking at a dead horse for some time before you thought you were on to a winner. I used to go riding on a horse called Caesar. One day Caesar just lay down and, with an infinitely weary and, I thought, over-operatic sigh, died. It was terrifying. I thought they would make me pay for him and I only got sixpence a week. I was only a child but even I could see Caesar didn't look a good bet for the Cesarewitch.
You see, there's something about someone who can remember the old money that makes Nancy's view valid, experienced and credible. Bless you Nancy; you wrote about TV when no-one cared for it, and you're still they only one who know's that medium's true value.
My ire has always fallen upon those tedious nobodies who got to write in the Guardian purely because of the networking they achieved at Oxford, or who their parents were.
They know nothing, and have the most vapid opinion on anything. Except for Big Brother, which is apparently " brilliant ".
Anyway, my point is that I was on my way to work this morning, despondent; not just over Boris and my city's awaited embarrassment in electing him, but also issues at work and life in general.
But then, within my paper, I turned to the TV review and was heartened to find a rare appearance from Nancy Banks Smith, which I welcome as though in the presence of one of those benificial angels in Wenders' Wings of Desire.
Nancy's considered too old for the review page these days, and only gets to write when the young thrusting attitudinal "post-modernist" ("Yeh, like, Brother Brother's like, really deep on so many levels actually: have you met my uncle, he's in publishing, give him your number, he'll get you a job, Yah!") wankers are on leave.
When I was a young adult, Nancy, along with Michael White (politics) Geoffrey Beattie (social-psychology in Sheffield) and Terry Coleman, (interviewing grown ups) were the reason one read the Guardian. They made you feel smart for reading them.
The current crop make me feel smart for the wrong reason; they are all well-connected half-wits who are beneath my respect.
Anyway, Nancy lifted my mood with the dismissal of a poorly written comedy, a review which included the following:
You see, there's something about someone who can remember the old money that makes Nancy's view valid, experienced and credible. Bless you Nancy; you wrote about TV when no-one cared for it, and you're still they only one who know's that medium's true value.
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