Having watched Griff Rhys Jones' programme on anger this evening, my partner, who is AN INTELLECTUAL DUNCE and I began discussing several of the show's notions, which led to what could only be described as AN ARGUMENT as I struggled to GET MY POINT ACROSS.
NO; I DO NOT NEED ANGER MANAGEMENT!
Funny, thing anger. Never really goes away does it?
(Speaking as someone, who, in adolescence would beat the upright piano with the piano stool in frustration at my failing to sight read)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Car Free Day: North London Style
Yesterday was Car Free Day in my high street: Hoorah!
However, the organisers chose to balance out the reduction in pollution by erecting a stage outside the library for local Ragga artists to deafen everybody with a demoralising bludgeoning of drum and bass heavy oppression. This was no doubt organised by some young marketing woman with a belly button piercing and a clipboard who thought that the event needed some kind of urban credibility to get with the kids.
The sight of shoppers scurrying past the area in front of the stage frowning and ensuring that they move away from the assault ASAP should have indicated that the "performance" may have been ill-considered.
Well, now let us imagine a Pollution Free Day, where all variants of unwanted disruption, be it fumes, litter, fly tipping, musak, or noise are banished; just to see what life could be like? Yes, not trendy, but refreshing.
However, the organisers chose to balance out the reduction in pollution by erecting a stage outside the library for local Ragga artists to deafen everybody with a demoralising bludgeoning of drum and bass heavy oppression. This was no doubt organised by some young marketing woman with a belly button piercing and a clipboard who thought that the event needed some kind of urban credibility to get with the kids.
The sight of shoppers scurrying past the area in front of the stage frowning and ensuring that they move away from the assault ASAP should have indicated that the "performance" may have been ill-considered.
Well, now let us imagine a Pollution Free Day, where all variants of unwanted disruption, be it fumes, litter, fly tipping, musak, or noise are banished; just to see what life could be like? Yes, not trendy, but refreshing.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Bacon
Yes, it's time for another Francis Bacon exhibit at the Tate Britain, which ages me as I can remember the last one like it was yesterday. Last time, the Nazi on the door wouldn't allow me in with my guitar and wouldn't entertain the idea of me leaving it in the cloakroom. I had to stay outside whilst my friends went in without me, and waited for them to come out to do guitar sitting whilst I went in alone (with one of their tickets, thus cheating a system that had cheated me!)
Anyway, it's a Bacon exhibition. I think he's wonderful, but I don't think I felt anything new looking at it.
However, I was musing on the notion of the "work of art" / "observer" symbiosis, only with the twist of "irritating other observer getting in the way for the sake of it".
I was looking at one of the crucifixion triptychs, when this irritating arsehole decided that he wanted to inspect the canvas really closely!. Yes, really closely for a long time! and I realised that the longer I waited for him to fuck off, the longer he would stay there. Had I turned and walked away the moment he arrived, he'd have seen that the canvas was canvas with paint on it, and moved on. Because I wanted to look at the triptych, then his interest became paramount. The act of me observing him being pretentious drove him to persist being so. Once my gaze was averted, his act became futile.
This is not what I went there for, and certainly not for £12.50!
I would however recommend the BP free exhibition of the Tate's collection of drawings, and in particular that of Tacita Dean's chalk on blackboard work.
Also recommend viewing Martin Creed's running exhibit, which is and excellent use of the space available, and surprisingly potent close up. They're obviously using some real athletes in there: I passed one lad as he started off with a skip and a jump and then BLASTED away up the hall at blistering pace. And they don't stop for anyone! I'd love to know the attrition rate in downed artlovers who had been looking the other way when this lot roar through!
Anyway, it's a Bacon exhibition. I think he's wonderful, but I don't think I felt anything new looking at it.
However, I was musing on the notion of the "work of art" / "observer" symbiosis, only with the twist of "irritating other observer getting in the way for the sake of it".
I was looking at one of the crucifixion triptychs, when this irritating arsehole decided that he wanted to inspect the canvas really closely!. Yes, really closely for a long time! and I realised that the longer I waited for him to fuck off, the longer he would stay there. Had I turned and walked away the moment he arrived, he'd have seen that the canvas was canvas with paint on it, and moved on. Because I wanted to look at the triptych, then his interest became paramount. The act of me observing him being pretentious drove him to persist being so. Once my gaze was averted, his act became futile.
This is not what I went there for, and certainly not for £12.50!
I would however recommend the BP free exhibition of the Tate's collection of drawings, and in particular that of Tacita Dean's chalk on blackboard work.
Also recommend viewing Martin Creed's running exhibit, which is and excellent use of the space available, and surprisingly potent close up. They're obviously using some real athletes in there: I passed one lad as he started off with a skip and a jump and then BLASTED away up the hall at blistering pace. And they don't stop for anyone! I'd love to know the attrition rate in downed artlovers who had been looking the other way when this lot roar through!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The End of the World as We Know It
Unlike his failure to deal with Hurricane Katrina, President Bush has just shown that he can act swiftly and assertively when it concerns him. What concerns him is bailing out his chums in Wall Street, proving that capitalism CAN offer a risk-free environment where those that got the WHOLE WORLD into this shit get to keep their jobs.
It's a curiously different approach than that the Bush camp took in Iraq. There, they chose to isolate and eradicate anybody associated with the Baath party, however insignificant. In Wall Street, there is to be no guilt by association, and everybody gets a second chance however incompetent!
As a presidential leaving gift, it's a little like Gerald Ford's pardoning of Nixon. Unforgivable, but only too predictable.
It's a curiously different approach than that the Bush camp took in Iraq. There, they chose to isolate and eradicate anybody associated with the Baath party, however insignificant. In Wall Street, there is to be no guilt by association, and everybody gets a second chance however incompetent!
As a presidential leaving gift, it's a little like Gerald Ford's pardoning of Nixon. Unforgivable, but only too predictable.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
"I Didn't Realise The Strength Of A Pig!"
Fantastic feature from the BBC
Angry Pig moves in an holds Australian woman hostage in her own home!
Watch the video and then listen to the radio interview link afterwards.
Oh, and whilst you're around that part of the world, check out the Japanese Air Bags For Elderly People. It deploys within a tenth of a second of detecting an unplanned fall towards the ground!
Angry Pig moves in an holds Australian woman hostage in her own home!
Watch the video and then listen to the radio interview link afterwards.
Oh, and whilst you're around that part of the world, check out the Japanese Air Bags For Elderly People. It deploys within a tenth of a second of detecting an unplanned fall towards the ground!
Chimney Sweep Is Anticlimax Shock
We've just have our first ever visit from a chimney sweep, and frankly, I'm disappointed.
He did a lovely job, I've nothing to complain about in regard to issues of quality, it was an otherwise excellent service, but it wasn't what I was expecting.
My suspicions were aroused when I called the number and heard a polite and posh, middle-class lady reply, and not the gruff matter-of fact bloke I imagined.
When the sweep arrived, he wasn't a short, aging, cap-doffing duffer at all, rather, he was a young man in his early twenties which a huge vacuum cleaner!
However, in his defence, he was incredibly dirty and he had brought his brushes. After a period of vacuuming, there was moment of quiet industry after which stepped outside for a moment, before returning and asking if I wanted to "see the brush out"!
Cautiously, I stepped outside to witness the brushed proudly exposed from the top of our chimney!
Ten minutes after that, it was all over and done with, and not a small boy in sight!
Modern times eh?
He did a lovely job, I've nothing to complain about in regard to issues of quality, it was an otherwise excellent service, but it wasn't what I was expecting.
My suspicions were aroused when I called the number and heard a polite and posh, middle-class lady reply, and not the gruff matter-of fact bloke I imagined.
When the sweep arrived, he wasn't a short, aging, cap-doffing duffer at all, rather, he was a young man in his early twenties which a huge vacuum cleaner!
However, in his defence, he was incredibly dirty and he had brought his brushes. After a period of vacuuming, there was moment of quiet industry after which stepped outside for a moment, before returning and asking if I wanted to "see the brush out"!
Cautiously, I stepped outside to witness the brushed proudly exposed from the top of our chimney!
Ten minutes after that, it was all over and done with, and not a small boy in sight!
Modern times eh?
Monday, September 22, 2008
1968: Retail Opportunity
On watching a BBC documentary on the "revolutionary" events of 1968, I was struck by footage of the black panthers, yet not of their zeal or cause, but in wondering who got the contract to kit them out.
Was there a Cohen & Sons; Outfitters to the Revolution: Oakland, Detroit, Chicago & Baltimore?
"First for Leather Sports Jackets, Berets and Sunglasses! Beware imitators!"
Somebody cleaned up in the apparel department.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Charivari? Sadly Not
No, there was no happy couple strolling hand-in-hand along the beach.
In fact the post-it notes were actually written upon, with disparaging messages relating to the driver and his vehicle. Shortly after this image was taken I witnessed the disgruntled driver of this vehicle removing the offending correspondence with barely disguised rage.
Incidently, on the way to the shore, I negotiated my car beneath the small railway bridge with the poor sight lines by the usual practice of leaning over to the left, checking the route was clear, and then gunning it though the narrow apeture.
As I emerged on the other side I was met by an Audi driver (a Chav Audi driver) who had accelerated out of the bend opposite, assuming that the path beneath the bridge would be clear. His assumption was wrong, and as the nose of the Audi went down under heavy braking, I simultaneously observed the outrage of the driver, pissed off at my right of way, and the sight of his small daughter leaving the seat next to him and bouncing off the windscreen face first!
Next time sweetheart, ignore daddy when he tells you that seatbelts are for tossers.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
37 Years On: Village Still Silent
It's been almost four decades now, yet the residents of Wolvercote are still unable, or unwilling, to talk about the events that occurred on the day of the 1971 Village Carnival, or indeed of the fate of the 1971 Carnival Queen.
However, one villager, an elderly inebriate and possibly unreliable, told us:
Our reporter then found a potato jammed into the exhaust pipe of the Shoebox van.
The mystery continues.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Runt of the Litter
At the leaving do of a colleague tonight, and was left conversing with her partner, a man of fascinating antecedents.
Tragically, none of this excitement rubbed off, and I was left with a dullard who even lacked the ability to convey what was clearly a rich and noble lineage. A conversation better written down.
McCarthyism was never rendered so hollow.
Bought me a packet of crisps though, which ain't bad for a dullard.
Tragically, none of this excitement rubbed off, and I was left with a dullard who even lacked the ability to convey what was clearly a rich and noble lineage. A conversation better written down.
McCarthyism was never rendered so hollow.
Bought me a packet of crisps though, which ain't bad for a dullard.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Well Colour Me Pink!
If you've got five minutes to waste, and no colour blindness, test your colour IQ at: xrite
Radio 4: The End of the World is Nigh!
Having a couple of weeks leave (our American readers will enjoy the knowledge that I'm entitled to 28 days per annum), and setting about the manly pursuits of DIY and gardening whilst listening to the BBCs Radio 4.
Wonderful analysis of the current economic fiasco: basically a disaster laid down by the Thatcher government City reforms in the late eighties, which enable the economy to grow exponentially, but equally encouraged systemic recklessness for which the world is about to pay, (without the participation of most of the protaganists who have long since stashed their ill-gotten gains in anticipation of this very scenario).
Then, following the collapse of XL and the imminent demise of Air Italia, there is the warning that a number of minor airlines are about the go out of business due to the cost of aviation fuel, and thus auger the end of an era for cheap flights.
Which segues to a wonderful piece on Peak Oil, the notion that the world has passed it's watershed on oil production, and that cheap oil is no longer possible. Yes, there are untapped resources available, but at a price. The extraction costs are so high that the oil barons have to wait for prices to hit an extreme before the new resources become feasible.
And this has always been the case. On reading The Oil Drum, a peak oil site, this was the motivation for the exploitation of Britain's North Sea fields following the OPEC embargo:
It was known that oil was available in the North Sea prior to the oil embargo. It was not until the price run-up related to the embargo that it was economically feasible to drill there
Which means that all that deep water oil off of Brazil, or even that under the arctic, may be feasible, but only at huge costs. The notion of Peak Oil doesn't necessarily concentrate on the decline of oil as a comodity, rather that the notion of cheap oil is a thing of the past.
Basically that four-wheel drive school run will soon cost more than the school fees!
Make the fat little fuckers walk!
Wonderful analysis of the current economic fiasco: basically a disaster laid down by the Thatcher government City reforms in the late eighties, which enable the economy to grow exponentially, but equally encouraged systemic recklessness for which the world is about to pay, (without the participation of most of the protaganists who have long since stashed their ill-gotten gains in anticipation of this very scenario).
Then, following the collapse of XL and the imminent demise of Air Italia, there is the warning that a number of minor airlines are about the go out of business due to the cost of aviation fuel, and thus auger the end of an era for cheap flights.
Which segues to a wonderful piece on Peak Oil, the notion that the world has passed it's watershed on oil production, and that cheap oil is no longer possible. Yes, there are untapped resources available, but at a price. The extraction costs are so high that the oil barons have to wait for prices to hit an extreme before the new resources become feasible.
And this has always been the case. On reading The Oil Drum, a peak oil site, this was the motivation for the exploitation of Britain's North Sea fields following the OPEC embargo:
Which means that all that deep water oil off of Brazil, or even that under the arctic, may be feasible, but only at huge costs. The notion of Peak Oil doesn't necessarily concentrate on the decline of oil as a comodity, rather that the notion of cheap oil is a thing of the past.
Basically that four-wheel drive school run will soon cost more than the school fees!
Make the fat little fuckers walk!
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Mr Doppler Would Be So Proud....
Evidence that the guys in my home town have found something to do.
Now you know why I had to leave.
I blame the internet.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Can We Call It A Recession Now?
Although I'm mindful to watch my words, as I don't know where I might end up at the end of this recession, there's part of me that's enjoying the schadenfreude of watching an unprepared and poorly equipped generation hurtling towards hardship and uncertainty.
I came of age in the early seventies with the three day week, when the Heath government only had enough energy reserves to allow three days to be worked, and power cuts became a current feature of life.
My first mortgage reached 15% under the Thatcher government which was quick to hand over all the money to their friends in the city before they drove the country into the ground. In fact, as chancellor, Nigel Lawson engineered a budget that reduced my taxes by £20 a month, but increased my mortgage payments by £80! Thanks Nigel!
So having watched this attenuated period of economic growth, and the foolhardy rise in property prices where only the buy to rent crowd have benefited, I've be amused to find that people believed that, not only would it go on forever, but that it was their right.
Now we have an entire generation, living out the Thatcherite dream of instant gratification, borrowing to pay their mobile phone bills, buy their masculine moisturisers, procure cosmetic surgery and live the marketing departments' idea of the dream life. Let's see Starbucks weather this one, not to mention Premiership football at £50 a ticket.
I'm cautious, as recessions are like wars, you never know where they'll lead, but I'm inclined to cry: Bring it on old friend, let's see who comes out the other end!
I came of age in the early seventies with the three day week, when the Heath government only had enough energy reserves to allow three days to be worked, and power cuts became a current feature of life.
My first mortgage reached 15% under the Thatcher government which was quick to hand over all the money to their friends in the city before they drove the country into the ground. In fact, as chancellor, Nigel Lawson engineered a budget that reduced my taxes by £20 a month, but increased my mortgage payments by £80! Thanks Nigel!
So having watched this attenuated period of economic growth, and the foolhardy rise in property prices where only the buy to rent crowd have benefited, I've be amused to find that people believed that, not only would it go on forever, but that it was their right.
Now we have an entire generation, living out the Thatcherite dream of instant gratification, borrowing to pay their mobile phone bills, buy their masculine moisturisers, procure cosmetic surgery and live the marketing departments' idea of the dream life. Let's see Starbucks weather this one, not to mention Premiership football at £50 a ticket.
I'm cautious, as recessions are like wars, you never know where they'll lead, but I'm inclined to cry: Bring it on old friend, let's see who comes out the other end!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Alternative Counter-Culture
Remember the days when we were all amused to discover that Rolling Stones' bass player Bill Wyman had acquired himself a hobby in the form of metal detecting? The thought of a Rock Star supplementing their excessive lifestyle with a mundane past-time seemed faintly ridiculous.
However, those of us that have sat through the recent news coverage regarding collapse of the XL travel group will have witnessed the spectacle of Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson being interviewed in his capacity as commercial airline pilot, describing how he and his employers were about to take part in the global 'air-lift' in bringing the stranded tourists home!
And very smart he looked, in his uniform and cap, and not a skull in sight! Although Bruce describes his second occupation as a hobby, he's wrong, it's a job. A highly qualified, highly paid job with enormous responsibility.
And it doesn't stop there. Remember Skunk Baxter? He's the guy playing lead guitar on Steely Dan's 'Realing in the years' and played on their first three albums before moving to the Doobie Brothers. A virtuoso, and former sidekick of Jimi Hendrix, he built a sterling reputation as a major session axeman from the seventies onwards and was the epitome stoned cool.
Well, how times have changed! These days Skunk is better known as a US government weapons specialist! He got himself a whole other job working for the man!
Meanwhile, over in the beau monde, Red or Dead designer Wayne Hemingway has been moonlighting as an urban planner! Better known as the son of Native American wrestling hero Billy Two Rivers, Hemingway, like Skunk, has become a government advisor, in this case on housing and urban development!
Now, I'm not putting these guys down, they have, after all, gained repute in two careers, whereas I've yet to manage even one, but I'm of the generation that believed in a popular culture that opposed the establishment, and existed to question the status quo (or even Status Quo come to think about it). It may not have been a real rebellion, but it felt like one, and you were reassured that your heroes, when not rocking and cutting a dash, were out there debauching themselves in the decadent underworld of louche living.
I am therefore not equipped for a world where the rebellion's role models have day jobs.
More absinthe Rimbaud?
However, those of us that have sat through the recent news coverage regarding collapse of the XL travel group will have witnessed the spectacle of Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson being interviewed in his capacity as commercial airline pilot, describing how he and his employers were about to take part in the global 'air-lift' in bringing the stranded tourists home!
And very smart he looked, in his uniform and cap, and not a skull in sight! Although Bruce describes his second occupation as a hobby, he's wrong, it's a job. A highly qualified, highly paid job with enormous responsibility.
And it doesn't stop there. Remember Skunk Baxter? He's the guy playing lead guitar on Steely Dan's 'Realing in the years' and played on their first three albums before moving to the Doobie Brothers. A virtuoso, and former sidekick of Jimi Hendrix, he built a sterling reputation as a major session axeman from the seventies onwards and was the epitome stoned cool.
Well, how times have changed! These days Skunk is better known as a US government weapons specialist! He got himself a whole other job working for the man!
Meanwhile, over in the beau monde, Red or Dead designer Wayne Hemingway has been moonlighting as an urban planner! Better known as the son of Native American wrestling hero Billy Two Rivers, Hemingway, like Skunk, has become a government advisor, in this case on housing and urban development!
Now, I'm not putting these guys down, they have, after all, gained repute in two careers, whereas I've yet to manage even one, but I'm of the generation that believed in a popular culture that opposed the establishment, and existed to question the status quo (or even Status Quo come to think about it). It may not have been a real rebellion, but it felt like one, and you were reassured that your heroes, when not rocking and cutting a dash, were out there debauching themselves in the decadent underworld of louche living.
I am therefore not equipped for a world where the rebellion's role models have day jobs.
More absinthe Rimbaud?
Nicotine
As we were leaving the pub tonight after last orders, my pal was chatting to the landlady who had an unlit cigarette in her hand. Obviously, she was waiting for us to depart as she wished to light the said cigarette within her place of work, which was obviously illegal, but with us gone, who would know about it?
My pal's gorgeous partner, in a wine-weakened condition, motioned to beg the cigarette from the landlady, but withdrew. She is after all, like myself, an ex-smoker. Gentlemanly, I stepped forward and suggested that, should the landlady be willing to surrender the so far unlit fag, that I was willing to share the illicit smoke with my pal's needy, and delightful partner.
Hence we stood on the street outside of The Ship in London's bustling Soho, illicitly smoking the fag like a couple of thirteen year olds dragging on a stolen Park Drive circa 1971.
Then, as my pals hailed a cab, I was left with the 10cm remnant, which I aimed to complete to the filter for old-time's sake, when I was approached by an attractive (I'm not GAY) Italian young man who asked for a light. I proffered what was left of the dog-end, apologised, and proffered the deceipt that it was my last. He lit he fag with the dog-end, and politely offered me a fresh complete cigarette, which I duly accepted.
We laughed as we saw the comedy in how I needed to now light my new fag from the cigarette that he had moments before lit from my embers.
I then enjoyed the sheer bliss of walking the streets of London's bustling Soho at midnight drawing upon a fag as though I was born to it, which, dear reader, I surely was.
And yes, it momentarily put me in the mind to procure some champaign, a havana cigar, cocaine and a lady of the night, but, sadly I made do with the walk to the tube amongst the young with their exhibitionist splendour.
Sweet Dreams
My pal's gorgeous partner, in a wine-weakened condition, motioned to beg the cigarette from the landlady, but withdrew. She is after all, like myself, an ex-smoker. Gentlemanly, I stepped forward and suggested that, should the landlady be willing to surrender the so far unlit fag, that I was willing to share the illicit smoke with my pal's needy, and delightful partner.
Hence we stood on the street outside of The Ship in London's bustling Soho, illicitly smoking the fag like a couple of thirteen year olds dragging on a stolen Park Drive circa 1971.
Then, as my pals hailed a cab, I was left with the 10cm remnant, which I aimed to complete to the filter for old-time's sake, when I was approached by an attractive (I'm not GAY) Italian young man who asked for a light. I proffered what was left of the dog-end, apologised, and proffered the deceipt that it was my last. He lit he fag with the dog-end, and politely offered me a fresh complete cigarette, which I duly accepted.
We laughed as we saw the comedy in how I needed to now light my new fag from the cigarette that he had moments before lit from my embers.
I then enjoyed the sheer bliss of walking the streets of London's bustling Soho at midnight drawing upon a fag as though I was born to it, which, dear reader, I surely was.
And yes, it momentarily put me in the mind to procure some champaign, a havana cigar, cocaine and a lady of the night, but, sadly I made do with the walk to the tube amongst the young with their exhibitionist splendour.
Sweet Dreams
Friday, September 12, 2008
Overheard, I'm afraid....
We were lunching at a fashionable yet modestly priced eatery in London's fashionable, yet expensive Bloomsbury when we were exposed to the expostulations of the shrill posh young woman behind us who declaimed:
"I don't care! I just don't want him turning up at my opening!"
I mean, keep it to yourself darling, PLEASE! At the dinner table of all places, REALLY!
I mean, keep it to yourself darling, PLEASE! At the dinner table of all places, REALLY!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Frankenstein!
I have never been a lucky man, and I anticipated that my last week in my current position would be prone to disaster.
You know the movie bit when the cop is hoping to enjoy his final week prior to retirement, only to be rudely interrupted by the serial killer? Well, this is the arrival of my serial killer, in the style of Apollo 13.
This PC is the embodiment of my week. Confidentiality forbids me to divulge the circumstances, or the consequences of this situation, but this is not good, and this is image highlights my organisation's tenuous grip on its XXXXXXXXXX commitment, to which I hold responsibility.
The actual PC which holds the XXXXXXXXX software just packed up. Then we discovered that the back ups, and the contigency machine were woefully inadequate. Potentially my organisation, and ultimately ME could be in deep shit.
This dusty old PC was extracted from the archives and has been reassembled using bits of the important computer. So far, no one has noticed. Allah willing, no one needs ever to know. So keep it quiet!
Monday, September 08, 2008
So Why The Screws?
Enormous satisfaction to be had on Saturday, when I finally fixed the latch on the glove box after 14 months of driving around with the thing hanging open, between short bouts of it fastened with fast deteriorating masking tape.
Trying to replace the mechanism appeared to be elusive as I sporadically targeted scrap dealers (they're all on line these days; scrap dealers!) to no avail.
Finally I found one. I spent £25, only to be sent an entire glove box WITHOUT A LOCK.
Then, imagine my dismay after 14 months to discover that VW do these as a standard, with its standard part number, even if the car IS 12 years old!
Fitting it was another thing. I needed three different screw drivers to remove five screws, (Bastards) only to discover that the glove compartment wouldn't budge (Bastards). Why is that? You take all the screws out of something and it still refuses to budge. It happens too often for my liking. Either that, or you remove the screws and discover that the item you're unscrewing was assembled from the other side and that you've effectively unscrewed the bolts which have now disappeared somewhere on the inaccessible side.
So basically, I was there, sat in the passenger seat struggling to complete what should have been a simple task. Getting the barrel out was a complete bastard until I discovered by accident that you just shove the key in it.
To cut a dull story short, the whole bloody thing took one hour twenty, when it should have taken ten minutes, but I got it done, and I rewarded myself with Sunday off. Mind you, when she discovers the marks left by the dried glue from the crappy masking tape, and realises that I have been unable to remove them with white spirit, she's going to be expecting me to dedicate next weekend to dried-glue removal or else.
Maybe time to by a new car.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
Farewell To All That
One more week in my bomb-proof basement, and then it'll be goodbye to the 1930s heating control behind my desk. I'm going to miss it.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Polish Pervert Is Hygenist Horror
OK, it's been a long time since I last visited a dentist, and I'm not surprised that I'm out of touch, but I never realised how much things had changed.
In my day, or at least when I last went to the dentist in the provinces, there were established rules: the dentist was a man, and his assistant was pert young woman. This was balance things out. Lady patients were reassured by the presence of the young woman, as an insurance against 'over-familiarity' on the dentist's part, acting like some kind of junior umpire.
For the chaps, she was there partly as an incentive to visit, but also to ease the tension of being violated in a confined space by another man. The fact that the young lovely was taking part gave the whole sordid business a rather decadent but acceptable-in-a-louche way credibility, as one left as the reluctant partner in this threesome feeling sore, but sophisticated in a man-of-the-world sort of way.
Equally, the introduction of the hygenist, always a woman (one assumes that they were considered too pretty to become a dentist), was a welcome development at the surgery, offering 'extras' to those so inclined. Back in Dorset, our local cutie had her own little cubicle at the top of the house, and one would be treated to a little frisson of anticipation as she invited the lucky client to follow her and her excellently crafted arse up the steep stairs into her fully-equipped boudoir.
After a little small-talk she'd get down to business; a little of the rough stuff to start with, but finishing with an expert oral buffing to leave a chap with a satisfied smile on his face.
How times have changed!
Tonight at my new dentist in the big city, things appeared to be normal enough. Middle-aged Sri Lankan male as dentist, assisted by a sultry, but slightly unkempt-in-a-provocative way young Sri Lankan woman, whose abundant jet black bible black crow black hair was threatening to tumble out of her alice-band as a promise of things to come, should one's luck be in. All perfectly acceptable.
But then, having coerced me into his chair and done his worst, including the teeth-clenching xray bit, Mr Dentist sends me downstairs to the hygenist, where my many years of drinking eight pints of black tea a day had to be addressed.
Reader, imagine my horror to discover that he had sent me to meet a male hygenist! To be precise, a Polish male hygenist and his equally male Polish assistant! Big fellows, overpowering me in what appeared to be a broom cupboard! I mean, what's that all about? OK, the Polish/polish bit is a great pun, but how far should dentistry take these things?
Now, I have nothing against the Poles, or homosexuals; God knows we all need plumbers and interior designers, but I didn't even know Poland had homosexuals! Nobody talks about Polish gays? I mean, ALL Polish men have moustaches, how could anyone tell?
Actually, just to confuse things, neither had a moustache, but they were both definately Polish, they were both immaculately groomed, and were both a little too comfortable with working together in an obscenely small room.
Also the hygenist was a little too masterful for my liking, and I'm sure he took far longer in my gaping orifice than was necessary or decent! And as for that burly assistant, trying to gag me with his utensil!
In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, when it was over I was rinsing and spitting like nobody's business! And, in these post NHS days, I had to pay for it. Sir, I have never paid for it in my life!
Mind, you, they did a lovely job, and I commend their discretion, but I don't think I'm ready to tell anyone.
Yes, times have changed, and I'm not sure I'm ready for this brave new world where just anything goes. Next time I'm staying home with the pliers and the brandy.
In my day, or at least when I last went to the dentist in the provinces, there were established rules: the dentist was a man, and his assistant was pert young woman. This was balance things out. Lady patients were reassured by the presence of the young woman, as an insurance against 'over-familiarity' on the dentist's part, acting like some kind of junior umpire.
For the chaps, she was there partly as an incentive to visit, but also to ease the tension of being violated in a confined space by another man. The fact that the young lovely was taking part gave the whole sordid business a rather decadent but acceptable-in-a-louche way credibility, as one left as the reluctant partner in this threesome feeling sore, but sophisticated in a man-of-the-world sort of way.
Equally, the introduction of the hygenist, always a woman (one assumes that they were considered too pretty to become a dentist), was a welcome development at the surgery, offering 'extras' to those so inclined. Back in Dorset, our local cutie had her own little cubicle at the top of the house, and one would be treated to a little frisson of anticipation as she invited the lucky client to follow her and her excellently crafted arse up the steep stairs into her fully-equipped boudoir.
After a little small-talk she'd get down to business; a little of the rough stuff to start with, but finishing with an expert oral buffing to leave a chap with a satisfied smile on his face.
How times have changed!
Tonight at my new dentist in the big city, things appeared to be normal enough. Middle-aged Sri Lankan male as dentist, assisted by a sultry, but slightly unkempt-in-a-provocative way young Sri Lankan woman, whose abundant jet black bible black crow black hair was threatening to tumble out of her alice-band as a promise of things to come, should one's luck be in. All perfectly acceptable.
But then, having coerced me into his chair and done his worst, including the teeth-clenching xray bit, Mr Dentist sends me downstairs to the hygenist, where my many years of drinking eight pints of black tea a day had to be addressed.
Reader, imagine my horror to discover that he had sent me to meet a male hygenist! To be precise, a Polish male hygenist and his equally male Polish assistant! Big fellows, overpowering me in what appeared to be a broom cupboard! I mean, what's that all about? OK, the Polish/polish bit is a great pun, but how far should dentistry take these things?
Now, I have nothing against the Poles, or homosexuals; God knows we all need plumbers and interior designers, but I didn't even know Poland had homosexuals! Nobody talks about Polish gays? I mean, ALL Polish men have moustaches, how could anyone tell?
Actually, just to confuse things, neither had a moustache, but they were both definately Polish, they were both immaculately groomed, and were both a little too comfortable with working together in an obscenely small room.
Also the hygenist was a little too masterful for my liking, and I'm sure he took far longer in my gaping orifice than was necessary or decent! And as for that burly assistant, trying to gag me with his utensil!
In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, when it was over I was rinsing and spitting like nobody's business! And, in these post NHS days, I had to pay for it. Sir, I have never paid for it in my life!
Mind, you, they did a lovely job, and I commend their discretion, but I don't think I'm ready to tell anyone.
Yes, times have changed, and I'm not sure I'm ready for this brave new world where just anything goes. Next time I'm staying home with the pliers and the brandy.
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