Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.
I my case, I think they're using crap tunes in my head to do this.
For example: yesterday it was Billy Joel. I don't know the title, it's the one that goes:
"Eh, Eh, Eh, Eh. Eh-Eh, Eh-Eh, Eh."
Today it's Animal Hospital.
I'm telling you now, if I get to Spandau Ballet, I'm going straight under the bus.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Great Hypochrondia Outbreak of '09
I'm sure that the figures don't exist, but I wonder which has been worse: the impact of swine 'flu, or the outbreak of malingering that has been prompted by the publicity created regarding the H1N1 epidemic.
At my own place of work, it's been all the usual suspects that have been absorbing the worst case scenarios, then researching the symptoms and ultimately concluding that THEY HAVE SWINE FLU and convincing themselves that they are ABOUT TO DIE! Two days later, they're back, claiming to "feel like death", but appearing to be in unblemished health. (This was previously known a 24hr Cancer).
I would wager that most of the sick-leave across the country has been taken by those that already lead the league tables in absenteeism already, and that the majority of "swine 'flu" leave is in fact no such thing.
Now that I work in an open-plan office, I get to hear the daily exercise where a certain group build themselves into a frenzy of swine 'flu panic, to the point where time-off is inevitable. I think they're actually disappointed that none of them has yet ACTUALLY GOT SWINE flu, let alone DIED OF IT!
Curiously enough, this phenomenum was raised on Radio 4 in the context of the long-forgotten Hong Kong 'flu epidemic of 1969, which killed 60,000 UK citizens. The specialists at the time may have discussed the potential for 60,000 deaths, but such speculation was never published. Back in those unelightened times it was believed to be a bad thing to cause a panic amongst a public which lacked the requisite medical education to place the risks in context.
Hence, a lot of people got 'flu, some died, and some BELIEVED that they had it, but generally the rest of us got on with our lives and soon forgot about it.
I'm all for appraising the public of the facts, but now that we have a milksop generation who lack the robustness to get through the day without suffering some form of trauma, I wonder if we would be better off with an authoritarian-style cover-up. At least I would have to put up with the whinging, and that's all I care about at the end of the day.
Now if you dont' mind, I'm off for my glacial shower and bleach scrub.
At my own place of work, it's been all the usual suspects that have been absorbing the worst case scenarios, then researching the symptoms and ultimately concluding that THEY HAVE SWINE FLU and convincing themselves that they are ABOUT TO DIE! Two days later, they're back, claiming to "feel like death", but appearing to be in unblemished health. (This was previously known a 24hr Cancer).
I would wager that most of the sick-leave across the country has been taken by those that already lead the league tables in absenteeism already, and that the majority of "swine 'flu" leave is in fact no such thing.
Now that I work in an open-plan office, I get to hear the daily exercise where a certain group build themselves into a frenzy of swine 'flu panic, to the point where time-off is inevitable. I think they're actually disappointed that none of them has yet ACTUALLY GOT SWINE flu, let alone DIED OF IT!
Curiously enough, this phenomenum was raised on Radio 4 in the context of the long-forgotten Hong Kong 'flu epidemic of 1969, which killed 60,000 UK citizens. The specialists at the time may have discussed the potential for 60,000 deaths, but such speculation was never published. Back in those unelightened times it was believed to be a bad thing to cause a panic amongst a public which lacked the requisite medical education to place the risks in context.
Hence, a lot of people got 'flu, some died, and some BELIEVED that they had it, but generally the rest of us got on with our lives and soon forgot about it.
I'm all for appraising the public of the facts, but now that we have a milksop generation who lack the robustness to get through the day without suffering some form of trauma, I wonder if we would be better off with an authoritarian-style cover-up. At least I would have to put up with the whinging, and that's all I care about at the end of the day.
Now if you dont' mind, I'm off for my glacial shower and bleach scrub.
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Street
Sorry to bore on about Jimmy McGovern's The Street, but it's like putting your head in a emotional vice every Monday night.
Note, TV screen writers: here is the proof that it is possible to address issues on television without resorting to all that tired old "gritty reality".
A rare sight; fantastic writing, week after week.
Note, TV screen writers: here is the proof that it is possible to address issues on television without resorting to all that tired old "gritty reality".
A rare sight; fantastic writing, week after week.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Feline Theramin Interface
Yes, Chimps do all that painting, but when Léon Theramin came invented electronic music, it was the concept of the composing cat that he had in mind.
Friday, July 24, 2009
When Celebrities Attack
On the day that Steven Gerrard and Amy Winehouse's money has ensured their freedom from prosecution, after allegedly attacking members of the civilian population, it was nice to see that the South Park self-defence plea is still valid in the English courts.
Stevie Gerrard: "Eh Pal, Gimme the remote willya?!"
Marcus McGee: "No!:"
Stevie Gerrard: "OH MY GOD: IT'S COMING STRAIGHT AT US!!!"
Marcus McGee: "OOF!!:
Marcus McGee: "No!:"
Stevie Gerrard: "OH MY GOD: IT'S COMING STRAIGHT AT US!!!"
Marcus McGee: "OOF!!:
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Overheard; Unfortunately
Overheard in the lavatory at work:
From an occupied cubicle:
Ruffle Ruffle, (sound of toilet paper deployment).
Ruffle Ruffle,
Pause.
"Oh bloody hell"
Introspective Pause.
"Oh FUCK!"
Pause.
Ruffle Ruffle
Ruffle Ruffle.
Flush.
Reader, I did not hang about to identify the troubled deficator, but I suspect that a visit to the proctologist is on the cards.
Old joke:
My friend is a proctologist. He wanted to be a brain surgeon, but he wasn't tall enough!.
From an occupied cubicle:
Ruffle Ruffle, (sound of toilet paper deployment).
Ruffle Ruffle,
Pause.
"Oh bloody hell"
Introspective Pause.
"Oh FUCK!"
Pause.
Ruffle Ruffle
Ruffle Ruffle.
Flush.
Reader, I did not hang about to identify the troubled deficator, but I suspect that a visit to the proctologist is on the cards.
Old joke:
My friend is a proctologist. He wanted to be a brain surgeon, but he wasn't tall enough!.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Roll Up For The Roll On, Roll Off, Irreverence Row!
Yes, the sleepy Isle of Lewis was rocked this week as the outside world bludgeoned it's way into their God-Fearing Eden.
No sooner had the controversial new Sunday Ferry docked, than the church elders were warning of what sacrilege was to come in its wake:
The Rev Angus Smith, a veteran campaigner, said the service would bring "things that terrify parents"
What on earth could he mean?
Oh, I know! Homosexual Children's TV presenters having Gay Weddings!
Blimey Oh Riley!
No sooner had the controversial new Sunday Ferry docked, than the church elders were warning of what sacrilege was to come in its wake:
The Rev Angus Smith, a veteran campaigner, said the service would bring "things that terrify parents"
What on earth could he mean?
Oh, I know! Homosexual Children's TV presenters having Gay Weddings!
Blimey Oh Riley!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Moon Landing Commemoration Issue:
Did You Know....
It is commonly perceived that Neil Armstrong’s first words on the moon surface were “That’s one small step for man, one gigantic leap for mankind”. However, what he actually said was “Wild Thing, you make my heart sing, you make everything— groovy”. However, the watching millions were denied this version following the discovery, moments before air-time, that NASA’s entertainment officer had in fact forgotten to pay their performance rights licence, and so, in the face of copyright legislation, the “small step” speech was dubbed over instead.
On his return, the outraged Armstrong immediately left the space programme, and, after a brief spell with The Allman Brothers, settled back in Wapakoneta Ohio where he opened ‘Neil’s MoonShack’, a used guitar store, trading until the late ’80s when the market began to decline. “I don’t blame synthesizers” says Neil amicably, “I think it was The Cure. Young folk came to associate the guitar with fat, mascara’d English panty-waists, and chose Rap instead. Can’t say I blame ’em”
The ‘Performance Rights Fiasco’ wasn’t the only misfortune to befall the Apollo 11 mission. Irish rebel leader Michael Collins was left stranded in the orbiting capsule following a dispute with NASA tailors, Ritblat & Son of Dallas, who witheld the Third Moon Suit “pending the agreed remuneration”. NASA never did settle the bill, and although the Ritblats retained the Third Moon Suit, the original sequins were removed, and later reappeared upon Elvis Presley’s Vegas jump suit.
Shrink to fit
Apollo 11 was not alone in Suit-Related Ructions. On the following mission, Apollo 12 astronaut Charles Conrad Jr was to discover that, for the sake of $5, Mrs Aldrin had declined the dry-clean option, and had in fact put her husband’s Moon Suit “in with the whites” at home (Tumble, 200 degrees Fahrenheit), thus irreversibly reducing the illbefallen overall in size.
Consequently, mid-mission on the moon, on stooping to collect geological samples, Conrad inadvertantly split the ass out of the pants of his suit, (hence the verb ‘To Moon’). This instantaneously curtailed the mission as a television event, as sponsors across the South, in fear of losing family support, clamoured to withdraw their funding. “It was like one of them Mexican films!” said one.
Charles Conrad Jr. never worked again.
Insanitary, but unbowed.
Thus, reduced to one suit, the Apollo 13 mission was to have featured the lone Captain Jim Lovell on the moon; yet even this mission was to be dogged with misfortune as rookie pilot Kevin Bacon, in an attempt to jettison human waste products from the ship, keyed in the wrong sequence, and unwittingly occasioned a ‘blowback’, helplessly watching in horror as his colleagues were sprayed with ‘the living daylights’ inside the capsule. Desperate to make amends, Bacon ventured to alleviate the methane levels with a naked flame, only to bring about a catastrophic explosion which effectively ended the mission; not to mention his career in space!
(Tragically, Lovell never returned to the moon, yet managed to eke out a living promoting organic fertilizer in Texas, before becoming a ride technician at Disney’s Space Mountain.)
Thus, Suitless, and out of contract with RCA, the 1960s ended bleakly for NASA, who were to find the 1970s, and the onset of Disco in particular, increasingly difficult to handle.
(This feature was originally published on dogandponyny.com)
It is commonly perceived that Neil Armstrong’s first words on the moon surface were “That’s one small step for man, one gigantic leap for mankind”. However, what he actually said was “Wild Thing, you make my heart sing, you make everything— groovy”. However, the watching millions were denied this version following the discovery, moments before air-time, that NASA’s entertainment officer had in fact forgotten to pay their performance rights licence, and so, in the face of copyright legislation, the “small step” speech was dubbed over instead.
On his return, the outraged Armstrong immediately left the space programme, and, after a brief spell with The Allman Brothers, settled back in Wapakoneta Ohio where he opened ‘Neil’s MoonShack’, a used guitar store, trading until the late ’80s when the market began to decline. “I don’t blame synthesizers” says Neil amicably, “I think it was The Cure. Young folk came to associate the guitar with fat, mascara’d English panty-waists, and chose Rap instead. Can’t say I blame ’em”
The ‘Performance Rights Fiasco’ wasn’t the only misfortune to befall the Apollo 11 mission. Irish rebel leader Michael Collins was left stranded in the orbiting capsule following a dispute with NASA tailors, Ritblat & Son of Dallas, who witheld the Third Moon Suit “pending the agreed remuneration”. NASA never did settle the bill, and although the Ritblats retained the Third Moon Suit, the original sequins were removed, and later reappeared upon Elvis Presley’s Vegas jump suit.
Shrink to fit
Apollo 11 was not alone in Suit-Related Ructions. On the following mission, Apollo 12 astronaut Charles Conrad Jr was to discover that, for the sake of $5, Mrs Aldrin had declined the dry-clean option, and had in fact put her husband’s Moon Suit “in with the whites” at home (Tumble, 200 degrees Fahrenheit), thus irreversibly reducing the illbefallen overall in size.
Consequently, mid-mission on the moon, on stooping to collect geological samples, Conrad inadvertantly split the ass out of the pants of his suit, (hence the verb ‘To Moon’). This instantaneously curtailed the mission as a television event, as sponsors across the South, in fear of losing family support, clamoured to withdraw their funding. “It was like one of them Mexican films!” said one.
Charles Conrad Jr. never worked again.
Insanitary, but unbowed.
Thus, reduced to one suit, the Apollo 13 mission was to have featured the lone Captain Jim Lovell on the moon; yet even this mission was to be dogged with misfortune as rookie pilot Kevin Bacon, in an attempt to jettison human waste products from the ship, keyed in the wrong sequence, and unwittingly occasioned a ‘blowback’, helplessly watching in horror as his colleagues were sprayed with ‘the living daylights’ inside the capsule. Desperate to make amends, Bacon ventured to alleviate the methane levels with a naked flame, only to bring about a catastrophic explosion which effectively ended the mission; not to mention his career in space!
(Tragically, Lovell never returned to the moon, yet managed to eke out a living promoting organic fertilizer in Texas, before becoming a ride technician at Disney’s Space Mountain.)
Thus, Suitless, and out of contract with RCA, the 1960s ended bleakly for NASA, who were to find the 1970s, and the onset of Disco in particular, increasingly difficult to handle.
(This feature was originally published on dogandponyny.com)
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Loach 0 McGovern 1
I'm a fan of Jimmy McGovern's The Street, and watched the first of the latest series with interest.
Curiously, it included actor Steve Evets who has recently featured in Ken Loach's film "Looking For Eric" where Evets plays a put upon individual attempting to face a local gangster.
This episode of The Street followed similar territory with Bob Hoskins' character coping with the same dilemma.
I found McGovern's conclusion to be much more recognisable than Loach's.
Loach, the posh, idealistic socialist, puts his faith (as always) in the notion that the working classes will always seek to surmount their problems through collective action.
I found this uncomfortable, because in my world, the characters portrayed in the film would be putting distance between themselves and the plight of the victim. There is a cruelty amongst pub centric men that would actually exploit the tragedy of the victim for their own amusement even.
Interesting therefore that McGovern's character is abandoned to his fate by the community, and receives a savage kicking as a result. This is because McGovern grew up within a community where that would be all too common, and therefore he must retain some verisimiltude to the tale. The story actually ends with a small victory for the victim, as McGovern still believes in hope, but he's not into miracles.
Unlike Loach, McGovern is unable to fantasise about working class values, because he is of the working classes, and lacks the ability to romanticise the culture. Loach has the luxury to sustain his beliefs, because he has never been (and will never be) amongst the communities he wishes to project his beliefs upon.
"Eric" is worth watching for the great John Henshaw alone, but has to be considered a fairy tale rather than social realism. The Street isn't social realism either, but it never pushes reality outside the bounds of feasibility.
But who are we to pop Ken Loach's revolutionary dream? Bless his little cotton socks.
Curiously, it included actor Steve Evets who has recently featured in Ken Loach's film "Looking For Eric" where Evets plays a put upon individual attempting to face a local gangster.
This episode of The Street followed similar territory with Bob Hoskins' character coping with the same dilemma.
I found McGovern's conclusion to be much more recognisable than Loach's.
Loach, the posh, idealistic socialist, puts his faith (as always) in the notion that the working classes will always seek to surmount their problems through collective action.
I found this uncomfortable, because in my world, the characters portrayed in the film would be putting distance between themselves and the plight of the victim. There is a cruelty amongst pub centric men that would actually exploit the tragedy of the victim for their own amusement even.
Interesting therefore that McGovern's character is abandoned to his fate by the community, and receives a savage kicking as a result. This is because McGovern grew up within a community where that would be all too common, and therefore he must retain some verisimiltude to the tale. The story actually ends with a small victory for the victim, as McGovern still believes in hope, but he's not into miracles.
Unlike Loach, McGovern is unable to fantasise about working class values, because he is of the working classes, and lacks the ability to romanticise the culture. Loach has the luxury to sustain his beliefs, because he has never been (and will never be) amongst the communities he wishes to project his beliefs upon.
"Eric" is worth watching for the great John Henshaw alone, but has to be considered a fairy tale rather than social realism. The Street isn't social realism either, but it never pushes reality outside the bounds of feasibility.
But who are we to pop Ken Loach's revolutionary dream? Bless his little cotton socks.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Pissing In My Shed
Yes, we're getting the bathroom fitted which means I've taken to pissing in my own shed.
And actually, it is not without it's own sense of satisfaction in a rustic, olfactory, man of the woods sort of way, and indeed reminiscent of my grandparents' outside lavvy.
I have taken precautions of course. I have written on the selected bucket "Do Not Drink" in thick marker pen, although I appreciate that this sufficient only to warn literate natives. However, I am the sort of chap that would assume that the rest wouldn't care that much.
Meanwhile the work continues, not without it's snags. The top of the unit doesn't fit so I needed to source a new one. The journey to B&Q was delayed this morning by an inconsiderate tree that fell across the North Circular seconds before I arrived. I don't know what made me more angry; the hour waiting for it to be moved or the fact that I have neglected to bring my camera. It was a big tree which managed to straddle all three lanes.
Naturally, B&Q didn't have what I wanted, so I wendled my way down to Camden where I found what I needed, but incurred a parking ticket for going FOUR MINUTES over the metred time! It takes that long to write the fucking ticket out for fuck's sake, as I explained to the grinning warden who was completing the ticket. Cheeky bastard.
Price of unsuitable worktop (to be abandoned): £55
Price of new worktop (available Friday, on the builder's last day: cutting it a bit fine) £78
Price of Parking ticket: £40.
We could get two tickets to Barcelona and back for that!
Nice new bath though!
And actually, it is not without it's own sense of satisfaction in a rustic, olfactory, man of the woods sort of way, and indeed reminiscent of my grandparents' outside lavvy.
I have taken precautions of course. I have written on the selected bucket "Do Not Drink" in thick marker pen, although I appreciate that this sufficient only to warn literate natives. However, I am the sort of chap that would assume that the rest wouldn't care that much.
Meanwhile the work continues, not without it's snags. The top of the unit doesn't fit so I needed to source a new one. The journey to B&Q was delayed this morning by an inconsiderate tree that fell across the North Circular seconds before I arrived. I don't know what made me more angry; the hour waiting for it to be moved or the fact that I have neglected to bring my camera. It was a big tree which managed to straddle all three lanes.
Naturally, B&Q didn't have what I wanted, so I wendled my way down to Camden where I found what I needed, but incurred a parking ticket for going FOUR MINUTES over the metred time! It takes that long to write the fucking ticket out for fuck's sake, as I explained to the grinning warden who was completing the ticket. Cheeky bastard.
Price of unsuitable worktop (to be abandoned): £55
Price of new worktop (available Friday, on the builder's last day: cutting it a bit fine) £78
Price of Parking ticket: £40.
We could get two tickets to Barcelona and back for that!
Nice new bath though!
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Pre-Season Latest
Presumably, life at Eastlands has taken it's toll on Robinho.
Note: the author of this billboard has to be a northern male over the age of 50. Who else would focus on the detail of the "best suit".
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
In Memorium
Unfortunately, I couldn't watch the internment of the American popular entertainer Michael Jackson as I was busy cleaning the toilet; vacuuming; talking at length to cold callers; listening to the shipping forecast and changing the cat litter.
I was disappointed, therefore, to read that the funeral spectacular went without an appearance of Jarvis Cocker.
If only the Sheffield prankster could have made another impromptu appearance, bundling his way through the mourners uninvited before waving his arms at the front of the stage and exiting pursued by minders. Michael would've wanted it like that.
Actually, he probably wouldn't, but I'm sure he approved of his reluctant child being inveigled into speaking, just to experience the trauma of appearing before the watching millions as a piece of public property.
What next? The "Paris 'n' Bubbles" Extravaganza at the O2, just to recoup some of those lost ticket sales?
Unlikely, as Bubbles undoubtably has legislation to protect his rights to humane treatment.
I was disappointed, therefore, to read that the funeral spectacular went without an appearance of Jarvis Cocker.
If only the Sheffield prankster could have made another impromptu appearance, bundling his way through the mourners uninvited before waving his arms at the front of the stage and exiting pursued by minders. Michael would've wanted it like that.
Actually, he probably wouldn't, but I'm sure he approved of his reluctant child being inveigled into speaking, just to experience the trauma of appearing before the watching millions as a piece of public property.
What next? The "Paris 'n' Bubbles" Extravaganza at the O2, just to recoup some of those lost ticket sales?
Unlikely, as Bubbles undoubtably has legislation to protect his rights to humane treatment.
Monday, July 06, 2009
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