Underpants: My Struggle

It may be out of fashion these days, but I think discretion is one of the finer human virtues, and I have to admit that I'm disappointed to be trapped in an income bracket that prevents me from enjoying the benefits of the level of salesmanship available to higher economic groups.

I am aware that the gentleman of the upper crust who shop in such thoroughfares as Jermyn Street, or amongst the merchants of Mayfair, are afforded the utmost of dignity in their transactions. I understand that the service available there is always polite, ever obliging, yet never intrusive, or dare I say it: over-familiar.

No. Due to my relative penury, I am forced to shop amongst the hoi-polloi.

For example: some time back, in a chemists near London's King's Cross, I steeled myself to procure some condoms. Yes, dear reader: Condoms. I followed the age-old protocol familiar to all men in this situation, and stepped forward to the counter, pointed to the "items" I wished to procure and curtly proffered a ten pounds note towards the lady attendant as remuneration.

The moment could not pass quick enough as she took her time noisily shoving my purchase into an unnecessarily rustly bag. Then, as though she wanted to drag the process out a little further, she paused, looked up, and asked in an East End accent broader that the Mile End Road:

"Do you want a receipt with that?" (Or "jew wan' a resee' wiv 'at?")

Naturally, I coughed, and through a dry throat uttered a curt "no!"

She appeared to expect this reply and added:

"Nah, it's not as though you're gonna bring' em back, eh!"

I shudder at the very recollection.

Anyway, to my point.

This very afternoon, whilst underpant-shopping in Marks & Spencers (and can I add that, apart from the occasional luxury ready meal, underpants & socks are ALL I buy at M&S), I queued up to pay for my "garments", and finally made it to the till.

The young man behind the counter was initially polite, and appeared efficient as he scanned the bar code and stated the price in clear tones. (£7.50 for ten: not bad). But then, and to my utter ASTONISHMENT, he then OPENED THE PACKET AND TOOK A PAIR OUT! Brazenly! With his own hands! I could only look on in dismay as he casually admitted that he was just "checking to see if they're the size on the packet!"

Like that was anybody's business: my pants. He was handling MY UNDERPANTS for God's sake!. In front of EVERYBODY. I mean, I ASK YOU.

A Statement:

Look, Mr. "Marks & Spencers" whatever your name is, leave my pants alone! I'm pleased you care about actual pant-sizes matching the packaging, but kindly not whilst I am undergoing the indignity that underpant-shopping represents. What if I'd gone for the old-man's pants this time? (And let's face it, the day will come). Do I want everyone in the queue behind me to know? Will you hold them aloft and announce to the assembled throng "Blimey! He's gone for the old man's pants, and they're the wrong size!".

No, I don't like this development at all. Basically, I just want to pay for the pants and leave. If they're the wrong size, I'll just throw them away, and then visit ANOTHER branch to buy more, and to keep doing so until I get the right size. That's the way it is with underpant-shopping.

I've probably said enough, but I just think that this is some kind of training issue. I really do.

Exit, Pursued By A Pigeon

Theatre-goers in Bristol, England, got more than they paid for during a performance of the Snow Queen.

It appears that the Hippodrome has been sub-letting the rafters to members of the local
pigeon population
and this is causing tension between punters and the potential pie-fillings above.

Note that the unfortunate Mr Poulter is bald.

Looks like they need a revival of Kes, and quick!

Get Your Oats Every Morning!

I was wheeling my trolley through the breakfast section whilst shopping in Sainsburys earlier today, when I noticed a sign locating the "adult cereals".

Adult? What could that mean?

Kellogg's Ladyshapes?

Dick Krispies?

And I hope that's only yoghurt on that muesli!

Can you IMAGINE what the free gift would be! I ask you!.

And all targetted towards the sort of people who like to start the day with some nice warm porridge inside them.

Disgusting!

Mind you, now I think of it, Kellogg's Corn Flakes have always had a cock on the box.

BBC: Donations To Tories "Symptom of Madness"

Well, actually that's not really what they said, but read here how the Conservative Party set out to disinherit the son of a crazed businessman, who had left his fortune to the Tories because:

Mrs Thatcher would save the world from "satanic monsters"

Shameless, as always, the Tories were relying on the "You don't have to be mad to fund the Tories, but it helps" defence.

Thankyou Mr Cadman, After All These Years

On attending my first French Language class, aged eleven, the teacher asserted that "everyone of you will be able to speak French on leaving this school!" It was an idle boast, and proven to be so by the fact that no-one left our school speaking ENGLISH, let alone French.

Other idle boasts included the Maths teacher's optimism that one day we would find a need for Algebra, or the PE teacher's claim that we would eventually come to appreciate the rules of Cricket.

Yes, I am a cynic, and probably atypical of the sterling generation produced by my Secondary Modern back in the early 70s, unlike those high-achieving others who, to this day, know doubt calculate the Test Scores in French using Algebra on a daily basis. And maybe, had I spent more time listening, and a little less time sneering at my betters, then maybe I'd be an internet millionaire by now, rather than an insignificant ten-a-penny blogger that no-reads.

However, there is yet hope.

In the Guardian Quick Crossword today:

Question 9 Down "Abrasive Sheet"

The answer (which I actually knew) : "Emery Paper".

At Last! That's five years of Metalwork finally justified!

Thankyou Mr Cadman, I clearly remembered more than the fact that your fingernails were permanently ingrained with industrial grime!

Evening Standard: BBC Boss Gags Stars

I'm glad to see that the apparently well-endowed Head of Light Entertainment still insists on the casting couch, regardless of reputation.

Put On Your Bowler: Let's Hit The Shops!

Back at the tail-end of the Thatcher era, an associate opined that "there is no democracy anymore, just The Market".

He went on to make a lot of money in Marketing, and although I still believe that he was wrong, I often remember this remark when observing the grip that unrestricted capitalism has taken upon the world, particularly in territories which had previous been denied it.

Northern Ireland had never been denied capitalism, but they had it hard, what with all that bombing and all. However, check out what they get up to these days as the people of Antrim go shopping: with a vengeance!

(Mind you, if you want opening-night mob-rule, no-one does it world-wide like IKEA: click on the tabs HERE to see how the Swedish retailers have turned it into an artform)

Mortgages: "The House of Horror" Option

However many times you tell them, there's always someone who signs off the copy without proof-reading it as instructed.

Either that, or Mortgage Advice UK contract out their debt-recovery to The Other Side.

Check the last sentence of Cons where it claims:

"Your home may be possessed if you do not keep up repayments on your mortgage"

Alderman Cripples Tomato Lady

Just when you thought that the situation in Northern Ireland had improved, then THIS had to happen.

Surely "Tomato Lady Vaulting" has to be a considered cruel and unusual punishment, even by Ulster standards!

(I'm not sure as to which side the Mayor dresses, but would he have attacked her if she'd been dressed as an orange?)

New Terror Threat: Thai Food Mary

The War on Terror took an ugly turn this week, as the streets of London's Soho were evacuated as the forces of good were sent in to investigate a mystery smell.

It transpires that those little yellow perishers at the Thai Cottage were plotting to concoct a "burned chilli dip", although our sources have yet to unveil the level of harm intended, or just how the evil-doers had planned to deploy this "condiment".

You thought smuggling water onto a plane at Heathrow was depraved: imagine what this could do within the confined space of an innocent airliner.

Be vigilant, and don't pay the "service charge" unless you know the proceeds will be distributed amongst the staff.

Shakespeare Production "Good" Shock

Yeh, I was offered A FREE TICKET to see Patrick Stewart as Macbeth at the Gielgud in London's West End, and bugger me if it wasn't a belter.

I'd go as far to say that I'd PAY to see it. V. Good Lady M in Kate Fleetwood.

Go see it.

Myanmar v. Burma

Yes, which name will the press choose?

The BBC stays with the traditional Burma.

The Economist says Myanmar.

The Guardian STARTED with Myanmar, but is now switching to the trend of using Burma.

Why not MURMA? Byanmur? Ryanair? Murlingus?

Anyway, whatever the place is called, that's some ANGRY monks they've got out there.

Adieu Monsieur Marceau

I understand that following the death of mime artist Marcel Marceau, the French will pay tribute tonight by watching television with the sound down.

Jet Black: Ice Cream Mogul

Imagine my joy, on reading the Wikipedia entry of The Stranglers' drummer:

Black was a successful businessman up until the mid 1970s, owning a fleet of ice cream vans, and an off-licence in Guildford, called 'The Jackpot'.

Now we know where the phrase, "do you want some gin on your 99?" came from.

Au Revoir Les Enfants

Imagine my discomfort on seeing this coming through my letterbox, as part of a "French Tuition" flyer advertising a local language teacher.

What form the Reservoir Dogs Parle Francais takes I don't know.

I guess you'd need the following:

Oreille n. Ear

Couteau n. Knife

To Sever n. Couper

(I think she has a butcher's cleaver in her left hand)

Fat-Free Fast Food Of The Future

OK; this is the future of the fat-free fast food outlet:

To get to the counter, customers will encounter a moving pavement, like that at an airport; only this will be working against the flow, forcing them to run to up to the attendant, and then to hold a steady jog in order to maintain their position whilst ordering their meal.

On receiving the order, (wrapped in a lettuce leaf) they will sit on exercise bicycles and consume the meal whilst pedalling, and thus generating the energy with which the premises is powered.

And, yes, those fries were made from potatoes fertilized by the compost collected from the washrooms!

Get used to it, it will come.

My Chelsea Creche Nightmare.

In 1976 I saw the Who at The Valley, a gig that was allegedly measured as the loudest ever, but I personally never remembered it being that loud. In 1977 The Damned left my ears ringing for days after playing the Village Bowl, a large concrete bunker below Bournemouth. Three years earlier I had had to abandon an attempt to watch Canadian rockers Montrose, due to unnecessarily excessive decibels, as they supported The Sensational Alex Harvey Band.

(Younger viewers may like to note that amplification was still in the developmental stage back then, and most of the volume produced was in the form of pure noise. One would be rendered deaf after most gigs, and some bands sought to invalid its audience for life.)

Anyway, I mention the above only in passing as I have other things to discuss, namely Chelsea in West London, and the experience of having spent the morning with being deafened by the children therein.

My partner and I were on our way to the Chelsea Physic Garden, and decided to treat ourselves to breakfast in the restaurant atop Peter Jones in Sloane Square. The restaurant is large and airy, and boasts magnificent views through it's large glass north facing wall, with a vista that can appear curiously meditarranean in aspect.

However, the restaurant also appears to be infested with every under-five in West London.

It was remarkable, it became apparent that the toffs of Chelsea have claimed Peter Jones as the venue for their sunday morning with the kids. There were hundreds of them, and they were all screaming at the top of their infant lungs in the vain bid to get their parents attention, which was no doubt distracted by the continuing bad news regarding sub-prime lending Stateside.

And they kept on coming: everytime the lift opened, it disgorged yet another buggy pushed by more rich, disinterested parents and their squealing offspring.

And as my ears rang in submission at the kindergarten cacophony, I was not only convinced that the volume was greater than that of any gig I had ever attended, but I wondered if the place was actually in breach of EU health & safety regulations regarding noise at work. Was my hearing in danger? And what of that of the staff?

I actually work in a loud environment, on the cusp of the requirement for ear-defenders, and yet this was far in excess of that. What about school playgrounds? Are people that have to work in that environment asked to wear ear-plugs? Or is this aspect of noise pollution completely ignored because no-one wants to point the finger at a) small children's appauling behaviour or b) their parents inadequate parenting skills, or c) what has become of our apathetic society.

Bring back the command "SHUT UP! NO-ONE WANTS TO HEAR IT!" and the concommitant smacking.

Better still, turn back the clock and keep the children at home until they've learnt how to behave.

Meanwhile, let's have more adult friendly environments. (Symbol: a red circle with red diagonal stripe across a small child).

Anyway, the gardens, as ever, were a child-free delight.

Osama: Play-In-A Day Organ Tutor

Nessum Dorma?

And so the task of supporting the coffin of super-heavyweight tenor Luciano Pavrotti has to be undertaken.

The Shoebox has heard that the Italian authorities have resorted to selecting the unlucky few by imposing the draft.

"It's the fairest way to do it", commented Modena haulage consultant Enzo Terminado, "somebody has to carry the coffin, and let's face it: no-one wants to see a fork-lift at a funeral!"

Cat Medium Sleeping in Tongues

I'm not usually one for A) the supernatural, or B) websites about pets, BUT:

This evening, I entered the bedroom to find that the cats of the house had already reserved their places, with the smaller girl cat on the bed, and the larger tomcat asleep on my (and now his) favourite jumper on the floor.

As I stopped momentarily to pat the smaller cat on the head, and receiving an appreciative purr, there occurred what could only be called "a phenomena".

The tomcat is not known for his verbosity. He never miaows. Very occasionally, when frustrated, he may look up at you and utter a disapproving "ma", but only very occasionally. Neither is he particularly demonic, and the when the vet described him "the perfect witches cat" , she was merely commenting on his jet black appearance and sinuous nature.

Imagine my surprise therefore when, whilst petting the other cat, the supine tomcat began with a "Maaah!" followed by a "Meeeeeooooowwahwaaheeooowahwah!", and despite the considerable volume, he failed to wake himself. It was a though he was unwittingly channelling some whole OTHER cat, and I half expected his big tomcat head to explode and reveal and entirely new demon feline emerging in his wake.

And it wasn't just me who got spooked. The smaller cat spent most of rest of the evening sitting to attention, staring at the sleeping spiritualist, as though awaiting the appearance of the whole OTHER cat. She certainly wasn't going to risk going to sleep in his presence.

Obviously, I'm keeping him under observation, and sleeping with cricket bat by my pillow, just in case.