Pacific Rim Old Year Road Action

I was trying to find how the New Year was going, as it arrived out east, but their obviously too busy enjoying themselves to update their news sites.

However, Papua New Guinea has narrowly averted mourning the Great Potato Avalanche of 2007!

Meanwhile, down under nothing gets past the Australian Police Force, certainly not a Bridal Drag Racing Vehicle! I guess that couple were REALLY eager to get on with the conjugal rights!

HNY! We'll be watching London's celebrations from high-ground, away from the crowds.

Revenge Is Dish Best Served Cold

And so, in the globally warmed mildness which is now the English winter, we walk to Highgate Woods, and I have my usual regret in not having a dog to walk. (It would also sort out the cat problem at home).

As we walked by the park benches, we casually glanced upon the plaques mounted upon each, commemorating the deceased loved ones who had once frequented the woods, and apparently enjoyed their time there.

This set me thinking. Why just commemorate the loved?

Why can't we use the dog-shit containers to berate the loathed?

"Sid Guts: an odious little sod who never threw the ball back over the fence, unless he'd punctured it first"

"Cynthia Sudbury: an appauling snob, and hypocrite; rest in hell bitch"

"Vince Wilkins: the local burgular and all-round prick: I'm glad you fell off the ladder, you git!".

That sort of thing.

Cat In Vinyl Disruption Incident.

So she says, "They'll be alright on their own over Christmas, it's only one night, what could possibly happen?"

My examination has reached the conclusion that a large, male feline, entered the case via the Albums (between Phil Manzenera's Lagrima and -pre Roxy- Quiet Sun) , and eventually exited via the Singles (mainly 1976 to 1978). Fortunately, my mint Teenage Kicks (original pressing on Good Vibrations including newspaper wrap) survives.

The prime subject has demonstrated a typical indifference. At least a dog would KNOW it's guilt.

De Hitler Hond!

Ya! Tonight we're reading Dutch!
I can't actually find the button to convert the Dutch into English, but it looks intriguing all the same.
Check out Adolf de hond in De Telegraaf

What I Want For Christmas

If I was young and rich,
I'd have a rock 'n' roll band,
and stand at the front playing this! 

From  Pheo Guitars as seen
at Destroy All Guitars

Perfidous Pigeonry!

Well, it seems that after all the bad press, those pigeons are going for respectability by taking part in the reopening of an East London cemetery dedicated to the animal kingdom's war dead.

As part of the ceremony, the pigeons have wangled themselves a role by providing a Pigeon Fly Past!

Ah! But what's this? On the same day, the BBC reports on a seemingly affable dog story, and how a voracious pooch almost ruined a Northern Pie Eating contest. However, on closer inspection, it transpires that the dog was in cahoots with a Decoy Pigeon!

Oh yes, no medal for those two!

Medieval Helpdesk

Yes, it's new technology!

Tornado Warning

Sorry to bring this to the table, but the news that an elderly man has been censured from farting in his local club is a lazy blogger's golddust.

I Feel Like A Gnu Man

If the British Press is to believed, the country is obsessed with the reappearance of the "Canoe Man", who, having faked his own death, has apparently been off around the world with his conniving wife spending other people's money. And now he has chosen to return home, only to face arrest. This is almost certainly because, as a debtor, a) he has spent all the ill-gotten gains, and b) he probably needs free health care unavailable in Panama.

My only opinion is that it would be a better story had he been known as the Gnu Man, who was last seen alive going out on his Gnu, never to be seen again, with his Gnu turning up unaccompanied several days later, found nibbling the hard shoulder of the Doncaster by-pass.

Or, if the Press would take a more robust approach to relating the tale. Try this:

"Mr Darwin, having settled in South America, managed to keep his guilty secret to himself. He had always enjoyed the company of sailors, and liked to hang around the quayside, where he purchased a new canoe.
"There was only one thing he loved more than that canoe" confessed a friend "and that was to take it up the Orinoco!".

You see, you want to know more already.

Hello Darryl

And a big hello to all our readers in Scotlandshire in the north of England!

Guam: Party Central!

Or not.

You think your life is quiet? Then check out the community calendar on GUAM!

Barbados: School of Scamps, or Satanists?

Remember back at school when you'd get everybody together and co-ordinate high-jinks, usually to start at a given signal?

I bet your actions were received by little more than raised eyebrows from the teachers, or possibly some shouting from the permanently irate PE teacher.

Not in Barbados, where the schools REALLY take action. See "School uproar work of devil"

Dig this quote:

He said the amount of Valium administered to the students "would have put most of us to sleep immediately and some of these children delayed and even became more active after [receiving] Valium"

Yeh: Valium, on kids!

Polly's Gone Crackers

Having purchased—and listened to— PJ Harvey's latest album, I have to make an appeal.

Dear Polly,
We love you, and could forgive you almost anything, but PLEASE: your new persona as "local madwoman at back of congregation" doesn't work. We all want the barriers pushed back, but attempting to reach dogs twenty miles away is not easy for the rest of us to listen to.

Pigeon Latest: Taxation

Was it not Pere Ubu that said "You don't need a cure; You need a fiscal solution"?

Well, the inland revenue have found a way of warding off the pigeon threat by taxing those in thrall to the flying wizards of satan, namely, the pigeon racing fraternity.

Apparently, pigeon racing is not a sport!

But not if they get The Queen on their side; she's already got Prince Harry on the job of killing their natural predators, the hen harriers. Mind you, look how pigeon-biased Daily Mail buried the news in this trite!.

Forget the Diana inquiry: what about the pigeons?

"My Penis is a Mountain" Singer Apologises

And we all thought that England lost because they were overpaid and rubbish. Not according to The BBC!

Blazer Warning!

Yes, it has been confirmed that Brian Barwick, the man who selected Steve McClaren for the England job, will be also choosing the next England manager.

Someone with a nice short back and sides, and a tidy line in ironed ties then.

England 2 Croatia 3

Any commentary on why England were so bad tonight would be to miss the point. Tonight's victory was a basically a statement of intent by Croatia.

They understand that the qualifiers are the place to start the campaign to actually win the tournament, and they certainly emphasised that at Wembley.

Congratulations, they deserved it.

And it's nice to know that the England chumps will be missing out on the advertising millions for once.

When World's Collide

Imagine my despair this week as my favourite TV programme Ugly Betty despoils itself with Victoria Beckham as guest. I admit, a programme focussed upon the complete shallowness of celebrity culture could do no wrong by incorporating the epitomy of pointless celebrity, but I can't bear the fact that they've opened the door for the wretched former Spice to fulfill her American dream.

Why couldn't she feature in the Soprano's, preferably being driven in the trunk of Paulie's car to an "intervention" in the New Jersey woods. I'm not a misogynist, but I'd go Pay TV for that.

And thinking about it, was not Pia Zadora ahead of her time? Her sugar daddy paid a fortune to attempt to make her famous, because that's what it took back then. Had she been around now, well being married to a rich guy would suffice.

This equally applies to dreadful old shagged-out Rolling Stones parasite Marianne Faithful, who was one of the first pointless "famous for being famous" celebrities, who is sadly still treading the circuit doing her hackneyed old act on Britain's lesser radio stations, aware as she is that the attention span of the average up and coming radio producer is about three years, and that the mention of a drugged up old rock groupie who had photographic evidence of knowing some of the sixties movers and shakers is actually suffice to get yourself on air. And often.

Please make it stop.

Here We Go, Here We Go: Again!

Since last year's World Cup debacle, I've resisted passing comment on the state of football, basically because I haven't seen the point in falling into the tired old "told you so" blogging that serves little purpose.

However, following the events at the weekend when Israel gifted a lifeline to England, I'm already bracing myself for the pointless jingoism ahead. Surely, Israel's win against the clueless Russians merely illustrates how poorly England performed in Moscow in aiding the Russians back into the game. Yet this point will be glossed over as McClaren's hapless millionaires ponce around against Croatia on Wednesday.

Prepare for the worst as England go one down, and struggle for the rest of the game before scraping a desperate equalizer just before full-time and thus qualifying for Euro08. This will be the cue for over-optimistic national pride, and the launch of an eight-month media campaign of hyping the England team as potential tournament winners, and very lucrative it will be for this venal shower of mediocrities.

Heard it all before? Yes, every tournament. Remember Japan 2002? England fuck up in the qualifiers (in the belief that beating Germany 5-1 gave them instant qualification), and THEN fucked up against their last game against Greece AT HOME. Yes, Beckham earned a fortune from that last-minute equalizing free kick, but it was Germany's failure to beat lowly Finland that actually helped England avoid playoffs. This has been written out of English football history. Incidently, the apaulingly weak German side that suffered that 5-1 defeat went on to reach the final.
(England went out attempting to play Brazil with Danny Mills at right back!)

And already, prior to them Croatia game on Wednesday, "Stevie" Gerrard is in front of the microphone blathering on about how they're all going to try extra especially hard this time. Like last time. And the time before.

Somebody tell them to shut up, and just play. Wouldn't it be nice even, if they admitted that it was probably better to forego the sponsorship, and the concomittant glossy high-profile that goes with it in order to concentrate on getting the job done. I'm sure that John Terry would argue that his £100,000+ a week (that's sterling, not dollars) isn't enough to live on, but I'm he could make ends meet if he tried.

Failure to qualify may do English football a favour. Denied the advertising riches that qualifying would guarantee, this over-paid bunch of under-performers, excluded from the honeypot, may question what happened, and some may realise that it was something to do with them!

Oh, by the way. England are world football's Newcastle. Big reputation, little to show for it, an the rest of the world knows it.

Pump It Up!

I've always been led to believe that what a man gets up to in his own time behind closed doors is his own business.

Apparently, the Scots disagree, and have disturbed a Bicycle Sex Fiend to prove it.

There is no indication that the bicycle ever complained, but that's the Hibernian Puritans for you.

(Note: I like it that the BBC have helpfully provided a photograph of a bicycle to illustrate the point, although one assumes that this is not THE bicycle that had received the 'servicing'. Obviously, the molested bicycle would have appeared only in pixilated form).

Make a mental note: if the caretaker knocks on the door, DON'T IGNORE HIM, HE'S GOT KEYS!

Animal Magic

OK, lazy blogging I know:

1) Crazy Indian Dog related story: Here

2) Crazy English Cat related story: Here

Note: on story 2. I know Talbot Woods well, and remember staggering across them home to a bedsit at Cemetary Junction back in 1981 during a Nouveau Ted phase in drainpipes & brothel creepers, with the best sidies known to man, at 5.00am after a party in the Triangle, where I so nearly got off with a buxom sculptress. Sadly, she passed out before I could make my move, and I was too much of a gentlemen, even at that age, to take advantage. Thinking back, that may have been a mistake: she was magnificent.

Night Losers - Dragostea e ca si-o riie

A little over long, and little too arch, but evidence of camp irony from Romania.

At Your Convenience

OK, everybody, I'll try keep this above the waist:

I've just heard of the sterling working carried out by the British Toilet Association, who are campaigning steadfastly against the closure of public lavatories.

I'm pleased to read that their awards are sponsored by Dyson Airblades, the Rolls Royce of hand-dryers. And if you haven't experienced the joy of the Airblade, get yourself down to the toilets in John Lewis, where you'll enjoy the experience of drying your hands within seconds, and you'll never want to dry them on the back of your jeans ever again.

And that's as far as I go on this one.

Menezes: Police "Guilty", But Not To Blame

Shortly after beginning employment as a local government officer, nearly ten years ago, I witnessed the approach taken by my new employer, a Council, in imposing a "no blame" culture.

Local authorities, reservoirs of mediocrity, are ever awash with "new initiatives" and will buy into any trend going, in the belief that they'll be able to spin any perceived benefits as "progress".

The No Blame initive that I witnessed was being employed during a team meeting, where a problem was being discussed. Basically, the team's Fuckwit had Fucked Up, as usual, and the Fuck Up had to be addressed.

As it was a No Blame meeting, the Fuck Up was being discussed in general terms, without naming the Fuckwit concerned, or his culpability for the Fuck Up.

This generalisation meant that the whole team was being addressed in regard to the Fuck Up, addressing what they could do to avoid doing the Fuck Up again by using a few simple, easy to follow, quality control procedures.

In consequence, and not surprisingly, the team grew resentful because they believed that they were collectively being held responsible for the Fuck Up, whilst accordingly, the Fuckwit sat there grinning to himself because the Fuck Up clearly had nothing to do with him.

I was reminded of this nonsense by today's news regarding the verdict against the Metropolitan Police in the Menezes case, where a the innocent Brazilian was murdered in cold blood by armed officers.

The Met's response is very much that of the Fuckwit above, in that they don't appear to think this has anything to do with them. Commissioner Ian Blair's response (that they didn't kill anyone else!) is to reduce the issue to a Health & Safety non-conformance, on par with a poorly stored ladder, or a bulb that needs replacing.

The Met has never shown any sense that they understand the gravity of the fact that the Metropolitan Police killed an innocent man, and did so on public transport during the rush hour.

They continue to tread out the tedious spin of how they're attempting to protect the public in difficult times, yet they have proved to be a far more effective killing machine than the "terrorist cell" that they were attempting to pursue on that day.

And The Empire Continues To Sink

It was Dean Acheson, President Truman's Secretary of State, who coined the phrase that Britain had lost an empire, yet had failed to find a role in the world. And that this phrase persists indicates it's continuing vervacity.

I think it's pertinant this week as our masters cowtow to the former colonists from Saudi Arabia. And watch how those venal old Saudi's are rubbing Britain's nose in it . They know just how much Whitehall and their lackies are willing to grovel to get their hands on some of that soiled old oil-money, and they're going to see just how low Britain's prepared to stoop.

The phrase also cropped in the BBC's No Plan, No Peace, the documentary addressing Britain's culpability in America's failure to plan for the aftermath of the Iraq debacle.

I enjoyed two moments of the programme in particular.

On my travels in recent years, I've often been asked why Blair allowed himself to be embroiled in such stupidity as that eminating from the Whitehouse. My response was that Blair was vain, wanted a role on the world stage, and believed he could influence Washington.
The programme put forward another, more geo-political, notion. Prior to the war, as Washington set up exercises in preparation for the pre-war diplomacy, the CIA operative given the job of role-playing Britain at the negotiation table, elected to agree to anything, just to remain at the top-table. Somewhat prescient.

In regard to the aftermath of the war in Iraq, there was the experience of a British economist, who, on reading American's "reconstruction plan", found a section stipulating the agreed currencies to be permitted during reconstruction. The American Dollar, unsurprisingly, was there. But so too was the German Reichmark, a currency abandoned in 1948. The document had clearly been hastily cut and pasted from reconstruction documentation from the Second World War. Equally disturbing was the documentation in regard to the restoration of electricity to the nation. It consisted of one sheet of A4, only half-covered, and comprised merely of a list of addresses of power stations.

Iraq didn't stand a chance.

Charity? I'll Drink To That!

On discovering London in my youth, (I mean that reflexively, in that I discovered for myself; I make no claim to being the man who DISCOVERED London, as there were already 8.5 million people here before me. Not unlike the American continent when Columbus "discovered" that.) I was appauled to discovered that most of the charities that you'd ever heard of had located themselves in Belgravia, the capital's most expensive piece of real estate. Obviously, the aristocrats who had inviegled their way into running these affairs weren't going to lower their standards however the extortionate rents were undermining the concept of giving.

It comes as no surprise therefore that our posh chums in the world of Rugby have been upbraided for their cavalier attitude to charity, as their own effort to raise funds for children has been criticised, as they've been spending two thirds of the donations on entertaining themselves!

"I say chaps, we've taken 2 million quid!"

"Spiffing! Bugger the orphans; let's buy more bubbly!"

"No champers for me old boy, I'll just bugger the orphans!"

"Hoorah!"

Go Global

Imagine the moment on your flight as the person next to enthuses about how they're on their way to The World Toilet Conference!

Important stuff I agree, but let's try keep this above the waist please.

Wake up Cat

Drawn from life.

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.

Nazism? Send In The Clowns!

Back in the 1930s, the British Foreign Office was approached by the German Nazi Party, who were complaining about the work of cartoonist David Low. Uncomprehending about the democratic notion of a free press, the Nazis insisted that Low's ridicule of the fuhrer and his chums was detrimental to Anglo-German relations, and expected something to be done about it.

Actually, it was remarkable that Low's masters at the right-leaning, aristocracy-loving Evening Standard encouraged him to continue. And what he continued to do was to portray Hitler and his henchmen as buffoons and incompetents, in the belief that it was essential to prick the bubble of their sense of self-importance.

How appropriate, therefore, to see a similar approach emerging in present-day Knoxville, where the KKK have been belittled by Clown Power.

And so the Jackboot of intolerance is stamped out by the Giant Shoe of irreverence.

(With thanks to Titivil)

A Glass and a Half

I'm neither a fan of Phil Collins or Advertising; but when we changed channel the other night and stumbled into this, it left us both smiling.

Six Feet Under The Influence

In South Africa, hearse-thiefs need a stiff drink, according to the BBC

Not The One From Crossroads

Yes, it's that time of year when we all remember the Queen of Hearts and mope about feeling SAD.

But, is that fair? Haven't we forgotten someone?

Shouldn't we remember the death of the driver that night: Henri Paul.

He loved a drink. He loved to drive. It's the way he would have wanted to go.

Note: at the head of Wikipedia's entry on Henri Paul it states:

This article is about the chauffeur involved in the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. For the actor who played Benny in Crossroads, see Paul Henry (actor).

It is not known if Msr. Paul was wearing a green woolly hat on that fatal night.

BBC: Catholic Pilgrims Are Terrorists

Yes, and they're trying to smuggle "holy water" onto planes, in the latest global terror threat.

Looks like the Pope is going head to head with Bin Laden in the master villain stakes.

At least we know where "The Pontiff" lives.

Dirty Bishop Has Plans For Homosexuals

Maybe I'm reading this wrong, but when a couple of American Bishops turned up in Kenya to get ordained in the homophobic African church, Archbishop Benjamin Nzimbi spoke forth about what he expected of the Friends of Dorothy:

We need to love them, we need to preach to them, but not to make them lay readers, pastors, bishops," he said.

Wait a minute! You don't have to MAKE the gays lay anybody! Anyway, from what I've heard, that's the priests job!

Bad Bishop! Dirty Bishop! In your basket!

Miscellany

Finland Latest:
Those crazy Elk people, enriched by the Nokia milchcow, clearly spend their time trying to find things to do.
When they're not lobbing things at the Mobile Phone Throwing Championship in Savonlinna, it's off to Oulu (home of the Snellmania Library) to enter the World Air Guitar Championships!
Something tells me that they haven't been warned of the emergence of Putin's New Improved Russia yet.

You Called Him WHAT?!!
Meanwhile, from the country that brought you Randy Bender, meet little Horse Dick.
(Thanks to Grizzly)

Notes for our friends in Salford:
The fat hairy cokehead has become a father, and the little pointy-fingered one has handed in his notice!

Dream Latest

Look, I don't want to burden you with my dreams, but the other night I found myself taking part in an English Civil War re-enactment, only it was all a little TOO real, and I ended up getting shot in the arm and breaking a rib!

What does it all mean?

Shabba Me Whiskers: The Difficult Third Album

Yes, when I discovered that there was yet another Mr Gum book in the shops, Mr Gum and the Goblins, I assumed that Andy Stanton had over-reached himself.

What utter tosh, the man's merely getting into his stride!

Check this for an opening:

It was the Dead of Winter and the little town of Lamonic Bibber lay under a blanket of snow and ice. Everywhere you looked, there was snow and ice. On the trees — snow and ice. On the ground - snow and ice. Inside the Museum of Snow and Ice - snow and ice. It was the coldest winter anyone could remember.

And if you want some real quality, check out the curmudgeonly Mr Gum's favourite television programme Bag of Sticks. No, I insist!

Troops Out? Bomb Tehran!

Forgive me if this idea ever gets taken up, but I think I've found a way to finally extricate the Bush/Blair alliance from Iraq.

Put simply:
Washington wants to end internicine strife in Iraq.

Washington wants to invade Iran.

Why not give the Iraqis a common cause and restart the Iran/Iraq war which brought Saddam so much success and get Iraq to invade Iran?

Fighting under one flag, the Iraqis have a sense of common purpose, and are too busy killing Iranians to care about the infidel. Whilst they're at it the alliance withdraws, and then waits for both sides to collapse under the weight of conflict and then uses covert means to place pro-west dictators in charge of the stricken states, thus restoring normalcy.

Yes, it's an old idea, but it may just work. (And they'll need to buy the weapons to fight with, so the war premium means its a win win!)

Sometimes I'm wasted in local goverment.

Liverpool: World Capital of Mourning

Yeh, here we go again.

As the news broke of the shooting of an eleven year old kid, the florists of Merseyside were excitedly on the phones and importing everything they can get their hands on in preparation for the riches ahead.

They may have lost the Beatles, and Anfield hasn't seen a title in twenty years, but when it comes to displays of self-pity, the people of Liverpool still cannot be beaten.

Alcohol & Blasphemy: In Imperial Please!

I haven't been anywhere, I just haven't had anything to say.

And then Titivil beats me to the time-travel story

Which only leaves me with someone else's material; in fact it's Brendon Burns' line about Britain's suicide bombers, asking how they plan to impose Islam on a country that has so far singularly failed to grasp the metric system.

I Say, I Say, I Say: My Dog Has Got No Nose!

Don't worry old chap! Mines' got one spare.

No doubt the drug squad will be researching this little fellow.

Aristocrat Is Twat: BBC

If you want to know the outcome of a life of privilege, where unlimited wealth gets combined with a lifetime of soft sentencing in the courts run by fellow public schoolboys, take a look at the state of Viscount Wank, whatever his name is, these days.

This toff continues to be a public nuisance, but his role as a senior aristocrat will always keep away from any serious punishment.

In a just world he'd be dumped on a Manchester council estate, and left to fend for himself.

Danger: Mahjong!

Yes, just when China is about to take over the world, the BBC has discovered their achilles heel: Mahjong Causes Epilepsy!

Lost & Found Iraq Style

So now we know just how many weapons the US has
issued to the insurgency.

Apparently, the Pentagon doesn't know where the missing firearms have gone.

I recommend that the look in the direction that the enemy gunfire is coming from, that's where they are!

One For The Human Rights People

Yes it's the vigilant BBC keeping us up to the minute with abuse around the world: Indian Suspect in Banana Ordeal

I'm A Soul Man: Apparently

Recently, whilst drinking with a friend in the pub, be asked: "when did women in this country start to whoop?". At the other end of the bar there were indeed a group of young women whooping at that moment, behaviour not seen twenty years previously, and possibly not even ten. Whooping women came in with tatoos, alcopops and muffin tops and its becoming difficult to remember when this wasn't the case.

My reply at the time was something like this:

Whooping was unknown in the sedate Britain prior to the introduction of The Price is Right. The producers of The Price is Right (a programme targeted—to quote Wilde—for those who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing) were keen to install the ambience of the American original by coercing the audience to behave like crazy assholes. And therein lie the problem in that the average British contestant was typically bland and unused to displays of exhibitionism. In their attempts to comply, they would invariably get it wrong, and as they self-conciously rose to their feet they had the habit of hunching their shoulders on standing, and never quite getting their arms fully above their heads on the descent, whilst glancing around nervously, unsure if they were performing as instructed. And if the experience was painful to them, it was agonising to watch; like some kind of Island of Dr Moreau on prime time.

Twenty years later, I was watching Big Brother. It was an eviction night and the presenter announced that they were going over the scene outside where the audience awaited. The audience were unaware of their cue, and we saw a bunch of bored, rain-sodden mugs muttering amongst themselves, until someone alerted them to their presence on live television. In an instant, they sprung into to life, acting like someone put Sunny D in the reservoir, with one previously inert young male throwing himself at the camera and screaming like a crazy asshole.

Something had clearly shifted in our society, in that a generation had arrived that had acquired the sufficient pavlovian reflexes sufficient to provide the broadcast executives with their raw material.

Equally this became apparent at the televisation of football in pubs. During the 1998 World Cup, there were people watching football who would have previously pretended that the didn't know such a tournament existed. Rupert Murdoch had succeeded in making it trendy, and over the following years we witnessed the Beckham phenomenom, where it was no longer necessary to know anything about the game, as long as Posh Spice's husband was playing.

In 2002 I witnessed a crowd watching an England qualifier in a pub in the West End, where half the audience were busy chatting amongst themselves, whilst a couple of women from New Zealand (a Rugby nation, with no notion of football) tiresomely persisted on shouting out "come on Becks!" throughout the game. There was a guy next to me, stood clutching a pint to his chest, watching the match, obviously with some intent, whilst a friend stood in front of him, with his back to the game, wittering on about his problems at work. Then England scored, and everyone who had being chatting found time to stop and leap in the air cheering; and no-one more avidly than the previously disinterested problems-at-work guy. His paroxyms of joy were typically in complete contrast with his previous demenour. It was apparent that they weren't here for the football, they were here for the jubilation, the celebration, the sense of occasion. They felt nothing for the game, and clearly didn't even wish to watch it, but they wanted to take part in The Good Bit: THE WHOOPING.

Friday 3rd August 2007 Shepherd's Bush Empire

I'm not one for gigs anymore, and not just because there's hardly anyone worth seeing anymore, but I'm older, can't be bothered to go out, gigs are expensive, and you have to buy tickets from an agent etc. When I was a kid, when gigs were a third the price on a album (and when did that change?)it was possible to phone the Bournemouth Winter Gardens, order your tickets on trust, and they would be held in your name until you turned up to collect them. No fee, just the face value. And you collected them several days before, or even at 6.00pm on the night, to ensure you got in the hall early, because you were excited: that's why you were there after all.

So I'm partly unprepared for the post-modern concert experience, particularly now that the bulk of ticket sales appear to be going chiefly to marketing firms who tout them on to corporate hospitality dealers, or put them up as competition fillers, and consequently our theatres and venues are full of disinterested people who are merely up for a free night out . Indeed, this is how I got to be at the Shepherd's Bush Empire watching Isaac Hayes on Friday, when a friend called looking for someone to share his competition tickets.

But first of all I had to witness THE QUEUEING. My pal, the guy who had won the tickets, didn't actually have the tickets, he had a sheet of A4 paper with an email printed on it with his winning ticket details, just like everybody else. There were hundreds, and everyone had had the same idea. It was clear that no-one in the queue had actually bought tickets for this gig; no-one was that interested in Isaac Hayes, and EVERYONE had found out that the band started at 9:00pm, and had therefore decided to go to the pub until showtime. No pre-gig anticipation, no getting in early to get a good slot, this was not going to be an atmospheric night.

Well it was tedious queueing for half hour, and at least the house manager had the sense to grab a roll of tickets (for something else entirely, probably somebody that NO-ONE wanted to see, even for free!) and walked the queue just handing them out, just to get an audience inside before the gig was over.
Inside the sound was awful, you couldn't hear anything, there was no definition and Hayes had turned up with a row of keyboard players, replacing the brass section, the strings etc. Not that the crowd seemed to care; they stood there holding their mobile phones aloft taking photos no-one would want to see. And although the sound was bad, and the groove was non-existent, there were people there who believed the poster that Isaac was the godfather of soul, and were giving it their all, impersonating the kind of dancing last seen in crap films from the seventies, were the detective gets to visit a discotheque.

And then—of course—there was the whooping.
The bass player did a two-minute solo (there would be a lot of solos; Isaac knows how to pad). However, although the only thing that could be detected above the mudbath of a mix was the click of his slapping, the crowd didn't mind at all, they knew their job, and when the session guy finished, they duly obliged with a rousing round of whoops and whistles.

It was worse with the guitarist. The audience knew that the lead guitarist has mythical status in popular music. He is the wild men of pop after all, and as the septegenarian stood at the front of the stage wasted our time with a series of tedious blues scales, the crowd cheered every cliche, but saved the worst 'til last, when the complacent "axeman" ran the strings across the mike stand; JUST LIKE JIMI HENDRIX! They went mental!

But then went back to chatting. I noticed that there was a audible babble across the hall that was the sound of people conversing above the noise on stage. They were all talking between their little bouts of crazy assholery. Every time the band did a showpiece moment, the audience rewarded them with a yelp, and then the band went back to their complacency and crowd returned to their own little worlds.

I admit that I wasn't that keen to see Hayes, although I had assumed that I might see a good band, and was prepared to be pleasantly surprised, even with the outside chance of an opportunity to actually GROOVE for the first time in years. Wrong on so many counts.

But my fellow concert goers: what are we to do with them.

It seems that the post-modern experience is one of vicarous living. Unable to actually create anything new for itself, a generation has risen that has made an study of the past with the belief that it is theirs to own. If someone was great in the sixties; they're good now! It is possible to experience of the music when it meant something, even if it is now totally out of context, and that the last thirty years has watered the experience down through over-familiarity.

If you want to believe Isaac Hayes is the godfather of soul go-ahead. If you want to dance like Isaac Hayes is the godfather of soul go-ahead. It doesn't matter, because as long as you believe what the marketing world tells you, and that you are having a good time, nothing can stop you from believing it. Not the cost, not the fact that Isaac Hayes has sold a record in years (apart from Chocolate Salty Balls; but he didn't even write that!) not even the fact that you couldn't actually hear anything through the din because they couldn't be bothered to do anything about, because no-one was listening anyway.

What a bag of shite!

In Depth Analysis

So my colleagues were discussing the bridge collapse in Minneapolis, speculating on why the structure collapsed:

Phil: "So how old was it?"

Me: "40 years, it was built in the sixties."

Phil: "Well, there you go then: Americans are much fatter now than they were back then!"

Tomorrow's topic; the Palestinian Conflict.

Senior Officer Immunity; Apparently

Despite the IPCC's investigation into the police slaughter of an innocent Brazilian, and the subsequent misinformation intended to bolster the official line on the "terror" threat, leaders of London's Metropolitan Police still consider themselves blameless. Apparently, off-duty officers at the cricket were aware of the farce before the commissionaire was informed. And we look to the police to protect us?

Senior people are very good at deflecting culpability downwards, and always cite the same reasons for not resigning:

The lessons have been learnt, new procedures are in place which will prevent such mistakes happening again, and there is no point going on about errors made in the past.

and

We are at a crucial stage in achieving what we have set out to do, and resignations at this point of time would be unwise, what with me being so important and all.

One wonders if we should be putting something in their contracts along the line of a "responsibility clause", printed in bold on the front page:
If you fuck up, you're out matey!
to which we can all point when these slippery overpaid shysters begin to wriggle out of the crap they've got themselves into.

As Mr Terry Thomas would put it "An Absolute Shower!"

Overheard, Unfortunately

On leaving work, I find myself at the bottom of the escalator at Kings Cross, turning to enter the sweltering Piccadilly Line platform, when I am passed by a tourist couple, the female of which announced:

"I'm going to take my tights off!"

Keep it to yourself sister, and wait until you get back to your hotel, Purleese!

Troops Out!

I was astounded to find how little coverage has been given to events in Northern Ireland, where, after 38 years,British Troops have stepped down .

Maybe its a sign of the success of the "Peace Process" that such a momentous occasion is not considered the headlines.

No doubt the squaddies will return to barracks in Aldershot and other mainland garrison towns, where they will return to their default position, participating in running battles with the local drunks.

BBC: Cat Kills Elderly People

Well, that's how I read this story about a care-home moggy with a "gift" for predicting stiffs.

Has anyone examined how this feline Kevorkian is "cuddling up" to the old folk. Is it, perchance, sleeping on their faces until the foul deed is done?

Are the staff in on the dastardly deed?

I think we need to be told.

Overheard, Unfortunately

As I emerged from Warren Street tube tonight, I passed the hotel at the top of the Tottenham Court Road, and witnessed a snippet of the conversation between the two doormen.

They were both wrought from the caricatures of the 1930s, possibly by a brown-shirted Herges: one character was African, very dark, very tall, but with a head TOO SMALL for his body. The other, middle-aged, rotund, garrulous, middle-eastern in appearance.

The taller man was leaning back away from the too close attention of the Levantan, who was animatedly enthusing about something. All I got, on passing, was to witness a clutching gesture by the raconteur, who was saying "....and then I wrap them in ELASTIC BANDS!"

One shudders to think what he was talking about.

And in the early evening at that!

Put them away sir!

BBC: "Disabled Are Fraudulant Bastards"

Look, we know how difficult it is to criticise the "disabled", with the Political Correctness Police watching over us, but thanks to the usually left-wing BBC, we can now speak out about what those shifty little sods are actually up to: HERE

And they thought we weren't watching! Round them up, intern them in the Isle of Man! That's what I say!

Katastrophen!

On seeking the what the rest of the world thought of Britain's current spate of flooding, (or England Unter Wasser as the Germans would put it: featuring the word Trinkwasserversorgung), I discover that elsewhere abroad there are worse things to worry about.

Yes, America may have mislaid it's bees, but in Iceland the insect kingdom has struck a victory as ANTS have taken control!

Incidently: I notice too that when the Icelanders are not fighting off the ants, they have taken to golf. Mind you, their description of “pink golf tournament” for female golfers seems a little disingenuous. Maybe from a distance they look like female golfers!

Chips Shops in British Town

Nothing to do with the adverse weather, but on seeking a portion of chips in Christchurch, Dorset* last night, I found FOUR chips shops closed. Sunday, apparently.

Note: on my way home through Poole, ALL the chip shops I passed were OPEN!

*historically Hampshire (probably explains the Sunday closure thing).

Thames Floods: Prepare To Flee

Yes, it's the Evening Standard billboard writers again, who put the above message on our London's streets tonight; chosing to bypass the Spirit of the Blitz and encouraging mass hysteria.

Tomorrow in the Evening Standard: how Mayor Ken has summoned the rain gods to hasten middle-class disintergration.

Saturday Morning Swapshop

According to the BBC, Boy gets £44,000 in eBay parcel, a youngster received more he expected for his £95.

I can imagine the sense of wonder on discovering such instant wealth.

However, I'm having a little more difficulty in envisaging the scenario elsewhere, where a disgruntled gangster has no doubt gone to ground with nothing but a Playstation to show for his evil deeds. Does he know yet, or will he find out at the Mercedes showroom when he opens the box?

Ken Assured Victory: Hoorah For Boris!

The champagne corks flew at London Mayor headquarters tonight, as they discovered that the Conservatives had decided not to contend the next Mayoral election, deciding to run Idiot Boris Johnson instead.

Viewers oversees may need to know that Boris is the kind of shambling buffoon who always leaves the lavatory with his shirt protruding through his fly AND with toilet paper trailing from the heal of his shoe.

Go back to panto Boris, where you belong: "he's behind you!"

North Pole Swimming Shrinks Penis

OK, so someone swam at the North Pole: big deal! Anyone who grew up with the English Channel in summer can tell you EXACTLY what it's like to bathe in sub-zero temperatures.

Anyway, I recommend putting a hot water bottle down the front of his pants for a couple of days.

Nudity: Latest

For those that believe that a little liberalism can go too far, check out how Vermont has been over-run by NATURISTS! Apparently, the locals don't mind the neighborhood nudists, they're only opposed to the outsiders bringing their wretched flesh to town!

Put it away Grandad!

Meanwhile, in my native Dorset, the natives are restless over the exploitation of our own naked icon:Homer Go Home

Ulster Says No! To The Environment

Now you may not believe it, but Orangemen of Northern Ireland are going to set fire to this lot as a demonstration of their hatred of Catholicism, or ostensibly, in celebration of the Battle of the Boyne on July 12th.

Some of the saner residents adjacent to this eco-armaggedon are showing concern.

Yes, it appears that having been told to stop fighting with the Catholics, the Protestants of Ballycraigy have decided to declare war on the earth's atmosphere, and it looks like the local authority can do nothing about it.

One local Unionist leader reassured us that they would "to try and ensure the number of tyres on the bonfire is as little as possible". Thank the Lord for that: can you imagine what this thing would look like had they not taken precautions!

So, if you're on the moon tomorrow, you'll clearly be able to see the cloud from there. Let's face, for anyone closer, it's ALL they'll see!

Photos: Daily Mail

Mujahideen Also-Ran Seeks Attention

I wonder just how pissed-off Ayman al-Zawahiri must get, being constantly referred to as the Al Qaeda© "second in command".

As the original Jihadi MD seeks to gain a little limelight one must wonder when the good doctor will finally admit that Bin Laden© pegged it yonks ago, the money has gone and that the Al Qaeda© now consists of no more than himself, an AK47 wielding nephew and the bloke holding the camera.

It also calls one to ask when the first break away group will arrive to usurp the claims of Al Qaeda© and declare the glory for themselves. Let's call them the "I Can't Believe It's Not Al Qaeda©" for now. They'll think of something more glamorous I'm sure.

I Saw My Agent This Morning....

He said "I've got some good news, and some bad news".
"The good news," he continued, "is that I've got you four weeks at Christmas; Guilford Variety Theatre; Goldilocks and the Three Bears with Lionel Blair and Cilla!"
"The bad news is they're using real bears!"

For Better or For..OOOF!

Imagine how pissed off David Cameron's people were, having to watch their bribes for brides gambit being upstaged in the news by this happy couple.

Married and arrested in the same day; I bet the mugshot looked all the better for the wedding dress!

Utopian Future Postponed, Again

Fans of perpetual motion will be disappointed to learn that even the work of genius is no match for museum lighting.

Yes, a demonstration of working perpetual motion machine, harnessing the earth's magnetic field has been "CANCELLED" due to a minor technical hitch.

It seems that the serious eggheads behind the comically named Orbo —having out-thought all other physicists— haven't calculated the impact of room illumination.

Had they spent less time in the Lab, and dedicated a little downtime in amateur dramatics, or maybe in a Blues Brothers tribute band, they'd already know that them lamps can make you sweat!

Try Halogen next time!

(Only joking, I'm sure the chaps behind Steorn are actually just pranksters building up a stunt to promote their new show: possibly showing at the Assembly Rooms during the Edinburgh festival. Oh you rascals!)

Bodybag On Platform One

Waiting to board the tube this evening, an announcement was made informing us that there were disruptions due to "a person under a train at Wood Green".

And indeed, as we eventually arrived at that station, it became only too apparent that there lay, just outside our carriage, the bodybag containing (one assumes) the "person", with a sole policewoman in attendance.

It's at times like this that the throwbacks amongst us let themselves be known, stepping forward with necks craned in order to gawp at the macabre scene.

Some even diverted from their route to the exit and walked back along the platform to have a closer look, no doubt entering into discourse with the guard of honour.

It's reassuring to know, should we reintroduce public executions, that there exists an eager audience no doubt prepared to to pay for the grotesque spectacle.

Remember to bring your own knitting.

Run Scooter! Run Free!

It looks like Freedom Loving President Bush has practiced just what he preaches by letting his old chum Scooter Libby off the hook.

Was this wise in an election year? Will anyone trust the Republicans on law and order after this?

Does this mean that the only way a Republican can now run for office is by promising to lock Scooter up again?

American: Plutocracy at its best!

Dog Ends; Sugar Cubes & Bullets: A Life

Over the last couple of weeks, following the death of my brother, I found myself volunteering to sift through his belongings, particularly that in the workshop/attic at his home. For a non-materialistic man of few possessions, he certainly left a lot of stuff.

It was like Tom Waits' 'Soldiers Things', and not a little daunting.

The problem with engineers (and George was an electrician, electronics specialist, mechanic and a navy weapons technician), is that nothing gets thrown away. Switches; plugs; connectors; elements; dial pots; diodes; resistors; capacitors; valves; servo motors; batteries; pumps; springs; letraset; hinges; catches; handles; cables; wires; string; screws; car mirrors: bluetac.
Not to mention eight vcr recorders. At least fourteen remote controls, and countless more discarded power units.

And computers, and not just the ones he built; it was like a PC museum.

And knots: as an ex-sailor his talent with knots was comprehensive and effortless, and I admit that I desecrated a few in opening the numerous bags that contained his worldly belongings. Unable to replicate his handiwork, I could only re-tie them with an inadequately utilitarian half-hitch.

And containers. Anything that could hold components; jam jars, film cartons, canisters: and of course, the shed-dwellers' staple, tobacco tins, full of screws; nails; nuts; bolts; fuses; rawlplugs; washers; scalpel blades; chalk; ad infinitum.
Two tobacco tins feature in the photo: one with dog-ends, the other sugar cubes. I didn't understand the sugar cubes, it took my mother to explain that he had a sweet tooth, and often didn't get enough in his tea whilst on the road.

And used rounds. George was target shooter, who had surrendered in his firearms and live ammo when handguns and automatic weapons were outlawed following Dunblain. Didn't throw out the spent cartridges though. (As I waded through the accumulated wealth of spare parts, I half-dreaded unearthing a revolver or some live ammunition, long forgotten beneath the "shed strata". What would I do? Refuse to touch it and call the police? Or enact my Travis Bickle fantasy in front of a mirror before taking it home to show my mates in the pub?)

No, George wasn't the kind of bloke who left firearms lying around. Just stuff, and lots of it.

Touchingly he had kept the collar of his long-deceased dog Bruce (a dog chosen from the rescue centre because he was the ugliest and least friendly animal there, and George knew no-one else would take him) and Christmas cards from his niece Kelly, which she had hand-made at infant school. And his diaries from his teenage years include the week in 1964 in which each day is marked "nothing to do".

I didn't know George well, he was nine years older and left home for the sea when I was small, but after sharing his workspace for a few days I feel that I did a little catching up.

Yes, for a man of few possessions he left a lot of stuff, and it was all the product of an active life spent making things work, and you can't knock that.

Incendiary Device

With the two "car bombs" found in the centre of London last night, the authorities have the opportunity to play up the threat from the forces of evil that set out to undermine our very civilisation.

Interestingly, they're dropped the Bushesque use of Al Qaeda© as the catch all Bogie Man, and are citing "International Elements" as the source of the the misdeed.

Let's not forget that these cars did not explode, and were clearly the work of inexperienced incompetents.

I wish the authorities could be honest about that, and announce that, although carrying an evident threat, the vehicles were the work of amateurs who were unlikely to have any connection to a concerted and highly paid organised terrorist group.

Let's face it, any enfeebled git with a grievance can now, with the use of the internet, believe that he is capable of making an explosive device; but it clearly takes more than misguided enthusiasm to actually detonate even a can of petrol.

One good thing may come out of this: if every inconsiderately park Mercedes in the capital is now subject to a controlled explosion, we may see a little less congestion!

Chinese Penis Emporium

Yes, that's what it says according to the BBC

You're Talking Pants, Your Honour!

This is the kind of story the Brits love about America:

A dry cleaners loses a pair of trousers, so the owner of the said garment attempts to sue for millions but fails.

Even better: the greedy sod IS A JUDGE!

There is some speculation as to what the humiliated legal eagle should do now.

I know EXACTLY what he should be doing: attending court everyday with NO PANTS! That'll teach'm.

Case Dismissed!

Why I Hate Tories

A further warning regarding the destruction of this country at the hands of the unscrupulous "developers", who are wiping out our gardens and allotments in the south of England in order to my a quick profit by hastily constructing flimsy blocks of flats whilst the property boom lasts.

In Poole, neighbours with large gardens have been set against each other as speculators offer to buy the gardens for large cash sums in order to squeeze in 'homes' into what were desirable areas.

Now, Eastleigh council are selling off allotments

It's such a hypocracy that the Tory romanticism about a simple England, with its rich tradition of gardening and pottering around in sheds is so easily disposed of once the whiff of quick cash reaches their nostrils.

I suggest an around the clock sit in, with all sheds manned and garden forks at the ready, and a marrow up the arse of anyone who treads on the sacred turf.

Rivers of Blood

If you're thinking of visiting a restaurant in Baghdad anytime soon, I'd think twice about the fish menu.

Thanks to Iraq's internicine disorder, the Tigris is now so awash with corpses that the Imams have declared a Fatwa against the consumption of fish caught in the city's rivers.

Concomittantly, the fishermen have become Iraq's reluctant undertakers.

Wish You Were Here!

British immigration officials have been keeping up the resistance against foreign visitors, with their unique rational.

Remember the time that an asylum seeker had their application refused because the reviewer considered the claim to be "a pile of pants"?

Well, now immigration have been working on the tourist visas!.

Apparently, some applicants have been refused because they "plan a holiday for no particular purpose other than sightseeing".

Or because they don't speak English!

I'm not sure if anyone's been refused for not being able to make a decent cup of tea, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.

Ride A Horse To Work Day

Those chumps in the world of marketing have come up with another crap idea in the form of "V Water".

Apparently, it's "water with vitamins in it", for those too busy to access real food.

Their idiot friends in advertising have even come up with a slogan:

"You could settle for regular water, but then again you could ride a horse to work"

Well, actually, given the choice I think I'd rather drink regular water AND ride a horse to work. What a fantastic start to the day; and what an entrance!

And you know what they say: you can lead a horse to V Water, but it's probably not stupid enough to drink it.

Beckhams To Be The New Clampetts

Now that David Beckham has kicked the Spanish soil from his studs, he and his missus are off to Hollywood to become the New Beverly Hillbillies.

I'm a little out of date with the parlance of todays yoof, so I don't know if the Beckhams are Chavs or Pikeys, but I'm sure that their brand of ornate cheapness will be of great amusement to the glitterati.

Note: Victoria's the one who looks like a self-basting chicken.

Government Inspired Prison Break

Daily Mail readers will be horrified to learn that the government has chosen to ease prison over-crowding by releasing prisoners.

Why don't they start with the really fat ones?

A) They use up the most space.

B) They'll be easier to catch if they reoffend.

Food To Go

Apparently, "A lorry driver caught steering with his knees while he ate spaghetti from a pan has been jailed for eight weeks" according to The BBC.

Had he used a proper plate, some decent silver and a napkin, the magistrate may have let him off with a warning.

George Mayor 1949~2007

Saudi Blood Money

I'm sure that there are enough comments being made about the BAE Scandal, where two decades of British governments have been willing to slum it with the Saudis in order to secure those all important arms sales.

And, apaulled as I am at GB's status as the world's 4th biggest arms dealer, I'm pragmatic enough to accept that the income is probably the only thing keeping our National Health Service (the UK's largest employer) going.

However, can the government please start being more honest about the Saudis? Let's bang on about their absence of human rights. Let's draw links between their failure to police a domestic crisis and the concommitant export of fundamental islam. Let's never stop talking about the confederation between the oil-rich Saudi aristocracy and America's oil-rich ruling classes.

And let's persist in the idea that America (with Britain's support) is destabilising Saudi's neighbours in order to reassure the Sheiks in Riyadh that the House of Saud will always be the west's favourite fundamentalist arabic state.

I Am The Eggman

Those overseas may not be aware that the national treasure that is the BBC, admired and trusted around the globe, is actually funded by Britain's television viewers through the mandatory payment of a Television Licence.

It is, in fact, illegal to watch television in Britain without a licence, and there a few topics more hotly disputed across the UK than the "licence fee" and how it is spent.

Indeed, recently, with globalisation, and the advent of the internet in particular, some have questioned the efficacy of allowing Johnny Foreigner to enjoy the BBC for free at the expense of the native subscribers.

However, once in a while, the Corporation comes up with something that transcends even its own lofty standards, putting the necessity of the licence fee beyond doubt.

Today, for example, today, the BBC provides answers to your walrus questions.

No, Really!

Underground On Ice

Every summer, London has to endure the carping of fair-weather commuters who ask why our tube trains aren't air-conditioned like New York's. (NYC's trains are much bigger because they don't have to squeeze through tubular tunnels 300ft below ground, therefore have room up top for aircon)

This will undoubtably get worse as global warning increases.

Anyway, some snake oil salesman has conned them into trying somecrazy scheme involving ICE BENEATH THE SEATS!

Sounds like a good way to get piles if you ask me.

Anyway, I think the answer has been obvious for some time:

Nudity.

Yes, we should all shed our inhibitions and travel as nature intended.

In fact, I've been writing to London Transport about this every summer for the last twenty years; including photographs, yet have I EVER received a reply? Yes you guessed it.

(Although I did have a visit from London Transport Police once, but they just asked my name, looked me up and down and smirked to themselves before leaving without explanation.)

I admit, it will probably mean extra cleaning bills in regard to the upholstery, but LT could issue towels at the gates.

Evening Standard Latest:

"Mother's fear for battered baby"

Yes, it must be every chip shop owners nightmare.

(And I won't bother to explain this pun to our overseas readers).

Anthony Gormley: Blind Light

And so to London's Hayward Gallery to view the Anthony Gormley exhibition. The centrepiece 'Blind Light' is by far the most effective, being genuinely interactive. It's certainly an experience that will leave a lasting impression on anyone who shuffles through it.

It's a large glass room full of cloud, like a 1950s pea-souper without the sulphur, or the emphasima. One edges around in two feet visibility, vaguely aware of other presences, but not quite.

And I'm sure we weren't the only couple groping each other blatently within arms length of perfect strangers; it seemed puritan not to.

The rest is basic Gormley, which is pretty bloody good. If you can, go.

London Olympics Logo Can Kill!

Well, almost: it's causing epileptic fits at least. Mind you, I felt a bit woozy after seeing it for the first time.

Well at least there's a petition to go to, although I suspect that it's being signed by the sort of people that object to the logo on terms of it's supposed "modernity", who would rather have the visual equivalent of UPVC mock-tudor windows.

Meanwhile, the BBC has enabled the public to prove just how simple it can be, here, some of which are actually quite good; proving that the agency that charged the blazers at the olympic committee £400,000, were performing the equivalent of Harry Enfield's "I Saw You Coming" sketch.

London 2012: Shit Logo Unveiled

Those amongst us that were appauled by London's bad luck in getting stitched up with the 2012 Olympics will despairingly point out that the capital is already feeling Olympic Fatigue, as the disruption and spiralling expense alienates the population from the hand-full of middle-class hearties who will actually gain career-points from the whole shambles.

Anyway, now look what they've gone and done. This logo looks like the sort of thing a local authority designer would come up with. Actually, it looks like something seen on a 1980s shell-suit, so beloved of those who are now in charge of athletics.

Disappointing when you consider just how good British art and design is at the moment: this could have been so much better. But of course; the blazers at the Olympic committee wouldn't know that. They've always been too busy being competitve to care about aesthetics.

Tomorrow: Better news; Anthony Gormley's Hayward exhibition.

Tinky Winky's Handbag, All Over Again!

Well you can't fault the Polish Catholic Church for trying, as they fight to resist the onslaught of western debauchery.

Someone alerted them to those perverts in Teletubby land, and the Papish Poles are equal to the challenge as they enquire as to the psychological well-being of the ambiguous Tinky Winky.

I understand that the Archbishop of Warsaw does a pretty good Edith Evans, as he enquired "A Handbag?"

No doubt if the Teletubbies were a group of sausage chomping men wearing leather jackets and big moustaches, that would be considered OK.

Dirty Girls Have More Fun

Actually, all I've done here is use the tabloid technique of taking a science story and given it a prurient spin.

I think that this research is probably closer to the sentiment "happy as a pig in shit".

Now wipe that grin off your face and wash your hands.

Southerners Up North: Really North.

Newcastle: Social Anthropology

Well, my reservations about being in Newcastle on a Saturday night were slightly asuaged by the actuality that our middle-aged anoraked appearance rendered us invisible to the hoards of separate male and female groupings, who were too busy drunkenly displaying to each other to register our presence.

Basically, to Newcastle, Viz comic is a documentary.

Right before our feet we watched as a mini-skirted inebriate repeatedly grazed her knees as she failed to upright herself, yet continued propelling herself forward whilst expertly holding a kebab aloft whilst vomiting. And that takes practice.
Newcastle is a town without coats, half pint glasses or self-awareness, and is proud of it.

(Wednesdays are little better. I sat in a bar watching the play-offs, whilst a miasma of fart-gas wafted over from the lads welded to the bar)

Baltic Gallery: Great Lifts, Good Views of the City.

Unfortunately the curators of the Baltic are unable to find the sign that reads "Closed Until Further Notice", and have been forced to cobble together a tragic collection of tat that would shame a provincial art school end of term show.

And somebody take the camera away from Patti Smith and tell her to stick to being a one-album has-been. (Very small out-of-focus non-descipt photos aren't art, they're small pointless wastes of good gallery space).




Northumberland: Tourist Trail.

Yeh, worth it, but we felt very middle-aged and middle-class, trudging around those castles.

However, any region that has retained its combined tobacconist/confectionary shops, twenty years after everywhere else succumbed deserves a pat on the back. It also boasts independent butchers, fishmongers, haberdashers and pubs which give each high street a unique look, the way all English towns looked different from each other before the tories surrendered them to the supermarkets.

And hats off to The Barrels in Berwick, a great pub with an actual landlord, who is running the pub the way that he wants it.



Anyway
Whilst I was away, I dreamt that I was witnessing a scrap between Bono and the Pope, during which the Irish showman was shouting "You're just a political appointee, my power comes from on high!" And I'm inclined to believe that's what he WOULD say.