My favourite bit of the BBC account is:
What sort of moron omits to put at least three exclamation marks after FUCK OFF!!!
Monday, June 30, 2008
And so the Tory press have unearthed another outrage indicating the state of national decline in the form of modern education, after a disgruntled school pupil scribbled an obscenity on an exam paper and got a mark for it!.
My favourite bit of the BBC account is:
The pupil is reported to have written "fuck off", and would have had another mark for adding an exclamation point.
What sort of moron omits to put at least three exclamation marks after FUCK OFF!!!
My favourite bit of the BBC account is:
What sort of moron omits to put at least three exclamation marks after FUCK OFF!!!
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Portsmouth Symphonia: Sadly Missed
It annoys me when someone out there owns something and won't let it be re-released. Here is a glimpse of the marvellous Portsmouth Symphonia from the early seventies. Untrained, they released two seminal albums which have never been seen on CD, let alone iTunes. Compulsive.
Same goes for the elusive "Big Knights" which the BBC buried despite its unhinged genius.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Nighty Knight, Mugabe!
Hey guess what, the Queen has been doing some recycling.
She's taken away a knighthood from "Robert Mugabe" and polished it up for Cat Stevens fan "Salman Rushdie!"
Well done your majesty!
She's taken away a knighthood from "Robert Mugabe" and polished it up for Cat Stevens fan "Salman Rushdie!"
Well done your majesty!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I Feel Your Pain.
My compadre at "Titivil" has trapped his finger in a door!
Let me tell you:
I once caught my finger in a train door.
After a black-nailed sleepless night, and a unremittant day of throbbing, I returned home to my shared house where I relayed my plight to Merial, a newly qualified doctor.
"Oh, you need to go to the hospital to get your nail pierced! "She advised, in her alluring Scottish accent * "That will release the pressure." .
But then she said "Or, I can do it for you now if you want?"
Now, two things:
a) I was in pain, and could not bear the thought of the four-hour wait in casualty with the junkies and the drunks for company.
and
b) Apart from her sultry-yet-authoritive accent, Merial was possibly the most sexual attractive woman I have ever shared a confined space with and we're talking about a very small kitchen here.
"Yes" I heard myself reply only too eagerly, and expected her to go fetch a doctor's bag, although I had never actually seen her with one, I just assumed they were issued with the when they qualified.
Imagine my dismay as she just turned and began to rummage around the adjacent kitchen drawers, searching amongst the accumulated crap until she uttered an "Aha!" and turned towards me holding aloft a paperclip!
"Right!" she enthused, "let me just get the gas on!"
At this she then seemed to sense my apparent dismay, and began to reassure me with a description of the procedure that she had in mind for my finger:
"I'm going to heat the paperclip until it's red hot, and then I'm going to burn a whole through your nail to relieve the pressure!" she purred in her seductive Caledonian brogue.
OK, I know. I should have begun running the moment she produced the paperclip. I should kept running to the nearest phone box and phoned the medical authorities, and then ran some more; but I didn't.
Why not? Like I say, I was in a confined space with the type of lubricious professional female than only James Bond gets to meet. And let's face it, she was offering the only chance of penetration I was ever likely to get to experience with her. And it wasn't just my finger that was throbbing, despite the pain.
"OK!" I stupidly agreed, and placed a trembling digit upon the worktop.
As the paperclip finally glowed a vivid orange she smiled to herself, turned, and approached with the words "Now, this is really going to hurt!"
She grabbed my finger and proceded to push the scorching metal into my fingernail, which began to emit smoke just around the time that I began to feel agonising pain, at which point I had an involuntary spasm and pulled my hand away.
"Oh no!" she cried, ambiguously "I was nearly there!" and appeared to be genuinely disappointed, possibly with my lack of manliness.
"OK," I replied, calming myself, "I'll do it!" and took the cooling paperclip from her beautifully delicate, yet masterful hands.
I reheated the clip, and then, with her leaning over beside me to get a closer view, I found myself grimacing, taking a deep breath, and after pausing for a contemplative second, pushed a burning piece of metal into my own fingernail!
The pain was indescribable, and I let out a sizable "Aaargh!" as the fiery stylus burnt its way through and pierced the blackened nail. Yet then, as the all-consuming agony rapidly accelerated, there was just as suddenly a release, not just of the trapped blood which gushed from my smouldering finger up onto the galley walls, but from the pain itself, accompanied by a shrill scream from my accomplice who threw her hands to her face as the spurt gushed outwards.
The relief was as indescribable as the pain itself. I exhaled, dropped the paperclip, and shook my heamorrhaging hand, as I eased myself back against the cupboard. Merial held her own hand to her chest and said "My! That was exciting!", before asking to inspect the wound, and volunteered to expertly bandage my traumatised limb.
How we laughed as we wiped my emissions from the tiling.
And then, that was it. Me, Merial, a kitchen, and not so black fingernail.
I don't think I got that close to her again until I came home as a stab victim, but that, dear reader, is another bag of plasma!
Oh by the way, my fingernail eventually dropped off, and took an AGE to grow again.
Merial married a balding advertising man.
*Before the invention of the India practioner, all British doctors were Scottish. I think it was the law.
Let me tell you:
I once caught my finger in a train door.
After a black-nailed sleepless night, and a unremittant day of throbbing, I returned home to my shared house where I relayed my plight to Merial, a newly qualified doctor.
"Oh, you need to go to the hospital to get your nail pierced! "She advised, in her alluring Scottish accent * "That will release the pressure." .
But then she said "Or, I can do it for you now if you want?"
Now, two things:
a) I was in pain, and could not bear the thought of the four-hour wait in casualty with the junkies and the drunks for company.
and
b) Apart from her sultry-yet-authoritive accent, Merial was possibly the most sexual attractive woman I have ever shared a confined space with and we're talking about a very small kitchen here.
"Yes" I heard myself reply only too eagerly, and expected her to go fetch a doctor's bag, although I had never actually seen her with one, I just assumed they were issued with the when they qualified.
Imagine my dismay as she just turned and began to rummage around the adjacent kitchen drawers, searching amongst the accumulated crap until she uttered an "Aha!" and turned towards me holding aloft a paperclip!
"Right!" she enthused, "let me just get the gas on!"
At this she then seemed to sense my apparent dismay, and began to reassure me with a description of the procedure that she had in mind for my finger:
"I'm going to heat the paperclip until it's red hot, and then I'm going to burn a whole through your nail to relieve the pressure!" she purred in her seductive Caledonian brogue.
OK, I know. I should have begun running the moment she produced the paperclip. I should kept running to the nearest phone box and phoned the medical authorities, and then ran some more; but I didn't.
Why not? Like I say, I was in a confined space with the type of lubricious professional female than only James Bond gets to meet. And let's face it, she was offering the only chance of penetration I was ever likely to get to experience with her. And it wasn't just my finger that was throbbing, despite the pain.
"OK!" I stupidly agreed, and placed a trembling digit upon the worktop.
As the paperclip finally glowed a vivid orange she smiled to herself, turned, and approached with the words "Now, this is really going to hurt!"
She grabbed my finger and proceded to push the scorching metal into my fingernail, which began to emit smoke just around the time that I began to feel agonising pain, at which point I had an involuntary spasm and pulled my hand away.
"Oh no!" she cried, ambiguously "I was nearly there!" and appeared to be genuinely disappointed, possibly with my lack of manliness.
"OK," I replied, calming myself, "I'll do it!" and took the cooling paperclip from her beautifully delicate, yet masterful hands.
I reheated the clip, and then, with her leaning over beside me to get a closer view, I found myself grimacing, taking a deep breath, and after pausing for a contemplative second, pushed a burning piece of metal into my own fingernail!
The pain was indescribable, and I let out a sizable "Aaargh!" as the fiery stylus burnt its way through and pierced the blackened nail. Yet then, as the all-consuming agony rapidly accelerated, there was just as suddenly a release, not just of the trapped blood which gushed from my smouldering finger up onto the galley walls, but from the pain itself, accompanied by a shrill scream from my accomplice who threw her hands to her face as the spurt gushed outwards.
The relief was as indescribable as the pain itself. I exhaled, dropped the paperclip, and shook my heamorrhaging hand, as I eased myself back against the cupboard. Merial held her own hand to her chest and said "My! That was exciting!", before asking to inspect the wound, and volunteered to expertly bandage my traumatised limb.
How we laughed as we wiped my emissions from the tiling.
And then, that was it. Me, Merial, a kitchen, and not so black fingernail.
I don't think I got that close to her again until I came home as a stab victim, but that, dear reader, is another bag of plasma!
Oh by the way, my fingernail eventually dropped off, and took an AGE to grow again.
Merial married a balding advertising man.
*Before the invention of the India practioner, all British doctors were Scottish. I think it was the law.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Let's Laugh At Foreign Names
So England's worst manager of the modern era has landed a job at FC Twente in the Netherlands.
Good for him, but the only point of interest in this story is the name of the man who offered the job to Steve McClaren.
Stand up "Joop Munsterman"
Good for him, but the only point of interest in this story is the name of the man who offered the job to Steve McClaren.
Stand up "Joop Munsterman"
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Hello DAHLING!
Judging by the sartorial disasters on display this evening, one assumes (doesn't one) that it is Ascot Week.
Yes, I know it's just a bit of expensive fun, but the ridiculous outfit that looks so fetching on the racecourse looks frankly stupid on public transport.
But then again, when I think back to what I was wearing on public transport in 1977 I may need to keep it shut.
(Mind you, in consideration for the sweaty conditions this balmy evening, the street sweeper I saw wearing A BALACLAVA needed a slap!)
Statement Ends.
Yes, I know it's just a bit of expensive fun, but the ridiculous outfit that looks so fetching on the racecourse looks frankly stupid on public transport.
But then again, when I think back to what I was wearing on public transport in 1977 I may need to keep it shut.
(Mind you, in consideration for the sweaty conditions this balmy evening, the street sweeper I saw wearing A BALACLAVA needed a slap!)
Statement Ends.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Not Exactly Blue Monday
It transpires that Manchester was first in the computer music stakes, knocking out a tune back in 1951: that's seven years before IBM.
Hear it on the BBC
Hear it on the BBC
Sunday, June 15, 2008
War On Terror: British Style
As the forces of righteousness lose yet another top secret file, relating to the enemies of the state, conspiracy theorists across the country are thrown into disarray as to how to respond.
"It's a bit difficult" replied one, who wished to remain anonymous, "because our arguments centre upon the notion of a monolithic state driven by an omnipotent bureaucratic structure which is capable of monitoring and manipulating every minute of our waking lives. Instead we get incidents like this that make it look like we're actually being governed by a bunch half-hearted tossers who couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery! And there's only so many times us conspiracy theorists can play the "that's what they WANT us to believe" caveat, and maintain eye-contact. Honestly, maintaining a conspiracy theory isn't easy with tossers like this running the country!"
Meanwhile, the government spokesman has agreed to talk to the press just as soon as he can find where he left the statement.
"It's a bit difficult" replied one, who wished to remain anonymous, "because our arguments centre upon the notion of a monolithic state driven by an omnipotent bureaucratic structure which is capable of monitoring and manipulating every minute of our waking lives. Instead we get incidents like this that make it look like we're actually being governed by a bunch half-hearted tossers who couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery! And there's only so many times us conspiracy theorists can play the "that's what they WANT us to believe" caveat, and maintain eye-contact. Honestly, maintaining a conspiracy theory isn't easy with tossers like this running the country!"
Meanwhile, the government spokesman has agreed to talk to the press just as soon as he can find where he left the statement.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Put The Scissors Down Uncle Sam!
You'd think that the USAF would have enough to worry about with their pilots killing their allies but they've found time to gripe about the length of an RAF guest's "Handlebar Moustache"
Thankfully, it transpires that the USAF have no jurisdiction in the matter and our man in Afghanistan gets to keep his whiskers.
Hoorah! Let's hope he doesn't prang the old kite before tea!
Thankfully, it transpires that the USAF have no jurisdiction in the matter and our man in Afghanistan gets to keep his whiskers.
Hoorah! Let's hope he doesn't prang the old kite before tea!
Put It Away VICAR!
It can't be easy working with a colleague who pathologically feels the need to find innuendo in everything said. And this must be a particularly difficult situation to be in if you're a gay trainee priest.
However, aren't you asking for trouble if you're a gay trainee priest who delivers a talk entitled "Receive My Peace"?
At this rate he'll be cut off by the espiscopalians!
However, aren't you asking for trouble if you're a gay trainee priest who delivers a talk entitled "Receive My Peace"?
At this rate he'll be cut off by the espiscopalians!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Wie Gehts!
Can I congratulate Düsseldorf on having the most wonderfully laid back airport.
They even have a lounge pianist in the middle of the concourse!
Oh, and excellent Sweinfleischballen en Barbacuesauce.
An odd day on the whole: up at 4 am, back in Blighty for 9pm. The entire time in full daylight like some kind of Lapland thing going on. Unusual disorientation.
They even have a lounge pianist in the middle of the concourse!
Oh, and excellent Sweinfleischballen en Barbacuesauce.
An odd day on the whole: up at 4 am, back in Blighty for 9pm. The entire time in full daylight like some kind of Lapland thing going on. Unusual disorientation.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Underground Fish Alert
OK, so I'm coming home, it's 11.30pm at Holborn, I get on the tube and it stinks of fish.
Who transports fish on the underground? In the summer?
This is Boris Johnson, I tell you: now that people can't drink on the tube, they're transporting huge quantities of fish.
To hell in a handcart.
Who transports fish on the underground? In the summer?
This is Boris Johnson, I tell you: now that people can't drink on the tube, they're transporting huge quantities of fish.
To hell in a handcart.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Animator vs Animation
Flash animation for your entertainment:
"Animator vs Animation" by Alan Becker
With thanks to Arctic Ghetto
"Animator vs Animation" by Alan Becker
With thanks to Arctic Ghetto
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Caring; But Unsettling
It's worth keeping an eye on the old Soviet rag Pravda once in a while for the occasional "Pathologist cut out dead people's eyes to help children" story.
It worth looking at for the unusual juxtaposition of images.
Like a photo of a cadaver, followed by a mole.
It worth looking at for the unusual juxtaposition of images.
Like a photo of a cadaver, followed by a mole.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Blair Bypasses Blaine Blunder
Moral leader of the free world, Tony Blair has launched his new publicity stunt sincere religious campaign in New York City.
No doubt Blair considered unveiling his plans in Britain before remembering how fellow celebrity shaman David Blaine was received back in London during a overhyped exercise a few years back.
Yes, better to play it safe where the Americans have far better manners and won't ask questions.
No doubt Blair considered unveiling his plans in Britain before remembering how fellow celebrity shaman David Blaine was received back in London during a overhyped exercise a few years back.
Yes, better to play it safe where the Americans have far better manners and won't ask questions.
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