HNY

I'm lucky, I live in a neighbourhood where we know, like and look after each other.

In fact, our new neighbours are so wonderful that it's as though we got them out of a catalogue.

Anyway, we set off tonight to do all the homes, including an attempt to do first footing with an American visitor which requires a series of step-ladders to ensure that he can make it real by going in (introducing the new year) the front and leaving out the back (taking out the old). (We live in a terrace and need the ladders to vault fences).

And if you don't know, this also involves carrying coal, and we've purchased real coal for the purpose, in contradiction to the capital's smokeless fuel legislation.

Not that we're lighting any fires with the temperature currently at a balmy 13 degrees C.

Anyway, it's New Year and I've bought a bottle of Champagne and a packet of fags to celebrate: So cheers!

Ta Ra!

I was watching my neighbours seeing off their son as he left for the airport on his way back to Barcelona.

As the car moved down the road, they waved at the back of the car and I witnessed the old fellah lift the flat cap from his head and do that hat-waggling thing that you see in black and white footage of long-dead football crowds.

Just a little bit of culture clinging on, like a carriage return, or the click of a telephone dial, still fresh in the memory to us elders, yet already dead to the youngsters.

Lights; Camel; ACTION!

They Were The Days

Vampire Santa!

Our works' intranet site carries the suggestion;

"Give Blood This Christmas!"

Well, call me conservative, but I'd rather NOT find a bag of that in my stocking thank you very much!

I mean; really!

New Kitchen Arrived: In Boxes

All we need now is a builder able to understand the turning up bit of the contract.

Mugabe; The Nandos Years

Ding!

Well, we finally ripped out the kitchen in anticipation of the new one's arrival, albeit once the floor goes down at the end of this week, and once the guy arrives next week.

We are, therefore without a means to cook.

My partner has borrowed a microwave, with which we experienced our first microwave meal.

Suddenly we turn into Brian Sewell and Penelope Keith, APPALLED by the outcome. Blazing hot and devoid of flavour.

Is this what the hoi polloi actually eat? Is it food for those that dislike eating?

We have two weeks of this!

Delivered; With History

Home Town Latest

Mascot "Berserk" In Playground

As if school isn't bad enough without being hunted down by some sort of penis-allegory mascarading as an olympic mascot.

But not a word about it from Boris Johnson!

Someone should do something about it.

The Minotaur @ Lazarides

Great exhibition space , as long as you like your art in the dank & dark.

Pretentious? Moi?

Want to waste an hour? Why not visit the V&A's Postmodernism; Style & Subversion 1970-1990 ?

Shyte and Derivation more like it.

Did you know that the fashion mag The Face was part of the postmodern "movement"? I doubt if the editor did either.

The whole thing is a teleological conceit where the curator has taken the attitude that "it's postmodernism if I say it is".

Basically, they have cobbled together a pile of unrelated (usually trendy) crap and dressed it up as having some greater "postmodern" significance.

Yes, I do understand that that is a "postmodern" concept in it's self, but it still proves that it's just pretentious twaddle.

Tssk!

I Am The Walrus

OMG!

And to think that I nearly forgot that next week is BRITISH EGG WEEK!

Pub Latest: Vessel Surfeit

A couple of years ago, I stopped frequenting my local The Gate, a fine example of a grand Victorian pub which combined a superb pizza oven with notoriously poor service.

The decision to quit was made on the evening I ventured in with a regular drinking partner, ordered two pints and chose from the menu. When the chump behind the bar thumped our drinks spillingly onto the bar, we informed him that we would also order food.

"Sorry" he mumbled "No Pizza; we've run out of cheese!"

It was 8pm. They had "run out of cheese". There was a convenience store next door. The nearest supermarket was 5 minutes walk away, yet they were unwilling to trade in Pizzas because they had managed to run out of cheese. British pubs are closing in their hundreds every year, and this one had run out of cheese!

Imagine his confusion as we then declined to pay for the pints and opted to go to The Victoria Stakes, which was further but could guarantee decent service AND food.

I mention this because this evening at 7pm, the same drinking partner and I approached the bar of The Rocket on the Euston Road in time to hear the hapless youth serving tell a female customer that they had "run out of wine glasses". She agreed to have her drink sold in a half pint glass. Yes, they had "run out of wine glasses". British pubs are closing in their hundreds every year, and this one had run out of wine glasses.

Thus is the state of the British service industry.

Skip The Warm Towels: Call An Ambulance

I find it interesting that the British obsession with alcohol poisoning as a rite is considered insufficient as a means to convey native robustness, that we have to have Curry Competitions to separate the men from the panty-waists.

Apparently, a restaurant in Edinburgh has hospitalised contestants in a apparent bid to "raise charity".

One wonders if the totals raised exceeded the cost to the tax payer for the abuse of our cash-strapped free-on-demand health service.

One attention-seeking contestant admitted;

"I've always enjoyed spicy foods and thought this was for a good cause. But it came with a price, I had to be taken to the ERI twice.

"I first went to hospital at around 4pm and the second time was at 9pm. It got really bad. I have never endured such pain in my life."

Mr Ali (the perpetrator) said he felt the competition had gone well, but that he had overestimated how much heat the competitors could take.

As the Media Blog so succinctly observes:

Ah yes, the old "vomiting, collapsing, sweating and panting" publicity stunt - a winner for any restaurant.

Pub; Holborn

Yukata Sone

Really cool Manhattan in stone from China.

Grotesque Bournemouth

Must be something in that sea air, but Bournemouth's changed since I last rented a deckchair.

Warning: video contains local authority personnel in hi-viz, just in case.

Weather Update

As London enjoys its brief Indian Summer, with a much appreciated heat wave, there are those amongst us who are somewhat behind the curve.

A lobster coloured colleague approaches me, puffing:

Him: "Blimey, are you hot?"

Me: "Yes, it's a nice change!"Him: "I'm REALLY hot!"

Me: "Why don't you take that jumper off then?"

Him: "Yeh," (pause to think) "I suppose I should really!"

Equivalent VII: The Wickes Years

I did a double take at the builder's depot.

Didn't the Tate spend a lot of money on that?

Is it now on tour?

And was that Carl Andre demonstrating the Black & Decker WM550 new improved more versatile Workmate?

Come to think about, maybe not.

Spontaneous Combustion Latest

Meanwhile, in Ireland, the Galway coroner has had a busy week.

"Dougal, have you got the results on that fire at the old fellah's house now?"

"Sorry there Ted, but I'm at a loss on this one, and I've too much on to really examine it. Do you mind if we just spin the wheel on this one?"

"OK Dougal, but don't let it become a habit!"

There is a spinning sound, which eventually slows to a clicking halt.

"Blimey, what's the chance of it landing on that? Better tell the press unit to brace themselves!"

World's Most Boring Teenager Unveiled

Hey, remember William Hague? He was that dickhead kid that the Tories shoved on stage in front of Thatcher to convince the public that she didn't eat children.

He went on to become an ineffective politician, hapless party leader and now embarrassing foreign secretary.

Well, to prove that those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it, some idiot at the Labour Party conference has found Rory Weal (or is it Ron Weasly?), who is clearly unable to understand the point of being young.

You know, the halfwit in the playground that approaches the smokers and barracks them with "brothers and sisters, why prevaricate? Is it not incumbent upon us to aggregate our anger in a collective effort to shake off the cloak of false conciousness and storm the fortress that is our repressive yet complacent parliamentary autocracy! Come with me as we rise against the OOF!...Aargh!
Now now; let's have solidarity...Ouch, that hurts! I beseech you, don't you see that that's what they want you to do! OOOF! But I'm your leader, MMMFF!"

Someone give the little turd spliff for fuck's sake. It didn't hamper the career of Cameron or Osborne.

Can't Afford It? Just Do It!

It's curious how we can live in parallel universes.

For example, the business pages are full of how the world stands on the brink of an economic catastrophy, which our greatest economists admit that they're at a loss to tackle.

And then in another column, we read that the populace don't care, as long as they have credit cards, they're going to keep NIKE in record profits buying stuff they don't need.

Living the dream!

Beware!

South Bank: Urban Fox

Your Freedom = Our Oil

As the Libyan revolution/debacle continues to unfold, the Great Powers are lining up to grab the post-war spoils, and are manoeuvring to exploit the needs of whoever fills the vacuum.

Having poured huge resources into the NATO effort so far to ensure that western control is retained in the region, they now expect the quid pro quo from the recipients of this largesse.

However, it appears that the ingrates are a little more savvy than the deadly celebratory shooting in the air would indicate.

As the British government begins to show its hand by being patronising on one hand ("didn't you do WELL!") and demanding on the other ("don't forget who put you here") those pesky Libyans have pulled a fast one.

It's a no-brainer. The intelligence revelations exposing the relationship between Gaddafi, the CIA & MI6 were always going to be toxic, and any owner of that material would know that. Therefore, Washington and London could only hope that the current (and no doubt fleeting) leadership would not bite the hand that has so generously fed them in order to keep the powers sweet.

However, it's a war, and everyone can do perfidy, and the National Transitional Council chosen to play their ace before the dust has settled.

The west may be able to rely on 400 years on colonialism to know what works, but they must realise that by now, SO DO THE COLONIALS.

Last week it was claimed that the suspected killer of WPC Yvonne Fletcher had been found executed, "shot, possibly by former regime apparatchiks hoping to silence him". No doubt the new guys were aware of the expectations of the British government, yet were keen to end any unnecessary wrangling that did not advance the cause of the NTC. Bang Bang: Problem Solved. In the "fog of war" that's easy.

If the British Government had any notion that the Libyans would care a fart for Tory promises to the oil companies, then it is now dashed.

Curiously enough, give the Tories credit. Cameron has immediately taken the opportunity to place blame for the MI6 farce on the Labour party and the previous government! He may not have any ideas, but he's the master of the pointless political smokescreen.

Meanwhile, BP and BIG OIL will have to resort to their usual covert methods to turn the situation around to their advantage. And they will.

The Shame of Miss Jean Brodie

Well, it's A-Level day again, and once more the press will cover the story in two ways. a) get some crusty old tory to bemoan how exams are getting too easy, and b) feature images of shapely young women jumping the the air for joy at their marvellous results.

However, it transpires that the private girls' schools have been pimping out their prettier ladies for the occasion.

Over at the Media Blog they have examples, including Badminton School's invitation to:

"interview, take shots and film as we have lots of girls coming in that day including the three below who would make very good case studies - they speak extremely well and take a good picture..."

Here's hoping for a hot day where clothing will require loosening!

For You Tommy, Resistance Is Futile!

On glancing at Wikipedia, I read about Czechoslovak motorcycle manufacturer Jawa , well remembered from my childhood as a speedway fan.

I did a double take on the following statement:

World War II period

The Germans had captured the Jawa factory and were using the facility for the research and manufacture of Robots.

ROBOTS? Er, like, with laser eyes and crusher grip hands?

Were they ever deployed? If so, why didn't they win?

What happened to them?

Wikipedia fails to elucidate further, but if the Nazis had killer robots, I think we should know!

Is there a hidden warehouse somewhere in Eastern Europe where Hitler's mechanised Uber Storm Troopers reside, waiting for the moment when they shall be summoned forth to reek terrible revenge?

I'm sorry, but Wikipedia needs to provide a few more details, and quickly!

Welcome To The Self-Incriminating Generation

On watching the "JD Sports" riots last week, I pondered as to how many of the herberts in action would manage to shop themselves. Social media is a great place to share your excitement about what you're up to, but some are unable to think it all the way through.

In recent years, police forces have learned to rely on Facebook, YouTube etc as the first port of call to accrue easy evidence, and so were no doubt confident that half of their job was being done for them by the hapless mob. One dick rushed home with his contraband, and immediately posted photos of his haul online, explaining exactly where and when he had stolen it.

And then there is the smart technology.

The BBC have published this , where an Apple Macbook Pro owner described as a "former NASA and FBI employee", primed his laptop to track its movements.

Having had it stolen, he monitered its use and obtained the thief's "name, school, address in west London and information about his wireless internet".

Curiously, as the police take flak for apparently losing control of the streets last week, we may have to ask how much the crowds were actually policing themselves, and ceding some of that control by recording and reporting their own crimes as they progressed.

Jae

JAE | Part 1 (Lest I Ever Waited / Jim's Place) | A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

FO...And Don't Come Back!

Just in case our overseas viewers have been looking at this week's shenanigans with a sense of remoteness, be warned: We're Coming to Get You!

The Foreign & Commonwealth Office has produced a rather useful cut-out and keep guide to Brits in Trouble Abroad .

From the "Oh crying loud, what have they done NOW?" school of embassy work.

Note: back in the seventies, in Biarritz in France, my surfer brother and his pals were held up a machine gun point by basque terrorists/freedom fighters.

Had the van they were sleeping EVER started properly, they would have lost anything, but as it was, the gunmen grabbed what they could, included the much sought after passports, and made off.

Now penniless and stateless, the victims turned to the British Consulate there, public school toffs to a man, who deemed my brother and his friends to be beneath contempt.

Fortunately, the French authorities keen to suppress the story to protect tourism in the high income resort were more than helpful, as were the locals, and aid was provided until the Embassy finally bothered to issue emergency passports so that they could get home.

They were the days.

We Will Fight Them On The Beaches

Give credit where credit is due, the Iranian leadership may be a bunch of fundamentalist tossers, but at least the have displayed an opportunist sense of humour. Yesterday, they appealed to the British Authorities "to exercise restraint" in regard to their approach to the mobs.

Meanwhile, as London burns and the Tories meet the forces at the belatedly convened COBRA* security committee, there was fun in the sand next door in Horse Guards Parade where there was a demonstration of Olympic Beach Volleyball !

Actually, holding any demonstration in Whitehall at the moment may have be construed as foolhardy, but fortunately the sight of those shapely young arses would be enough to calm the nerves of the most savage beast. I suspect that Mr Cameron et al may have ambled over after their talk just to have a perv under the pretence that they're enthused about next year's games. "Yes Prime Minister, that's... er...that's certainly worth, um, waiting for....blimey!"

Maybe that's the answer to the current disorder: a mobile beach volleyball tournament, available for deployment at any moment to any location.

Rioting?: "Look boys! Trim young lady's arses!" Then, as the hoodies' brains turn to mush, uniformed officers round them up like BSE blighted cattle.

Now that's what I call a "snatch squad".

(I've never actually been to a beach volleyball tournament. Do they actually perform to GoGo music? If they don't already, I think they should.)

*The rather cool and vaguely menacing title of the COBRA committee actually derives from Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, located in the Cabinet Office. Yes there is a Cabinet Office Briefing Room B, but A is bigger and accomodates more people.

I Mean; Really!

I've had this for a few days now, but events dear boy:

You know when you're doing a google search, and you get something not quite what you're looking for?

Imaging my disappointment when I found THIS!

A Modest Proposal

As you can imagine, listeners have been queueing for my solutions to the latest disturbances across the metropolis.

I have three:

a) snatch squads grab a mere handful of herberts off the street. Rough them up a bit to gain compliance, then dress them in baby doll outfits with crude girly make up and make them recite on camera "I feel pretty!". This footage to be posted on social media as a warning to the others.

b) Identify mobile numbers used in the area at the time and merely text them a summons to the magistrates court the next day. "Failure to do so..."

c) Helicopter Gunships

OK, not too much social inclusion there, but I think more entertaining, and I'm pissed off because the library was closed when I popped in to drop off the weekend's DVD.

So There!

Meanwhile; Amongst Nature

As the metropolis burns around me, I turn my face to the ground and lo!

Object Trouvet!

I have to admit that this was not photographed in situ, as there were burly workmen sitting around nearby having a litter-strewn fast food lunch, and I feared that I'd appear the milksop if I was witnessed taking this before them.

I therefore carried it home and replicated the scene in my back garden amid the sound of bells from a nearby church. Very quaint: unless of course the peal was one of warning of imminent invasion?

North London Riots: Latest

Obviously, the last two nights have been quite traumatic for all of us, but on the good side, my local crack house now boasts a new plasma screen and a blueray DVD player!

I also have a share in a glazing company.

Result!

Council Watch

Bad Disneyland: The Bunker Experience

OK everybody, I'm sorry, I've been away from my desk and been a bit neglectful.

However, there is often something that drives me towards the Blog, and this is one of those.

Those cheeky funsters in Eastern Europe have been up to their hi-jinks, and have been trying to present a Nazi bunker as a tourist attraction.

Warning, this story includes the phrase:

"They wanted to offer tourists the chance to try on uniforms, hang sub machine-guns around their necks and pose for pictures with Nazi flags in the background. This is blatant Nazi propaganda."

Sadly, there are no details of how one books tickets to visit this sight of historic interest.

Big Shoes To Fill

I have to admit, I was disappointed: Not a clown it sight!

Short Back & Sides and Sensible Shoes

Can I just declare that I am not, have never been, or even pretended to be a Lesbian.

Hope I Die Before I Get Old

At the end of the sixties, the Isle of Wight inadvertantly hosted two seminal rock festivals which became definitive of the age, both in the scale of the events, as crowds of 250,000 + poured in from all over Europe to see the music elite of the time, and in how each descended into chaos and insanitary squalor which augured the end of an era.

Although the highlights included Dylan's return to performing, and The Who laying claim to their status as the greatest live band on earth, the final festival of 1970 also proved to be Hendrix's swansong*.

The fact that the events happened at all was remarkable, run by local amateurs with no knowledge of the logistics or economics necessary to manage anything on that scale. The notoriously conservative folk of the island were divided about the invasion, and were either appalled that it was allowed to happen in their back yard, or amused by the hippy invasion (which quickly became a target for sight-seeing, like a sprawling unwashed freak-show) and set out to profiteer from a number of improvised entrepreneurial ventures like selling food to the inadequately catered-for participants at grossly inflated prices.

I mention this because I have some knowledge of this having researched the events.The one constant in the newspapers and police reports of the time is the ability of the islanders to moan and make out how much they'd suffered from the whole sordid episode.

Hence my amusement to read that times change, but folk don't.

The recent spate of authority-approved festivals on the Island are safely anodyne in comparison with the originals, yet have managed to generate controversy.

Apparently, folding chairs have been BANNED!

I mean, how else are you supposed to watch the Foo Fighters if not comfortably seated with a good pipe on the go? And a flask of tea. Why not bring your own sandwiches whilst your at it?

Typically, one islander complained:

"I'm absolutely furious. It's 175 quid down the drain. [The organisers] need to treat the public with respect."

£175 for a folding chair? And was he really only intending to use it the once?

It's amusing to think that the locals not only feel safe enough to attend, but are still taking the opportunity to mither about it.

*Hendrix played two other gigs: jamming at Ronnie Scott's and appearing in an equally chaotic island festival in Germany, but it was the IoW that offered the last en masse opportunity to view the guitar legend.

Revolution: Once Step Too Far

Now, nobody believes in the power of the collective as much as me, and the problems of the world are clearly solvable through anarcho-syndicalism.

However, I think there's a time and place for everything, and if there's a line that doesn't need crossing by the body politic it has to be where women's bits are concerned.

Keep it to yourself and behind the curtains missus!

No Man's Land

Spotlight on Camden Town

To be fair, the vehicle had Finland plates.

Take It Apart

I beseech you to read "A Codified Set of the Builder's, Crafters, Makers Rules" at Wondermark

For shed men everywhere.

Special Agent Rin Tin Tin

I read the following in a BBC account of the Bin Laden raid:

Several reports say an unidentified canine was strapped to a human member of the Seals team as he was lowered into the compound

I suspect the truth was somewhere near this:

T minus twenty seconds;

"At the ready men, and prepare to land; Holy Crap! Agent Dugard, explain yourself!"

"Sir, I'm sorry Sir! Sir, believe me I tried, but Mary Sue is in the jug for drink-driving again and her sister who normally does the dog-sitting is working double-shifts at the chicken-ranch. If I leave him at home he chews up the trailer! Sir!"

"We'll talk about this later, just keep that thing under control! OK men: Jump!"

Two minutes later.

"Minsky, we're still waiting for you! What's the problem now!"

"Sir, I'm sorry sir!" Sir; I think its the excitement sir! He's kinda sensitive!"

"Well make sure you pick that up on the way out!

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Woof!"

"Cool your jets Jimbo, we're in enough trouble! Jeez, look! That's the guy from the posters!"

Gunshots are heard.

No One Wants to Discuss the Truth

Oh yeah, like anyone believes that Bin Laden is actually dead!

Of course he was buried at sea: in a casket with breathing apparatus!

There was a submarine below the whole canard, waiting to transport Agent Bin Laden back to CIA headquarters in Langley, where he'll be debriefed before being retired to secret quarters.

Apparently, he's acquired a taste for the ladies since having 17 wives, and is insisting on a similar arrangement in Oregan.

He'll be moving into a community with the other decommissioned agents like Bruce Lee, Elvis Presley and Benny Hill.

Actually, I'm not sure about that last one. I read that at the normally reliable angryabouteverything.com, but I'm beginning to question their judgement recently since they claimed that Obama didn't even HAVE a birth certificate because he was a cyborg created at the back of a surfing novelty shop in Honolulu during a particular low tide.

Anyway: he's alive!

Or, and I'm inclined towards this one: they have his head alive in a jar, just in case they need access to an evil genius to resist future alien onslaught.

Oh I don't know, it must be one of the two, but I'm undecided.

It's just that I've been having a few identity issues recently, and feeling more than my usual level of alienation since Mr Chutney the rent collector moved in with Mom. Apart from his carnal advances upon her, he's also been looking at porn images of fat chicks on my laptop, and then blaming me!

But will the Navy Seals do anything about him?

No, of course not! It's SO UNFAIR!

Dun Laden

Well, that's just typical.

Americans celebrating the death of Bin Laden, with no consideration for those of us chasing debts.

I haven't been paid for all that tunneling work and air conditioning we put in for him about a decade ago!

And I've still got a dodgy stomach from my time on the Tora Bora food plan.

I mean, there's a recession on and the building trade is in enough difficulty without this.

I've still got a bloody "super-gun" out the back that Saddam ordered of me. No chance of getting rid of that either!

Please Wear The White Gloves Provided

Researching as I do, I stumble upon the poorly designed yet unteresting The National Museum of Science & Industry (NMSI) site, which provides details of museum collections.

Heavily featured, site left, at the head of the 'Popular Objects' section is a link to the Arita Drug and Rubber Goods Company pre-war sex aids collection.

This may give us a glimpse of the world had the Japanese won the war.

Happy Christmas Mr. Lawrence indeed!

Volcanic Dust Inquest

So we learn that the no-fly declaration following last year's Icelandic volcano eruption was valid after all.

Volcanic Dust Sand Blasting Effect

However I am bemused to read the statement:

Some 10 million travellers were affected by the shutdown .

The travellers on the camp down the road from me don't look like the jet-setting kind, and are far too busy fly-tipping and horse-trading to leave their caravans.

Surely some mistake?

The Royal Wedding Broadside

A colonial acquaintace asked my thoughts on next weeks Royal Wedding.

This came out:


Although I am no monarchist, I've never been too bothered to go out of my way to exhibit my opposition.

Some will feel the need to demonstrate their ire by phoning up the media and putting on a display of having a picnic miles away from anywhere without TV or Radio, to ensure that their protest is duly noted. It’s the modern way, and no doubt there’s even an appropriate Facebook page available to register one’s disdain.

Having said that, I've yet to come across too much of such posturing, as the dissenters are choosing to just get on with their lives. And actually, now we're no longer tied to old media, it's so much easier to live in parallel without the big day obstructing normal life.

On the day of Diana's death, the British media came to a standstill as all their resources were re-routed to re-cycle the same story ad nauseam throughout the day. The BBC received so many complaints, they had to revert back to normal programming to stem the tirade. My partner and I went to see The Full Monty, it was very good.

Back in 1981, at the Charles / Diana bout, there were a plethora of "fuck the Royal Wedding" gigs on the big day. In fact, it was at one of these that I met a future partner-to-be (but don't get me started on HER!). I'm sure that this time there will be a host of similar events, musical and otherwise, although (like with the Facebook thing) I am now too old to know where.

Basically, there are as many antagonists as there are enthusiasts, but the wadge in the middle who don't mind either way will watch it with everyone else, the way they watch the world cup final, or Wimbledon in a disinterested way, yet are reluctant to miss out on the goodwill generated. It therefore appears that the numbers are generally in favour; it's a party after all.

What will actually happen is the nation will unite because "it’s what we do best". We can't produce a world beating football team or Wimbledon champion, or retain a car industry, or function in one inch of snow, but we can do pomp. It will run like clockwork. It will be spectacular. It will cost a fortune, but as no-one knows how much, and couldn't care less because no-one understands just how big the recession is anyway.

It's a feel-good event. We'll never get a welcoming parade for the end of the war in Afghanistan because that war will never end. The England team will never parade the streets of the capital in an open-topped bus with the world cup. But we have our Royals; they’ll do.

And it has to be said, they couldn't have found a better bride. My God she's a belter!

I'm amused that the press are doing their best to portray her as the commonest of commoners, descended from lowly miners no less. This is conveniently ignoring the fact that she is the daughter of multi-millionaire business owners and her father is from staunch Banker/Lawyer stock, going back generations. I suspect that there was a time when Kate's mother was also well fit, and traded those looks on the market for a prize worthy of her own mercantile ambitions. Hence a dynasty is born, and now they have aspired to the very top. Millions in the bank today, and a king for a grandson tomorrow. The icing on the cake.

Anyway, going back to "what we do best". Did you know that Diana got the Queen Mother's funeral? The Queen Mother (literally, the mother of the present queen, who had been Queen previously, married to the king from The Kings Speech) lived a LONG TIME. There was a funeral arranged and budgeted-for, awaiting her demise. When the "Princess Whore" pegged it in that Parisian tunnel with her swarthy paramour, the powers-that-be activated the old-dear's ceremony and commandeered it for the people’s slapper.

The world sat in wonder as Britain put on a flawless display, inch-perfect and to the second, at such short notice. My partner’s brother-in-law, an Albanian, was in awe. When I bemoaned the event he objected.

"That was incredible" he argued. "To achieve such perfection! In Albania we couldn't do that; you wouldn't be able to find the guy!"

(“The guy” being whoever was responsible for organising things, disappeared elsewhere in a dereliction of duty, up to no good. Not unlike George Bush with Hurricane Katrina.)

And so it will be next week. William will stand grinning, with his pasty face and male-pattern baldness inherited from his father (unlike his brother who boasts the thick ginger locks owing to HIS patronage). Kate will be radiant, and do her bit to sell tabloids, gossip sheets and TV specials around the world. Everybody wins.

Except the tax payer. It will be claimed that the income from this, in fees and tourism, will more than pay for it, although no-one will show any statistics to prove this. And no-one will ask to see them.

That's how it works. As the event escalates, the public get drawn in, and once the mass develops its collective consciousness dissent will be shouted down. Why would ANYONE want to spoil the fun? Why are there people who always have to piss on our chips? BOO!

It never makes any sense, but it always happens, and I think it's to do with our inability to do anything else. Royal events of this magnitude are the only thing that won't let us down. We're in our element; it's what we're good at, and we feel good doing it, because we're in control and we have the rulebook.

At football and war, the opposition won't let us win, (although we could if they’d play to the rules!) but there are no barriers to success at a Royal Wedding.

So why aren't there riots?

It's not a political event, and it's difficult to tie the Royals into the Global Capitalist Conspiracy because they are perceived as apolitical, and their money is so old that nobody can remember who died in it’s making.

As for our anarchists, they are just that; disaffected and unconnected from the system. They don't arrange anything. They rely on the G8 summits, or anti-government demos to create a pre-arranged event to which they can just gatecrash and take their photo-opportunity. Look at me; I'm the spirit of 1848! The Royal Wedding is not a protest march. There is no fuel.

There won't be riots because no-one will be bothered to turn up and instigate one. Those who do have the wherewithal are the very same people setting themselves up outside the city demonstrating how disconnected they are, enduring their dissenters' picnic in the Shetland rain..

Yes, it’s a travesty, but like class, and the decline in serving standards in pubs, it’s something we know isn’t right, but that we can’t be bothered to do anything about.

Indeed, if there’s one thing Britain does better than ceremony, it’s a crippling form of begrudging apathy.

Bah!

Is This It?

Today didn't start too well, and the job has been a little bit pointless recently.

Then, today, I find that my inbox includes and invitation to attend a "residential ventilation seminar".

Yes, a residential ventilation seminar!

Is this what my life has come to?

Maybe it's time to consider the tranquilisers/scotch cocktail.

Help yourself to my effects

To Hell In A HandCart!

OK everybody: there's a recession on!

Except in Northamptonshire, where they have nothing better to do than go round some old lady's house and measure the volume of a cat's purr.

OK, fair enough; if that's what you want to do with your life, let them get on with it, but witnesses inlcuded:

Daventry MP Chris Heaton-Harris, veterinary nurse Kaye James, Diana Johnson from Cats Protection, and British Airways captain Alisdair Tait.

A Member of Parliament and an Airline pilot attended a purring contest?

I'm sorry, but shouldn't they be elsewhere? You know: at work?

Maybe they're they are unemployed already? Possibly this is the future of unemployment?

I obviously know nothing anymore!

Apocalypse!

Fukashima!

Whilst the world is gawping at the internicine fighting in the middle east (masquerading as democratic reform) Japan is drowning in radioactive liquid!

Apparently, according to the BBC, water leaking on the sight of the Fukashima nuclear plant is the most contaminated to be found at the plant so far, exceeding 1,000 millisieverts per hour.

(According to the internet a Sievert is a unit of radiation, and not one of those furry creatures that pooh coffee; that's a Civet).

Anyway, there was a moment of light relief, when Tepco , the hapless contractor in charge of the meltdown, originally claimed that radiation levels at reactor No 2 were 10 million times higher than normal. Imagine our relief when then realised their mistake and downsized it to a mere 100,000!

Phew, you had us there!

I also like the way that the "experts" interviewed to fill airtime on the subject are all nuclear industry people who have the look of "oh my god, I'm going to be unemployed!" about them. It doesn't help that they keep reiterating the mantra that this isn't another Chernobyl, MERELY another Three Mile Island.

Oh, that's all right then.

I think we need to keep watching Japan whilst that thing is slow burrowing it's way through the Earth towards us, and possibly emerging to wipe out the Middle East for once and for all!

Gadzooks! Fetch My Cape!

London Underground are prepared to roll out wi-fi on the tube.

Boris Johnson is all for it:

"The roll out will finally allow Londoners to use mobile devices to pick up their e-mails and stay in touch with the world while they traverse our subterranean network."

Yes, our Mayor uses phrases like "traverse our subterranean network"!

I Visit Third World At Post Office!

It's been a long time since I had to queue to claim benefits. The last time I claimed dole was 1978, and the final time I "signed on" as unemployed (although untitled to dole) was 1988, when I went to the social security office in Lewisham, where I was the only claimant who wasn't Irish, black or tattooed; and yes, there were some who qualified for all three.

I mention this as I realised how long it has been since I experienced the deprivation and soul destruction that is the long wait to have you number called amongst the hoi polloi.

This line of thought was triggered by a visit to the Post Office in Camden Town, where there is some cruel and unnecessary experiment taking place. You cannot queue in this post office, you have to get a ticket. There are four categories of ticket: Business, Special Delivery, Currency Exchange and Counter Services each with its own numbering system.

You take a ticket, and then wait for when your number comes up. And you wait. And wait.

There are seats provided, but they are full of the crazed, the local indolent and the elderly despondent.

I did the calculation: time to process one person times the number of tickets waiting, divided by the counters available. Ten minutes?

But what is this? People with Business tickets are prioritised! If a business ticket appears on the display board, it becomes the next number at the next available counter. Three business tickets means you just went backwards by three places! Then it is realised that the same applies for Currency tickets!

At least in the time now available, I was able to go back out to the high street and buy a) some tea, milk and bananas, b) a book (Seized, by Max Hardberger) and c) a cake.

On returning, my number was fifth in line to be served. I still had to wait ten minutes.

And the piece de resistance?

Twenty minutes plus after first encountering the squalor, I was finally served; albeit efficiently, but only to find the teller offering to sell me car insurance!

Royal Mail staff are being asked to sell car insurance to people who have been held against their will in a conditions that would appal a Mombassan prison guard!

How does that work? Is this what we've come to?

Now had I been offered euthanasia....

Richard Ayoade's Submarine

I can thoroughly recommend Submarine; provincial teenage existentialism encapsulated.

Actually,I can imagine that the younger audiences may find it a little difficult to sit through due to the cringe factor.

One note: does suffer from the poor light that blights most British Films.

The BIG News Stories

In a week where there is an abundance of news, with nuclear meltdowns, all out war in the Middle East and the chancellor's budget intentions, it's nice to know that the BBC is still able to run stories featuring the phrases booze apocalypse and sodomy ad ban

Blimey!

Did You Know?

Did you know that the raunchy French sex-hit of the 1960s "J'Taime", was originally an advert for cigarettes called "Gitanes"?

Basically, it was the same music, but instead of the sultry moaning of the young chanteause Jane Birkin, it featured the tobacco-induced coughing of Serge Gainsbourg.

Serge later re-mixed the track after marketing testing amongst the target audience indicated that they'd rather listen to someone having it off than hacking it up.

Jane is now the director of France's leading chain of teeth-whiting clinics.

Ducking Gaddafi's Shit Storm

As the world watches Libya and deludes itself that civil war may produce liberal democracy, there are others that view the footage muttering "Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck" as they see their ill-gotten gaddafi gravy-train gains splash back from the the fan and discolour their careers.

For example: Thatcherite university LSE has been showing just how much money can be had by wallowing amongst dictators and oligarchs.

Elsewhere, the agents of ill-advised, yet admittedly greedy and amoral Celebrities have been phoning them up and breaking the news that the money has to go back.

It's rare that it comes to this, but their loss is our schadenfreude.

Oh Dear

For our American listeners: Carsi is arabic for lavatory, and is used in England as a vulgar term for the same.

The Words That Maketh Murder

What If I Take My Problems To The United Nations?