Yesterday was Car Free Day in my high street: Hoorah!
However, the organisers chose to balance out the reduction in pollution by erecting a stage outside the library for local Ragga artists to deafen everybody with a demoralising bludgeoning of drum and bass heavy oppression. This was no doubt organised by some young marketing woman with a belly button piercing and a clipboard who thought that the event needed some kind of urban credibility to get with the kids.
The sight of shoppers scurrying past the area in front of the stage frowning and ensuring that they move away from the assault ASAP should have indicated that the "performance" may have been ill-considered.
Well, now let us imagine a Pollution Free Day, where all variants of unwanted disruption, be it fumes, litter, fly tipping, musak, or noise are banished; just to see what life could be like? Yes, not trendy, but refreshing.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Bacon
Yes, it's time for another Francis Bacon exhibit at the Tate Britain, which ages me as I can remember the last one like it was yesterday. Last time, the Nazi on the door wouldn't allow me in with my guitar and wouldn't entertain the idea of me leaving it in the cloakroom. I had to stay outside whilst my friends went in without me, and waited for them to come out to do guitar sitting whilst I went in alone (with one of their tickets, thus cheating a system that had cheated me!)
Anyway, it's a Bacon exhibition. I think he's wonderful, but I don't think I felt anything new looking at it.
However, I was musing on the notion of the "work of art" / "observer" symbiosis, only with the twist of "irritating other observer getting in the way for the sake of it".
I was looking at one of the crucifixion triptychs, when this irritating arsehole decided that he wanted to inspect the canvas really closely!. Yes, really closely for a long time! and I realised that the longer I waited for him to fuck off, the longer he would stay there. Had I turned and walked away the moment he arrived, he'd have seen that the canvas was canvas with paint on it, and moved on. Because I wanted to look at the triptych, then his interest became paramount. The act of me observing him being pretentious drove him to persist being so. Once my gaze was averted, his act became futile.
This is not what I went there for, and certainly not for £12.50!
I would however recommend the BP free exhibition of the Tate's collection of drawings, and in particular that of Tacita Dean's chalk on blackboard work.
Also recommend viewing Martin Creed's running exhibit, which is and excellent use of the space available, and surprisingly potent close up. They're obviously using some real athletes in there: I passed one lad as he started off with a skip and a jump and then BLASTED away up the hall at blistering pace. And they don't stop for anyone! I'd love to know the attrition rate in downed artlovers who had been looking the other way when this lot roar through!
Anyway, it's a Bacon exhibition. I think he's wonderful, but I don't think I felt anything new looking at it.
However, I was musing on the notion of the "work of art" / "observer" symbiosis, only with the twist of "irritating other observer getting in the way for the sake of it".
I was looking at one of the crucifixion triptychs, when this irritating arsehole decided that he wanted to inspect the canvas really closely!. Yes, really closely for a long time! and I realised that the longer I waited for him to fuck off, the longer he would stay there. Had I turned and walked away the moment he arrived, he'd have seen that the canvas was canvas with paint on it, and moved on. Because I wanted to look at the triptych, then his interest became paramount. The act of me observing him being pretentious drove him to persist being so. Once my gaze was averted, his act became futile.
This is not what I went there for, and certainly not for £12.50!
I would however recommend the BP free exhibition of the Tate's collection of drawings, and in particular that of Tacita Dean's chalk on blackboard work.
Also recommend viewing Martin Creed's running exhibit, which is and excellent use of the space available, and surprisingly potent close up. They're obviously using some real athletes in there: I passed one lad as he started off with a skip and a jump and then BLASTED away up the hall at blistering pace. And they don't stop for anyone! I'd love to know the attrition rate in downed artlovers who had been looking the other way when this lot roar through!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The End of the World as We Know It
Unlike his failure to deal with Hurricane Katrina, President Bush has just shown that he can act swiftly and assertively when it concerns him. What concerns him is bailing out his chums in Wall Street, proving that capitalism CAN offer a risk-free environment where those that got the WHOLE WORLD into this shit get to keep their jobs.
It's a curiously different approach than that the Bush camp took in Iraq. There, they chose to isolate and eradicate anybody associated with the Baath party, however insignificant. In Wall Street, there is to be no guilt by association, and everybody gets a second chance however incompetent!
As a presidential leaving gift, it's a little like Gerald Ford's pardoning of Nixon. Unforgivable, but only too predictable.
It's a curiously different approach than that the Bush camp took in Iraq. There, they chose to isolate and eradicate anybody associated with the Baath party, however insignificant. In Wall Street, there is to be no guilt by association, and everybody gets a second chance however incompetent!
As a presidential leaving gift, it's a little like Gerald Ford's pardoning of Nixon. Unforgivable, but only too predictable.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
"I Didn't Realise The Strength Of A Pig!"
Fantastic feature from the BBC
Angry Pig moves in an holds Australian woman hostage in her own home!
Watch the video and then listen to the radio interview link afterwards.
Oh, and whilst you're around that part of the world, check out the Japanese Air Bags For Elderly People. It deploys within a tenth of a second of detecting an unplanned fall towards the ground!
Angry Pig moves in an holds Australian woman hostage in her own home!
Watch the video and then listen to the radio interview link afterwards.
Oh, and whilst you're around that part of the world, check out the Japanese Air Bags For Elderly People. It deploys within a tenth of a second of detecting an unplanned fall towards the ground!
Chimney Sweep Is Anticlimax Shock
We've just have our first ever visit from a chimney sweep, and frankly, I'm disappointed.
He did a lovely job, I've nothing to complain about in regard to issues of quality, it was an otherwise excellent service, but it wasn't what I was expecting.
My suspicions were aroused when I called the number and heard a polite and posh, middle-class lady reply, and not the gruff matter-of fact bloke I imagined.
When the sweep arrived, he wasn't a short, aging, cap-doffing duffer at all, rather, he was a young man in his early twenties which a huge vacuum cleaner!
However, in his defence, he was incredibly dirty and he had brought his brushes. After a period of vacuuming, there was moment of quiet industry after which stepped outside for a moment, before returning and asking if I wanted to "see the brush out"!
Cautiously, I stepped outside to witness the brushed proudly exposed from the top of our chimney!
Ten minutes after that, it was all over and done with, and not a small boy in sight!
Modern times eh?
He did a lovely job, I've nothing to complain about in regard to issues of quality, it was an otherwise excellent service, but it wasn't what I was expecting.
My suspicions were aroused when I called the number and heard a polite and posh, middle-class lady reply, and not the gruff matter-of fact bloke I imagined.
When the sweep arrived, he wasn't a short, aging, cap-doffing duffer at all, rather, he was a young man in his early twenties which a huge vacuum cleaner!
However, in his defence, he was incredibly dirty and he had brought his brushes. After a period of vacuuming, there was moment of quiet industry after which stepped outside for a moment, before returning and asking if I wanted to "see the brush out"!
Cautiously, I stepped outside to witness the brushed proudly exposed from the top of our chimney!
Ten minutes after that, it was all over and done with, and not a small boy in sight!
Modern times eh?
Monday, September 22, 2008
1968: Retail Opportunity
On watching a BBC documentary on the "revolutionary" events of 1968, I was struck by footage of the black panthers, yet not of their zeal or cause, but in wondering who got the contract to kit them out.
Was there a Cohen & Sons; Outfitters to the Revolution: Oakland, Detroit, Chicago & Baltimore?
"First for Leather Sports Jackets, Berets and Sunglasses! Beware imitators!"
Somebody cleaned up in the apparel department.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Charivari? Sadly Not
No, there was no happy couple strolling hand-in-hand along the beach.
In fact the post-it notes were actually written upon, with disparaging messages relating to the driver and his vehicle. Shortly after this image was taken I witnessed the disgruntled driver of this vehicle removing the offending correspondence with barely disguised rage.
Incidently, on the way to the shore, I negotiated my car beneath the small railway bridge with the poor sight lines by the usual practice of leaning over to the left, checking the route was clear, and then gunning it though the narrow apeture.
As I emerged on the other side I was met by an Audi driver (a Chav Audi driver) who had accelerated out of the bend opposite, assuming that the path beneath the bridge would be clear. His assumption was wrong, and as the nose of the Audi went down under heavy braking, I simultaneously observed the outrage of the driver, pissed off at my right of way, and the sight of his small daughter leaving the seat next to him and bouncing off the windscreen face first!
Next time sweetheart, ignore daddy when he tells you that seatbelts are for tossers.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
37 Years On: Village Still Silent
It's been almost four decades now, yet the residents of Wolvercote are still unable, or unwilling, to talk about the events that occurred on the day of the 1971 Village Carnival, or indeed of the fate of the 1971 Carnival Queen.
However, one villager, an elderly inebriate and possibly unreliable, told us:
Our reporter then found a potato jammed into the exhaust pipe of the Shoebox van.
The mystery continues.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Runt of the Litter
At the leaving do of a colleague tonight, and was left conversing with her partner, a man of fascinating antecedents.
Tragically, none of this excitement rubbed off, and I was left with a dullard who even lacked the ability to convey what was clearly a rich and noble lineage. A conversation better written down.
McCarthyism was never rendered so hollow.
Bought me a packet of crisps though, which ain't bad for a dullard.
Tragically, none of this excitement rubbed off, and I was left with a dullard who even lacked the ability to convey what was clearly a rich and noble lineage. A conversation better written down.
McCarthyism was never rendered so hollow.
Bought me a packet of crisps though, which ain't bad for a dullard.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Well Colour Me Pink!
If you've got five minutes to waste, and no colour blindness, test your colour IQ at: xrite
Radio 4: The End of the World is Nigh!
Having a couple of weeks leave (our American readers will enjoy the knowledge that I'm entitled to 28 days per annum), and setting about the manly pursuits of DIY and gardening whilst listening to the BBCs Radio 4.
Wonderful analysis of the current economic fiasco: basically a disaster laid down by the Thatcher government City reforms in the late eighties, which enable the economy to grow exponentially, but equally encouraged systemic recklessness for which the world is about to pay, (without the participation of most of the protaganists who have long since stashed their ill-gotten gains in anticipation of this very scenario).
Then, following the collapse of XL and the imminent demise of Air Italia, there is the warning that a number of minor airlines are about the go out of business due to the cost of aviation fuel, and thus auger the end of an era for cheap flights.
Which segues to a wonderful piece on Peak Oil, the notion that the world has passed it's watershed on oil production, and that cheap oil is no longer possible. Yes, there are untapped resources available, but at a price. The extraction costs are so high that the oil barons have to wait for prices to hit an extreme before the new resources become feasible.
And this has always been the case. On reading The Oil Drum, a peak oil site, this was the motivation for the exploitation of Britain's North Sea fields following the OPEC embargo:
It was known that oil was available in the North Sea prior to the oil embargo. It was not until the price run-up related to the embargo that it was economically feasible to drill there
Which means that all that deep water oil off of Brazil, or even that under the arctic, may be feasible, but only at huge costs. The notion of Peak Oil doesn't necessarily concentrate on the decline of oil as a comodity, rather that the notion of cheap oil is a thing of the past.
Basically that four-wheel drive school run will soon cost more than the school fees!
Make the fat little fuckers walk!
Wonderful analysis of the current economic fiasco: basically a disaster laid down by the Thatcher government City reforms in the late eighties, which enable the economy to grow exponentially, but equally encouraged systemic recklessness for which the world is about to pay, (without the participation of most of the protaganists who have long since stashed their ill-gotten gains in anticipation of this very scenario).
Then, following the collapse of XL and the imminent demise of Air Italia, there is the warning that a number of minor airlines are about the go out of business due to the cost of aviation fuel, and thus auger the end of an era for cheap flights.
Which segues to a wonderful piece on Peak Oil, the notion that the world has passed it's watershed on oil production, and that cheap oil is no longer possible. Yes, there are untapped resources available, but at a price. The extraction costs are so high that the oil barons have to wait for prices to hit an extreme before the new resources become feasible.
And this has always been the case. On reading The Oil Drum, a peak oil site, this was the motivation for the exploitation of Britain's North Sea fields following the OPEC embargo:
Which means that all that deep water oil off of Brazil, or even that under the arctic, may be feasible, but only at huge costs. The notion of Peak Oil doesn't necessarily concentrate on the decline of oil as a comodity, rather that the notion of cheap oil is a thing of the past.
Basically that four-wheel drive school run will soon cost more than the school fees!
Make the fat little fuckers walk!
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Mr Doppler Would Be So Proud....
Evidence that the guys in my home town have found something to do.
Now you know why I had to leave.
I blame the internet.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Can We Call It A Recession Now?
Although I'm mindful to watch my words, as I don't know where I might end up at the end of this recession, there's part of me that's enjoying the schadenfreude of watching an unprepared and poorly equipped generation hurtling towards hardship and uncertainty.
I came of age in the early seventies with the three day week, when the Heath government only had enough energy reserves to allow three days to be worked, and power cuts became a current feature of life.
My first mortgage reached 15% under the Thatcher government which was quick to hand over all the money to their friends in the city before they drove the country into the ground. In fact, as chancellor, Nigel Lawson engineered a budget that reduced my taxes by £20 a month, but increased my mortgage payments by £80! Thanks Nigel!
So having watched this attenuated period of economic growth, and the foolhardy rise in property prices where only the buy to rent crowd have benefited, I've be amused to find that people believed that, not only would it go on forever, but that it was their right.
Now we have an entire generation, living out the Thatcherite dream of instant gratification, borrowing to pay their mobile phone bills, buy their masculine moisturisers, procure cosmetic surgery and live the marketing departments' idea of the dream life. Let's see Starbucks weather this one, not to mention Premiership football at £50 a ticket.
I'm cautious, as recessions are like wars, you never know where they'll lead, but I'm inclined to cry: Bring it on old friend, let's see who comes out the other end!
I came of age in the early seventies with the three day week, when the Heath government only had enough energy reserves to allow three days to be worked, and power cuts became a current feature of life.
My first mortgage reached 15% under the Thatcher government which was quick to hand over all the money to their friends in the city before they drove the country into the ground. In fact, as chancellor, Nigel Lawson engineered a budget that reduced my taxes by £20 a month, but increased my mortgage payments by £80! Thanks Nigel!
So having watched this attenuated period of economic growth, and the foolhardy rise in property prices where only the buy to rent crowd have benefited, I've be amused to find that people believed that, not only would it go on forever, but that it was their right.
Now we have an entire generation, living out the Thatcherite dream of instant gratification, borrowing to pay their mobile phone bills, buy their masculine moisturisers, procure cosmetic surgery and live the marketing departments' idea of the dream life. Let's see Starbucks weather this one, not to mention Premiership football at £50 a ticket.
I'm cautious, as recessions are like wars, you never know where they'll lead, but I'm inclined to cry: Bring it on old friend, let's see who comes out the other end!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Alternative Counter-Culture
Remember the days when we were all amused to discover that Rolling Stones' bass player Bill Wyman had acquired himself a hobby in the form of metal detecting? The thought of a Rock Star supplementing their excessive lifestyle with a mundane past-time seemed faintly ridiculous.
However, those of us that have sat through the recent news coverage regarding collapse of the XL travel group will have witnessed the spectacle of Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson being interviewed in his capacity as commercial airline pilot, describing how he and his employers were about to take part in the global 'air-lift' in bringing the stranded tourists home!
And very smart he looked, in his uniform and cap, and not a skull in sight! Although Bruce describes his second occupation as a hobby, he's wrong, it's a job. A highly qualified, highly paid job with enormous responsibility.
And it doesn't stop there. Remember Skunk Baxter? He's the guy playing lead guitar on Steely Dan's 'Realing in the years' and played on their first three albums before moving to the Doobie Brothers. A virtuoso, and former sidekick of Jimi Hendrix, he built a sterling reputation as a major session axeman from the seventies onwards and was the epitome stoned cool.
Well, how times have changed! These days Skunk is better known as a US government weapons specialist! He got himself a whole other job working for the man!
Meanwhile, over in the beau monde, Red or Dead designer Wayne Hemingway has been moonlighting as an urban planner! Better known as the son of Native American wrestling hero Billy Two Rivers, Hemingway, like Skunk, has become a government advisor, in this case on housing and urban development!
Now, I'm not putting these guys down, they have, after all, gained repute in two careers, whereas I've yet to manage even one, but I'm of the generation that believed in a popular culture that opposed the establishment, and existed to question the status quo (or even Status Quo come to think about it). It may not have been a real rebellion, but it felt like one, and you were reassured that your heroes, when not rocking and cutting a dash, were out there debauching themselves in the decadent underworld of louche living.
I am therefore not equipped for a world where the rebellion's role models have day jobs.
More absinthe Rimbaud?
However, those of us that have sat through the recent news coverage regarding collapse of the XL travel group will have witnessed the spectacle of Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson being interviewed in his capacity as commercial airline pilot, describing how he and his employers were about to take part in the global 'air-lift' in bringing the stranded tourists home!
And very smart he looked, in his uniform and cap, and not a skull in sight! Although Bruce describes his second occupation as a hobby, he's wrong, it's a job. A highly qualified, highly paid job with enormous responsibility.
And it doesn't stop there. Remember Skunk Baxter? He's the guy playing lead guitar on Steely Dan's 'Realing in the years' and played on their first three albums before moving to the Doobie Brothers. A virtuoso, and former sidekick of Jimi Hendrix, he built a sterling reputation as a major session axeman from the seventies onwards and was the epitome stoned cool.
Well, how times have changed! These days Skunk is better known as a US government weapons specialist! He got himself a whole other job working for the man!
Meanwhile, over in the beau monde, Red or Dead designer Wayne Hemingway has been moonlighting as an urban planner! Better known as the son of Native American wrestling hero Billy Two Rivers, Hemingway, like Skunk, has become a government advisor, in this case on housing and urban development!
Now, I'm not putting these guys down, they have, after all, gained repute in two careers, whereas I've yet to manage even one, but I'm of the generation that believed in a popular culture that opposed the establishment, and existed to question the status quo (or even Status Quo come to think about it). It may not have been a real rebellion, but it felt like one, and you were reassured that your heroes, when not rocking and cutting a dash, were out there debauching themselves in the decadent underworld of louche living.
I am therefore not equipped for a world where the rebellion's role models have day jobs.
More absinthe Rimbaud?
Nicotine
As we were leaving the pub tonight after last orders, my pal was chatting to the landlady who had an unlit cigarette in her hand. Obviously, she was waiting for us to depart as she wished to light the said cigarette within her place of work, which was obviously illegal, but with us gone, who would know about it?
My pal's gorgeous partner, in a wine-weakened condition, motioned to beg the cigarette from the landlady, but withdrew. She is after all, like myself, an ex-smoker. Gentlemanly, I stepped forward and suggested that, should the landlady be willing to surrender the so far unlit fag, that I was willing to share the illicit smoke with my pal's needy, and delightful partner.
Hence we stood on the street outside of The Ship in London's bustling Soho, illicitly smoking the fag like a couple of thirteen year olds dragging on a stolen Park Drive circa 1971.
Then, as my pals hailed a cab, I was left with the 10cm remnant, which I aimed to complete to the filter for old-time's sake, when I was approached by an attractive (I'm not GAY) Italian young man who asked for a light. I proffered what was left of the dog-end, apologised, and proffered the deceipt that it was my last. He lit he fag with the dog-end, and politely offered me a fresh complete cigarette, which I duly accepted.
We laughed as we saw the comedy in how I needed to now light my new fag from the cigarette that he had moments before lit from my embers.
I then enjoyed the sheer bliss of walking the streets of London's bustling Soho at midnight drawing upon a fag as though I was born to it, which, dear reader, I surely was.
And yes, it momentarily put me in the mind to procure some champaign, a havana cigar, cocaine and a lady of the night, but, sadly I made do with the walk to the tube amongst the young with their exhibitionist splendour.
Sweet Dreams
My pal's gorgeous partner, in a wine-weakened condition, motioned to beg the cigarette from the landlady, but withdrew. She is after all, like myself, an ex-smoker. Gentlemanly, I stepped forward and suggested that, should the landlady be willing to surrender the so far unlit fag, that I was willing to share the illicit smoke with my pal's needy, and delightful partner.
Hence we stood on the street outside of The Ship in London's bustling Soho, illicitly smoking the fag like a couple of thirteen year olds dragging on a stolen Park Drive circa 1971.
Then, as my pals hailed a cab, I was left with the 10cm remnant, which I aimed to complete to the filter for old-time's sake, when I was approached by an attractive (I'm not GAY) Italian young man who asked for a light. I proffered what was left of the dog-end, apologised, and proffered the deceipt that it was my last. He lit he fag with the dog-end, and politely offered me a fresh complete cigarette, which I duly accepted.
We laughed as we saw the comedy in how I needed to now light my new fag from the cigarette that he had moments before lit from my embers.
I then enjoyed the sheer bliss of walking the streets of London's bustling Soho at midnight drawing upon a fag as though I was born to it, which, dear reader, I surely was.
And yes, it momentarily put me in the mind to procure some champaign, a havana cigar, cocaine and a lady of the night, but, sadly I made do with the walk to the tube amongst the young with their exhibitionist splendour.
Sweet Dreams
Friday, September 12, 2008
Overheard, I'm afraid....
We were lunching at a fashionable yet modestly priced eatery in London's fashionable, yet expensive Bloomsbury when we were exposed to the expostulations of the shrill posh young woman behind us who declaimed:
"I don't care! I just don't want him turning up at my opening!"
I mean, keep it to yourself darling, PLEASE! At the dinner table of all places, REALLY!
I mean, keep it to yourself darling, PLEASE! At the dinner table of all places, REALLY!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Frankenstein!
I have never been a lucky man, and I anticipated that my last week in my current position would be prone to disaster.
You know the movie bit when the cop is hoping to enjoy his final week prior to retirement, only to be rudely interrupted by the serial killer? Well, this is the arrival of my serial killer, in the style of Apollo 13.
This PC is the embodiment of my week. Confidentiality forbids me to divulge the circumstances, or the consequences of this situation, but this is not good, and this is image highlights my organisation's tenuous grip on its XXXXXXXXXX commitment, to which I hold responsibility.
The actual PC which holds the XXXXXXXXX software just packed up. Then we discovered that the back ups, and the contigency machine were woefully inadequate. Potentially my organisation, and ultimately ME could be in deep shit.
This dusty old PC was extracted from the archives and has been reassembled using bits of the important computer. So far, no one has noticed. Allah willing, no one needs ever to know. So keep it quiet!
Monday, September 08, 2008
So Why The Screws?
Enormous satisfaction to be had on Saturday, when I finally fixed the latch on the glove box after 14 months of driving around with the thing hanging open, between short bouts of it fastened with fast deteriorating masking tape.
Trying to replace the mechanism appeared to be elusive as I sporadically targeted scrap dealers (they're all on line these days; scrap dealers!) to no avail.
Finally I found one. I spent £25, only to be sent an entire glove box WITHOUT A LOCK.
Then, imagine my dismay after 14 months to discover that VW do these as a standard, with its standard part number, even if the car IS 12 years old!
Fitting it was another thing. I needed three different screw drivers to remove five screws, (Bastards) only to discover that the glove compartment wouldn't budge (Bastards). Why is that? You take all the screws out of something and it still refuses to budge. It happens too often for my liking. Either that, or you remove the screws and discover that the item you're unscrewing was assembled from the other side and that you've effectively unscrewed the bolts which have now disappeared somewhere on the inaccessible side.
So basically, I was there, sat in the passenger seat struggling to complete what should have been a simple task. Getting the barrel out was a complete bastard until I discovered by accident that you just shove the key in it.
To cut a dull story short, the whole bloody thing took one hour twenty, when it should have taken ten minutes, but I got it done, and I rewarded myself with Sunday off. Mind you, when she discovers the marks left by the dried glue from the crappy masking tape, and realises that I have been unable to remove them with white spirit, she's going to be expecting me to dedicate next weekend to dried-glue removal or else.
Maybe time to by a new car.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
Farewell To All That
One more week in my bomb-proof basement, and then it'll be goodbye to the 1930s heating control behind my desk. I'm going to miss it.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Polish Pervert Is Hygenist Horror
OK, it's been a long time since I last visited a dentist, and I'm not surprised that I'm out of touch, but I never realised how much things had changed.
In my day, or at least when I last went to the dentist in the provinces, there were established rules: the dentist was a man, and his assistant was pert young woman. This was balance things out. Lady patients were reassured by the presence of the young woman, as an insurance against 'over-familiarity' on the dentist's part, acting like some kind of junior umpire.
For the chaps, she was there partly as an incentive to visit, but also to ease the tension of being violated in a confined space by another man. The fact that the young lovely was taking part gave the whole sordid business a rather decadent but acceptable-in-a-louche way credibility, as one left as the reluctant partner in this threesome feeling sore, but sophisticated in a man-of-the-world sort of way.
Equally, the introduction of the hygenist, always a woman (one assumes that they were considered too pretty to become a dentist), was a welcome development at the surgery, offering 'extras' to those so inclined. Back in Dorset, our local cutie had her own little cubicle at the top of the house, and one would be treated to a little frisson of anticipation as she invited the lucky client to follow her and her excellently crafted arse up the steep stairs into her fully-equipped boudoir.
After a little small-talk she'd get down to business; a little of the rough stuff to start with, but finishing with an expert oral buffing to leave a chap with a satisfied smile on his face.
How times have changed!
Tonight at my new dentist in the big city, things appeared to be normal enough. Middle-aged Sri Lankan male as dentist, assisted by a sultry, but slightly unkempt-in-a-provocative way young Sri Lankan woman, whose abundant jet black bible black crow black hair was threatening to tumble out of her alice-band as a promise of things to come, should one's luck be in. All perfectly acceptable.
But then, having coerced me into his chair and done his worst, including the teeth-clenching xray bit, Mr Dentist sends me downstairs to the hygenist, where my many years of drinking eight pints of black tea a day had to be addressed.
Reader, imagine my horror to discover that he had sent me to meet a male hygenist! To be precise, a Polish male hygenist and his equally male Polish assistant! Big fellows, overpowering me in what appeared to be a broom cupboard! I mean, what's that all about? OK, the Polish/polish bit is a great pun, but how far should dentistry take these things?
Now, I have nothing against the Poles, or homosexuals; God knows we all need plumbers and interior designers, but I didn't even know Poland had homosexuals! Nobody talks about Polish gays? I mean, ALL Polish men have moustaches, how could anyone tell?
Actually, just to confuse things, neither had a moustache, but they were both definately Polish, they were both immaculately groomed, and were both a little too comfortable with working together in an obscenely small room.
Also the hygenist was a little too masterful for my liking, and I'm sure he took far longer in my gaping orifice than was necessary or decent! And as for that burly assistant, trying to gag me with his utensil!
In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, when it was over I was rinsing and spitting like nobody's business! And, in these post NHS days, I had to pay for it. Sir, I have never paid for it in my life!
Mind, you, they did a lovely job, and I commend their discretion, but I don't think I'm ready to tell anyone.
Yes, times have changed, and I'm not sure I'm ready for this brave new world where just anything goes. Next time I'm staying home with the pliers and the brandy.
In my day, or at least when I last went to the dentist in the provinces, there were established rules: the dentist was a man, and his assistant was pert young woman. This was balance things out. Lady patients were reassured by the presence of the young woman, as an insurance against 'over-familiarity' on the dentist's part, acting like some kind of junior umpire.
For the chaps, she was there partly as an incentive to visit, but also to ease the tension of being violated in a confined space by another man. The fact that the young lovely was taking part gave the whole sordid business a rather decadent but acceptable-in-a-louche way credibility, as one left as the reluctant partner in this threesome feeling sore, but sophisticated in a man-of-the-world sort of way.
Equally, the introduction of the hygenist, always a woman (one assumes that they were considered too pretty to become a dentist), was a welcome development at the surgery, offering 'extras' to those so inclined. Back in Dorset, our local cutie had her own little cubicle at the top of the house, and one would be treated to a little frisson of anticipation as she invited the lucky client to follow her and her excellently crafted arse up the steep stairs into her fully-equipped boudoir.
After a little small-talk she'd get down to business; a little of the rough stuff to start with, but finishing with an expert oral buffing to leave a chap with a satisfied smile on his face.
How times have changed!
Tonight at my new dentist in the big city, things appeared to be normal enough. Middle-aged Sri Lankan male as dentist, assisted by a sultry, but slightly unkempt-in-a-provocative way young Sri Lankan woman, whose abundant jet black bible black crow black hair was threatening to tumble out of her alice-band as a promise of things to come, should one's luck be in. All perfectly acceptable.
But then, having coerced me into his chair and done his worst, including the teeth-clenching xray bit, Mr Dentist sends me downstairs to the hygenist, where my many years of drinking eight pints of black tea a day had to be addressed.
Reader, imagine my horror to discover that he had sent me to meet a male hygenist! To be precise, a Polish male hygenist and his equally male Polish assistant! Big fellows, overpowering me in what appeared to be a broom cupboard! I mean, what's that all about? OK, the Polish/polish bit is a great pun, but how far should dentistry take these things?
Now, I have nothing against the Poles, or homosexuals; God knows we all need plumbers and interior designers, but I didn't even know Poland had homosexuals! Nobody talks about Polish gays? I mean, ALL Polish men have moustaches, how could anyone tell?
Actually, just to confuse things, neither had a moustache, but they were both definately Polish, they were both immaculately groomed, and were both a little too comfortable with working together in an obscenely small room.
Also the hygenist was a little too masterful for my liking, and I'm sure he took far longer in my gaping orifice than was necessary or decent! And as for that burly assistant, trying to gag me with his utensil!
In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, when it was over I was rinsing and spitting like nobody's business! And, in these post NHS days, I had to pay for it. Sir, I have never paid for it in my life!
Mind, you, they did a lovely job, and I commend their discretion, but I don't think I'm ready to tell anyone.
Yes, times have changed, and I'm not sure I'm ready for this brave new world where just anything goes. Next time I'm staying home with the pliers and the brandy.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Terror in the Skies: When Chefs Strike
Will Al Qaeda© stop at nothing? Who knew that they had a catering corps?
Apparently:
a passenger on a Ryanair flight from Budapest to Dublin needed medical treatment after a jar of soup leaked in an overhead locker, dripping onto his face.
The man suffered swelling to his neck and struggled to breathe
The flight in question was re-routed as a result: see here
Apparently:
The man suffered swelling to his neck and struggled to breathe
The flight in question was re-routed as a result: see here
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Ted Hughes of the Towpath
I was walking alongside the canal today, when I found myself following Camden's equivalent of The Wire's Bubs & Johnny, pushing their supermarket trolley along the towpath and riffing with each other, with the tall rangy one pushing the cart as the wee Glaswegian ginger feller dodged and weaved as he recounted some anecdote that, judging from the motions conveyed, involved kicking someone in the head.
As I reached earshot, I overheard the 'wegian retort:
"They'll say yes, or they'll say no. It's St Mungo's, in'it, you just don't
know!"
That, my friends, is the poetry of the pavement.
As I reached earshot, I overheard the 'wegian retort:
"They'll say yes, or they'll say no. It's St Mungo's, in'it, you just don't
know!"
That, my friends, is the poetry of the pavement.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Steamroller, vb. archaic
I saw a steamroller on the Euston Road the other day, but then again, I didn't.
It was new one, which wasn't driven by steam, and therefore couldn't be a steamroller. Therefore, what was it?
It was new one, which wasn't driven by steam, and therefore couldn't be a steamroller. Therefore, what was it?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Erin Bode: The Little Garden
There are still some good songwriters out there, but is there anyone able to make a good album anymore?
Erin Bode knows how, check out The Little Garden. Beautifully weighted lyrics, superb arrangements, good live ambience and not a duff track.
An album that has had me listening on the floor with the lights out for the first time in years.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Overheard: Unfortunately
In a pub in London's Kings Cross tonight.
A group of young professionals arrive, and are taking their places at the adjacent table:
Her: "So you're moving!"
Him: "Yes, my own place; I've had enough of the arguments!"
Her: "And the sex in the kitchen!"
Well, dear reader, imagine my relief when they were interrupted with a request for their order, and I didnt' have to endure any further elucidation on the eluded to depravity!
I mean; in Kings Cross of all places!
Monday, August 11, 2008
Isaac Hayes: What Goes Around
OK, it my previous post I may well have dissed the Mr. Hayes at the very moment that he lie beside her exercise machine in need of help.
The Shoebox does not condone voodoo in any form, and does not take responsibilty for any events that followed yesterday's installment.
However, neither does his sad demise make his performance at the Empire last year any less inexcusable.
For the record, I also took exception to the careers of Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
That's Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
The Shoebox does not condone voodoo in any form, and does not take responsibilty for any events that followed yesterday's installment.
However, neither does his sad demise make his performance at the Empire last year any less inexcusable.
For the record, I also took exception to the careers of Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
That's Spandau Ballet and the surviving members of Queen.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Grumpy Old Men Do Wembley
I was given a couple of freebie tickets to this year's Charity Shield, and wanting the opportunity to view the new, overpriced, Wembley my brother and I went along to see Portsmouth v. Man Utd.
I often complain about not getting out enough in my old age, but everytime I do, I just get outraged at how crap things have got.
I saw Isaac Hayes last year, and what a pile of shite he was, yet the audience, susceptible to the marketing hype lapped it up.
And the modern game appears to be under the same curse. I do not need an announcer telling me to welcome my team to the pitch. I do not need the announcer to tell me that half time was now happening, and to be reminded that it was Portsmouth v. Man Utd in the Charity Shield. As for the pre-match "entertainment", it was some women being promoted by Simon Cowell being given essential exposure, whilst a handful of blokes rode around on "segways", no doubt helping to promote these ludicrous vehicles in Britain. And this just two days after the lavish olympic opening ceremony in China. It was mediocre embarrassing crap.
And the game was pointless and without atmosphere, but the crowd didn't seem to mind!
My brother and I hark back to an earlier age, were men queued for hours to get into a game, where you stood sardined in the terraces, listening to scratchy chart hits six months out of date until the teams ran out to thunderous applause/booing/rancour. No-one needed to be told who was playing because: a) it was printed in the fixture list at the start of the season, b) it was on the poster outside the ground when you turned up, and ultimately c) it was on the ticket. If that wasn't enough, the average football fan had enough nous to recognise that the bloke running towards the goal in the red shirt was George Best, and the bloke lying on the ground in the blue shirt was Ron "Chopper" Harris.
And the terraces, apart from being death-traps, had atmosphere. They were bear-pits. Working Class bear-pits at that, one huge beast swaying up a down the terrace during the course of the game. I was at Anfield as an eleven-year old, where my feet barely touched the ground, as I bobbed around like a small cork on a tidal wave of scousers. Barely saw the game, but my god, what a day!
Twenty years ago I took a couple of colleagues from Tennessee to Spurs v. Aston Villa, where Venables' side, with Linekar and Gascoigne were taking on Taylors' championship hopefuls, which included Dave Pleat and Gordon Cowans. Big Game. Tottenham still held 50,000 back then and the atmosphere was raucous, and had that mid-week floodlit edge to it.
As we awaited the arrival of the teams, my guests asked "where is the entertainment?, in the States we have cheerleaders, singers, presentations, plenty before a game!"
"This is a football match," I replied, "We're here to watch a game of football!"
When the teams came out and the roar from the crowd snapped at us, my colleagues were visibly shaken, and as the game got under-weigh, and progressed through the best possible scenarios that a game can throw up, they began to realise that this was something different, and increasingly so as the volume grew as the tension mounted. At the end of the game, with Villa winning the game and earning a torrent of abuse from the home support, our ears were ringing, and one of the Tennesseans turned to me a said "Oh, I see what you mean: the football's the entertainment!"
"Too fucking, right!"
But now? 84,000 people prepared to pay £50 a ticket, and £2.30 for a coke who want a day out and an opportunity to sit with like-minded people in their replica shirts.
Curiously, when the non-event ground to a halt at 0-0, we were told that it would go straight to penalties. Now tradition used to have it that a draw meant that the shield was shared, but no more, the consumers were to be given a winner!
My brother and I decided that it was time to go, and at least it gave us to opportunity to get to the tube before the crowd.
We were not alone, as we shuffled down the Wembley Way, we were joined by other men, exclusively over forty, none of whom wore a replica shirt, all equally disillusioned by what they'd seen. Modern life? Keep it.
I often complain about not getting out enough in my old age, but everytime I do, I just get outraged at how crap things have got.
I saw Isaac Hayes last year, and what a pile of shite he was, yet the audience, susceptible to the marketing hype lapped it up.
And the modern game appears to be under the same curse. I do not need an announcer telling me to welcome my team to the pitch. I do not need the announcer to tell me that half time was now happening, and to be reminded that it was Portsmouth v. Man Utd in the Charity Shield. As for the pre-match "entertainment", it was some women being promoted by Simon Cowell being given essential exposure, whilst a handful of blokes rode around on "segways", no doubt helping to promote these ludicrous vehicles in Britain. And this just two days after the lavish olympic opening ceremony in China. It was mediocre embarrassing crap.
And the game was pointless and without atmosphere, but the crowd didn't seem to mind!
My brother and I hark back to an earlier age, were men queued for hours to get into a game, where you stood sardined in the terraces, listening to scratchy chart hits six months out of date until the teams ran out to thunderous applause/booing/rancour. No-one needed to be told who was playing because: a) it was printed in the fixture list at the start of the season, b) it was on the poster outside the ground when you turned up, and ultimately c) it was on the ticket. If that wasn't enough, the average football fan had enough nous to recognise that the bloke running towards the goal in the red shirt was George Best, and the bloke lying on the ground in the blue shirt was Ron "Chopper" Harris.
And the terraces, apart from being death-traps, had atmosphere. They were bear-pits. Working Class bear-pits at that, one huge beast swaying up a down the terrace during the course of the game. I was at Anfield as an eleven-year old, where my feet barely touched the ground, as I bobbed around like a small cork on a tidal wave of scousers. Barely saw the game, but my god, what a day!
Twenty years ago I took a couple of colleagues from Tennessee to Spurs v. Aston Villa, where Venables' side, with Linekar and Gascoigne were taking on Taylors' championship hopefuls, which included Dave Pleat and Gordon Cowans. Big Game. Tottenham still held 50,000 back then and the atmosphere was raucous, and had that mid-week floodlit edge to it.
As we awaited the arrival of the teams, my guests asked "where is the entertainment?, in the States we have cheerleaders, singers, presentations, plenty before a game!"
"This is a football match," I replied, "We're here to watch a game of football!"
When the teams came out and the roar from the crowd snapped at us, my colleagues were visibly shaken, and as the game got under-weigh, and progressed through the best possible scenarios that a game can throw up, they began to realise that this was something different, and increasingly so as the volume grew as the tension mounted. At the end of the game, with Villa winning the game and earning a torrent of abuse from the home support, our ears were ringing, and one of the Tennesseans turned to me a said "Oh, I see what you mean: the football's the entertainment!"
"Too fucking, right!"
But now? 84,000 people prepared to pay £50 a ticket, and £2.30 for a coke who want a day out and an opportunity to sit with like-minded people in their replica shirts.
Curiously, when the non-event ground to a halt at 0-0, we were told that it would go straight to penalties. Now tradition used to have it that a draw meant that the shield was shared, but no more, the consumers were to be given a winner!
My brother and I decided that it was time to go, and at least it gave us to opportunity to get to the tube before the crowd.
We were not alone, as we shuffled down the Wembley Way, we were joined by other men, exclusively over forty, none of whom wore a replica shirt, all equally disillusioned by what they'd seen. Modern life? Keep it.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Oh, For Fuck's Sake
Want a glimpse of the future?
Forget muslim terrorism, We're celebrating China having the Olympics, whilst retro 20th Centurists Russia are INVADING their neighbours!
Forget the credit crunch, and global warming, our crazy cousins to the east are going to demonstrate their nihilistic hilarity as we all plunge into the void on their behalf.
Oh, for fuck's sake!
Forget muslim terrorism, We're celebrating China having the Olympics, whilst retro 20th Centurists Russia are INVADING their neighbours!
Forget the credit crunch, and global warming, our crazy cousins to the east are going to demonstrate their nihilistic hilarity as we all plunge into the void on their behalf.
Oh, for fuck's sake!
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Overheard
I was innocently sitting at my desk, minding my own business when I overheard the following exchange:
Young Man: "Was that brown before?"
Young Woman: "Something's different, OR WRONG!"
I mean: in the workplace, REALLY!
Young Man: "Was that brown before?"
Young Woman: "Something's different, OR WRONG!"
I mean: in the workplace, REALLY!
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Aussies Spurn Starbucks' Global March
There was a moment a couple of years ago when someone noticed that MacDonalds had REDUCED the amount of their junk food outlets in the UK.
Conclusions were drawn.
Well, it appears that Starbucks have met their match in Australia, where Bruce & Sheila have proven reluctant to abandon their perfectly adequate homegrown local coffee shops according to the BBC
Now all we need is a global recession. Ah! here's one right now!
Conclusions were drawn.
Well, it appears that Starbucks have met their match in Australia, where Bruce & Sheila have proven reluctant to abandon their perfectly adequate homegrown local coffee shops according to the BBC
Now all we need is a global recession. Ah! here's one right now!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Live Update: Animal Disrupts Blogger
Reluctant as I am to turn this into an "Animals Say the Stupidest Things" type of blog, production of my project management report has been disrupted by a previously unforeseen risk, in the form of HER CAT lying on my notes. And that thing scratches when disturbed.
In fact, the above image file is actually called 33333333.jpg due to the moggie's paw resting upon the keyboard.
As I write, it has fallen asleep and is now snoring.
This is why I've been held back in life. Did Kafka have this kind of problem? Insects maybe?
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Polish Nudist Prompts Icelandic Manhunt
It's not everyday the the Icelandic authorities have to send"120 trackers" out looking for a naturist hiker at altitude.
That would be some shrinkage.
That would be some shrinkage.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Alternative Therapist is Mass Killer
Yes, is it any surprise?
Not sure about the Archbishop George Carey look either.
Mind you, there will be someone out there arguing that he should be spared as he'd cleared up their impetigo!
Monday, July 21, 2008
Let's Laugh At Foreign Names
Stand up "Christian Knees"!
Yes, "the genuflector" is a german cyclist currently puffing his way around the Tour de France.
Yes, "the genuflector" is a german cyclist currently puffing his way around the Tour de France.
Cotswolds: Middle England
Hired a fast car and set about our own enviro-terrorism for the weekend.
Yes, I'm guilty as charged, but I learned to drive in Dorset, and there is nothing as exhilarating as speeding around country lanes.
Anyway, nice to see the locals of tourist hell-hole Bourton on the Water are out and about with the (hopefully stolen) marker pens.
Yes, I'm guilty as charged, but I learned to drive in Dorset, and there is nothing as exhilarating as speeding around country lanes.
Anyway, nice to see the locals of tourist hell-hole Bourton on the Water are out and about with the (hopefully stolen) marker pens.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
"I Was A Desert Rat, You Know!"
We all been wondering for some time: "just how good is "Find A Grave" dot com?
Well, they've got Derek Guyler!
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
BEES!!! BEES!!!
As though the Bees of North America have enough to worry about with Colony Collapse Disorder, the Canadians are crashing truckloads on their highways!
Bees on the loose!
Run! Now!
Bees on the loose!
Run! Now!
Joey Barton: Commodity.
Well I'm sure everyone's relieved that misunderstood media victim Joey Barton has been allowed to earn his living unhindered.
(Just read the BBC's "see also" reference to the right of this article.)
I know the Shoebox doesn't do football any more, but it missed the opportunity to comment when the Newcastle's fun-luvving Scally was imprisoned just as the last Premier League season drew to a close.
Basically, Barton beat the shit out of someone at Christmas but his case was conveniently held back until the season closed so that Newcastle wouldn't be inconvenienced by his imprisonment during the close season. Thanks to the courts compliance, Barton will be back in a Newcastle shirt in September.
Hence his plea of guilty to the earlier thuggery charge in order to allay any delay to his lucrative return to football.
An FA spokesman explained:
"You have to remember, these boys are like Gods walking amongst us; you only have to watch the adverts to see that. And they have fantastic girlfriends and everything.
Now, that's because there's lot's of money involved. They have lot's of money, and the club's have even more, and it's just common sense that this country's legislature shouldn't be allowed to spoil that.
And they don't, because we pay lawyers —who already have loads of money of their own— to make sure the courts understand that.
Anyway, I have to go now, some disabled ingrate is complaining about John Terry's parking again."
(Just read the BBC's "see also" reference to the right of this article.)
I know the Shoebox doesn't do football any more, but it missed the opportunity to comment when the Newcastle's fun-luvving Scally was imprisoned just as the last Premier League season drew to a close.
Basically, Barton beat the shit out of someone at Christmas but his case was conveniently held back until the season closed so that Newcastle wouldn't be inconvenienced by his imprisonment during the close season. Thanks to the courts compliance, Barton will be back in a Newcastle shirt in September.
Hence his plea of guilty to the earlier thuggery charge in order to allay any delay to his lucrative return to football.
An FA spokesman explained:
Now, that's because there's lot's of money involved. They have lot's of money, and the club's have even more, and it's just common sense that this country's legislature shouldn't be allowed to spoil that.
And they don't, because we pay lawyers —who already have loads of money of their own— to make sure the courts understand that.
Anyway, I have to go now, some disabled ingrate is complaining about John Terry's parking again."
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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Simon Callow: The Man in the Street
I'm sorry to bring you the news that I witness the sight of aging thespian Simon Callow touting for business on a street corner in London's notorious King's Cross yesterday.
He was putting on the old "waiting for a taxi" mien; but I know what I saw.
Not bad for his age though, I'd give him that.
He was putting on the old "waiting for a taxi" mien; but I know what I saw.
Not bad for his age though, I'd give him that.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Mind The Gap
Why is it, that having waited five minutes for the underground train to leave, the eventual bleeping of the doors attracts one last passenger who runs on to the platform at speed and throws themselves at the closing doors?
And, more to the point, why is the human missile is ALWAYS wearing a backpack which inevitably gets stuck OUTSIDE the carriage as the doors clamp around it, forcing the driver to have to stop, open the doors, and then wait whilst a further group of tourist appear and attempt to enter the now crowded train?
If people with backpacks MUST launch themselves at the rapidly closing doors, why can't they adopt some form of Fosbury Flop to ensure that the offending backpack ends up on the inside of the carriage?
Look, it's only an opinion.
And, more to the point, why is the human missile is ALWAYS wearing a backpack which inevitably gets stuck OUTSIDE the carriage as the doors clamp around it, forcing the driver to have to stop, open the doors, and then wait whilst a further group of tourist appear and attempt to enter the now crowded train?
If people with backpacks MUST launch themselves at the rapidly closing doors, why can't they adopt some form of Fosbury Flop to ensure that the offending backpack ends up on the inside of the carriage?
Look, it's only an opinion.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Wogga Wogga Plane Incident Recounted
Posh commentator describes bizarre WWII aviation feat.
Note tragic post script.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Remember The War On Terror?
I have to plead ignorance on this one: but there was a terrorist hit on Jaipur yesterday.
Obviously, with the acts of God impinging elsewhere in Burma* and China, the act of man takes to the back pages; but let us not miss the point: more people were killed and maimed in Jaipur than in the London Bombings of July 2005, so why is the news buried?
(*Curiously, there IS oil in Burma, so I'm not sure why the forces of righteousness in the west (OK: America) aren't prepared to intervene against the Saddam-style military regime there in the face of the savage indifference against the suffering people. )
Anyway, if the human suffering of 9/11 ; Madrid & the London Bombings were supposed to bring humanity closer together, then let's allow the others in; put Jaipur on the front page.
Obviously, with the acts of God impinging elsewhere in Burma* and China, the act of man takes to the back pages; but let us not miss the point: more people were killed and maimed in Jaipur than in the London Bombings of July 2005, so why is the news buried?
(*Curiously, there IS oil in Burma, so I'm not sure why the forces of righteousness in the west (OK: America) aren't prepared to intervene against the Saddam-style military regime there in the face of the savage indifference against the suffering people. )
Anyway, if the human suffering of 9/11 ; Madrid & the London Bombings were supposed to bring humanity closer together, then let's allow the others in; put Jaipur on the front page.
Restructure At Work Time
I have to defend my position.
For my presentation, I have chosen the medium of dance.
Now, where are my lucky tights?
For my presentation, I have chosen the medium of dance.
Now, where are my lucky tights?
Monday, May 12, 2008
Annie Lennox: My Hell
What, with the beautiful weather, it was decided that we would spend Sunday at Kew Gardens.
However, on discovering that public transport to Kew was diminished due to works, it was decided that we would take the car on a rare environment destroying jaunt.
It took an hour and a half. For a fourteen mile journey. In searing heat, facing south on the A406 into the midday sun.
And then, as though the grilled log jam was not frustrating enough, on came "Desert Island Discs" featuring the insufferable Annie Lennox, with her own ludicrous brand of what she believes to be profound, but which the rest of us take to be "common sense".
It was also a revelation to discover that, according to Lennox, the concept of 'the teenager' hadn't been invented yet when she was that age. Annie Lennox turned 13 in 1967. Four years after Beatlemania.
One assumes she missed it as she was probably as sanctimonious at that age as she remained for the rest of her days.
I sat there, dehydrated and agitated by the relentless heat, shouting at the radio, like a car-bound dog tormented by children, shouting in the vain hope that the woman would just go cease to exist. The heatstroke must have taken leave of my senses, as it never occurred to me to turn the radio off!
One of the longest journeys of my life. She was only on for thirty minutes, but I feel like I'll never recover.
And there are no help groups for victims of Annie Lennox's insufferability. Dreadful woman.
However, on discovering that public transport to Kew was diminished due to works, it was decided that we would take the car on a rare environment destroying jaunt.
It took an hour and a half. For a fourteen mile journey. In searing heat, facing south on the A406 into the midday sun.
And then, as though the grilled log jam was not frustrating enough, on came "Desert Island Discs" featuring the insufferable Annie Lennox, with her own ludicrous brand of what she believes to be profound, but which the rest of us take to be "common sense".
It was also a revelation to discover that, according to Lennox, the concept of 'the teenager' hadn't been invented yet when she was that age. Annie Lennox turned 13 in 1967. Four years after Beatlemania.
One assumes she missed it as she was probably as sanctimonious at that age as she remained for the rest of her days.
I sat there, dehydrated and agitated by the relentless heat, shouting at the radio, like a car-bound dog tormented by children, shouting in the vain hope that the woman would just go cease to exist. The heatstroke must have taken leave of my senses, as it never occurred to me to turn the radio off!
One of the longest journeys of my life. She was only on for thirty minutes, but I feel like I'll never recover.
And there are no help groups for victims of Annie Lennox's insufferability. Dreadful woman.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Evening Standard: Police Shoot Barrister
Look, no-one likes it, but it's the only humane way to keep their numbers down.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Boris & the Dog Whistle Genius.
I'm receiving correspondence from the disbelieving colonies about the Boris cock-up.
Actually, the result of the London election is all about our closest colonial rivals The Australians, and their vindictive revenge upon us in the form of Lynton Crosby.
Having placed the Australian right wing in parliament in his home country, he took the Imperial Shilling to come fuck over the pommies by acting as Boris' puppet master's familiar and proving that, with the right degree of cynicism and low cunning, exploiting people's basest prejudices, you can actually get even the village idiot elected.
Crosby is the master of "dog whistle" canvassing; that is, getting your (xenophobic) message across to those inclined, without drawing the attention of decent society.
For further details, check out the earlier profile from The Guardian. I bet John McCain already has.
Actually, the result of the London election is all about our closest colonial rivals The Australians, and their vindictive revenge upon us in the form of Lynton Crosby.
Having placed the Australian right wing in parliament in his home country, he took the Imperial Shilling to come fuck over the pommies by acting as Boris' puppet master's familiar and proving that, with the right degree of cynicism and low cunning, exploiting people's basest prejudices, you can actually get even the village idiot elected.
Crosby is the master of "dog whistle" canvassing; that is, getting your (xenophobic) message across to those inclined, without drawing the attention of decent society.
For further details, check out the earlier profile from The Guardian. I bet John McCain already has.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Saturday Morning 3rd May 2008
Just woken up.
It was not a dream then; Boris is still there.
Oh Bugger!
It was not a dream then; Boris is still there.
Oh Bugger!
Henry William Windle Potts: Election Latest
A bad night all round really.
Our man came forth, with 633 votes.
Never mind: it was spiffing fun just to wear a rosette!
Hoorah!
Our man came forth, with 633 votes.
Never mind: it was spiffing fun just to wear a rosette!
Hoorah!
Friday, May 02, 2008
Nancy Banks Smith: The Point of the Guardian
When I first conceived this blog it was very nearly going to be a rant against the falling standards of the Guardian during the time I've been reading it all my adult life.
My ire has always fallen upon those tedious nobodies who got to write in the Guardian purely because of the networking they achieved at Oxford, or who their parents were.
They know nothing, and have the most vapid opinion on anything. Except for Big Brother, which is apparently " brilliant ".
Anyway, my point is that I was on my way to work this morning, despondent; not just over Boris and my city's awaited embarrassment in electing him, but also issues at work and life in general.
But then, within my paper, I turned to the TV review and was heartened to find a rare appearance from Nancy Banks Smith, which I welcome as though in the presence of one of those benificial angels in Wenders' Wings of Desire.
Nancy's considered too old for the review page these days, and only gets to write when the young thrusting attitudinal "post-modernist" ("Yeh, like, Brother Brother's like, really deep on so many levels actually: have you met my uncle, he's in publishing, give him your number, he'll get you a job, Yah!") wankers are on leave.
When I was a young adult, Nancy, along with Michael White (politics) Geoffrey Beattie (social-psychology in Sheffield) and Terry Coleman, (interviewing grown ups) were the reason one read the Guardian. They made you feel smart for reading them.
The current crop make me feel smart for the wrong reason; they are all well-connected half-wits who are beneath my respect.
Anyway, Nancy lifted my mood with the dismissal of a poorly written comedy, a review which included the following:
You would be looking at a dead horse for some time before you thought you were on to a winner. I used to go riding on a horse called Caesar. One day Caesar just lay down and, with an infinitely weary and, I thought, over-operatic sigh, died. It was terrifying. I thought they would make me pay for him and I only got sixpence a week. I was only a child but even I could see Caesar didn't look a good bet for the Cesarewitch.
You see, there's something about someone who can remember the old money that makes Nancy's view valid, experienced and credible. Bless you Nancy; you wrote about TV when no-one cared for it, and you're still they only one who know's that medium's true value.
My ire has always fallen upon those tedious nobodies who got to write in the Guardian purely because of the networking they achieved at Oxford, or who their parents were.
They know nothing, and have the most vapid opinion on anything. Except for Big Brother, which is apparently " brilliant ".
Anyway, my point is that I was on my way to work this morning, despondent; not just over Boris and my city's awaited embarrassment in electing him, but also issues at work and life in general.
But then, within my paper, I turned to the TV review and was heartened to find a rare appearance from Nancy Banks Smith, which I welcome as though in the presence of one of those benificial angels in Wenders' Wings of Desire.
Nancy's considered too old for the review page these days, and only gets to write when the young thrusting attitudinal "post-modernist" ("Yeh, like, Brother Brother's like, really deep on so many levels actually: have you met my uncle, he's in publishing, give him your number, he'll get you a job, Yah!") wankers are on leave.
When I was a young adult, Nancy, along with Michael White (politics) Geoffrey Beattie (social-psychology in Sheffield) and Terry Coleman, (interviewing grown ups) were the reason one read the Guardian. They made you feel smart for reading them.
The current crop make me feel smart for the wrong reason; they are all well-connected half-wits who are beneath my respect.
Anyway, Nancy lifted my mood with the dismissal of a poorly written comedy, a review which included the following:
You see, there's something about someone who can remember the old money that makes Nancy's view valid, experienced and credible. Bless you Nancy; you wrote about TV when no-one cared for it, and you're still they only one who know's that medium's true value.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
London On The Precipice Of Humiliation
Unbelievably, the polls indicate that idiotic candidate Boris Johnson, (seen here walking a three legged dog) is edging it in the Mayoral race.
If the suburbs vote the fool in, then London, and the UK itself, will lose any supposed moral superiority over those ex-colonials across the Atlantic who elected in Bush (twice).
Imagine Johnson reacting to the next terrorist outrage? "I say, rum do, don'cha say, what, what? Excuse me, I ASKED FOR CANAPES!"
The fact that this twit is the only alternative to Ken is a damning indictment of our political system in the capital.
To hell in a handcart, that's where we're heading.
This is the Olympics all over again.
If the suburbs vote the fool in, then London, and the UK itself, will lose any supposed moral superiority over those ex-colonials across the Atlantic who elected in Bush (twice).
Imagine Johnson reacting to the next terrorist outrage? "I say, rum do, don'cha say, what, what? Excuse me, I ASKED FOR CANAPES!"
The fact that this twit is the only alternative to Ken is a damning indictment of our political system in the capital.
To hell in a handcart, that's where we're heading.
This is the Olympics all over again.
David Blaine Holds His Breath For 17 Minutes
Yeh, I know how it feels: I was caught in a lift with the delivery guy from the envelope company once!
Put it this way, he was the kind of guy that never completely leaves a room!
Put it this way, he was the kind of guy that never completely leaves a room!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Henry William Windle Potts!
Yes, it's Henry William Windle Potts!
Who? I hear you ask!
Henry William Windle Potts!
He's real! And you can vote for him this Thursday; but only if you live in Highgate, where he's the Woodhouse candidate for the local election there.
Oh, sorry, he's a Liberal Democrat! Sort of the same thing really.
Wizard wheeze, what?
(Sadly, The London Borough of Camden isn't up to speed enough on this "internet" business to list the candidates online: I'm sure if you phone and leave a message, they'll send you a list next week sometime).
Who? I hear you ask!
Henry William Windle Potts!
He's real! And you can vote for him this Thursday; but only if you live in Highgate, where he's the Woodhouse candidate for the local election there.
Oh, sorry, he's a Liberal Democrat! Sort of the same thing really.
Wizard wheeze, what?
(Sadly, The London Borough of Camden isn't up to speed enough on this "internet" business to list the candidates online: I'm sure if you phone and leave a message, they'll send you a list next week sometime).
Monday, April 28, 2008
Free Tibet: Made In China
I've always been staggered by the gullibilty of all those trogs who drive around during the world cup with their cars sporting plastic England flags, unwilling as they are to question the logic of importing their patriotic symbolism from the far east.
Well, those Chinese flag manufacturers have excelled themselves this time, according to the BBC, as it has been discovered that standards proclaiming a Free Tibet have indeed been manufactured within China itself!
Give us the money now, we'll sort the ethics out later!
Well, those Chinese flag manufacturers have excelled themselves this time, according to the BBC, as it has been discovered that standards proclaiming a Free Tibet have indeed been manufactured within China itself!
Give us the money now, we'll sort the ethics out later!
Evening Standard: 66 Die In China Train Crash
If I told them once, I told them a hundred times: Kaolin is not a suitable material for locomotive manufacture!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Local Incident Makes News
It seems that the "Star Wars" franchise is capable of generating its own publicity, even when it comprises merely of a bunch of Welsh nobodies being attacked by the pisshead nobody down the road.
Check out (if you have nothing else to do with your life) the BBC's Jedi News
Check out (if you have nothing else to do with your life) the BBC's Jedi News
Monday, April 21, 2008
The IT/Gents Toilet Interface
Well, when they moved the Client Services hobbits out of the basement, and moved the IT herberts IN, I was vocal in my reservations about having to share our area with THEM.
Computers, yes they know how to do that; but social skills?
I was poo-pooed by the liberal namby-pambies, but the poo-poo is certainly on them now.
How anyone can get excrement where THAT ANIMAL got excrement beats me, but what I DO KNOW is that this sort of thing didn't happen before IT moved in.
Even with YOU KNOW WHO around.
To put it delicately: you can't flush it from there!
It was also visible from the corridor, as you opened the gents door. I mean; I ask you! Really!
"If there is a cleaner in the vicinity of the basement, we have a CODE BROWN in trap one!"
Computers, yes they know how to do that; but social skills?
I was poo-pooed by the liberal namby-pambies, but the poo-poo is certainly on them now.
How anyone can get excrement where THAT ANIMAL got excrement beats me, but what I DO KNOW is that this sort of thing didn't happen before IT moved in.
Even with YOU KNOW WHO around.
To put it delicately: you can't flush it from there!
It was also visible from the corridor, as you opened the gents door. I mean; I ask you! Really!
"If there is a cleaner in the vicinity of the basement, we have a CODE BROWN in trap one!"
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Latchkey Parents
The smoking ban has had numerous unexpected consequences, but I think one of the most poignant is the reversal of the tradition of leaving the kids outside the pub in the cold with nothing but a lemonade and a bag of crisps for company.
Today I passed Kings Cross's famous Skinners Arms at midday, and witnessed a small boy shivering upon the pavement in the intemperate weather, suffering alongside his parents who were braving the unseasonable chill in order to enjoy a cigarette alongside their drinks.
There you go: the cigarette ban is bringing families closer together again!
Today I passed Kings Cross's famous Skinners Arms at midday, and witnessed a small boy shivering upon the pavement in the intemperate weather, suffering alongside his parents who were braving the unseasonable chill in order to enjoy a cigarette alongside their drinks.
There you go: the cigarette ban is bringing families closer together again!
Monday, April 07, 2008
Incubus
I feature exclusive infra-red evidence that her cat is out to get me.
He lies atop the wardrobe like this all night awaiting me to fall asleep, but I won't. I shall never sleep until he STOPS DOING THIS!
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Ex-Soviet Psycho Squirrels Savage Starving Spaniel Shock
Yeh, post communist Russia is like some kind of lawless nightmare, where even Dog Eating Squirrels are getting in on the act.
According to the BBC:
"When they saw the men, they scattered in different directions, taking pieces of their kill away with them."
Yeh, they scattered, but wait until they lose their fear of the humans; then our children will not be safe!
Cut the trees down NOW!
According to the BBC:
Yeh, they scattered, but wait until they lose their fear of the humans; then our children will not be safe!
Cut the trees down NOW!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Doggone Jumpers
Briefly, a couple that are making clothing from Dead Dog Hair!
Yes, the hair of a dead dog!
It's what Rover would have wanted.
Yes, the hair of a dead dog!
It's what Rover would have wanted.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Really Classy Retail Outlet
There is much guff expounded about how Sandbanks in Poole is now the world's 4th most expensive piece of real estate, behind Singapore; Hong Kong & Manhattan.
As you can see, it's not exactly 5th Avenue as the above shop above attests.
Basically, this store has retained its likeably sand-blown shabbiness; little different since John Lennon bought his fags there 40yrs ago.
Once an English sea-side resort; always and English sea-side resort.
Beverly Hills it aint.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
What Does It All Mean?
On approaching a course assignment, I address the lecture notes scribbled in my notebook.
Then, at the bottom of one page I have written
1968 1984. 1986&rarr 1992 6yrs
I have NO idea why.
(Why has 1984 been underlined and given a full stop?)
Answers on a postcard please.
Then, at the bottom of one page I have written
1968 1984. 1986
I have NO idea why.
(Why has 1984 been underlined and given a full stop?)
Answers on a postcard please.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Balkan Bear Accused in Hive Honey Heist
Remember how, not so long ago the people of the Former Yugoslavia decided to revert to their medieval default position of slaughtering each other because no-one likes the villagers down the road.
Well, get out the flaming torches because there's a bear on the loose, and he's got a sweet tooth.
Some wag has the Bear Faced Cheek to take the furry feller to court!
No; Really!
Well, get out the flaming torches because there's a bear on the loose, and he's got a sweet tooth.
Some wag has the Bear Faced Cheek to take the furry feller to court!
No; Really!
Tesco Robot Dirty Talk Scandal
Now that Tesco are encouraging shoppers to process their own shopping, we have to follow the instructions of the Robot in order to pay for our goods.
They have a least chosen the voice of a passive, well mannered middle class woman.
Earlier today, I had successfully mastered the process when the console next to me announced:
"Unexpected Item In Bagging Area!"
Yes, well, we've all had that dear, but some of us keep it to ourselves!
Really!
They have a least chosen the voice of a passive, well mannered middle class woman.
Earlier today, I had successfully mastered the process when the console next to me announced:
"Unexpected Item In Bagging Area!"
Yes, well, we've all had that dear, but some of us keep it to ourselves!
Really!
Monday, March 10, 2008
Koren Chick Hitches Lift Into Space
And it looks like she's taking her surfboard with her!
Just imagine, there you are at a party, and your eye meets that of Yi So-yeon, and you move towards her, eager to impress her about how you're expecting to collect a ton from selling your old Viz comics on Ebay.
As an opener, you politely ask:
"So what do you do little lady?"
To which she replies:
"Actually, I'm an astronaut!"
Yes, your penis could not be smaller as you make your excuses and hurry to the kitchen before she renders you sterile with a guffaw!
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