To India, And Beyond!

As a boy, I was preoccupied with the Space Race, and shared the excitement and optimism that came with the moon landings.

However, not everyone shared this enthusiasm for what was a hugely expensive ambition, at a time when America was poring vast sums into either bombing Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, or blasting a handful of men into deep space.

My youthful self was therefore always disappointed when television discussions of the Lunar landings always had to include someone who opposed the adventure, like the head of Oxfam, or acerbic journalist James Cameron, usually delivering impeccable arguments along the lines of how the West's economic extravagence sat in contrast with the existing, and treatable wrongs in the world like third world poverty.

By the third world, they included places like India and China, where there were thousands dying of starvation and disease, deprived of the resources that the West was seen to fritter away on consumerism and nationalistic follies on a previously unseen scale.

Imagine, then, my unease with the zeitgeist, that I have lived long enough to witness headlines like "Banglore to train astronauts".

Yes, not only do we hear that the world's best hope of surviving the oncoming recession is the ameliorative impact of the burgeoning Indian, Chinese and Brazilian economies, but that these sleeping giants are themselves now establishing their own superpower credentials by putting on superpower displays of their own. And nothing says superpower like a space programme!

Meanwhile, the former Cold War superpowers, no longer reliant on each other to provide an adversary, regress into nineteenth century sphere of influence foreign policies to reassure themselves of that they still count.

Ho Hum!

Shed Latest: New Roof Felt!

Yes, there comes the time in every shed's life when it needs a new layer up top. Lifting twelve square metres of roof isn't that easy, and given the backdrop of impending rain, it was a little touch and go.

However, we did get to witness the sight of her tomcat leaping up to where he assumed a roof to be, only to be surprised at the presence of thin air. He's OK, and managed a recovery manoeuvre just in time and only damaged his pride.

Torrential rain this morning enabled me to test run the new coat which performed to plan.

Excellent job.

Nude Latest: Chute Intruder "Too Big" Scandal

Yes, the North is back in the news, and once more its for all the wrong reasons.

The burley chaps of Wigan's fire brigade were asked to extricate a Naked Man from Tescos last night.

Yes, NAKED, found in the chimney like some kind of Dirty Santa.

Of course, the naturists will disown him. They'll claim that he was one of us normal people who had merely "lost" his clothes in attempting to escape his plight, but we know the truth: he's a nudist who went bad.

Indeed, he's the one who chose the left-handed path. Not satisfied with the woods and a sun tan, he was no doubt in there with the sole intention of rubbing his grubby nakedness over the merchandise in some sick bid to seek revenge upon the textile world.

I certainly hope Tescos are going to burn the contents of that particular store, just in case.

Thing is, if he WAS a burglar, where was he planning to secrete the loot?

You better do a stock-check on the bananas Tesco!

Bendybus = Damnation

Apparently someone has trumped up some cash to promote Atheism across the capital.

Worth reading for the quote:

"Bendy-buses, like atheism, are a danger to the public at large"

Big Brother's Idiotic Little Cousin

Something that's been on the back burner for some time, regarding the propensity for the younger generation to use the emerging technologies to shop themselves.

I am of a age that can remember our fears in the 70s and 80s that the government was tooling up with its surveillance culture to maintain a close watch on us plebs, in a bid to scrutinise and control our every move. We feared the Big Brother scenario, and imagined that the future augured diminishing rights and rampant paranoia as the authorities would whittle away at our channels of self-expression.

And then the future arrived. There are cameras in the high streets, on public transport and throughout our workplaces. However, it appears that these are operated by private contractors paying poorly skilled staff minimum wages; staff who tend to neglect to replace the aging video tapes, and almost always lose the pertinent coverage whenever a crime gets committed within a monitored area. We're all being watched, but is anyone getting stopped?

In fact, as the Rodney King trial appeared to show, the liberal distribution of video cameras gave the populace the opportunity for redress, as the cameras were turned upon the state itself.

And once again, as that technology becomes even further miniturised, cheaper and easier to use, it appears that anyone and everyone is capable of contributing to the great social experiment, as, assisted by the internet, increasing numbers of petty criminals are incrimating themselves by providing the police with all the necessary irrefutable evidence in the form of mobile phone footage, or indeed YouTube postings. Yes, it's very Darwinian in its significance, and I'm sure this all means something very deep to somebody somewhere, but I've neither the time or the scope to go into it now.

All I know is, the case of the idiotic motorcyclist above indicates that Big Brother may well be reduced to celebrity insignificance, but the thought police are getting all the help they need from his Stupid Little Cousin.

From Our Court Correspondent

Royal news, unfortunately. Our man at the Palace has been scandalised by the claim of the Daily Telegraph that gay men prefer Prince Harry to Prince William, although he is not sure which is which. (If you do need to know look it up on the internet, someone will know).

Anyway, that aside, the regal brothers are in darkest Africa on a charity ride to raise £150,000 to save some poor people apparently. Naturally, it beggars belief why they don't just give over the money without the publicity seeking. It's not like they're short of a bob or two, Prince Charles has probably got that much lying around in old suits!

And one wonders, doesn't one, how much the British taxpayers will be paying for the security presence for the duration? Considerably more than £150,000.

Someone tell them there's a recession on.

Future Furtive

Yes, it looks like litter doesn't it? Urban detritis; consumerist dandruff; whatever one wishes to call it.

However, peer closer! This looks like a glimpse of some dystopian future, where all unhealthy pursuits are outlawed, and thus driven underground.

Look at the culprit's stash, the high-in-fat, low-in-nutrition bag of "crisps", the tar-laden carciogenic cigarettes, and the accompanying lighter; itself a inflamable bio-hazard!

No wonder it has been secreted within the brick-work.

The perpetrator has been careless though, and will be additionally punished as a consequence.

The stash was a mere four feet above the ground, that is; within reach of an average eight-year old child, or a five-year old with a box. Or a three-year old with a stout older brother capable of lifting the little feller up to the deadly hoard.

And whilst we're in that ball-park, let's not ignore the one-year old babe being carried by its negligent mother; a woman no doubt otherwise pre-occupied by the rampant celebrity culture imposed upon our future selves by the oppressive authorities, with the cynical intention to ameliorate the frustrations incurred amongst the populace by the deprivation from the absence of junk food and mild narcotics!

Yes; you assumed it was just a hole in the wall, but the Shoebox sees the truth in EVERYTHING.

Arms Cache Found On London Bus!

As London Mayor "Boris" Johnson claims that he is single-handedly resolving gun crime from the capital, the Shoebox can bring exclusive evidence that things are to the contrary, and are in SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL!

Our crime correspondence has uncovered evidence that dangers lie within the very public transport that Johnson has so ludicrously declared safe! The arms cache (see photo) was discovered on a No. 47 (Shoreditch - Catford Bus Station) during SCHOOL HOURS!

Our forensics team have identified the haul as an ammunition magazine for a "Spud Gun", a weapon popular amongst the younger end of the criminal epidemic sweeping Johnson's city like a plague.

An expert suggested that, at it's worse, "In the wrong hands, the user could take somebody's eye out!

We showed the evidence to someone at the Home Office, and they dismissed the find as "A Potato". When challenged, they suggested that that it was not possible to prove that the missing parts of the offending potato had been used in committing a crime, and that they thought that it looks like somebody has "too much time on their hands".

We asked if there was anyone else we could talk to, but we had the door closed on our faces.

Fear not, we will not let this rest.

Pump It Up!

OK, it's a new job, and it'll take a little getting used to, but this open-plan thing is REALLY distracting, particularly as I get to listen to the facilities people dealing with whatever they get thrown at them.

I'll try keep this above the waist, but did you know that people use public buildings as lavatories over the weekend? I don't mean the public lavatories, provided for that purpose, I mean the outside of the buildings themselves, and the doorways and niches in particular. Every Monday morning I overhear the "Code Brown" reports coming in, as the dispatcher notifies the cleaners as to where, and specifically what they need to attend to. It's a dirty business.

Anyway, we had a little bit of variety today, as a cleaner informed the team that "someone had been having sex in the seventh floor lavatories". The dispatcher went off to investigate the evidence, and we put it to the back of our minds, as the veterans amongst us can remember when the local prostitutes were using the first floor ladies room to provide an express service some time back. However, today's news was exciting because the seventh floor is NOT A PUBLIC ACCESS AREA! The perpetrator/s had to be EMPLOYEES!

Well, imagine our delight to discover that the "incident" involved a penis enlarger, the box of which was discarded in the soiled cubicle!

Look, I appreciate that the organisation encourages personal growth, but that's taking things a little too far!

My money's on the new guy with the monobrow and the squint.

The ARISTOCRATS!!!

Back in the eighties, there was an Irish comedian (Paul Quinn?) who had the line;

"On my way home from the pub, I stopped at my local kebab place: they had a sign up saying "Sorry, We're Open!"

I was reminded of this quip on reading this feature on the BBC, which describes an Environmental Health Officer's DREAM assignment.

The feature contains the phrase:

A statement of facts, read out to the court, said: "Upon his arrival the officer observed a dead male lying on a sofa at the rear of the main kitchen.
"Sat opposite to him was Mr Singh who was preparing food, making kebabs."

Would you like onions with that?

Now THAT my friends is CLASS!

Bic Crystal Ballpoint Pen, Medium Point, Black

OK, yesterday we looked at how the general public treat online newspapers when given the opportunity to contribute their own content.

Today, we're going to look at that old perennial, the Amazon customer review, for example: the Bic Crystal Ballpoint Pen, Medium Point, Black. Find yourself a spare half an hour, and read all 166, it's worth it.

On the eve of the Booker Prize award, I think it's time that someone countenanced the inevitability of accepting that some of our best fiction is to be found amongst the medium of online retail.

I'm sorry if I'm the last person in the world to discover this thread, but I'm assuming that my readership is as out of touch as I am.

Bungee Disaster Sparks Online Ribaldry

Back in the heyday of Radio 1, the DJs were incessantly asking listeners to write in and tell them what they thought.

One evening, John Peel remarked that this was because the management had no other way of gauging a DJs success than measuring the weight of the mail received by each show.

No doubt there is a similar logic behind the current day trend for "comment on this story" options adjacent to each feature on newspaper web sites.

However, I'm sure that no-one anticipated, or welcome, the kind of remarks that accompany any news item, such as those displayed in the Hull and East Riding News.

Hull Fair Bungee Ride Snaps is worth a read, if just for the line:

"Every man and his dog crowded round the ride. They were worried for the girls and everyone was looking and taking videos and pictures on their phones"

However, it's the discourse that follows that is most telling. The online community of Hull and East Riding clearly have too much time on their hands.

File under "Chavs in space"

Bullseye!

Darlings, the must have cocktail accessory this season? Has to be the AK47 Bullet Ice Cube Tray!

Mindbender!

When I saw the BBC headline Banjo Used in Brain Surgery, my first thought was to assume that there's a neurologist out there helping himself to the pharmacy cabinet.

Actually, that still maybe, but this is not the misconduct case you may think.

Yes there was pandemonium at the RNIB yesterday, as the financial news broke, leaving the visually impaired disconcerted and vulnerable. Although unable to see very well, they are surprisingly adept at investing on the Stock Market, and were startled at the events.

RNIB spokesperson, Belinda Pugh, explained the chaos:

"It took us a little while to cotton on, as it takes a little longer to read the trading pages in braille, obviously, but once we realised that the lot had gone down the toilet, things went a little hectic. In fact, I haven't witnessed such confusion since the time that some moron hired Marcel Marceau to entertain us at the Christmas Party!"

When asked about rumours regarding the Bursor's attempted suicide, Ms Pugh played it down:

"Well, I saw nothing, naturally, but I have heard that he stepped out onto the ledge on the eigth floor, possibly by accident, but fortunately, Minty, his guide dog, stepped in front of him and prevented his endangering himself. It's sounds heroic, but its the kind of thing she's trained to do actually. In fact she's the sort of dog that is always getting in the way around here, it's a bit of a nuisance really; that's how I broke my wrist last year! I make do with this white stick, and don't know why the rest of 'em can't."

However, when pressed on how much the sightless had lost in the previous week, Ms Pugh was unforthcoming:

"And no-one admits it, but Minty has a bit of a flatulence problem, which is unpleasant in an open plan environment, although I believe that some people in here rely on it as a navigation aid when delivering their expense returns!"

Unfortunately, the Shoebox was unable to find anyone else available for comment on this story.

Steam Portrait

To Hell in a Handbag

I've been thinking about the corollary of the current recession and the war.

Whilst we in the west are struggling to come to terms with the end of cheap loans, there is the emergence of the "New" Russia, which is completely neurotic, revivalist and spoiling for a fight, and the increasing global dominance of China, which may have already realised that the sun has, indeed, set in the west.

And what chance do we stand should either have a go?

Well, from what I saw tonight: not much.

On my way home, entering the tube at Kings Cross, I was passed by a young chap carrying a MANBAG! Yes, actually carrying one in REAL LIFE, and not just seen in some daring fashion feature.

Oddly enough, elsewhere, he was going for the retro 70s manly look, not unlike the chap in "The Joy of Sex", but I'm afraid the MANBAG said it all. No doubt it was full of moisturiser, and personal grooming tools. I can't imagine any other use for it.

Yes, no need to invade with an army, just a couple of stout women armed with table tennis bats would send the new menfolk of our nation screaming to their solariums, leaving the rest of us resigned to a life of manumission.

Yes, maybe the new depression is just what we need to wean the younger generation off of the pandering lifestyle, and to start over, raising a more rugged breed.

Maybe we need a little less David Beckham, and a bit more Bert Trautmann (who played most of the 1956 cup final with a broken neck!)

Eton Boy Boris Shows Oiks Who's Boss

It transpires that London Mayor Boris Johnson has chosen to forsake the democratic process and is trusting on his own "judgement" in running one of the largest capital cities in the world.

This morning's Guardian carried an account of how the Mayor had to answer for his arbitrary notions to the London Assembly, with particular regard to the sacking of the Chief of the Metropolitan Police last week:

Asked how widely he had consulted about the move, the mayor insisted that the consultations had been widespread. A quick round of hands showed a majority of members had not been consulted. "This is becoming undignified," said Johnson. After two hours it was over.

The Tories may find Johnson's adventure to be a wizard wheeze, but the consequences of this dunce's actions will be felt by many who cannot defend themselves. This is not funny.

Swords to Ploughshares

So now that our governments are bailing out capitalism by spending taxpayers' money on big city bonuses, at what point do they tell us that they can't afford the war in Iraq?

Surely, war is a luxury in these trying times? And remember; WWII could not have taken place ten years earlier than it did because none of the protagonists could have afforded it.

It's not as though the war in Iraq is getting any headlines anymore!

Half-Baked Alaskan

OK, Sarah Palin doesn't appear to be so bright (and let's face it, she's the kind of person who prefers the odds of the multiple choice questionnaire) but I think the cynics need to think this through.

The way America's economy is going, they're going to need as many people capable of killing wildlife as they can muster. A moose will feed a lot of people, and when those food riots get going, you'll need the White House staffed with an administration that can keep the mob at a safe range with a variety of firearms.

Oh, yeh, SOMEBODY's thinking this through!

The Man in Black

You know when you get on the tube, and you do the double-take at the person sat there in the sunglasses?

Well, this evening, it was a tall guy, dressed all in black, with big black framed wrap-arounds, sitting forward, over by the door. Yeh, pretentious, and I did the usual tutting. That is, until I saw him leave the carriage.

What I missed was the large jet-black guide dog, magnificently lustrous despite the flourescent bib, and they cut a pretty cool image as the sidled along the platform cutting quite a dash. Blind AND stylish.

Nice!

London Mayor: Latest!

Yes, it's true! Boris is on the lam, after the Metropolitan Police, angered at his dismissal of nation's favourite "Sir" Anthony Blair, sent the Flying Squad in to give his poncy Eton arse a right kickin'.

After an 8mph car chase, (road works on Borough High Street 'til Feb), Boris Johnson, riding a bicycle WITHOUT a helmet went to ground in a disused warehouse in Bermondsey.


There, he taunted officers with cries of "Yah boo sucks! Can't catch me, you riff-raff!"

After the customary stand-off, Detective Inspector Jack Regan, (back by public demand) crouched behind a shit-coloured Ford Consul GT, addressed the Mayor via a megaphone and the following exchange was recorded:

Regan "Come aht Johnson, you TOILET, if ye don't want none of the rough stuff"

Johnson "No way matey! You won't take me, err, alive!

Regan "Don't be a fool man! Ye've overstepped the mark this time, and ye've got it comin' "

Johnson "Stay back! I'm armed! I've got a blunderbuss which has been in my family for nine generations! So there! Actually, err, there's a rather amusing story how my great-great-great grandpapa came across this very, err, weapon, in a game of cards with the Duke of Devonshire! Or was it the Marquis of Salisbury?"

Regan "Cut the crap Johnson! Are comin' aht like a good boy, or are we comin' in te get ye?"

However, as the Flying Squad attempted their daring move, Johnson caught sight of the armed-response unit approaching, and with a cry of "Crikey!"made safe his escape through a crease in his trousers, and hasn't been seen since.


Viewing the scene later, Regan was heard to mutter, "E's a wrong-un, and there's no mistake!"

The police are now staking out Gentlemen's Clubs and Grand Balls awaiting Johnson's inevitable return. "Let's face it," commented a spokesperson "he's a toff, he can't keep away from the Champagne and Canapes for that long; they always revert to type, it's in the blood!"

The Shoebox crime desk have a reporter permanently seconded to this story, and we will provide round the clock coverage in anticipation of Johnson's capture.

Boris Versus The Labour Government: Round One

Don't you hate it when life messes with your head?

Obviously I'm please to hear of the long overdue resignation of Met Police chief "Sir" Ian Blair, and giggled listening to his speech as he subtly dug at London Mayor Boris Johnson who had just sacked him.

It's the Boris Johnson role that irritates me. The Labour government have been lenient with Blair, as was former Mayor Ken Livingstone. They obviously liked something about the teflon police chief.

Has Boris seen through the deceit? Is Boris a single-minded politician who is not going to tolerate Ian Blair's self-styled impunity ? Does this mean that Boris is a shrewd, no-nonsense type of chap that is going to lead London to an era of social responsibility in it's public figures? If so hoorah!

Or is it Tory Boris delivering a blow at the Labour government by picking away at their establishment on behalf of his party, during Tory party conference week?

Naturally, I'm inclined to believe the latter, but I'm grateful for small mercies, and it's important to let the "Sir" Ian Blair's of this world know that they can't play fast and loose with other people's lives in pursuit of personal glory.

Is There A Doctor In The House?

As you know, I don't like to discuss my work as a first-aider. It's a selfless task I know, and one that needs dedication, empathy, and a strong stomach, but most of all modesty and deference.

And, yes, there are times that a first-aider has to forget the first rule of first-aid and step into harm's way when someone needs help. "Establish that it is safe to approach!" goes the mantra, but sometimes needs must, and the brave amongst us have to step up and be counted.

For example, this evening, as I was minding my own business in preparing the end of month returns, adjusting the accruals and falsifying the projected yearly outgoings, I heard a colleague cry-out.

Injured, with a pretty nasty paper cut, what he actually cried-out was: "Why is the First Aid box locked?"

Naturally, I didn't think twice; I rushed to the scene! I have no idea who locked the First Aid box*. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to lock a First Aid box? It's not as though it contains Morphine; and even if it did it's the size of a lunch box: the junkies would just carry it with them to somewhere where they could break into it in privacy.

Anyway, I had no time to question why or how, I just had to get the thing open. As the wounded party gripped his superficially lacerated finger, I went out back, got the tool kit, got the biggest screwdriver in it and a hammer, and set about the latches on that First Aid box without a thought.

Had I been paying a little more attention, I may not have missed the screwdriver with the first blow, I would certainly not have sustained the subsequent injury to my index finger, which took the full force of the ball-pein.

Like: OUCH!!!

Imagine the entry in the First Aid book:

Describe circumstances of injury: Finger broken by hammer blow whilst attempting to break into First Aid box whilst assisting colleague injured with paper cut.

On second thoughts, maybe not. Stalin wasn't the only one who knew when to airbrush out the truth!

*(I do, however, have an inkling who may have locked the box—knowing the nature of the woman in charge of H&S—and how that person MAY have crept in on a secret mission after hours to spy on the expiration date on our bandages.)

Oh, The Irony

Having watched Griff Rhys Jones' programme on anger this evening, my partner, who is AN INTELLECTUAL DUNCE and I began discussing several of the show's notions, which led to what could only be described as AN ARGUMENT as I struggled to GET MY POINT ACROSS.

NO; I DO NOT NEED ANGER MANAGEMENT!

Funny, thing anger. Never really goes away does it?

(Speaking as someone, who, in adolescence would beat the upright piano with the piano stool in frustration at my failing to sight read)

Car Free Day: North London Style

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.

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!

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.

"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!

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?

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.

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.

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:

"If you know what's good for you you'll stop askin' them questions, and whatever you do, don't cross that Kathleen Fitzgerald!

Our reporter then found a potato jammed into the exhaust pipe of the Shoebox van.

The mystery continues.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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?

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

Turn Back! I Beg You: Turn Back!

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!

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!

You Don't Say!

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.

Nude Latest

Please, SOMEBODY, give them their own pool!

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.

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.

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

The Economy: Latest

It certainly is!

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.

Ooh Vicar; Really!

How To Use A Prop

Rhod Gilbert demonstrates how to build a performance from very little.

MI5 "To Recruit Gay Spies"

How many more do they need for God's sake?

FT

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?

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.

Cruel Firing Squads

It's bad enough facing execution, but this is barbarity.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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!

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!

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?

Silly Season

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.

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!

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.

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.

"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!

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!

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."

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!!!

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.

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!

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'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"

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.

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

Moscow Weather: Rain, Possibly Lumps of Cement

The Russian Airforce have been "seeding" clouds with bags of cement.

No, Honestly!

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

It's the Archbishop of York!

And he's a "Daredevil!"

Animator vs Animation

Flash animation for your entertainment:















"Animator vs Animation" by Alan Becker

With thanks to Arctic Ghetto