People Smote Latest

Not a good week to be struck by anything in the Evening Standard.

However, if I may make a couple of suggestions, I believe that the struggling local paper could make a few amendments and sell shed-loads more.

IE: picture one, just remove the last word of the sentence. Much more interesting.

As for picture two; add the words "-seeking missile".

There you go; increased circulation, more entertainment, and let's face it, no-ones goes to the Standard for the truth.

Shoebox Visits: Enfield

Not many shops like this anymore.

Well not since that nutter shot someone and dumped the body in the canal strapped to a moped with fishing tackle.

No one needs that kind of press.

Satisfaction: Go Girls!

Dogs in Pubs Special

My local as a lad, The Red Lion, was a mid-seventies shit-hole in the era before anybody thought that pubs should be anything more than a place that men could meet and get drunk.

It was rough as arseholes, but the only fight I ever saw there was between a couple of dogs that took exception to each other and overturned the old boys table by the cigarette machine.

That was back in the days when old men, dogs and cigarettes were welcome in our pubs.

About fifteen years ago, on leaving a Weatherspoons, a chatted to a couple sat outside in the cold with their collie. They explained that the dog was unwelcome in the bar and had to endure the weather as a result. I assumed that this was just indicative of Weatherspoons corporate sprawl in its mission to destroy the English pub.

It was therefore a bitter disappointment to see that the no-dogs policy won, as bars became anodyne and child-centered and the rest of us had to sit at home unwanted with our cheap supermarket tinnies.

However, my local now, which was poorly run until a year ago, is undergoing a rennaisance, not just in employing staff who actually know how to serve, but in being indiscriminate as to who they allow in.

There were four dogs in tonight. The big wolf dog, who is a regular; a large headed sweetheart of a Lab cross who was love on legs; a rather non pit-bull variant poorly supervised by some slag with low-self esteem, and finally, with a large group of lesbians on a denim-themed night out, a big grey aging Lurcher with the longest snout I've ever seen.

The best part was when the Lurcher joined it's lesbian friends in the restaurant section. No one objected, and the sky didn't fall in, so a little bit of England managed to sprout like a lily through asphalt.

Dogs in pubs NOW! Woof Woof!

Ireland In The News

BBC presents run of the mill rampant bull in supermarket story

Step On Etc.

The best electric guitar that I ever owned was an Epiphone Les Paul Junior double-cut in cherry which I bought in 1996 from a now extinct music store in Muswell Hill.

It was confined space, which despite its comforting intimacy, raised a problem as I inspected the guitar. As I began to run through my limited guitar store repetoire I found myself competing with a chap who was nervously trying out a trombone over by the door. Whenever I started, he started. When I stopped, he stopped. Basically, he wanted me to mask the cacophony that he was generating. This meant that I had no idea what the guitar sounded like, unless I was planning to play in a band alongside a novice trombone player.

That was only thirteen years ago, yet that kind of shop, where you could buy electric guitars alongside trombones seems something from a distant past.

I mention this on the news of the death of Johnny Roadhouse who equipped an entire generation of Mancunian musicians. His shop window was once described as resembling the contents of a dredged canal.

Great days.

Put It Away!

Some years back, in a previous home in North London, I lived down the road from a Greek family, the son of which owned a BMW.

You knew that he owned a BMW because he spent most evenings cleaning and polishing it, or carrying out "essential maintenance". It was always parked conspicuously, yet unwisely, directly outside of his parents' house, despite its vulnerability to insane speed that other motorists would exhibit in careering blindly over the adjacent railway bridge.

And just in case anyone missed the point that this young lad owned a BMW, he would spend the rest of his time sitting on the wall outside of his house with his mates, talking about the BMW that he owned, the one that was just there in front of them.

I was given the impression that, to this young man there was little point in owning a BMW if no-one knew about the fact.

(I assume this is why young men now wear their Calvin Klein underpants on the outside. There is no point in paying the premium for underpants if no-one apart from your mum knows about it).

I mention this because purely to remark about an incident in my street this morning.

It's a quiet street with a settled older community, where families have lived there long enough to have raised children and seen them leave.

This is not true though in one particular household, where the son, a man in his forties, still lives at home with his elderly mother. However, this man may still be living with his mother, but he owns a Jaguar. Yes a Jaguar. It's raven black and has a soft-top.

This is a rather outstanding car for our street, as it's probably the only vehicle without a dent in it!

Anyway, despite his age, this chap feels compelled to manifest all the same compulsions of my earlier neighbour, particularly when it comes to the carwash preoccupation. Again, one assumes that this vehicle, rather than a successful career, or a lasting child-rearing marriage, represents the apogee of his life-achievement.

Whatever; I'm past caring since this morning's "display" when I witnessed a step too far. I had set out for work and was just getting into my stride when, on passing the said Jaguar car, I saw the owner emerge from his mother's house dress only in a towel. Yes, a towel, draped around his waste, partly obscured by the pendulous beergut that rested upon it. He didn't even have slippers, it was like he stepped out of the bath, barely covered his modesty and then just walked out into the street, like he was living in Liverpool or something.

He then padded over to his Jaguar, opened the boot (trunk), removed a suit and a white shirt, shut the boot and padded back into the house.

a) He was practically naked.

b) He is using a shiny Jaguar as a wardrobe.

c) He lives in my street.

We're having enough trouble with maintaining our inflated house prices as it is with the recession, without this white-trash floor-show turning up on Google Street View!

I feel cheapened and unclean.

Bacchanalian Debauchery Encouraged!

The Evening Standard recommends an hedonistic response to the recession.

Chemical Warfare Latest

I'm very sceptical about the way the authorities tend to group the copycat would-be activists with real terrorists, just to bump up the numbers to back claims about the size of the ongoing threat.

Let's face it, you're always going to get the unhinged loners with mental illness issues attracted to the appeal of the ultimate outsider status that comes with radical causes.

However, when Gloucester resident Sahnoun Daifallah set out to take on the world, I suspect that he was hoping for a better sobriquet than Urine Spray Man.

"Oh my God: what's that smell?"

"Look: it's Urine Spray Man!"

Röyksopp

And it is to the Royal Festival Hall to wade amongst gay men for the appearance of Röyksopp with Fever Ray.


Thirty years ago a pal and I contemplated the problem of playing electronic music live, in that the equipment alone rendered one static.

The Human League bridged the gap some of the way with a slide show, but they still seemed rooted.

Well, in 2009 having enormous amounts of digital computer driven technology is certainly an advantage, but Torbjorn seemed to have it nailed, simply by wearing a stovepipe hat.

Why didn't we think of that?

Actually, I spent most of the evening comparing everything to the state of affairs in the seventies. My partner drew the conclusion that I was talking like a man who had just come out of prison after a long sentence.

Röyksopp were good fun incidently.

Macabre Easter Offer

Not sure of the efficacy of this window display in the local undertakers.

Possibly some comment on the Christian/Pagan Death/Birth dialectic.

Or just a bad idea from someone unable to imagine what this actually looks like.

Maybe they could sell urns that contain smarties?

Cat Cash

When we were kids, we lived in a household that could only afford to have the TV Times and Radio Times once a year, with my mother spending out for the Christmas editions as a seasonal treat. Even then, she would spread the cost over two weeks by buying one first with the other to follow just as the holiday got under weigh.

Inevitably, she would react vehemently to the habitual defacing of these prized listings, as my brothers and I would set about them with ballpoints, adorning Hughie Green with a fine curly moustache, or enhancing Pat Pheonix with glasses and blacked-out teeth, or just writing the word "GIT" on Reginald Bousenquet's forehead.

My mother, no fan of anyone on a TV that she never had the time to watch, still felt that there was some act of disrespect in the defacing of these hard-working professionals who had obviously made sacrifices to get where they were.

However, it was a practice that we loved, and never quite grew out of.

By the time of the first 1974 election, I'd developed the habit onto a grander scale. Armed with stolen marker pens, with my pals Chris J and Malcolm L, I helped to decorate a giant poster of Prime Minister Edward Heath, turning him into Alice Cooper (a popular singing artiste of the day).

Imagine my joy, passing our work on the bus the following day, and hearing a child cry out "Look mummy! Look at that man!" and the mothers response, a disapproving "Someone's up to no good!"

In fact, I don't have access to the psephological data from that election, but I'm convinced that it was that very poster that accounted for Heath's defeat that year!

Anyway, to my point.

I was pleased to discover this alteration to the currency recently. It is part of a dying art and is to be heartily applauded.

Hoorah!

David Lynch on iPhone

What Seems To Be The Trouble?

I was at the doctor's this evening, (none of your business, since you ask) sat in the waiting room amongst the poor of North London, when the intercom sounded and a GPs voice announce the name of the next patient.

The PA continued to buzz and click, before we heard voices being broadcast. The voices were that of the doctor and his patient, as the practitioner questioned the unwitting celebrity about his condition.

Those listening in the waiting room giggled amongst themselves as we heard about the embarrassing circumstances, and it became a little bit disconcerting as to just how much of the revelation we would become party to.

Mercifully, the conversation was interrupted by the sound of another intercom buzzing, followed by a click, the doctor's voice saying "Yes?" and the receptionist's reply of "your intercom is still on!!"

There was one further audible "clunk" and radio silence was resumed, accompanied by a roar of laughter from the assembled throng, a guffaw which was almost certainly heard by culprit and victim.

Imagine my caution, therefore, on being called in as the same doctor's next appointment.

"And what seems to be the problem?"

"Mumble, mumble" (points to anus, and raises eyebrows in a man of the world fashion)

Oh No Matron!

Smoking Latest

Thanks for to the partner for this gem from the Kent coast.

The Damned United

The Damned United is a good film, and not really about football. Most people would understand its focus upon relationships and the notion that Brian Clough was consumed by a need to outdo Don Revie. It's a story about hubris.

What stops it being a GREAT film in the mould of Frost/Nixon is the miscasting.

Timothy Spall is good, but it's a missed opportunity to present (much taller and dapper) Peter Taylor as the motor behind Clough's ambition.

The greatest crime, however, is the failure to cast anyone forceful enough to play Johnny Giles and Billy Bremner. They're portrayed as some sort of shambolic double-act, rather than the driven and single-minded individuals that subvert Clough's ambition in the book.

Basic the decision to portray all the players as a bunch of unathletic slobs in cheap wigs undermines the integrity of the film, which is all the same well recommended.

Remember Clip Art?

Well, it's still around, at least within the training material for a project management course I've been undergoing.

I'm afraid that these two examples may manifest more about the originator's troubled childhood than we need to know in a vocational programme.

Film Latest

Err? The end of bingo as we know it?

Granny Ties Buccaneers In Knots

Yes, it's the KILLER pirates that are the worst.

Anyway, they were quite civil during their questioning, and did quite well considering that they hadn't done a talk show before. They blamed themselves for the escape, and admitted that they were spending too much time being black-hearted vagabonds and not enough time keeping an eye on the elderly lady held captive. A schoolboy error.

Apparently the Pirate's ombudsman is holding an enquiry.

"Bastards! Yer All BASTARDSSS!"

On my way to a meeting this morning, I passed a comedy drunk (and as this was 11.30 am, he was clearly a pro) who, on tackling a junction, did the "steady now" trip of the inebriate whilst waving his arms behind him to maintain his balance.

What I liked was what he did next.

As he had stepped out in front of a van, he decided that this close call was the driver's fault, and so he glared into the front and began using his flailing arms to gesticulate at his newly discovered enemy.

The expression on his face as he realised that there was NO DRIVER and that the van was PARKED was a treat.

Piscine Promenading

I was ambling back to work via the canal towpath this lunchtime, when I was passed by a chap carrying a fishing rod, fully deployed, but dragging the line beside him as he walked along the waterway.

I have never seen this form of angling before, and as I assumed that it would be an unsuccessful approach to catching anything, I speculated as to the chap's purpose.

Was he, I contemplated, taking his pet fish for a walk?

I looked as he passed me, but the end of the line appeared bereft of any such companion.

Nice idea though.

(To be perfectly honest with you; I think he was probably a bit mad, but you're not allowed to say things like that these days are you?)

Home

There was a time when my home town had notoriety for its motorcycle gangs, and this place was a raucous monkey hut: How times have changed!

On the way down there the train was nearing my station when I donned my coat, my backpack, my toolkit in one hand and my plastering accoutrements in the other (this purpose of my visit was a kitchen replacement errand), and I waited patiently in the aisle as the guy behind me gathered his things.

He didn't look like the kind of person who lived locally, but then; do I? Anyway, I waited patiently, as I say, as he may as well get to the door before me. My attitude changed when he began to fold his jumper in the style of a boutique assistant, and actually started PICKING AT BITS OF LINT!

I gave him the big "excuse me!" and he peremptorily sat back down. He wasn't even getting off!

A good job too, 'cause he may of found himself on the end of a 'lint-picking' under the bypass with some choice grouting utensils, I can tell you!

Galileo Exhumed And Burnt

Well, if the current Pope has his way, I'm sure that's overdue.

Unable to come to terms with the enlightenment and its bastard child modernism, Pope Ratso has remarked that the AIDS epidemic in Africa:

"cannot be overcome through the distribution of condoms, which can even increase the problem"

Yes, he actually said that.

No evidence to back up his claims, because he knows that the world is flat and that empiricism is mere necromancy, and he's the one in the big hat so let's all stand by and let the poor die.

Thankyou Rome.

A Fit Of The Vapours

Old Bill in West End Smash!

Apparently, the fun starts when Detective Inspector Wilberforce Bigot of Scotland Yard inadvertantly raids the vicarage of Reverend Simon Hardpiece, under the misapprehension that the preacher is Colombian drug-lord Ramon Chorizo.

Meanwhile upstairs, it transpires that the vicar's wife Ursula is having an affair with her tennis instructor Butch Stringfellow who on hearing the raid below has hidden naked in her wardrobe.

Unbeknownst to all, the vicar's daughter, Scarlet has hidden her stash of cocaine in the very same wardrobe.

The action gets going as, faced with the barking of the sniffer dogs, Butch emerges from the wardrobe dragged up as Bunty Cash, Ursula's long lost sister from Australia.

"Sir Ian Blair is fantastic as Det. Insp Bigot" the Metro

"Laugh? I nearly shat!" Sunday Sport

"£3 for a small bottle of beer?" Man with complimentary tickets.

The Good Old Days

As a historian, one is trained not to pass judgement on the mores of the past, but on visiting the London Transport Museum and witnessing the advertising attached to a ninety twenties' tram, one wonders what our grandparents were up to!

Anybody would think that it was modern-day Thailand!

Yes, London Transport's initiative of introducing piped music onto stations was always a question of taste, and who knew it would be a Kate Bush retrospective which pushed the envelope too far?

As LT press officer Peter Chutney explained:

"It was Wuthering Heights that did it; it was bedlam down there; it was like Edvard Munch meets Bruegel! Then some blind blokes' guide dog went mental and we had to evacuate the station!"

"Unfortunately, the guide dog had already evacuated itself so the procedure proved to be tragically comedic due to the slippage factor"

LT are to review its playlist, and is to recommend a steady diet of Victor Silvester for the time being.

That Equine Sinking Feeling

Yes, the people of the New Forest have been concerned about the safety of a pony which appears to have sunk into the mud.

The relevant authorities have been receiving calls requesting a rescue for what, on closer inspection, transpires to be an animal with very short legs.

Considering the past history of this horse, shouldn't someone paint "I'm not Sinking!" on the side of the stumpy steed, or even a plimsoll line!

Or cover every possibility and issue the little fellow with a snorkel, just in case!

Young People These Days!

The worst thing about being a failed songwriter is the constant what could have been.

This is compounded in my case by the fact that the only stuff anyone heard was the throw away tunes that I knocked out for a mate one summer in 1981. He went on to record them on an album that sold moderately in Belgium.

When I moved to London, I met a complete stranger who sang one of these pieces in its entirety to me in Soho, such was his excitement at meeting its composer.

On another occasion, I turned up in the print room of a City firm as a temp for a one-off night shift. In the early hours, the DJ (now a TV regular) played one of these tracks, much to my astonishment. I turned to my new (wary) colleague and, pointing to the radio, proclaimed "I wrote this!" Not surprisingly, he looked at me as though I had declared myself to be The King Of Brazil!

And here we are in 2009 and I discover that a bunch of kids in West Sonoma County, California, who weren't born when I was performing, are belting out some sort of version of a song that I completed within half an hour twenty eight years ago.

No, honestly.

Hayward: The Russian Linesman

And it is to the Southbank for the Mark Wallinger that we find ourselves.

About twenty years ago, I heard Brian Eno comment that the future of art was going to be about curators.

Thus it is interesting that Wallinger has provided a collection of other artist's work to make his point, and make it he does.

V. Good, worth the entrance fee.

Credit Crunch Cuisine

Yes, we can offer the Mid-Week Mule Deal

When the chewing gets tough, the tough get chewing!

The West Country in the News

The No Parking Tree

Yes, as if the snow is not enough; it's a tree in Devon named Sorbus Admonitor which is named after the sign attached to it!

There is no indication if it's related to the scary Singing Ringing Tree that traumatised our childhoods.

I Am The Doctor

Today, at work, I was attempting to change the details on a corporate account at a nationally known bookseller.

The chap at the other end was helpful, but a little slow.

Me: "Can you arrange that for me?"

Him: "Yes, but at first, you'll need to fax me permission to do so!"

Me: "Er, can I just EMAIL the details?"

Him: "No, it has to be a fax!"

Me: "OK, maybe I'll just find a time-machine and go back ten years and see if I can find some of that technology to use!"

Him: "Can you do that?"

Me: "Er, no, actually, I was making it up.

Him: "Oh!"

It's OK, he spoke to his supervisor who agreed to let me email. No doubt they're travelling forward in time as we speak to enjoy the exciting new electric internet they've yet to embrace.

1999

Football Special

I'd like to see Ronaldo get the ball to the far post from this corner.

Meanwhile, at the foot of the league, Bournemouth overcome the 17 points deduction to escape the relegation zone:

Come on you Cherries!

Vassalage?

I was reading through a document at work, where a company bidding to trade with my employer carried the claim:

"callers can talk to humans on the telephone"

I think we need to discover the provenance of these "humans" before anyone signs anything.

Runaway Swede Brings Metropolitan Harmony

Just came out of the tube tonight, and on passing the cashpoint, witnessed a queue of folk amused at the sight of a root vegetable escaping the shopping bag of the young woman at the ATM. Unseen by her, the swede rolled across the pavement towards the road until deftly tackled by an elderly lady who scooped it up, walked to the front, tapped the unwitting owner on the shoulder and offered it back. The young woman didn't assume that she was being attacked or robbed, but just turned and smiled, and gratefully accepted the gesture in the spirit that it was meant.

This is how London is, despite the paranoid suspicions of the tory provinces.

It is also a good advert for vegetable consumption as part of your five a day.

Road Sign Fun

OK, who painted stripes on the camel?

Black v. White Tensions in North London

Our Tomcat's adversary is called "Whitey", and yes, he lives with a black family.

David Barclay: Son Of Apologist

The Graveyard Man

We were walking Winchmore Hill at the weekend, and having inspected the Quaker cemetary, we fell into conversation with the groundsman who gave us a description of his charges.

"Over there" he pointed "are the Barclays; the founders of Barclays Bank!"

Before adding:

"At night I hear them turning in their graves over the current state of affairs!"

Alas poor Yorick!

Gaelic / Polish Dictionary Needed

It transpires that Pravo Jazdy—Ireland's very own Keyser Söze—is actually the Polish for Driving Licence. Apparently, the Guarda have been looking for one recidivist motorist rather than many different Poles!

Will those plumbers stop at nothing?

KFC v. BMW: Thatcher Wins

I can't believe that I've lived long enough to witness an entire political cycle.

Back in cruel eighties, one of Thatcher's most vindictive manoeuvres against the working classes involved the systematic destruction of British industry with the intention of deskilling the workforce and migrating them into the low-paid service sector.

Almost three decades later, imagine the joy she'd feel at the news that there are job losses at BMW whilst junk food peddlars KFC are expanding.

Would you like fries with that?

International Incident: Latest

Apparently the crowd turned ugly on the discovery that the "Scandanavian Special" transpired to be a performance on the Folk Dance Troupe of the Northern Provinces of Finland.

"It was a booking error, frankly"

a spokesman said

"The people of Lapland are very proud of their traditions, but unfortunately the men of North London don't share that interest! They prefer to watch a scantily clad young woman with low self-esteem from a disfunctional upbringing who has learned to pander to misogyny for short term gain!'

To Boldly Sale

Someone handed me their Business Card today, which describes them as a "Large Enterprise Office Account Executive".
 
He didn't appear that big, although there is the outside possibility that he has some kind of novelty company car built on a Star Trek theme.
 
Maybe he keeps the pointy ears in his briefcase.

Maybe I should ask?

Forfar Five, Fife Four!

"I'm afraid this isn't the first time"
Stated Mayor Boris' doctor and apologist, Dr. Leo Spaceman:

"Mr Johnson gets on his bike in the morning and cycles off into the city without his medication and then THIS sort of thing happens!"

Well, today it occurred on the "meet the forces" special, where a deluded Boris was introduced to a military policeman, whom the Mayor was convinced was about to arrest him for desertion.

Bizarrely, this brought on a tirade of alliteration rooted on the letter F.

Such hasn't been heard since the Findus fish finger food factory foreclosure furore.

"Fi, facetious facultative factotum!" he cried, before instructing the bemused guard to "fly, feckless, foul-faced, far-fetched false-friend, for featherweights fear fancy-free foppish fiends!"

He continued to further accuse the MP of being a "fallacious fat fool", who was "formless, filthy, fraudulent, farinaceous and foolhardy" and a "fervent Fauvist!"

After fast-forwarding through Fairy; Flittermouse; Falderal;Fugatious and Fey, Boris eventually bid "Farewell" before escaping up a chimney.

Later, Dr Spaceman explained:

"It all goes back to Mr Johnson's schooldays. Boris once did poorly in an exam, as he could not think of the bon mot, yet was denied the use of a dictionary.

Following a beating from his house master with clown shoe, Boris vowed that it would never happen again, and prior to the next test, sat up all night with a crate of Lucozade and a Dictionary and committed the lot to memory.

He passed the exam, but I'm afraid the consequence was the shambling mess you see today!"

Adding for prurience:

And as for the alliteration, the last incident involved the Ancient Guild Mole Skinners and featured all of the L - words. It was a nasty business which left him with a seriously bruised tongue!"

Mr Johnson is still at large.

Where To, Guvnor?

I'm sure I'm the last one on earth to discover Black Cab Sessions, but that won't stop me encouraging you to go there.

Singers performing in the back of a London cab. Fantastic.

Horse News

When I heard that Ebbfleet in Kent was about to get a monumental White Horse, I assumed that they were building, like, a really giant pub.

Apparently not, just a colossal equine statue to welcome foreigners to the country as they arrive on Eurostar. It hasn't been announced whether it is to be a mare or a stallion, or whether, if the latter, whether it is to have a lifelike enormous penis falling and rising during the day like some kind of obscene meteorological gauge. An opportunity missed I'd say.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, Professor Nutt claims that the taking of ecstasy is no more than Horseriding! He is reticent however, on how the odds may shorten if riding the said horse whilst taking ecstasy.

Like the penis weather vane, I think we have a right to know!

Know Your Market

I think this offer may say more about the readership of the Daily Express than they would care to admit.

Mind you, what with this weather, even I find that the prospect of the unheated lavatory seat can render myself somewhat reluctant and eventually in need of roughage.

However, I'd rather read the Beano with a bag of apricots; or just wait until spring, given the choice.

Gor Blimey: Leave It Out!

Eyebrows were raised in the open-plan today when my cockney lady colleague exclaimed:

"I've 'ad nuffink but grief from Mark Hunt today!"

Say it out loud in a London accent.

Another British Triumph!

Yes, it's been a big day for William "Olympic Stadium" Pontins, who successfully flew 300 metres through the acrid skies above East London having been fired from a trebuchet across the site of what will be the greatest Games EVER!

Pontins, a sanitation engineer and person of restrictive growth, first acquired a taste for flight as a young man, when he took part in the university Dwarf-throwing team.

"I was the dwarf." Bill told the Shoebox, "Sadly, my dreams of representing Team Britain as part of the Dwarf Throwing event at the Olympics was ended when the sport became outlawed. I only wish that the Sports Council could realise who the real victims are: the British public denied the spectacle of a dwarf expertly thrown across a pub car park!"

Sadly, it looked like his only chance to take part in the 2012 games would be in overseeing the sewerage for the arena, the athlete's village, and a generous number of officially sanctioned retail outlets.

However, the pint-sized projectile doesn't give up so easily.

"I believe that once the Olympic Committee get to witness the excitement of watching a small man in a union jack helmet get catapulted across a playing field using medieval siege-warfare technology, then they'll just have to include the Trebuchet as an official sport, and that's what we've done here today!."

"After all, " he added "they allow Human Canonballs, so this just an earlier version of that; sort of like greek wrestling compared to the WWF!"

On being told that there was no Human Canonball event as an Olympic sport, Bill appeared confused, asked us if we were sure, and then proceded to call someone on his mobile before refusing to discuss his triumph further.

Sadly, his wife, the 6'1" cruise liner chanteuse Rusty Latour was unable to attend as she is on stand-by for a yet-to-be-announced reality TV show.

Al Queda Are "That Way"

According to The Sun, Al Queda © are using homosexuality to make terrorists.

Yes, buggery makes young men turn into suicide bombers.

Osama Bin Ladyboys?

The Great Thaw of '09

Hey, guess what readers!

My colleagues still failed to turn up this morning as they were unwilling to risk the soggy streets, just in case their slippers should get moist!

For the record: I got to work quicker than I normally would because of the lack of people using the tube hastened the journey.

Interesting times:

a) the media tell us there's a disaster taking place out there, and people are too unwilling allow their own common sense to contradict what they're told, and so the populace err on caution.

b) since the Tories legalised the promotion of legal services via advertising, we have seen the growth of "have you been injured at work?" litigious actions, which have rendered the local authorities terrified in the face of any form of risk.

c) the loss of any form of National Pride which was once underpinned by the concept of the steely island race, when any form of mortal injury was dismissed as "a flesh wound!"

Hence, the last time London got hit by snow, the schools stayed open, parks were made accessible, buses ran and people cheered each other in as they ALL struggled to work.

Eighteen years later; we cower beneath the duvet, awaiting spring like pansies.

I blame Boris Johnson!

It's A Living White Hell Out There!

When I was at school, there was one particular girl, of the spoilt little bitch variety who took every opportunity to act out her irritation at any possible source of annoyance. It was bad enough that the window blinds would rattle whenever a breeze passed through them, but her tutting and cussing would make the situation so much worse. Her manifest indignation would transform any mild nuisance into an ordeal for us all.


I've thought of her today, as I've endured the carping of my fellow citizens in the face of our mild dusting of snow as I travelled successfully to work (it took ten minutes longer than usual to get there, five minutes longer than usual to get home), and then attempted to get work done in the open-plan office amid the moaning hoards. Yes, it's inconvenience to all of us, but please don't belabour me with your meteorologically-inflicted personal tragedy. Maybe if you forgot about waiting for a bus and starting walking to work you might lose some of that weight.

Once in every 18 years ain't bad as far as white-outs go, and actually nothing really shuts down, it just slows down and requires a little more resource. However, it appears that we now live in a society that believes that everyone is entitled to enjoy an uninterupted routine regardless of the weather, economic circumstance or traffic congestion.

Whatever happened to the spirit of adventure? The bulldog breed? Sir Edmund Hilary, Captain Scott and Mr Whippy?

Yes, that's me in the corner in the shorts and T-shirt. Making a point.

Poole Pilot

Existentialist masterpiece from 1935, pre-dating Erasehead by forty years.

Well, I think that's what it is.

Organised Underground

It's rare, but once in a while London Transport puts someone in a role that suits them to a T.

On arrival at Kings Cross this morning, the announcement to the awaiting throng was:

"OK, everybody, we all know the procedure: stand to the side of the doors and let people OFF the train first! And if you don't like the look of this one, there's another in one minute! Thankyou for your cooperation!"

This was said with a chummy authority vastly in contrast with the usual looking-down-at-his-shoes native Londoner mumble which is an unfortunate standard across the capital.

Hoorah that chap!

Bad Vibe

Twenty-odd years ago, an acquaintance asked my opinion of a local character whom I had been at school with.

With the then recent Hungerford events in mind, I replied:

"If anyone from Hamworthy is going to walk into the Arndale Centre, and machine gun a crowd of people it would be Kevin Burbidge!"

When we were eight years old, he was probably my best mate.

Deep Reading; Castille v. The Mexica

I've been wading through "The Conquest of Mexico" by Hugh Thomas.

This is just one of the paragraphs:

"Cuauhtémoc's mother was Tiacapantzin, heiress of Tlatelolco (daughter, that is, of Moquihuix, the last king there).⁴ Until he was grown up, Cuauhtémoc had apparently lived at Ixcateopan, in what is now the state of Guerrero, and which was inhabited by the Chontal Maya. But he seems to have returned to Tenochtitlan some years before the arrival of the Castilians.⁵ he then seems to have become the leader of the people of Tlatelolco at a very young age." ⁶

Every paragraph in the book reads like this. This is on page 451, and I've another 170 to go.

Typically, just when you get the hang of who somebody is, they get sacrificed.

Good book though, and he does warn the reader in the preface what to expect, so I was warned.

However, I'll be avoiding Thomas' "Cuba" which is 1200 pages in very much the same fashion.

Anteater On Speaker

Frost Nixon

I was pleasantly surprised how deep this film was, as I wondered how they wring a whole film out of what was essentially just a TV interview.

I was missing the point, and the story told, and the epic proportions that are aspired to is an eye-opener.

Frank Langella should win the Oscar for his facial gestures alone.

Hoorah!

Neutering Tutti Frutti

Although my neighborhood boasts two of the best restaurants in the capital, (La Kera)(which means in Britain, or let's face THE WORLD), the fact that they are yards apart heightens the cruelty that the nearest bar The Duke of Edinburgh is a shit-hole.

It's the only nearby pub, and those who would like a pre-prandial pint have traditionally been put off by the sight of this fore-mentioned SHIT-HOLE on their way to these excellent restaurants.

Well, imagine my glee to discover that the Duke of Edinburgh has had a make-over!

I assumed that this was in keeping with its proximity to the trendy eateries and that they had identified the up-market diners as their new clientele.

Well, that was until tonight, when I went on an early evening recky to the said drinking establishment in order to establish its new found credentials.

It's only seven minutes walk from our house, so it's a potential local.

However; on entering at 7:50pm on a Saturday night I was a little disturbed that I was the only customer, apart from the woman on the stool at the bar, who may well have been the barmaid awaiting customers to serve.

I was served by the bloke at the bar who had the air of a landlord who had been there forever, who had just spent a fortune on refurbishing his establishment in a desperate bid to attract a new class of client, without understanding exactly who that new client was exactly.

I ordered a pint of cider, and—wary of the big screen showing "Queen at Wembley" —sat down and opened my book.

I hate Queen. Queen represent everything that is wrong with rock music. If the Church of England is the Tory Party at prayer, Queen are the Conservative Candidates in Lycra.

And do you know, I could not sit in this empty pub drinking cider and listening to Queen (at one point neutering Tutti Frutti). I drank up, and just as another chap entered, belching with the confidence of one of the old locals, I left, knowing that I would never return.

The Duke of Edinburgh is doomed, because there are still people in the world that think Freddy Mercury was any good, and don't have the sense to ask the passers by on their way to the restaurants what THEY would want in a nearby pub.

And to think there are still three members of Queen still alive: shocking.

Solo Cinema Outing

I finally achieved an ambition today, by being the only person in the cinema at the Screen on the Green to see the hagiographic Che Part 1.

No doubt the projectionist was pissed off to see me, as it meant he had to actually stay and run the film, rather than spending the afternoon flitting between the bookies and the the pub.

A friend of mine almost achieved lone viewer status at the Continental in Bournemouth in the mid-eighties, only to be thwarted by a late entrant who shuffled in as the movie opened; only to sit in the seat DIRECTLY IN FROM OF HIM!

"If only he had a top hat, it would have been perfect!" remarked Mark, who had to harumpf loudly and demonstrably move to an unimpeded seat; which was in abundant supply.

Che is a very good war film that makes revolutionary uprisings look exciting, sexy and fun. And Ernesto looks like a saint.

Viva la revolution!

Left Handed Man in White House

I'm glad everyone is pleased, but I'm cynical.

Obama is rich man in power, like all the others.

He also has an in-tray to deal with which will soon flatten most of the ambition for change.

It's how he overcomes the limitations of his office which will mark him out, and it takes more than a nice smile and good catch phrase to change the world.

The Saints - Know Your Product (1978)

Didn't particularly respond to The Saints back in the punk wars, but when I walked in on a colleague watching this I was amazed that I missed this gem first time round. Saxophones with fuzz guitar.

If you don't get it, play it a second time.

A great loud record in a great tradition.

Edinburgh Newspaper Sales Up

You know that scene in a drama when the protagonist finds themself facing public embarrassment, and therefore sets about buying all the newspapers before anyone can find out? (It even happened to Christopher in the Sopranos)

Couldn't really happen could it? No-one would actually attempt such folly, surely?

Well, according to the BBC a court in Edinburgh heard that

A spokesman said: "I can confirm that a teacher at Whitecraig Primary, acting upon her own initiative and without consulting East Lothian Council, asked the school's janitor to buy up all copies of the East Lothian Courier from shops in Whitecraig when the news about Mr Melville broke in March 2008

Mr Melville was into child porn.

Forecast: Fundamental Financial Flaw Floors Findus

Former family favourite frozen food firm, Findus , famous for fish fingers, faces factory foreclosure following financial failure.

Vision On: The Blogosphere Years

Check out this project by Italian funsters Dodo Dada Dado

Who needs artschool?

Big Freeze: Picture Exclusive

Yes, I knew they wouldn't dry, but I thought I could at least let the laundry drip for a while.

It's something when you have to open the french windows to get the width to bring the washing in!

Tomatoes In Nomenclature Misadventure

On answering the phone, I was please to hear that my partner was at the shop on her way home, asking if there was anything I needed. There was, actually, thankyou very much, I needed tinned tomatoes.

Well, imagine my dismay when she tipped these out of her "bag for life".

EAST END chopped tomatoes! Who the hell would buy EAST END chopped tomatoes?

I can't imagine that anyone IN THE EAST END would buy EAST END tomatoes?

Not that I have anything against the people of the East End, apart from the racism, casual violence and inability to reach the end of the road without dropping litter everywhere. No, I'm sure it's a lovely place really if you survived long enough to get to know it, but really, who the hell thought of the title "EAST END CHOPPED TOMATOES"?

Mind you, once I'd established that the fruit was not actually FROM the East End, (Italy in fact), I proceeded to knock together a rather delicious mushroom in garlic pasta dish, which was just the thing!

EAST END tomatoes, indeed!

Pah!!

Author As An Absence Of Light

Atheist Bus Goes Nationwide

Londoners have recently been treated to a number of buses carrying the message:

There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life

Having collected and unexpected windfall in support, those concerned have chosen to send the message out into the provinces.

A great idea, but it's a shame that those that featured in the
Guardian article are so self-seekingly irritating.

Reminds me of an old Sean Hughes line:

"I disturbed a burgular last night: I said; THERE IS NO GOD!"

Metal Of The Day: Tantalum

Tantalum

Element (Ta), Atomic No. 73, density 16.6 kg/litre, M.Pt 2996°C

First isolated in 1802 by Ekeberg.

A hard blue-coloured metal with a very high melting point. Too expensive and difficult to work for regular coinage, but once again Fred Zinkann has made a medal in this material.

Some fantasy coins for the Islas Malvinas (Falkland Islands) are known, as is a bimetallic silver-tantalum coin from Kazakhstan

Thanks to ukcoinpics

Yes, I have little to say at the moment.

Thatcher Bastard Dead

After her glowing praise for psychopathic dictator Pinochet, Margaret Thatcher once more displays her insensitivity to the rest of humanity in the face of the death of right of right wing finance advisor Alan Walters. For those that don't remember the old cunt, he's the one that declared that he found it unpleasant to view poor people, and thus avoided doing so whenever possible.

Meanwhile, whilst the evil old witch herself clings on to undeserved life, I was amused by Frankie Boyle's observations of the debate regarding whether Margaret Thatcher should be given a state funeral, at a cost of £3 million.

"£3 million?" proclaimed Boyle, "That's enough to buy everyone in Scotland a shovel, and we could dig a hole so deep we could hand her over to the devil in person!"

It can't be long, surely.

In fact, let's not wait: let's pay the £3 million and bury her now, with Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance is accompanied by the sound of her nails scratching at the lid being slowly drowned by the soil shoveled onto her coffin by a member of the former mining community.

Type With Fresh Breath Confidence!

For those interested in Fonts, the people at thequickbrownfoxjumpsoverthelazydog have produced a Helvetica based typeface using Toothpaste and Tomato Ketchup.

Take a look, it's fab, and free to use!

Retrospective New Year

Yes, we were too old to go out last night, apart from an hour around the pub which was just us sat there bemoaning the clothes sense of young people today. Why won't they just pull their jeans up? Why don't other people run up and pull them down? How did such a stupid trend last so long?

Anyway, we spent the evening in front of the fire re-reading letters written to each other 18 years ago.

Filth mainly. And money problems.

Meanwhile, back to 2009, and my only prediction is not really a prediction but an observation: it's going to get a lot worse before it can get better. And that may be for the good.

HNY.

Turn Off The Tap.

I turned off Radio 4 today, as I was unwilling to listen to the contributions of people complaining that their property wasn't worth what they wanted it to be and that the government wasn't willing to help them.

People have not only bought into the notion that property will always acrue value, but have allowed themselves to be convinced that the economy will always grow, and that capitalism will always be to their advantage. It has become a belief that profit and credit are a right, and not a luxury or a stroke of luck.

This naivety is evident in attitudes towards the environment. In the Guardian, Juliette Jowit reports on how Britain is using Too Much Water. Like the economy, our natural resources are not only being taken for granted, but are seen to be part of a birthright.

The current recession is about punters discovering that there is a difference between having money (savings) and having access to money (credit). And tomorrow we're going to have the same problem with natural resources.

As long as we have access to water, ie: run the tap and out it comes on demand, we will all assume that it part of an entitlement.

Maybe it is possible to apply the lessons of the current recession to the environment, to prepare ourselves for the inevitable. Maybe we need to begin to address the recent past as a rare period of luxury, abundance and fleeting affluence, and begin to face the future realistically. Don't spend what you haven't got, basically.

I'm not talking about a dystopian future, but an enlightened one, where everybody get's off the fantasy bus and grows up.

Let's get real.

Charles Fox of Covent Garden

Don't you just LOVE theatrical suppliers!

Bark

End Of An Ear

"Did you hear the news?"

Pause

"What ?"

"I said; did you here the news?"

Pause

"No; why, should I have?"

"Well, not exactly, it's just that..."

"Just that WHAT?"

Pause

"It's just that Harold Pinter has died"

Pause

"Harold Pinter?"

"Yes, Harold Pinter. He's dead. On the news. Just Now. Harold Pinter. Dead"

"Harold Pinter?"

"Yes; Harold Pinter."

Long Pause

"He would have liked that! That's what he was like!"

Pause

"Yes"

Pause

Curtain.

Briefs

BBC: When I saw the headline "Five Minutes With James Blunt" I naturally assumed that it was introducing some kind of televised endurance style challenge where hapless would-be's compete to withstand a whole host of torments to win big money. Sadly not; it's just an ill-advised interview with the singing Captain.

TV Tonight: Imagine my surprise to discover the porn sounding Take That Come To Town showing on terrestrial TV before the watershed. Apparently it refers to the former boy-band Take That, and not on what I took to be a noun three words in.

And Finally: On the tube tonight, I saw some graffiti inexpertly scrawl across and advert stating: "Kill All Musums". Someone's either angry about Museums or Muslims, I'm not sure, unless there is a persecuted race of Musums out there that we have yet to hear of. Maybe the Guardian should look into it.

The Gaelic Recumbent Manoeuvre

As I was ascending the hill towards home, I approached the Irish bar which had a group of men huddled outside.

When I say Irish bar, I don't mean a chain pub with bicycles and road signs inside, but a genuine shit-hole where Irishmen drink. To excess.

As I approached the outside drinkers, whom I assumed were smokers taking the air, I noticed one guy leaning over and attending to something on the ground which I took to be a large shapeless holdall of some kind.

On closer inspection, amongst the inebriate elderly West Coast gypsies, with their flat caps, calloused hands and rough hewn impenetrable West Coast accents, lay another elderly man. He was conscious, of sorts, and able to move an arm, but appeared drunk beyond standing. His companions appeared to be comfortable with the situation and continued to discuss whatever they were so animated about. (Horses?)

I'm convinced that the guy I saw leaning over towards the prostrate one was actually asking him what he wanted to drink.

I shan't comment on what I witnessed through the pub window!

Drinking Culture: it's a lifestyle choice.

Van English Usage

Welcome to 2009!

At a wedding this weekend, (the niece got herself married off), we were staying at the Haven Hotel, located on Britain's most over-inflated piece of real estate.

Imagine the irony then, that in the very hotel that Marconi proved the efficacy of his Radio Transmissions over water, it is almost impossible to get a radio signal on the state of the art hifi deviced provided in the extravagently expensive rooms. The Isle of Wight transmitter is practically visable from the room!


The only station available was a local chart dance station with the usual "YOU'RE LISTENING TO LOCAL FM ON 1089; AND WE'RE HERE TO GET YOUR WEEKEND FIRED UP AND RARING TO GO: HERE'S BEYONCE!!"

The bride, however, despite organising the whole thing herself with the tenacity of a D-Day beach commander, was beautiful.

Principality Braces Itself for Rodent Onslaught!

Whilst enduring the Radio 2 phone-in today, and the whinging of Scottish anglers who believe their hobby is about to be torn from them by the reintroduction of a once native species, I at least got to hear of the Welsh Beaver Assessment Initiative!

Yes, a Welsh Beaver Assessment Initiative!

Right To Buy: The Non-Conformity Issue

These Are Small; Those Are Far Away!

It occurred to me many years ago that I would never make it as a stand up comedian, as I didn't know enough about daytime TV, which, for many a performer, was the sole topic of their material.

I've never been one to turn the box on unless there's something worth watching, however indolent I may be. However, this afternoon was an exception, as I sought some background distraction during a post-gardening sandwich, and jabbed the remote towards the TV, only to step through the looking glass.

I was a little surprised that they were showing Father Ted at four in the afternoon, and an episode that I had never seen to boot! I was even further surprised to discover that it wasn't Father Ted at all, and that it was a commercial break featuring an ad for some singing priests, in the style on Craggy Island itself.

Surely some prankster high-jinks; after all, how much does an afternoon slot cost these days?

Imagine my dismay to discover that The Priests are in fact REAL, and just in time for Christmas! (I think the guy on the right may have been in Ultravox).

Yes, truth is more absurd than fiction.

Feck! Arse! Gels!

Please Wash Your Hands!

I forgot to mention an incident at my place of work last week.

I was innocently sat at my desk, I don't know, probably straightening out a paper clip or something, when the phone opposite rang. The woman at that desk answered the call, and engaged in conversation.

After a moment she laughed, and said:

"I'm sorry, it sounded like you said he took the trolley in the toilet!"

After a pause, and having listened to the response she grew agitated and reacted with:

"HE DID TAKE THE TROLLEY IN THE TOILETS! No, no! He shouldn't be taking the food trolley into the toilets! I'll get on to them now. Err, thanks for letting me know!"

Yes, the morning food trolley guy had made a detour to his round and visited the Gents along with the food.

The following few minutes featured a series of frenetic conversations which involved instructing the catering staff to find the food trolley, to isolate it, and to ensure that the goods thereon should be destroyed in front of witnesses.

Basically, my colleague was the first to locate the dirty dealer, and she explained to us how she pulled a packet of sandwiches from a bemused customer, barking at her "I can't explain why, but you can't have 'em"

Once the goods were secured, and returned to base, they had a ritual opening and binning of the stigmatised foodstuffs at the back of the canteen, but it was believed that the deviant vendor had in fact made numerous sales to unsuspecting members of the workforce prior to being apprehended.

I was only disappointed that they didn't put out a message of the day along the lines of the "Has your snack been in the lavatory this morning?" variety.

As for WHY the trolleyista was in the toilet we don't know. He probably decided to start his round with a quick tinkle, but I prefer the notion that he was serving goods to those too busy to leave their ablutions.

Tap Tap!

"Sandwich sir?"

"Yeh, Cheese and pickle, white bread; just pass it under the door!"

"Thankyou" "Sorry, do you have anything smaller?"

As the man says, It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon

Flying East

Dog Declared "New Gautier"

"Yule Rage" And The Festive Twig

Yes, it's only just December and it's Christmas already. However, according to the Guardian, this is a cut-price Christmas fueling Yule Rage.

However, before you pity the people of Peterlee and their inadequate tree, check out the Peterlee Mail, which not only has the best photo of the pathetic Christmas Tree, but raises the question whether Peterlee has more pressing matters to worry about: check out the "more news" strap to the right.

It appears that Peterlee is amid a epidemic of a local news style crime wave.

Mobile Phone Company Generosity

My Mobile supplier texted me today to inform me that VAT had been reduced to 15% and they are PASSING ON THE BENEFIT TO ME!

Er: isn't that the law?