William Henry Fox Talbot: Spontaneous Combuster!

Yes, the father of photography as we knew it (before those pesky pixels muscled their way in) like to let go as a youth.

From the WH Fox Talbot Museum. Lacock Abbey.

West Country Crime Wave

Surgery: Disaster Into Opportunity

It has been the aspiration of civil engineering to rationalise essential maintenance wherever possible to avoid the embarrassment caused when different utilities dig up the streets without communicating with each.

The water board repairs a leak. Six months later the gas board replace pipes. Three months after that, the electricity company lays cables. Effectively, each digs up the road and fills it in again. Traffic is permanently disrupted and the public lose faith in the body politic.

The ideal, therefore, is forward planning. Intentions are recorded, plans are laid, and when the opportunity arises, everybody chips in. Costs are reduced, disruption is cut to a minimum, and frustration is replaced with a sense of achievement.

Why can't the national health work like that?

OK, this is the proposal:

You're going in for an operation, you're receiving a general anaesthetic; so why not use that state of unconciousness to conduct anything else that is unpleasant in the woken state? They could charge for other stuff to cover the cost of the original treatment!

For example: a colonoscopy, let's see how the fundament is doing! Why not have an appendicectomy, you don't need it? Liposuction! Rhinoplasty! Dental work: have that route canal done, or have your teeth bleached. And whilst you're at it, why not have a leg wax? Or get a tattoo?

Think about it: you go in for a bypass as Stan Ogden, and you come out like Micky Rourke!

OK, bad anology, and one that needs some work; but the principle remains, and I think this one's a winner. But will the Department for Health & Social Security have the sense to put it through?

What do you think?

From The Dance Halls of Montezuma....

As the al-Megrahi release debacle rolls on, with Libyan triumphalism humiliating Britain, the government has decided to reply with the deployment of a rapid-response Brass Band from Wales.

According to the BBC the Burry Port Town Band are threatening to perform the popular Welsh folksong Sospan Fach (Little Saucepan) in front of Colonel Muammar Gaddafi!

In a classic piece of celtic understatement, band leader Mr John quipped:

"we're representing Wales so it should be interesting"

As someone who was once stuck on a ferry with a Welsh Male Voice Choir, I can only feel pity for the people of Tripoli.

WHU Boot Boys Rool OK

What looks like a bizarre oversight on the part of the authorities has contributed to the enormous violence in East London tonight, where the traditional West Ham v. Millwall streetfight was allowed to get out of hand.

My favourite remark on the radio was the commentator's observation that "fans ran on from the Dr Marten's Stand". Yes, it sounds like some kind of 1970s satire where West Ham have a Dr Marten's Stand from which their hooligan element propel themselves.

I wonder if Millwall have a Stanley Knife End?

Elsewhere, the BBC has gathered reports like:

"I brought my kids with me tonight and they've seen some violence that is indescribable."

Yes, there were people who saw West Ham v. Millwall advertised and thought "Hmm, I think I'll take the kids to that!"

"Honestly, we looked at the news bulletins, and we thought sod Disneyland; we're holidaying in Kabul this year! But nobody tells you about the suicide bombers!"

But then, tomorrow, the East Enders at work will all be trotting out their usual "Nah, i's nuffink; jus' a bunch o' kids 'avin' a laff!" in their inimically stupid way.

A pox upon them!

Overheard

I'm in the staff kitchen, and the Australian woman picks up a cup and admires the pattern on it - a ghastly "stars growing on a branch" theme - and remarks:

"That's nice; that's what my sister has on her feet!"

My Aliens v. Zombies Dream.

Yes, it was a little different from my usual running naked through the old people's home affair.

I was walking up Lake Road away from the beach, and I looked into the night sky to the west and noticed something huge turning way up.

On realising it was some form of giant space craft, my reaction was not one of awe or wonderment, but of despair, and even embarrassment that I would have to admit to seeing a UFO.

Anyway, then it all went Hollywood on me and the vision became a rather cliched post-Close Encounters collossal mother-ship which descended and hovered above the beach at the end of the road.

I ran down to take a better look, and found myself amid bedlam. Lake Road had turned into Napier Road up by Rockley Sands (a caravan holiday camp), and the chaos was taking the form of Zombies walking towards the alien ship. Yes; Zombies!

Look, don't judge me; it was only a dream!

Anyway, I think at this point I thought "Zombies, that's just stupid!" and woke myself up. It was either that or having her tomcat biting my face* at the same time.

* He has a variety of methods of awaking me in the small hours; biting my face; sticking his claws into my face slowly and one by one; sticking his arse into my face; biting my hands; leaping on me from the bedside table, or just plain old sitting on my chest incubus-stylie whilst staring at me. You have to admire his versatility.

Bikini Science

Are you a nerd? Do you want to meet girls?

Why not use your knowledge of physics to cobble together an "experiment" which "needs" scantily-clad young ladies?

Meet the Humanthesizer.

Play the Building

Had one of those days off, combining art and exercise.
First thing, went to David Byrne's "play the building" installation at the Roundhouse.
Apart from the obnoxious, (although these days, seemingly mandatory) middle-class children who thought the whole thing was laid on for them, encouraged by their odd Hampstead-style Mother/Father, (it was difficult to know which, although I suspect the word "lesbian" may fit), I had a wonderful time at the keyboard.














I then walked home (five miles UPHILL!), via Muswell Hill where I popped in to see Inglourious Basterds. Usual QT affair, visually impressive, nice set-pieces, a couple of brilliant moments, but not as good as it should have been. And yes, Christoph Waltz is brilliant as the SS officer. Imagine Brian Ferry as a Nazi. C'est Chic!

The Haynes Manual is 50

Anyone who has had the misfortune to work alongside me over the years will be used to the almost daily "I blame Thatcher!" style rant about how everything wrong in the world is down to de-industrialisation and the fact that nobody knows how anything works any more.

However, for those that wish to indulge in the dark arts of manufacture and repair, there is always the Haynes Manual. And there is now Haynes available for anything you may conceivably want to tamper with.

The first thing I did when we bought our aged car was go on to ABE to get the appropriate (out of print) Haynes manual.

I rarely consult it, but I couldn't own a car without having the relevant Haynes; it wouldn't feel right. Like not having a shed, or testicles.

And as long as the Haynes Manual is there, there is hope than in the post-apocalyptic fall-out, someone will stumble across a workshop full of "Tools", "Manuals", "Overalls" and "Swarfega", and having absorbed the significance of his find, he will rise to greatness as the shaman of the new order amongst those puny weaklings crippled by luxury and waste in what was consumerist golden-age of disposal technology.

And he shall be known as Handy Man! Hail to the God/King!

Zombie Research Latest

Yes, according to the BBC, academia in Canada has officially got TOO MUCH TIME ON ITS HANDS:

HERE

Look out for pretentious prof Robert Smith? Yes, he's got a question mark in his name, just to let you know that he's a dick.

One For The Cynics

I was using the new bicycle pump with vigour and my partner questioned whether I may have overdone it.

I dismissed her concerns as the ignorant fussings of a mere woman and we took to the road on our intrepid countryside ride through the hillier parts of Hertfordshire.

An hour in, and on scaling one of the steeper roads, I found some resistance in the rear wheel. I stopped, dismounted and began my inspection.

"Look at your tyre!" she exclaimed, pointing to the point at which the inner tube had pushed its way free of the tyre. Obviously, I had earlier decided that my chances of needing tools (calipers; spanners; pump) would be negligible, and now realised that I had, indeed, been mistaken.

We were a long way from anywhere useful, I had no choice but to "improvise". Without a pump,I couldn't let the air out in order to push the tyre back into place, and therefore elected to remove the break-blocks and thus allow the now hypertrophic tyre to continue to turn. After five minutes of despair (which included the avoidance of a particularly persistent wasp) ,and clutching at straws, I deployed two dispirate pieces of fallen branch to effect this repair.

However, during the application of the Fred Flinstone approach, we witnessed the miracle of two unrelated cyclists (and I mean, REAL ones, with lightweight racers, and spandex outfits) happened to approach from both directions at speed, and both did the decent thing and stopped and volunteered to help.

I suspect that it was the site of a bike being hit by a chunk of wood that did it. I'd be the same witnessing a kicked dog.

Anyway, two minutes later I was back on the road, chastened but happy that the world is still a place where a sweaty man in lycra is willing to stop in the woods to help a complete stranger with his rupture.

Actually, I could have put that better.

Mental Health Update

Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.

I my case, I think they're using crap tunes in my head to do this.

For example: yesterday it was Billy Joel. I don't know the title, it's the one that goes:

"Eh, Eh, Eh, Eh. Eh-Eh, Eh-Eh, Eh."

Today it's Animal Hospital.

I'm telling you now, if I get to Spandau Ballet, I'm going straight under the bus.

The Great Hypochrondia Outbreak of '09

I'm sure that the figures don't exist, but I wonder which has been worse: the impact of swine 'flu, or the outbreak of malingering that has been prompted by the publicity created regarding the H1N1 epidemic.

At my own place of work, it's been all the usual suspects that have been absorbing the worst case scenarios, then researching the symptoms and ultimately concluding that THEY HAVE SWINE FLU and convincing themselves that they are ABOUT TO DIE! Two days later, they're back, claiming to "feel like death", but appearing to be in unblemished health. (This was previously known a 24hr Cancer).

I would wager that most of the sick-leave across the country has been taken by those that already lead the league tables in absenteeism already, and that the majority of "swine 'flu" leave is in fact no such thing.

Now that I work in an open-plan office, I get to hear the daily exercise where a certain group build themselves into a frenzy of swine 'flu panic, to the point where time-off is inevitable. I think they're actually disappointed that none of them has yet ACTUALLY GOT SWINE flu, let alone DIED OF IT!

Curiously enough, this phenomenum was raised on Radio 4 in the context of the long-forgotten Hong Kong 'flu epidemic of 1969, which killed 60,000 UK citizens. The specialists at the time may have discussed the potential for 60,000 deaths, but such speculation was never published. Back in those unelightened times it was believed to be a bad thing to cause a panic amongst a public which lacked the requisite medical education to place the risks in context.

Hence, a lot of people got 'flu, some died, and some BELIEVED that they had it, but generally the rest of us got on with our lives and soon forgot about it.

I'm all for appraising the public of the facts, but now that we have a milksop generation who lack the robustness to get through the day without suffering some form of trauma, I wonder if we would be better off with an authoritarian-style cover-up. At least I would have to put up with the whinging, and that's all I care about at the end of the day.

Now if you dont' mind, I'm off for my glacial shower and bleach scrub.

The Street

Sorry to bore on about Jimmy McGovern's The Street, but it's like putting your head in a emotional vice every Monday night.

Note, TV screen writers: here is the proof that it is possible to address issues on television without resorting to all that tired old "gritty reality".

A rare sight; fantastic writing, week after week.

Feline Theramin Interface

Yes, Chimps do all that painting, but when Léon Theramin came invented electronic music, it was the concept of the composing cat that he had in mind.

When Celebrities Attack

On the day that Steven Gerrard and Amy Winehouse's money has ensured their freedom from prosecution, after allegedly attacking members of the civilian population, it was nice to see that the South Park self-defence plea is still valid in the English courts.

Stevie Gerrard: "Eh Pal, Gimme the remote willya?!"

Marcus McGee: "No!:"

Stevie Gerrard: "OH MY GOD: IT'S COMING STRAIGHT AT US!!!"

Marcus McGee: "OOF!!:

Overheard; Unfortunately

Overheard in the lavatory at work:

From an occupied cubicle:

Ruffle Ruffle, (sound of toilet paper deployment).

Ruffle Ruffle,

Pause.

"Oh bloody hell"

Introspective Pause.

"Oh FUCK!"

Pause.

Ruffle Ruffle

Ruffle Ruffle.

Flush.

Reader, I did not hang about to identify the troubled deficator, but I suspect that a visit to the proctologist is on the cards.

Old joke:

My friend is a proctologist. He wanted to be a brain surgeon, but he wasn't tall enough!.

Roll Up For The Roll On, Roll Off, Irreverence Row!

Yes, the sleepy Isle of Lewis was rocked this week as the outside world bludgeoned it's way into their God-Fearing Eden.

No sooner had the controversial new Sunday Ferry docked, than the church elders were warning of what sacrilege was to come in its wake:

The Rev Angus Smith, a veteran campaigner, said the service would bring "things that terrify parents"

What on earth could he mean?

Oh, I know! Homosexual Children's TV presenters having Gay Weddings!

Blimey Oh Riley!

Moon Landing Commemoration Issue:

Did You Know....
It is commonly perceived that Neil Armstrong’s first words on the moon surface were “That’s one small step for man, one gigantic leap for mankind”. However, what he actually said was “Wild Thing, you make my heart sing, you make everything— groovy”. However, the watching millions were denied this version following the discovery, moments before air-time, that NASA’s entertainment officer had in fact forgotten to pay their performance rights licence, and so, in the face of copyright legislation, the “small step” speech was dubbed over instead.

On his return, the outraged Armstrong immediately left the space programme, and, after a brief spell with The Allman Brothers, settled back in Wapakoneta Ohio where he opened ‘Neil’s MoonShack’, a used guitar store, trading until the late ’80s when the market began to decline. “I don’t blame synthesizers” says Neil amicably, “I think it was The Cure. Young folk came to associate the guitar with fat, mascara’d English panty-waists, and chose Rap instead. Can’t say I blame ’em”

The ‘Performance Rights Fiasco’ wasn’t the only misfortune to befall the Apollo 11 mission. Irish rebel leader Michael Collins was left stranded in the orbiting capsule following a dispute with NASA tailors, Ritblat & Son of Dallas, who witheld the Third Moon Suit “pending the agreed remuneration”. NASA never did settle the bill, and although the Ritblats retained the Third Moon Suit, the original sequins were removed, and later reappeared upon Elvis Presley’s Vegas jump suit.


Shrink to fit
Apollo 11 was not alone in Suit-Related Ructions. On the following mission, Apollo 12 astronaut Charles Conrad Jr was to discover that, for the sake of $5, Mrs Aldrin had declined the dry-clean option, and had in fact put her husband’s Moon Suit “in with the whites” at home (Tumble, 200 degrees Fahrenheit), thus irreversibly reducing the illbefallen overall in size.
Consequently, mid-mission on the moon, on stooping to collect geological samples, Conrad inadvertantly split the ass out of the pants of his suit, (hence the verb ‘To Moon’). This instantaneously curtailed the mission as a television event, as sponsors across the South, in fear of losing family support, clamoured to withdraw their funding. “It was like one of them Mexican films!” said one.
Charles Conrad Jr. never worked again.

Insanitary, but unbowed.
Thus, reduced to one suit, the Apollo 13 mission was to have featured the lone Captain Jim Lovell on the moon; yet even this mission was to be dogged with misfortune as rookie pilot Kevin Bacon, in an attempt to jettison human waste products from the ship, keyed in the wrong sequence, and unwittingly occasioned a ‘blowback’, helplessly watching in horror as his colleagues were sprayed with ‘the living daylights’ inside the capsule. Desperate to make amends, Bacon ventured to alleviate the methane levels with a naked flame, only to bring about a catastrophic explosion which effectively ended the mission; not to mention his career in space!
(Tragically, Lovell never returned to the moon, yet managed to eke out a living promoting organic fertilizer in Texas, before becoming a ride technician at Disney’s Space Mountain.)

Thus, Suitless, and out of contract with RCA, the 1960s ended bleakly for NASA, who were to find the 1970s, and the onset of Disco in particular, increasingly difficult to handle.

(This feature was originally published on dogandponyny.com)

Loach 0 McGovern 1

I'm a fan of Jimmy McGovern's The Street, and watched the first of the latest series with interest.

Curiously, it included actor Steve Evets who has recently featured in Ken Loach's film "Looking For Eric" where Evets plays a put upon individual attempting to face a local gangster.

This episode of The Street followed similar territory with Bob Hoskins' character coping with the same dilemma.

I found McGovern's conclusion to be much more recognisable than Loach's.

Loach, the posh, idealistic socialist, puts his faith (as always) in the notion that the working classes will always seek to surmount their problems through collective action.

I found this uncomfortable, because in my world, the characters portrayed in the film would be putting distance between themselves and the plight of the victim. There is a cruelty amongst pub centric men that would actually exploit the tragedy of the victim for their own amusement even.

Interesting therefore that McGovern's character is abandoned to his fate by the community, and receives a savage kicking as a result. This is because McGovern grew up within a community where that would be all too common, and therefore he must retain some verisimiltude to the tale. The story actually ends with a small victory for the victim, as McGovern still believes in hope, but he's not into miracles.

Unlike Loach, McGovern is unable to fantasise about working class values, because he is of the working classes, and lacks the ability to romanticise the culture. Loach has the luxury to sustain his beliefs, because he has never been (and will never be) amongst the communities he wishes to project his beliefs upon.

"Eric" is worth watching for the great John Henshaw alone, but has to be considered a fairy tale rather than social realism. The Street isn't social realism either, but it never pushes reality outside the bounds of feasibility.

But who are we to pop Ken Loach's revolutionary dream? Bless his little cotton socks.

Pissing In My Shed

Yes, we're getting the bathroom fitted which means I've taken to pissing in my own shed.

And actually, it is not without it's own sense of satisfaction in a rustic, olfactory, man of the woods sort of way, and indeed reminiscent of my grandparents' outside lavvy.

I have taken precautions of course. I have written on the selected bucket "Do Not Drink" in thick marker pen, although I appreciate that this sufficient only to warn literate natives. However, I am the sort of chap that would assume that the rest wouldn't care that much.

Meanwhile the work continues, not without it's snags. The top of the unit doesn't fit so I needed to source a new one. The journey to B&Q was delayed this morning by an inconsiderate tree that fell across the North Circular seconds before I arrived. I don't know what made me more angry; the hour waiting for it to be moved or the fact that I have neglected to bring my camera. It was a big tree which managed to straddle all three lanes.

Naturally, B&Q didn't have what I wanted, so I wendled my way down to Camden where I found what I needed, but incurred a parking ticket for going FOUR MINUTES over the metred time! It takes that long to write the fucking ticket out for fuck's sake, as I explained to the grinning warden who was completing the ticket. Cheeky bastard.

Price of unsuitable worktop (to be abandoned): £55

Price of new worktop (available Friday, on the builder's last day: cutting it a bit fine) £78

Price of Parking ticket: £40.

We could get two tickets to Barcelona and back for that!

Nice new bath though!

Pre-Season Latest

Presumably, life at Eastlands has taken it's toll on Robinho.

Note: the author of this billboard has to be a northern male over the age of 50. Who else would focus on the detail of the "best suit".

In Memorium

Unfortunately, I couldn't watch the internment of the American popular entertainer Michael Jackson as I was busy cleaning the toilet; vacuuming; talking at length to cold callers; listening to the shipping forecast and changing the cat litter.

I was disappointed, therefore, to read that the funeral spectacular went without an appearance of Jarvis Cocker.

If only the Sheffield prankster could have made another impromptu appearance, bundling his way through the mourners uninvited before waving his arms at the front of the stage and exiting pursued by minders. Michael would've wanted it like that.

Actually, he probably wouldn't, but I'm sure he approved of his reluctant child being inveigled into speaking, just to experience the trauma of appearing before the watching millions as a piece of public property.

What next? The "Paris 'n' Bubbles" Extravaganza at the O2, just to recoup some of those lost ticket sales?

Unlikely, as Bubbles undoubtably has legislation to protect his rights to humane treatment.

Doing The Rounds, But Amused Me

Swells

I never actually knew Stephen Wells, but back in 1984 (Coal Not Dole) our paths crossed and we were aware of each other's work, and for a short period we lived in the same road in North London.

He died on Tuesday.

The Guardian remembers him.

A proclaimer of the old school.

For Your Information...

For me, the true King of Pop was The Corona Man, even though we couldn't afford his fizzy fare, and could only watch with envy as his effervesence-laden chariot parked outside of the Eeles' house at No.65. And where were THEY getting the money from? (First to get colour TV too, and he only worked at the post office! Makes you think!)

Corona Limeade was formative in my book.

Hoorah For The Prince Of Wales!

As a subject of the Queen, and subsidizer of the Royal Family's opulent excesses, I was delighted to read that the recession had not curbed Prince Charles' spending. No Sir! When he's not fucking up legitimate plans for new architecture, he's ripping the public off for £Three Million a year.

And he's REDUCED his tax bill.

Well done that man! I doff my cap and bow in supplication.

Feel free to spit on me sir!

You Bet!

Oh yeh, he lied all over her!

Dirty, dirty aide!

Thatcher "Still Undead"

It is with horror that we read that fascist sympathiser and former Premier witch Margaret Thatcher has broken her arm.

Apparently she is unable to salute like she used to back at the Nurenbürg Rallies.

Anyway, is with horror that we find that the hospital intend to insert a titanium pin into her.

Do these FOOLS know NOTHING!

It has to be a SILVER BULLET for God's Sake!

Duck / Paint Interface

Won't Get Fooled Again

Today, my idiot colleague, (who resembles late-period Orson Welles, which is a TERRIBLE way for a woman to look) turn to me and asked:

"Do you know if The Who have declared swine flu as a pandemic?"

Confused, I replied that I believed that Pete 'n' Roger were probably too busy out promoting the back catalogue to get involved in epidemiology.

Silly cow was talking about the World Health Organisation.

This, dear reader, is what I have to put up with.

Politics Latest: Sordid Details

A spokesman told the Shoebox:

"It was the excessive expenses claims for laundry that drew our attention to the whole tawdry affair."

However, when pressed, he would not be drawn to disclose any specific details.

"Frankly" he remarked "I was disgusted at what we found. We're talking about a very DIRTY DIRTY person here. Politics may have it's problems, but nothing like this."

" This was the sort of thing that you'd expect in the back streets of Phuket, or in a Zoo, or possibly amongst certain showbiz types; but certainly not in the mother of parliament!"

"Now if you would excuse me, I'm going to take a good long shower!"

Help! My MP is a Pyscho!

I'm no handwriting expert, but I know that this missive, purported to be from my local MP, is clearly the product of an unhinged mind.

If I am murdered in my bed tonight, take this to Scotland Yard!

Sans Paroles

Welcome to the world of Awkward Family Photos

This Weeks Favourite Tory

Say what you like about David Cameron's Conservative Party, but them toffs certainly know how to flaunt their riches.

This week it's the turn of the absolutely LOADED MP for Bournemouth Lord John Butterfuck who has so much money he keeps SERVANTS!

Mind you, despite his vast fortune, he has seen fit to grab public money to house the indentured labour in a Servant's Wing at his palace.

AND HE ADMITS IT!

He's gone on record claiming:

"The mistake I made was that, in claiming interest [from the expenses allowance] on the home, I didn't separate from that the value of the servants' … er the staff … wing"

See, you know where you stand with the Tories, not like this New Labour hoi polloi.

Hoorah for Eton!

Mind The Gap: No Really!

In all my years in London, and for all the occasions I must have heard the ancient recording of "Mind The Gap" crackling it's way out of the tannoys of our underground trains, I have never witnessed anyone failing to notice the said gap, that "between the train and the platform".

That is until today.

I am unsure what the fall guy was playing at, but as he alighted from the rear carriage at Holborn, which is on a curve and therefore has probably the most noticable gap on the the network, he stopped looked back into the carriage whilst walking in the opposite direction.

Now normally when tourists look one way whilst walking the other—and I'm assuming that he was a tourist due to the stupidity factor displayed—they normally walk into other people and wonder why the obstacles didn't do more to avoid them.

This guy missed the people getting on the tube. In fact he missed everything. Before our eyes he did a vanishing act as he stepped into the void. Well not quite, his descent was arrested as his face slammed into the platform. He gripped the surface with his available arm, and we noticed that his other leg was now scaling the edge.

He walked away on comedy legs circa Buster Keaton, staggering like a music hall drunk.

It was quite a first.

My Favourite Tory

Oh what fun, just as Old Etonian Tory Leader David Cameron starts working overtime to show that he's in control of the party, and that it's not really a club for rich privileged snobs, and that the electorate should believe him, really, we're different, we're like you now; Conservative MP Anthony Steen gets caught claiming £87,729 of public money for a variety of services including the care of 500 trees at his Devon property!

When confronted for his abject greed accuses the public of jealousy because he has A VERY VERY LARGE HOUSE.

He also blames the Labour government for introducing the Freedom of Information act which enabled the great unwashed to find out what he was up to.

If you haven't heard it, check it out; it contains the priceless phrase:

"What right does the public have to interfere in my public life?"

Yes, the living embodiment of everything the Tories stand for.

Catholic Church Evades Responsibility

Just as parliament comes to terms with the fact that it can't live outside the law, just because that's always been the case until now, the Catholic Church sidesteps the moral imperative and undermines any pretence that it has any other purpose than to perpetuate misery upon it's community.

In Ireland, a commission report into abuse at schools run by the Church has basically reiterated the common knowledge that the Nuns and their psychotic Brethren have been brutal and sadistic without censure.

However, in this BBC bulletin, it is made clear that:

"The findings will not be used for criminal prosecutions - in part because the Christian Brothers successfully sued the commission in 2004 to keep the identities of all of its members, dead or alive, unnamed in the report."

That's right, in 2009 it's possible to be revealed to be a bunch of malicious child abusers and walk away with impunity.

I'm sorry that I don't believe there's a hell for these people.

That's, Err, Lovely, Thanks?

My partner once employed a chef whose prime ambition was to escape the kitchen and to become a food photographer.

He enthused about just how difficult it was to photograph food well, and how much cheating went on to make a dish look succulent and delicious.

If you didn't cheat, then the food tended to look like shit, as the camera had a habit of lying.

This is a lesson awaiting the producer of Recipes for a working girl who, apart from the dubious nomenclature, really could try cheating at photography a little harder if she wants people to try the recipes.

The spinach dip (pictured) is all a little TOO redolent of the farmyard for my comfort.

Super Mario Finally Defeated

Velupillai Prabhakaran, the tormentor of Sri Lanka and unofficial representative of the beleaguered Tamils has perished.

Standing in front of that target could not have helped.

Downing Street HiFi Latest

There was a period of panic at No. 10 this morning, when current tenant Gordon Brown had a scare with his 1970s vintage Wharfedale W70s.

"I put on the Arctic Monkey's Favourite Worst Nightmare and heard a bad rattle in the mid-region. I actually thought I'd blown my 12" Woofer!" spoke a relieved Prime Minister.

"Fortunately, it only turned out to be the cone had worked itself loose!"

He continued to praise his vintage speakers;

"I've had them since college, and I've never had any trouble with them, Zeppelin, Black Flag, Leftfield, you name it!
However, I haven't really turned them up since Ed Balls and I had our Lee Perry all-nighter.
That was a great night; Mr Darling next door sent the police round. Well, I say SENT. He just came out in his pyjamas and told PC Plod on the doorstep to have words. Ballsy and me just pretended we weren't in; it was a right laugh! Anyway, it's always the skank stuff that does for the components, so I should have known better!"

It is understood that the sound system is now back in full working order, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer Alastair Darling confirmed that he was unable to work this afternoon as his neighbour has obviously just borrowed Jack Straw's new N.W.A. box set.

Guardian: Unsung Hero

I've been carrying round a copy of the Guardian around with me for a few days, and have only just got round to reading about Heather Brooke who effectively did all the work on the Freedom of Information Act disclosures which confirmed that MPs are a bunch of venal liars.

I'm not shocked by the revelations, as I always assumed this to be the case.

This was confirmed by parliament's willingness to introduce the Freedom of Information Act, but adamantly strove to keep themselves exempt from it.

That they eventually failed to do so at least gives us hope in the democratic project.

The article linked is worth reading, and it's disappointing that Brooke's good work was scooped by a leak to the Daily Telegraph which denied her the credit for five years' hard work. It's also worth running with the speculation that parliament itself, or it's loyal civil service, leaked the data in order to deny Brooke the reward.

Captain James W Kirk?

Just seen Star Trek, you know, the post- 911 one where Kirk appears to be modeled on America's previous President.

You know; the stupid one.

I think I preferred the Star Fleet commander when he was a JFK manqué.

However, it's good rip-roaring fun anyway, although the allegory of America as a bunch of inexperienced amateurs muddling through with nothing other than self - belief is a little troubling, if that's how they now see themselves.

Anyway, I don't care if she IS a shoplifter; I'd still shag Spock's mum!

There, that's what passes for a film review in the blogosphere, if that still exists in the Twitter era.

Event Planners Do The Stupidest Things

Yes, this was a "conference" about sustainability in the supply chain.

Everyone got a vinyl souvenir party bag, full of unread landfill printed on coated gloss to ensure it's unrecyclability.

What is it about the environment that the Tory young don't get?

Actually, the conference was an interesting contrast of styles, between those that came into the field because of their personal commitment to the cause (fluid, confident and enthused), and those representing the corporations in the interests of commercial acceptance of the new eco-marketing directives; the individuals who had drawn the short straw and had to recite the company line from memory (hesitant, monotonous and unconvincing).

Beware those that reiterate that "these days, we all have to care about the environment!", like it's news.

They're the ones with the 4x4 parked on the paved-over garden who have recently written to the president of their golf club complaining about the lack of water on the greens.

Yes, we can tell.

At Last; The End.

In 1988, when I began working in Holborn, this premises was a gentlemen's outfitters which was having a closing down sale.


That closing down sale continued for over twenty years. I have no idea how long the closing down sale had been there before I arrived, but I suspect that it was the longest closing down sale in history.



It became a landmark. You'd say "walk past the closing sale store and take a left", confident that it rivaled the British Museum in it's steadfastness.

Prime Ministers came and went, political systems changed, Iraq got invaded twice in that time. There was no internet when the sale began.

Yet finally, I missed it's passing. I missed the point at which the closing down sale became a real closing down sale, and the day when someone wrote "Last Day Today" on the window (enlarge to view).

Was it written on the last day? I can't imagine that they could resist scribbling it well before the shutters came down for good, just for old time's sake.

Oh, Mr Brown; Really!

I'm listening to James Brown's "Down & Out in New York City", where the Godfather of Soul sings:

"Earn your dime boy, give me a shine boy"

What could it possibly mean?

Tilting At Windmills in Mill Hill

I was the hapless recipient of a bizarre road rage incident earlier today.

On leaving the plumbers' merchant, I found my car hemmed in by another outside the newsagent. Aware that the other driver was probably only collecting the daily paper, I climbed in my car and sorted myself out, prepared to wait a minute for the other to move.

However, the passenger of the other car decided that it was probably best to begin signalling to the driver by sounding the horn.

The passenger sounded the horn rather a lot, so that when the driver, and aging jew with ridiculous classes, emerged from the newsagent, he assumed that I had done the honking. He stood before my car doing the cupped ear "did I hear something" gesture before shouting at me a waving his arms around. I pointed at his passenger, but this only exacerbated his rage which was epic.

He then felt compelled to act out the pantomime of taking an age to leave; slowly climbing into the car, sitting there a while, starting the car, sitting there a while, pulling forward a little bit, but not enough to allow me to leave, just to make the point. Then, before leaving, he pulled alongside, winding down his window and giving me a foul-mouthed tirade before driving off, bizarrely satisfied that he had won our row, no doubt in a heart-palpitating rage.

Pointless, and a lesson to us all of how not to live our lives.

The Streets - He's behind you, he's got swine flu

Mike Skinner's timely ditty.

News Latest: 2 for 1

I'm unsure how Greggs the bakers feel about the juxtaposition of their fantastic offer with the arrival of an apparently malign medic.

Unless they're actually in on the act?

I'd give the fresh cream apple turnovers a wide berth, just in case.

No Spitting on the Bus

I was sat in the quiet carriage on the train today, and on observing the signs and the little pictograms representing no mobiles; no music; no smoking, began to ponder when, in our continually cigarette-free world how much longer we will be posting "no smoking" signs, as our society seems to have grasped the notion of the public ban comprehensively.

I say this as someone who has lived long enough to recall my childhood travels upon the local buses which carried the warning "spitting prohibited - fine £5".

In fact, I believe that some buses carried this notice up until the mid - seventies, within gobbing distance of the phlegm strewn punk years.

Graphics

Worth wading through

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!