At Last: Time For The Caspian Sea Monster

As Europe grinds to a halt due to the flight ban, maybe we can consider an alternative from our Soviet chums back in the 1970s. Let's bring back the Ekranoplan!

Yes, it's a plane that flys JUST ABOVE THE WATER! Brill!

Meanwhile, I was surprised that our rail union comrades at the RMT haven't taken strike action in response to the volcanic ash threat on the usual "Health and Safety" grounds. However, I was reassured to hear that the French railway workers were resorting to type, and that in Europe's hour of need SNCF staff have walked out disprupting the repatriation of hundreds of thousands!

Meanwhile, at Calais Dan Snow's Dunkirk inspired publicity stunt has been stifled by the Gallic lackies. Note: this link may contain bias which does not necessarily represent the views of the Shoebox.

Vive la republique!

Dick of the Day

On exiting the platform at Belsize Park tube today, there was some delay on the steps and passengers were stalled on the steps.

Was it a young mother, struggling with a buggy? Perhaps a disbled person desperately dragging their withered, enfeebled limps up each torturous step? Or possibly even an elderly couple, out enjoying their free travel entitlement at our expense?

No, it was a dick reading a newspaper. Not even a newspaper really, it was one of the free sheets that litter the tube like some daily environmental catastrophy. So there we were waiting as some DICK took his time up the stairs whilst he read a paper he hadn't even paid for.

I was all for taking it off him, rolling it up and beating him about the head with it until he snapped out of his arseholery, apologised and got himself a job.

However, I was too busy and settled for pushing him out of the way, French style, and got on with my day.

PAH!

I'm Dead; Fly Me

You know how your grandad was always going on about how the only good German was a dead one?

Anyone who has had to endure the wonders that pass for Scouse company will know that on Merseyside they're keen on a good fat story, usually involving Liverpool and some exclusively ridiculous circumstances unknown elsewhere.

It is therefore appropriate that this story from the BBC took place at Liverpool John Lennon Airport (better known as Speke), where two German ladies have been caught in attempting to smuggle a cadaver out of the country.

Apparently:

Staff became suspicious when the women tried to check in the man, who was wearing sunglasses, for a flight to Berlin on Saturday.

No doubt security were concerned that the stiff may have been stuffed full of explosives. Fortunately the "Corpse Bombers" were apprehended in the nick of time.

Seriously though, the authorities should have at least had some sport from whole affair and let them past, just to see how they fared in getting Das Toten Fritzen onto the plane and into a seat. I imagine that the rigor mortis may have required that breaking off limbs in the execution; with hilarious consequences!

To your typewriters; your screenplay starts: NOW!

Mercury Rising

A moment of wonder tonight.

On looking west from the spare room, just after sunset I thought I saw an aircraft light, but not moving, a lone star in the early evening sky. Actually Venus, which tends to be bright.

Anyway, I fetched the binoculars (which I keep on hand just in case the lady over the way is 'displaying'*) and had a look at the bright planet. Then I notice a smaller light just to the right, also not flickering (therefore a planet). Intrigued I do a quick search to realised I've just spotted Mercury!

The heavens continue to give me a childlike thrill, and I always amazed to look at an actual planet.

*How do we know that Galileo wasn't just the local perv, who had invented the telescope for voyeuristic opportunism?

Thump Thump! "let us in Galileo, we know you're in there! We had complaints from the nuns!"

"Er, I can explain everything!"

"My God, what's this for?"

"It's , er, it's for looking at the sky!

"Eh?"

"Yeh, it's, er, it's a 'telescope', it's for looking at stars and planets and stuff, honest!"

"Oh, yeh, and what does the church think of this?"

"Oh, Bugger!"

Great Names of Sport:

Meet Charlie Sharples!

As in "Bugger Me! It's Charlie Sharples!"

Don't know if he's any good; he's a rugby player, and according to Wikipedia, he was born in Hong Kong!

Disaster Scenario? Make Mine A Large One

Nice to know that our men at London Transport have their priorities right when faced by adversity.

Avian Wang Bar Demo

Goodnight, and Sleep Tight

When I was a lad, there was a local factory, known for its low standards, that offered work to even the most unlikely candidates. In those days it was the dole, or XXXXXX (they're still in business, and have foodstuffs in a supermarket near you.)

I always thought about XXXXXX whenever I read a theatre programme, and saw The Bill listed in an actor's credits.

Even the hammiest of thesps could guaranteed work on the police soap, turning up as victims or wrong'uns, often as both in the longer careers, but for not much longer.

Call me a snob, but I'm quite proud to admit I have never seen a single episode of The Bill, and therefore won't miss it, but I do feel for those struggling actors who are now having to turn even more to historical enactment roles within our more ill-conceived themed museum exhibits around the country.

Alex Chilton

I saw Chilton at Dingwalls in 1980, and I'd never seen anyone detune a guitar before, and I thought "I'm having some of that!"

Actually, I so wanted great things from him, and was ultimately disappointed. But that's smackheads for you.

Julian Temple: Detroit

If you didn't see it, go to BBC iPlayer and watch it.

Post - Industrial American heritage being reclaimed by the wilderness. A city too expensive to demolish that it is being left to collapse as a symbol of distopia.

A city with 47% illiteracy rates. That is: a city in a first world country with 47% illiteracy.

A hopeful ending though, as residents are returning to the land and are farming the wasteland.

Awesome.

Winchester

Harry "Administration" Redknapp!

On the morning that Pompey are declared insolvent, and thus condemned to relegation and the probable plunge into the depths of the lower leagues, it is worth noting that Portsmouth, like their south coast rivals Southampton and Bournemouth, have gone under following the stewardship of Harry Redknapp.

West Ham, the other club managed by the ex used car salesman, are potentially in a similar situation.

Will Spurs survive Harry's love of a big squad with extravagant wages?

Will this recession have a second dip? Do you feel lucky?

Animals v. Humans

So the lady got killed by her captive?

The clue is in the name: KILLER Whale.

If you're going to encase an animal (that should swim hundreds of miles amongst its fellow creatures) in a tank, you have to accept that it has plenty of time to wait for the opportunity to get its own back.

Meanwhile, outside my office, I've just witnessed a blind man, guided by a dog, waiting to cross the road. A car pulled up, and to indicate that it was safe to cross the driver FLASHED HIS LIGHTS!

Maybe they teach the dogs optical semiotics at guide school?

Dark Arts Corner

Learn to make a Microsoft Voodoo Doll at ChiGarden

Once more, thanks to Curved White

Oh My God; We're All Going To DIE!

And probably at the hands of a disorientated motorist as the Sun takes it's revenge upon us puny humans.

Yes, our nearest star is about to wreak vengeance as it wakes up after a bit of a nap, and throws out a shed-load of radioactive solar flares, which will tamper with our orbiting communication satellites.

Down here on Earth, this will cause Sat Nav Chaos which will lead to anybody aged under thirty being totally unable to drive anywhere because they have no sense of direction and don't understand how to read a map.

Eco-warriors; this is our moment!

Objet Trouvé

Bold statement at Wood Green tube.

Not only does this work reduce the traditional view of the Madonna and child to an elemental state, but it goes further to present us with a representation of that child, hypertrophic with precocity, prepared to challenge us by competing with it's own mother for the available space in a boldness that is not so much oedipal, than cannibal.

My New Catchphrase

I've been trying out the use of "Is that a euphemism for something, disgusting?"

So far this has been to little effect.

However; the Republican party of American are declaring themselves to be Tea Baggers.

"Tea Bagging? Is that a euphemism for something, disgusting?"

Dirty Sarah Palin, Dirty Dirty Girl.

When In Rome

As the Paul Gascoigne tragedy slowly continues towards its inevitable alcoholic conclusion, the BBC offers us his latest arrest here

I only feature this because it contains the sentence:

In December, Gascoigne was given a fixed penalty notice for being drunk and disorderly in Newcastle

Which begs the question: Just how drunk do you have to get to be "drunk and disorderly" in Newcastle? How do they know?

Cat / Coffee Table Interface

Yes, and it's available from Here

Spotted on the too cool for its own good Curved White

Ortery Photosimile 5000

3D Photo Device £17,000

Connotations for:

a) On-Line Retail

b) Internet Porn

Motorcycle + Exploding Cigarette = Dental Work

On a slow news day one can always rely on the thread: third world; health & safety; comedy fag; and teeth, to present a fantastically usable piece of copy.

This story here at the BBC contains the phrase:

"We do not put any strange materials in the cigarettes, so we think that this is a weird case"

Orphaned? You Are Now: Praise The Lord!

What is it about distaster zones that attract fundamentalist christians?

As the native population takes to the streets in an orgy of looting whilst the world looks the other way, those evangelists fly in and round up the local kids like god-bothered child-catchers, intent in whisking them away to a life of hygienic torpor in the bible belt.

I imagine the scene on the border:

Border Guard: "Anything to declare?"

Missionaries (posing as tourists)"Er; No?"

Border Guard: "What about these 30 children?"

Missionaries: "Oh My? Where did THEY come from? They must of followed us, the little monkeys! SHOO SHOO! It's our overwhelming goodness that attracts them!"

Every distaster presents an opportunity; to some it's a free toaster, to others it's the chance to impose one's values upon the helpless. Seemingly inevitable, but both equally unpalettable.

One Of Those Art Gallery Moments

Letting Daylight In On Magic

Deep inside my cynical thick-skinned shell exists a simpler character that feeds on life's brief heart-warming moments; usually involving the animal kingdom.

When the fairy-tale wolf photo won the Wildlife Photograph of the Year award thing, I so wanted it to be true, however unlikely it looked.

Sadly it is not to be so. The cheating Spaniard used aStunt Wolf and is thus disqualified.

Mind you, anyone who has ever attempted to train a DOG to do ANYTHING will realise what a magnificent achievement this photo actually is. So hoorah for that instead!

How Great Empires Fall

Meanwhile, at the British Museum, we gain an insight into how the Aztecs declined.

Ultimately, it didn't work for Charlie Parker ; didn't work for Jim Morrison; or even Bez from Happy Mondays. What was the Mexican Boy thinking?

The Future: Flying Car Latest

I don't know how you get to be a professional future predictor, but according to the BBC there's a group of government people who get paid to do just that!

According to this Government Thinktank some lucky people will be able to cite their occupation as "space pilot"!

However, there appears to be no news about the flying car. We put a man on the moon FORTY YEARS AGO for christ sake, like; before computers and moisturiser for men were available, so what's the delay?

Apparently policemen are going to be arresting people for meteoroligical crimes.

Big deal! What's the use of that if they can't chase the climate criminals in flying cars? What a Swizz!

Vindaloo Revisited

Well, I got to midday and had to concede that I was not fit enough to stay at work, what with having this cold and all.

I therefore set the Out of Office reply and made my way home via the local curry house.

I haven't had a vindaloo for probably 25 years, since I reached a stage where I finally felt that I had proven my point, and elected to taste my food from then on.

Well, having decided to try one out in order to go nuclear on this damn cold , and being way beyond the need to show what I can do in the bad lad stakes, I can confirm that there is little point in a vindaloo APART from clearing one's ague. Why else would anyone elect to eat it?

And to think that it's what I ate EVERY time we went into the Indian.

Of course I was young and idiotic back then, and at least it was less stupid than getting a tattoo.

Or doing those stuntman japes for laughs which have probably contributed to my chronic back problem.

Got some great laughs though.

Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport

As my viewers know, the Shoebox neither approves of, nor suffers, illness.

However, once in a while one finds oneself inadvertantly dipping into the illness experience, and although irritating, it can often be interesting.

For example; I began my day yesterday with 'a bit of a temperature' and due to the adverse weather conditions, and the failure of my employer's heating systems, I fell low yesterday evening and had a night of ague.

Subsequently I lie downstairs in a bit of a sweat and fell into a hallucinatory state where I had some unusual experiences, including the belief that my being had fallen down the back of all of the appliances in the room.*

I think my atoms were confused.

Much better today though and back to work.

* Many years ago, when suffering from an allergic reaction to penicillin following surgery, and having been awake for over 36 hours due to the itching, I procured sleeping pills and expected a night of rest.

However, this was not the result.

I just became very very tired, but found sleep impossible due to the skin irritation.
As a result, I had a series of hallucinations, including one where I was an Australian stand-up comedian delivering a set in a night club.

When I recounted this experience to a friend who had recently recovered from a broken leg, he retorted: "Interesting; when I was on those odd pain-killers I thought I was Australia!"

Big Chill: Latest

I appreciate that the weather conditions out there are going to have a detrimental impact upon our infrastructure, and that there will be disruption. Ditto, the temperatures are making life difficult, and things FEEL more unpleasant, but can everybody just GROW UP.

My journey was delay twice this morning due to passengers demanding attention at Finsbury Park, and then Kings Cross. The last couple of mornings, the platforms have exhibited "ailing" passengers with their hands held to their wan brows in self-pity whilst the rest of flow around them just GETTING ON WITH IT.

Why the upsurge? Obviously, the stop-start nature of tube travel this week has delayed journeys, and for some the extra 5 minutes is all too much. I think the exacerbating factor centres upon the 'special conditions' being experienced by all of us, but for some, it's a chance to grasp at that all elusive attention.

I'm not going down the National Service route, but I do fear how our nation will fare in a war.

So why have I just wasted two minutes writing about this? I myself can't bear my irritation at the woman, who on encountering the ticket barrier at the station exit, stopped in front of me in order to TURN THE PAGE OF HER NEWSPAPER!

All I'm saying is that there should be by-laws against this kind of thing.

Postman In Hammersmith Palais

Back in the late 70s, we'd amuse ourselves in the pub by imagining the KTEL compilations of the future, and the TV advert that would ask:

"Do you remember 'Anarchy in the UK' by THE SEX PISTOLS? What about 'Love Comes in Spurts by RICHARD HELL AND THE VOIDOIDS?. How could we forget 'Orgasm Addict' by THE BUZZCOCKS?

Well, guess what?

They're all here with 20 other fantastic punk hits on one GREAT album; KTEL's great new 'Fuck Me; It's The 1970s!

Yes for only £2.99! you can remember those gob-spattered years all over again!

Remember, this record is only available by phone, and is not available in the shops!"

That the counter-culture could be imagined as mainstream in the future was so remote that such a joke was actually funny at the time. It took Post-Modernism to wipe the smile off of our spotty anti-authoritarian faces.

And just when you think that the barrel has been scraped dry, and every scintilla of our radical heritage has been appropriated by the man, the Royal Mail goes and issues stamps based upon "Great Album Covers".

Now had they chosen any of Ray Lowry's Nazi cartoons instead of his Clash cover, then THAT would impress me.

London Grocery Failure

As Jack Frost increases his savage grip upon the nation, I have to say that there is one particular issue that is being ignored by the British media.

Those that know me know that I like to start the day with a banana inside me, however, I'm concerned about the quality of the capital's supply!

Unfortunately, none of the grocers in my neighbourhood understand the need to keep their bananas indoors in the warm during the cold snap. Instead they're left out front where they cease to ripen, go green/grey and end up manky.

I haven't enjoyed a decent banana for weeks, but I haven't seen or heard a word about this in the media ANYWHERE.

Fortunately we have the internet, and the truth is now out there; so let's see some banana action!

School's Out

Spent the weekend revisiting my home neighbourhood.

The apocalyptic site above is actually my old primary school, or rather, what remains of it.

They tore down what they were allowed to tear down, but never got to build the flats intended due to the economic downturn. Subsequently, the remaining building, a listed 1867 Education Act primary school, is being neglected, no doubt with the hope that it will deteriorate and become a dangerous liability which can be demolished to make way for more profit, home-buying opportunities.

Meanwhile, I went to football to see the mighty Cherries, who are second in League Two (the old division 4). Well I say I went to see football, it actually resembled an audition for A Chorus Line. What a bunch of nancies! How that team has sustained it's elevated status so far is a mystery.

Mind you, despite the cold, and the miserable 0-2 humiliation, we received a lift in spirits towards the end. One "surprisingly overweight for a professional sportsman" member of the opposition was being substituted, giving the home crowd a little comfort in cruelty. As he wound the clock down by waddling off slowly, a wag in the crowd suggested that he "Have A Salad!". How we laughed!

Economy Latest

The disgruntled bankrupt remarked;

"We were able to see out the economic depression and believed that we were relatively strong in the face of consumer defection to internet commerce, but in the end we were totally unprepard for this year's penchant for slip-ons! Who would have thought that elastication held such appeal? God Damn Casual Wear!"

North London Tool Mystery

The population of an entire London Borough were shamefaced on having to admit that they had misplaced an essential component from the Metalwork cupboard.

The Shoebox eventually found a resident willing to speak anonymously:

"We can't find the Bastard!" he explained from his shed.

After waiting for the snickering to subside, he continued:

"That's the name of it, it's a Bastard file. Admittedly, it's a bit big for most work, but if you're going to restrict yourself to one all-purpose file, it'll do most things. However, I've argued for some time now that a half-round double-cut would prove to be far more versatile, but no-one listens to me around here."

When pressed on the impact of the missing tool, our man would only say

"The whole neighbourhood is strewn with burred edges, and there's only so much you achieve with emery cloth! One could suffer a rather nasty skin abrasion if you accidently rubbed up against an unfinished extrusion!"

Asked who lost it, our man was willing to speculate.

"I can't name him, but put it this way; the chisels always come back blunt, he never recharges the drill before returning it, and God knows how he broke the strimmer. I'm sure he's letting his wife use them; and that's strictly against regulations!"

Asked, why he didn't just buy his own tools, our man in the shed just looked confused.

"What do you mean, like private ownership? In Haringey? No, that could never be. This isn't Brent!"

Pushing it's luck, the Shoebox then asked the anonymous shed person if he had greased any nipples lately, only to be expelled with some force.

Blue Moon

That is: two full moons in the same month, 13 in one year.

Not another until 2018.

Seasonal Latest

Reprise

You may remember that I'm filling my time by revisiting old tapes, in an attempt to preserve my past in the new fangled digital format.

Imagine my joy then, to discover that "someone" has wiped a considerable part of MY archive to compile the worst party mix of all time circa 1985. Despite the box AND the reel having MY NAME on them, and the words: DO NOT ERASE clearly written on the outside.

A whole phase gone, for the sake of a party that HE (and I know exactly who did this) has long forgotten.

I Heard The News Today; Oh Boy

Enduring my forced leave due to the "Festive Season", I get to lie in bed and listen to the Today programme at length.

I was amused by the feature on celebrity football thug Joel Barton, bemoaning his plight as a wanker. Give him credit though, he did get to say "actually, most footballers are knobs". Out of the mouths of babes.

Meanwhile, America's WAR ON TOURISM continues.

President Obamarama is angry at his "intelligence" agents for letting the underpants bomber onto a flight.

Now, I find it difficult to get too alarmed at a man who attempted to set fire to his Y-Fronts on a flight. Back in the seventies, Keith Moon used to do that sort of thing every week!

Come, ease up everybody, just give the man a gig at the Jim Rose Circus!

No, I'm more worried about the Terror Watch List that the president mentioned. I assume that this is a batch of explosive Timex's? Maybe at a given moment in time all of the Timex's have been synchronised to blow the left arm off of each wearer!

Obviously, given Timex's usual unreliability this would take place over some considerable time, but it's still likely to create quite a spectacle.

Fortunately, as a local government officer, I have never really had need for timekeeping.

Fleur

Superglue: Now For Cats

Wild Thing

I was musing on the decision of Richard Hell to re-record an album from his salubrious past, as he felt that the original recording was marred by his over-enthusiastic use of drugs at the time.

I think we should consider this notion from another angle, and wonder if the work of Cliff Richard would have BENEFITTED from a liberal intake of illegal substances?

Get him back in the studio now; stoned off his box; "OK, Bachelor Boy, 1.2.3..."

Look Back In 15ips:

Spending the time off transfering old reel to reel tapes onto digital.

Sadly, some tapes have deteriorated and are relatively useless.

However, the biggest disappointment lies within one of the few masters that have retained their quality. It contains the only thing that I ever recorded that I thought was ever any good.

The tape has never been played before, and imagine my dismay to discover that the engineer has mastered the track WITHOUT THE LEAD GUITAR. I'm not talking about Clapton levels of virtuosity here, but it's useless without the key riff.

Damn you Peter Whatisname! And to think that I gave you my Korg MS10 on permanently loan!

There Goes The Neighbourhood

Well you have to feel sorry for the lucky country.

Previously it was a plague of boat people bobbing up around their shores.

Now, according to the BBC

"Recent heavy rainfall in parts of Queensland has prompted large numbers of marsupials to flock to the newly green countryside."

Yes, the farmers are overrun by Kangaroos. They open their curtains in the morning and their pastures have taken on the appearance of a vast trampoline.

Disturbingly, the situation has been exacerbated:

"It is not only wet weather that has boosted marsupial numbers but also Russia's suspension of kangaroo meat imports earlier this year because of hygiene concerns"

Hygiene? What are the Ruskies doing eating Kangaroos anyway?

No-one's going to tell ME old Skippy is UNHYGENIC?

"What's that Skippy?; Destroy all humans? Oh no, Skippy, not YOU as well!"

Whiteout

After years of no snow whatsoever, we get it twice in one of the warmest years on record.

I wouldn't mind, but the tomcat is reluctant to go out and have a shit, so he's lying around the house farting all day.

Weather Update: Panic On The Streets!

Snow falling in London. Stop

Breakdown in social fabric anticipated. Stop

God Help Us. Stop

Rebuffed!

OK, So I put the Christmas Card proposal to my other half, and, do you know, she can be so NEGATIVE sometimes.

Turned it down flat.

Now she wants to go out for a meal next week.

I said, you name it, I could cook it cheaper at home.

She said, that's not the point.

I said, I'm not made of money and there's a recession on.

Fell on deaf ears.

Tsk.

Bah Humbug!

The Age of Waste

And so, as the Consumer Season (Sponsored by Coke) is upon us, and home owners across the country bedeck their property with decorations in order to compete to be the most wasteful household in the neighbourhood, I have been pleased to observe that the street on which we live is untouched by such environmental suicide, with one exception, the usual lacklustre display down the way that always looks like an annual cry for help.

I had hoped that the RECESSION that everyone seems to have forgotten would taken its toll on this nonsense, yet on jogging my route last night I discover that the posh houses appear to have succumbed to the nonsense, and that someone has sold them all identical displays for their privet hedges. Yes, in these houses the current events in Copenhagen don't exist, and everyone's getting a Jeremy Clarkson DVD in their stocking.

Economic Prudence

Meanwhile, this morning, I was musing over my partner's compulsion to distribute Christmas Cards to the neighbours, and naturally worried about the unnecessary cost that this would incur.

Then it occurred to me; just do one large card with all the names on, and post it in the house on the end. Then, on opening it they tick their names and pass it next door where the process is repeated.

We are therefore seen to reciprocate to all THEIR Christmas Cards, but without the time and expense of writing individual responses.

I'll ask her what she thinks when I get home.


Dream

Finally, I had a dream this morning.

I'm walking through this village, and there appears to be some sort of parade, and a battered old car rattles past slowly, followed by a duck, only a duck with little arms and a walking stick.

And I ask myself "What sort of village is this?"

Maybe it was the peanuts I had in the pub last night?

Dry Cleaning for Students?

On my post-prandial peregrenations this lunch-time, I passed the local Dry Cleaners who were advertising "20% off for Students".

Students using Dry Cleaners? What possible use would a student have for dry cleaning?

Or have I got the wrong end of the stick? Is it now fashionable to have the students themselves dry-cleaned? What is the position in regard to Health & Safety on this?

Is it a student craze involving whizzing around in the tumbler?

Has suede made a comeback?

I'm clearly out of touch on this one.

What Hairpiece?

I played my first gig in about 12 years at the weekend. It was just a village hall in a provincial town, in front of a bunch of people whose idea of a saturday night out is to visit a provincial village hall and watch a bunch of men in their 50s attempt to recapture their youth.

I bring your attention to this to state that my great moment of pride was in the observation that I was the only performer with a full head of hair.

However, as I return to work this morning, the harsh flourescent light of the gents reminds me that I am growing incrementally grey, with my only remaining colour retained in the longish bits at the top. Unfortunately, this gives me the appearance of A MAN WEARING A TOUPEE!

Either I go for the bootpolish look all over, or I cut off the offending coloured hair and look like a grey man who is preparing for baldness.

Or wear a hat permanently, like the bald one in U2.

I am not built for this aging process, it's ugly, and it's unfair.

News From The North

I'm not prejudiced, as you all know, but I always look to the North for entertainment at the time of a recession.

Guess what they're up to now?

Well, according to the BBC they're shoving their little 'uns in the recycle bins in order to STEAL THINGS OTHER PEOPLE HAVE THROWN AWAY!

Fantastic: can't wait to see it on You Tube!

Do they have You Tube in the North?

How To Make A Video

I envy the Arctic Monkeys because they are so effortlessly talented, and have yet to put a foot wrong.

The Canteen Is Another Country, They Do Things Differently There

The canteen facility at work has never been the best, and has often managed to achieve the worst on numerous occasions.

Staffing has often been the issue, particularly when they draft in someone at short notice, on the sole qualification that they are actually available. Such personnel, by default from the third world, are usually disadvantaged by their lack of English, and particularly when they have no familiarity with British Food (although I concede that even the most practiced native would struggle to recognise the fayre presented on some days).

I once addressed this issue in a team meeting where I related my plight, concerning the time when my request for peas resulted in a generous dollop of baked beans. "No!" I protested; "PEAS!" pointing to the appropriate vegetable. In response, my adversary pointed to the beans and exclaimed; "Yes Peas!"

"That's nothing," responded a colleague, "I asked for gravy, and he put custard on me roast!"

For a while, it looked like those days had passed, and even the fruit salad improved over the previous green apple / red apple in orange juice offering, but, alas, not for long.

This lunchtime, I have just waited in a enormous queue, only to discover that the delay was arising from the cashier's total unfamiliarity with sterling currency. Yes, a cashier with no idea of what the coinage represents, as befuddled as a tourist on their first day in Ulan Bator.

When he short-changed me, it wasn't out of perfidy, he was simply unaware of which bits of the round metal pieces that were due to me.

I say bring back Slutty Rose; what she lacked in virtue and underwear, she more than made up with numeracy!

I'll be making my own sandwiches tomorrow.

The Past Is Another Country

And Nick Hornby's An Education looks like a foreign film.

C'est tres chic!

Probably his masterpiece. An evocation of a time before corporate globalism swamped us all.

There is also sufficient evidence in recent years to indicate that the British are learning to make films worth watching.

Hoorah!

Dunned By The Tongs!

I have just been passed in the street by a man of Chinese appearance who walked the lengths of the road WITH HIS ARMS FOLDED!

And I don't mean that he stopped to admire something for a while, maybe an architectural gem, a flower, or a blue plaque, and then forgot to unfold his arms on continuing his walk.

He clearly walked the length of the road with his arms folded, as though he'd been cornered by a bunch of ruffian tailors who had corned him, pinned him down and sadistically sewn each cuff to the opposite elbow.

Maybe this happened in Hong Kong, where the hapless victim, on collecting his 24 hour suit had attempted to bargain down the price by fabricating some form of greivance, like saying the vents weren't deep enough.

Disgruntled, the cruel couturiers had taken umbrage, ganged-up, performed a "stitching", before bundling the punter into a Heathrow-bound container, confident that the distant (and bemused) baggage-handlers would incompetently misdirect him into London's West End where he would be doomed to wander the streets in a state of confusion with a defensive body-language posture.

Yes, now I've thought it through, I'm sure that that answers all the questions.

Yes, that's definately what happened.

Phew!

Overheard

I've just witnessed a wonderful "Dora Bryan" moment in the staff kitchen.

Chap 1 "How's the new job?"

Chap 2 "Yeh, great, thanks!"

Chap 1 " Did they fill your 'ole?"

Chap 2 -Unsure what he had just heard- "Pardon??"

Chap 1 "Did they fill your ROLE?"

Chap 2 -somewhat relieved- "Err, yes."

Hack Space

Fancy mending things with a soldering iron?

Remember when we didn't throw things away?

Like to hear things hum as the warm up for use?

Check out Hack Space

Everything is OK

Again thanks to Greg at Arctic Ghetto

Nostalgia; The Ache From An Old Wound

On manly duties after work last night, I left work in pursuit of jump leads, as our VW seems to have a flat battery.

Rather than surrender my money to the capitalist running dogs of the high street chain, I elected to procure my wares from the small-world tories in the long-standing motor factors just round the corner from my old flat.

Imagine the horror as I passed number 123 and saw the addition of shiny new UPVC where my beautiful old sash windows once were.

My partner and I spent HOURS taking those windows out; stripping, repairing, filling and painting/varnishing them, before rehanging them newly weighted to adjust for the lighter modern glass panes that we had installed. You could lift and close them with one finger, such was the expertise of the work.

It was a huge achievement, and probably the refurbishment we were most proud of.

The sight of the UPVC struck me like a rusty blunt dagger through the heart.

Bugger them!

Overhead, Sadly

As I passed a crotchety old diner at John Lewis' restaurant, I heard her exclaim in shrill upper-class tones:

"When I arrived, he was cleaning it with Bicarbonate of Soda!"


Meanwhile, the vicarage over the road from us has an inebriately large collection of empty beer, wine and spirits bottles left out for the bin-men. It is my understanding that the man is living alone; but who does one contact about these things?

Meanwhile At The Archers School of Art

With news that "Phil Archer" actor Norman Painting has finally read his last script, it reminds me that it is amusing that his name sounds like a V&A corridor.

RSPCA v. RNLI

OK, I can understand how a chap can get lonely living on a remote peninsula, weather-beaten by the worst storms that the ocean can throw at you. It's an isolated job in the coastguard out there on the perilous rocks, and one may decide that a little furry friend maybe just the thing to get you through those long days and nights in the face of those storms.

And I really DO understand why a pet would be welcomed in the outpost; but in all reality who would keep a DOG on one of dangerous rock faces in the British Isles?

OK, Fido gets a bowl of water; but what is his life-expectancy exactly?

Word of the Day

Homoscedasticity

I'd explain, but I have no idea, and as you'll find, the Wiki answer takes you into Open University TV territory*

*There's one for our American friends to work out!

Cornwall

Spent the weekend in Straw Dogs country.

Gus Visser and His Singing Duck

And tomorrow: adventures in Cornwall

Live, And Let Fly

As though those green little buggers aren't dangerous enough, MI6 are issuing them with 00 status.

Mind you, they're very bright, robust and adaptable, they have a way with words and are certainly take their personal grooming seriously, so they certainly exhibit all the necessary attributes.

Maybe Blofeld's cat has finally met his match.

"Hitler Was Young Lady" Shock!

Well, according to the BBC he was!

That would explain the mascara, and the cushions.

Shake My Coconuts

At the family home at the weekend my brother unearthed a 1970s Adidas bag of mine, stuffed full of variosity, including my Dad's WWII film developing tanks, including 2"x3" contact frames; a late 1960s puncture repair kit, including French Chalk, a small white crayon and the little piece of sandpaper; a "Tommy" souvenir T-Shirt (1975), and ultimately, stuck in the pocket, this back stage pass from 1983, for Kid Creole.

I remember two things from that night.

a) It was one of the few gigs that I went to when EVERYONE danced; it was infectious and wonderful.

&

b) The arse on the girl in front of me. It was quite the best. I think the fact that I remember her arse twenty years later pays testament to it's unchallengable quality.

Nude Lebensraum Warning

I don't want to sound all Tory, and start citing Winston Churchil in the nineteen twenties, but it looks like Gerry in on the march again.

Apparently they want to march across the continent in the buff: BBC: Naked Stormtroopers On The Move!

Now that's what I call Shock Troops!

Put down your weapons!

Where did you put your helmet?

Just add your own gratuitously obvious puns here.

Fnnr Fnnr

When you run out of things to say: turn to filth.

Actual road sign in Hertfordshire, north of London.

Well, Hello!

One of the great things about the place I work is the fantastic range of job titles.

Today, I discovered that we employ a Specialist Physical Activity Coordinator!

Can't wait to meet her!

Another Surreal Masterpiece

In my opinion "Steam Bending Wood" is every bit as good as "Eraserhead", if not better.

What do the wind chimes mean? Who is the mysterious stranger? Is he mute? What is he BUILDING in there?

Fnnr Fnnr Corner

I was sandpapering the oars this weekend, (that isn't a euphamism!), and on returning to the shed after fetching tea, discovered this!

What can it mean?

File under: rubbing wood; polishing the punt; rollocks.

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