Yukata Sone

Really cool Manhattan in stone from China.

Grotesque Bournemouth

Must be something in that sea air, but Bournemouth's changed since I last rented a deckchair.

Warning: video contains local authority personnel in hi-viz, just in case.

Weather Update

As London enjoys its brief Indian Summer, with a much appreciated heat wave, there are those amongst us who are somewhat behind the curve.

A lobster coloured colleague approaches me, puffing:

Him: "Blimey, are you hot?"

Me: "Yes, it's a nice change!"Him: "I'm REALLY hot!"

Me: "Why don't you take that jumper off then?"

Him: "Yeh," (pause to think) "I suppose I should really!"

Equivalent VII: The Wickes Years

I did a double take at the builder's depot.

Didn't the Tate spend a lot of money on that?

Is it now on tour?

And was that Carl Andre demonstrating the Black & Decker WM550 new improved more versatile Workmate?

Come to think about, maybe not.

Spontaneous Combustion Latest

Meanwhile, in Ireland, the Galway coroner has had a busy week.

"Dougal, have you got the results on that fire at the old fellah's house now?"

"Sorry there Ted, but I'm at a loss on this one, and I've too much on to really examine it. Do you mind if we just spin the wheel on this one?"

"OK Dougal, but don't let it become a habit!"

There is a spinning sound, which eventually slows to a clicking halt.

"Blimey, what's the chance of it landing on that? Better tell the press unit to brace themselves!"

World's Most Boring Teenager Unveiled

Hey, remember William Hague? He was that dickhead kid that the Tories shoved on stage in front of Thatcher to convince the public that she didn't eat children.

He went on to become an ineffective politician, hapless party leader and now embarrassing foreign secretary.

Well, to prove that those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it, some idiot at the Labour Party conference has found Rory Weal (or is it Ron Weasly?), who is clearly unable to understand the point of being young.

You know, the halfwit in the playground that approaches the smokers and barracks them with "brothers and sisters, why prevaricate? Is it not incumbent upon us to aggregate our anger in a collective effort to shake off the cloak of false conciousness and storm the fortress that is our repressive yet complacent parliamentary autocracy! Come with me as we rise against the OOF!...Aargh!
Now now; let's have solidarity...Ouch, that hurts! I beseech you, don't you see that that's what they want you to do! OOOF! But I'm your leader, MMMFF!"

Someone give the little turd spliff for fuck's sake. It didn't hamper the career of Cameron or Osborne.

Can't Afford It? Just Do It!

It's curious how we can live in parallel universes.

For example, the business pages are full of how the world stands on the brink of an economic catastrophy, which our greatest economists admit that they're at a loss to tackle.

And then in another column, we read that the populace don't care, as long as they have credit cards, they're going to keep NIKE in record profits buying stuff they don't need.

Living the dream!

Beware!

South Bank: Urban Fox

Your Freedom = Our Oil

As the Libyan revolution/debacle continues to unfold, the Great Powers are lining up to grab the post-war spoils, and are manoeuvring to exploit the needs of whoever fills the vacuum.

Having poured huge resources into the NATO effort so far to ensure that western control is retained in the region, they now expect the quid pro quo from the recipients of this largesse.

However, it appears that the ingrates are a little more savvy than the deadly celebratory shooting in the air would indicate.

As the British government begins to show its hand by being patronising on one hand ("didn't you do WELL!") and demanding on the other ("don't forget who put you here") those pesky Libyans have pulled a fast one.

It's a no-brainer. The intelligence revelations exposing the relationship between Gaddafi, the CIA & MI6 were always going to be toxic, and any owner of that material would know that. Therefore, Washington and London could only hope that the current (and no doubt fleeting) leadership would not bite the hand that has so generously fed them in order to keep the powers sweet.

However, it's a war, and everyone can do perfidy, and the National Transitional Council chosen to play their ace before the dust has settled.

The west may be able to rely on 400 years on colonialism to know what works, but they must realise that by now, SO DO THE COLONIALS.

Last week it was claimed that the suspected killer of WPC Yvonne Fletcher had been found executed, "shot, possibly by former regime apparatchiks hoping to silence him". No doubt the new guys were aware of the expectations of the British government, yet were keen to end any unnecessary wrangling that did not advance the cause of the NTC. Bang Bang: Problem Solved. In the "fog of war" that's easy.

If the British Government had any notion that the Libyans would care a fart for Tory promises to the oil companies, then it is now dashed.

Curiously enough, give the Tories credit. Cameron has immediately taken the opportunity to place blame for the MI6 farce on the Labour party and the previous government! He may not have any ideas, but he's the master of the pointless political smokescreen.

Meanwhile, BP and BIG OIL will have to resort to their usual covert methods to turn the situation around to their advantage. And they will.

The Shame of Miss Jean Brodie

Well, it's A-Level day again, and once more the press will cover the story in two ways. a) get some crusty old tory to bemoan how exams are getting too easy, and b) feature images of shapely young women jumping the the air for joy at their marvellous results.

However, it transpires that the private girls' schools have been pimping out their prettier ladies for the occasion.

Over at the Media Blog they have examples, including Badminton School's invitation to:

"interview, take shots and film as we have lots of girls coming in that day including the three below who would make very good case studies - they speak extremely well and take a good picture..."

Here's hoping for a hot day where clothing will require loosening!

For You Tommy, Resistance Is Futile!

On glancing at Wikipedia, I read about Czechoslovak motorcycle manufacturer Jawa , well remembered from my childhood as a speedway fan.

I did a double take on the following statement:

World War II period

The Germans had captured the Jawa factory and were using the facility for the research and manufacture of Robots.

ROBOTS? Er, like, with laser eyes and crusher grip hands?

Were they ever deployed? If so, why didn't they win?

What happened to them?

Wikipedia fails to elucidate further, but if the Nazis had killer robots, I think we should know!

Is there a hidden warehouse somewhere in Eastern Europe where Hitler's mechanised Uber Storm Troopers reside, waiting for the moment when they shall be summoned forth to reek terrible revenge?

I'm sorry, but Wikipedia needs to provide a few more details, and quickly!

Welcome To The Self-Incriminating Generation

On watching the "JD Sports" riots last week, I pondered as to how many of the herberts in action would manage to shop themselves. Social media is a great place to share your excitement about what you're up to, but some are unable to think it all the way through.

In recent years, police forces have learned to rely on Facebook, YouTube etc as the first port of call to accrue easy evidence, and so were no doubt confident that half of their job was being done for them by the hapless mob. One dick rushed home with his contraband, and immediately posted photos of his haul online, explaining exactly where and when he had stolen it.

And then there is the smart technology.

The BBC have published this , where an Apple Macbook Pro owner described as a "former NASA and FBI employee", primed his laptop to track its movements.

Having had it stolen, he monitered its use and obtained the thief's "name, school, address in west London and information about his wireless internet".

Curiously, as the police take flak for apparently losing control of the streets last week, we may have to ask how much the crowds were actually policing themselves, and ceding some of that control by recording and reporting their own crimes as they progressed.

Jae

JAE | Part 1 (Lest I Ever Waited / Jim's Place) | A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

FO...And Don't Come Back!

Just in case our overseas viewers have been looking at this week's shenanigans with a sense of remoteness, be warned: We're Coming to Get You!

The Foreign & Commonwealth Office has produced a rather useful cut-out and keep guide to Brits in Trouble Abroad .

From the "Oh crying loud, what have they done NOW?" school of embassy work.

Note: back in the seventies, in Biarritz in France, my surfer brother and his pals were held up a machine gun point by basque terrorists/freedom fighters.

Had the van they were sleeping EVER started properly, they would have lost anything, but as it was, the gunmen grabbed what they could, included the much sought after passports, and made off.

Now penniless and stateless, the victims turned to the British Consulate there, public school toffs to a man, who deemed my brother and his friends to be beneath contempt.

Fortunately, the French authorities keen to suppress the story to protect tourism in the high income resort were more than helpful, as were the locals, and aid was provided until the Embassy finally bothered to issue emergency passports so that they could get home.

They were the days.

We Will Fight Them On The Beaches

Give credit where credit is due, the Iranian leadership may be a bunch of fundamentalist tossers, but at least the have displayed an opportunist sense of humour. Yesterday, they appealed to the British Authorities "to exercise restraint" in regard to their approach to the mobs.

Meanwhile, as London burns and the Tories meet the forces at the belatedly convened COBRA* security committee, there was fun in the sand next door in Horse Guards Parade where there was a demonstration of Olympic Beach Volleyball !

Actually, holding any demonstration in Whitehall at the moment may have be construed as foolhardy, but fortunately the sight of those shapely young arses would be enough to calm the nerves of the most savage beast. I suspect that Mr Cameron et al may have ambled over after their talk just to have a perv under the pretence that they're enthused about next year's games. "Yes Prime Minister, that's... er...that's certainly worth, um, waiting for....blimey!"

Maybe that's the answer to the current disorder: a mobile beach volleyball tournament, available for deployment at any moment to any location.

Rioting?: "Look boys! Trim young lady's arses!" Then, as the hoodies' brains turn to mush, uniformed officers round them up like BSE blighted cattle.

Now that's what I call a "snatch squad".

(I've never actually been to a beach volleyball tournament. Do they actually perform to GoGo music? If they don't already, I think they should.)

*The rather cool and vaguely menacing title of the COBRA committee actually derives from Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, located in the Cabinet Office. Yes there is a Cabinet Office Briefing Room B, but A is bigger and accomodates more people.

I Mean; Really!

I've had this for a few days now, but events dear boy:

You know when you're doing a google search, and you get something not quite what you're looking for?

Imaging my disappointment when I found THIS!

A Modest Proposal

As you can imagine, listeners have been queueing for my solutions to the latest disturbances across the metropolis.

I have three:

a) snatch squads grab a mere handful of herberts off the street. Rough them up a bit to gain compliance, then dress them in baby doll outfits with crude girly make up and make them recite on camera "I feel pretty!". This footage to be posted on social media as a warning to the others.

b) Identify mobile numbers used in the area at the time and merely text them a summons to the magistrates court the next day. "Failure to do so..."

c) Helicopter Gunships

OK, not too much social inclusion there, but I think more entertaining, and I'm pissed off because the library was closed when I popped in to drop off the weekend's DVD.

So There!

Meanwhile; Amongst Nature

As the metropolis burns around me, I turn my face to the ground and lo!

Object Trouvet!

I have to admit that this was not photographed in situ, as there were burly workmen sitting around nearby having a litter-strewn fast food lunch, and I feared that I'd appear the milksop if I was witnessed taking this before them.

I therefore carried it home and replicated the scene in my back garden amid the sound of bells from a nearby church. Very quaint: unless of course the peal was one of warning of imminent invasion?

North London Riots: Latest

Obviously, the last two nights have been quite traumatic for all of us, but on the good side, my local crack house now boasts a new plasma screen and a blueray DVD player!

I also have a share in a glazing company.

Result!

Council Watch

Bad Disneyland: The Bunker Experience

OK everybody, I'm sorry, I've been away from my desk and been a bit neglectful.

However, there is often something that drives me towards the Blog, and this is one of those.

Those cheeky funsters in Eastern Europe have been up to their hi-jinks, and have been trying to present a Nazi bunker as a tourist attraction.

Warning, this story includes the phrase:

"They wanted to offer tourists the chance to try on uniforms, hang sub machine-guns around their necks and pose for pictures with Nazi flags in the background. This is blatant Nazi propaganda."

Sadly, there are no details of how one books tickets to visit this sight of historic interest.

Big Shoes To Fill

I have to admit, I was disappointed: Not a clown it sight!

Short Back & Sides and Sensible Shoes

Can I just declare that I am not, have never been, or even pretended to be a Lesbian.

Hope I Die Before I Get Old

At the end of the sixties, the Isle of Wight inadvertantly hosted two seminal rock festivals which became definitive of the age, both in the scale of the events, as crowds of 250,000 + poured in from all over Europe to see the music elite of the time, and in how each descended into chaos and insanitary squalor which augured the end of an era.

Although the highlights included Dylan's return to performing, and The Who laying claim to their status as the greatest live band on earth, the final festival of 1970 also proved to be Hendrix's swansong*.

The fact that the events happened at all was remarkable, run by local amateurs with no knowledge of the logistics or economics necessary to manage anything on that scale. The notoriously conservative folk of the island were divided about the invasion, and were either appalled that it was allowed to happen in their back yard, or amused by the hippy invasion (which quickly became a target for sight-seeing, like a sprawling unwashed freak-show) and set out to profiteer from a number of improvised entrepreneurial ventures like selling food to the inadequately catered-for participants at grossly inflated prices.

I mention this because I have some knowledge of this having researched the events.The one constant in the newspapers and police reports of the time is the ability of the islanders to moan and make out how much they'd suffered from the whole sordid episode.

Hence my amusement to read that times change, but folk don't.

The recent spate of authority-approved festivals on the Island are safely anodyne in comparison with the originals, yet have managed to generate controversy.

Apparently, folding chairs have been BANNED!

I mean, how else are you supposed to watch the Foo Fighters if not comfortably seated with a good pipe on the go? And a flask of tea. Why not bring your own sandwiches whilst your at it?

Typically, one islander complained:

"I'm absolutely furious. It's 175 quid down the drain. [The organisers] need to treat the public with respect."

£175 for a folding chair? And was he really only intending to use it the once?

It's amusing to think that the locals not only feel safe enough to attend, but are still taking the opportunity to mither about it.

*Hendrix played two other gigs: jamming at Ronnie Scott's and appearing in an equally chaotic island festival in Germany, but it was the IoW that offered the last en masse opportunity to view the guitar legend.

Revolution: Once Step Too Far

Now, nobody believes in the power of the collective as much as me, and the problems of the world are clearly solvable through anarcho-syndicalism.

However, I think there's a time and place for everything, and if there's a line that doesn't need crossing by the body politic it has to be where women's bits are concerned.

Keep it to yourself and behind the curtains missus!

No Man's Land

Spotlight on Camden Town

To be fair, the vehicle had Finland plates.

Take It Apart

I beseech you to read "A Codified Set of the Builder's, Crafters, Makers Rules" at Wondermark

For shed men everywhere.

Special Agent Rin Tin Tin

I read the following in a BBC account of the Bin Laden raid:

Several reports say an unidentified canine was strapped to a human member of the Seals team as he was lowered into the compound

I suspect the truth was somewhere near this:

T minus twenty seconds;

"At the ready men, and prepare to land; Holy Crap! Agent Dugard, explain yourself!"

"Sir, I'm sorry Sir! Sir, believe me I tried, but Mary Sue is in the jug for drink-driving again and her sister who normally does the dog-sitting is working double-shifts at the chicken-ranch. If I leave him at home he chews up the trailer! Sir!"

"We'll talk about this later, just keep that thing under control! OK men: Jump!"

Two minutes later.

"Minsky, we're still waiting for you! What's the problem now!"

"Sir, I'm sorry sir!" Sir; I think its the excitement sir! He's kinda sensitive!"

"Well make sure you pick that up on the way out!

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Woof!"

"Cool your jets Jimbo, we're in enough trouble! Jeez, look! That's the guy from the posters!"

Gunshots are heard.

No One Wants to Discuss the Truth

Oh yeah, like anyone believes that Bin Laden is actually dead!

Of course he was buried at sea: in a casket with breathing apparatus!

There was a submarine below the whole canard, waiting to transport Agent Bin Laden back to CIA headquarters in Langley, where he'll be debriefed before being retired to secret quarters.

Apparently, he's acquired a taste for the ladies since having 17 wives, and is insisting on a similar arrangement in Oregan.

He'll be moving into a community with the other decommissioned agents like Bruce Lee, Elvis Presley and Benny Hill.

Actually, I'm not sure about that last one. I read that at the normally reliable angryabouteverything.com, but I'm beginning to question their judgement recently since they claimed that Obama didn't even HAVE a birth certificate because he was a cyborg created at the back of a surfing novelty shop in Honolulu during a particular low tide.

Anyway: he's alive!

Or, and I'm inclined towards this one: they have his head alive in a jar, just in case they need access to an evil genius to resist future alien onslaught.

Oh I don't know, it must be one of the two, but I'm undecided.

It's just that I've been having a few identity issues recently, and feeling more than my usual level of alienation since Mr Chutney the rent collector moved in with Mom. Apart from his carnal advances upon her, he's also been looking at porn images of fat chicks on my laptop, and then blaming me!

But will the Navy Seals do anything about him?

No, of course not! It's SO UNFAIR!

Dun Laden

Well, that's just typical.

Americans celebrating the death of Bin Laden, with no consideration for those of us chasing debts.

I haven't been paid for all that tunneling work and air conditioning we put in for him about a decade ago!

And I've still got a dodgy stomach from my time on the Tora Bora food plan.

I mean, there's a recession on and the building trade is in enough difficulty without this.

I've still got a bloody "super-gun" out the back that Saddam ordered of me. No chance of getting rid of that either!

Please Wear The White Gloves Provided

Researching as I do, I stumble upon the poorly designed yet unteresting The National Museum of Science & Industry (NMSI) site, which provides details of museum collections.

Heavily featured, site left, at the head of the 'Popular Objects' section is a link to the Arita Drug and Rubber Goods Company pre-war sex aids collection.

This may give us a glimpse of the world had the Japanese won the war.

Happy Christmas Mr. Lawrence indeed!

Volcanic Dust Inquest

So we learn that the no-fly declaration following last year's Icelandic volcano eruption was valid after all.

Volcanic Dust Sand Blasting Effect

However I am bemused to read the statement:

Some 10 million travellers were affected by the shutdown .

The travellers on the camp down the road from me don't look like the jet-setting kind, and are far too busy fly-tipping and horse-trading to leave their caravans.

Surely some mistake?

The Royal Wedding Broadside

A colonial acquaintace asked my thoughts on next weeks Royal Wedding.

This came out:


Although I am no monarchist, I've never been too bothered to go out of my way to exhibit my opposition.

Some will feel the need to demonstrate their ire by phoning up the media and putting on a display of having a picnic miles away from anywhere without TV or Radio, to ensure that their protest is duly noted. It’s the modern way, and no doubt there’s even an appropriate Facebook page available to register one’s disdain.

Having said that, I've yet to come across too much of such posturing, as the dissenters are choosing to just get on with their lives. And actually, now we're no longer tied to old media, it's so much easier to live in parallel without the big day obstructing normal life.

On the day of Diana's death, the British media came to a standstill as all their resources were re-routed to re-cycle the same story ad nauseam throughout the day. The BBC received so many complaints, they had to revert back to normal programming to stem the tirade. My partner and I went to see The Full Monty, it was very good.

Back in 1981, at the Charles / Diana bout, there were a plethora of "fuck the Royal Wedding" gigs on the big day. In fact, it was at one of these that I met a future partner-to-be (but don't get me started on HER!). I'm sure that this time there will be a host of similar events, musical and otherwise, although (like with the Facebook thing) I am now too old to know where.

Basically, there are as many antagonists as there are enthusiasts, but the wadge in the middle who don't mind either way will watch it with everyone else, the way they watch the world cup final, or Wimbledon in a disinterested way, yet are reluctant to miss out on the goodwill generated. It therefore appears that the numbers are generally in favour; it's a party after all.

What will actually happen is the nation will unite because "it’s what we do best". We can't produce a world beating football team or Wimbledon champion, or retain a car industry, or function in one inch of snow, but we can do pomp. It will run like clockwork. It will be spectacular. It will cost a fortune, but as no-one knows how much, and couldn't care less because no-one understands just how big the recession is anyway.

It's a feel-good event. We'll never get a welcoming parade for the end of the war in Afghanistan because that war will never end. The England team will never parade the streets of the capital in an open-topped bus with the world cup. But we have our Royals; they’ll do.

And it has to be said, they couldn't have found a better bride. My God she's a belter!

I'm amused that the press are doing their best to portray her as the commonest of commoners, descended from lowly miners no less. This is conveniently ignoring the fact that she is the daughter of multi-millionaire business owners and her father is from staunch Banker/Lawyer stock, going back generations. I suspect that there was a time when Kate's mother was also well fit, and traded those looks on the market for a prize worthy of her own mercantile ambitions. Hence a dynasty is born, and now they have aspired to the very top. Millions in the bank today, and a king for a grandson tomorrow. The icing on the cake.

Anyway, going back to "what we do best". Did you know that Diana got the Queen Mother's funeral? The Queen Mother (literally, the mother of the present queen, who had been Queen previously, married to the king from The Kings Speech) lived a LONG TIME. There was a funeral arranged and budgeted-for, awaiting her demise. When the "Princess Whore" pegged it in that Parisian tunnel with her swarthy paramour, the powers-that-be activated the old-dear's ceremony and commandeered it for the people’s slapper.

The world sat in wonder as Britain put on a flawless display, inch-perfect and to the second, at such short notice. My partner’s brother-in-law, an Albanian, was in awe. When I bemoaned the event he objected.

"That was incredible" he argued. "To achieve such perfection! In Albania we couldn't do that; you wouldn't be able to find the guy!"

(“The guy” being whoever was responsible for organising things, disappeared elsewhere in a dereliction of duty, up to no good. Not unlike George Bush with Hurricane Katrina.)

And so it will be next week. William will stand grinning, with his pasty face and male-pattern baldness inherited from his father (unlike his brother who boasts the thick ginger locks owing to HIS patronage). Kate will be radiant, and do her bit to sell tabloids, gossip sheets and TV specials around the world. Everybody wins.

Except the tax payer. It will be claimed that the income from this, in fees and tourism, will more than pay for it, although no-one will show any statistics to prove this. And no-one will ask to see them.

That's how it works. As the event escalates, the public get drawn in, and once the mass develops its collective consciousness dissent will be shouted down. Why would ANYONE want to spoil the fun? Why are there people who always have to piss on our chips? BOO!

It never makes any sense, but it always happens, and I think it's to do with our inability to do anything else. Royal events of this magnitude are the only thing that won't let us down. We're in our element; it's what we're good at, and we feel good doing it, because we're in control and we have the rulebook.

At football and war, the opposition won't let us win, (although we could if they’d play to the rules!) but there are no barriers to success at a Royal Wedding.

So why aren't there riots?

It's not a political event, and it's difficult to tie the Royals into the Global Capitalist Conspiracy because they are perceived as apolitical, and their money is so old that nobody can remember who died in it’s making.

As for our anarchists, they are just that; disaffected and unconnected from the system. They don't arrange anything. They rely on the G8 summits, or anti-government demos to create a pre-arranged event to which they can just gatecrash and take their photo-opportunity. Look at me; I'm the spirit of 1848! The Royal Wedding is not a protest march. There is no fuel.

There won't be riots because no-one will be bothered to turn up and instigate one. Those who do have the wherewithal are the very same people setting themselves up outside the city demonstrating how disconnected they are, enduring their dissenters' picnic in the Shetland rain..

Yes, it’s a travesty, but like class, and the decline in serving standards in pubs, it’s something we know isn’t right, but that we can’t be bothered to do anything about.

Indeed, if there’s one thing Britain does better than ceremony, it’s a crippling form of begrudging apathy.

Bah!

Is This It?

Today didn't start too well, and the job has been a little bit pointless recently.

Then, today, I find that my inbox includes and invitation to attend a "residential ventilation seminar".

Yes, a residential ventilation seminar!

Is this what my life has come to?

Maybe it's time to consider the tranquilisers/scotch cocktail.

Help yourself to my effects

To Hell In A HandCart!

OK everybody: there's a recession on!

Except in Northamptonshire, where they have nothing better to do than go round some old lady's house and measure the volume of a cat's purr.

OK, fair enough; if that's what you want to do with your life, let them get on with it, but witnesses inlcuded:

Daventry MP Chris Heaton-Harris, veterinary nurse Kaye James, Diana Johnson from Cats Protection, and British Airways captain Alisdair Tait.

A Member of Parliament and an Airline pilot attended a purring contest?

I'm sorry, but shouldn't they be elsewhere? You know: at work?

Maybe they're they are unemployed already? Possibly this is the future of unemployment?

I obviously know nothing anymore!

Apocalypse!

Fukashima!

Whilst the world is gawping at the internicine fighting in the middle east (masquerading as democratic reform) Japan is drowning in radioactive liquid!

Apparently, according to the BBC, water leaking on the sight of the Fukashima nuclear plant is the most contaminated to be found at the plant so far, exceeding 1,000 millisieverts per hour.

(According to the internet a Sievert is a unit of radiation, and not one of those furry creatures that pooh coffee; that's a Civet).

Anyway, there was a moment of light relief, when Tepco , the hapless contractor in charge of the meltdown, originally claimed that radiation levels at reactor No 2 were 10 million times higher than normal. Imagine our relief when then realised their mistake and downsized it to a mere 100,000!

Phew, you had us there!

I also like the way that the "experts" interviewed to fill airtime on the subject are all nuclear industry people who have the look of "oh my god, I'm going to be unemployed!" about them. It doesn't help that they keep reiterating the mantra that this isn't another Chernobyl, MERELY another Three Mile Island.

Oh, that's all right then.

I think we need to keep watching Japan whilst that thing is slow burrowing it's way through the Earth towards us, and possibly emerging to wipe out the Middle East for once and for all!

Gadzooks! Fetch My Cape!

London Underground are prepared to roll out wi-fi on the tube.

Boris Johnson is all for it:

"The roll out will finally allow Londoners to use mobile devices to pick up their e-mails and stay in touch with the world while they traverse our subterranean network."

Yes, our Mayor uses phrases like "traverse our subterranean network"!

I Visit Third World At Post Office!

It's been a long time since I had to queue to claim benefits. The last time I claimed dole was 1978, and the final time I "signed on" as unemployed (although untitled to dole) was 1988, when I went to the social security office in Lewisham, where I was the only claimant who wasn't Irish, black or tattooed; and yes, there were some who qualified for all three.

I mention this as I realised how long it has been since I experienced the deprivation and soul destruction that is the long wait to have you number called amongst the hoi polloi.

This line of thought was triggered by a visit to the Post Office in Camden Town, where there is some cruel and unnecessary experiment taking place. You cannot queue in this post office, you have to get a ticket. There are four categories of ticket: Business, Special Delivery, Currency Exchange and Counter Services each with its own numbering system.

You take a ticket, and then wait for when your number comes up. And you wait. And wait.

There are seats provided, but they are full of the crazed, the local indolent and the elderly despondent.

I did the calculation: time to process one person times the number of tickets waiting, divided by the counters available. Ten minutes?

But what is this? People with Business tickets are prioritised! If a business ticket appears on the display board, it becomes the next number at the next available counter. Three business tickets means you just went backwards by three places! Then it is realised that the same applies for Currency tickets!

At least in the time now available, I was able to go back out to the high street and buy a) some tea, milk and bananas, b) a book (Seized, by Max Hardberger) and c) a cake.

On returning, my number was fifth in line to be served. I still had to wait ten minutes.

And the piece de resistance?

Twenty minutes plus after first encountering the squalor, I was finally served; albeit efficiently, but only to find the teller offering to sell me car insurance!

Royal Mail staff are being asked to sell car insurance to people who have been held against their will in a conditions that would appal a Mombassan prison guard!

How does that work? Is this what we've come to?

Now had I been offered euthanasia....

Richard Ayoade's Submarine

I can thoroughly recommend Submarine; provincial teenage existentialism encapsulated.

Actually,I can imagine that the younger audiences may find it a little difficult to sit through due to the cringe factor.

One note: does suffer from the poor light that blights most British Films.

The BIG News Stories

In a week where there is an abundance of news, with nuclear meltdowns, all out war in the Middle East and the chancellor's budget intentions, it's nice to know that the BBC is still able to run stories featuring the phrases booze apocalypse and sodomy ad ban

Blimey!

Did You Know?

Did you know that the raunchy French sex-hit of the 1960s "J'Taime", was originally an advert for cigarettes called "Gitanes"?

Basically, it was the same music, but instead of the sultry moaning of the young chanteause Jane Birkin, it featured the tobacco-induced coughing of Serge Gainsbourg.

Serge later re-mixed the track after marketing testing amongst the target audience indicated that they'd rather listen to someone having it off than hacking it up.

Jane is now the director of France's leading chain of teeth-whiting clinics.

Ducking Gaddafi's Shit Storm

As the world watches Libya and deludes itself that civil war may produce liberal democracy, there are others that view the footage muttering "Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck" as they see their ill-gotten gaddafi gravy-train gains splash back from the the fan and discolour their careers.

For example: Thatcherite university LSE has been showing just how much money can be had by wallowing amongst dictators and oligarchs.

Elsewhere, the agents of ill-advised, yet admittedly greedy and amoral Celebrities have been phoning them up and breaking the news that the money has to go back.

It's rare that it comes to this, but their loss is our schadenfreude.

Oh Dear

For our American listeners: Carsi is arabic for lavatory, and is used in England as a vulgar term for the same.

The Words That Maketh Murder

What If I Take My Problems To The United Nations?

Bontempi Pusher Exposed

Apparently, Hashim Thaci, Kosova's prime minister has been dealing in organs and drugs.

I think the authorities need to interview Keith Emerson!

Awayday to Avalon

Winter Wonderland Woe

Yes, it's a Stolen Snowman

Contains the quote:

"It ain't a nice road but you don't expect someone to nick your snowman."

Hygiene Warning

Forget Wikileaks: I can reveal that that new guy in HR, you know, the lanky streak of piss with the wayward hair, well, I can reveal that he was in the lavvy having a dump, and then came out and left WITHOUT WASHING HIS HANDS: Dirty Bastard!

Hopefully, I'll not be introduced to him, and will therefore avoid the embarrassment of refusing to shake hands.

And whilst I'm talking about Wikileaks: where does this leave the conspiracy theorists? Surely, the controlling state will have stopped this? Or is Wikileaks a hoax set up by the hegemony to make us believe that they are not omnipotent? Or did it never happen at all, like the moon landings?

Meet Your Local Sniffer Dog

Starbucks in St Pancras station has a neighbourhood board!

In the era of paranoia, I thought it was quite fitting that they're introducing us to the four-legged frontline in the war on terror.

Meet the gang:

Trampled Underfoot

In the wake of the student demonstrations against increased college fees, and the presence of (rather photogenic) schoolgirls in particular, the Metropolitan Police are concerned about the youngsters' well-being.

According to a strapline in a paper on the tube:

Met claim school kids' safety in danger from Demo

Err, actually, I think you'll find that they're more in danger from being baton-charged by police on horseback!

Cowboyds Anandians

Apparently, at some point in history, the organisation for which I work had dealings with the Association for Anandians.

No, I never heard of them either. Wikipedia informs me that they are the old boys of Ananda College , a buddhist school in Sri Lanka.

Et Alia, Wikipedia provides the following fact:

1891 November: C.C. Jayatissa, who was Anandian, was the first Sri Lankan to pass the Cambridge junior examination in the German language.


It also publishes the school song, which appears to have been written by Kurt Schwitters:


Anandai anandai anande ada anandai

Samma sambudu sugatha thatgatha sambudu pilimaya abiyasadee Kelesun Duruwee Athyugalesadee

Anandai anandai anande ada anandai

Silgath thani sudu nelum kusum lesa, pehedi, pibidi pirisindu wee Munidun namadimu ath yuga hisadee

Anandai Anandai Anande ada anandai


Now, if only I could have gone to a school like that.

Up North

Yes, after a gruelling weeks I get a weekend away in York.

It was like visiting an Alan Bennett theme park:

“We’re Europeans” I heard one lady exclaim “we’re just not designed for that kind of food!”.

The Prophylactic Pontiff

Now that the Bachelor of Rome has decided that it's OK for Catholic male prostitutes to use condoms, I was wondering if it's now OK for his Colombian constituents to continue using them to transport cocaine in the traditional fashion?

"Hey Baby, Can I Fill Your Tank?"

French parents had brought unnecessary embarassment to their daughters by going to to court to stop Renault calling their new runaround the Zoe.

They even went to the lengths to employ some sort of pervert to represent them.

Their lawyer:

argued that all of France's thousands of Zoes could be affected, with playground teasing and, as they grow older, comments in bars such as "Can I see your airbags?" or "Can I shine your bumper?"

Yeh, thanks a lot.

Renault won.

Borstal Boy Breakout!

I don't know what was happening on the other side of this door, and I don't WANT to know.

I can reassure my listeners that I moved on swiftly, and didn't look back!

Crime Latest

Looks like the Cat Burglar is moving up in the world. Persistently.

Eno & Dick Flash: Interview

The Dirty Old Man Cometh

My colleague has just returned from lunch, and as the lift was about to descend, found his progress stalled as an elderly man stopped the closing doors with his walking stick.

"I'm sorry," my colleague informed the octogenarian "but this lift is going down!".

"Don't worry son," quipped the aged lothario "I always go down first!"

What a guy!

Victor Sparkles Pop Quest: Chill Out With Mingus!

Did you know that children's favourite Pingu the Penguin was originally named Mingus?

Mingus the Penguin wore sunglasses and a pork pie hat, and inhabited a "cool pad" at the north pole, where he "hung out" with a picaresque collection of beatniks, misfits and loose women.

Unfortunately the name was dropped when the family of Jazz Trombonist Charley Mingus opposed the use of the brand.

In their objections, they cited Mingus the Penguin's substance abuse, bohemian lifestyle and indifference towards social propriety.

"Let's face it," commented a spokesman "the portrayal was a clichéd interpretation of the jazz scene, and a frankly disturbing misrepresentation of the natural world, presenting both environments as feckless, hedonistic and degenerate!"

After ranting for some time, the spokesman concluded: "actually, this isn't really anything to do with Charley's legacy. Let's face it, he's dead, and probably couldn't care less what this animal gets up to, but we feel that it's important to let the world know that penguins are a hard-working social species with little use for extravagant and hedonistic individualism. This show is nothing more than anthromophism gone mad!"

The dispute continued for some years until the project was quietly dropped, only to be rediscovered by younger, trendier, up-and-coming TV execs inspired by the opportunity to broadcast low cost programming with little need for be creative themselves.

However, by the time the penquin scripts reached the filming stage, "Pingu" had not only been renamed, but divested of his louch accoutrements and sanitized for the modern audience, with little more than an appetite for fish.

Pingu is said to be the late Margaret Thatcher's favourite television programme.

Pervy About Protective Clothing?

Then try Spain, where the prostitutes are now wearing hi-viz jackets !

It's the law: you want to work on the motorway, you have to wear compliant safety gear.

Fit for Purpose.

London Fire Brigade to Strike

Yes as the news breaks that the capital's fire-fighters are to strike on Bonfire Night, the ShoeBox has an exclusive interview with a man in a helmet:

"Actually, we're all a bit scared of Bonfire Night, on account of all those fires, and the added risk of all those fireworks, so we voted to avoid it this year. I personally don't like all that banging!"

He then added:

"Also, if we have to go out fighting fires, then we have to interrupt all the other jobs that we normally do to bring in further income whilst we're not really doing anything. You know, in the vast spaces of time between incidents, now that we live in an age where Health & Safety legislation has outlawed many of the traditional sources of ignition. And let's face it, there's only so many cats a man can rescue, without it looking suspicious!"

Then our spokesman yawned, pulled his blanket back up and resumed his afternoon knap at the switchboard.

If only Guy Fawkes knew what he started!

No Fun For Go-Go Go-Getters

As listeners will know, the ShoeBox loves nothing more than lawn-mowing in a mini-skirt and clogs, whilst blaspheming at the well-fed stray cats in the garden.

Well, if I was in Italy THAT WOULD BE A CRIME

"Centre Right" Mayor Luigi Bobbio, (yes, right out of central casting) of Castellammare di Stabia (no, I never heard of it either) seeks to ban miniskirts, sunbathing, playing football in public places, and blasphemy!

The BBC goes on to point out:

"In other places they have banned sandcastles, kissing in cars, feeding stray cats, wooden clogs and the use of lawn mowers at weekends."

There is no indication as to whether Mayor Bobbio is just a lonely misantrhopic Ogre who just hates the thought of other people having fun.

Editorial: Actually, to some extent the ShoeBox is with him on the miniskirt issue.
Naturally, I like to perv at the leggy young lovelies just as much as the next man, but there seems to be no quality control, and leggy loveliness is a finite commodity.

Have you seen the state of some of them out there?

I say, put the controls in at the point of sale.

A discerning gentleman could be employed at each boutique, to discriminate (and it IS discrimination) as to who gets to wear what.

He could also provide advice like: "I say, have you thought of modelling? I have my own photographic equipment you know, and I'd be willing to waive my fee", or "you've got a lot going for you, but come back when you've lost ten pounds!", to the frank, but necessary "sorry darling, but I think you'll find Mrs Ahmed down the market sells a burkah in your size that might spare us all the grief!"

But will they allow this? Of course not, it's political correctness gone mad!

Tales From The Riverbank

A detail from my weekend, which I don't feel the need to explain.

Fat Tuesday

There is discontent in the North this morning with the news that the bus service is being slowed down by the weight of the pie-loving drivers!

The bus company have had to take drastic measures and are attempting to get a couple of the porkers to lose weight .

Apparently they exceed the 20 stone limit* , and have to be greased and shoehorned into their compartments.

(* About average size for an American).

The unions have organised industrial action, but have voted against marching as that would be too much like exercise.

"Why do you think I became a bus driver in the first place?" a spokesman said. "Where-else can you get out and about whilst sitting on yer arse all day?" before adding: "Are you going to eat those chips?"

Farewell Old Friend

My partner paid about 25p for this beauty in a car boot sale circa 1989, and it received extensive use in her bathroom for the next 15 years, until she moved in here and the appalling signal rendered it unusable.

We're a digital household now.

However, such was its appeal, that it's taken her 6 years to let it go to the tip.

I have to say, as we drove away, I had to pretend to have dirt in my eye, such was the wrench.

Mision Cumplada

As you know, I'm the last person to trivialise the plight of the Chilean miners, but I can say that I have suffered in an underground hell myself.

I was once stuck on the underground in a carriage with a man who was on his way to the international body-odour olympics.

OK, that was an assumption on my part, but I'm telling you, my money was on him to win gold! Put it this way, he was the kind of guy who never totally left a room!

Anyway, I'm not one to complain, but we were stuck in that tunnel with old stinky for two, maybe three minutes. I never thought I'd see my loved ones, or possessions again!

And what support did we get? No counselling. No visit from Il Presidente. We certainly weren't given the opportunity of live global TV coverage followed by short-lived celebrity.

Life is cruel like that.

The Lost Playhouse

Open House at Alexandra Palace reveals a theatre that has lain dark for 80years.

Pope is Cinema Villain Shock

Appalled as I am about the state visit of the Pope, and the way we seem to have allowed the papacy an opportunity to whitewash the outrages of the church, I take comfort in the fact that the Pope has an accent from the "evil-German" school of pronunciation.

As in: "Zere iss no use in scureeming, no von ken hear you!"

PT Barnum's Premier League Circus!

State of the national game update:

I was disappointed, although sadly not suprised to see coverage of the Man Utd v. Liverpool game yesterday. On scoring against Utd, Britain's most over-rated footballer ran to the corner gesturing to someone to come to him, and one would imagine that it would be a colleague for whom the goal meant something special.

No, it was the cameraman that he beckoned.

In what was so clearly a staged manouevre with the broadcasters, Gerrard prostituted himself with such vulgarity that there is no longer any doubt that Premier League football is merely Murdoch's bitch.

They're setting up their own iconic moments for fuck's sake.

Showbiz!

Sign of the Times

When I saw the BBC headline, Prince qualifies as rescue pilot. I have to admit that it didn't quite tally.

I mean, how would the Minnesota midget minstrel reach the pedals? Would there be room on board for the rescuee amongst the entourage?

Silly me; it's actually about a real prince in Wales, south of Liverpool!

At Last: The Nobby Styles Collection

Toothless sixties football icon Nobby Styles is selling it all off , although the dentures are conspicuous by their absence!

Jungle Boogie

As a young man in Poole in 1977, one only had to walk down the high street in straight jeans and a short haircut to draw enough attention to yourself to get a beating.

Fashion was such that decisions to stand out, re; clothing norms, dyed hair etc, had to be considered beforehand in consideration for the social opprobrium that it may elicit. (And I remember my friends mother taking a fit of the vapours on returning from the supermarket where she had seen a man shopping IN SHORTS!)

Youngsters these days, (now THERE'S a phrase!) genuinely have no idea what that meant. I imagine that there are still locals around the provinces that go out of their way to take exception to an individual's attire, but I suspect that's arbitrary, and not in the same vein as the witch-hunt knee-jerk of days gone by.

I mention this, as living in a time where the lines have well and truly become blurred on the apparel front, where it is insufficient to don a studded leather jacket and boast a blue mohican to expect it to be read as a statement.

Imagine my surprise therefore to be confronted by the sight of a young black guy moving through Kings Cross this morning in an enormous Afro. Now that was a stand out statement, and certainly not a everyday occurence. Well done that man! Hurrah!

Cue wah wah pedal and Soul Train dancing!

Hug Trees: Growl At Parrots

Another Experimental Disappointment

Alas, my perceived success at achieving a cloak of invisibility has been proved a disasterous failure.

Apparently, people have just been ignoring me.

Sadly, I didn't find out until a complete stranger walked in and said "why are you wearing that stupid cape, you wanker!"

And to think that it was remarks like that that drove me to my experiments in the first place.

I am now working on a "colleague-atomising death-ray".

Social Services: Latest

Honestly, you would not BELIEVE the paperwork involved! A bureaucratic NIGHTMARE! Really!

London Transport Strike: Latest

Is Bob Crow man enough to face the animal lobby?

Come on Morrissey; do your thing!

Never In The Field Of Human Conflict

As the unions on the underground celebrate the anniversary of the blitz with their own form of strike on the populace, I successfully struggled in, only to be confronted by another retro action at the coffee kiosk, where I was SHORT-CHANGED!

It's like the 1970s out there!

Not that the little shit got away with it! (And it wasn't a mistake; he looked like he should be wearing a tee-shirt with "Dodgy Git" written on it.) I demanded my money and got it.

Then on arrival at work, I discovered that he'd failed to put sugar in it. He asked "do you want sugar?" I said "yes". It is not difficult.

Mind you, it did give me the retro satisfaction of stirring my coffee with a pencil, old stylee, which was comforting. I felt like a 1940s government scientist.

Please Lead Me To Your Car

We were discussing driving tests, and a colleague was telling me of her first.

"It was a really windy day, and as we went to get into the car, the guy's toupée flew off! I was laughing so much I couldn't control myself, so the guy just refused to carry on. I didn't even get my money back!"

Ah, authority figures, they were the days!

Saturday 4th

Living In The Future: Again!

OK, so the Royal Mail just released its new interactive stamps which can be read by your iPhone using the Junaio application to launch a video, or web data pertinent to the theme:

According to the BBC*:

Those viewing the stamp, part of the Royal Mail's latest Great British Railways edition, via the Junaio app will be directed to a short film showing Bernard Cribbins reading Auden's famous poem The Night Mail.

OK, maybe Bernard Cribbins is a bit of an anticlimax considering the paradigm shifting nature of the venture, but this has to be A GOOD THING, at least for the short period before advertising and Rupert Murdoch get hold of it and ruin everything.

At Last, Some Good News!

Although I am naturally delighted to see the BBC headline Guns & Roses Bottled Off-Stage , one must consider that it is has come 25 years too late!

Victor Sparkles' Pop Quest

Shaken, Not Stirred!

Did you know that Welsh King of Rock 'n' Roll, Shakin' Stevens (real name: Herbert Burbidge) was actually performing under the name of "Shake-It Stevens" prior to his atmospheric rise to fame in 2001?

Shaky's name was changed at the insistence of his management once the singer had turned professional and headed towards international stardom.

However, details are vague regarding the origins of the original moniker.

"There are, of course, lurid and scandalous rumours," responded his agent, Murray Munt, "none of which have any foundation in the truth."

Shakey's former guitarist Owen Owen-Owens was also willing to defend Shakey's reputation. "Yes, back in the working men's clubs, I heard it said that he'd take the old fella out and shake it about to capture the miner's attention. I have to say that I never saw him do such a thing; although I did once see him use it to stir his coffee with, but I suppose "Stirring Stevens" doesn't have the same ring!"

We asked to speak to the social secretary of the Grim Valley Miner's Club about Shakey's appearances, but he remained tight-lipped, and refused to take part, although he did comment:

"Look boy, it was a long time ago, things were different back then, and the miners were a close group with their own customs. Shakey understood that. Now if you don't mind, I have to rod this lavatory!"

Fans will be delighted to hear that Shakin' Stevens will be appearing in pantomime at Bognor this winter where he will play Baron Hardup opposite Sinitta as Cinders and Souxsie Sioux as the evil queen.

Jackass: The Final Frontier

Adventurous? Money to burn? Possible mental health issues leading to rash decision making?

Why not let the Danes tie you to a chair at the top of a rocket and get blasted into space?

Yes, those crazy vikings are using the latest intercontinental ballistic missile technology, where there used to be a deadly warhead, they'll being putting YOUR HEAD!

Yes, your head will stick out of the end of the missile so that after you briefly witness to wonder of the universe, before you get to watch the Baltic Sea approach at terminal velocity!

Doesn't the EU have some sort of Social Services department to look into these things?

Old Compton Street: A Statement

I would just like to confirm that yesterday on my way to a evening out I found my self momentarily crossing Old Compton Street in London's Soho.

At no point did I stop in Old Compton Street, or converse with anyone, and no "visits" were made to any of the establishment thereof.

I merely entered Old Compton Street from the south, traversed east for fifty yards, before exiting to the north one minute later.

I merely confirm this to put paid to any gossip that I was seen in Old Compton Street last night. I was, but not for long enough for anything untoward to occur.


Soho Update: the poseurs of Soho were out in force last night, as the dry weather and low, eye-piercing sun, created the perfect conditions for standing out on the pavement with one's SUNGLASSES ON! Most of them weren't even smoking!

BBC: Northerners Are All Drunks

Well, I suppose it must be official: a survey provides comprehensive proof that our friends in the north are plastered !

Now, I'm not a scientist, but I have witnessed this sort of thing first hand, and I have met, or even KNOWN many people from the North West (proven to be the epicentre of intoxication), and I can only agree that my findings also indicate that they are largely just a bunch of harmless inebriates.

Explains a lot come to think about it.

(Note: I can confirm that I originate from one of the most abstinant areas, so there!)

We're Living in the Future!

According to the Guardian, doctors no longer need to carry a stethoscope as they can now use an iphone app !

I'm impressed, but I do have reservations.

"OK, Mrs Jones, if I can just check your breathing"

ERR, ERR, ERRR; ERR, ERR, ERR-ERR, ERR, ERR, ERRR, ERR-ERR! (Smoke on the Water)

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I have to take this, my brother-in-law's getting me tickets for the Rugby!"

Underworlds

Another mention of TfL's ability to get it right on the artwork front, as the tube map gets to interface with it's art-world tribute, where the tube map gets to feature Barbarah Kruger's Untitled (Tube Map).

I think this synthesis of reality meeting its conceptual reflection may even represent a work of art in itself. Or not. I'm sure there's someone working in a gallery somewhere with a independant income and expensive yet impractical spectacles who could tell us in multi-syllabic verbiage what it all means, but life is too short.

And let us not forget that Simon Patterson got there first with The Great Bear

Dead Spook News Sparks Digression

It probably says much about my own small-town chippy judgementalism, but my first reaction to the news of the mysterious death of an MI6 operative in Pimlico was not "Whoa! Conspiracy Theory!". Rather, my first response was to wonder just how much MI6 operatives get paid if they can afford to live in Pimlico! (Although I appreciate it is only two minutes away from work across the bridge, just in case Mr Bond needs immediate back-up).

A Tale:

One evening twenty years ago, having successfully pursued and arrested the man who had just stabbed me* around the plush streets of Pimlico, I stood there panting away watching the police load my assailant into the car. Running around whilst haemorrhaging blood gives one a cruel thirst, and so I asked the nearest officer if she had any water.

Using her initiative, she called up to one of the audience members on the balcony above, and asked if they could bring water down to me. (That the homes in that neighbourhood have balconies overlooking the streets tells it's own tale).

When the water arrived, a woman conveyed it to me on a delicate little tray and contained within a beautiful crystal glass tumbler, I thanked her, and with my good hand (the other was stemming the Niagara of blood emitting from my face) emptied the contents in one draught.

I then turned to the policewoman and quipped: "You know you're in Pimlico; that was Perrier!"

Although the two events could not possibly be linked, I think it is becoming apparent that Pimlico's sophisticated facade conceals a heart of darkness which requires independent investigation.

I think we should be told.

*The perpetrator believed that the world was being controlled by gasses eminating from vegetables.

Did You Know....

....

That Wyatt Earp was teased at school for having a stupid name?

That nurses in Accidents & Emergency wards ALWAYS check the condition of a new patient's underpants on arrival?

That fish have no appreciation of celebrity culture?

The Ambassador of Death!

Apparently, those crazy funsters in Iran have reinvented the doodle-bug!

Parrot Fashion

A masterpiece from London Transport.

And you just know that when they finished, they stood back and said "Classic!"

See The Scars On My Hand

Olfactory Attack!

I believe that the following transaction took place at some point in last few days:

Fishmonger: Good Morning madam, how can I help?

Customer: Hello, do you have any particularly smelly fish please?

Fishmonger: Yes, but smelly cold, or smelly hot?

Customer: Oh, hot!

Fishmonger: I've got just the thing! Have a whiff of that!

Customer: Blimey! That's the one!

Fishmonger: Excellent. How do you intend to cook it?

Customer: In a microwave. I'm going to put it in a microwave at work!

Fishmonger: At work? Is that a good idea?

Customer: Oh, it'll be fine, it's open plan!

Fishmonger: Open plan? But surely...er,

Customer: Yes?

Fishmonger: Oh nothing. That'll be £3.50 please. Can I interest you in some Winkles?

I make this assumption, because a repeat offender has just GASSED out our floor YET AGAIN!

A disciplinary offence, surely?

The Drink / Drive Interface

Exciting environmental news!

Scottish scientists are running cars on whisky by-products!

And no expensive engine adjustments!

Tan Your Hide!

Not a 70s Movie title, but an actual company working in the Midlands, meet: Wildman & Bugby

Apparently, they are 3rd generation family leather specialists!

Blimey.

Note: In the fiction of Ian Fleming, John LeCarré etc, British intelligence ran a number of bogus businesses around Great Portland Street as a front for their covert activities.

When I worked locally, opposite the tube there, there was an unassuming doorway with a brass plaque purporting to be "The British Rawhide Co." Now THAT is a front if I ever saw one.

My Life In Her Hands

I believe there are some readers of this site that share my partner's dereliction of common sense when it comes to sell-by-dates on food stuffs.

When one considers that she is actually a trained caterer, I find her frankly cavalier attitude to expiration-date russian-roulette somewhat, er, cavalier!

There has been some debate in our household recently re; the capacity of our fridge, and whether we should spend real money on buying a larger receptical.

I am of the argument that we could first consider whether everything in the fridge should be there, and whether she may want to finish one bottle of wine before opening another.

Anyway the opportunity presented itself yesterday to execute a fridge audit, where I examined the contents unit by unit to establish each items validity in the precious cold-space.

I admit that I only found seven items beyond their date stamp, and that I was unable to convince her that one of these items, the most recent, a jar of mayonnaise dated June 2010, should be thrown. It has since returned to the fridge.

Now, as I consider mayonnaise as salmonella in a jar anyway, I won't be going near it. However, there in lies the irony, neither will she, due to her belief that a salad is a worthy but pointless exercise.

I will therefore need to wait another year before I get to eject the toxic hazard from our midst.

As for the remaining six items, the top three were:

In third place: Anchovies; Feb 2008

In second place: Discover Salsa dip: December 2004

And finally in first place, from the twentieth century:

Safeway Red Onion Jelly: March 2000.

Yes, it's been out of date for a decade now, and she's brought it from her old flat, via my old flat to the house we moved into six years ago!

This is what I have to live with.

Baby Beavers!

As I awoke this morning with the steady drone of the Today programme, and it's blah, blah, Pakistan Floods, blah, blah, Double-Dip recession, blah, blah, Torture, blah...I suddenly heard the phrase "Baby Beavers"!

Yes !Baby Beavers! Born in Scotland for the first time since the Hibernians slaughtered them all 400 years ago. How can anyone not like the thought of Beaver Babies? You would to be some kind of drug-pushing paedo-sympathising terrorist, or Highland farmer, not to be heartened at the news of Baby Beavers!

However, don't get too carried away. A Beaver Kit is actually just a Baby Beaver, and not an opportunity to build your own Beaver. Apparently that's God's job.

So congratulations to Mr & Mrs Beaver, and good luck to your Baby Beavers