a hundred spiders
exploding from sunlit web
lift off on a breeze
Nothing much happened today. Even the religious lunatics were conspicuous by their absence. I left the house and was greeted by the sight of a whole clutch of spiders – newly born – spreading across a cobweb in the gate and being blown off on strands of web hither and thither.
I was waiting for someone to upset me, but no one did.
‘Days of Our Lives’ plods wearily along. They don’t half drag out their storylines. I am getting weary of the Chloe Lane/Philip Wet-Lettuce on/off relationship, although John Black and his independently mobile eyebrows livened the pace a little this week when he barged his way into the Dimera mansion, tied up Lexy Carver, knocked out Evil Rolf with a kung-fu kick and shouted at Ilyana the maid so forcefully that she was pinned to an armchair for two whole scenes.
Then, he took a DNA sample from baby Isaac, who is actually baby JT, and may or may not be the son of John Black. He may be the son of Stefano Dimera, but it’s very likely that he is the son of Hope, the wife of Bo Brady.
Jack Devereaux is still pretending to be gay, although Jennifer, his ex-wife, will not believe it. This is surprising, as, without meaning to be rude, Jack is camper than the upstairs in Milletts.
Friday, 23 May 2008
Thursday, 22 May 2008
Wednesday 21 May 2008
a rage is building
swelling in me like mushrooms
fuelled by little
Wednesday is of course Apprentice day, and I have to say I am very very disappointed with Sir Sid James this week.
The teams (led respectively by Raef and his marvellous morphing hair, and Alex, who has a stylist drag him through a bush every morning) this week had to design a new brand of tissues and create a TV advert to go with it.
From the outset it was clear that Raef got carried away with the cinematic and dramatic possibilities of the medium, drafting in Sian Lloyd (the weatherwoman) to play the mother of a snotty child, and waxing lyrical with Michael Koshercles over their past glories starring in Guys and Dolls. Indeed, at one point it seemed as if Raef and Michael were getting closer than was professionally necessary, as they constructed their cinematic masterpiece.
The other team, also clearly out of their depth, made a product that can only be described as garish and an advert that was, well, well bad.
However, when presented to professionals, Alex’s ad featured the product (ad nauseum it has to be said) with a poorly little girl and a father who kept saying. ‘She’ll be fine, it’s antibacterial!’.
Sadly, when it came down to it, Raef’s ad, although beautifully put together with the love of two men, and the brief appearance of a weatherwoman, failed to feature the product it was supposed to be advertising.
‘I don’t know what your bloody advert’s about!’ shouted Sir Sid, and his deadly finger began to fall.
Most of the country, I am sure, were hoping that Sir Sid James’ basilisk glare would fall upon Michael Koshercles (who even the nice Adrian Chiles in the BBC2 follow-up show described as ‘an odious little twat’) but no!
‘Raef! You’re fired!’ said Sir Sid.
I am shocked. The strangely coiffured and pompous one has been fired. I am going to be stuck for someone to write about, as I was sure that he and his semi-sentient barnet were going to go through to the final.
I am announcing a day of mourning, in which we can grieve for Raef.
He will be sorely missed.
swelling in me like mushrooms
fuelled by little
Wednesday is of course Apprentice day, and I have to say I am very very disappointed with Sir Sid James this week.
The teams (led respectively by Raef and his marvellous morphing hair, and Alex, who has a stylist drag him through a bush every morning) this week had to design a new brand of tissues and create a TV advert to go with it.
From the outset it was clear that Raef got carried away with the cinematic and dramatic possibilities of the medium, drafting in Sian Lloyd (the weatherwoman) to play the mother of a snotty child, and waxing lyrical with Michael Koshercles over their past glories starring in Guys and Dolls. Indeed, at one point it seemed as if Raef and Michael were getting closer than was professionally necessary, as they constructed their cinematic masterpiece.
The other team, also clearly out of their depth, made a product that can only be described as garish and an advert that was, well, well bad.
However, when presented to professionals, Alex’s ad featured the product (ad nauseum it has to be said) with a poorly little girl and a father who kept saying. ‘She’ll be fine, it’s antibacterial!’.
Sadly, when it came down to it, Raef’s ad, although beautifully put together with the love of two men, and the brief appearance of a weatherwoman, failed to feature the product it was supposed to be advertising.
‘I don’t know what your bloody advert’s about!’ shouted Sir Sid, and his deadly finger began to fall.
Most of the country, I am sure, were hoping that Sir Sid James’ basilisk glare would fall upon Michael Koshercles (who even the nice Adrian Chiles in the BBC2 follow-up show described as ‘an odious little twat’) but no!
‘Raef! You’re fired!’ said Sir Sid.
I am shocked. The strangely coiffured and pompous one has been fired. I am going to be stuck for someone to write about, as I was sure that he and his semi-sentient barnet were going to go through to the final.
I am announcing a day of mourning, in which we can grieve for Raef.
He will be sorely missed.
Tuesday 20 May 2008
‘lost’ has me quite lost.
smoke monsters, dead men talking.
no one needs to shave.
It must be the season for religious lunacy. A 15 year old boy has been charged under section five of the Public Order Act, which seeks to restrict signs that might be considered "threatening, abusive or insulting." for putting up a sign which read ‘Scientology is not a religion. It is a dangerous cult.’
Admittedly, the boy was asked to take the sign down, and refused, and was subsequently taken away by the bizzies. It seems to me, however, that the policeman could have employed a modicum of common sense and removed the sign himself.
On the other hand, one could argue that the sign was simply proclaiming the truth. There is an issue here of free speech, as we supposedly live in a country where we can express any opinion we wish.
It has become a little surreal that we have a so-called religion, based on the works of (let’s face it) a not very good science fiction writer, whose central ‘truth’ is that we are the descendants of aliens called Thetans who are some day coming back to get us. That may not be exactly right, but it’s something along those lines and is plainly nonsense. Added to that we now have a boy arrested for erecting a poster stating his version of the truth, which somehow conflicts with the law. This truth it is illegal to tell, it would appear.
smoke monsters, dead men talking.
no one needs to shave.
It must be the season for religious lunacy. A 15 year old boy has been charged under section five of the Public Order Act, which seeks to restrict signs that might be considered "threatening, abusive or insulting." for putting up a sign which read ‘Scientology is not a religion. It is a dangerous cult.’
Admittedly, the boy was asked to take the sign down, and refused, and was subsequently taken away by the bizzies. It seems to me, however, that the policeman could have employed a modicum of common sense and removed the sign himself.
On the other hand, one could argue that the sign was simply proclaiming the truth. There is an issue here of free speech, as we supposedly live in a country where we can express any opinion we wish.
It has become a little surreal that we have a so-called religion, based on the works of (let’s face it) a not very good science fiction writer, whose central ‘truth’ is that we are the descendants of aliens called Thetans who are some day coming back to get us. That may not be exactly right, but it’s something along those lines and is plainly nonsense. Added to that we now have a boy arrested for erecting a poster stating his version of the truth, which somehow conflicts with the law. This truth it is illegal to tell, it would appear.
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
Monday 19 May 2008
now, ‘snakes on a train’
is just not ‘snakes on a plane.’
trains; you can jump off.
I had begun to think that the lunatic religious fringe had quietened down lately and were behaving themselves but alas, no. The news this evening was full of the story of the lady registrar from Islington Council who is refusing to marry gay couples as it conflicts with her religious views.
When this was announced I was on the phone to my mother, and had to ask her to repeat what she was saying as the Ugly One was shouting at the TV screen, ‘Go and work somewhere else then, you crazy *****!’
‘Who’s that?’ said Mum.
‘It’s Barry,’ I said. ‘He’s shouting at the TV again.’
Apparently Mildred from South London rang the BBC to say she thought that the registrar had every right to refuse to conduct these ceremonies. No, Mildred. Sorry, luv. She has no right to refuse. It is her job. It is what she is paid to do. Maybe God will give her another job where she doesn’t have to deal with her own prejudices.
Later, no doubt in order to whip up some sort of onscreen storm, the BBC bussed in a representative of Stonewall, the Gay Rights Movement, and a spokesman for the Christian Institute.
Mr Stonewall made the very valid point that if a registrar refused to marry, for instance, an inter-racial couple, then it would be very likely that the registrar would be fired. Mr Christian Institute decided to ignore that point completely and harped on about how this lady had been a registrar for sixteen years and now evil legislation was forcing her to do something contrary to her beliefs.
One has also to ask the question, would any self-respecting gay couple really want to have such a narrow-minded bitter individual conducting their ceremony? I certainly wouldn’t.
Mr Christian Institute then made the point that no-one had been denied a ceremony, but surely, if every registrar in that office held the same religious views (and it is a possibility), people would obviously be denied ceremonies.
Common sense arrived in the form of an e-mail which stated that the vast majority of Christians in this country actually couldn’t give a rats arse about the issue.
I tend to side with them.
is just not ‘snakes on a plane.’
trains; you can jump off.
I had begun to think that the lunatic religious fringe had quietened down lately and were behaving themselves but alas, no. The news this evening was full of the story of the lady registrar from Islington Council who is refusing to marry gay couples as it conflicts with her religious views.
When this was announced I was on the phone to my mother, and had to ask her to repeat what she was saying as the Ugly One was shouting at the TV screen, ‘Go and work somewhere else then, you crazy *****!’
‘Who’s that?’ said Mum.
‘It’s Barry,’ I said. ‘He’s shouting at the TV again.’
Apparently Mildred from South London rang the BBC to say she thought that the registrar had every right to refuse to conduct these ceremonies. No, Mildred. Sorry, luv. She has no right to refuse. It is her job. It is what she is paid to do. Maybe God will give her another job where she doesn’t have to deal with her own prejudices.
Later, no doubt in order to whip up some sort of onscreen storm, the BBC bussed in a representative of Stonewall, the Gay Rights Movement, and a spokesman for the Christian Institute.
Mr Stonewall made the very valid point that if a registrar refused to marry, for instance, an inter-racial couple, then it would be very likely that the registrar would be fired. Mr Christian Institute decided to ignore that point completely and harped on about how this lady had been a registrar for sixteen years and now evil legislation was forcing her to do something contrary to her beliefs.
One has also to ask the question, would any self-respecting gay couple really want to have such a narrow-minded bitter individual conducting their ceremony? I certainly wouldn’t.
Mr Christian Institute then made the point that no-one had been denied a ceremony, but surely, if every registrar in that office held the same religious views (and it is a possibility), people would obviously be denied ceremonies.
Common sense arrived in the form of an e-mail which stated that the vast majority of Christians in this country actually couldn’t give a rats arse about the issue.
I tend to side with them.
Monday, 19 May 2008
Sunday 18 May 2008
roger waters, you
political animal.
but pig, dog or sheep?
The Ugly One and I, after a lazy day watching ‘Holby Blue’ and ‘Days of Our Lives’, hied it off to North Greenwich to see Roger Waters at the O2, performing ‘Dark Side of The Moon’ Live.
the programmes were £15.00. I was shocked!
Obviously, DSOTM is not a particularly long album, so the first half of the show was taken up with a tribute to the late and great Sid Barrett. (I have to confess I had no idea he was late at all until the UO told me died a few years ago.)
Waters has always been a bit of a political animal. ‘Animals’ and ‘The Wall’ in fact, are albums packed with social comment and criticism, something of which I heartily approve, although sometimes Waters does tend to over-egg the political pudding. He told the audience the story of the time, at the age of seventeen in 1961, when he was stranded in Lebanon and taken in by a one-legged man, his hunchbacked wife and their disabled baby. He has never, it seems, forgotten this kindness and wrote a song about the time and the current situation in the Middle East, and whether he would find these people if he went back and make amends. Being a cynical bugger, I’m wondering if he’s ever tried to find them in the last forty-seven years, or whether he just didn’t have the time to go and look.
‘Fifteen pounds for a programme,’ I said to the Ugly One. ‘I hope the money’s going to Hunchbacks in Lebanon.’
However, Waters certainly puts on a spectacle. It was a brilliant show, combining excellent music with visuals, lasers, floating astronauts and flying pigs. Certainly, it was one of the best concerts I have attended in the last few years.
No. I didn’t buy a programme.
political animal.
but pig, dog or sheep?
The Ugly One and I, after a lazy day watching ‘Holby Blue’ and ‘Days of Our Lives’, hied it off to North Greenwich to see Roger Waters at the O2, performing ‘Dark Side of The Moon’ Live.
the programmes were £15.00. I was shocked!
Obviously, DSOTM is not a particularly long album, so the first half of the show was taken up with a tribute to the late and great Sid Barrett. (I have to confess I had no idea he was late at all until the UO told me died a few years ago.)
Waters has always been a bit of a political animal. ‘Animals’ and ‘The Wall’ in fact, are albums packed with social comment and criticism, something of which I heartily approve, although sometimes Waters does tend to over-egg the political pudding. He told the audience the story of the time, at the age of seventeen in 1961, when he was stranded in Lebanon and taken in by a one-legged man, his hunchbacked wife and their disabled baby. He has never, it seems, forgotten this kindness and wrote a song about the time and the current situation in the Middle East, and whether he would find these people if he went back and make amends. Being a cynical bugger, I’m wondering if he’s ever tried to find them in the last forty-seven years, or whether he just didn’t have the time to go and look.
‘Fifteen pounds for a programme,’ I said to the Ugly One. ‘I hope the money’s going to Hunchbacks in Lebanon.’
However, Waters certainly puts on a spectacle. It was a brilliant show, combining excellent music with visuals, lasers, floating astronauts and flying pigs. Certainly, it was one of the best concerts I have attended in the last few years.
No. I didn’t buy a programme.
Saturday 17 May 2008
in ‘days of our lives’
lucas lies in a coma.
others sing and dance.
‘Doctor Who’ has been a little more enjoyable this series, due mainly I think, to a much-needed injection of humour on the part of Katherine Tate.
This week, in ‘The Unicorn and The Wasp’, the Doctor arrived at a country house in 1926 where he met Agatha Christie and was subsequently embroiled in a series of bizarre murders and a visitation by a giant wasp.
The script was written by one Gareth Roberts, a veteran author of Doctor Who novels, whom, as I remember being told, I upset some time ago when I was quite candid about my habit of taking Doctor Who novels off the Science Fiction shelves in bookshops and putting them in the children’s section where they belong.
It was nothing personal, I have to say. I don’t see why all this spinoffery (as Interzone used to term it, and in which I include Star Wars, Star Trek and Buffy the Quality TV Slayer novelisations) can’t have a shelf of its own, preferably somewhere a long way from the decent stuff.
lucas lies in a coma.
others sing and dance.
‘Doctor Who’ has been a little more enjoyable this series, due mainly I think, to a much-needed injection of humour on the part of Katherine Tate.
This week, in ‘The Unicorn and The Wasp’, the Doctor arrived at a country house in 1926 where he met Agatha Christie and was subsequently embroiled in a series of bizarre murders and a visitation by a giant wasp.
The script was written by one Gareth Roberts, a veteran author of Doctor Who novels, whom, as I remember being told, I upset some time ago when I was quite candid about my habit of taking Doctor Who novels off the Science Fiction shelves in bookshops and putting them in the children’s section where they belong.
It was nothing personal, I have to say. I don’t see why all this spinoffery (as Interzone used to term it, and in which I include Star Wars, Star Trek and Buffy the Quality TV Slayer novelisations) can’t have a shelf of its own, preferably somewhere a long way from the decent stuff.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
Friday 16 May 2008
i should have gone out
but the big clouds threatened me.
they’d have pinched my sweets.
It appears that some creative person has been designing Dr Who knitting patterns and has been threatened with legal action by the BBC as people are knitting their own Oods and Fat monsters (that is, monsters made of fat, not just monsters that are fat otherwise the BBC would be threatening action over the markets being awash with knitted Vanessa Feltz’s).
Yesterday Sandi Toksvig on Radio Four, stated that the BBC had issued a statement to the effect that now that they can’t fake any phone votes anymore they have to get their money from somewhere.
I was off sick today, blighted with malaise and sickness. I don’t know what it is. I suspect I have become allergic to stupid people, and as I have to spend a great deal of time with a random selection, it’s not really good for my health.
I made myself a big cup of coffee and sat watching ‘Days of Our Lives’, cradling my newly-knitted Dalek.
but the big clouds threatened me.
they’d have pinched my sweets.
It appears that some creative person has been designing Dr Who knitting patterns and has been threatened with legal action by the BBC as people are knitting their own Oods and Fat monsters (that is, monsters made of fat, not just monsters that are fat otherwise the BBC would be threatening action over the markets being awash with knitted Vanessa Feltz’s).
Yesterday Sandi Toksvig on Radio Four, stated that the BBC had issued a statement to the effect that now that they can’t fake any phone votes anymore they have to get their money from somewhere.
I was off sick today, blighted with malaise and sickness. I don’t know what it is. I suspect I have become allergic to stupid people, and as I have to spend a great deal of time with a random selection, it’s not really good for my health.
I made myself a big cup of coffee and sat watching ‘Days of Our Lives’, cradling my newly-knitted Dalek.
Thursday 15 May 2008
buildings are rising
woven by wet patient cranes.
soon they’ll fly elsewhere.
It seems that rather than talking about rationality and the foolishness of organised religion, all I seem to be doing lately is watching TV. That, I suppose, is the religion of the masses, at least in this country anyway, so I might as well write about it, since it makes about as much sense as Leviticus.
We’ve been watching ‘Waking The Dead’ at odd times since it is scheduled each week over the Monday and Tuesday at 9pm and clashes with all sorts of other things. WTD is about a cold case unit, headed by the eccentric and volatile Boyd, who are often called upon to investigate unsolved cases from years back.
The best thing about WTD is the relationship between Boyd (Trevor Eve) and Grace (Sue Johnston), which seems so realistic that I’m convinced some of it is ad-libbed. Sue Johnston deserves some kind of an award for her performances in this show, in which she plays a forensic psychologist, often at odds with her testy and troubled boss, who this season is plagued with angst about his troubled and testy teenage son.
Boyd seems to have spent much of the season running through graffitied urban streets in a suit shouting ‘Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke!’ very loudly.
woven by wet patient cranes.
soon they’ll fly elsewhere.
It seems that rather than talking about rationality and the foolishness of organised religion, all I seem to be doing lately is watching TV. That, I suppose, is the religion of the masses, at least in this country anyway, so I might as well write about it, since it makes about as much sense as Leviticus.
We’ve been watching ‘Waking The Dead’ at odd times since it is scheduled each week over the Monday and Tuesday at 9pm and clashes with all sorts of other things. WTD is about a cold case unit, headed by the eccentric and volatile Boyd, who are often called upon to investigate unsolved cases from years back.
The best thing about WTD is the relationship between Boyd (Trevor Eve) and Grace (Sue Johnston), which seems so realistic that I’m convinced some of it is ad-libbed. Sue Johnston deserves some kind of an award for her performances in this show, in which she plays a forensic psychologist, often at odds with her testy and troubled boss, who this season is plagued with angst about his troubled and testy teenage son.
Boyd seems to have spent much of the season running through graffitied urban streets in a suit shouting ‘Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke!’ very loudly.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
Wednesday 14 May 2008
one policeman was nice,
said the boy stopped for driving
without a licence.
The Apprentice rolled on into another week. I have to say that the stars of this series have been not the contestants but Sir Sid James’ elderly henchpeople, Nick and Margaret, a sinister and yet fascinating couple who bring to mind the couple in the painting ‘American Gothic’.
I’m marginally more fond of Margaret since she is never ashamed of expressing how much she loathes the contestants.
Two weeks ago, Michael ‘Kosher Chicken’ Sophocles’ team won and he began banging the table with his little tiny fists. Nick appeared on the companion BBC2 show and told the audience that when he saw the show he texted Margaret and said ‘I loved the look on your face when Michael misbehaved. You looked like you’d witnessed a massacre.’
Margaret texted back and said ‘Oh. Would that I had!’
This week the hapless candidates had to sell wedding accessories at a wedding fair. Helene’s team went for a mid-range price line of wedding dresses in various colours. The original seller enthused over them. ‘They’re very popular,’ she said, ‘because celebrities wear this sort of thing. People like Jordan and Jodie Marsh.’
At this point, one would have thought that the team would have backed out of the shop slowly before running for their lives.
They also tried to sell some very pricey cake, which cost as much as the dresses. They didn’t sell any.
It’s quite intriguing how the public – and the media – can turn suddenly against a person. Once more, Michael Koshercles was in the firing line along with the moonfaced Helene and the rather dull Sarah.
Sir Sid took little time to fire Sarah, before turning his scary wrinkly gaze on the remaining two.
He was, he admitted, about to fire Michael, but the half-jewish one made a last minute desperate appeal and Sir Sid, to the visible shock of Nick and Margaret (Margaret, characteristically, wanted them all fired) stayed his firing hand.
The follow-up show was interesting, since no-one had a good word to say about Sophocles. Indeed, quite a few bad words were said, most of them being variations on ‘Slimeball’.
I suspect the days of the Koshercles are numbered.
With regard to the Raef Bjayou Hairwatch programme, I can confirm that this week the configuration of hair was entirely different with the front wave sweeping down in a completely different direction. Also, when Raef emerged from a cuddly bear costume (it’s not important to know why he was in one) he had a Christopher Reeve superman curl dangling over his big posh forehead.
said the boy stopped for driving
without a licence.
The Apprentice rolled on into another week. I have to say that the stars of this series have been not the contestants but Sir Sid James’ elderly henchpeople, Nick and Margaret, a sinister and yet fascinating couple who bring to mind the couple in the painting ‘American Gothic’.
I’m marginally more fond of Margaret since she is never ashamed of expressing how much she loathes the contestants.
Two weeks ago, Michael ‘Kosher Chicken’ Sophocles’ team won and he began banging the table with his little tiny fists. Nick appeared on the companion BBC2 show and told the audience that when he saw the show he texted Margaret and said ‘I loved the look on your face when Michael misbehaved. You looked like you’d witnessed a massacre.’
Margaret texted back and said ‘Oh. Would that I had!’
This week the hapless candidates had to sell wedding accessories at a wedding fair. Helene’s team went for a mid-range price line of wedding dresses in various colours. The original seller enthused over them. ‘They’re very popular,’ she said, ‘because celebrities wear this sort of thing. People like Jordan and Jodie Marsh.’
At this point, one would have thought that the team would have backed out of the shop slowly before running for their lives.
They also tried to sell some very pricey cake, which cost as much as the dresses. They didn’t sell any.
It’s quite intriguing how the public – and the media – can turn suddenly against a person. Once more, Michael Koshercles was in the firing line along with the moonfaced Helene and the rather dull Sarah.
Sir Sid took little time to fire Sarah, before turning his scary wrinkly gaze on the remaining two.
He was, he admitted, about to fire Michael, but the half-jewish one made a last minute desperate appeal and Sir Sid, to the visible shock of Nick and Margaret (Margaret, characteristically, wanted them all fired) stayed his firing hand.
The follow-up show was interesting, since no-one had a good word to say about Sophocles. Indeed, quite a few bad words were said, most of them being variations on ‘Slimeball’.
I suspect the days of the Koshercles are numbered.
With regard to the Raef Bjayou Hairwatch programme, I can confirm that this week the configuration of hair was entirely different with the front wave sweeping down in a completely different direction. Also, when Raef emerged from a cuddly bear costume (it’s not important to know why he was in one) he had a Christopher Reeve superman curl dangling over his big posh forehead.
Tuesday 13 May 2008
you, large woman
at the ticket barrier
pushing in. stop it!
I got home quite late today and discovered that the Wise Woman of Wigan had left a message saying that she saw me yesterday on the Westbound platform at Embankment while she was on the Eastbound. She waved, she said.
I should have gone to Specsavers.
We caught up with Derren Brown this evening and his new ‘Trick or Treat’ series.
I love Derren Brown. I think I’d like to marry him but he’d probably hypnotise me into believing that I don’t really want to.
His first victim was a forgetful man, whom Derren taught to speedread through a vast number of books, after which he was entered (as a team of one) for a pub-quiz, packed with pub-quiz veterans. As was to be expected, the victim came joint-first. The joy of this series is seeing the sheer amazement on people’s faces when they surprise themselves with what they can do.
at the ticket barrier
pushing in. stop it!
I got home quite late today and discovered that the Wise Woman of Wigan had left a message saying that she saw me yesterday on the Westbound platform at Embankment while she was on the Eastbound. She waved, she said.
I should have gone to Specsavers.
We caught up with Derren Brown this evening and his new ‘Trick or Treat’ series.
I love Derren Brown. I think I’d like to marry him but he’d probably hypnotise me into believing that I don’t really want to.
His first victim was a forgetful man, whom Derren taught to speedread through a vast number of books, after which he was entered (as a team of one) for a pub-quiz, packed with pub-quiz veterans. As was to be expected, the victim came joint-first. The joy of this series is seeing the sheer amazement on people’s faces when they surprise themselves with what they can do.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Monday 12 May 2008
he had a neck rash
right in front of me. it dragged
me fascinated.
‘Let’s have a Heated Debate!’ as Mrs Merton used to say. We occasionally have these at work, and they tend to expose the strange underbelly of opinions and beliefs which are held by those one would not normally expect be holding them.
My boss, for instance, who I have always known to be a bit of a capitalist, albeit a naive and sadly ill-informed one, holds the view that no one should be entitled to State Benefits of any sort and that Social Housing should be abolished, refugees should be put into prisons (or rather, a ‘prison-style unit’) and that foreign women who are pregnant should be forcefully deported.
I steered clear of this discussion. Had the lady in question ever had to apply for Jobseekers’ Allowance or Housing Benefit, I would have more respect for her point of view, but if you have never been in that position it is very easy to take the moral high ground and not allow anyone else to have a slice. We told her that despite the fact she’s black, she’d make a very good BNP candidate for her local area.
The topic in question moved on to children, and this is where I became controversial, supported, worryingly, by my boss.
‘Couples should not be allowed more than two children! Anything else is just selfish!’ I said.
Some people took umbrage at this, citing their ‘right’ to have as many children as they like.
The thing is, does anyone have a ‘right’ to unlimited children?
I am thinking of the world as a whole.
Imagine there is an island where ten people are marooned. Let’s say they are five couples. The island allows no access to the mainland or the possibility of import of resources. It is discovered that the island can support, at most, twenty people.
Once each couple has produced two children, we have a population crisis. Do the couples then have the right to produce more. The idea of rights becomes absurd in these circumstances, and yet, if we consider our planet as an island, this is exactly the situation we are in.
right in front of me. it dragged
me fascinated.
‘Let’s have a Heated Debate!’ as Mrs Merton used to say. We occasionally have these at work, and they tend to expose the strange underbelly of opinions and beliefs which are held by those one would not normally expect be holding them.
My boss, for instance, who I have always known to be a bit of a capitalist, albeit a naive and sadly ill-informed one, holds the view that no one should be entitled to State Benefits of any sort and that Social Housing should be abolished, refugees should be put into prisons (or rather, a ‘prison-style unit’) and that foreign women who are pregnant should be forcefully deported.
I steered clear of this discussion. Had the lady in question ever had to apply for Jobseekers’ Allowance or Housing Benefit, I would have more respect for her point of view, but if you have never been in that position it is very easy to take the moral high ground and not allow anyone else to have a slice. We told her that despite the fact she’s black, she’d make a very good BNP candidate for her local area.
The topic in question moved on to children, and this is where I became controversial, supported, worryingly, by my boss.
‘Couples should not be allowed more than two children! Anything else is just selfish!’ I said.
Some people took umbrage at this, citing their ‘right’ to have as many children as they like.
The thing is, does anyone have a ‘right’ to unlimited children?
I am thinking of the world as a whole.
Imagine there is an island where ten people are marooned. Let’s say they are five couples. The island allows no access to the mainland or the possibility of import of resources. It is discovered that the island can support, at most, twenty people.
Once each couple has produced two children, we have a population crisis. Do the couples then have the right to produce more. The idea of rights becomes absurd in these circumstances, and yet, if we consider our planet as an island, this is exactly the situation we are in.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Sunday 11 May 2008
lush vegetation
arrives suddenly, like piles
or angry neighbours.
Coronation Street, I have to say (in the manner of Sir Sid James) with regret, has become very depressing of late. It would seem that Liam Connor, although married to the very nice Maria, is still in love with Carla, the raven-haired boot with a voice like a bag of scratchings and the worst wallpaper in the world. (Someone please tell her that vibrant flock wallpaper is only employed as an ironic statement in the loft apartments of rich gay Manchester men)
Lately she’s been having a fling with Mad Eye Moody, the Scots businessman who is so camp one might have suspected he’d sneaked into her flat and put the wallpaper up.
However, now that Maria has lost both Liam’s baby and her marbles, our Liam may fall for Carla’s charms – whatever they may be.
Meanwhile, Audrey has met up with Gail’s blissfully ignorant father, Ted Paige, to tell him that he is not only a father, but a grandfather and a great-grandfather.
She’s leaving it a while before bringing up his daughter’s string of marriages (the murdered one, the gormless one and the serial killer) the teenage pregnancy and the grandson’s current imprisonment in the Weatherfield Penitentiary for Bad Lads.
arrives suddenly, like piles
or angry neighbours.
Coronation Street, I have to say (in the manner of Sir Sid James) with regret, has become very depressing of late. It would seem that Liam Connor, although married to the very nice Maria, is still in love with Carla, the raven-haired boot with a voice like a bag of scratchings and the worst wallpaper in the world. (Someone please tell her that vibrant flock wallpaper is only employed as an ironic statement in the loft apartments of rich gay Manchester men)
Lately she’s been having a fling with Mad Eye Moody, the Scots businessman who is so camp one might have suspected he’d sneaked into her flat and put the wallpaper up.
However, now that Maria has lost both Liam’s baby and her marbles, our Liam may fall for Carla’s charms – whatever they may be.
Meanwhile, Audrey has met up with Gail’s blissfully ignorant father, Ted Paige, to tell him that he is not only a father, but a grandfather and a great-grandfather.
She’s leaving it a while before bringing up his daughter’s string of marriages (the murdered one, the gormless one and the serial killer) the teenage pregnancy and the grandson’s current imprisonment in the Weatherfield Penitentiary for Bad Lads.
Saturday 10 May 2008
while i was asleep
it rained and people rang me.
the world carried on.
Having got very drunk last night, I did not get into work as I had planned to do. Instead I spent a quiet day at home with the Nintendy playing Solitaire.
‘Britain’s Got Talent’ is an overly optimistic title for the show in which the deluded and desperate compete for a chance to perform in front of Prince Charles in the Royal Variety Show.
‘It would be such an honour,’ most of them say, bafflingly. Additionally Simon Cowell, who last year was an expert on what the Queen would like to see, has now become just as adept at knowing the tastes of Prince Charles.
A nondescript gentleman walked on with a violin bow and a saw and proceeded to play it quite professionally.
‘Do you really think that is what Prince Charles wants to see?’ The Cowell spat acidly.
‘Yes!’ replied Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden who also obviously feel that they are in mental communion with the Prince of Wales.
‘You couldn’t be more wrong!’ said The Cowell, with a flounce.
What The Cowell fails to realise is that this sort of act is what Variety Shows are all about. The clue is in the title, Cowell. Variety, traditionally, is a celebration of the odd, the grotesque, the strange and the comical and should not be judged by someone who rates every act by how much money it can bring to him personally.
This week auditions went to Glasgow where the audience – as is traditional for a Glasgow venue I am told – were more vicious than the Cowell himself. A group of Scottish Country dancers were booed off by an almost entirely Scottish audience.
Ant and Dec, the genial Geordie duo who provide the commentary and comic relief, have had their haloes tarnished a little this week, through no fault of their own it has to be said. When ITV hosted the comedy awards, the production team contacted Robbie Williams and asked him if he would like to present an award. Robbie agreed, on condition that he presented an award to Ant and Dec.
It appears that the viewers’ vote for favourite show was actually won by Katherine Tate, but ITV changed the result to show that Ant & Dec won, simply to ensure Robbie Williams’ presence on the show.
Ant & Dec have now agreed to hand the award back. I hope they get a group of their Newky mates to get the producer of the Comedy Awards behind a shed somewhere and give him a good kicking.
it rained and people rang me.
the world carried on.
Having got very drunk last night, I did not get into work as I had planned to do. Instead I spent a quiet day at home with the Nintendy playing Solitaire.
‘Britain’s Got Talent’ is an overly optimistic title for the show in which the deluded and desperate compete for a chance to perform in front of Prince Charles in the Royal Variety Show.
‘It would be such an honour,’ most of them say, bafflingly. Additionally Simon Cowell, who last year was an expert on what the Queen would like to see, has now become just as adept at knowing the tastes of Prince Charles.
A nondescript gentleman walked on with a violin bow and a saw and proceeded to play it quite professionally.
‘Do you really think that is what Prince Charles wants to see?’ The Cowell spat acidly.
‘Yes!’ replied Piers Morgan and Amanda Holden who also obviously feel that they are in mental communion with the Prince of Wales.
‘You couldn’t be more wrong!’ said The Cowell, with a flounce.
What The Cowell fails to realise is that this sort of act is what Variety Shows are all about. The clue is in the title, Cowell. Variety, traditionally, is a celebration of the odd, the grotesque, the strange and the comical and should not be judged by someone who rates every act by how much money it can bring to him personally.
This week auditions went to Glasgow where the audience – as is traditional for a Glasgow venue I am told – were more vicious than the Cowell himself. A group of Scottish Country dancers were booed off by an almost entirely Scottish audience.
Ant and Dec, the genial Geordie duo who provide the commentary and comic relief, have had their haloes tarnished a little this week, through no fault of their own it has to be said. When ITV hosted the comedy awards, the production team contacted Robbie Williams and asked him if he would like to present an award. Robbie agreed, on condition that he presented an award to Ant and Dec.
It appears that the viewers’ vote for favourite show was actually won by Katherine Tate, but ITV changed the result to show that Ant & Dec won, simply to ensure Robbie Williams’ presence on the show.
Ant & Dec have now agreed to hand the award back. I hope they get a group of their Newky mates to get the producer of the Comedy Awards behind a shed somewhere and give him a good kicking.
Friday 9 May 2008
alien darkness.
my oyster card bleeps.
outside comfort zone.
Still no sign of God.
I am glad to see however, that some enterprising soul has been removing the Lamb of God ads from the tube carriages, sometimes quite forcefully. Good work, whoever you are. Keep it up!
my oyster card bleeps.
outside comfort zone.
Still no sign of God.
I am glad to see however, that some enterprising soul has been removing the Lamb of God ads from the tube carriages, sometimes quite forcefully. Good work, whoever you are. Keep it up!
Thursday 8 May 2008
we smile together
across a sweating pavement
while the city waits.
On the District Line this morning was a man in a suit, cheerfully playing with himself in a full carriage. He did not, I am glad to say, have his bits exposed, but was nonetheless vigorously creating a hand shandy in his pants.
He caught me looking at him and had the nerve to frown at me.
across a sweating pavement
while the city waits.
On the District Line this morning was a man in a suit, cheerfully playing with himself in a full carriage. He did not, I am glad to say, have his bits exposed, but was nonetheless vigorously creating a hand shandy in his pants.
He caught me looking at him and had the nerve to frown at me.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Wednesday 7 May 2008
i have a new friend.
we are free with each other
without knowing names.
Being in a depressed sort of mood I popped into the Empire Fish Bar and picked up pie and chips. Suitably full, replete, and somewhat stuffed I settled down to watch this week’s Apprentice.
Once more Raef Bjayou’s hair has transformed, or possibly regenerated in the manner of Doctor Who.
A long light brown strand now stretches from the left side of his head down over his right brow, while above his left ear is a tangled spaghetti junction of hair strands, seemingly shooting off in multiple directions.
This week the teams were sent to Morocco to pick up a shopping list for Sir Sid James as cheaply as possible. The list contained ten bizarre and multifarious items such as a green mosque alarm clock, kosher chicken and a cow hide complete with tail.
Irish Jenny the ice-queen led one team while Lee (‘that’s what I’m talking about!’) led the other.
I suspect that most of the country is baffled, if not ashamed, that a group of five British people, one of whom claimed to be Jewish, did not know what the word ‘Kosher’ meant, and ended up buying Halal chicken and asking if it could be blessed by a priest.
Additionally, Jenny Jinger, the duplicitous Jimmy-Hill-chinned one, tried to bribe a sport shop into not selling tennis racquets to the opposing team.
Sir Sid James was not amused by such behaviour and when Her Evil Gingerness tried to blame everyone else for the kosher fiasco and the failure of her team, was quick to boot her out. This was not the end though. Michael, who claims to be a good Jewish boy, was grilled spectacularly by Sir Sid, but spared when he turned his glare on the ice-queen and said the dread two words.
we are free with each other
without knowing names.
Being in a depressed sort of mood I popped into the Empire Fish Bar and picked up pie and chips. Suitably full, replete, and somewhat stuffed I settled down to watch this week’s Apprentice.
Once more Raef Bjayou’s hair has transformed, or possibly regenerated in the manner of Doctor Who.
A long light brown strand now stretches from the left side of his head down over his right brow, while above his left ear is a tangled spaghetti junction of hair strands, seemingly shooting off in multiple directions.
This week the teams were sent to Morocco to pick up a shopping list for Sir Sid James as cheaply as possible. The list contained ten bizarre and multifarious items such as a green mosque alarm clock, kosher chicken and a cow hide complete with tail.
Irish Jenny the ice-queen led one team while Lee (‘that’s what I’m talking about!’) led the other.
I suspect that most of the country is baffled, if not ashamed, that a group of five British people, one of whom claimed to be Jewish, did not know what the word ‘Kosher’ meant, and ended up buying Halal chicken and asking if it could be blessed by a priest.
Additionally, Jenny Jinger, the duplicitous Jimmy-Hill-chinned one, tried to bribe a sport shop into not selling tennis racquets to the opposing team.
Sir Sid James was not amused by such behaviour and when Her Evil Gingerness tried to blame everyone else for the kosher fiasco and the failure of her team, was quick to boot her out. This was not the end though. Michael, who claims to be a good Jewish boy, was grilled spectacularly by Sir Sid, but spared when he turned his glare on the ice-queen and said the dread two words.
Tuesday 6 May 2008
the fat man squatting
wanted to fill the entire
piccadilly line.
Young JT on ‘Days of Our Lives’ should really be taken into care for his own good. Currently he is in a tug-of-love battle between the Bradys and the trailer-trash bimbos Ken and Barb. Ken is JT’s real father. His mother Marlo was murdered by evil Rolf (who subsequently dressed up in drag to dump the body in a swamp). Soap bodies never remain undiscovered for long and the decomposing Marlo popped up through the ice while the young folk were out carousing.
Young JT was swapped at birth in the hospital and Hope Brady’s real child is in the care of Abe and Lexy Carver. Abe is the oldest policeman in the world – and, one might suspect, the most inept, since he has not yet cottoned on to the fact that his wife is embroiled in a tangled web of deceit and kidnapping.
Sean Brady, who until now has believed he is JT’s brother, has hit on a cunning plan and kidnapped his brother in order that he can teach him to say ‘I won’t go!’ when the child appears in court for the custody hearing. As plans go, well, it’s rubbish isn’t it?
Until now it has been believed that the father of Hope Brady’s child was John Black (or possibly one or both of his sentient and quasi-independent eyebrows) but now John suspects that the father could be evil badger-bearded mastermind Stefano Dimera.
Take the child into care. He shouldn’t be growing up with all that baggage to deal with.
wanted to fill the entire
piccadilly line.
Young JT on ‘Days of Our Lives’ should really be taken into care for his own good. Currently he is in a tug-of-love battle between the Bradys and the trailer-trash bimbos Ken and Barb. Ken is JT’s real father. His mother Marlo was murdered by evil Rolf (who subsequently dressed up in drag to dump the body in a swamp). Soap bodies never remain undiscovered for long and the decomposing Marlo popped up through the ice while the young folk were out carousing.
Young JT was swapped at birth in the hospital and Hope Brady’s real child is in the care of Abe and Lexy Carver. Abe is the oldest policeman in the world – and, one might suspect, the most inept, since he has not yet cottoned on to the fact that his wife is embroiled in a tangled web of deceit and kidnapping.
Sean Brady, who until now has believed he is JT’s brother, has hit on a cunning plan and kidnapped his brother in order that he can teach him to say ‘I won’t go!’ when the child appears in court for the custody hearing. As plans go, well, it’s rubbish isn’t it?
Until now it has been believed that the father of Hope Brady’s child was John Black (or possibly one or both of his sentient and quasi-independent eyebrows) but now John suspects that the father could be evil badger-bearded mastermind Stefano Dimera.
Take the child into care. He shouldn’t be growing up with all that baggage to deal with.
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Monday 5 May 2008
a hot lamb pattie
and a fish finger sandwich.
‘lost’ was on tv
The ‘Flood’ continued. Robert Carlyle – for no good reason – jumped off the Thames Barrier with his ex-wife and ended up in a pit, which rapidly filled with water, then crawled into a tunnel which led to Charing Cross Underground Station. It should be noted that Charing Cross Underground Station is a) underground, and b) very near the river. One would have thought that the last thing anyone would want to do would be to sit on a bench on platform 2 chatting about how their lives had gone wrong, but sit and chat they do.
Unsurprisingly, someone says ‘listen!’ and the sound of lots of rushing water begins to grow.
Either that or it was the sound of thousands of listeners either switching off or shouting ‘Get up the stairs, you mad t**ts!’.
In these sort of disasters it is also usual for someone to sacrifice himself for the good of humanity, and, as it happens, Sir Tom Courtenay steps up to the plate, wondering no doubt if his acting career has been washed away with the Vauxhall branch of McDonalds.
Someone will have to manually open the Thames barrier to allow the water to drain away – and they can only do it if they are locked in.... Mmmmm! OK, we’ll accept that, but the other option is for the army to just blow the barrier out of the water. Professor Morrison chooses to die and save the Thames barrier for the world, despite the fact that in the last episode he’d said that the barrier was in the wrong place anyway and needs to be knocked down and rebuilt upstream.
ITV must have paid these people an awful lot of money.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the musical score was the most irritating soundtrack in the world, alternating between a repetitive – and seemingly endless – dramatic string section riff which would have put even Philip Glass into a coma, and what seemed like the first few bars of ‘Pie Jesu’, again repeated endlessly during the sad emotional bits.
Nigel Planer, having spent four hours with his trademark gloomy face staring at a laptop screen, went out and quietly killed himself.
I suspect he’d been watching ‘Flood’ on ITV.
and a fish finger sandwich.
‘lost’ was on tv
The ‘Flood’ continued. Robert Carlyle – for no good reason – jumped off the Thames Barrier with his ex-wife and ended up in a pit, which rapidly filled with water, then crawled into a tunnel which led to Charing Cross Underground Station. It should be noted that Charing Cross Underground Station is a) underground, and b) very near the river. One would have thought that the last thing anyone would want to do would be to sit on a bench on platform 2 chatting about how their lives had gone wrong, but sit and chat they do.
Unsurprisingly, someone says ‘listen!’ and the sound of lots of rushing water begins to grow.
Either that or it was the sound of thousands of listeners either switching off or shouting ‘Get up the stairs, you mad t**ts!’.
In these sort of disasters it is also usual for someone to sacrifice himself for the good of humanity, and, as it happens, Sir Tom Courtenay steps up to the plate, wondering no doubt if his acting career has been washed away with the Vauxhall branch of McDonalds.
Someone will have to manually open the Thames barrier to allow the water to drain away – and they can only do it if they are locked in.... Mmmmm! OK, we’ll accept that, but the other option is for the army to just blow the barrier out of the water. Professor Morrison chooses to die and save the Thames barrier for the world, despite the fact that in the last episode he’d said that the barrier was in the wrong place anyway and needs to be knocked down and rebuilt upstream.
ITV must have paid these people an awful lot of money.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the musical score was the most irritating soundtrack in the world, alternating between a repetitive – and seemingly endless – dramatic string section riff which would have put even Philip Glass into a coma, and what seemed like the first few bars of ‘Pie Jesu’, again repeated endlessly during the sad emotional bits.
Nigel Planer, having spent four hours with his trademark gloomy face staring at a laptop screen, went out and quietly killed himself.
I suspect he’d been watching ‘Flood’ on ITV.
Sunday 4 May 2008
‘read this carefully.
i am going to kill you.
yes. that does mean you.’
(found haiku discovered on the wall of a cubicle in the men’s toilet in Shepherds Bush Precinct)
Oooh! New ITV drama! Not just drama but apocalyptic drama. I love my apocalyptic drama, especially if it’s stretched over four hours with special effects and big names. ‘Flood’ certainly had its big names, David Suchet, Robert Carlyle, Ralph Brown and Sir Tom Courtenay, not to mention Nigel Planer, stretching his acting skills by playing a mournful-faced loser (from the Met Office) for a change.
David Suchet, who is brilliant in everything, was a very credible Deputy Prime Minister who discovers that a gynormous storm has flooded part of Scotland and is moving down the English Channel.
The Met officers assure him that it’s unlikely it will move toward the South Coast, but of course, it does, with three hours notice, and threatens to drown London.
In these sort of disasters there is always a disgraced scientist whose theory was laughed out of the lab years before and who was actually right all the time.
The disgraced scientist in this case is Professor Morrison (Sir Tom Courtenay) who just happens to be the father of Robert Carlyle, heroic marine engineer. As is usual in apocalyptic dramas, the two are estranged, in this case because years ago their entire family was torn apart over an argument about the Thames Barrier (I kid you not).
At this point I began to think that things were getting a little silly.
i am going to kill you.
yes. that does mean you.’
(found haiku discovered on the wall of a cubicle in the men’s toilet in Shepherds Bush Precinct)
Oooh! New ITV drama! Not just drama but apocalyptic drama. I love my apocalyptic drama, especially if it’s stretched over four hours with special effects and big names. ‘Flood’ certainly had its big names, David Suchet, Robert Carlyle, Ralph Brown and Sir Tom Courtenay, not to mention Nigel Planer, stretching his acting skills by playing a mournful-faced loser (from the Met Office) for a change.
David Suchet, who is brilliant in everything, was a very credible Deputy Prime Minister who discovers that a gynormous storm has flooded part of Scotland and is moving down the English Channel.
The Met officers assure him that it’s unlikely it will move toward the South Coast, but of course, it does, with three hours notice, and threatens to drown London.
In these sort of disasters there is always a disgraced scientist whose theory was laughed out of the lab years before and who was actually right all the time.
The disgraced scientist in this case is Professor Morrison (Sir Tom Courtenay) who just happens to be the father of Robert Carlyle, heroic marine engineer. As is usual in apocalyptic dramas, the two are estranged, in this case because years ago their entire family was torn apart over an argument about the Thames Barrier (I kid you not).
At this point I began to think that things were getting a little silly.
Saturday 3 May 2008
things i overhear:
‘it was some rap gospel shit!
what was that about?’
‘Britain’s Got Talent’ rolls on through Britain, dislodging the strange, wonderful and downright disturbing, like bugs from under a rock.
Bellydancers, teenage boys who can balance footballs on their heads, eighty-four year old strongmen and enough dancers of various sorts to populate a small european principality.
If it were up to me, I wouldn’t put any dancers through at all, although I was impressed by the two men last week who did an act in which Michael Jackson was interrupted by a fat Sikh cleaner and they did a dance-off against each other.
Ultimately, yes, dancers are talented, but there needs to be an extra dimension to bring them to a level where they can compete with singers, comedians and bullied choirboys (the sympathy vote goes a long way).
‘it was some rap gospel shit!
what was that about?’
‘Britain’s Got Talent’ rolls on through Britain, dislodging the strange, wonderful and downright disturbing, like bugs from under a rock.
Bellydancers, teenage boys who can balance footballs on their heads, eighty-four year old strongmen and enough dancers of various sorts to populate a small european principality.
If it were up to me, I wouldn’t put any dancers through at all, although I was impressed by the two men last week who did an act in which Michael Jackson was interrupted by a fat Sikh cleaner and they did a dance-off against each other.
Ultimately, yes, dancers are talented, but there needs to be an extra dimension to bring them to a level where they can compete with singers, comedians and bullied choirboys (the sympathy vote goes a long way).
Saturday, 3 May 2008
Friday 2 May 2008
boris johnson? no.
it’s matt lucas in a wig.
really? he is real?
It appears we have a new mayor. Boris Johnson, the Matt Lucas of the political world, has taken over from Red Ken, whose failure to satisfactorily disassociate himself from the recent corruption allegations against one of his advisors was no doubt a large factor in his loss.
Boris concerns me though. Interviewed recently regarding his plans to reintroduce Routemaster buses with conductors, he was shown to have no clue as to the design of the proposed buses and very little idea of the ultimate cost. I suspect that London will regret its decision.
‘Days of Our Lives’ has fallen into one of its regular slow periods (or maybe that should be ‘slower’ periods) when nothing much happens apart from people sitting round talking about how they feel about what’s not happening.
Exciting news of the week is that John Black has hired a new PA, and Sami’s son Will (who bears a striking resemblance to The Grinch) is demanding that he go to see his daddy in a coma. Of course, Lucas is the character currently in a coma. Comas are handy things in DOOL, since they allow an actor to go off, do other things, think about his tenuous position in the show as, lets face it, they could live, die or just never wake up.
Ken and Barb are pursuing their case against The Bradys, who have brought up Ken’s baby as their own, due to Stefano Dimera having switched the babies in the hospital for reasons which have never been entirely clear, but create good drama anyway.
Ken is seldom seen in a shirt, which is a good thing since his chest and abs are far more emotional and expressive than his face is.
Elsewhere, the battle for the Permalash mascara formula has begun. It will be nasty and bloody. Foundation may be seriously smudged.
it’s matt lucas in a wig.
really? he is real?
It appears we have a new mayor. Boris Johnson, the Matt Lucas of the political world, has taken over from Red Ken, whose failure to satisfactorily disassociate himself from the recent corruption allegations against one of his advisors was no doubt a large factor in his loss.
Boris concerns me though. Interviewed recently regarding his plans to reintroduce Routemaster buses with conductors, he was shown to have no clue as to the design of the proposed buses and very little idea of the ultimate cost. I suspect that London will regret its decision.
‘Days of Our Lives’ has fallen into one of its regular slow periods (or maybe that should be ‘slower’ periods) when nothing much happens apart from people sitting round talking about how they feel about what’s not happening.
Exciting news of the week is that John Black has hired a new PA, and Sami’s son Will (who bears a striking resemblance to The Grinch) is demanding that he go to see his daddy in a coma. Of course, Lucas is the character currently in a coma. Comas are handy things in DOOL, since they allow an actor to go off, do other things, think about his tenuous position in the show as, lets face it, they could live, die or just never wake up.
Ken and Barb are pursuing their case against The Bradys, who have brought up Ken’s baby as their own, due to Stefano Dimera having switched the babies in the hospital for reasons which have never been entirely clear, but create good drama anyway.
Ken is seldom seen in a shirt, which is a good thing since his chest and abs are far more emotional and expressive than his face is.
Elsewhere, the battle for the Permalash mascara formula has begun. It will be nasty and bloody. Foundation may be seriously smudged.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Thursday 1 May 2008
tube trains groaning in
bulged with jampacked commuters
all going somewhere
maybe it’s to vote
for a new fat shiny mayor,
or maybe just home
People find my blog through many strange and nefarious routes. For the record, I neither know nor care what the theme tune is to Katie & Peter, The Next Chapter. I only want to read The Last Chapter in the vain hope that it involves execution, removal of tongues and physical dismemberment.
Nevertheless, someone is typing this question into a search engine and ending up here, a strange place to be for someone looking for references to Katie Price and Peter Andre, since, in total contrast to the Duke and Duchess of Dull, I can actually write, have a modicum of talent and would never name my child after an Italian Dessert. No money though, sadly, but then, that’s the way of the world.
As it says in the Bible (I think) ‘The Freaks will inherit The Earth’
Talking of which Raef Bjayou is very popular too. Many people come to this blog searching for the ice-cream-haired Toff from The Apprentice. Sadly, I still have not discovered in what circumstances he has ‘faced death in the face many times.’
Maybe he used to sit across the desk from Jenny Jinger.
If anyone knows the answer, please let me know.
Talking of The Apprentice, the only thing better than watching the Apprentice is watching The Lego Apprentice. See Lego Lindy being fired by Lego Sir Alan;
http://www.bolegbros.co.uk/Movies/viewer.asp?MovieId=33&offset=
bulged with jampacked commuters
all going somewhere
maybe it’s to vote
for a new fat shiny mayor,
or maybe just home
People find my blog through many strange and nefarious routes. For the record, I neither know nor care what the theme tune is to Katie & Peter, The Next Chapter. I only want to read The Last Chapter in the vain hope that it involves execution, removal of tongues and physical dismemberment.
Nevertheless, someone is typing this question into a search engine and ending up here, a strange place to be for someone looking for references to Katie Price and Peter Andre, since, in total contrast to the Duke and Duchess of Dull, I can actually write, have a modicum of talent and would never name my child after an Italian Dessert. No money though, sadly, but then, that’s the way of the world.
As it says in the Bible (I think) ‘The Freaks will inherit The Earth’
Talking of which Raef Bjayou is very popular too. Many people come to this blog searching for the ice-cream-haired Toff from The Apprentice. Sadly, I still have not discovered in what circumstances he has ‘faced death in the face many times.’
Maybe he used to sit across the desk from Jenny Jinger.
If anyone knows the answer, please let me know.
Talking of The Apprentice, the only thing better than watching the Apprentice is watching The Lego Apprentice. See Lego Lindy being fired by Lego Sir Alan;
http://www.bolegbros.co.uk/Movies/viewer.asp?MovieId=33&offset=
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Wednesday 30 April 2008
my husband’s laughing;
cross between howler monkey
and rabid hyena
It’s come round to Apprentice day again and the hapless applicants were given the task of designing greetings cards for a new occasion. It might be true to say that common sense went completely out of the window and both teams completely lost sight of what they were trying to achieve.
Kevin (whose uncanny likeness to Little Britain’s Dafydd has already been noted) was in charge of a team whose cards were based around the idea of Greenness and Environmental Awareness. Stern lectures inside the cards demanded that the recipients share baths, use less water and recycle their relatives’ dead bodies immediately after death.
‘But who,’ asked the prospective buyers at Tescos, Clintons and Celebrations, ‘are the people who are going to buy these cards and send them out?’ which was, I am sure, a thought which occurred to many of us at home.
The grand idea of ‘environmental green save-the-planet’ issues as a theme came from evil Jenny Jinger, a woman so slippery she must have to hook her arse to the back of every chair she sits in to stop her sliding off.
Jenny, of course, blamed everything on Sarah, who was, as everyone seems to have forgotten, the one person who provided some sensible suggestions as to what cards to produce. Sir Sid James dropped hints as to whom Kevin – as manager of the losing team – should bring back to the boardroom and might as well have shouted ‘Bring the ginger cow back with you!’ but Kevin, oblivious to all of this, came back with Sarah and Claire.
Sir Sid didn’t take long to point the finger at Kevin and give him the two dreaded words.
The prize was a bit rubbish. The winning team, led by the very excitable Michael Sophocles (Sir Sid James had to tell him to calm down when he started howling and thumping the table) were no doubt expecting a luxury trip to some casino or a night of pampering in a top-notch spa, but their faces fell when Sir Sid announced ‘You’re going home, and being treated to Mylene Klass banging at a piano for two hours.’
Michael Sophocles restrained the urge to shout ‘Yessssss!!!!’ and bang the table some more.
London Underground were very swift to respond to my complaint.
Our ref: 332975401/May/2008
Dear Mr Williams
Thank you for your feedback about the 'Lamb of God' advert displayed on the Underground.
I was most concerned to read your comments. All advertising we carry is handled by an external company - CBS Outdoor [formerly Viacom]. We take our responsibilities very seriously and all decisions about anything that could be contentious are considered thoroughly. With CBS, we have agreed a set of guidelines advertisers must adhere to and they then judge each potential advert against these guidelines. We have some of the strictest guidelines among media owners and, as a result, relatively few complaints.
CBS's customer service department makes sure all adverts adhere to the standards set by the Advertising Standards Authority and the Committee of Advertising Practice.
We also have a number of additional guidelines relating specifically to the size and environment in which adverts are displayed.
This advert does not contravene any of these guidelines or standards and, as such, was considered acceptable.
All complaints we receive about adverts on our stations and trains are recorded and are considered when looking at future designs. I have passed details of your complaint to our advertising team, who will keep your comments for reference.
I can only apologise if you have been offended in any way - this is never our intention. If you still have concerns, I can only suggest you contact the Advertising Standards Authority directly, for them to investigate.
Advertising Standards Authority
Mid City Place
71 High Holborn
LondonWC1V 6QT
020 7492 2222
Fax: 020 7242 3696
enquiries@asa.org.uk
http://www.asa.org.uk/asa
I am sorry that you should have to write about such a matter, and thank you again for doing so.
Yours sincerely
cross between howler monkey
and rabid hyena
It’s come round to Apprentice day again and the hapless applicants were given the task of designing greetings cards for a new occasion. It might be true to say that common sense went completely out of the window and both teams completely lost sight of what they were trying to achieve.
Kevin (whose uncanny likeness to Little Britain’s Dafydd has already been noted) was in charge of a team whose cards were based around the idea of Greenness and Environmental Awareness. Stern lectures inside the cards demanded that the recipients share baths, use less water and recycle their relatives’ dead bodies immediately after death.
‘But who,’ asked the prospective buyers at Tescos, Clintons and Celebrations, ‘are the people who are going to buy these cards and send them out?’ which was, I am sure, a thought which occurred to many of us at home.
The grand idea of ‘environmental green save-the-planet’ issues as a theme came from evil Jenny Jinger, a woman so slippery she must have to hook her arse to the back of every chair she sits in to stop her sliding off.
Jenny, of course, blamed everything on Sarah, who was, as everyone seems to have forgotten, the one person who provided some sensible suggestions as to what cards to produce. Sir Sid James dropped hints as to whom Kevin – as manager of the losing team – should bring back to the boardroom and might as well have shouted ‘Bring the ginger cow back with you!’ but Kevin, oblivious to all of this, came back with Sarah and Claire.
Sir Sid didn’t take long to point the finger at Kevin and give him the two dreaded words.
The prize was a bit rubbish. The winning team, led by the very excitable Michael Sophocles (Sir Sid James had to tell him to calm down when he started howling and thumping the table) were no doubt expecting a luxury trip to some casino or a night of pampering in a top-notch spa, but their faces fell when Sir Sid announced ‘You’re going home, and being treated to Mylene Klass banging at a piano for two hours.’
Michael Sophocles restrained the urge to shout ‘Yessssss!!!!’ and bang the table some more.
London Underground were very swift to respond to my complaint.
Our ref: 332975401/May/2008
Dear Mr Williams
Thank you for your feedback about the 'Lamb of God' advert displayed on the Underground.
I was most concerned to read your comments. All advertising we carry is handled by an external company - CBS Outdoor [formerly Viacom]. We take our responsibilities very seriously and all decisions about anything that could be contentious are considered thoroughly. With CBS, we have agreed a set of guidelines advertisers must adhere to and they then judge each potential advert against these guidelines. We have some of the strictest guidelines among media owners and, as a result, relatively few complaints.
CBS's customer service department makes sure all adverts adhere to the standards set by the Advertising Standards Authority and the Committee of Advertising Practice.
We also have a number of additional guidelines relating specifically to the size and environment in which adverts are displayed.
This advert does not contravene any of these guidelines or standards and, as such, was considered acceptable.
All complaints we receive about adverts on our stations and trains are recorded and are considered when looking at future designs. I have passed details of your complaint to our advertising team, who will keep your comments for reference.
I can only apologise if you have been offended in any way - this is never our intention. If you still have concerns, I can only suggest you contact the Advertising Standards Authority directly, for them to investigate.
Advertising Standards Authority
Mid City Place
71 High Holborn
LondonWC1V 6QT
020 7492 2222
Fax: 020 7242 3696
enquiries@asa.org.uk
http://www.asa.org.uk/asa
I am sorry that you should have to write about such a matter, and thank you again for doing so.
Yours sincerely
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