Monday 11 January 2010

Sonorous (adj) In the manner of an annoying male child.

IT managers
should be sent to slough to wait
for the friendly bombs.

Our secret government bunker underneath the Brixton Academy has been on high alert with all this snow. Such activity has not been seen since the Academy spelt Skunk Anansie’s name wrong a few weeks ago on their big sign above the door.
‘Skunk Ananise’ it shouted out at Brixton in three-foot high letters.
I imagine that Skunk herself must have seriously kicked some Academy ass since the sign was changed by the afternoon.
The council’s efforts to grit the pavements were battled fiercely by both the weather and the Council’s Streetcare Street cleaners who followed the gritters round and dutifully brushed the grit into the gutter.
I am a person of particular habits, one of which is singing at my desk. I claim this as a genetic requirement, since, being Welsh, it is a racial necessity. For generations Welsh mothers who find that their children cannot sing have left them out on a mountain to die. It has long been believed that had the French Canadians adopted this practice we might have avoided the musical holocaust that was Celine Dion, but alas, hindsight is, as they say, twenty-twenty.
My boss, however, is tiring of my warbling and accuses me of singing only old material.
‘You’re always singing songs like ‘Seven Brothers for Seven Sisters’!’ she declared yesterday, despite the fact that, if there even was a song called ‘Seven Brothers for Seven Sisters’, it’s unlikely I would be caught singing it.
She has now provided a money-box and I am obliged to pay 20p a day for the privilege of singing at my own desk. This, I reflect morosely, makes the survival of Celine Dion all the more ironic.
The snow has abated somewhat, and back at home I have become fascinated by Ivana Trump’s ears, which surely have to rival Leonard Nimoy’s in their size and convolutedness.

Thursday 15 October 2009

I’m a bit bemused as to why someone should want to thump Leona Lewis. I can only imagine it’s because Celine Dion wasn’t available.

Monday 2 March 2009

Last night we watched David Lynch's 'Inland Empire'. 3 hours! It's brilliant in an incomprehensible way, and has people with rabbit heads. This evening we saw Harry Hill, although I suspect he is also Hugh Firmly-Wherewithall with a curly wig on. You never see them in the same room.
I subsequently hied me up the stairs to beddy-bye land now, and spent a quiet hour plotting the downfall of Celine Dion. She has to be stopped!!!

Saturday 26 July 2008

The British invariably complain with an inevitability bordering on the mystical, usually about the weather. Being British, I carry this sociogenetic trait with me like a moaning cross. ‘It’s too hot!’ is my current mantra. Added to that, the Ugly One insists on having fans blasting all through the house which irritates me, as I would rather put up with the ambient heat than having warm air fired at me by a machine.
‘Why don’t y’all have AC?’ Americans will ask, to which I generally respond, ‘There’s no point, since we don’t need it for eighty percent of the year, and besides, it dries up my contact lenses and the British have taken on far too many American ideas already.’
So, should we complain? Why do we complain?
Personally, I find it quite enjoyable. There’s a masochistic side to the British psyche which allows us to bond with other sufferers. We make more friends who share some sort of target of complaint than anything else. Some time ago, I made quite a few friends from the society I set up The AC/DC (the Anti Celine Dion Campaign) which sought to ween addicts of this whining pathos-vampire away from the darkness and into the light.
I am sure that many people who have moaned to each other at bus-stops about the rain/sun/fog/hail/buses/new Celine Dion album have ending up shagging like rabbits.
Discuss.