Inseminate (adj) Completely devoid of Jewish people
Continuing with my obsessional Indian food mania, I got home this evening, dismantled an old coffee grinder, cleaned it, put it together again and ground up some spices to make garam masala. I have also found an online Indian supermarket that can provide me with the things they don’t sell down Shepherds Bush Market
The Ugly One was somewhat perplexed by all this, since we were watching Coronation Street at the time. Gail Tilsley has been arrested for the murder of her gormless husband and Rita’s come back from holiday with, I am sure, some sort of facelift, although it’s not on the Ivy Tilsley level of inappropriateness.
Showing posts with label Coronation Street. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Coronation Street. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Friday, 12 February 2010
Thursday 11 February 2010
Persiflage (v) To constantly beat, e,g a wilful child or a carpet.
While sitting in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, waiting to be called in for a blood-test, my thoughts were drawn, as they often are, to ‘Coronation Street’ and the onscreen lives of Ken and Dierdre Barlow. The hospital has picked up some old ticket machines from a Safeways Deli Counter. The number on the LCD screen was 9. My ticket was 34, so I had quite a time to ponder.
I’m thinking of commissioning an opera based on the life of Ken and Dierdre, although I haven’t thought of a title as yet.
Ideally it would have a score by Philip Glass, and would be a Beckett-esque tragedy covering thirty years, one decade per act, and with a different person playing their psychotic daughter Tracy every time she appears on stage, just to keep it real.
Act I begins on a high note with the wedding of Ken and Dierdre, lots of choruses and a duet, but laced with a menacing counter-melody from Mike Baldwin, whose affair with Dierdre in 1983 initiates a feud that continues through the years until Mike’s tragic death in Ken Barlow’s arms in 2006.
After the blood test I had to have my knee x-rayed by two children. I swear they were on work experience or something. One of them had barely started shaving, and she was the one who looked the oldest.
While sitting in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, waiting to be called in for a blood-test, my thoughts were drawn, as they often are, to ‘Coronation Street’ and the onscreen lives of Ken and Dierdre Barlow. The hospital has picked up some old ticket machines from a Safeways Deli Counter. The number on the LCD screen was 9. My ticket was 34, so I had quite a time to ponder.
I’m thinking of commissioning an opera based on the life of Ken and Dierdre, although I haven’t thought of a title as yet.
Ideally it would have a score by Philip Glass, and would be a Beckett-esque tragedy covering thirty years, one decade per act, and with a different person playing their psychotic daughter Tracy every time she appears on stage, just to keep it real.
Act I begins on a high note with the wedding of Ken and Dierdre, lots of choruses and a duet, but laced with a menacing counter-melody from Mike Baldwin, whose affair with Dierdre in 1983 initiates a feud that continues through the years until Mike’s tragic death in Ken Barlow’s arms in 2006.
After the blood test I had to have my knee x-rayed by two children. I swear they were on work experience or something. One of them had barely started shaving, and she was the one who looked the oldest.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Monday 8 February 2010
Flimsy (adj.) Exhibiting the characteristics of a Flim.
Coronation Street is getting a bit dark of late. Peter Barlow is descending into a self-created hell of alcoholic madness, possibly because he has never come to terms with the fact that he used to be Scottish and ginger, and some time back transformed, in true Doctor Who fashion, into an Italian Mancunian. Or maybe it’s because no one seems to recognise that his best friend is Keith Duffy from Boyzone, or realise that Kim from Hearsay is working behind the bar in the Rovers. It’s enough to drive anyone to the Newton and Ridley.
Meanwhile, Gail Potter-Tilsley-Platt-Hillman-McIntyre has been taken off to ‘The Lakes’ by her newest husband, Joe. (‘The Lakes’ for Corrie residents is a bit like Leicester is for Eastenders characters. Some people never return.)
Joe has refurbished a boat and ominously named it ‘Gail Force’. Joe is also in serious debt to a creepy loan shark, and has decided to fake his own death. He should have known better than to try and fake it in ‘The Lakes’. The power of ‘The Lakes’ will compel him to stay, and indeed he was dragged to a watery doom beneath ‘Gail Force’ while a baleful full moon shone down on Gail Potter-Tilsley-Platt-Hillman-McIntyre, falling to her knees on the jetty and shouting ‘Joooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!’
OK. She did shout ‘Joooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!’ but she didn’t fall to her knees. She should have. It’s the traditional thing to do in these circumstances.
Gail should have known better than to marry Joe. Out of her four husbands, three have come to sticky ends, and the other one ran off with a Geordie, which is worse than being gay in Weatherfield. However, as her husband sinks (possibly to re-emerge in Holby City), her son Nick returns, himself transformed into a less blonde version with new sticky-out grabbable ears.
I want to live in a street where you can go away and come back regenerated. I’d avoid ‘The Lakes’ though, and Leicester.
Coronation Street is getting a bit dark of late. Peter Barlow is descending into a self-created hell of alcoholic madness, possibly because he has never come to terms with the fact that he used to be Scottish and ginger, and some time back transformed, in true Doctor Who fashion, into an Italian Mancunian. Or maybe it’s because no one seems to recognise that his best friend is Keith Duffy from Boyzone, or realise that Kim from Hearsay is working behind the bar in the Rovers. It’s enough to drive anyone to the Newton and Ridley.
Meanwhile, Gail Potter-Tilsley-Platt-Hillman-McIntyre has been taken off to ‘The Lakes’ by her newest husband, Joe. (‘The Lakes’ for Corrie residents is a bit like Leicester is for Eastenders characters. Some people never return.)
Joe has refurbished a boat and ominously named it ‘Gail Force’. Joe is also in serious debt to a creepy loan shark, and has decided to fake his own death. He should have known better than to try and fake it in ‘The Lakes’. The power of ‘The Lakes’ will compel him to stay, and indeed he was dragged to a watery doom beneath ‘Gail Force’ while a baleful full moon shone down on Gail Potter-Tilsley-Platt-Hillman-McIntyre, falling to her knees on the jetty and shouting ‘Joooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!’
OK. She did shout ‘Joooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!’ but she didn’t fall to her knees. She should have. It’s the traditional thing to do in these circumstances.
Gail should have known better than to marry Joe. Out of her four husbands, three have come to sticky ends, and the other one ran off with a Geordie, which is worse than being gay in Weatherfield. However, as her husband sinks (possibly to re-emerge in Holby City), her son Nick returns, himself transformed into a less blonde version with new sticky-out grabbable ears.
I want to live in a street where you can go away and come back regenerated. I’d avoid ‘The Lakes’ though, and Leicester.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Wednesday 20 May 2009
I am being tricked by looky-likeys. I could have sworn I saw Avon Barksdale from ‘The Wire’ waiting for a bus outside the Brixton Academy today.
I have not had much time this week to work on my epic painting ‘Brad Pitt Helped Jail My Evil Dad’, but no doubt I will get the chance at the weekend, what with it being a Bank Holiday. I was hoping to get something done last night, but I arrived home in a bad mood, having caught my bag in the tube doors on the Northern Line and having to be subsequently rescued by a nice young man with an i-pod.
Instead I made myself a sandwich and the Ugly One and I watched ‘Coronation Street’ again. I should feel more disgusted/enraged/deeply saddened at Eileen’s dad, Colin, who has been found to have had an affair with Eileen’s schoolfriend when she was fourteen, and in the process fathering Fitz’s ex-girlfriend – whose name escapes me. I would normally at this point look it up, but to be honest, I’m finding it hard to care.
I’m more fascinated by Amy Barlow’s creepy monobrow, which is the sort of thing you’d expect to find on a fifty year old Turkish kebab-carver, but not on a six year old girl. In our house, we sit in the dark, hold hands and chant ‘Amy Barlow, Frida Kahlo, Amy Barlow, Frida Kahlo’ over and over again, just to keep the evil away.
I have not had much time this week to work on my epic painting ‘Brad Pitt Helped Jail My Evil Dad’, but no doubt I will get the chance at the weekend, what with it being a Bank Holiday. I was hoping to get something done last night, but I arrived home in a bad mood, having caught my bag in the tube doors on the Northern Line and having to be subsequently rescued by a nice young man with an i-pod.
Instead I made myself a sandwich and the Ugly One and I watched ‘Coronation Street’ again. I should feel more disgusted/enraged/deeply saddened at Eileen’s dad, Colin, who has been found to have had an affair with Eileen’s schoolfriend when she was fourteen, and in the process fathering Fitz’s ex-girlfriend – whose name escapes me. I would normally at this point look it up, but to be honest, I’m finding it hard to care.
I’m more fascinated by Amy Barlow’s creepy monobrow, which is the sort of thing you’d expect to find on a fifty year old Turkish kebab-carver, but not on a six year old girl. In our house, we sit in the dark, hold hands and chant ‘Amy Barlow, Frida Kahlo, Amy Barlow, Frida Kahlo’ over and over again, just to keep the evil away.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Tuesday 19 May 2009
In a retrospective mood, I was leafing through some old writing and came across some drabbles, a drabble being a short story of fifty words or less. I was rather impressed by the following:-
REHABILITATION OF THE DALEKS
It's not on; that Doctor finally defeating the Daleks and sending them all back through time to do Community Service.
There's two moved in on our landing. 'Just you watch!' I said to Sheila, my everloving. 'They'll be coming in all hours, reeking of Duckhams, forever sliding down the stairs, scraping the paint with their nodules.'
I was right.
Sheila won't go out these days. The council offered to send one in as a home help; get her over her phobia. But we won't have it.
Not that we're racist or anything... but... well... you know.. They're different, aren't they?
I used to write a lot about Coronation Street, but I confess to having gone off it of late. It’s become something of a self-parody these days, as if it’s a soap that has become self-aware, and is making ironic jokes about itself.
I’m still compelled to watch Ken and Diedre though, who are acting out some endless Samuel Beckett piece about the imprisoning power of ennui.
Lately Ken has attempted to escape into the arms of Stephanie Beacham, a kind of ageing siren, luring Ken onto her barge with coffee, poached egg on toast and shelves full of Carol Ann Duffy collections.
Ken represents the frustrated intellectual, forever staring into space whilst banging the earpiece of his spectacles on his teeth. He hesitantly suggests to Diedre that they watch a documentary about the heretical Cathars of medieval France, but Diedre would rather watch ‘Celebrity Barmcake Wrestling’ or ‘Manchester’s Stupidest Criminals’.
Ken was recently given the option to sail off with Steph in ‘Utopia’ (yes, that’s what her narrowboat was called) and was all set to go, having packed his worldly goods in a case and left a note for Diedre, but, the pull of Beckett-esque ennui was too strong and he stood on the bridge, holding his case, as Steph sailed off to Harrogate, or whatever passes for Valhallah in the Corrie world. (In Eastenders it’s Leicester).
There is still no sign of God. One would be tempted to think he didn’t exist at all.
REHABILITATION OF THE DALEKS
It's not on; that Doctor finally defeating the Daleks and sending them all back through time to do Community Service.
There's two moved in on our landing. 'Just you watch!' I said to Sheila, my everloving. 'They'll be coming in all hours, reeking of Duckhams, forever sliding down the stairs, scraping the paint with their nodules.'
I was right.
Sheila won't go out these days. The council offered to send one in as a home help; get her over her phobia. But we won't have it.
Not that we're racist or anything... but... well... you know.. They're different, aren't they?
I used to write a lot about Coronation Street, but I confess to having gone off it of late. It’s become something of a self-parody these days, as if it’s a soap that has become self-aware, and is making ironic jokes about itself.
I’m still compelled to watch Ken and Diedre though, who are acting out some endless Samuel Beckett piece about the imprisoning power of ennui.
Lately Ken has attempted to escape into the arms of Stephanie Beacham, a kind of ageing siren, luring Ken onto her barge with coffee, poached egg on toast and shelves full of Carol Ann Duffy collections.
Ken represents the frustrated intellectual, forever staring into space whilst banging the earpiece of his spectacles on his teeth. He hesitantly suggests to Diedre that they watch a documentary about the heretical Cathars of medieval France, but Diedre would rather watch ‘Celebrity Barmcake Wrestling’ or ‘Manchester’s Stupidest Criminals’.
Ken was recently given the option to sail off with Steph in ‘Utopia’ (yes, that’s what her narrowboat was called) and was all set to go, having packed his worldly goods in a case and left a note for Diedre, but, the pull of Beckett-esque ennui was too strong and he stood on the bridge, holding his case, as Steph sailed off to Harrogate, or whatever passes for Valhallah in the Corrie world. (In Eastenders it’s Leicester).
There is still no sign of God. One would be tempted to think he didn’t exist at all.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Wednesday 6 August 2008
I think the black gay footballer from ‘Footballers’ Wives’ portended only pestilence.
I woke up this morning and felt as rough as a bear’s astrakhan coat. Thinking that I would clear my head and go in to work late, I set off and got as far as Hammersmith before a wave of dizziness swept over me, and I was forced to go back home, but not before I’d bought a Boris Karloff Frankenstein jigsaw for £2.00 from Tiger Tiger.
The Ugly One rang when I got back to tell me that he also was feeling queasy and on his way home.
So, we slept the afternoon away and then caught up with Corrie. I’m getting a bit tired of Mad-Eye Moody, who’s taken over Mike Baldwin’s Knicker Factory. Nobody likes him, apart from Carla, and even she can’t see his bulging eye, which I suspect is fitted with a Satnav Gaydar system. Even Ted, David Platt’s gay grandad, hasn’t spotted it yet.
What’s wrong with these people?
And what is Dev up to, making the beast with two backs with Nina, an ageing alleged Bollywood star? I’m finding this storyline very unwholesome, particularly as I suspect that Nina’s creepy husband Prem is lining them up for some kind of kinky Asian threesome.
They should give more lines to Amber, Dev’s wise-beyond-her-years daughter, who seems to know more about life that Dev will ever know.
Sinbad’s wife can go too. I cheered when they chucked her out the first time, and my heart sank when they let her move back in.
I woke up this morning and felt as rough as a bear’s astrakhan coat. Thinking that I would clear my head and go in to work late, I set off and got as far as Hammersmith before a wave of dizziness swept over me, and I was forced to go back home, but not before I’d bought a Boris Karloff Frankenstein jigsaw for £2.00 from Tiger Tiger.
The Ugly One rang when I got back to tell me that he also was feeling queasy and on his way home.
So, we slept the afternoon away and then caught up with Corrie. I’m getting a bit tired of Mad-Eye Moody, who’s taken over Mike Baldwin’s Knicker Factory. Nobody likes him, apart from Carla, and even she can’t see his bulging eye, which I suspect is fitted with a Satnav Gaydar system. Even Ted, David Platt’s gay grandad, hasn’t spotted it yet.
What’s wrong with these people?
And what is Dev up to, making the beast with two backs with Nina, an ageing alleged Bollywood star? I’m finding this storyline very unwholesome, particularly as I suspect that Nina’s creepy husband Prem is lining them up for some kind of kinky Asian threesome.
They should give more lines to Amber, Dev’s wise-beyond-her-years daughter, who seems to know more about life that Dev will ever know.
Sinbad’s wife can go too. I cheered when they chucked her out the first time, and my heart sank when they let her move back in.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Wednesday 30 July 2008
It would appear, although it still needs to be confirmed, that my tireless campaign against the ghastly Zezi Ifore (the Gormless Shoe Tree) may have borne fruit.
Online reports suggest that Zezi has been relieved of live presentation of Big Brother’s Little Brother during the week, and has been relegated to ‘prerecorded segments’ from the homes of Big Brother housemates. What exactly the friends and family of the house inmates have done to deserve such punishment is unclear. Maybe it’s an additional torture inflicted in order that those on the outside share some of the suffering that housemates are experiencing in this year’s ‘Endurance’-style show.
However, it seems like cause for celebration, and I intend doing a little dance of joy outside Brixton Academy once I’ve finished my cappuccino.
No response as yet, though to my Freedom of Information request.
Although not quite as disturbing as the sight of Zezi crammed into a Fisher-Price frock, I’m becoming a tad uncomfortable watching Liz McDonald on Corrie snogging Harry Mason from the bookies. There’s something very unsavoury about him, and not just because he was a sleazy warder in Bad Girls who was murdered and came back as a ghost.
My favourite character at the moment is Blanche Hunt, who must be bribing the writers as she seems to be getting all the best lines.
Blanche is currently convinced that Ken is gay and having an affair with David Platt’s gay grandad, Ted.
‘As you know, Diedre,’ she said, ‘I’ve got nothing against the gays. I’d walk on hot coals for Paul O’Grady.’
She’s played Blanche on and off for thirty years. She deserves some kind of an award.
Online reports suggest that Zezi has been relieved of live presentation of Big Brother’s Little Brother during the week, and has been relegated to ‘prerecorded segments’ from the homes of Big Brother housemates. What exactly the friends and family of the house inmates have done to deserve such punishment is unclear. Maybe it’s an additional torture inflicted in order that those on the outside share some of the suffering that housemates are experiencing in this year’s ‘Endurance’-style show.
However, it seems like cause for celebration, and I intend doing a little dance of joy outside Brixton Academy once I’ve finished my cappuccino.
No response as yet, though to my Freedom of Information request.
Although not quite as disturbing as the sight of Zezi crammed into a Fisher-Price frock, I’m becoming a tad uncomfortable watching Liz McDonald on Corrie snogging Harry Mason from the bookies. There’s something very unsavoury about him, and not just because he was a sleazy warder in Bad Girls who was murdered and came back as a ghost.
My favourite character at the moment is Blanche Hunt, who must be bribing the writers as she seems to be getting all the best lines.
Blanche is currently convinced that Ken is gay and having an affair with David Platt’s gay grandad, Ted.
‘As you know, Diedre,’ she said, ‘I’ve got nothing against the gays. I’d walk on hot coals for Paul O’Grady.’
She’s played Blanche on and off for thirty years. She deserves some kind of an award.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Saturday 7 June 2008
i’m making pastry.
it’s a kind of alchemy,
transforms in my hands.
The Ugly One and I spent most of the day lounging about and watching TV. I realise that this must seem like nothing new, but it is a bit odd for a Saturday. I’m normally out shopping for exotic ingredients, if not exotic shopkeepers.
We took in ‘Resident Evil – Extinction’ which was more of the same Resident Evil fodder; zombies and mutant dogs. I’m not quite sure why the dogs are so much faster than the zombie humans – who seem to stumble about dazed as if they’d just had a long conversation with Mariah Carey. This time we got zombie crows, and Alice (Milla Jovovich) has developed Heroes powers (though exactly how is not clear).
In the obligatory underground bunker was a young man whose face I could not place, and eventually had to look him up on t’internet.
It was none other than Matthew Marsden. What do you mean, ‘Who?’?
Actually, it took me a while to work out that he was in Coronation Street about ten years ago playing a young mechanic in Kev’s garage. I suspect he might also have had a fling with Sally, but then, who hasn’t?
it’s a kind of alchemy,
transforms in my hands.
The Ugly One and I spent most of the day lounging about and watching TV. I realise that this must seem like nothing new, but it is a bit odd for a Saturday. I’m normally out shopping for exotic ingredients, if not exotic shopkeepers.
We took in ‘Resident Evil – Extinction’ which was more of the same Resident Evil fodder; zombies and mutant dogs. I’m not quite sure why the dogs are so much faster than the zombie humans – who seem to stumble about dazed as if they’d just had a long conversation with Mariah Carey. This time we got zombie crows, and Alice (Milla Jovovich) has developed Heroes powers (though exactly how is not clear).
In the obligatory underground bunker was a young man whose face I could not place, and eventually had to look him up on t’internet.
It was none other than Matthew Marsden. What do you mean, ‘Who?’?
Actually, it took me a while to work out that he was in Coronation Street about ten years ago playing a young mechanic in Kev’s garage. I suspect he might also have had a fling with Sally, but then, who hasn’t?
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Friday 30 May 2008
sinbad’s in corrie.
he used to be in brookie.
it’s emmerdale next.
Now before I start I need to point out that I have earned my gay membership card over the years. I went on marches, attended countless benefits and, most importantly, have been openly gay in a heterosexual world since about 1976, which is about three-quarters of a century in gay years.
So what I’m about to say may seem somewhat controversial, as to be frank, I think there’s rather too many gay characters on tv at the moment, and if I’m getting tired of them, I’m sure the heterosexual masses must be sick up to the back passage with it all.
This gay dramafest seems to have gone in cycles. Gay friends were followed by gay sons, gay brothers, gay husbands, gay gangsters, gay mothers and now we have an outbreak of gay grandads. Coronation Street’s is Gail’s Dad, Ted Paige, for many years the missing Paige, since Gail had never met him. He’s a genial, somewhat realistic figure, since his only link to stereotypical gayness is his dapper hat and ubiquitous cravat. Almost simultaneously, from across the channel, we have Desperate Housewives, which already boasts a (quite honestly, thoroughly unlikeable) gay couple, a complicated gay teenager, and now has its own gay grandad. Being a US show though, it can’t have any old gay grandad, oh no! DH has Richard Chamberlain, the man who broke a thousand viewer’s hearts as Doctor Kildare.
It’s only a matter of time before Bree is exposed as a drag-queen who killed the original Bree and took her place many years ago.
In many ways, she is gayer than any other character in the show.
he used to be in brookie.
it’s emmerdale next.
Now before I start I need to point out that I have earned my gay membership card over the years. I went on marches, attended countless benefits and, most importantly, have been openly gay in a heterosexual world since about 1976, which is about three-quarters of a century in gay years.
So what I’m about to say may seem somewhat controversial, as to be frank, I think there’s rather too many gay characters on tv at the moment, and if I’m getting tired of them, I’m sure the heterosexual masses must be sick up to the back passage with it all.
This gay dramafest seems to have gone in cycles. Gay friends were followed by gay sons, gay brothers, gay husbands, gay gangsters, gay mothers and now we have an outbreak of gay grandads. Coronation Street’s is Gail’s Dad, Ted Paige, for many years the missing Paige, since Gail had never met him. He’s a genial, somewhat realistic figure, since his only link to stereotypical gayness is his dapper hat and ubiquitous cravat. Almost simultaneously, from across the channel, we have Desperate Housewives, which already boasts a (quite honestly, thoroughly unlikeable) gay couple, a complicated gay teenager, and now has its own gay grandad. Being a US show though, it can’t have any old gay grandad, oh no! DH has Richard Chamberlain, the man who broke a thousand viewer’s hearts as Doctor Kildare.
It’s only a matter of time before Bree is exposed as a drag-queen who killed the original Bree and took her place many years ago.
In many ways, she is gayer than any other character in the show.
Wednesday 28 May 2008
thunder in the night.
anthony rang from kansas
like sun breaking through
I’ve had a couple of days off work, and what with the Bank Holiday it’s amounted to five days of lounging about and not doing very much, apart from bake some very passable beef patties.
It’s Apprentice day, though, and I dutifully placed my wine and cigarettes at a reachable point before curling up on the sofa to indulge in the sadistic games of Sir Sid James (ooh, that rhymes!).
This week, Sir Sid sent out the teams to sell driving time in top of the range posh cars.
Lee ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ was in charge of Alex and Lucinda, leaving Michael Koshercles in charge of Gobby Claire and Helene. Without meaning to be cruel I’ve been trying to pin down whom Helene reminds me of, and I’ve finally realised that it’s from the film Total Recall, at the point where Arnie’s character has been morphed into that of a large woman. Just at the point when the large woman’s head starts to expand and turn back into Arnie, well, that’s who she reminds me of. It’s like someone’s stuck a bicycle pump in her ear and given it some serious wind.
Michael, quite surprisingly I felt, doesn’t like cars, and found the task hard-going. However, I fail to see why he drove a Ferrari all the way to Portobello Road vegetable market in order to try and sell driving time.
Many people suspect that Mr Koshercles has some incriminating photos of Sir Sid locked away somewhere since up until now he has led a charmed life and has escaped the deadly finger of doom for too long.
Finally - mainly I think because Margaret has been poking Sir Sid under the boardroom table with a knitting needle in a bid to make him see sense – Michael’s time has run out. His big puppy dog watery eyes could save him no longer and the half-jewish, catholic, possibly scientologist whiny ‘odious little twat’ was given the boot.
Hoorah! I had a celebratory vodka and toasted Margaret and her timely knitting needles.
In The Metro today:-
"PHOBIC FAN’S CORRIE FIX
A Coronation Street fan who developed a phobia of the theme tune is celebrating watching his first episode in a decade. Richard Collier could not face the TV soap after a fall during an advert break paralysed him for six months.
The former chef, 53, said: ‘I had a few pangs of panic but I’ve missed Corrie so much. I won’t be missing any more, though. Vera’s gone. Curly’s gone – I didn’t really know what was going on.’
Mr Collier, of Chorlton in Manchester, was rushing to the loo when he fell and snapped his neck in 1998."
anthony rang from kansas
like sun breaking through
I’ve had a couple of days off work, and what with the Bank Holiday it’s amounted to five days of lounging about and not doing very much, apart from bake some very passable beef patties.
It’s Apprentice day, though, and I dutifully placed my wine and cigarettes at a reachable point before curling up on the sofa to indulge in the sadistic games of Sir Sid James (ooh, that rhymes!).
This week, Sir Sid sent out the teams to sell driving time in top of the range posh cars.
Lee ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ was in charge of Alex and Lucinda, leaving Michael Koshercles in charge of Gobby Claire and Helene. Without meaning to be cruel I’ve been trying to pin down whom Helene reminds me of, and I’ve finally realised that it’s from the film Total Recall, at the point where Arnie’s character has been morphed into that of a large woman. Just at the point when the large woman’s head starts to expand and turn back into Arnie, well, that’s who she reminds me of. It’s like someone’s stuck a bicycle pump in her ear and given it some serious wind.
Michael, quite surprisingly I felt, doesn’t like cars, and found the task hard-going. However, I fail to see why he drove a Ferrari all the way to Portobello Road vegetable market in order to try and sell driving time.
Many people suspect that Mr Koshercles has some incriminating photos of Sir Sid locked away somewhere since up until now he has led a charmed life and has escaped the deadly finger of doom for too long.
Finally - mainly I think because Margaret has been poking Sir Sid under the boardroom table with a knitting needle in a bid to make him see sense – Michael’s time has run out. His big puppy dog watery eyes could save him no longer and the half-jewish, catholic, possibly scientologist whiny ‘odious little twat’ was given the boot.
Hoorah! I had a celebratory vodka and toasted Margaret and her timely knitting needles.
In The Metro today:-
"PHOBIC FAN’S CORRIE FIX
A Coronation Street fan who developed a phobia of the theme tune is celebrating watching his first episode in a decade. Richard Collier could not face the TV soap after a fall during an advert break paralysed him for six months.
The former chef, 53, said: ‘I had a few pangs of panic but I’ve missed Corrie so much. I won’t be missing any more, though. Vera’s gone. Curly’s gone – I didn’t really know what was going on.’
Mr Collier, of Chorlton in Manchester, was rushing to the loo when he fell and snapped his neck in 1998."
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.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Friday 18 April 2008
fifteen lost minutes
i went somewhere in my head
and was late for work
In Coronation Street, high drama is the order of the day. Roy is fighting against the evil Capitalism of Scottish Tony, who smoked out a colony of bats in order that his property development could proceed unimpeded. We know Tony is evil because he has a strange Mad Eye Moody eye which he can no doubt detach and leave in the Underworld factory in order to look up Janice Battersby’s skirt while she’s busy sewing bodices for Northern trendsetters.
Vernon, meanwhile, has developed a coldsore and young David Platt has been sentenced to four months in the Weatherfield Bad Lads Penitentiary for crimes against the community. I suspect that David’s warder has been sentenced to five years for criminal acting. Where did they find him? At a bus stop in Moss Side? This is not what we expect from Corrie.
i went somewhere in my head
and was late for work
In Coronation Street, high drama is the order of the day. Roy is fighting against the evil Capitalism of Scottish Tony, who smoked out a colony of bats in order that his property development could proceed unimpeded. We know Tony is evil because he has a strange Mad Eye Moody eye which he can no doubt detach and leave in the Underworld factory in order to look up Janice Battersby’s skirt while she’s busy sewing bodices for Northern trendsetters.
Vernon, meanwhile, has developed a coldsore and young David Platt has been sentenced to four months in the Weatherfield Bad Lads Penitentiary for crimes against the community. I suspect that David’s warder has been sentenced to five years for criminal acting. Where did they find him? At a bus stop in Moss Side? This is not what we expect from Corrie.
Monday, 14 April 2008
Ode to Coronation Street
when I am old and leaking out of
mouth and back and front
I’ll have my gender reassigned
my plumbing plugged and redesigned
I’ll join ‘the street’, be feared, revered
like betty turpin or blanche hunt
‘now listen,lady!’ I will say
‘this haslet’s not been sliced today.
it’s crusted, I say crusted, chook!’
at which I’ll aim a fearful look.
one of elsie tanner’s faces
could kill a man at fifty paces
mouth and back and front
I’ll have my gender reassigned
my plumbing plugged and redesigned
I’ll join ‘the street’, be feared, revered
like betty turpin or blanche hunt
‘now listen,lady!’ I will say
‘this haslet’s not been sliced today.
it’s crusted, I say crusted, chook!’
at which I’ll aim a fearful look.
one of elsie tanner’s faces
could kill a man at fifty paces
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
Wednesday 26 March 2008
i'm learning shorthand
again. it takes a long time
to learn to write quick.
Coronation Street has been somewhat lacklustre lately, but has been enlivened somewhat by young David Platt pushing his mother down the stairs. Sadly Gail suffered nothing more lasting than memory loss, but I imagine she’s used to this sort of thing by now, having had one husband murdered, another turning out to be a serial killer who drove the entire family into the canal, and now a son who appears to have sold his soul to the devil and who is continually forgiven and excused by his mother and grandmother.
Another strange storyline is that of the Connors (who all have hair so raven black that it sucks light out of adjacent rooms, even the sister-in-law, who isn’t related by blood at all), particularly Michelle – the one from Hearsay – who has lost her mind over the son who was swapped at birth in the hospital and has now returned, having grown up to be an irritating twat.
Everyone sees that side of him except his mother. I see a disturbing pattern forming here.
Other than that, the weather is depressing me. It is morbidly grey outside, rather like Audrey Roberts’ hair.
again. it takes a long time
to learn to write quick.
Coronation Street has been somewhat lacklustre lately, but has been enlivened somewhat by young David Platt pushing his mother down the stairs. Sadly Gail suffered nothing more lasting than memory loss, but I imagine she’s used to this sort of thing by now, having had one husband murdered, another turning out to be a serial killer who drove the entire family into the canal, and now a son who appears to have sold his soul to the devil and who is continually forgiven and excused by his mother and grandmother.
Another strange storyline is that of the Connors (who all have hair so raven black that it sucks light out of adjacent rooms, even the sister-in-law, who isn’t related by blood at all), particularly Michelle – the one from Hearsay – who has lost her mind over the son who was swapped at birth in the hospital and has now returned, having grown up to be an irritating twat.
Everyone sees that side of him except his mother. I see a disturbing pattern forming here.
Other than that, the weather is depressing me. It is morbidly grey outside, rather like Audrey Roberts’ hair.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
Sunday 22 July 2007
the empire fish bar
had no pasties. none! you’d think
there was a war on.
Shepherds Bush on a Sunday afternoon. A lone market stallholder sits in the sun, tanning his clothes-rails, while I wander home with my chicken, basmati rice, lime, onion, tomato and hot pepper.
My thoughts were on food. Sadly, Greggs the Bakers chooses not to open on a Sunday, which seems like a criminal waste of pastry sales to me, but there you are.
The Empire Fish Bar will have a Cornish pasty, I thought, but no!
I had to make do with a beef pattie which, although very nice, seemed insultingly small.
Sundays, of course, are, by tradition, a religious day of rest, though thankfully we have grown up and moved away from the times when no-one worked at all on a Sunday, and at least in the UK, most of us are relatively free from the rather pointless social obligation of having to attend church.
Still, Sundays for me bring back memories of my teenage years and a whole day without public transport or shops. Occasionally I would walk into the town, which would be deserted, and sit on a bench watching the tumbleweeds rolling up Regent Street toward Woolworths.
That was then, but the ghosts are still there.
When I got home I started my Curried Chicken and spent a couple of hours writing.
Ken and Diedre have been conspicuously absent from ‘Coronation Street’ lately, which leaves life on the street a little dull. I am bored with the psychological problems of the Peacocks, particularly Oor Clurr.
She needs a good shouting at and a bowl of scouse.
had no pasties. none! you’d think
there was a war on.
Shepherds Bush on a Sunday afternoon. A lone market stallholder sits in the sun, tanning his clothes-rails, while I wander home with my chicken, basmati rice, lime, onion, tomato and hot pepper.
My thoughts were on food. Sadly, Greggs the Bakers chooses not to open on a Sunday, which seems like a criminal waste of pastry sales to me, but there you are.
The Empire Fish Bar will have a Cornish pasty, I thought, but no!
I had to make do with a beef pattie which, although very nice, seemed insultingly small.
Sundays, of course, are, by tradition, a religious day of rest, though thankfully we have grown up and moved away from the times when no-one worked at all on a Sunday, and at least in the UK, most of us are relatively free from the rather pointless social obligation of having to attend church.
Still, Sundays for me bring back memories of my teenage years and a whole day without public transport or shops. Occasionally I would walk into the town, which would be deserted, and sit on a bench watching the tumbleweeds rolling up Regent Street toward Woolworths.
That was then, but the ghosts are still there.
When I got home I started my Curried Chicken and spent a couple of hours writing.
Ken and Diedre have been conspicuously absent from ‘Coronation Street’ lately, which leaves life on the street a little dull. I am bored with the psychological problems of the Peacocks, particularly Oor Clurr.
She needs a good shouting at and a bowl of scouse.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Wednesday 27 June 2007
a can of tango.
out on the stockwell road like
a glowing tourist
‘God has released me,’ says Paris Hilton, on getting out of pokey, which is as good an argument as any for the fact of his non-existence.
In ‘Coronation Street’ the residents are still reeling from the revelation that Leanne Battersby sells her body on t’internet, well, actually, via an agency, but it amounts to the same thing. Eileen Grimshaw is being pursued, not only by Sinbad from Brookie, but by Sean Hughes, the Irish comedian.
She must be so torn.
Corry’s hit a low spot lately. David Platt, the teenage son of Gail and (mysteriously absent) Martin, has been behaving in a very spooky manner since his mother married a serial killer who tried to drown everyone in a family hatchback. The problem is that no one really cares. The producers have made young David so annoying that we’re beginning to wish he was still in the canal.
David set fire to his exam papers recently, which, in Corry terms, is tantamount to kicking a nun while throttling kittens during school assembly.
We don’t want this. We want more Norris and Rita, Jack and Vera, Ken and Diedre continuing their eternal Beckett-esque examination of their relationship, Blanche and her acidly nihilistic view of the North and Liz McDonald, squeezing into another improbable landlady’s frock.
No one cares about young people. They don’t. We wish they’d go away and come back when they’re twenty-eight and have something interesting to say.
Talking of which, in the Big Brother House, the odious Charley has once more escaped the public vote due to a very suspicious decision on the part of Big Brother to cancel her and Billi’s nominations following a public screamfest about who nominated whom.
Had their votes not been cancelled, Charley would be up for the public vote and almost certain to be evicted on Friday. Was this a ploy on the part of BB to keep her in the house?
You decide.
I’ve already decided, and I’ve decided I’m vexed.
I shall write Channel 4 a stiff letter of complaint.
out on the stockwell road like
a glowing tourist
‘God has released me,’ says Paris Hilton, on getting out of pokey, which is as good an argument as any for the fact of his non-existence.
In ‘Coronation Street’ the residents are still reeling from the revelation that Leanne Battersby sells her body on t’internet, well, actually, via an agency, but it amounts to the same thing. Eileen Grimshaw is being pursued, not only by Sinbad from Brookie, but by Sean Hughes, the Irish comedian.
She must be so torn.
Corry’s hit a low spot lately. David Platt, the teenage son of Gail and (mysteriously absent) Martin, has been behaving in a very spooky manner since his mother married a serial killer who tried to drown everyone in a family hatchback. The problem is that no one really cares. The producers have made young David so annoying that we’re beginning to wish he was still in the canal.
David set fire to his exam papers recently, which, in Corry terms, is tantamount to kicking a nun while throttling kittens during school assembly.
We don’t want this. We want more Norris and Rita, Jack and Vera, Ken and Diedre continuing their eternal Beckett-esque examination of their relationship, Blanche and her acidly nihilistic view of the North and Liz McDonald, squeezing into another improbable landlady’s frock.
No one cares about young people. They don’t. We wish they’d go away and come back when they’re twenty-eight and have something interesting to say.
Talking of which, in the Big Brother House, the odious Charley has once more escaped the public vote due to a very suspicious decision on the part of Big Brother to cancel her and Billi’s nominations following a public screamfest about who nominated whom.
Had their votes not been cancelled, Charley would be up for the public vote and almost certain to be evicted on Friday. Was this a ploy on the part of BB to keep her in the house?
You decide.
I’ve already decided, and I’ve decided I’m vexed.
I shall write Channel 4 a stiff letter of complaint.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Monday 21 May 2007
‘now listen, lady’
is a northern prelude to
female violence.
Big Brother will be returning next week and I will be using this blog to chronicle events in the house as they unfold.
Talking of hooligans, I boarded the westbound Hammersmith and City Line yesterday at about 5pm and found myself surrounded by about ten fans of some unidentifiable sport, their faces painted with fluorescent crosses. They were, however, very friendly, if a little rowdy. Once I had sat down, one of them pointed at me and said ‘It’s Bill Oddie!’ at which the rest of them began to sing ‘He Looks Like Bill Oddie! He Looks Like Bill Oddie. Na Na Na Nah! Na Na Na Nah!’.
I don’t, in fact, look like Bill Oddie. I have been compared to John Peel in the past, and occasionally Derek Jacobi, though I don’t see it.
‘Actually,’ one of them then said, ‘He looks nothing like Bill Oddie.’
They continued their song, but with different lyrics, addressing the physical shortcomings of each other, and the one sitting next to me put his arm around me and rocked me as he sang, which I cannot say was a particularly unpleasant experience, since they were obviously all having a good time, and the comparison to Bill Oddie was not meant in a nasty way, although Bill Oddie himself may think differently.
I got home later than I thought and couldn’t be arsed cooking so I ordered us Chinese food and we watched ‘Coronation Street’.
Last week, Diedre, driven to despair by cheap fags and white wine, erupted into fury when Ken brought his ex-lover Denise into the pub. Diedre leapt to her feet, and almost before anyone could say ‘Now listen, lady!’ (although I’m almost certain one of them did) slapped Denise across her chops.
Ken, his lips trembling with indignation at the effrontery of someone using the phrase ‘Now listen, lady!’ in his presence, threw Denise’s fake-fur-collared coat across her shoulders and ushered her out.
By ‘eck!
is a northern prelude to
female violence.
Big Brother will be returning next week and I will be using this blog to chronicle events in the house as they unfold.
Talking of hooligans, I boarded the westbound Hammersmith and City Line yesterday at about 5pm and found myself surrounded by about ten fans of some unidentifiable sport, their faces painted with fluorescent crosses. They were, however, very friendly, if a little rowdy. Once I had sat down, one of them pointed at me and said ‘It’s Bill Oddie!’ at which the rest of them began to sing ‘He Looks Like Bill Oddie! He Looks Like Bill Oddie. Na Na Na Nah! Na Na Na Nah!’.
I don’t, in fact, look like Bill Oddie. I have been compared to John Peel in the past, and occasionally Derek Jacobi, though I don’t see it.
‘Actually,’ one of them then said, ‘He looks nothing like Bill Oddie.’
They continued their song, but with different lyrics, addressing the physical shortcomings of each other, and the one sitting next to me put his arm around me and rocked me as he sang, which I cannot say was a particularly unpleasant experience, since they were obviously all having a good time, and the comparison to Bill Oddie was not meant in a nasty way, although Bill Oddie himself may think differently.
I got home later than I thought and couldn’t be arsed cooking so I ordered us Chinese food and we watched ‘Coronation Street’.
Last week, Diedre, driven to despair by cheap fags and white wine, erupted into fury when Ken brought his ex-lover Denise into the pub. Diedre leapt to her feet, and almost before anyone could say ‘Now listen, lady!’ (although I’m almost certain one of them did) slapped Denise across her chops.
Ken, his lips trembling with indignation at the effrontery of someone using the phrase ‘Now listen, lady!’ in his presence, threw Denise’s fake-fur-collared coat across her shoulders and ushered her out.
By ‘eck!
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Monday 7 May 2007
in the metro bar.
there is more leather in there
than real human flesh
I went up to Holloway Road, just for the hell of it as it was a nice day (mostly). I spent a quiet half-hour in the Metro Bar outside the station which was nice, because the bar staff outnumbered the customers and there was plenty of choice of seating and lots of leather settees. After translating most of their menu into shorthand (Walnuts, mozzarella and basil) I realised I was bored enough and headed off home.
Tension is mounting in Coronation Street. Gail and Clurr are so concerned about the Big Shed that they have sent Clurr’s husband Ashley into the garden ‘undercover like’ in order to measure it up.
Meanwhile, Ken, unmoved by Diedre’s overtures of peace, has returned only for some clean clothes and his library ticket.
‘Where’ve ya bin, Ken?’ asks Diedre, her neck straining like the cables of Tower Bridge.
‘I have been to see my ex-lover, Denise, whom I made heavy with child twelve years ago.’
‘A child who you’ve never mentioned since!’ said Diedre.
I don’t know why Diedre finds that so unusual, since absent family are never mentioned by anyone. Steve McDonald has a twin brother who went off somewhere ten years ago and has never again been spoken of, even by his mother. ‘Denise wrote us a nice letter of support when our Tracy bashed her boyfriend’s head in with an Art Deco ornament.’ said Ken, with which he picked up his cardy and his library ticket and flounced out.
there is more leather in there
than real human flesh
I went up to Holloway Road, just for the hell of it as it was a nice day (mostly). I spent a quiet half-hour in the Metro Bar outside the station which was nice, because the bar staff outnumbered the customers and there was plenty of choice of seating and lots of leather settees. After translating most of their menu into shorthand (Walnuts, mozzarella and basil) I realised I was bored enough and headed off home.
Tension is mounting in Coronation Street. Gail and Clurr are so concerned about the Big Shed that they have sent Clurr’s husband Ashley into the garden ‘undercover like’ in order to measure it up.
Meanwhile, Ken, unmoved by Diedre’s overtures of peace, has returned only for some clean clothes and his library ticket.
‘Where’ve ya bin, Ken?’ asks Diedre, her neck straining like the cables of Tower Bridge.
‘I have been to see my ex-lover, Denise, whom I made heavy with child twelve years ago.’
‘A child who you’ve never mentioned since!’ said Diedre.
I don’t know why Diedre finds that so unusual, since absent family are never mentioned by anyone. Steve McDonald has a twin brother who went off somewhere ten years ago and has never again been spoken of, even by his mother. ‘Denise wrote us a nice letter of support when our Tracy bashed her boyfriend’s head in with an Art Deco ornament.’ said Ken, with which he picked up his cardy and his library ticket and flounced out.
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Sunday 6 May 2007
this is not our street.
people talk to each other,
die exciting deaths.
Today, feeling the urge to get creative in the kitchen for a change I went to off to the Big Tescoes (as opposed to the small Tescoes) for ingredients.
I met my mate Steve on the way home, who has just finished filming a Horror Movie.
‘It’s great!’ he said. ‘I get stuck in a bear trap and get me head pulled off!’
So, once home, I mooched about for a while, reading approved rational literature and watching ‘Doctor Who.’
Later, I cooked jerk chicken, anchovy and roasted pepper salad, and rice. It was lurvely, and put us in the right mood to catch up with the goings on in Coronation Street.
The one thing I like about Coronation Street is that they aren’t afraid to go with the big storylines. Some people may remember Sinbad from Brookside, who has now changed his name to Jerry, moved to Weatherfield with a shedload (literally) of assorted gormless children and opened a kebab shop. As if that weren’t excitement enough, Jerry has erected a giant shed in his back garden. Sinbad is sandwiched (but not in a nasty way) by Gail Platt and Clurr Peacock who consequently are doing a lot of armfolding and bosom-adjusting over their garden fences in order to discuss ‘the shed’.
Meanwhile, Ken, ousted from his ancestral family home by Diedre (all staring eyes and smoke pluming from her flaring nostrils) is in hiding at a secret B&B, being given extra breakfast eggs by a no-nonsense landlady.
I can’t cope with all this suspense.
people talk to each other,
die exciting deaths.
Today, feeling the urge to get creative in the kitchen for a change I went to off to the Big Tescoes (as opposed to the small Tescoes) for ingredients.
I met my mate Steve on the way home, who has just finished filming a Horror Movie.
‘It’s great!’ he said. ‘I get stuck in a bear trap and get me head pulled off!’
So, once home, I mooched about for a while, reading approved rational literature and watching ‘Doctor Who.’
Later, I cooked jerk chicken, anchovy and roasted pepper salad, and rice. It was lurvely, and put us in the right mood to catch up with the goings on in Coronation Street.
The one thing I like about Coronation Street is that they aren’t afraid to go with the big storylines. Some people may remember Sinbad from Brookside, who has now changed his name to Jerry, moved to Weatherfield with a shedload (literally) of assorted gormless children and opened a kebab shop. As if that weren’t excitement enough, Jerry has erected a giant shed in his back garden. Sinbad is sandwiched (but not in a nasty way) by Gail Platt and Clurr Peacock who consequently are doing a lot of armfolding and bosom-adjusting over their garden fences in order to discuss ‘the shed’.
Meanwhile, Ken, ousted from his ancestral family home by Diedre (all staring eyes and smoke pluming from her flaring nostrils) is in hiding at a secret B&B, being given extra breakfast eggs by a no-nonsense landlady.
I can’t cope with all this suspense.
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