Homicide (n) A chemical developed by The Christian Right designed to kill gay weeds.
and a fat carmen
sang from a strong balcony
to her fat lover.
When one embarks on egosurfing, i.e. typing one’s own name into a search engine, one should employ discretion in analysing the results.
For instance, apart from the fact that I am apparently both a classical singer and the captain of the England Polo Team, I appear to have been cast as the central figure in the novel ‘Shadows of The Moon Dancing’ by Jim Green, the blurb of which tells me that:-
‘Roddy Williams must hide from the gangsters who have put a contract on his life. His grandfather, a retired Chicago homicide detective sends him to live with a friend and onetime partner who owns a trading post near the Navajo Reservation in Arizona.
Roddy becomes involved in the lives, history, and legends of three different cultures. Can he survive the intercultural conflicts plus the ancient curse that surround his new environment and still keep secret his hiding place?’
I don’t know, but I’ll try my best to do so. I’ve got some experience of intercultural conflicts, but I’ve not so far had to cope with ancient curses.
Talking of ancient curses, Ivana Trump has been remarkably lively and spry in the BB house for a woman of her age, especially considering the additional weight of her unfeasibly huge ears.
This evening the public evicted Katia, the girl who fell for 62 year old Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood, not for his money, but due solely to his good looks and irresistible personality and charm. Also evicted was Heidi Fleiss, the ex-brothel keeper who now breeds parrots for hopefully non-sexual purposes.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Friday, 15 January 2010
Thursday 14 January 2010
Mullion (n) A stud mullet, used for breeding purposes on fish farms
someone has made me
the lead in a crime novel.
I am fictional.
I haven’t ranted about religion in quite a while. I didn’t want to make a comical point about the Pope being knocked to the ground, as that is akin to those terrible American blooper shows where they feel they have to add sound effects to the clips to make it funnier. I will therefore let the incident stand on its own comical merits.
What has been annoying me of late is his Holiness Stephen Baldwin, who obviously feels he is God’s emissary to the Big Brother House and last night succeeded in convincing Alex Reid to publicly accept Jesus as his Lord and Master.
Far from decrying this act, I am glad it has been shown, since it shows all too graphically how fundamentalist Christians groom their victims. Sadly, the stupider the victim, the easier the process appears to be, and when it comes to poor Alex, he’s not exactly the brightest himbo in the house.
I just hope Vinnie Jones can bring him to his senses before he gets baptised in the Big Brother bathtub.
someone has made me
the lead in a crime novel.
I am fictional.
I haven’t ranted about religion in quite a while. I didn’t want to make a comical point about the Pope being knocked to the ground, as that is akin to those terrible American blooper shows where they feel they have to add sound effects to the clips to make it funnier. I will therefore let the incident stand on its own comical merits.
What has been annoying me of late is his Holiness Stephen Baldwin, who obviously feels he is God’s emissary to the Big Brother House and last night succeeded in convincing Alex Reid to publicly accept Jesus as his Lord and Master.
Far from decrying this act, I am glad it has been shown, since it shows all too graphically how fundamentalist Christians groom their victims. Sadly, the stupider the victim, the easier the process appears to be, and when it comes to poor Alex, he’s not exactly the brightest himbo in the house.
I just hope Vinnie Jones can bring him to his senses before he gets baptised in the Big Brother bathtub.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Squeamish (n. adj.) An American Puritan sect who eschew all the trappings of modern life apart from calamari.
snow is nice. babies
who grow up to be killers
are nice at some point.
The snow returned today, on the day I had to go to the doctor to have my prescription renewed. Being British, we have a tendency not to organise ourselves and then to overdramatise the situation.
Admittedly, things are pretty serious in rural areas and many people are isolated by the weather, but in London, most of us will admit that the snow isn’t an enormous problem.
It would appear that stocks of rocksalt and grit have been exhausted, so councils have not been able to grit all the roads.
I crept out and tiptoed tentatively to the doctor’s surgery which was mostly ok, seeing as it was all on level ground, until I came to the surgery itself which has a steep path up to the front door, liberally covered with snow and ice. Not too bad going up. A little scary coming back down.
I decided that a nice hot sauna would be the antidote to such conditions and so set off for the celebrity sauna. Sadly, apart from the steam room and the coffee bar, the place was freezing. Consequently, I spent some time drinking coffee and chatting to the Philippino masseur who tried to convince me via a graphic demonsrtation which involved hoisting his tank top that one of his nipples was bigger than the other after an abortive and ill-judged foray into piercing.
I couldn’t see the difference quite honestly.
You don’t get this sort of thing in Caffé Nero…. sadly.
snow is nice. babies
who grow up to be killers
are nice at some point.
The snow returned today, on the day I had to go to the doctor to have my prescription renewed. Being British, we have a tendency not to organise ourselves and then to overdramatise the situation.
Admittedly, things are pretty serious in rural areas and many people are isolated by the weather, but in London, most of us will admit that the snow isn’t an enormous problem.
It would appear that stocks of rocksalt and grit have been exhausted, so councils have not been able to grit all the roads.
I crept out and tiptoed tentatively to the doctor’s surgery which was mostly ok, seeing as it was all on level ground, until I came to the surgery itself which has a steep path up to the front door, liberally covered with snow and ice. Not too bad going up. A little scary coming back down.
I decided that a nice hot sauna would be the antidote to such conditions and so set off for the celebrity sauna. Sadly, apart from the steam room and the coffee bar, the place was freezing. Consequently, I spent some time drinking coffee and chatting to the Philippino masseur who tried to convince me via a graphic demonsrtation which involved hoisting his tank top that one of his nipples was bigger than the other after an abortive and ill-judged foray into piercing.
I couldn’t see the difference quite honestly.
You don’t get this sort of thing in Caffé Nero…. sadly.
Tuesday 12 January 2010
Brandish (n) a ceramic bowl from which one would eat milked oat flakes.
the mornings washed out
like a vest wrung to its death
hanging damp and grey.
Not having been out very much my life is revolving around TV and life in the secret underground bunker, both of which tend to be surreal, fascinating and tedious in equal measure.
In ‘Days of Our Lives’ Abe Carver, the oldest policeman in America, has been gunned down on his own doorstep while his wife and friends were waiting for him to turn up for his son’s christening at the church.
Even though it was within walking distance, and people were getting frantic (including Celeste, who regularly has spooky psychic visions of doom) no one thought to go to the house to see what was keeping him. Had they done so they would then have found him lying in the front garden in a pool of geriatric blood, with a tumbled zimmer frame beside him.
the mornings washed out
like a vest wrung to its death
hanging damp and grey.
Not having been out very much my life is revolving around TV and life in the secret underground bunker, both of which tend to be surreal, fascinating and tedious in equal measure.
In ‘Days of Our Lives’ Abe Carver, the oldest policeman in America, has been gunned down on his own doorstep while his wife and friends were waiting for him to turn up for his son’s christening at the church.
Even though it was within walking distance, and people were getting frantic (including Celeste, who regularly has spooky psychic visions of doom) no one thought to go to the house to see what was keeping him. Had they done so they would then have found him lying in the front garden in a pool of geriatric blood, with a tumbled zimmer frame beside him.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
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.
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.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Sunday 10 January 2010
Exigent (n) The doorway leading to the outside toilet.
sundays still carry
a nagging scent of terror
PE on mondays.
The weather, as they say, is inclement. Not so much here in the city, although my pavement was iced up for a couple of days. Nevertheless it is cold, and outside of London the country is having a hard time of it.
Older people of course are having none of that.
‘It was much worse in 1963,’ they say. ‘I walked across the Thames!’
Apparently, most of London took the opportunity to walk across the Thames in 1963, even Tony Blair allegedly, who would have been ten years old at the time. However, the number of people who claim to have walked across the Thames would have blanketed it to the point where no ice could be seen.
Ivana Trump is now in the Big Brother House, presumably because there were no British celebrities left on the Z-list from which they pluck their contestants. Stephen Baldwin is beginning to tire me with his relentless gormless cheerfulness and his childish view of the world.
I am not sure if he was serious when he went into the diary room and suggested that Ivana Trump may ‘sleep-cougar’ him if he occupied the bed next to her, and requested to be moved. I’m hoping the sleep-cougaring involves ripping his liver out with a set of US designer nails.
sundays still carry
a nagging scent of terror
PE on mondays.
The weather, as they say, is inclement. Not so much here in the city, although my pavement was iced up for a couple of days. Nevertheless it is cold, and outside of London the country is having a hard time of it.
Older people of course are having none of that.
‘It was much worse in 1963,’ they say. ‘I walked across the Thames!’
Apparently, most of London took the opportunity to walk across the Thames in 1963, even Tony Blair allegedly, who would have been ten years old at the time. However, the number of people who claim to have walked across the Thames would have blanketed it to the point where no ice could be seen.
Ivana Trump is now in the Big Brother House, presumably because there were no British celebrities left on the Z-list from which they pluck their contestants. Stephen Baldwin is beginning to tire me with his relentless gormless cheerfulness and his childish view of the world.
I am not sure if he was serious when he went into the diary room and suggested that Ivana Trump may ‘sleep-cougar’ him if he occupied the bed next to her, and requested to be moved. I’m hoping the sleep-cougaring involves ripping his liver out with a set of US designer nails.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Thursday 7 January 2010
An arrest warrant has been issued for a Leicester man accused of having sex with a horse and a donkey after he failed to turn up to court.
There’s something particularly British about our fascination with bestiality. Being Welsh, I am regularly and somewhat disconcertingly cheerfully accused of consorting with sheep. I accept the charge with good grace, although in my own defence I have to state that there were no lambs involved, and all the rams were consenting adults.
Paradoxically though, it seems to be generally the English who get charged with these offences. There was a case of horse abuse not so long ago where the accused was caught on cctv carefully placing a bucket behind the object of his affections for him to stand on during the act of congress.
Talking of inbred behaviour, I am fascinated and horrified in equal measure by Stephen Baldwin’s manic religious rants on Celebrity Big Brother.
He has already shocked his fellow housemates by telling them a rather odd story about how, if his daughter was held hostage by someone with a gun to her head who asked her to say ‘Jesus does not exist!’ then he would rather she says ‘Jesus definitely exists!’ which assumes that he would rather his daughter die than say something she probably does not mean under duress.
Now he states that he does not believe in evolution because, ‘if man had evolved from apes then why are apes still here?’
One begins to wonder what sort of education Mr Baldwin and his fellow Americans receive over there. However, no one jumped up to argue with him, or to point out, as most people of my age who had a proper education will know, that apes and humans are descended from a common ancestor and evolved simultaneously.
I suspect that the Bible is the first and last book he will ever read. There seems to be a heavy emphasis on the Old Testament. The other housemates are beginning to look glassy-eyed and one or two are glancing furtively at the meat-knives.
There’s something particularly British about our fascination with bestiality. Being Welsh, I am regularly and somewhat disconcertingly cheerfully accused of consorting with sheep. I accept the charge with good grace, although in my own defence I have to state that there were no lambs involved, and all the rams were consenting adults.
Paradoxically though, it seems to be generally the English who get charged with these offences. There was a case of horse abuse not so long ago where the accused was caught on cctv carefully placing a bucket behind the object of his affections for him to stand on during the act of congress.
Talking of inbred behaviour, I am fascinated and horrified in equal measure by Stephen Baldwin’s manic religious rants on Celebrity Big Brother.
He has already shocked his fellow housemates by telling them a rather odd story about how, if his daughter was held hostage by someone with a gun to her head who asked her to say ‘Jesus does not exist!’ then he would rather she says ‘Jesus definitely exists!’ which assumes that he would rather his daughter die than say something she probably does not mean under duress.
Now he states that he does not believe in evolution because, ‘if man had evolved from apes then why are apes still here?’
One begins to wonder what sort of education Mr Baldwin and his fellow Americans receive over there. However, no one jumped up to argue with him, or to point out, as most people of my age who had a proper education will know, that apes and humans are descended from a common ancestor and evolved simultaneously.
I suspect that the Bible is the first and last book he will ever read. There seems to be a heavy emphasis on the Old Testament. The other housemates are beginning to look glassy-eyed and one or two are glancing furtively at the meat-knives.
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