Friday, 18 January 2013
Weak Ender
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVySc2Qu3WI
Hmmm. Watching this it's difficult to see how the Guardian Media Group could have posted a pre-tax loss of £75.6 million last year.
This ad should really turn things around.
About as funny as being squirted in the face for 192 seconds with two week old urine.
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
Sid Owen
Happy is the man who knows that Sidwell Owen has retired from acting forever (as of January 2012) and the UK, and that man is me. For those of you unaware of the existence of Sidenham Owen, he read Classics at Oxford (a contemporary of Boris Johnson) but decided to go into acting after his translation of Book Seven of the Aeneid was poorly reviewed by E.V. Rieu in the Times Literary Supplement. Despite early promise at RADA, his lacklustre performance in a West End production of Hamlet, in the title role, saw him question his choice of career and, as he says in his autobiography, In My Own Words, in his own words, "I really thought I might jack it all in and go back on the bins."
It was only a chance encounter with old friend and fellow actor John Altman (they had previously met on the set of Return of the Jedi, Altman playing a rebel pilot, whilst a young Owen played the ewok that got shot by a Scout Walker) that saw him land the part of Ricky Butcher in Eastenders. Siddartha Owen would continue to leave the show and come back each time he ran out of money for the next two decades, all the while appearing in night clubs and going out with top-heavy models. As he once claimed, 'I like them big,' though that may have been Dean Gaffney. However in January 2012 he announced he was leaving Eastenders and television forever, giving up acting to go and run a restaurant in France and not coming back.
So I was bitterly disappointed, to the point of wanting to cry, when, whilst shopping in the local supermarket with my infant daughter, to see his stupid face staring at me from the newspaper. Wearing glasses. Now in this age of eye surgery, wearing glasses is a conscious choice, usually to try and look clever. Sid was back in the UK to attend a party to celebrate the return to our screens of Dallas. Many of you (ie. the two people nice enough to admit to following this blog, other than the hordes who want to see 'Marc' 'Singer' 'naked') will be aware of my love of Dallas and my deep joy at its return. To put this in context, there was the tiniest sliver of a chance that I may have been considered for the position of informing the viewing public about the world of Dallas, it's cast, their past, a fourteen year story arc that had everything. In the end they went with John Barrowman. Fair enough. He knows less about Dallas than I do, but he's been on television before, people have heard of him and he sounds American. Likewise the party, it's not something that would mean I would get to watch more Dallas, and aside from the stars, the guest list was pretty lukewarm (Gloria Hunniford, Roger Daltrey and Vanessa Feltz). But Sid Cunting Owen. FFS.
The thing is, in a while, Larry Hagman will pass away. He's 80 and he's lived a full and exciting life (quite a bit of it as a fictional character). There's going to be a funeral, and it's going to be an episode of Dallas. Heck, Anne Haddy (Helen Daniels from Neighbours) wanted to do it and she was no J.R.
Ewing.
Friday, 8 June 2012
GOSH
The blog has a new title.
It's been bothering me (in the style of Columbo) that I was unable to remember this man's name:
You may recall, he was responsible for the continuity in between TVS programmes in the early 80s, later his disembodied voice would tell you it was time for Worzel Gummidge or whatever else was on.
The other thing that bothered me this week was that I had lost a comic shop.
GOSH is/was a comic shop that used to be on Great Russell Street opposite the British Museum. It always suffered a bit from being 'Not Forbidden Planet' but it was good enough that you'd go out of your way to visit both if you were in the area.
And it's not there anymore.
I hope it's just moved, I really do. It started in my lifetime, not long after Forbidden Planet had moved out of Denmark Street and was trying to look like a business rather than a place where 14 year old boys went to buy magazines under plain covers or you'd gone in there by mistake thinking it was a guitar shop. It sold comics but things you couldn't get elsewhere and the owners took a wider view of what was a comic rather than the Beano at one end of the spectrum and American imports at the other.
Its disappearance wasn't helped by what they'd replaced it with:
'Excuse me, but didn't this used to be GOSH comics.'
'Yes but now it is Sass-Bell.'
I know this, because, well, I can read but it doesn't really help me much. Not unless I want to buy a paper butterfly or a ceramic owl which to be fair, they have a lot of.
So it's a slightly sadder me that heads towards the big Waterstones, and there I do a bad thing.
I'm not going to say I wasn't thinking because I was.
I'm in the bookshop browsing away quite happily. I've read the first few pages of the latest book from the ginger Scotsman with a big beard, his name will come to me, Mock the Week - I was enjoying the first few pages - it's a heartwarming story about a boy and former slave in the Deep South, they're producing a botany encyclopaedia or something, there's aliens in it.
I decided to buy it.
On Kindle.
Now I couldn't in all conscience buy it on Kindle in the bookshop, so I just popped outside to download it. And that's the death of bookshops right there. Just like Gosh, and just like continuity presenter whose name I can't remember.
You can browse in a bookshop, in a way you can't on Kindle, but Kindle weighs less and cheaper and just easier. I'm not sure I am not the only one - it makes sense - look in the bookshop and then buy it on Kindle, but that's the death knell for bookshops. Unless of course the bookshops pursue some sort of luddite anti-technological warfare. Wireless deadzones around every bookshop so you have to walk for miles to download what you've just looked at.
Though if bookshops close, how long 'til Amazon hikes the prices of e-books ? Then all you'll be able to buy in shops is strong drink and ceramic owls and no one wants that, do they ?
It's been bothering me (in the style of Columbo) that I was unable to remember this man's name:
The other thing that bothered me this week was that I had lost a comic shop.
GOSH is/was a comic shop that used to be on Great Russell Street opposite the British Museum. It always suffered a bit from being 'Not Forbidden Planet' but it was good enough that you'd go out of your way to visit both if you were in the area.
And it's not there anymore.
I hope it's just moved, I really do. It started in my lifetime, not long after Forbidden Planet had moved out of Denmark Street and was trying to look like a business rather than a place where 14 year old boys went to buy magazines under plain covers or you'd gone in there by mistake thinking it was a guitar shop. It sold comics but things you couldn't get elsewhere and the owners took a wider view of what was a comic rather than the Beano at one end of the spectrum and American imports at the other.
Its disappearance wasn't helped by what they'd replaced it with:
'Excuse me, but didn't this used to be GOSH comics.'
'Yes but now it is Sass-Bell.'
I know this, because, well, I can read but it doesn't really help me much. Not unless I want to buy a paper butterfly or a ceramic owl which to be fair, they have a lot of.
So it's a slightly sadder me that heads towards the big Waterstones, and there I do a bad thing.
I'm not going to say I wasn't thinking because I was.
I'm in the bookshop browsing away quite happily. I've read the first few pages of the latest book from the ginger Scotsman with a big beard, his name will come to me, Mock the Week - I was enjoying the first few pages - it's a heartwarming story about a boy and former slave in the Deep South, they're producing a botany encyclopaedia or something, there's aliens in it.
I decided to buy it.
On Kindle.
Now I couldn't in all conscience buy it on Kindle in the bookshop, so I just popped outside to download it. And that's the death of bookshops right there. Just like Gosh, and just like continuity presenter whose name I can't remember.
You can browse in a bookshop, in a way you can't on Kindle, but Kindle weighs less and cheaper and just easier. I'm not sure I am not the only one - it makes sense - look in the bookshop and then buy it on Kindle, but that's the death knell for bookshops. Unless of course the bookshops pursue some sort of luddite anti-technological warfare. Wireless deadzones around every bookshop so you have to walk for miles to download what you've just looked at.
Though if bookshops close, how long 'til Amazon hikes the prices of e-books ? Then all you'll be able to buy in shops is strong drink and ceramic owls and no one wants that, do they ?
The Box of Delights - Closed.
POSTSCRIPT
Turned out GOSH hadn't closed - just moved to Berwick Street in Soho - because the area around the British Museum had lost its bohemian, literary quality - all the bookshops were being replaced with tourist tat and the British Library had left the building. It moved nearly a year ago, I just hadn't noticed.
Still the continuity presenter's name is Brian Nissen. He retired in 1987 and died in 2001.
The Scottish author was Frank Boyle.
The Scottish author was Frank Boyle.
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
An Evening With Gerald
Has it been so long. Oh mes petites, how I have missed you. Everywhere I am told, write all the time, else you are nothing. So for a while I have been nothing and you will have to wait to hear of The Misery of Cornwall, The Haunted Bedroom, and Cheese-Making of the Apocalypse. Maybe I will never tell you of Garth and the Submarine and perhaps it is for the best.
For I was in training to run half a marathon, but that is done for another year and as is traditional my exertions left me gasping and wheezing with a man-flu of my own invention.
But today I am filled with excitement. I must confess I grew tired of my own inactivity , it is not nothing to be nothing, but it is not pleasurable. So tonight I embarked on a short evening course called Starting to Write Fiction. I do not know if it’s any good, but I did enjoy it. We were given an exercise to do in class: a postcard at random. Write its story for 5 minutes. Then after that what happened before (for 5 minutes), then what happened after (for 5 minutes). We had the opportunity to read them out; it felt strangely confessional like being a nudist who has gone to the beach for the first time.
Anyway at the risk of wafting my fictional endeavours in your direction and then holding your head under my creative duvet, here’s what I got up to.
Two On The Aisle by Edward Hopper (1927)
‘Are you sure that the concert is this evening ?’
‘Quite sure. I’ve got the tickets right here. You see, Wednesday the 25th.’
‘It’s just that the seats are all empty and there was no one at the ticket office. Even the orchestra pit is covered in dust.’
‘Here are our seats. Why don’t you sit down ? Look we’re not even the first ones here: there’s a lady over there in a box.’
‘Where ?’
‘Just up there. Don’t stare Muriel, it’s very rude. Actually I rather fancy, I said don’t stare, I rather fancy that’s Grace Kelly.’
‘No George, it’s a mannequin.’
What Happened Before
‘George ?’
‘Martha, my love ?’
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way ?’
‘Of course, look, here’s the A to Z. We’re going down this street and then we take a left.’
‘I do wish we’d taken a taxi.’
‘Well there was only one and Frank Sinatra needed it.’
‘You know George, I am not so very sure that that man was Frank Sinatra.’
‘He was the very spit of him and I should know, I saw him before, when I went to Las Vegas. On holiday. We shared the same urinal. He sang ‘My Way.’
‘When did you ever go to Las Vegas ?’
‘The summer of 1978, I went on a gambling holiday before I met you. I believe this is the place.’
‘It doesn’t look open.’
What Happened After
‘I’ve had enough George My feet hurt and we’ve been going ‘round in circles. Just admit that we’re lost.’
‘I am absolutely certain that we are on the right track Mabel.’
‘What time did the tickets say the performance starts ?’
‘Seven thirty on the nose.’
‘That’s only four minutes away.’
‘Worry not my dove. Your proverbial knight in shining armour will get you there in time.’
‘George there’s a taxi, please let’s take it.’
‘Very well my rose. Taxi ?’ ‘The Royal Albert Hall please.’
‘Shhh don’t say anything Mildred, but I think our driver is Clark Gable.’
‘Are you sure that the concert is this evening ?’
‘Quite sure. I’ve got the tickets right here. You see, Wednesday the 25th.’
‘It’s just that the seats are all empty and there was no one at the ticket office. Even the orchestra pit is covered in dust.’
‘Here are our seats. Why don’t you sit down ? Look we’re not even the first ones here: there’s a lady over there in a box.’
‘Where ?’
‘Just up there. Don’t stare Muriel, it’s very rude. Actually I rather fancy, I said don’t stare, I rather fancy that’s Grace Kelly.’
‘No George, it’s a mannequin.’
What Happened Before
‘George ?’
‘Martha, my love ?’
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way ?’
‘Of course, look, here’s the A to Z. We’re going down this street and then we take a left.’
‘I do wish we’d taken a taxi.’
‘Well there was only one and Frank Sinatra needed it.’
‘You know George, I am not so very sure that that man was Frank Sinatra.’
‘He was the very spit of him and I should know, I saw him before, when I went to Las Vegas. On holiday. We shared the same urinal. He sang ‘My Way.’
‘When did you ever go to Las Vegas ?’
‘The summer of 1978, I went on a gambling holiday before I met you. I believe this is the place.’
‘It doesn’t look open.’
What Happened After
‘I’ve had enough George My feet hurt and we’ve been going ‘round in circles. Just admit that we’re lost.’
‘I am absolutely certain that we are on the right track Mabel.’
‘What time did the tickets say the performance starts ?’
‘Seven thirty on the nose.’
‘That’s only four minutes away.’
‘Worry not my dove. Your proverbial knight in shining armour will get you there in time.’
‘George there’s a taxi, please let’s take it.’
‘Very well my rose. Taxi ?’ ‘The Royal Albert Hall please.’
‘Shhh don’t say anything Mildred, but I think our driver is Clark Gable.’
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Page 132
There’s a joke I am fond of, somewhat ironically given my inability to finish anything more than a bowl of soup: two men propping up a bar, one says to the other:
‘I’m writing a novel,’
‘Neither am I,’ replies his companion.
I know a lot of people like that. Me included.
And I’ve found another one in my front garden. Well a fragment, the top half of page 132.
Now it’s not my place to say whether it’s any good, clearly the author was dissatisfied, which is why they threw it away, and the wind has carried it to me.
Should I throw it away ? Or do I have a duty to a wider audience ? In years to come the relationship between Tom and Carol could be the literary mystery of the 21st century and here I hold the answer. Is this the work of a new Dickens, a Shakespeare, a Jackie Collins, maybe even, the next Dan Brown.
And who wrote it ? Is it the silver fox with his wine import business on the left ? Or his smiling but enigmatic partner, who knows what she does with her days. Are they the template for Tom and Carol ? Does he smoke discreetly out of the window and admire her for the way she hides her despair ?
Or is it the nut-brown hiker and his soft faced boyfriend ? Which one is responsible ? Why the two shades of ink and what is the guilt Tom carries with him. Has he lost Carol ? Will he get her back ?
Who is the secret novelist of No. 21 or No. 17 ?
If I go through their bins, is there more to be found ?
So many questions and no answers. It’s bad enough that I’ve stolen a bit of their novel (except it did end up on my property). And a new and terrible thought plagues me. What if the wind carried it from further away. It could be anyone in the road, or maybe it flew out of a car window.
So anyway, if you’ve lost the top of page 132, pop in to collect it, think of me as the literary equivalent of Bagpuss. Though please, stop underlining stuff, and don’t use the word despair in the same sentence, whoever you are. I know what I’m talking about you know, after all,‘I’m writing a novel.’
‘I’m writing a novel,’
‘Neither am I,’ replies his companion.
I know a lot of people like that. Me included.
And I’ve found another one in my front garden. Well a fragment, the top half of page 132.
Now it’s not my place to say whether it’s any good, clearly the author was dissatisfied, which is why they threw it away, and the wind has carried it to me.
Should I throw it away ? Or do I have a duty to a wider audience ? In years to come the relationship between Tom and Carol could be the literary mystery of the 21st century and here I hold the answer. Is this the work of a new Dickens, a Shakespeare, a Jackie Collins, maybe even, the next Dan Brown.
And who wrote it ? Is it the silver fox with his wine import business on the left ? Or his smiling but enigmatic partner, who knows what she does with her days. Are they the template for Tom and Carol ? Does he smoke discreetly out of the window and admire her for the way she hides her despair ?
Or is it the nut-brown hiker and his soft faced boyfriend ? Which one is responsible ? Why the two shades of ink and what is the guilt Tom carries with him. Has he lost Carol ? Will he get her back ?
Who is the secret novelist of No. 21 or No. 17 ?
If I go through their bins, is there more to be found ?
So many questions and no answers. It’s bad enough that I’ve stolen a bit of their novel (except it did end up on my property). And a new and terrible thought plagues me. What if the wind carried it from further away. It could be anyone in the road, or maybe it flew out of a car window.
So anyway, if you’ve lost the top of page 132, pop in to collect it, think of me as the literary equivalent of Bagpuss. Though please, stop underlining stuff, and don’t use the word despair in the same sentence, whoever you are. I know what I’m talking about you know, after all,‘I’m writing a novel.’
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Sherlock - fake death nonsense
That's me finger on the pulse of the nation (pay attention now pulses are important).
I just watched the DVD and thought I'd commit my own theory to posterity before they reveal all.
1. He asks Molly for help. He then sits there playing with a tennis/squash ball (pay attention this is important too)
2. Up on the roof he tells John to stay where he is (the other side of the lower building) - obscuring his view of the landing
3. He jumps, he lands in the hospital laundry truck - rolls out complete with fake blood etc.
4. John comes around the corner, he gets hit by the cyclist just in time for the laundry truck to pull away so it doesn't register with the good Dr.
5. John gets over to the body - note he only takes his pulse from the wrist - remember your tennis balls: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC97Uie7IVM (how to fake your pulse with a tennis ball - only works if you are taking a wrist pulse)
6. Cue Molly's confederates who turn up and bundle the body off.
The only think bothering me is the rectangular marking s on the street and they may be irrelevant.
Of course the real triumph of Moffat and Gatiss is that in a mere 6 episodes they have managed to convert me to referring to Dr. Watson as John. Now that's the real trickery.
Of course the actual mystery is why, when the Post Office are making cutbacks and redundancies, a provincial Postman has been trained to fly a helicopter ? I thought it was only Royals in the armed services that got to learn how to fly. Though a closer inspection of Pat - big-eared ginger, looks a bit like Prince Harry in specs if he'd really let himself go.
I just watched the DVD and thought I'd commit my own theory to posterity before they reveal all.
1. He asks Molly for help. He then sits there playing with a tennis/squash ball (pay attention this is important too)
2. Up on the roof he tells John to stay where he is (the other side of the lower building) - obscuring his view of the landing
3. He jumps, he lands in the hospital laundry truck - rolls out complete with fake blood etc.
4. John comes around the corner, he gets hit by the cyclist just in time for the laundry truck to pull away so it doesn't register with the good Dr.
5. John gets over to the body - note he only takes his pulse from the wrist - remember your tennis balls: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC97Uie7IVM (how to fake your pulse with a tennis ball - only works if you are taking a wrist pulse)
6. Cue Molly's confederates who turn up and bundle the body off.
The only think bothering me is the rectangular marking s on the street and they may be irrelevant.
Of course the real triumph of Moffat and Gatiss is that in a mere 6 episodes they have managed to convert me to referring to Dr. Watson as John. Now that's the real trickery.
Of course the actual mystery is why, when the Post Office are making cutbacks and redundancies, a provincial Postman has been trained to fly a helicopter ? I thought it was only Royals in the armed services that got to learn how to fly. Though a closer inspection of Pat - big-eared ginger, looks a bit like Prince Harry in specs if he'd really let himself go.
Monday, 6 February 2012
The Royal Order of the Spaz
As we enter the end of days - it's good to see the slender pillars of salt upon which our society has been propped up for the last two decades crumble - the electorate turn on the politicians who turn on the journalists and everyone turns on the bankers. The dawning realisation, not that there is no society as someone with big hair once claimed, but that most people have known it for a long time but didn't care as long as they got their bonus/stolen trainers whilst rioting/moat paid for out of the public purse - because there's not a great deal of difference between any of them (as any fule who's read the end of Animal Farm will know).
It's important to blame someone. That, we can all agree on, blame in this century rallies us, it unifies the nation. The divestiture of Fred Goodwin's knighthood is a start, but does it go far enough ?
I was disappointed to learn that Fred doesn't actually have to go back to Buckingham Palace to hand the award back personally. This seems like a missed opportunity for pomp and shaming - two things we still do best. I imagined a cermony in which Goodwin is made to hop down the red carpet in a clown outfit whilst being pelted with rancid haggis. He then kneels, hands back the gong, whereupon the Queen will kosh him with the pommel of the sword. He is then given the option of having his knuckles rapped or being given a smack on the arse with the flat of the blade. A royal corgi will then ceremonially piss on his real clothes which he has to put on before being chased down Pall Mall. It doesn't matter who by.
Why stop there. There should be a regular Dishonours List - each year, those who have disgraced themselves in public life should be forced to endure some sort of ritual humiliation. The classical Athenians had a similar (rather more severe) mechanism - those who sought public office could be privately prosecuted for the decisions they took on behalf of the state. It meant some thought twice before even running for office.
Anyway I propose the Order of the Spaz. Spaz - derived from the Greek 'spastikos' - meaning pulling in or tugging - the medal or 'spastika' would come in the shape of a clenched hand - denoting the universal sign for tosser. Recipients would be forced to wear these medals whilst in public.
Failing that - they could start including more stringent ethical requirements in their terms of service upon which their pension pots were calculated or include pension and bonus forfeiture clause in their contracts. Sadly it's even less likely than the Order of the Spaz or The Venerable Merkin Order.
It's important to blame someone. That, we can all agree on, blame in this century rallies us, it unifies the nation. The divestiture of Fred Goodwin's knighthood is a start, but does it go far enough ?
I was disappointed to learn that Fred doesn't actually have to go back to Buckingham Palace to hand the award back personally. This seems like a missed opportunity for pomp and shaming - two things we still do best. I imagined a cermony in which Goodwin is made to hop down the red carpet in a clown outfit whilst being pelted with rancid haggis. He then kneels, hands back the gong, whereupon the Queen will kosh him with the pommel of the sword. He is then given the option of having his knuckles rapped or being given a smack on the arse with the flat of the blade. A royal corgi will then ceremonially piss on his real clothes which he has to put on before being chased down Pall Mall. It doesn't matter who by.
Why stop there. There should be a regular Dishonours List - each year, those who have disgraced themselves in public life should be forced to endure some sort of ritual humiliation. The classical Athenians had a similar (rather more severe) mechanism - those who sought public office could be privately prosecuted for the decisions they took on behalf of the state. It meant some thought twice before even running for office.
Anyway I propose the Order of the Spaz. Spaz - derived from the Greek 'spastikos' - meaning pulling in or tugging - the medal or 'spastika' would come in the shape of a clenched hand - denoting the universal sign for tosser. Recipients would be forced to wear these medals whilst in public.
Failing that - they could start including more stringent ethical requirements in their terms of service upon which their pension pots were calculated or include pension and bonus forfeiture clause in their contracts. Sadly it's even less likely than the Order of the Spaz or The Venerable Merkin Order.
TV Obituary: Tim Lovejoy & Something For The Weekend
It's with a warm pint of joy that we bid farewell to BBC 2s horrible Something For The Weekend, a show so at home with its inability to deliver anything other than mild nausea and a rapid changeover that it's incomprehensible that it has lasted as long as it did.
Lazy television at its zenith, as if a bored producer whilst picking someones nose (maybe their own) had thought for several seconds:"What do people like on the telly ? Cookery programmes and celebrities" and had then vomited this non-idea every week into a bucket which presenter Tim Lovejoy then threw mirthlessly in our faces every Sunday.
You may be blissfully unaware of Tim; he once declined an award due to his 'hatred of long words'. Tim was named after the Reverend Tim Lovejoy in the Simpsons (despite being born before he'd been created) in a desperate attempt to make him funnier, he's a result of the embarrassed coupling of Lovejoy (off of the Antiques Roadshow) and the actress Phyllis Logan (as played by Joyce Grenfell when she was 15) in the back of a converted horsebox.
Tim has a proven track record in making unwatchable television that little bit less exciting and he goes at his job with all the zeal of a fucked corpse. The only presenter I've ever seen who's clearly counting the seconds until the end of the programme under his breath, which is more than can be said for the audience.
There's some lazy football chatter between him and resident chef Simon Rimmer, a tired swipe at students, 'taxdodgers' one of them declares hilariously, Rimmer can at least cook but it's as nothing next to the visible onscreen chemistry of the two. Simon sympathises with TIm after he went skiing and paid '40 euros for a burger.' Scandalous, their bored, dead eyes both seem to say, but it's alright because Tim reveals, 'it included drinks too.' Phew. Those of us holding out for the payoff aren't disappointed when Tim confides that the cycling he's doing is, 'hard work.' It is difficult to see why ChannelBee - the internet tv channel that was TIm's idea, failed after a year (2008-2009) given that a mainstay was a forum called The Banter Pit.
But there's a diamond in the rough, halfway through an interview Tim interjects: "We do a lot of offal on this show." There's a pause, the entire studio goes quiet - the camera goes to Tim. Has Tim said something funny ? There's not a hint of recognition from Lovejoy, everyone is relieved, the moment passes - he was simply making a factual statement that a lot of the cooking does involve the use of internal organs. And now, gentle reader, we can share the tv crew's relief because the production of offal is about to stop.
Lazy television at its zenith, as if a bored producer whilst picking someones nose (maybe their own) had thought for several seconds:"What do people like on the telly ? Cookery programmes and celebrities" and had then vomited this non-idea every week into a bucket which presenter Tim Lovejoy then threw mirthlessly in our faces every Sunday.
You may be blissfully unaware of Tim; he once declined an award due to his 'hatred of long words'. Tim was named after the Reverend Tim Lovejoy in the Simpsons (despite being born before he'd been created) in a desperate attempt to make him funnier, he's a result of the embarrassed coupling of Lovejoy (off of the Antiques Roadshow) and the actress Phyllis Logan (as played by Joyce Grenfell when she was 15) in the back of a converted horsebox.
Tim has a proven track record in making unwatchable television that little bit less exciting and he goes at his job with all the zeal of a fucked corpse. The only presenter I've ever seen who's clearly counting the seconds until the end of the programme under his breath, which is more than can be said for the audience.
There's some lazy football chatter between him and resident chef Simon Rimmer, a tired swipe at students, 'taxdodgers' one of them declares hilariously, Rimmer can at least cook but it's as nothing next to the visible onscreen chemistry of the two. Simon sympathises with TIm after he went skiing and paid '40 euros for a burger.' Scandalous, their bored, dead eyes both seem to say, but it's alright because Tim reveals, 'it included drinks too.' Phew. Those of us holding out for the payoff aren't disappointed when Tim confides that the cycling he's doing is, 'hard work.' It is difficult to see why ChannelBee - the internet tv channel that was TIm's idea, failed after a year (2008-2009) given that a mainstay was a forum called The Banter Pit.
But there's a diamond in the rough, halfway through an interview Tim interjects: "We do a lot of offal on this show." There's a pause, the entire studio goes quiet - the camera goes to Tim. Has Tim said something funny ? There's not a hint of recognition from Lovejoy, everyone is relieved, the moment passes - he was simply making a factual statement that a lot of the cooking does involve the use of internal organs. And now, gentle reader, we can share the tv crew's relief because the production of offal is about to stop.
Friday, 3 February 2012
In the Garden of the Night
"The night is black,
And the stars are bright,
And the sea is dark and deep
And someone I know is safe
And snug, and the're drifting
Off to sleep
Round and round, a little boat no bigger
Than you're hand, out on the ocean, far away from land.
Take the little sail down,
Light the little light.
This is the way to the
Garden of the night"
Or Isle of the Dead as it should be known. Iggle Piggle (clearly an offshoot from the Hills Have Eyes Clan) guides you there as the eponymous ferryman - you'll notice he never sleeps until the end, ever watchful is Charon. There you are met and judged by Minos (Father Christmas), Sobek (the Crocodile from Punch & Judy/Peter Pan)
and probably Macca Pacca (a suspicious creature with the bodyshape of uncle Jesse from Dukes of Hazard who looks like he has had mouldering dog turds glued to him and then painted pink). If you have been very good you can spend eternity in Nigel Slater's herb garden eating his simple meals and pissing all over the rosemary.
For the rest of us it is the Night Garden itself - an endless purgatory populated by those whose souls hang in balance and their wardens.
With snakes for hair one of the Erinnyes pursues the denizens of the garden.
The Hahoos - imprisoned there by the gods of Olympus after their revolt lead by Typhon.
The Pontipines and the Wottingers - two houses alike in dignity, perhaps once known as Montagues and Capulets
The three-headed guard - Tombliboos - a grim wide-eyed Cerberus
All under the watchful eyes of Macca Pacca from his cave.
Lucky it's only for children or I'd be terrified.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Big Brother Is Watching You & He's Dressed Like Batman
Now I was going to write a blog taking the piss out of Nigel Slater - for his Saturday morning tv program - the one where he claims to make 'simple delicious meals' out of things that he has lying around. Of course the culinary equivalent of the Wombles isn't talking about a slice of 2 day old pizza and half a jar of Helmans from 2008.
He wafts like a pastel breeze over to the spotless fridge where, by chance, he happens to have, 'just leftovers really' - the breast of a roast swan, filet of unicorn and a bit of cheese. Then it's out into his herb garden/magic kingdom for 'whatever is in season'/is just lying about and oh whoops I've accidentally made a quick simple meal that has Greg Wallace pushing his snout against the window like a starving urchin.
But that can wait.
I had finished writing an e-mail, using my g-mail account, and sent it. When up pops, unbidden from me, a little link. Now I know that if I want free e-mail I have to pay the price somewhere along the line, quid pro quo and all that. But it never used to happen and I could live with (by which I mean utterly ignore) the ads at the side of the page, but this is a bit much.
Secondly - this is what the link was advertising:
http://www.morphsuits.co.uk
Now I know what you want to know, because so did I. Why this ad ?
According to the pop up:
"This ad is based on e-mails from your mailbox"
I was suprised by this - as well, the e-mail I had just sent was replying to a friend telling him what time we would be arriving for lunch. Here's the text (with names deleted)
Hiya XXXXXX,
Looking at train timetables I can probably get back from Gloucester on Friday evening, so barring mishaps we will aim to get to yours for 12-1 on Saturday if that is ok ?
XXXXXX has her tea at between 5-6 so we will be aiming to get her back for then - I have no idea how long it will take to get to yours by car but assuming an hour - we will probably leave about 4ish.
Is there anything you would like us to bring ?
Now my friend and his wife are a perfectly normal couple. They don't as far as I am aware have a dungeon. Neither do I for that matter. So I am wondering why g mail in its wisdom thought I might want, or indeed need, a full lycra bodysuit ? I suppose it is some small consolation that it wasn't crotchless.
Fortunately it is possible (I have learned in the intervening minutes to 'opt out' of such 'personalised ads' - but you can I am assured, opt back in again. Which means they are still collecting data from you, they are just not funnelling you the results.
It's all pretty unsatisfactory and the only real solution I can see is to revert to letter writing for the purposes of correspondence. Back when I had to do letter writing every Saturday morning at school I bemoaned that it was unnecessary (this was largely because I was a day pupil at a school predominantly comprised of boarding pupils - my point was that I really did not need to write mummy a letter telling her what a splendid time I was having and how I had built a camp and gone to the Good Copy tea party because I was seeing her in a few hours - besides she's not a stupid woman and there's only so much horseshit of that kind you can be made to swallow). Little did I know.
On the other hand I can now use gmail as a purely recreational tool, concocting increasingly unlikely epistolary compositions to see what personalised ads I receive
I shall start by writing to an imaginary farm based penpal using the following words:
Stallion
Oilseed Rape
Fertilizer
Cock
Brassica Napus
I am sure you can think of your own - and if you are not the solitary Marc Singer obsessed Bulgarian who reads this, feel free to post some of your ad results
Cheers.
He wafts like a pastel breeze over to the spotless fridge where, by chance, he happens to have, 'just leftovers really' - the breast of a roast swan, filet of unicorn and a bit of cheese. Then it's out into his herb garden/magic kingdom for 'whatever is in season'/is just lying about and oh whoops I've accidentally made a quick simple meal that has Greg Wallace pushing his snout against the window like a starving urchin.
But that can wait.
I had finished writing an e-mail, using my g-mail account, and sent it. When up pops, unbidden from me, a little link. Now I know that if I want free e-mail I have to pay the price somewhere along the line, quid pro quo and all that. But it never used to happen and I could live with (by which I mean utterly ignore) the ads at the side of the page, but this is a bit much.
Secondly - this is what the link was advertising:
http://www.morphsuits.co.uk
Now I know what you want to know, because so did I. Why this ad ?
According to the pop up:
"This ad is based on e-mails from your mailbox"
I was suprised by this - as well, the e-mail I had just sent was replying to a friend telling him what time we would be arriving for lunch. Here's the text (with names deleted)
Hiya XXXXXX,
Looking at train timetables I can probably get back from Gloucester on Friday evening, so barring mishaps we will aim to get to yours for 12-1 on Saturday if that is ok ?
XXXXXX has her tea at between 5-6 so we will be aiming to get her back for then - I have no idea how long it will take to get to yours by car but assuming an hour - we will probably leave about 4ish.
Is there anything you would like us to bring ?
Now my friend and his wife are a perfectly normal couple. They don't as far as I am aware have a dungeon. Neither do I for that matter. So I am wondering why g mail in its wisdom thought I might want, or indeed need, a full lycra bodysuit ? I suppose it is some small consolation that it wasn't crotchless.
Fortunately it is possible (I have learned in the intervening minutes to 'opt out' of such 'personalised ads' - but you can I am assured, opt back in again. Which means they are still collecting data from you, they are just not funnelling you the results.
It's all pretty unsatisfactory and the only real solution I can see is to revert to letter writing for the purposes of correspondence. Back when I had to do letter writing every Saturday morning at school I bemoaned that it was unnecessary (this was largely because I was a day pupil at a school predominantly comprised of boarding pupils - my point was that I really did not need to write mummy a letter telling her what a splendid time I was having and how I had built a camp and gone to the Good Copy tea party because I was seeing her in a few hours - besides she's not a stupid woman and there's only so much horseshit of that kind you can be made to swallow). Little did I know.
On the other hand I can now use gmail as a purely recreational tool, concocting increasingly unlikely epistolary compositions to see what personalised ads I receive
I shall start by writing to an imaginary farm based penpal using the following words:
Stallion
Oilseed Rape
Fertilizer
Cock
Brassica Napus
I am sure you can think of your own - and if you are not the solitary Marc Singer obsessed Bulgarian who reads this, feel free to post some of your ad results
Cheers.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Felines in Season
Lion in Winter
I went to the theatre last week, myself and the wife were very excited as it's the first time we've been since our daughter was born (not that we went very much before then) . Now whilst the evening ended badly (4 o'clock in the morning with me lying in hospital being given morphine after a rather vicious attack of gastritis, sans pants), the play did not, so I thought something approaching a little review might be nice. One of the charming side effects of morphine is constipation, so when you see it don't be suprised.
I'm feeling better now, thank you.
Cougar in Summer
I think the joke runs something like this:
Upon delivery, what were Quentin Crisp's first words ?
'Well I won't be doing that again.'
Though if I look it up on the internet it is more famously the pithy comeback of a 38 year old Burnley grandmother after being prosecuted for having sex with a 15 year old last August.
Memory is clearly no substitute for the web.
But for anyone who has seen the film version of The Lion in Winter, James Goldman's 1966 stage play it might be a similar verdict. Not because it's bad, quite the contrary, I just wondered what anyone was going to add that Peter O'Toole (Henry) and Katherine Hepburn (Eleanor) hadn't already.
It turns out (that ever obliging internet again and I can't help but feel that in return for this and other knowledge it's going to want my soul) it's not even the only film - Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close had a go in 2003 and Lawrence Fishburne and Stockard Channing1, on stage, in 1999. So I resolved to watch Trevor Nunn's recent revival, this time with Robert Lindsay as Henry and Joanna Lumley as Elinor , without leaning over to my wife every few minutes and whispering, 'it's not as good as the film.'
As an aside Channing won a TONY. Though you'd hope she was used to the dialogue since the play was a favourite of Aaron Sorkind, writer and creator of the West Wing (in which she played the First Lady, Dr. Abigail Bartlet). Some of you may remember the line from an episode of the West WIng 'when the President stands nobody sits,' (No internet - that was me. Though I have to look up which episode - 25th 'The Midterms'), it's not very far from 'When the King is up, nobody sleeps.' Though (and again not the internet I am afraid) Henry was famous amongst the chroniclers for his boundless energy - constantly on the move, unable to stand still - so Goldman had perhaps done his homework. Certainly more than he was credited by recent reviewers who described the play as hokum and the dialogue owing much to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
It's a tale of the Angevin Royal family at Christmas. Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine and Anjou etcetera etcetera and his Queen, Elinor, Countess of Aquitaine (a province that dwarfed its neighbour France in size and wealth) in her own right. Elinor has been locked up after one plot too many and is being trotted out for Christmas Court as well as their three surviving sons: Richard (Lionheart), Geoffrey, and John. The young King of France is there too as Henry's upstart rival, officially to recover his sister's dowry since she has not married the English heir as the treaty agreed. Not least because the heir is unclear and even more so since the sister is now Henry's mistress.
The action comes in the dialogue between family sparring over the succession. Elinor wants the throne for Richard and the Aquitaine for herself, whilst Henry prefers the youngest, John. Neither consider Geoffrey. Hokum it may be and full of anachronisms but the dialogue still flashes like the knives everyone carries. Poinard rather than rapier wit, it's still sharp as mustard, Lindsay and Lumley snap back and forth at each other with relish. And it's the anachronisms that save it from the inevitable comparison, delivered as pithy asides by the two main protagonists they're cleverly used to get laughs. That they manage it is down to some clever casting, knowing not to compete with the film for gravitas, Nunn has opted for a medieval My Family in which his two leads are perfectly cast.
Yes the line 'What family doesn't have its ups and downs? ' sits incongruously in a medieval drama, but as comic punctuation, delivered at the end of a particularly rapid exchange it's perfect as a means of establishing this version of the play as a sitcom Christmas special, which is what they have very sensibly aimed for. Occasionally when they're forced to stray into drama Lumley and the three (very young looking) sons struggle and have to resort to shouting at each other. Which is a shame, but doesn't happen very much. So yes, it's not the film, it sensibly doesn't try to be; instead it's a more self consciously light hearted production, that whilst not the perfect antidote to rich food at Christmas as was evinced by my hours of subsequent agony and drug induced vacancy, the rising bile that was there didn't come from the performance either. Both reminders of the onset of old age and one's own mortality, and whilst the latter was cheaper I'd very much recommend the former.
Worth seeing.
Though do wear some underwear.
I went to the theatre last week, myself and the wife were very excited as it's the first time we've been since our daughter was born (not that we went very much before then) . Now whilst the evening ended badly (4 o'clock in the morning with me lying in hospital being given morphine after a rather vicious attack of gastritis, sans pants), the play did not, so I thought something approaching a little review might be nice. One of the charming side effects of morphine is constipation, so when you see it don't be suprised.
I'm feeling better now, thank you.
Cougar in Summer
I think the joke runs something like this:
Upon delivery, what were Quentin Crisp's first words ?
'Well I won't be doing that again.'
Though if I look it up on the internet it is more famously the pithy comeback of a 38 year old Burnley grandmother after being prosecuted for having sex with a 15 year old last August.
Memory is clearly no substitute for the web.
But for anyone who has seen the film version of The Lion in Winter, James Goldman's 1966 stage play it might be a similar verdict. Not because it's bad, quite the contrary, I just wondered what anyone was going to add that Peter O'Toole (Henry) and Katherine Hepburn (Eleanor) hadn't already.
It turns out (that ever obliging internet again and I can't help but feel that in return for this and other knowledge it's going to want my soul) it's not even the only film - Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close had a go in 2003 and Lawrence Fishburne and Stockard Channing1, on stage, in 1999. So I resolved to watch Trevor Nunn's recent revival, this time with Robert Lindsay as Henry and Joanna Lumley as Elinor , without leaning over to my wife every few minutes and whispering, 'it's not as good as the film.'
As an aside Channing won a TONY. Though you'd hope she was used to the dialogue since the play was a favourite of Aaron Sorkind, writer and creator of the West Wing (in which she played the First Lady, Dr. Abigail Bartlet). Some of you may remember the line from an episode of the West WIng 'when the President stands nobody sits,' (No internet - that was me. Though I have to look up which episode - 25th 'The Midterms'), it's not very far from 'When the King is up, nobody sleeps.' Though (and again not the internet I am afraid) Henry was famous amongst the chroniclers for his boundless energy - constantly on the move, unable to stand still - so Goldman had perhaps done his homework. Certainly more than he was credited by recent reviewers who described the play as hokum and the dialogue owing much to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
It's a tale of the Angevin Royal family at Christmas. Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine and Anjou etcetera etcetera and his Queen, Elinor, Countess of Aquitaine (a province that dwarfed its neighbour France in size and wealth) in her own right. Elinor has been locked up after one plot too many and is being trotted out for Christmas Court as well as their three surviving sons: Richard (Lionheart), Geoffrey, and John. The young King of France is there too as Henry's upstart rival, officially to recover his sister's dowry since she has not married the English heir as the treaty agreed. Not least because the heir is unclear and even more so since the sister is now Henry's mistress.
The action comes in the dialogue between family sparring over the succession. Elinor wants the throne for Richard and the Aquitaine for herself, whilst Henry prefers the youngest, John. Neither consider Geoffrey. Hokum it may be and full of anachronisms but the dialogue still flashes like the knives everyone carries. Poinard rather than rapier wit, it's still sharp as mustard, Lindsay and Lumley snap back and forth at each other with relish. And it's the anachronisms that save it from the inevitable comparison, delivered as pithy asides by the two main protagonists they're cleverly used to get laughs. That they manage it is down to some clever casting, knowing not to compete with the film for gravitas, Nunn has opted for a medieval My Family in which his two leads are perfectly cast.
Yes the line 'What family doesn't have its ups and downs? ' sits incongruously in a medieval drama, but as comic punctuation, delivered at the end of a particularly rapid exchange it's perfect as a means of establishing this version of the play as a sitcom Christmas special, which is what they have very sensibly aimed for. Occasionally when they're forced to stray into drama Lumley and the three (very young looking) sons struggle and have to resort to shouting at each other. Which is a shame, but doesn't happen very much. So yes, it's not the film, it sensibly doesn't try to be; instead it's a more self consciously light hearted production, that whilst not the perfect antidote to rich food at Christmas as was evinced by my hours of subsequent agony and drug induced vacancy, the rising bile that was there didn't come from the performance either. Both reminders of the onset of old age and one's own mortality, and whilst the latter was cheaper I'd very much recommend the former.
Worth seeing.
Though do wear some underwear.
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
New Year, Old Habits
For those of you who are even partial acquaintances, who may have seen bits of me (in the shower or old issues of Woman's Realm), you may recall that prior to my blissful espousement (blows kisses at short suffering wife) I liked to spend the donging of Big Ben 'pon the lav. I feely admit it was a rather obvious and lazy way to display my cavalier disregard for the inexplicable excitement felt by those for the New Year. Fortunately my father-in-law has since appeared with his own proud tradition of fancy dress - inflicted cheerfully upon his family and their hangers on. Each year is themed, which allows me to attend every year as a nun, thereby creating a proud tradition of my own. Such festivities are not without a suitable level of danger - usually in the form of said father-in-law, sugar-deprived and caperng wildly as, armed with a flaming taper, he launches a small arsenal of fireworks at his wifes carefully pruned trellis, then at one or more gravid offspring (fortunately safe behind the re-inforced glass), all the while his son stands on in the costume of an officer of the NKVD.
This year it was not to be. My turkeden came home to roost - which serves me right for attempting to re-heat it and serve it up as risotto 5 days later. I was violently ill and unable to attend the annual costume party. Which had been cancelled anyway. So, alone I ushered in the New Year, my stint on the toilet now obligatory. Still, there's nothing quite so fine as playing Sid Meyer's Civilization at 3 in the morning dressed as a nun. No strides on, but I've dragged the Ancient Greeks into the Renaissance by 440 BC. Happy New Year.
On another, smaller, smaller note, how nice it is to have a Follower.
I'd all but resigned myself to becoming the destination of last resort for Eastern Europeans desperate for results from the search terms 'Marc Singer' and 'naked' (you know who you are - and you're probably using Google Translate to translate the rest of this now - I sympathise with your inevitable disappointment - but can not find my postcard of Bobby Chunka or I'd scan it in for you as a late Christmas gift). But yes - I feel like I'm a Character in the late 80s boardgame Talisman, so thank you Jez Fielder (is that a tent in the background) - your signed photograph of Simon Fay is in 'the post' (of course it isn't - I've probably lost that too. Though if anyone knows what happened to Simon Fay, last known whereabouts: Preston Tescos in 1994 - let us know. I should point out that Jez Fielder and I, like Richard Astley, are no strangers. He was the shorter of my best men at my wedding and very good he was too (reasonable rates available for wedding and Bar Mitzvahs).
This year it was not to be. My turkeden came home to roost - which serves me right for attempting to re-heat it and serve it up as risotto 5 days later. I was violently ill and unable to attend the annual costume party. Which had been cancelled anyway. So, alone I ushered in the New Year, my stint on the toilet now obligatory. Still, there's nothing quite so fine as playing Sid Meyer's Civilization at 3 in the morning dressed as a nun. No strides on, but I've dragged the Ancient Greeks into the Renaissance by 440 BC. Happy New Year.
On another, smaller, smaller note, how nice it is to have a Follower.
I'd all but resigned myself to becoming the destination of last resort for Eastern Europeans desperate for results from the search terms 'Marc Singer' and 'naked' (you know who you are - and you're probably using Google Translate to translate the rest of this now - I sympathise with your inevitable disappointment - but can not find my postcard of Bobby Chunka or I'd scan it in for you as a late Christmas gift). But yes - I feel like I'm a Character in the late 80s boardgame Talisman, so thank you Jez Fielder (is that a tent in the background) - your signed photograph of Simon Fay is in 'the post' (of course it isn't - I've probably lost that too. Though if anyone knows what happened to Simon Fay, last known whereabouts: Preston Tescos in 1994 - let us know. I should point out that Jez Fielder and I, like Richard Astley, are no strangers. He was the shorter of my best men at my wedding and very good he was too (reasonable rates available for wedding and Bar Mitzvahs).
Monday, 12 December 2011
Monkey Business
As I wandered alongside London's grim,polluted mistress, a portly,be-spectacled stranger propositioned me with an offer I could only refuse but not ignore.
'Would sir like to get in touch with his inner ape ?'
All true, except for the sir and the faux Dickensian waft; he was wearing a black nylon hoodie - adorned with a red logo announcing 'The Rise of the Planet of the Apes.'
I have left the grimmest bit of this invitation to fun,'til last.
He gestured at a large enclosed pen/climbing frame that wouldnot be out of place in a zoo. It was mostly already filled with similar 'keepers' some with video cameras, but there were people in there as well, those who they'd already lured off the street,all of whom were in various stages of play.
I didn't need to be asked twice - I leapt in the cage threw off my clothes and began to pelt those outside with my own excrement. Followed by vigourous public onanism and aggressive sexual harassment. Admittedly I have made it sound easier than it was. I was chased around the cage by guards. Fortunately they lack my climbing skills.
My point is this, in his novel Seeing, the author Jose Saramago describes an electorate who refuse to participate in the political system which serves not them but the interests of a political elite. The bemused political class only eventually realising that they have been utterly by-passed by a society that finds ways to exist and express themselves without them.
So that when David Cameron announces how tough he's been with his veto.
Or there is an utter failure to reach agreement in Durban about climate change. Or wise heads comment on the foolishness of the RBS takeover of ABN Amro, long after the event. Surely we should take to the outdoor spaces and express our disinterest faecally.
Monday, 31 October 2011
Italian Holiday Part One
I was rummaging through some old files and found a brief account of a holiday I took in Italy three years ago. People need to know the truth about Florence. A Room with a View has a lot to answer for. Good day.
Dear friend,
A word of warning about Florence.
Don't go there.
If you must have romantic notions about parts of Italy, and there are many that feel they must. then I urge you not to ruin them forever by actually visiting the place.
It will make you weep with its oppressive ugliness - even if it isn't raining. Which it will be.
It is the worst.
There is a Medici palace, that appears on the face of it to be all right but is utterly ruined by the performance art of George Adekunbebebeetc. whatever his name is.
One is confronted by some of the most ornate, resplendent, breathtaking indoor spaces of the Renaissance - and in each room is a placard proudly telling you how George Adkkkuntbeeetc has ruined it. In the manner of a tiny child showing mummy and daddy little Georgie’s first poopoo.
Some one has written the big words in neat handing for George, to explain what he has done. George is a ‘native African performance artist,’ what this means in practical terms is:
George can't paint (thank god)
He can't write either.
He might just about to be able to hold a stick and smile at you like some kind of retarded Indiana Jones extra in the vain hope that you give him money.
(This is solely based on the only evidence I have, which is a photograph of George, holding a stick and smiling with a bowl that has some coins in it)
What George can do (and has done IN EVERY ROOM) is lay out books, newspapers (whatever stuff he has lying about) in the Palazzo - these are meant to subtly blend in.
Quite how 'The Four Immortal Elements of Creation' that decorate the walls and ceiling, whilst a 16thc terracotta mosaic adorns the floor blends in with half a dozen old copies of Le Figaro strewn across the floor next to a 1970s dinky toy is beyond me.
But clearly not beyond George.
He really goes for it in the Medici private chapel.
There amid the gold leaf and weight of history - George has really exceeded himself.
On the floor he has arranged some books - in the shape of a cross.
My beloved had to explain it to me - but it's clever - you see - a chapel, some books in the shape of a cross. Brilliant. See, clever.
In one room I discovered an upturned paperback and a half empty bottle of mineral water.
What could it mean ?
What was George Abracadabrabayou trying to tell me ?
It turned out it belonged to one of the curators. It was their lunch.
I pondered what dark revelations George had in store for me by chosing to place the 1983 Look-In Annual on the stairs leading to the Exit,what did it mean ?
Ah I see.
Nothing.
The only redeeming thing was that on wandering through this ancient and impressive palace - I happened to walk into a full court session of Florence's civic body - it seems they still use the palace for day to day political business and you can watch.
The mayor/judge - I could not tell which, was brilliant.
He looked like Al Pacino - and in the midst of the court - with many tables of lawyers etc. was sporting a pair of sunglasses and a cheap beige jacket, the sort you would find being worn by many of our fathers.
I liked him more than a little.
The rest of Florence is beset by Americans and the smell of soiled leather. The Ponte Vecchio is small, characterless and adorned with gaudy unpleasant jewellry shops.
The streets are gloomy, and dirty.
Only where they have hidden Michelangelo’s David was there any evidence of scant humanity. There in a semi-circle of pious devotion sat the matrons of Firenze, steadfast, immovable (they were not giving those seats up ever),constant, faithful.
All staring at David’s sculpted and perfect marble anus.
We left Florence - with much joy
But what follows is, another story.
Dear friend,
A word of warning about Florence.
Don't go there.
If you must have romantic notions about parts of Italy, and there are many that feel they must. then I urge you not to ruin them forever by actually visiting the place.
It will make you weep with its oppressive ugliness - even if it isn't raining. Which it will be.
It is the worst.
There is a Medici palace, that appears on the face of it to be all right but is utterly ruined by the performance art of George Adekunbebebeetc. whatever his name is.
One is confronted by some of the most ornate, resplendent, breathtaking indoor spaces of the Renaissance - and in each room is a placard proudly telling you how George Adkkkuntbeeetc has ruined it. In the manner of a tiny child showing mummy and daddy little Georgie’s first poopoo.
Some one has written the big words in neat handing for George, to explain what he has done. George is a ‘native African performance artist,’ what this means in practical terms is:
George can't paint (thank god)
He can't write either.
He might just about to be able to hold a stick and smile at you like some kind of retarded Indiana Jones extra in the vain hope that you give him money.
(This is solely based on the only evidence I have, which is a photograph of George, holding a stick and smiling with a bowl that has some coins in it)
What George can do (and has done IN EVERY ROOM) is lay out books, newspapers (whatever stuff he has lying about) in the Palazzo - these are meant to subtly blend in.
Quite how 'The Four Immortal Elements of Creation' that decorate the walls and ceiling, whilst a 16thc terracotta mosaic adorns the floor blends in with half a dozen old copies of Le Figaro strewn across the floor next to a 1970s dinky toy is beyond me.
But clearly not beyond George.
He really goes for it in the Medici private chapel.
There amid the gold leaf and weight of history - George has really exceeded himself.
On the floor he has arranged some books - in the shape of a cross.
My beloved had to explain it to me - but it's clever - you see - a chapel, some books in the shape of a cross. Brilliant. See, clever.
In one room I discovered an upturned paperback and a half empty bottle of mineral water.
What could it mean ?
What was George Abracadabrabayou trying to tell me ?
It turned out it belonged to one of the curators. It was their lunch.
I pondered what dark revelations George had in store for me by chosing to place the 1983 Look-In Annual on the stairs leading to the Exit,what did it mean ?
Ah I see.
Nothing.
The only redeeming thing was that on wandering through this ancient and impressive palace - I happened to walk into a full court session of Florence's civic body - it seems they still use the palace for day to day political business and you can watch.
The mayor/judge - I could not tell which, was brilliant.
He looked like Al Pacino - and in the midst of the court - with many tables of lawyers etc. was sporting a pair of sunglasses and a cheap beige jacket, the sort you would find being worn by many of our fathers.
I liked him more than a little.
The rest of Florence is beset by Americans and the smell of soiled leather. The Ponte Vecchio is small, characterless and adorned with gaudy unpleasant jewellry shops.
The streets are gloomy, and dirty.
Only where they have hidden Michelangelo’s David was there any evidence of scant humanity. There in a semi-circle of pious devotion sat the matrons of Firenze, steadfast, immovable (they were not giving those seats up ever),constant, faithful.
All staring at David’s sculpted and perfect marble anus.
We left Florence - with much joy
But what follows is, another story.
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Grecian 2011
IMF Economic Advisors Yesterday
Plans for the recovery of Greece from economic chaos were revealed today to loud applause from fans of the original Clash of the Titans.
Greek Prime Minister, Harry Hamlyn took time out from from his busy schedule chasing after middle aged women in togas, to outline his economic vision:
‘It’s simple, hey lady you’re nice want to star in an advert for soup with me ? real easy, what I done is a clever plan, nice lady, pretty lady, I’ll give you a handbag for a kiss,no knock off. I’ve got all them people from The Time Team, except Tony Robinson, you are a beautiful princess, if I answer a riddle can I show you my diamante thong ? Zeus gave it to me. Gives me powers. Anyway they just dig up King Midas and we clone him and then get the clone to touch a load of stuff. Then we sell the gold. Lady I’m a real popular man, I done it with Ursula Andress and Nicolette Sheridan, you want to make my list. All that gold will get us back on top, fast.’
Opposition Leader Calibos,son of Thetis was quick to dismiss the idea:
‘Clearly the answer to all our woes is to retrieve the Golden fleece.’
Meanwhile in a cynical move to try and put Greece back on the map Joanna Lumley has made a tv programme of her going on holiday there. In the first episode she goes yomping around the Acropolis whilst the camera stays glued to her arse like she was Anneka Rice out of Treasure Hunt. Mythological finance experts were quick to comment: ‘It is no accident that Lumley is here at this time. We fully expect her to emerge naked from the sea in a giant scallop shell, whereupon our debt will be renewed like her virginity off the isalnd of Paphos. Just like Aphrodite.’
‘Yes just like Aphrodite.’
‘Except less of a slag.’
‘Doesn’t she look wonderful for her age.’
‘Yes, but that Odyssey programme’s a bit shit, you don’t see anything.’
Hamlyn was unavailable for comment but was seen chasing after Lumley on a moped waggling his olive skinned privates.
Burgess Meredith was unavailable for comment.
'No comment. I'm dead.'
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Brendan the Third
Beej, as the South Coast’s premier spymaster liked to be called, was to Eastbourne what Rick Astley was to love.
They were well acquainted.
I once spent an excruciating lunch with him (Beej, not Rick Astley) in one of Eastbourne’s Pizza Hut clones. All we could eat, which in Brendan’s excuse for a mind, and despite posters (and later protests) to the contrary, was only valid whilst his plate was clear.
So he would periodically visit the gents, his pockets stuffed with crusts from the pizza slices.
Someone, I forget who, maybe me, maybe Sir Alec Guinness (who was never one to pass up all you can eat pizza) told him quite sensibly to stop it before he blocked up the toilet.
I forget the exact words he used, but the gist was entirely that the crusts weren’t in the toilet bowl. Fella.
He was closeting them in the cistern.
And he was pleased by this. In much the same way as a dog who has performed a good trick will look at his carer for approval. My applause was reserved for the person who would eventually have to remove the mouldering mass of dough owing to the smell1
Which brings me untidily to Brendan’s marriage and preceding stag.
He met his future wife in Eastbourne, she was a hairdresser, ten years his senior, with two young children. It will be of little surprise to learn the depths of George Smiley the Younger’s feeling for his weef-to-be, were I to tell you, gentle reader, the absurd lengths he went to ensure the taxi taking him to the church went past the ‘Lezza’s’ parents house (see Part 1).
But let us first part the mists of time and the curtains of shame as we go back to that night, that portended such connubial bliss to come. Operation Stag-Do was being run by a corpulent ginger depressive who Brendan had given the diverting codename of ‘Timbo.’ aka The Best Man. It was not uncommon, if you had stayed out all night, to find him on the seafront in the early hours of the morning, sitting in one of the windbreaks (which inevitably smelt more or less strongly of urine) reading a book about physics. No idea why, Jeorge once caught him eating apples gloomily in a caravan as a teenager, so maybe he fancied himself an auburn Isaac Newton. Anyway Timbo’s first stop on this celebration of the solitary life of Beej was to the Kitten Club in a run down suburb of Brighton. Fortunately I had brought a book.
We were lead gingerly by the titian fatty down the stairs to a room where there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, let alone watch a bored mother of two dance to Wham in various states of undress. Years later I met a lady, fully clothed, who had worked there for a while, she told me a lot about her son who did Speedway (I hoped, without conviction it was a method of taking amphetamines). She made quiet, disparaging comments about the dustiness of my bathroom whilst I tried to excise the image of her and her then paramour, Calibos, Lord of the Marsh and the son of Thetis, using what I believe is known as a ‘ball-gag’ in a caravan near Castle Donnington2.
Ignore Hamlet, in fact, fire Shakespeare’s entire canon out of one; you have never seen tragedy until you’ve seen the expression on the face of a fat ginger virgin in his mid-20s whilst a woman (doesn’t matter who, I suspect even his mum would do) gives him a lap dance. I spent two hours trying to read a book. After that it was drinking and not dancing in a club, then an hour long taxi ride back to Beej’s secret hideout (the house above a hairdressers he shared with his beloved). We got there long before his fiancé had returned from her hen do, so the James Bond of Eastbourne plans a little surprise:
‘We should hide,’
‘Why ?’
‘Well we can jump out.’
Everyone (myself and the best man and a large Canadian, who no one knows) agrees, waits ‘til Brendan goes upstairs then we put on the telly and drink more beer. An hour or two passes. At some point I go to the toilet. A chubby forearm clutches the sill.
‘Brendan what are you doing out there ?’
‘I’m waiting to leap out on the missus.’
‘In the toilet ?’
‘Um yeah.’
‘Well I need to go.’
‘Oh just close the window, I can balance on the kitchen roof if it’s quick.’
I thank the gods that I just needed a piss and then contemplated not opening the window again. But I did.
His future wife returns with her friends, they have had a much better time.
‘Where’s Bren ?’
Nobody answers.
Our eyes all gesture upstairs. There’s sadness in all of them, compassion too. Poor woman.
She’s had a couple of drinks so what passes for sublety amongst us is lost on her. Fortunately she needs the bathroom. Fortune is relative in this instance, I think everyone was just glad it hadn’t been one of her friends.
Minutes pass.
There’s a scream, surprise not fear, a very loud crash. Then a pause, followed by a heavy footfall down the stairs and then the front door slams.
No one does anything for a bit. Then I, and a possible future bridesmaid to the oh-so-happy couple venture silently up the russet paisley (that’s not a euphemism they just had nasty carpet). The toilet is at the top of the landing, facing the stairs. The bowl is the first casualty of Brendan’s master plan, then the pot pourri strewn over the broken enamel like dirt on a coffin. At the risk of neglecting the very real human tragedy of the evening, I confess my first thought was, ‘if someone tries to flush that, the room’ll flood.’
My companion discovered the third casualty in their bedroom. The future Mrs Spy, eyeliner and nose running.
Those of you who have seen me channel my inner Columbo will know what follows, so there is no need to make you suffer as I did to piece together The Case of the Broken Bowl.
Beej had hidden outside the bathroom,holding on by his arm and balancing on the kitchen roof. Upon hearing his wife to be, he launched himself bodily into the confined space. Fortunately she had not begun to avail herself of the facilities. His ingress and landing were not controlled and his foot went through the porcelain. He saw no way out other than the most brutal. He told her he ‘didn’t love her and couldn’t go through with it.’ He then vacated the building.
There was discussion about the very nature of Beej, whereupon it transpired that she was well aware 1. - 4. of the following ‘facts’
1. Beej had never got over the death of his uncle who died in a plane crash.
2. Beej had got the scars on his legs from the plane crash he was in with his uncle.
3. Beej’s uncle lived in Chiselhurst. He ran a greasy spoon café.
4. Brendon obtained the scars whilst trying to ‘karate kick’ his elder brother after he (Beej) had just got out of the bath. At the age of 5 or so his towel had fallen off and the naked youngster had sailed over his brother (who ducked) straight into the glass partition.
5. Beej had not, as he claimed to Jeorge ‘caught one in the leg in Bosnia’
6. Nor had he,as he claimed to me, ‘been shot in the leg parachuting into France.’
Beej’s mother had helpfully revealed 3. and 4. and I contributed 5. and 6.
None of which located Brendan, Ace of Spies. My work done3 I found a quiet corner and settled down to sleep.
The Best Man later found him asleep beneath a bench in a nearby pub garden at 3 in the morning.
Brendan the Spy and Dee the Hairdresser were reconciled the next day and married the following month. They have one son. They separated after Beej relocated to the garden shed of the domicile, where he lived for two months estranged from his wife, before returning to his parents house. They have never divorced. ‘Uncle Bren’ now lives in France with a lady and their young son.
Footnotes
1 The pizza crusts, not Brendan the Spy’s sweaty carcass; which would doubtless expire in just such a place, a half-smoked rollup made of the unprepossessing remains of another, already smoked, cigarette hanging from his fat purple face
2 An image Jeorge had conjured for me whilst I was cooking them all dinner. All true, Calibos had cheerily informed him. I wonder to this day what make of caravan it was.
3 Actually I found Brendan ‘round the corner (I am not without tradecraft of my own). We discussed his options, it was clear he still had feelings for The Lezza and was convinced he could win her back by travelling to Paris and finding her. I disabused him of this fanciful notion with certain salient pieces of evidence to the contrary, the chief of which was that she had enjoyed frequent periods of intimacy with Jeorge, indeed he had visited her in Paris quite recently. It was at that point H.17 decided to retreat still further, both geographically (from me) and mentally (from life). I could not be bothered to pursue him. There was still beer to be had and the task of bringing him in from the cold belonged to a fatter, gingerer man than I.
They were well acquainted.
I once spent an excruciating lunch with him (Beej, not Rick Astley) in one of Eastbourne’s Pizza Hut clones. All we could eat, which in Brendan’s excuse for a mind, and despite posters (and later protests) to the contrary, was only valid whilst his plate was clear.
So he would periodically visit the gents, his pockets stuffed with crusts from the pizza slices.
Someone, I forget who, maybe me, maybe Sir Alec Guinness (who was never one to pass up all you can eat pizza) told him quite sensibly to stop it before he blocked up the toilet.
I forget the exact words he used, but the gist was entirely that the crusts weren’t in the toilet bowl. Fella.
He was closeting them in the cistern.
And he was pleased by this. In much the same way as a dog who has performed a good trick will look at his carer for approval. My applause was reserved for the person who would eventually have to remove the mouldering mass of dough owing to the smell1
Which brings me untidily to Brendan’s marriage and preceding stag.
He met his future wife in Eastbourne, she was a hairdresser, ten years his senior, with two young children. It will be of little surprise to learn the depths of George Smiley the Younger’s feeling for his weef-to-be, were I to tell you, gentle reader, the absurd lengths he went to ensure the taxi taking him to the church went past the ‘Lezza’s’ parents house (see Part 1).
But let us first part the mists of time and the curtains of shame as we go back to that night, that portended such connubial bliss to come. Operation Stag-Do was being run by a corpulent ginger depressive who Brendan had given the diverting codename of ‘Timbo.’ aka The Best Man. It was not uncommon, if you had stayed out all night, to find him on the seafront in the early hours of the morning, sitting in one of the windbreaks (which inevitably smelt more or less strongly of urine) reading a book about physics. No idea why, Jeorge once caught him eating apples gloomily in a caravan as a teenager, so maybe he fancied himself an auburn Isaac Newton. Anyway Timbo’s first stop on this celebration of the solitary life of Beej was to the Kitten Club in a run down suburb of Brighton. Fortunately I had brought a book.
We were lead gingerly by the titian fatty down the stairs to a room where there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, let alone watch a bored mother of two dance to Wham in various states of undress. Years later I met a lady, fully clothed, who had worked there for a while, she told me a lot about her son who did Speedway (I hoped, without conviction it was a method of taking amphetamines). She made quiet, disparaging comments about the dustiness of my bathroom whilst I tried to excise the image of her and her then paramour, Calibos, Lord of the Marsh and the son of Thetis, using what I believe is known as a ‘ball-gag’ in a caravan near Castle Donnington2.
Ignore Hamlet, in fact, fire Shakespeare’s entire canon out of one; you have never seen tragedy until you’ve seen the expression on the face of a fat ginger virgin in his mid-20s whilst a woman (doesn’t matter who, I suspect even his mum would do) gives him a lap dance. I spent two hours trying to read a book. After that it was drinking and not dancing in a club, then an hour long taxi ride back to Beej’s secret hideout (the house above a hairdressers he shared with his beloved). We got there long before his fiancé had returned from her hen do, so the James Bond of Eastbourne plans a little surprise:
‘We should hide,’
‘Why ?’
‘Well we can jump out.’
Everyone (myself and the best man and a large Canadian, who no one knows) agrees, waits ‘til Brendan goes upstairs then we put on the telly and drink more beer. An hour or two passes. At some point I go to the toilet. A chubby forearm clutches the sill.
‘Brendan what are you doing out there ?’
‘I’m waiting to leap out on the missus.’
‘In the toilet ?’
‘Um yeah.’
‘Well I need to go.’
‘Oh just close the window, I can balance on the kitchen roof if it’s quick.’
I thank the gods that I just needed a piss and then contemplated not opening the window again. But I did.
His future wife returns with her friends, they have had a much better time.
‘Where’s Bren ?’
Nobody answers.
Our eyes all gesture upstairs. There’s sadness in all of them, compassion too. Poor woman.
She’s had a couple of drinks so what passes for sublety amongst us is lost on her. Fortunately she needs the bathroom. Fortune is relative in this instance, I think everyone was just glad it hadn’t been one of her friends.
Minutes pass.
There’s a scream, surprise not fear, a very loud crash. Then a pause, followed by a heavy footfall down the stairs and then the front door slams.
No one does anything for a bit. Then I, and a possible future bridesmaid to the oh-so-happy couple venture silently up the russet paisley (that’s not a euphemism they just had nasty carpet). The toilet is at the top of the landing, facing the stairs. The bowl is the first casualty of Brendan’s master plan, then the pot pourri strewn over the broken enamel like dirt on a coffin. At the risk of neglecting the very real human tragedy of the evening, I confess my first thought was, ‘if someone tries to flush that, the room’ll flood.’
My companion discovered the third casualty in their bedroom. The future Mrs Spy, eyeliner and nose running.
Those of you who have seen me channel my inner Columbo will know what follows, so there is no need to make you suffer as I did to piece together The Case of the Broken Bowl.
Beej had hidden outside the bathroom,holding on by his arm and balancing on the kitchen roof. Upon hearing his wife to be, he launched himself bodily into the confined space. Fortunately she had not begun to avail herself of the facilities. His ingress and landing were not controlled and his foot went through the porcelain. He saw no way out other than the most brutal. He told her he ‘didn’t love her and couldn’t go through with it.’ He then vacated the building.
There was discussion about the very nature of Beej, whereupon it transpired that she was well aware 1. - 4. of the following ‘facts’
1. Beej had never got over the death of his uncle who died in a plane crash.
2. Beej had got the scars on his legs from the plane crash he was in with his uncle.
3. Beej’s uncle lived in Chiselhurst. He ran a greasy spoon café.
4. Brendon obtained the scars whilst trying to ‘karate kick’ his elder brother after he (Beej) had just got out of the bath. At the age of 5 or so his towel had fallen off and the naked youngster had sailed over his brother (who ducked) straight into the glass partition.
5. Beej had not, as he claimed to Jeorge ‘caught one in the leg in Bosnia’
6. Nor had he,as he claimed to me, ‘been shot in the leg parachuting into France.’
Beej’s mother had helpfully revealed 3. and 4. and I contributed 5. and 6.
None of which located Brendan, Ace of Spies. My work done3 I found a quiet corner and settled down to sleep.
The Best Man later found him asleep beneath a bench in a nearby pub garden at 3 in the morning.
Brendan the Spy and Dee the Hairdresser were reconciled the next day and married the following month. They have one son. They separated after Beej relocated to the garden shed of the domicile, where he lived for two months estranged from his wife, before returning to his parents house. They have never divorced. ‘Uncle Bren’ now lives in France with a lady and their young son.
Footnotes
1 The pizza crusts, not Brendan the Spy’s sweaty carcass; which would doubtless expire in just such a place, a half-smoked rollup made of the unprepossessing remains of another, already smoked, cigarette hanging from his fat purple face
2 An image Jeorge had conjured for me whilst I was cooking them all dinner. All true, Calibos had cheerily informed him. I wonder to this day what make of caravan it was.
3 Actually I found Brendan ‘round the corner (I am not without tradecraft of my own). We discussed his options, it was clear he still had feelings for The Lezza and was convinced he could win her back by travelling to Paris and finding her. I disabused him of this fanciful notion with certain salient pieces of evidence to the contrary, the chief of which was that she had enjoyed frequent periods of intimacy with Jeorge, indeed he had visited her in Paris quite recently. It was at that point H.17 decided to retreat still further, both geographically (from me) and mentally (from life). I could not be bothered to pursue him. There was still beer to be had and the task of bringing him in from the cold belonged to a fatter, gingerer man than I.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Modern Life: Conversations with my Window Cleaner
'Where are you off to,anywhere nice ?'
'The Isle of Wight,'
'Oh lovely,used to go there as a kid'
'Never been there myself,my mum lives there though,'
'Oh it's very nice, and I'll tell you something, you don't get any black people there.'
Now I don't know my window cleaner very well, and after the above conversation,less so than I thought. I'm still getting used to the idea that I even have a window cleaner, but well the windows were dirty and he was in the road and the wife said, 'the windows are very dirty.' So that was that.
I've always thought he was a nice chap, he'd sometimes stop for a cup of tea and ask if I followed the football, which I didn't and occasionally he'd leave his ladders around the back because he didn't have a car.
So I'm a bit surprised to discover I've got a racist window cleaner.
Is he a racist ? Or was he making some sort of joke about black and white, a play on words with the Isle of Wight ?
Maybe he thinks I'm a racist ?
Do I look like one ?
Is that racist ?
What about me has said that's ok ? Why does he think I might choose my holiday destination on the basis of skin colour ? Maybe he's peered through the window whilst cleaning it and seen my copy of Bridget Hitler's Diary and thinks it won't be an issue.
What's more worrying is I'm starting to sound like David Mitchell, Mark from Peep Show. The thing is I just don't know him well enough to ask what he meant, we're not exactly drinking buddies, which after another revelation, it turns out, is just as well:
'I'll get my car back in a month,'
'Oh, what happened?'
'Got banned didn't I. Drink driving. They test you though,now,have to be clean for a month. They test your hair. I'm doing it now. Tough going.'
Is it wise for him to be near all that window cleaner, I mean,the temptation.
I scuttle back indoors. The wife returns and I tell her, she's shocked.
'You didn't tell him we were going on holiday did you ?'
I shrug. I'm resigned to it now. Yesterday he just cleaned my windows every month. Now I fully expect to return to find our house broken into whilst someone runs a BNP rally/AA meeting in the front room. Better hide my copy of Mein Kampf though, it is signed.
Let them dig flower beds
You may or may not have heard, but there's been quite a bit of 'rioting.'
There's a lot of tough talk about, and if someone had put a brick through my window when my daughter was asleep upstairs I'd want them strung up. And I'd be right.
But 24 hr courts ? Really ? I didn't see that happening when MPs were fiddling expenses with public money.
Anyway here's a little story about arson:
'Yeah... I, erm, I was at a party and I drifted into a greenhouse with a friend, saw it was full of cacti and lit a match to find our way, as there were no lights on. The flame accidentally touched one of the cacti, which glowed rather beautifully.'
Was it an accident, then? He looks at me. Only at first, it seems. 'We did that to a fair number of the cacti. Not really knowing what we'd done.'
The greenhouse belonged to a professor of botany whose life's work had been to gather and nurture exotic specimens from all over the world. 'He'd been to the jungles of Brazil and stuff to find these cacti.'
The boys weren't arrested, because they ran away. 'We didn't know what we were doing. We were teenagers, we'd drunk too much - frankly, we did behave appallingly, irresponsibly, criminally. Next morning, one of the organisers of the exchange rang me up and said, "We know you did this." I came clean.'
The boys were taken off to see the professor, who was livid, but he was somehow persuaded not to press charges. 'Instead they created a kind of community punishment for us. Me and the other bloke ended up having to dig communal flower beds in the baking sun. Then I spent the summer with my mum, going round one specialised garden centre after another, trying to replace some of the cacti. Of course they were tiny, and his were all large.'
One of the boys, who was 16 at the time, had this to say about the recent riots:
"the priority, right now, is to punish the criminals, to get them in court and to get them behind bars."
Not digging flower beds and going shopping with your mum ?
Just in case anyone was unaware, the man responsible,why Nick Clegg the Deputy Prime Minister of course.
Of course the Prime Minister is far too sensible to get caught, he ran away early when the Bullingdon Club embarked on a spot of criminal damage.
I wait with faint hope that the government will stop trying to make political capital out of the rioting. And what happened to the business with Rupert Murdoch, everyone seems to have forgotten.
There's a lot of tough talk about, and if someone had put a brick through my window when my daughter was asleep upstairs I'd want them strung up. And I'd be right.
But 24 hr courts ? Really ? I didn't see that happening when MPs were fiddling expenses with public money.
Anyway here's a little story about arson:
'Yeah... I, erm, I was at a party and I drifted into a greenhouse with a friend, saw it was full of cacti and lit a match to find our way, as there were no lights on. The flame accidentally touched one of the cacti, which glowed rather beautifully.'
Was it an accident, then? He looks at me. Only at first, it seems. 'We did that to a fair number of the cacti. Not really knowing what we'd done.'
The greenhouse belonged to a professor of botany whose life's work had been to gather and nurture exotic specimens from all over the world. 'He'd been to the jungles of Brazil and stuff to find these cacti.'
The boys weren't arrested, because they ran away. 'We didn't know what we were doing. We were teenagers, we'd drunk too much - frankly, we did behave appallingly, irresponsibly, criminally. Next morning, one of the organisers of the exchange rang me up and said, "We know you did this." I came clean.'
The boys were taken off to see the professor, who was livid, but he was somehow persuaded not to press charges. 'Instead they created a kind of community punishment for us. Me and the other bloke ended up having to dig communal flower beds in the baking sun. Then I spent the summer with my mum, going round one specialised garden centre after another, trying to replace some of the cacti. Of course they were tiny, and his were all large.'
One of the boys, who was 16 at the time, had this to say about the recent riots:
"the priority, right now, is to punish the criminals, to get them in court and to get them behind bars."
Not digging flower beds and going shopping with your mum ?
Just in case anyone was unaware, the man responsible,why Nick Clegg the Deputy Prime Minister of course.
Of course the Prime Minister is far too sensible to get caught, he ran away early when the Bullingdon Club embarked on a spot of criminal damage.
I wait with faint hope that the government will stop trying to make political capital out of the rioting. And what happened to the business with Rupert Murdoch, everyone seems to have forgotten.
Friday, 12 August 2011
Some Bards Are Gooder Than Others: The Further Adventures of Tirian & Jewel
This month's 'They're not as poetic as they think' prize goes to another classic attempt at simile by regular winners, Tirian and Jewel: "It is as if the sun rose one day and were a black sun."
"I know," said Jewel. "Or as if you drank water and it were dry water. This is the end of all things. Let us go and give ourselves up."
Tirian: 'Or as if,as if you ate a bag of monster munch and they were air flavoured,'
Jewel: 'Fuck's sake Tirian stop looking at my exercise book and stealing all my simile ideas. And get some human friends you girl-haired munder'
Tirian: 'Well what is dry water anyway. Just because you found that copy of Ted Hughes 'The Iron Man', doesn't make you the Poet Laureate of Narnia.'
Jewel: 'Only virgins can approach unicorns Tirian. Fact.'
Tirian: 'I have massively had sex. With loads of dryads. At a time. And talking animals.'
Jewel: No you haven't or you couldn't come near me, and globbing off to that portrait of Susan Pevensie doesn't count'
Tirian: Let's not fight,I hate it when we argue.' [They nuzzle. Jewel becomes excited]'Hey King Lune's got a poetry jam on in Archenland this evening,let's do it.'
Roonwit: "So how was that poetry night thing you guys went to at Anvard?"
Jewel: "Oh we didn't go. It was spitting and we didn't fancy getting soaked on the way there."
Roonwit: "Oh...crap."
Jewel: "Nah, it's ok...well, no. I was actually real...ly, really disappointed... really disappointed. It was like eating a delicious cheeseburger and then discovering that there was no cheese in it. Or burger. Tirian said it was like inviting a hundred guests to your birthday party and then finding they were murderer guests. Or like doing the ironing and then finding - "
Roonwit: *looks at moon* Wo, is that the time? I've got this thing..it's like...now and..."
(sound of hooves)
(2 posts in 1 day. Though really this was Ben 'The War' Warwick's idea, which I sadly ruined by trying to introduce sex into Narnia. It's all Susan's fault, or Joy Gresham's or something. Anyway it's from The Last Battle, the one they will never ever film ever. Never.
Though the only way to really do this justice is have Michael Hordern read the part of Roonwit, Tony Slattery as Jewel and whoever you can get as Tirian, maybe Nick Hancock - he's in nothing a lot nowadays. Or whoever played Eustace in the BBC Narnia).
Let Gayfellow Take You To The Cleaners
'There is only one reason why we are showing you this . . . (dramatic pause the size of which would make Harold Pinter hang his head in awe) so that you are armed with knowledge, because knowledge is power' ('power' should almost certainly be in capitals but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Sorry)
Wise words from LA cop and silver fox, John Barrell.
Somewhat undermined by the clip of two teenage girls speeding and then crashing into a family car, what pearls does John have for us:
'Wowee man, they must be going 100 miles an hour.'
Thanks John we can all take something from that.
Maybe the knowledge that cars go fast.
So Australian Masterchef.
I loved Professional Masterchef - a special blend of an interested world class chef, Michel Roux Junior, whose ego didn't need re-assuring by getting needlessly fraught over nothing every 15 seconds (Gordon Ramsay take note) and offered genuinely useful advice, and a fat bald clown who used to sell vegetables and may have eaten a pie in a pub once. You, like me , will be doubtless thrilled to know Greg the Greengrocer is opening a restaurant serving 'good honest food' whatever that is. Personally I like my food dishonest: a sly lasagne, dishonest tarts (you knew that was coming).
Anyway, Australian Masterchef. Why bother ? I thought. How wrong I was. 30 seconds in and not a kitchen in sight. Instead there's a man in tears, telling another man how much he misses his wife. Eventually it transpires that the weepy man is a contestant and he's quitting the show because he can't stand being apart from his wife. It's not clear but it's implied she's given some sort of ultimatum - the host isn't taking it lying down though - they start showing clips of the interview process and there's the wife saying she'll be fine with him doing the show.
10 minutes in and there's still no cooking.
All this and Cesar Romero as the Joker on ITV4. Only equalled (never bettered) by Frank Gorshin as the Riddler, who's stuttering assaults on grammar and word order seemed like a precursor to Yoda except in green spandex and a lavendar mask.
Must dash the Joker's up to something with an inflatable sultan and The Gayfellow Cleaning Company.
Armed only with knowledge I run to the Batpole
The Clown Prince of Cooking
Romero's Ghost
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