In The Deep Midwinter

It's a little over 24 hours since I last posted, and I'm sitting here reflecting on those hours. I think I said I was feeling well-disposed to my fellow humans, and one of you suggested that this was a little excessive. How correct.

Having posted I went out, initially to KwikFit, for new tyres. Well, not the tea or the quality of conversation. Whilst my motor was in their care, I went and braved the excitement of Northolt Road, oh such an environment of delight. Actually, the shopping is shit there, which is why I failed to purchase very much. It isn't helped very much by the way in which anybody regards one. I went into four, yes four, different pharmacies in pursuit of a specific product [none of your business, suffice to say specialised although not unreasonably so], and was treated like a leper. When I got the motor back, I rolled on down to a local electrical goods outlet, to take advantage of the sales, and found that they weren't really interested in parting me from my money. So they didn't.

I'm listening to Jenni Murray interviewing some bloke from ITV on the wireless. She is a shit interviewer. Not as bad as Peter White, who is a smug little twat, as are most presenters of consumer programmes (yes, I know he's 'differently abled' but that doesn't mean I can't have a, ahem, view of him as a broadcaster, and it is poor). What is it at the Beeb? Leave the antagonistic interviewing to the specialists, folks, Paxo and Humphries, Naughty Naughtie and Stourton and the charming Miss Montague. And why is the voice - no, voice is not an adequate word for such a phenomenon, but I know no alternative - of Winifred Robinson wasted on 'You and Yours', the whinge-athon that provides bandwidth for White and the perhaps even worse - he thinks he's amusing - John Waite.

I haven't been up for two hours and yet I have just been for my second almighty shit of the day. I should be concerned, but, Jim, logic tells us that there is a correlation between frequency and quality of defecatory activity and diet, and consumption of takeaways and especially last nights salt and pepper spare ribs and prawn crackers and crispy seaweed (ok, crispy savoy cabbage) are probably having an antagonistic effect on the digestive tract. To quote a piece of vintage advertising material for a well known bakery brand, they 'stimulate the eliminatory organs'.

I was going to do the ironing today, having done none for over a fortnight, but as the weather is shit I won't be doing it after all. [The man from ITV has just told us that 'Heartbeat' is not going to be canned, which is fucking devastating news.] So I'm sat here in a tatty dressing gown [forgive the interruption, Tabatha rang which is ace, and is coming to see me tomorrow morning with an expectation that I have a plan for our mutual entertainment for the day. That too is ace. She makes me have to think and stop being the lazy arse you are reading about. However, I don't think she means that she wants to go shopping for a new mouse because mine has packed in, despite the obvious interest and excitement that has for me. And I don't want to just resort to the pub, as that won't create a very good impression, now, will it?] downloading a shedload of music off the internet, and half watching a movie about Liberace, can you believe it? The feller playing the late besequinned Maestro, so beloved of the blue rinse brigade, carefully surrounding himself with young men in the mansion he shares with his mother, looks familiar. Got it, he was the slightly creepy ingratiating Cardassian in Star Trek DS fucking Pointless.

I may well come back later to drivel on some more, I've taken some great delight in reading what other peoples experience of Christmas has been. Hey, Betty, look no kids, no 'luvvy duvvy family', no, just the usual stuff.

Does anybody else find that turkey 'bungs them up'? Know what I mean?

After the Festive Gluttony...

Well, I've been to the Ancestral Pile for the holiday, eaten perhaps a little too much, and then fled because it is all just a little too much, really, and I don't want to be described as antisocial because I'm not up for some three hours of soap opera of an evening. Much delight in spending time around Cupcake, who is fascinated by everything, eats most things, and is now putting together sounds which whilst they make no sense are distinguishable from one another. Pat Coombes made the same sounds when playing Albert in 'Albert And Me' opposite Richard Beckinsale.

Now, down to the really exciting bit. After four dates, and a bit of a fig, you could kinda say that I'm 'on the arm'. Yes, me. And I'm enjoying it. The subject of my affection (I daren't say object of my desire in case I get a gobfull from an Andrea Dworkin wannabe) is a curvy (hence recent celebration of ample women) speech therapist, whom we'll call Tabatha here, who makes me laugh. And h-h-h-hard. [OK, I'm not going to write with the breathless passion you might hope for, but then I can't compete with Chaucer's Bitch on that front, so you'll just have to put up with the more visceral titbits I offer. Besides, if you're still coming here, you know the score...]

It dawned on me that she is equally keen when I rocked up at work at 10am, eyes like the original pissholes in the snow, and having been nowhere near a razor. And one of my matiest co-conspirators took one look and suggested that I looked like the cat what got the cream. I just sat there and purred, and then proceeded to fall asleep at my desk, repeatedly.

So, I'm pretty smiley at present, pretty lusty, and not feeling that badly disposed towards my fellow mankind.

There may be more to follow, and I'm inclined to make the effort to start writing again.

In passing, I went to see Hawkwind last week, great to see Huw back on the scene and clearly a pleasure for all involved. Sadly, I had indulged in some chocolate cake that was a little 'richer' than planned for, and was consequently a little distracted, thus unable to fully enjoy the gig. I also think that the sound was fucked, but as I say, that may be due to my being somewhat compromised.

Right, I'm off to order a takeaway chinois, can't beat that ol' kung-po, love y'all. xK

He Seems Quite Pleased With Himself...

And the word is fecund.

Er...

"Rub your eyes, this is no dream", to quote a certain rhythm combo originally from West London and now based in Devon, Krusty has finally galvanised himself and bothered to write. To be honest, I haven't written anything for ages because I don't really think there's been anything I could put forward that would add any value to anybody's life. I've come across things that have made me laugh, but they would be of no entertainment to anyone who reads this because you would not know the individuals concerned. They were of the 'you had to be there' variety.

I'm also concerned that I was getting repetitive and, frankly, tedious. Dare I say stale.

Anyway, Satan continues to antagonise, on the recent 'jeans day' Friday the Wild Haired One wore a concoction that not only showed off her generous arse to its full advantage but also abundantly clear the full glory of her 'balcony', and I'm watching 'Planet Earth', which is beautiful, only to be stricken by a desperate and sudden need for a shit, and no prospect of an ad-break because this is BBC. I recently dined at what I think is the second shittest curry house in England, in Windsor, where the service was appalling, and the food was either uncooked or unidentifiable. Our order, our food, and our bill were three wholly unrelated entities, and we didn't pay. The table was booked for 9pm, we got our seats at 9.55pm, the first waiter took orders from two of our party of eight then fucked off and vanished, and the whole evening was poor. It is called Spice Route, and is second in shitness to a place in Manchester opposite Piccadilly Station, which smells of vomit and where the wiring for the entire restaurant is visible. That place offers a bonus in its general state of filthiness, and I can't remember the name of it.

My general state of horniness continues (see above reference to Wild Haired One), much to the amusement of some, although I have avoided the mistake I made in my late twenties when I damaged my then car by driving into a roundabout in Croydon because I was distracted by a particularly well turned out woman who was walking down the pavement.

Anyway, as I say, I've really not had a lot of value to say recently (quelle change? I hear you ask), so I'll fuck off and try and become a bit more interesting. Actually, there may be developments (touch wood) afoot, of which more anon, so you will be [almost] the first to know, folks.

Hope you're all ok, I'm off to read what some of you have to say, take care.

xK

Fear And Loathing In Suburban Greater London and the Thames Valley

Thanks to Betty and Pammie for expressions of sympathy, very kind of you both. Have to say, it's not really sympathy I need right now, it's a long time in the sack with a really dirty bird, plenty of imagination and sauce, and plenty of...well you probably know me well enough to know what else she needs plenty of!

And when that's done, I need some high quality weaponry - let's start with a machine gun and flame-thrower for the office, and a battle tank for the commute home. No fucking around there, then.

Aaaanyways, enough of me whitterings. Folks, if you like your music, have a look at this site. You'll have to put some effort in, you want to go to the bottom of the home page and follow the link labelled VPRO 3voor12, and you will find some red tabs, click the one labelled 'Kijk en luister', then the one 'concerten' and you will find an Aladdin's Cave of popular music, from Dutch tv, radio and festivals and general gigs. Some of the clips aren't very long, but some are whole sets, and there is a massive array of genres and artists - some are major acts, some I've never heard of. Anyway, have a look, and why not have a listen to something that takes your fancy.

I've got a new camera, needs must with the disappearance of my previous one, so Krusty-pics will soon return, and I am delighted to add that I have also found that the Chanel concession at John Lewis Brent Cross sells Antaeus deodorant sticks, which for the last year I have been forced to buy mail order from a man in Cardiff whilst all other retailers either deny the existence of the product or state that it is no longer made. Utter bollocks, of course, why would one stop making something so civilised as Chanel deodorant, but there we are.

For Christ's sakes, folks, Chanel deodorant. Why the fuck would you stop making that? And why did the bint at Superdrug expect me to believe that? What kind of fucking people are we? Do I want to stand about waiting for her to do me the favour of enabling me to part with my hard-earned cash? Yes, of course I do, 'cause that gives me a chance to listen to her regaling her mate with an account of how she got pissed on bacardi breezers last night, had a fight, then had a quickie behind the bins with some bloke she can't remember his name, then threw up all over his shoulder, funny innit.

Last Friday I went to a trade dinner at a well-known Park Lane hotel, where the speakers were Peter Alliss, who was well-rehearsed and amiable, and the execrable Dominic Holland, an alleged comedian. I understand that he is an 'observational comedian'. More efficiently described as a cunt. Anyway, it gave me a brief opportunity to describe football violence with Frank McLintock, admire Tessa Sanderson's tits - tell you what, a couple of drinks inside of me and she looked pretty game to me, I would've on Friday - and to have a chat with one the greats of the Darts world, Bobby George, whom I had no difficulty in persuading to gift me his autograph.

And after the dinner, and a drink in a bar at the top floor of the hotel, then legging it because I didn't want to discuss the poultry industry with some people from said poultry industry, so I went round the corner to the Royal Academy to enjoy their current exhibition of works by Auguste Rodin. I'd not realised this about M. Rodin before, but why have they all got such fucking big hands and feet? Hands like shovels, honestly, totally disproportionate. Huge. Makes them all look vaguely simian... I was expecting to have a net thrown over me at any moment.


Then I went shopping and bought a t-shirt with Les Dawson on it. Can't really improve on that, can you? No.

Any way, I'm tired now, so I'm going to go to bed and dream of brunette busty babes with beaucoup de la chatte noire who want to dance avec moi toute la soiree, tout le nuit, toute la journee, and make les bonnes reves. Gggrrrrrrr.

Freak-outs and Fractals

I was listening to some Serge Gainsbourg, when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and in strode a tall, athletic woman, long thick curly brunette hair. She wore a coat that reached her mid-thighs, and bottes cuirs. She smiled, perfect teeth set in her face of beautifully tanned perfect skin, and led me back to the sofa. She pushed me onto it, then

Fuck, wrong place. Hi there, apologies if you've been here hoping for something vaguely new, but I haven't written for ages 'cause I was away, and then I've been really busy. Actually, truth told, I've had a major bout of apathy, really dreadful, so each evening I come home with stuff to say, then realise it's utter crud and don't bother to write it up, and sit here in a pool of self-derision and despising. Which is why I've been to see Socrates today, and very productive it was too. Amongst other things we discussed my continuing issues with the LPS, and he suggested I'm not taking enough!!

I did go away, that much is true, to Yorkshire for a couple of days, to see T and R. Amongst other things I got taken out on a blind date, which was nice but no spark, damn, we went to Fountains Abbey, beautiful, funny to see the stags in the park eyeing one another up for a punch-up and hustling their harems around. Then we ate some venison sausages.

T and I went for a really long walk, taking in a place called Dogloitch Wood. What is a dogloitch. Or a dog's loitch. Or perhaps one loitches a dog. And why at that particular wood? A lovely walk, some great views across the landscape including Ferrybridge powerstation, and in another wood someone had decorated the trees for Hallowe'en, with bats and pumpkins and ghosties and ghoulies hanging from the trees, and two giant serpents with luminescent eyes and fangs. It was going to be well spooky up there that evening. But we didn't care, 'cause we had another engagement.

We went to see this bunch.

Now, Leeds Irish Centre is not a big venue, so the lights were not shown to their best effect, but the gig was ok. Not mega, but then I always get a score draw at least, so I'm not beefing. And there were a couple of real treats; as one of the crowd pointed out when they played 'Infinity', "About fucking time."

I realise this means absolutely fuck all to most people, but hey, let me have my little indulgences, 'cause I need 'em.

And on the subject of little indulgences, some of my esteemed colleagues today spent the better part of two hours discussing the various ailments of their blessed offspring, and generously shared with all and sundry the details of their various snot, poo, sick and rashes. Delightful. I wouldn't mind, but one of the silly moos recently had the nerve to make a complaint about me along the lines that I was difficult to be around and could I be moved as she didn't like having to sit at a desk next to me. Apparently she didn't like the nature of my conversation, or my tendency to hum along to the iPol - which I've also been barred from using as the desire to block out the drivel of the infuriating menopausal cow and her cohorts is apparently making me antisocial - so she had a great whinge about me to various people. Now let me get this straight, I don't find the subject of her children utterly riveting, so I must be antisocial. If I follow Socrates's advice and make more effort with the social niceties, then I will go to the office tomorrow and joyously regale them all with a detailed description of the Mandelbrot patterns last nights beef kung-po and special fried rice left all over the bog this morning. No?

Fuckers.

Jesus, I feel so horny.

Did I mention the tragic news about Sparkly Eyes? She 'phoned last week to tell me that she's got engaged.

I'll try and make the effort to get something together worth saying over the weekend, I know I've got more to say, but I'm tired, it's late and I actually think I'll get a proper nights kip tonight for the first time in a week, so I'm going to try and get it. It's the only thing I'm getting right now.

So, You Think I'm A Dastardly Bastard, Do You?

Farting on Satan's Daughter, which episode I described to a professional associate today in order to give her succour as she mourned her constant irritation at our be-horned friend, elicited the response that I am a villain of considerable evil and malice.

This I deny. I offer one of what I think is described as a 'meme' (if not, someone will put me straight) with my top three villains, and also an illustration of some of those who made the shortlist but didn't quite get onto the podium. First, a word on the selection process; it was mostly done on the M25 at around 6.30pm, as the traffic was its traditional shit, and whilst I briefly considered real, actual and historical figures, I decided not as you don't want to look at pictures of charmers such as Mao and Hitler, and less still at that gurning cunt Blair.

So, my loves, to start with some of the oh so nearly losers;

The most persistent of Bond's nemesises (can I get away with that?), Ernst Stavro Blofeld, most attractively portrayed by the ever-sinister Donald Pleasance

Animation's dirtiest dawg, and that's a medium with some serious competition, it's that perennial pursuivant, the Wile E. Coyote.

Smooth, sophisticated, lecherous agri-business land-fucker extraordinaire, from 'The Archers' it's the fantastic Charles Collingwood as 'Brian Aldridge'.

But now, into the Top Three;

At Three, laird of all he surveys, urbane polar-neck wearing despoiler of maidens, pagan pontiff and human sacrifice enthusiast, Christopher Lee in his favourite role in 'The Wicker Man' as 'Lord Summerisle'.

At Two, cyborg psychic, fighter ace, neo-feudal Empire builder and something-Dan martial arts master, Dave 'Green Cross Code man' Prowse/James Earl Jones as 'Darth Vader'.

But Krusty's Number One fictional baddie is child-killing, cripple-beating rapist, sadist, hired gun and cigar-chomping murder-for-pleasure merchant, from the greatest western and possibly finest film ever made, Henry Fonda from 'Once Upon A Time In The West' as 'Frank'. This is in a different league, his sole motive is to watch other people suffer. The ultimate villain.


And as I don't consider myself fit to be seen in that company of wolves, I reckon I'm really quite a nice guy.

Unless you're Satan's baby...

I had written some great stuff up here, about a course I went on recently, and the fact that the 'coach' was this guy who was a sort of cross between Yoda and Chairman Mao, with a big splash of St. Paul for good measure, and that I had to endure the company of the non-stop verbal diarrhoea of my esteemed colleague Satan, she whose baby I did a really smelly fart over, but for some reason the site deleted it before I could save it, which was a bit of bind. Just not a lot to report on really, other than some delight in the motor racing today, and, an aside on the recent serialisation on BBC Radio 4 of David Blunkett's memoirs, read by the great man himself, and how I think even less of him now than I did before. The opening extract had him comment on how he felt that having achieved power there was no point in holding office if he couldn't personally intervene to affect things for specific individuals, even though he knew it wasn't supposed to happen. So, he acknowledges that he abused his office from the word go. Twat.

Anyway, some of you may recall that I am an enthusiast for short films, and I have been delighted to find this (below) available online. If you haven't seen it before, first watch the picture, then read about it elsewhere. It is vaguely controversial, and there is some debate about the identity of both motor and driver. Actually, who gives a fuck. It is highly entertaining, especially if you're stoned (NB: I'm not advocating that, of course). And without the blind panic that Spacemen 3's 'Rollercoaster' can induce in the same circumstances if you get in the wrong groove. I've seen men clutch the armchair with their eyes on stalks with that tune.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

So it appears that the consensus is in favour of this;

as opposed to this;

With regards to personal taste, have to tell you that I'm not going to expect any lady of my acquaintance to spend lots of time with the Gillette or Immac, although a hairy shin is not so hot. Armpits? Well, if I tell you that my first 'close encounter' as a green green undergraduate was with a German post-graduate, you'll figure out that it's not that big an issue. Although that doesn't mean I'd encourage a beard. The point I'm trying to make, and I think I'm eliciting some agreement, is that I like women to look like women, with all that entails, and that I don't think that we should deny the animal that we are. After all, sexual attraction and lust are pretty animal emotions, know what ah mean...?

And as I can demonstrate from some serious market research (source; MUN Research*, October 2006) that more men prefer snatch with thatch to shaven haven, and that women are not overly enthused at having to trim the quim, just what are the market forces which drive twat mags, and their computer age equivalents, to ignore the wonders of nature in favour of a more suspect offering? Does this reveal more about the taste of the editors and proprietors? It is worth noting that my collection of vintage material from the early and mid-seventies have more rug than a Christmas Day ad-break. So 'tastes' have changed? Unlikely in something so instinctive and fundamental, eh?

Wormcakes? Have to say, apart from the obvious coconut ones, I'm quite keen on the new ones that look like mini-mini battenburgs [even as I write this I am possessed of a savage desire to feast upon mini battenburgs], and wormcakes are only really to my taste as I get older. Don't you find them a bit more aniseed than liquorice?

I went to a trade conference this week, at which I fell asleep. Both days. This might be embarrassing, but it meant that I didn't snigger when we were spoken to by a Mr. Camel-Scat. I kid you knot.

You're not sure you want to think about that, are you? Love and Kisses, K

*Made Up Numbers Research ltd

Animal Magic?

No, this isn't a title designed to titillate the velcro-wellies brigade, but, I hope, a neat parenthesising of two of my themes.

So I sit down with a faceful of carefully prepared and lovinly cooked nosh in front of me, turn on the telly in anticipation of a weekly fix of Paxo despising what the great Paul Calf might describe as 'fockin shchewdunce' on 'Universally Challenged' only to find that it is 'Autumn Watch' with our old chum Bill Oddie, the do-able but almost certainly leaveable Kate Tedious, and Simon King, who I suspect has a personal hygiene problem, because he always gets to spend a lot of time on a remote island with notoriously smelly wildlife.

Now, when he's not looking at the wrong camera, oure hooste is increasingly seeking to plunge me into some kind of temporal trauma. As I learn that it is time to grow up, to stop the wobblies everytime I don't get my way, that it just isn't on to point out to people just what a stupid twat they are and that this tendency is probably somewhat responsible for social and professional retardation, Bloddie is attempting to imitate this dear old character.
I realise for some of you he will be a complete stranger, but for anyone who grew up in the UK in the sixties and seventies, within range of a telly, he was as much a part of childhood as Ribena and Spangles. I'm trying to leave childhood in the past, at last, and get on with adulthood. [N.B. if any attractive ladies would also be desirous of getting on my adulthood, drop me a line.] So it is just a tad confusing.

In retailing there is a concept of 'adjacency' which is about putting one type of goods next to another type of goods (wow, sounds complicated) and trying to make them 'relevant' to one another to encourage sales. E.G. bread, butter, jam. You will realise from your own experiences that it doesn't really work out, but next time you're hauling your arse around Tesdabury's in semi-zombie mode, realising what a distasteful experience it is, how there are too many people in this aircraft hangar-like structure with tellies and Tannoys (it's a brand name, I have to capitalise it) bombarding you with exciting offers on loo roll and tampons and tins of corned beef that you just can't afford to miss, and there are screaming children demanding more sweets, their older siblings crashing the trolley into your ankles then challenging if "you gotta problem?", then consider just how it is possible to put it all together in there in anything approaching a rational manner; there are about 40,000 different items for sale in a large British supermarket these days. [There's a rhetorical question buried in there, and no '?', so if anybody has an offer on a better delivery, I'm interested.*] On the other hand, consider how TV scheduling works. Adjacency might be a concept there too, hence the increased tendency for invariably shit and consequently disappointing theme nights. So following 'Autumn Watch' with a programme about the Nuremburg trials strikes me as just a tad abrupt. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of telly that reminds society of what a bunch of bastards they were, although I'd like a bit more of reminding that a) vigilance is still required and b) it isn't, as a former work associate - in this instance I don't want to use the word colleague as that carries hints of comradeship - put it, "all a long time ago". No, it's just a strange adjacency.

I love liquorice allsorts, and I have to say, Bassett's Liquorice Allsorts, because the supermarket where I do my shopping, whilst noted for having relatively high quality products, does shit confectionary, and especially shit licky allsorts. I binged a bit on the allsorts this weekend, as well as also having my first drink in a month (ok, I had a glass of shampoo for Cupcake's christening toast, but that doesn't count), and have suffered the inevitable consequences. Just thought I'd share that. Interestingly, they do not have the same quality as chicken livers.

Enough of the chit-chat and small talk. To Business. I want to return to an issue which troubles me, and which I'm prompted to mention as it came up here, and so I am not the only one troubled by it. What is it with this pubic hair shaving thing? I need to understand this. Do women do it because they want to do it? Because it is more comfortable? Or do they do it because they believe it to be expected, the societal norm, and what is deemed to be 'sexy'? If the latter, this is tragic. And do men prefer it? Isn't it just a bit unnatural? At best a denial of our own animal nature, and at worst, well, do I need to spell it out? So, let's hear it for a thick dark rug of lush pubic hair, as animal as it gets, and something to be celebrated.

At which point, I must depart for my pit. I am curious as to whether this post elicits any comments. It never ceases to amaze me which bits people want to comment on. Will it be Bloddie, Bassett's, bastards or bush? Or none of it? Or *? I need a punctuation refresher course. Such is the burden of pedantry. Love yer, folks, K.

OK, But This Is The Last For A While...

...of this soft fluffy bun, Krusty will be back to bile-spitting nastiness and loathing soon. In the meantime, dig this gown, and yes, Uncle Krusty was indeed 'dipped' in this too.



You'll appreciate that I've taken Cupcake's face out of the picture - she's not my little girl to show off. I nearly showed you a piccy of me doting away, but that's really not good for any of us. If you want to look at a proud man, go and look at Tom and his rare breed sheep.

Oh, and Zen, dry cleaners? No, mate, clothes like this are one of the many reasons that we have wise women. And Dreft. Dry cleaners? Are you insane?

Back soon, Krustacea, love y'all.

Some Stuff.

I've been in a strange mood these last few posts, feeling a bit sorry for myself over the LPS issue, and then all fluffy and nice when it came to the christening, and dare I say the odd splash of triumphalism thrown in, for reasons I won't bore you with.

Well, Krusty is back with a venom-geance tonight. And why? Because there is a rising air, a hint, that people like the idea of Dr. Reid as our next Prime Minister. Or, more accurately, of course, as HM The Queen's next Prime Minister. Now, let me just make my opinion clear, here, in case you've missed the point folks.

Dr. John Reid is a cunt. Dr. Reid is a dangerous arsehole. He is a former communist who is still prone to using the language of totalitarianism. Consider him as the international statesman. Do we honestly think that he is the kind of diplomatic sophisticate who is going to do the business in Paris, Berlin, Rome, Madrid etc? OK, granted, he'll go down a storm in Moscow, but why is that, exactly?

And don't be fooled by the strong speeches and 'can do' language. Look around you, my fellow Brits, and appreciate what a difference he made to the NHS. It is widely acknowledged as now being fucked. Well done, Doctor. He talks the language of the shaven-headed moron - lock up Johnny Foreigner, because he's only here to kill us.

Dr. Reid is to be found on my current list of top exponents of arseholery. The list features;

Dr. Reid
Harry Redknapp
Steve Rider
Paul McCartney
Jamie Oliver

--

Yesterday I went to Dundee for a couple of hours, which was a long day 'cause I flew to Edinburgh then we drove up to Dundee, did our stuff, then in reverse. I was knackered but I did enjoy it; the scenery on that drive, from the Forth to the Tay, the Forth Rail Bridge, currently looking in some distress, and then the most fantastic landscapes, I wish I'd taken my camera, but hey, I forgot it. But it is beautiful.

Right, that's it for the moment. Oh, and just to mention, this character is back in business, which is great, but he's a great mate so I would say that.

Something Old, Something New

A new series of 'Antiques Roadshow' is beginning, and I expect to see myself on it in the coming weeks, although I don't suppose I'm worth a great deal when it comes down to 'insurance purposes'. Is there not something at least ironic in the programme coming from Gloucester Cathedral? Really in the cathedral.

Well, I haven't done this for a couple of weeks, but I've been occupied with various activities. The main activity has been the christening of my niece, which meant a long weekend at the ancestral pile, with the family en masse, and I have to say I enjoyed it loads. It was great to contribute to family life, to laugh a lot together - yeah, I know this is all a bit obvious, but I've traditionally struggled with these things, so this is a big breakthrough for me. The service itself was lovely, she was baptised in the same font that her mother, and for that matter her aunt and her Uncle Krusty, were baptised in, and I don't mind admitting I shed a tear.

Now, here is a detail which will appeal to some amongst you. My niece, and as it happens, god-daughter, wore a Christening gown which was worn by my great-grandmother, and she knew it to have been worn by her great-grandmother. We are very lucky to have such a garment, and it is very beautiful.

LPS - Long Purple Shadow, or Lunatic Pervy Smile?

An array of guff to cover today, which is appropriate as I have quite revolting flatulence. You know that flatulence is bad when you are revolted by your own. That is just poor.

I was asked last weekend my view of UFOs. This followed a conversation about the death of the late Princess Diana, whether I think there is a conspiracy or not. No I don't, it probably wasn't investigated very well at the time, hence the 'unanswered questions' so beloved of the Daily Express, but it was an accident. Look, the Daily Express is published by a man who made his fortune out of publishing fantasies about attractive young women. Anyway, UFOs, well, I believe in 'em, on the grounds that there is a kind of arrogance in thinking that we are the only planet with intelligent life. On the other hand, if I was an alien, and I came here and abducted the kind of people who claim to have been abducted, and 'tested' them, I wouldn't hang about to find out more. I'd fuck off and look at somewhere else. I suspect that there are loads of different beings who've been here, and had the misfortune to abduct one of the 98% of the population who are thick twats. So, having put back what they picked up by mistake, they have followed my advice. Besides, the first impression of us is likely to be the radio and tv signals we give off. And if you're sophisticated enough to travel across light years of space, why would you hang around a planet that emits Chris Moyles and 'Eastenders'?

I haven't covered politics here for a while, you must all be missing my great erudition. Who needs Andrew Marr or Nick Robinson? Anyway, why doesn't Blair just go and play in the traffic? And as for the suggestion that Doctor 'Uncle Joe' Reid might be a suitable successor - what kind of drugs are these nutters using? This is a man with a Communist past who to this day is quite happy that he has no respect for the ideas of democracy, freedom and liberty. He is happy to ignore the judiciary and bypass his own legislation. The man is a cunt, and you know that that puts him in the same league as Harry Redknapp, Phil Mitchell and, apparently, Jools Holland.

"Mirror mirror, on the wall, who's the sweetest of them all?"

Who'd've thought it?

As I sit here with the telly on, it seems that Tony and Carm Soprano like 'Smoke On The Water'. There's something smileworthy about that. NB. Don't anyone get the idea of spoiling this for me.

We'll cover this today, as today I have been experiencing one of it's better elements, although this is potentially distressing for those around me. But the general theme of history for such a day is "Fuck 'em".

Right, so what is this LPS whingeing then? LPS is this stuff. Because the leading brand is purple. Anyhow, it has the obvious benefit of preventing epilepsy, which is handy, because a) it is frightening for people who witness it, and b) it is a fairly shitty experience. My own, which is consequent to a severe bang on the head when I was ten, manifests itself with a pretty nasty headache, hallucinations and a constant stream of verbal drivel, utter incoherent drivel (how can anybody tell, I hear you ask?), no, really bizarre stuff. I also struggle to make myself heard, which means I make a real effort to talk this drivel. If it really kicks off, there is the convulsions and all of that - apparently, as I'm not around to know what's going on at that point, having lost it. When I regain consciousness, usually fifteen to thirty minutes later, the headache is still around, only really nasty now.

The full monty hasn't happened for a while, which is handy, as it means I can drive, and I don't have a propensity to break my nose or otherwise do myself harm any longer. There is still the odd occurrence in my sleep, but that is manageable, and the only real consequence to that is that I generally wake up with a fucking sore tongue where I've bitten it, and, yes, you've guessed, that bastard headache. It doesn't even have the generosity to throb, more just to roll about in my head, like a sort of spirit level.

So, there we have the background. Anyway, the LPS, we've dealt with the purple, but why L and S, especially if it gets rid of this annoying condition. Well, there we have it, it doesn't really get rid of it, just lessens the instances and impact. It hasn't gone, just is less able to interfere.

L, because, rather naively, I had sort of thought that one day I could stop taking the stuff. Since last October, when I saw a neurologist for the first time in yonks, I am now clear that I'm taking it for ever. After living two thirds of my life with a hopeful delusion, I was a little hacked off and embittered at having to adjust to this truth. S, because with all medicine, there's no such thing as a free lunch. It has a number of side effects, some of which are also only coming to light recently, although I am well researched in the stuff. It can mess about with one's mood. It can make your hair fall out, it can make your body more hairy, make your hair curl, so it makes you into a werewolf, mess about with your liver (hence my recent bout of resentment), it can increase your appetite and, just for laughs, increase your propensity to put on weight; yes, I'm a fat fucker too, something else the GP harps on about. It thins the blood - I don't use aspirin - and means that there is a tendency for unexplained bruises to appear, and it takes much longer for a cut to stop bleeding.

I also find it socially restrictive - it is always a consideration. A couple of late nights and...that headache pops up to warn me who's lurking. It doesn't have great keeping qualities, which ties me to the GP for repeats.

Anyway, that's the downsides. However, there is Lunatic Pervy Smile. It has been documented that people sometimes feel 'better' for an epileptic seizure, as though there is a 'release' or relief of some kind. This was reported during studies of ECT. Well, I subscribe to this. When the headache finally goes away, I am left with a real high. No-one seems able to tell me what it is that's causing this i.e what is the chemical that is making me buzz like Tigger on caffeine, but I do. I'll spend the day, and beyond with an inane grin, everything is entertaining, mostly ridiculous, and I laugh a lot for no reason obvious to anyone else. This regularly meant serious trouble at school, and usually coincided with at least a detention and occasionally a letter sent to home. I get a fantastic sense of detachment, like a spectator looking in on a sitcom. I don't despise the twats, just laugh at 'em. This is why I have asked what it is that's making me buzz so, because I'd like to know if it can be synthesized and sold. There's a mega-fortune to be made there.

Today has been a smiley day, able to avoid trouble because I've spent it mostly in the company of two of the cooler people I have to work with, who cut me a hell of a lot of slack as a rule, so just accept a better quality of bullshit with a smile. That's why I've written this. Today I can live with the LPS. Probably tomorrow, too. But next week I'll resent it again, mostly 'cause it is just a bind.

And I fucking hate that headache.

Right, enough of that self-pitying tripe, I'm off to look at pictures of naked women and make believe its Sparkly Eyes.

To Geoff - An Apology

I'll be back to write more shit here later tonight, for I am of a mood, but first, an apology to this feller, because I wrote an overlong comment. However, his recent posts are of a quality that has left me sitting here wetting myself.

Amigo, feel free to waste space here if it is of that ilk.

Da Little People

Ah, back from a little holiday, in Oirlund, staying four nights just outside of Dublin, and I've taken the opportunity to catch up on some old friends. I did, it is true, get quite a cold, even hard, reception here,



but on the other hand I made up for it with a couple of cocktails at the delightful Westbury Hotel there in the background - beautiful chandeliers - and then onto the International for a quick half before watching its comedy offering upstairs, and then drank some more with some of said comedy offering as one of its purveyors is one of the aforementioned old friends.

I didn't plan on getting into a conversation that resulted in a discussion of the 80% test, the late Bill Hicks and Messrs. Dawkins, Jones and Chomsky. I did however make the point that the thing with ol' Garden Noam is that when you read his books you read the introduction/initial premise, are so depressed by the clarity of his case, left feeling so hopeless, that you don't bother with the rest of the book. In sixty pages he's made you totally convinced that US and most European foreign policy stinks, we're all busy living the life of Riley while the poor of the world cower beneath a shower of shit and shells; why do I want to read another four hundred pages of it? I'm not a complete masochist.

Dublin offers many many things, famously pubs and good cheer (unless you're the cabbie we had on Sunday morning who was a right miserable grunting bastard) but I'm afraid their Indian takeaways leave a lot to be desired. A lot of lot.

However, at the moment, Dublin offers this, and this is excellent. Beyond a comedy, played as outright farce, and with a few bolt-ons, highly entertaining, and very cleverly staged. Cracking.

Coming home, apart from not what I really wanted to be doing because I was having a good time with good company, was an interesting experience. For starters, I had the company of (and this is her real name) Cassandra. Prophetess of Doom. She sat next to me, because we were friends - I'd helped her with the automatic check-in machine, after all - and then came forth with a continuous stream of foreboding. The plane was late arriving, ooh, is there a security alert? It's going to be very late when we get on board...Whose are those unattended bags? Are they one of those men's (indicating three black men who were speaking in a language other than English)? I suggest that it is, and that one of their number has probably gone to the bar or, dare I say, for a crap. Hmmm, I suppose so....Look at how dark the clouds are, we're in for a thunderstorm, a real bumpy ride home I expect....and then a collection of references to the plane crash at the weekend. I pointed out that such an accident is unlikely at Dublin as they only use one runway. I toyed with the idea of getting out a book about the rise of Islamism, but that would have been unfair to the other passengers.

When we got onto the plane, the music being played was 'Heroes', and was followed by 'Waterfall'. Curiously, I had heard this exact combo in the same order two days earlier in a cafe in Dublin town centre. I like that kind of weirdness, gentle; could have been weirder, could have followed with 'Silver Machine' or better still, 'Brainbox Pollution' (that would have been the last straw for the Princess of Troy). Actually, I hope that was genuine gentle weirdness and coincidence, not one of those compilation albums that are "Great for Fathers' Day, only £8.99 at Tesdabury's."

--

Back to earth with bump on Monday morning, with the meeting with the GP to discuss the liver test business. He gave me a good grilling about my drinking. "Do you prefer Bacardi or Havana Club, Mr. The Baker? Are you a brown ale man, or do you tend toward the Pilsner glass? Burgundy or Bordeaux with your roast beef?" Or something to that effect.

Following further consultation with my sister, who knows about these things, I don't have anything to worry about, although it is understandable that I might take umbrage at the fairly aggressive manner in which he interrogated me regarding my consumption of alcohol, and particularly the implication that I might be denying any problem with drink. Anyway, he wants me to have a scan, probably lay off the pop for a while - the alternative is to lay of the LPS, and that isn't an option, as was made clear last year - so I'm a bit cheesed, but more by the interrogation than the possible outcomes.

I'm waiting for the day when he suggests that I give up pop music as it is having a detrimental effect on my toes, too much tapping is bad for you. He's barred tea, 'erb (well, to be fair he didn't), and he's done away with silver top, butter and cheese.

--

Today, a touch of the Little Flo's, oh Jesus Christ Almighty, Sparkly Eyes was in town. I could barely contain my excitement, and for once I really mean that. Apparently I am becoming increasingly obvious, do I care? She is just sooo sexy. It's all I can do to drag my eyes from her and try and concentrate on the business in hand. Which is not the business in hand I would choose to have in hand.

The Challenge? To quote the Greek Genius Socrates, "You don't shit on your doorstep." But really, she's gorgeous, bubbly, fun, intelligent. Ah, well, there we are.

Git Gawn, Boy

Yes, my turn for a bit of a summer getaway, though most of the summer is gone. I'm off for a couple of days, to Dublin, lots to do there....

Before I go, just an odd round-up of recent things. iPol has taken up a rather cheeky game of waiting until I am admiring a particularly impressive collection of buns or baps then cracking open the Black Sabbath, so that even as I am possessed of slavering lust my ears are filled with hellish thunder and a panic-struck scream assuring me of impending and eternal, unrelenting damnation.

I tried a new barber today (Gosh, K, what an exciting life you lead), I bet you didn't realise that a No. 4 takes an hour in the chair, did you, but I also didn't expect to get a detailed account of fruit farming in Cyprus for my money, so I ain't complaining.

Here's a question to leave you all with; if I sell crisps and fizzy pop for a living, am I really in a position to start telling people what an ethical man I am, and how I have to turn down offers of promotion from my employers because I don't want to compromise my ethics?

Answers on a postcard, please, along with shared expressions of joy at the prospect of being woken up by a Serge Gainsbourg record, on the BBC (!!!), which delightful experience happened to me this week. OK, it wasn't the obvious, or 'Annee Erotique', but 'Bonnie & Clyde' will do for me. I began to wish I hadn't mentioned this at work when Mizz Doianne said that she didn't know what was so rude about 'Je T'Aime'.

Entre tes reins, bebe! Grrrr!

This dog digs a hot roll, with extra sauce, and easy on the onions.

I've said it before, but there is a lot to be found in favour of the French. Yes, I know that Johnny Hallyday doesn't count in their favour - and don't even get me started on the subject of Florent Pagny - but on the other hand there is imaginative motors, Toulouse saucissons, kir, two hours for lunch, and more cheese than you can shake a stick at. And that's just for starters.

That ol' nutter Jerry Lee Lewis is gracing me with his presence on the stereo, and we are not worthy. He's in the same league as Lemmy, for me, in that he just has no business still being alive, but I'm so glad that he is, and that he bothered to commit his talent to vinyl.

Other highlights of the week have included a visit to the dentist - good nick, ta, although a little evidence of ageing and the consequences of having a brace when I was a teenager - and also to the races, where I failed completely to land a punt, but there was the opportunity to enjoy the company of some attractive ladeez and generally get out and about and ignore some less attractive associates.

And also confirmation that 'Holby City' is just abysmal shite.

Right, it's a ludicrous time of night, and I meant to go to bed 3hrs ago, so I'm off.

See you all soon.

Big Food, Big Ron, Big Yawns

You will remember this recent post, well would you believe that on Thursday this week I had a conversation with Grand Ron himself, en francais. This was at a hotel near Oxford. Ha ha ha. Very good of him to humour me.

It is pissing down with rain outside - I guess I'd be less happy if it was pissing down inside, and the only thing the telly has to offer is athletics from Goteberg. As a special treat, and probably why I compare the weather to pissing, the BBC have wheeled out St. Paula for us all to admire and worship, and there is lots of pontificating as to why we Brits haven't done very well, and it is yawn-o-rama. For me, the challenge of the day is not to retire into alcoblivion, but then I've had very little to drink over the weekend. I got up this morning only with the intent of finishing last nights curry, mmmm, chicken muglai, bombay aloo, onion bhajhi and a somewhat disappointing cheese naan, although it must be said the rest of it was excellent.

Ah, of course, to finish the athletics coverage, we have to have one of those montages so beloved of BBC Sport, where we take lots of clips of triumph and despair and replay it all to a couple of recent pop records, and everyone sheds a tear or two and feels nice and actually its just a cheap way of wasting time and filling up the schedule with what is in essence a repeat, which will almost certainly be repeated later in the day with the highlights coverage. Utter Bollocks. One of my less favourite things about Aunty Beeb.

Last night I took great pleasure in doing something that I haven't done for a good few years.

I listened to some new Led Zeppelin. It was new to me, anyway. I hadn't done this since I was a teenager.

I'd forgotten what fun it can be.

Cottage Cheese Music! What a Noize!

Simple pleasures, eh?

'leading scientists report that hallucenogenic sweet rolls consumed on an orange shag rug at the krustybaker household lead to the spectral return of acid glam for 45 minutes yesterday...'

That would be scientists like this chap, then?


And as we've now cracked how to turn my photos into your photos; as long promised;

Arcade Game Messiah

No, not him.

Is J-C JC? I've been enjoying 'Street Fighter', which I initially stuck with for Kylie Minogue, and it occurred to me that I was watching more than a punch-up between good and evil, oh yes.

This was The Second Coming.

The destruction of Satan needs but One, and that is J-C.

Does that make Kylie Mary Magdalene?

And on that theme




The mind boogles.

And here, an attempt to convey my recent entertainment by this phenomenon.

"To Have Begun, To Bake."

I'm watching a telly prangram about Ron Atkinson, Esther Rantzen and Marcus Brigstock(e?) going to France and having to learn French because there is no English, by immersion, and it is hilarious and I've done this and it's directly how I come to be here.

Nice

Here also looks nice, but I can't read this, so if anyone can confirm it's alrightness than that would be nice too.



Is it socially acceptable to take the Gideon Bible from a hotel room? I didn't think so but have reconsidered.

It appears that a number of you did read the last effort all the way, thank you, that was a big ask.

A letter arrived yesterday from the doctor, regarding the recent bloodtest. They want to discuss the results with me. So will I make an appointment to see the doctor. However, when making that appointment, I find that I am unable to discuss it with the doctor for another thirty days. That pisses me off a little, because that ol' ring just may have a twitch or two in the meantime.

Anyway, in an effort to try and incorporate something sensible into my diet, I breakfasted on All-Bran and Weetabix. Dear God, it looks like some form of industrial sludge, something that builders might use for filling joints or worse. And it tastes not that different, too.

Work has been great fun. Well, tolerable. I'm getting an audience, so I can't complain.

The bloodtest thing all stems from the Long Purple Shadow, and it really does fuck me off today, I have to say. It makes me have an exaggerated appetite and a greater propensity to put on weight - great combination - it is a contributor to my baldness; I know that's genetic, but Daddy didn't start going bald 'til he was twenty years older than I am now; and it makes the rest of me look like a fucking werewolf. And I'm not even sure that it does quite what it's supposed to do, having woken up on Wednesday with an evil headache and having bitten my tongue. But they told me last year (I'd only been taking the bloody stuff for twenty-two years) that I'm going to have to take it for ever. That wasn't actually the original deal, but it appears that whilst the cons of taking it are poor, the cons of stopping or tampering are worse.

I'm watching athletics on the telly, which gives me an opportunity to quietly lust after Hazel Irvine, and knickers to you if you think that's wrong. Some of the athletes are alright too, though I won't go further on that subject, as frankly that's my business.

The weekend holds the prospect of going home to the ancestral pile, to celebrate the birthday of Mummy. This is a good thing, as I could do with a bit of tlc in the bosom of the clan. And the nosh will be excellent!

Anyway, enough of my witterings, have a good weekend all.

PS. This athletics is fine as long as they don't wheel out that awful Edwards man.

PPS. The pictures as promised last time around; no, actually, it still won't let me load then.

PPPS. It's worse, Lord Coe.

I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that.

I began writing this on Thursday, it's now Tuesday evening. If you've been waiting with bated breath, I hope this is worth it, the site is fucking around with not letting me put pictures in so they'll come later. Sadly no hot new girlfriend to report - but at least a little holiday. To be honest, nothing worth saying, really, which is a shame, but how it's been for a while. Still, enjoy!

--

Phew! What a Scorcher.

OK, I thought I'd get that out of the way, although all those terribly original newspapers have been there already.

I'm writing on a Thursday afternoon because....I've got a couple of days off, which is ace. T is on his way down here, and we are going to a small event in Suffolk, with a view to getting pretty mellow and filling our ears with some good soundz.

You may recall from here and here that I have been getting pretty ratty with some associates recently. Well, Tuesday saw the day when me and my colleague got up on our big ol' hobby horses and took FN's ever-valid advice and told the fuckers, and the fuckers' bosses, and er, the message appears to have got through. There was a sort of stunned silence then much debate, then much agreement with what we had to say.

Hence I'm sitting here on Thursday arvo, sitting in shorts and t-shirt, sweatin' in the hot humid air and not complainin' cause it's great to have some summer, and aware that Pammy is complainin' 'cause I've had nothing to say. I've been busy, and I'm really in need of the chance to drop a few bits and pieces in here.

Firstly, where are we on the Breast-abet? To summarise;

areolas
armpit cushions
bazookas
boobies
breasticles
bristols
candybags
chesticles
chezzies
double ds
duggs
ewers
funbags

Have we all lost interest? Perhaps these will help...



This is from here, if you are interested in more.


This morning saw my visit to the phlebotomist for another go at the liver test. I was late for my appointment - it being a holiday I slept through the alarm, and woke up with a start ten minutes after my appointment, thus my first words of the day were "Shit, shit, fucking shit." Then I rang them up, apologised, they said don't worry, just get your lardy sick ass down here boy, then we can play darts on your arms, aah ha ha ha ha...So I motored as fast as possible, and was welcomed with the now more usual smile, and we began the inevitable routine of attempting to hit a gusher. First go hit a gusher. Great. It also hit a nerve. Not so great, as it is like an electric shock, with an added sensation of burning. So we abandoned that, and went for the other arm, and again, first go there. I have to say, the lady is pretty proficient, and very apologetic when it hurts and she struggles to find a vein, which isn't really her fault. Anyway, we'll see how it goes.

Last week saw a meeting with the Greek Genius and you will undoubtedly spot that there is a massive upturn in mood about the Bakery right now - yes the shit at work has been sorted, and anyone feels better for that, but the influence of that man on me is very healthy. And he hasn't recommended any further self-help books. Although he has suggested Marcus Aurelius - any thoughts anybody, anyone know whether it's worth the effort? You're a pretty well-read crowd, and I'm not going to ask at the bookgroup - which I missed last week on the grounds that I just couldn't face it - because frankly I don't want to know about it from the Leftie. Although if MA wasn't a Marxist Jew she may not have read it.

I came across something that tickled me this week. We plugged a mouse into the USB socket on a Windows computer, and a message popped up to tell us that a 'Human Interaction Device' had been detected. I think that is a pretty interesting choice of language. There's an element of the probe about that, inserted into my mind.

I have to say, that would be a pretty stupid thing to do, insert a probe into my mind. You might not like what you find.

--

Right, that was all Thursday afternoon, it's now Monday evening, and I've been away for a few days to Suffolk. We went to something called Eastern Haze, and a lot of fun it was too, a small festival with a fairly specialist crowd, and the main attraction on Saturday night being...well, if you're that interested you'll go and have a look.

The weekend got off to a fine start, with Krusty having driven from the Western Suburbs to within thirty miles of Lowestoft before realising that I had come away without the tickets. There then followed some serious cursing on my part, with T being highly suspicious that I was taking the piss.

Sadly not, so all the way home and all the way back again. I have to say, I am very proud of myself, as I managed the drive without going apeshit. There is no way I would have attempted that alone, as I know I would go bonkers. Anyway, we got there and pitched our tent in the field, and got on with enjoying the gig.

As a matter of interest, this is the first original photo published on this blog. It is the view from our tent...

[Sadly, at time of writing, I can't seem to upload the picture.]

Anyway, we had a magic time; you can't complain when the fare on offer includes;

[or this one, which is a bit of a pain.]

I don't have anymore pictures, because a) other people photograph the lights better, and b) I wasn't really of a mind to be composing my shots with care. I do have some sunburn just above my knees, boy is that sore, but bearing in mind we barely had any rain, and what we did was just a spattering, I'm not going to complain about the weather. Au contraire.

The food was excellent, a wide variety, from falafels (particularly good) to a variety of the usual veggie fare and jerk chicken. We also were offered, although declined, 'doughnuts cooked in cholesterol', mmmm, but they did come with 'free oil'.

Apart from the main act, the reggae tent was where we spent most of our time, because the soundsystem had a cracking, boomtastic bass, which could be felt a long way away.

Anyway, it was ace, I feel well rested and I've had plenty to laugh about which frankly doesn't merit sharing here.

If you've read this far, which I know tests the patience of some, thanks, mostly for bothering, and I hope it was worth it.

Love Thy Blogger

I love this blogosphere thing, I come home from a day at the factory and find that there are a clutch of comments from my visitors, and I just feel so much better. We have a start to the Thesaurus of Breasts, and some friendly comments from some of the Krustians. And folks, that's what makes it good to be doing this, I just love all this empathy and warmth and stuff. Anyway, it's very welcome and very appreciated tonight.

In return, for those of you who are still recovering from the shock of last nights events in Berlin, here are some
highlights, which you can watch in your own time.

[I have since removed the unjustifiably self-pitying shit I put in this paragraph. As penance I will eat a Ginsters pasty.]

Right, that's enough for tonight.

Be good! At least, at whatever you do!

Rhapsody On A Flatulent Night

Wednesday saw me angry at the inability to understand who we're trying to sell to, and what they think of relatively simple concepts.

Thursday saw me angry at what is frankly just a disappointingly complacent bunch of idiots. I'm not amused that they put more effort into organising a night out to celebrate their failure than they do into discussing how they might stop failing. When I state my lack of amusement, I get an earful. And not of wax.

So when on Monday I get to interview a kid with a clear load of talent, and ability to really get on in life, and fast, there is a horrible quandary. Do we hire, and frankly exploit her for twelve months until she stops being quite so incredibly green and realises she can do better for herself elsewhere, but has as a consequence become at least as cynical as me and possibly embittered, and in the meantime we have failed utterly to invest in her and wasted that talent, or do we send her back to the agency who sent her with an instruction to do the right thing by her?

I challenged our HR people that if they wanted me to hire her they must commit to a proper eighteen month career development plan for her. It'll be interesting to see the response.

[It was interesting. Such a scheme is on the agenda, but not yet. So I told the agency what I thought they could do for her, and made it clear what I thought was their responsibility to her. I can be a bastard, but she doesn't deserve it, she deserves a lot better.]

God, am I in a dark place right now. The best I can hope for here is another twelve months of learning, but the capstone is to be set in place; there is nothing glass about this ceiling.

iPol and the Burrito Bros. are conspiring to offer me 'The Dark End Of The Street', and there's a tear in my eye. Thanks chaps. The next alley is full of whiskey and slow songs from Garcia and Pigpen, and if I get there, when I finally kick over the dustbins it will be to find the Black Sabbath and Rollins file, and that's just shit for all concerned.

I've had an instruction to go back to the doctors following the last round of bloodtests, and frankly I'm bricking myself. The only question is what's wrong. I still have a bruise from the last bloodtest, and that was ten days ago. It took four attempts to get a tiny phial-full (try saying that with a mouth full of Monster Munch). Then we tried the other arm, and only three there before we struck a vein and did the biz. I don't blame the phlebotomist, it's always been like that. The worst time was fourteen attempts at a thigh, then twelve in the other. My legs looked like a seive. I have deep veins, apparently. But no fear of thrombosis - the reason that the bruise lasts ten days or more is that one of the consequences of the Long Purple Shadow is it fucks up my blood, thinning it like warfarin. Which precludes a number of common painkillers e.g. aspirin, and means that it takes bloody ages for a cut to crud over. (Geddit?) Anyway, is it my liver, kidneys or the blood itself which is problematic. Long Purple Shadow has a major impact on the liver apparently. When I was twenty-nine, a locum GP got snotty with me when I commented that I was looking forward to going out to party with some friends, because I shouldn't drink. I pointed out that I've been taking the stuff since I was eleven, shouldn't someone have said something before? My current level of maintenance is so poor that I wouldn't be surprised if cholesterol or diabetes were on the agenda. DVT-freeness is one of the few positives of LPS. It's negatives are that it makes me fat, bald, miserable and moody, and increases body hair. So I swap Legion for Mr. Hyde. I look like a particularly successful werewolf.

Or Tony Soprano. Without the money, guns or shags. But plenty of paranoia and self-doubt. I don't even get Carmella to cook up a meatballs for me.

--

But I do get attractive offers of lasagne, cheers FN. Honestly, you have no idea just how popular lasagne is with this Baker. I wrote all that stuff above on Wednesday morning. It's now Friday evening, and things have moved on. I 'phoned the doctors and asked that, if the GP wished to send me sphincter-twitching letters, could he also ring me to explain what is wrong. Apparently all is fine, other than one of the four tests on the liver, which is the one most likely to show an error, so they want to repeat, and I have no further need to fret. Phew. Honestly Doc, you can't just send out scary letters like that and not make some effort to help me through it, you know? Anyway, this was facilitated by the rather attractive receptionist, with the big eyes, lovely skin and, frankly, gorgeous breasts. Mind you, most breasts have some appeal at present. More on this later...

Another interviewee yesterday, and, er, no love, especially when you're telling me that your looking for a less challenging, easier life. Forget it.

Right, you may note that whilst the mood is still a bit mixed, there is a slight lifting, and I took FN's advice and 'fucking told 'em'. And they fucking listened. I have won a major victory, and have succeeded in banishing a number of marketeer phrases from the business this week, to the eternal limbo where they belong. They still seek their revenge, with two of my more intransigent and blinkered colleagues wasting a large part of my afternoon with their inability to understand my dealings with one of our larger customers, but we then had a Brian Clough conversation. Namely, we decided to discuss it, we discussed it, we had a full and frank exchange, and then we agreed that I was right all along. [It occurs to me that the Wendys of this world won't know who Cloughie was, well I'll encourage you to look elsewhere for further info, but he is virtually unique in my opinion of football, and football managers especially, in that he does not come up in mine and J's game 'Cunt Or Twat', because he was neither. Unlike, say, O'Leary or Redknapp.]

I'm disappointed that the video no longer works, for those who missed it, it was of course (oh, yeah?) Hawkwind at Stonehenge, with the Pied Piper in particularly good form. Regulars here will be aware of my enthusiasm for all things of a 'windish persuasion, and indeed descendants thereof, hence recent spate of Motorheaddery.

You may also recall that my enthusiasm for popular beat combos led me to propose a game some time ago, namely suggestions for worst song by another of my enthusiasms. The response was shit - was that Krusty-esque apathy, or my overestimating the number of people who might have a working knowledge of suitable material, I'll never know - anyway, it doesn't matter, and Effay, who did offer a suggestion, has shut up shop, mores that pity, ah, the Kurse of Krusty. [Sorry, I'm going to break off here and comment on the current sonic environment here at the Bakery, where Creedence Clearwater Revival are giving some on their cover of 'Grapevine', and I'm lovin' it, I've really enjoyed doing the records this evening, plenty of variety, from Fairground Attraction to ZZ Top, and some French electro-pop for good measure, Indochine for those who give a hoot.]

Well, it's time for a new game. What I'd like us to do, and we can all play, is see if we can compile an A to Z of words and phrases used to refer to breasts. Not that word itself, such a lovely word, no, I mean slang. Boy-words and girl-words, please, let's compare notes.

And on a linguistic theme, which do you prefer to describe the qualities of organic farming and produce; 'organicness' or 'organicity'?

Right, I've written reams tonight, time to go and order a take-away. Well, more of a bring-to, really, but you know what I mean. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy a bit of 'Dirty Deeds...', which rather illustrates my thoughts regarding a recent post elsewhere - we don't have the Clash in this house, whereas we do have Bon Scott.

See you soon, friends, and remember....


...what was I going to say? xx

Why Do They Do That?

The question refers to pigeons. Why do they do that with their heads, you know, when they walk? I know other birds do it, but pigeons just seem to do it more so.

I don't often get animated on the subject of football, but I was angered on Saturday; I felt great sympathy for that young man Rooney, he has every right, in my opinion, to feel aggrieved. That's all I will say on the matter, others will no doubt have offered plenty.

I spent a large part of the weekend sitting around doing little other than drinking rather silly amounts of Pimms, as it was just too hot...I did also manage to motivate myself into walking up the road to the second-hand record shop, where I did part with some hard-earned cash.

I watched 'The Sky At Night' tonight. Sir Patrick Moore really ought not to be wearing a red Hawaiian shirt. When I want colour-shock on that scale, with cosmic references and bizarre sounds, well, we know where I go;



On a lighter note, having some time ago bemourned the departure from this blogosphere of this individual, I am delighted to report that he is now making efforts to appear as an e-thereal voice and is available here. I totally recommend you listen to him; he wouldn't have bothered if he didn't want people to listen, and frankly he's worth it. Besides, it's his fault that I'm here, so go and vent your spleen at him. Then hope to any god that you believe in that I don't take up that lark, 'cause you know enough about my taste in records to know that you really don't want me to be having a black cloud day.

Which I have been since last Wednesday, after just being pretty bloody knackered, and working feverishly for the last few weeks, despite the Meerkat's assertions that I'm wasting my time, and making myself a tad poorly. But what brought over the clouds was a really scary revelation.

If you are a brand manager, the purest form of marketeer (oxymoron? morons, anyway), don't you owe it to yourself to know what your 'consumers' think about the type of products you're attempting to flog 'em? Indeed, perhaps even to know what they call it? After all, you might even then be able to flog 'em something they actually want, which makes it a lot easier to persuade them to part with their money. And even more, if what you're trying to force upon them is being resisted with the ferocity of an MRSA outbreak during a janitor strike, then there is even more urgency in understanding why they think your stuff is shit?

Apparently not. No, Krusty, you're being, frankly, fucking naif there. No, what you do is pretend that you know better, and make up more bollocks to justify your latest round of mistakes. You ignore your punters, 'cause they don't know what the fuck they're on about. And then, when you eventually bring your head out of the sand, you make sure that every fucker in town chirrups about what a great outfit the mini-emperor's wearing this week.

I'm not prepared to let that happen again, so I got a bit rude with someone, and I'm not talking in a 'Let's make some honey like the worl' ain' ever seeeeeen, let me buzz on in yo sweet hive' sort of a rude, more of a 'can't you fucking read, why do you fork out large quantities of cash for research then ignore it you idiots, are you planning to fail, is this just a fucking insurance scam? Mel Brooks was taking the piss, you nobs, that's a film, it's not a fucking business plan.'

Anyway, I have brooded, darkly, upon this; the Krusty-doubt returned, should I have said that? Do I have a moral obligation, and indeed a professional duty to myself, to not be dragged down by the lack of imagination and courage of 'them'? Or should I continue to be as career-hamperingly honest as I have been for the last three years? Just as I've got my big break? In the short term I opt for honest - essentially, I like to look myself in the eye each morning as I commence passing a blade over my chin, and even more so when I have finished passing the blade and am admiring what a stunningly handsome fellow I'm looking at. The darkness has lifted a little, but I do really want 'them' to acknowledge some reality, and understand their responsibilities.

Right, enough of that. An interesting conversation today with one of my more favourite ladies at work, which concerned her differentiation of Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp. The latter is handsome, and a good film star, the latter is 'beautiful, and a great actor'. I sort of empathised with this; some women are beautiful and some are upper-right-canine-bites-into-bottom-lip hard-on generating... Yes, another element of the recent visit of dark clouds is the lack of action, and the familial honesty of my Mummy and sisters that a sudden increase in my bulk isn't making that any more likely to change. What I should be doing is eating lots of lettuce and other combinations of water and not a lot else, rather than eating the huge amounts of shit I have taken to eating in recent months. If I'm really a good boy, I can permit myself a piece of fish.

Jeez, cheery prospect.

Right, spleen vented, I think I'll just fuck off until I feel like crackin' jokes again, which won't be long, as I have booked an emergency visit to the Greek Genius, who will focus those eyes on me and in exchange for staggering sums of moolah, will advise me to read a self-help book and also proffer some pearls of wisdom derived from amongst others, Socrates. That's what Brazilian footballers of yesteryear do for you.

Ker-nackered Krusty

I haven't posted for ages, apologies to any of you who've been making the effort to come and see what I have to say on any of the burning subjects of the day. Partly it's been a lack of anything to say, at least, anything which I think merits sharing, and partly I've just been knackered, and here I am on Saturday evening feeling really quite ill because it's caught up with me, and I've spent virtually all of the day asleep. On of the consequences of the Long Purple Shadow is that when I get very tired the Shadow is prone to rear its ugly head, and I think that this happened last night, as I woke up with a shocking headache, really shocking, and this was exacerbated when the Meerkat rang to tell me all about his views of what I'm doing at work.

Anyway, today I managed to wake up in time to watch qualifying for the Grand Prix, well done to the Boys in Blue, but I missed the MotoGP. There was a brief venturing out to a supermarket to do some shopping, but I was in such a fuzz that I struggled to remember my name, never mind what I wanted to buy. At one point I walked away with somebody elses trolley, thinking it was mine. Doh!

My week has been dominated by huge amounts of churning work, with one great ray of sunshine - the arrival of an underling. An Australian, bright, very chatty, keen to learn, as long as she remembers who's boss we'll get on very well, and she will do very well.

Last Saturday also brought an encounter with Australians, less flattering to that country however. I was in Hyde Park, for the music event there, having been given a ticket at very short notice by my brother-in-law's brother. A and I met up and were enjoying the sunshine. The bill for the day was something called Juliette & The Licks - not great, for my money anyway - then Angels & Airwaves. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Poor. Very pompous, very sentimental, "Have you ever fallen in love?" type stuff, really dreary. So I lay on the grass and enjoyed the weather.

At which point we had a group of Australians come and gather just in front of us. I think they were Australians - they were more Neanderthals. Dirty, drunk, and feeling quite at liberty to stagger about crashing into anybody stood around. Now I've invited our colonial cousins to comment here before, but it appears that they don't come here. These guys made me feel like David Attenborough. "Which button gets me a banana?"

Next band up were Queens of the Stone Age, who were very good, but not as good as Motorhead, which is what A and I were there for. I haven't seen Lemmy and co for a very long time, since an encounter with them at the Hummingbird in Birmingham left me deaf for a week. The old bugger still hammers it out - 'Dr. Rock','Killed By Death', 'I Got Mine', 'Overkill', 'Going To Brazil', 'Metropolis' and a whole raft of other corkin' old classics really hit the spot for me.

So I didn't bother to wait around for the Foo Fighters, but came home for a take-away and a long kip.

I'm reading through this and I'm almost ashamed to post this, it is so sterile. Sorry. Must try better, Krusty.

Before I go, just to mention that a little while ago I asked you to vote for Wendy in a competition - well, she won a prize, so anyone who did vote, ta.

Red Baron Caught Red Handed

Well, a really exciting day for your good friend The Baker, which has been sweetened by a large amount of sugar. I have eaten so many sweets today, it is untrue.

The reason for this was availability. I was the kid in a candy shop. Somebody put a carrier bag full of sweeties down on the desk in front of me, and said "Help yourselves." Liquorice catherine wheels, bags of Haribo, sugar shrimps, cola bottles, chewies, I just kept going at it. But this was just the grand accompaniment for the solo act; we had some tablet. Mmmmm, delici-oso. I ate so many sweeties I honestly felt sick. So I went and had some coffee. My head was spinning, I was all over the place, and I realised that my colleagues were laughing at me. Apparently I was talking to myself, and it was totally incoherent.

Anyway, those of you who are regulars around here will know that two of my favourite topics are motor-racing and my near obsession with my digestive tract. So, and especially in a sugar- and caffeine-fuelled mania, I was delighted to have the following missive arrive in my in-box, from my contacts in the world of fast cars; a scoop:

"After the controversy surrounding his alleged track blocking at Monaco, Michael Schumacher is in hot water again at Silverstone, this time for blocking the Renault F1 lavatories just before Fernando Alonso wanted to have a vital pre-free practice shit. "This was a clear and blatant blocking tactic," fumed one Renault insider. "Michael came to our motor home and asked to use the facilities, claiming that Felipe Massa had 'really smelled it up' in the Ferrari bogs. He knew that timing was crucial here, with less than a minute to go before Friday free practice. We believe he knew this and deliberately curled out a log of such size that our carbon fibre turd chute was completely blocked, scuppering any hopes Fernando might have had of growing a tail before the afternoon session". However, a Ferrari spokesman was quick to deny that their man was involved in any faecal cheating. "It is well within the rules that a driver may drop the kids off at the pool before getting into his car. In fact it can lead to a valuable weight saving that can be worth up to 0.01 seconds a lap. It's not Michael's fault that he had enjoyed a particularly hearty dinner the night before and needed to lay a substantial cable in the Renault facilities. This is simply sour grapes from Renault because someone ponged up their loos".
As the Poomacher controversy threatens to leave a bad smell over the British Grand Prix, some F1 watchers are still trying to work out how the German driver could have consumed enough food to block Renault's computer optimised hydrodynamic cack pipe. However, there are rumours that on Thursday night the seven time world champion was spotted tucking into a buffet that was meant for Juan Pablo Montoya."



On the subject of villains, this is the individual I referred to elsewhere in affectionate terms which were clearly confusing to those of you not familiar with the British high street prior to 1995. When we still had high street retailing, and interesting shops, not parks and retailtainment. Which is one of the imports from Uncle Sam I'm less keen on, thank you very much, but I guess I'll have to put up with that. And 2000AD is not just a date. Hope that clears things up. In passing, I quite like the film of Judge Dredd, I know that this is contentious with aficionados - my chum T who is a comix man to the very core has some very strong views on this subject, but then he like 'Bill and Ted' films too, so he does have critical blindspots - but my only real beef is that it just ain't 'Mega' enough; the cinematography is too dark, too much realism, everything is sort of in proportion, and the point is, in MC1, it ain't.

Talking of real beef, more steak for supper, so I'm off.

I've no idea what to call this one

Ain't this weather fantastic, and it does provide me with a fine excuse for sitting about doing nothing, which is in part why I have not proffered anything for a couple of days. I'd attribute it to writers' block (debate the apostrophe, is it block of writers, or block of a writer, or just a phrase which really irks my Not Famous friend?) but I know that is an excuse for me not being bothered to organise my thoughts and general attempts at coherence.

I've found my notes from that rivetting conference last week, and I'd forgotten to mention the presence of the man who looked like a cross between the late Kaiser Wilhelm II, and the late-ish Richard John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan. He had a noble gait about him, striding forth, but a slightly furtive glance.

I also neglected to mention that my associate Satan was the victim of this wheeze, I know it was a rotten thing to do, but hey, I am in her debt. Incidentally, Cherry, a) I regretted not doing as I was told and going somewhere else, and b) no, I don't dislike her because she gets a bit (oh, shit, searching for suitable euphemism and attempting to not sound chauvinistic and not like the New Man I am, and failing miserably) well, frankly, raggy occasionally. Well, regularly, heh, heh, heh. I just don't like her, and there's no point in wasting time pretending otherwise, is there?

I'm sorry folks, I have just been sooo lazy this weekend, I got up very late, did a little bit of shopping, then needed a rest, washed up, needed a rest, then a drink, wow, better have a proper nap, then some dinner, then fall asleep in front of the telly. Sunday I managed to drag myself to my sister's place, she was working, so brother-in-law and I vegetated in front of the telly, watched the British GP, a bit of football, so I took the cue for a well-earned kip, then walked as far as the Co-op for some bread and stuff for a bit of late lunch, and then home for...a rest. Boy, I've worked hard. It's a disgrace, I know, but knickers, I just needed a total cop-out.

Anyway, that'll do for today.