Government - The Krusty Way

Oh, so many things to say this evening! I was going to open up with a salvo at Fungus the Bogeyman's whingeing yesterday that the media are using deliberately emotive language to describe his and Bliar's efforts to erode democracy, justice, freedom and the legislative process. No, Bogey, we don't like the fact that you want to lock people up without trial or access to counsel, and we don't like you trying to bypass Parliament. We don't like you banning protest, and arresting people who express a contrary point of view using anti-terrorism laws. That's why you attract comparisons with dictators and fascists. Fungus doesn't like people criticising him for locking people up for criticising him...ad infinitum.

But poor old Fungy has got bigger problems to worry about this evening. Despite all his and Tony's new laws to 'protect society' and be 'tough on crime', he's, er, lost some very serious criminals. But he hasn't lost his job, and doesn't see why he should. Let me spell it out. Charles, you are, as you say, fully responsible for the prison and probation services, and for the immigration service, too. So when it all goes wrong, you and your minions have failed in that responsibility. So, it's time to go. It's no good you saying is 'systemic failure', after 9 years in Government any systems are down to you lot. And it's a bit rich for that pillock Blunkett to pass comment, because he is someone who must take a lot of responsibility for it all. If he's got any sense he'd keep a low profile, but you can't keep a bad man down.

On the subject of Ministers, let me explain Minister for Special Duties. I have long said that, when I become President, I intend to have a large number of people who I dislike hanged. From lamp-posts. With piano wire. People like Cliff Richard, Branson, Miranda Sawyer, Melanie Phillips, Richard Littlejohn, Gary Bushell, Alex Ferguson, James Dyson...I know this is not the liberal gentle Krusty we all know and love, but it will all be done very quickly, and things will settle down soon enough, and you will all thank me in the end. Because I also intend to be quite nepotistic, a member of my family has long had her eyes on the position of Minister of Lamp-posts, as there is likely to be high demand. I was discussing this in the garden of an Oxfordshire pub last July with two close associates, when one of them suggested that this was too good for some people; there would be a need for a Minister For Special Duties. I asked if he was putting himself forward, and if so, what did he have in mind and for whom. I will spare you the details of his methods (cue more Vincent Price/Christopher Lee-style demonic laughter), but his proposed 'patients' included anyone who appeared on reality tv and Geoff Hoon. As I don't like reality tv, and I have long held that the pompous Hoon should be in gaol for either criminal negligence or criminal incompetence; if he honestly believed that there were chemical weapons in Iraq why did he send people to fight there without suitable equipment, and if he didn't believe there were such weapons there then he is a lying git; then he was right on the page.

Anyway, the position of Minister was filled. The only details to be discussed were his worries about whether he will be allowed to wear his choice of suitable clothes for such an esteemed position - knee length leather jacket, wide brimmed hat and pince-nez. Sort of Herr Flick meets Lavrenti Beria. Of course he can, hell, I'm going to wear a shedload of braid....and sunglasses.

Look, you know, I say to you, I mean, you know...to quote someone we all know and despise, things in the United Krustydom will be a lot nicer. (I once went for an interview where I was asked what my ideal fantasy job would be. I said I'd be "President of the UK, only of it won't be the UK then, will it?" Why won't it be the UK came the question. Needless to say, I didn't get the job.) I mean it. Lots of ice-cream, no kids allowed to drive 'til they're 21, free beer for anyone with the President's License of Approval, loads more cricket, less football, and rock 'n' roll radio.

I WAN' 'EM TO SEE THE WHITES OF OUR EYES!!!

(wipes the foam from his mouth, and takes a fistful of tranquilisers)

Jeez, guys, I'm sorry about that, so to offer a little light relief, have a look at this. A huge thank you to my friend N for sending me this, he knows the way to my heart. He's decided to vang off and give up his e-fforts, good luck to him. He is concentrating on his stage career; I have no ambition on that front, largely because I would expect someone to punch me fairly swiftly.

I'm amazed at the lack of disgust expressed here; do people just go away, or do they sympathize and agree?

iPol has definitely got the message as this morning we kicked off with some Tijuana Bible, an excellent way to begin. On reflection...

Right, I'm knicky knacky knoo-knooed as my Daddy would say, so I'll go away. Love y'all. xxx

Meep-Meep; Smile E. Koyote Is In Pursuit

Gosh, what a long day! I was out of the door at 6.10 this morning, and up at the tube station at 6.30, just as they were opening the shutters. Why? Because I was making the effort to get me fat lardy arse over to the Cutty Sark, where I was meeting family and friends in order to cheer on my sister and my brother-in-law's brother as they ran the London Marathon. I was there before the rest of the gang, having enjoyed most of the journey. As the crowd gathered I thought I might start to suffer some of the twinges of my 'social-phobia', which usually manifests itself as an intolerance of the more common stupidities of people when massed. But I found I was managing alright. Anyway, we were down at Cutty Sark for about 2 and a half hours, and I really enjoyed myself, the only test of patience being one of those dreadful 'fun' people who are actually a bit of a pain in the arse. You know the type. In this case she was 5'2", rotund, bespectacled, the kind of inane grin that announces her being orthodontically challenged, probably a bit pushy, and had got the idea that repeatedly shouting 'Oggy Oggy Oggy' in my ear'ole was funny. Not for my ear'ole. So I was relieved when we departed, having seen both sister A and friend A running past in excellent nick and cheered them on, and indeed, cheered on lots of other people too.

Next stop was opposite Mudchute (easy, boys!) station, where we met with some more friends, including my good friend the Minister For Special Duties. He and me discussed the meaning of life, which currently eludes us both; have I done the best I could today, yes, but what am I doing it for, have I made a difference to the sum of humanity, probably not, so what am I doing my best for? We also cheered on the runners, and again, our two favoured competitors, who, despite having now been running for 17 miles, looked in great condition.

The last stop was Westminster, and a stand in the rain by the clock tower. A long wait, but my sister came past eventually, looking fresh as a daisy and with a big smile on her chops. So a 'big up' to her, I'm very proud of her, and I understand she's raised a fistful of dollars for a charity which seeks to help rehabilitate and care for people with brain injuries, which is a very worthy cause.

And I had managed a long day in the company of huge amounts of proles and plebs and not gone completely bonkers at anyone all day, and had to admit that I'd enjoyed myself.

I used the time on the tube first thing to finish the Classic American Novel; has anybody guessed what it is? Well, it was 'The Great Gatsby', and I've enjoyed it. I have to say, I'm not sure why, and if you've anything to say, folks, then do, but there we are. I enjoyed it, which probably says a lot for the writing. I've now started the self-help book, and first findings are that it is written in a style not a million miles from Carlos Castenada, which makes it very difficult to take it seriously. But I don't think it will advocate peyote, somehow.

There was a request sometime ago for a remedy for the iPol situation. I will share. Yesterday I realised that the naughty little it (An aside; will someone who is current with a language that asigns gender e.g. French, let me know if 'it' should be masculine or feminine, mes cheris.) was suddenly behaving in a slightly naughty, but not disappointing manner. It kept playing back to backers, so two songs from its beloved Small Faces, two HW (blessed be), two Ramones, two LZ, two whatever, you get the drift. And I quite enjoyed it. But it is how we have achieved this state of it understanding that its role is to entertain me, that it is the tool and I am the Master, that is what interests you, isn't it?

Well, it is very simple. I took it aside and had a quiet word with it. I suggested that when I ask for random play, I mean random play, and if it has a problem with that, then I would invest in some second hand Cliff Richard records, fill it with said shit and leave it to play in the dark for a long time, on its own. I suspect Phil Collins or Michael Bolton would achieve similar results.

We no longer have any misunderstanding.

Folks, I started to write this last night, but I was so knackered after the long day in the fresh air and elements; my face looks like I've spent a long day on the beach at Sellafield; that I went to bed early and slept like a log...I awoke looking slightly flushed, hey hey, watch out Tarbie. Which explains why time looks to have been bent a bit if you pay attention to the date on these things.

Auntie Beeb and Why I Love Her Dearly

Krusty is recovering from a long day at the factory, and his recovery plan involves large quantities of strong cider and expensive ice-cream. Yes, he's not sharing the ice-cream, but you didn't come round and let me lick it off your.....

Krusty is a little distressed to have spent so much time toiling today, as it has involved missing a moment of triumph; my e-mail to BBC Radio 4's 'PM' programme about a twat they interviewed earlier this week was read out in full. Hurrah, that means I must represent a point of view that is not unique to me. Those of you who come here regularly (who?) will know that I treasure the Beeb, and do not like those who threaten or abuse it. And less still those who waste its, and mine, time by talking bollocks. Particularly on serious news and kurrant affairs programming. Oh, and Alistair Campbell, if your reading a) you're really not welcome here, and b) if you or that bunch of fascists you used to work for damage the BBC you will go to a place in Hell that is beyond conception, for it is so special to have an independent public broadcaster with the freedoms and remit of the BBC that for you fuckers to damage it with your petty vindictiveness - just 'cause it caught you out for the liars you are - will be unforgiveable. Burn and freeze and burn for all of infinite eternity, viral scum.

Do you think I sometimes lose a sense of proportion? Petit moi?

Krusty is also grooving (or Liz, do you think I might get away with groofing? As oaves is to oaf so grooves is to groof, no?) some choons and the H-richness of the mix is much to my taste. My rediscovery of the Capt. and his associates since we re-acquainted ourselves with one another at the Solstice has really taken me aback, but I'd simply forgotten how much pleasure they once gave me, and it really has been a delight to welcome them back into the ear-holes and realm of Krusty. I guess familiarity breeds contempt, and about two years ago I'd really just over done it, an excess bordering on obsessiveness had excluded virtually all my other favourites, and it led to me barring them. Like a moment of doubt; can they really be that good, no, just give it up. So I made the effort in December to go and catch them at the Astoria, having not seen them for a couple of years, I didn't bother to listen to any thing up front - actually, tell a lie, I listened to the new album once - and it was just great to see old friends in the crowd, have a chat, enthuse; whilst I think about it, does anyone know what has become of Del-Boy, I haven't seen him at a HW show for a long time - and it was time to dig out the records and give it all another go,and yes, all the time lost treasures are being turned over by the auto-mind, which bring out the toothiest of grins from your friend the Baker, followed quickly by the need to a) sing along (shitter for anyone sharing the office at the time!), and b) get up and dance. That's a sort of movement thing which is in time to the music and rhythm, and is otherwise completely free-form i.e. my legs, arms, head, hands, feet all whirl about in irregular patterns until they either wind up in a knot or I fall over. And it is an ace thing to do.

Right, gotta go, love you all.

The New Krusty

The more observant and sharper among you - and, if you're still coming here, you must really have something about you, if only the wilful stubbornness of the Victorian explorer - will have spotted some small changes. There has been an audit of the 'Worth A Wipes', and a couple of removals, and a couple of additions, and, whilst trekking around those sites, some poor sods have had a shed-load of Krusty-Komment. Lucky them, lucky you if it's your blog, feel free to reciprocate. Also, a couple of changes on the profile, since there was a mention that we don't know me very well, so I've enriched the portrait there, and added a quite fetching picture. That would be glazed-over doughballs with occasional bits of stoned fruit, would it Krusty?

Am still enjoying the mystery book, by the way, and will continue to make the effort, as I have sworn to finish it before reading the self-help book to compare notes with K. The irony of this situation is terrific.

And I am also enjoying my jar of peppermints, oh such delights, peppermint creams, mint humbugs, everton mints, Fox's Glacier Mints, Murray Mints...it's all too beautiful (bloody iPol!).

There's a man on the telly, he's not Roger Melly ("Marietta Frostcup? She's one of my favourite wanks, she is", there ain't a man on earth who can't find that funny), who's telling me all about Albrecht Durer, and amongst his many talents, his portraiture. He's also asking the very valid question, what sort of man paints a self-portrait which portrays himself as Jesus Christ? Some attitude?

Right, once more unto the bed, dear friends, and back to that mystery book. Can you see what it is yet? Besides, 'Lonesome Dove' is starting, and if it's as ghastly as the trailer, I don't want to know. Night night.

Not Nicey Bunnies

So much for reading last night, I fell asleep. This meant that I didn't even get as far as my daily dose of BBC sci-fi, which, being on the wireless, is true to all the best traditions of BBC sci-fi, namely that it is cheap, has a capacity to scare by simply fucking with the mind, and makes ample use of that mysterious - and I believe now defunct or 'outsourced' - entity, the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. Not great listening at slightly after midnight, but hell, I'm up for it... The tradition of cheapness in BBC sci-fi is self-evident; my own theory is that set designers had to serve an apprenticeship on 'Blue Peter' first. For those of you who didn't grow up in the UK, that's not a late-night show for the broadminded. [Don't bother to tell me I'm not the first to make that joke.]

All this religion in the air - Easter, Wendy's comments - I could begin to have a crisis of faith, but as I was brought up an Anglican I suppose that's a given, isn't it, and like most good Anglicans I've no firm idea of what I believe. The whole point of the CofE is to fall out with one another, usually about which hymnbook we're using this week, or what colour to paint the Church Hall, and occasionally about serious things. And at it's head, the self-styled Governor, that well-known conflict resolution expert, HM The Queen, who, just in case you hadn't noticed, is eighty years old this week (ahh, isn't she lovely and so hard working, just like her mother Lady Macbeth, "Now I can look the East End in the eye", well, except that you still had nine and three quarter houses to choose from so it's not quite the same is it?), and it is virtually impossible to escape the coverage. Bloody hell, she employs someone to put the toothpaste on her toothbrush, the Sergeant Under-Arsewiper Specific or something. And the drivel in Parliament today. Menzies Campbell, what are you waffling on about, man, you've already got your gong, you don't need to get your hooter any further up 'Our Chuff'. [An aside, BBC telly has just offered me the delight of a programme about Lulu's dog needing to see a vet. Wow, is out on DVD?] She was described as a calming influence at times of crisis...well, yes, when the hysterical moronista were wailing and caterwauling and accusing when the Mannequin died, yes, she did deign to speak to 'Our Subjects', but when the suicide bombers were at it last summer - and remember, she knows about losing close relatives to terrorists, so that is one experience with which she can genuinely empathise and sympathise - and people weren't just hysterical, they were scared, er...silence. Sorry, I'm about to start foaming at the mouth, so I'll stop in a mo, but before I finish on this topic, I just think the best reason not to have a Royal Family is because it is probably inhumane. On the other hand, without the Royal Family, what would most bring out the native hypocrisy of the average Brit? Right, enough.

I heard a U2 record on the wireless this morning, don't ask me what it was called, I don't care that much, it was from early in their career, but what struck me was how much the singer sounded like Kevin Rowland.

Great news today, that renowned champion of democracy Fungus the Bogeyman has struck yet another blow for freedom and justice today, continuing the tradition of recent Labour Home Secretaries. I am horrified to hear Tories agreeing with me when they mention that his erosion of the criminal justice system is making us a society where one is guilty until proven innocent. I'm waiting for Freddie Forsyth to invite me round for a sherry...

I can't escape her, so more Queen. I watched a tv show last night which culminated in the highly entertaining Bill Bailey and the even better Sean Lock (watch this film!) suggesting that HM is a Deep Purple fan. Well, it matches the robes, doesn't it?

Oh iPol, you came to the table today, my friend, what a way to start. How to escape the tedium? With a double bill of 'Levitation' and 'Lost Johnny', that's how, those of you in the know will understand the inane grin on my fizzog.

I'm regretting my recent lack of dietary discipline, as today I found myself straining and heaving to pass something which it turned out (!?) would have shamed a rabbit, and I was not amused at the time. However, it did remind me of a young man called Jolyon who was once lucky enough to make my acquaintance, who claimed that he had never had diarrhoea (an aside, the 1977 reprint of the 2nd Edition of the Penguin English Dictionary, such authority, defines said ailment as 'excessively frequent and loose evacuation of bowels'. I quite like that.) This led those of us present to one of two possible conclusions; a) he really was full of shit, or b) his arse was otherwise occupied with being talked out thereof.

You know folks, I'm not sure quite why I'm spewing such venom this evening, 'cause in all honesty it hasn't been too bad a day. Yes, the zombies came to see us today, but even they are now attempting at least to present a sexy face - or at least bum - even if the little grey cells remain rarer than rockinghorse shit. And one of the other visitors today made no effort to conceal the skimpiness of her black thong...tell me, do, is it comfortable to wear a bootlace down there? And, apart from my disgraceful lusting and leching, I've been able to achieve a couple of minor goals, and better still, find myself welcome at the GP's.

The nadir of my relationship with the GP's practice came about two years ago when I made it abundantly clear that I was not going to roll up at 9am each morning on the off-chance that someone might deign to see me at some point that day. When the 'receptionist' - not that receptive - continued to ignore my rationale I walked out and informed the world at large, at the top of my voice and in no uncertain terms, in words of one syllable, exactly my opinion of the people there. It was suggested that they might take me off the books, and the senior partner and I had a series of long telephone conversations which featured mutual apologising and explanation of viewpoints and which resulted in me seeing a GP as desired, and them changing their appointment policy. But now, having once been less welcome than a fart in a spacesuit, I'm treated as the Prodigal Son. "Oh Mr. The Baker, how lovely to see you" (and without irony!), yes, they love me, I'm stood about talking for ages, and now they go and fetch the GP out to say hello and sign off my prescription so that I don't have to wait. Can you believe it? No, nor can I. But that is what is happening when I go there, and I ain't complaining.

If you are still reading this, well done, and thanks for making the effort. At least one of us has bothered.

Dead Celeb Twitchers

What a delight it was to get home this evening, partly because it meant I was no longer on the roads, which you will know is not my favourite place to be, due its being - to adapt a military expression - a dickhead rich environment, but mostly because the scent of my vase of home-grown daffodils is just gorgeous and is filling chez Krusty.

Gosh, what a day. When not occupied with the some of the more riveting and compelling questions of my professional life, I was able to devote some time to serious issues such as how to pluralise the word 'oaf'. I've consulted not one but three dictionaries on this matter (one can hear the stroking of wizened beards, nay?), all to no avail. The best I can offer is that one of said repositories of lexicographical knowledge suggests that the etymology is related to 'elf', which points to ears...sorry, couldn't resist that, to 'oaves' as in 'elves'. Equally, my nomme de guerre would also encourage me to that conclusion, I guess. Other activities include pursuing the source of a [possible] quotation. As my mother gets older, so she adopts the more ghoulish habits of the old, including a fascination for the gravestones of the famous. So she insists that the inscription on one must be a quotation, and has asked me to source it for her. I've tried and I'm not going to take it further. And it isn't Jim Morrison or Karl Marx, in case you're interested, it hasn't yet become an activity around which we construct our holidays, all that weeping and wailing and pilgrimage stuff, yuck, that sought [I saw this spelling in The Guardian at the weekend and I've been itching to find an excuse to use it, that's the kind of error it takes more effort to make] of obsession is just weird. Nor is it Enoch Powell, who is buried in my home town. Besides, as Mr. Powell was a classicist, I suspect she wouldn't be able to read his gravestone. It remains relatively parochial, and I'm hoping it will soon be replaced by some other activity, although they say you should be careful what you wish for... This morbidity is reminiscent of my late Granny, and I carry out my long-standing promise, and frankly, public duty, to point this out, which isn't that welcome. Still, at least we're not collecting deceased neighbours' unused medicines yet. I think.

I've also been to buy a book, wow, big deal, except that it is a self-help book - oh no, not another cloudburst of self-pity in the blogosphere, I hear - ahh, but this is a self-help book with a difference; I stole it. No, Krusty, that's a help-yourself book. Ooops. It was recommended to me by my shrink. Hang on, let's get this straight, you're paying good money to see a supposedly leading shrink, and he recommends a self-help book. Are you sure you're getting value for money, Krusty? Yeah, yeah, I know. But there's a twist. You may remember that, following similarly sourced professional advice to join a reading group, said literati elected to read a self-help book, which remains unopened and untroubled on the back seat of the Krustymobile, so I don't have form with this particular genre. However, last night involved a conversation with K, and it turns out that she is reading the same book as prescribed by the Greek Genius. She insists that I do as I am told, and read it. How can I resist? Oh Lord, I am weak, I know, but she retains a hold o'er me.

Anyway, it's time for my pit, where I can go and study my new book and open the door to greater success blah blah blah...am I approaching this with the wrong 'mindset'? Actually, the book can wait, 'cause I have also begun reading one of the classics of American literature over the holiday, and I'm enjoying it. Can you guess?

Simnel Cake

I reflect on what a charming Easter holiday it has been, and the pleasure I took in visiting the ancestral pile in the verdant countryside of my native lands. I think Spring is firmly sprung, what a delight to awaken each sun-kissed morn to the sound of birds singing and busying themselves, many already into their first brood of the year. Jackdaws, blackbirds, thrushes, blue tits, goldfinches, buzzards, just some of the various of our feathered friends urgently working away. The garden is green again, with the daffodils and primroses bringing their yellow beauty to share and reflect the still slightly watery sunshine, and the trees, pear tree, plum trees, apple trees, damsons and greengages, covered in buds soon to erupt into leafy growth and blossoms, but the real treat of the weekend was the scent of the hyacinths. Mmmmm.

And around the home, an Easter Sunday delight of roast lamb, from the local farm, and best of all, great chunks of home-made Simnel cake, spot on for a marzipan enthusiast like me. Easter television does its best to disappoint - no 'Ben-Hur', for example, but there was plenty to distract.

I hope it was as pleasurable for you too, my friends, whatever you did with the Spring break.

And just in case you think this all sounds just too nice, and you're not keen on this happy Krusty with his cod-Wordsworth eulogising - and let's face it, cod-Wordsworth is a really quite unpleasant concept, perhaps even more unpleasant than the fact and actuality of the late poet-laureate's works themselves (does anyone really read that drivel for pleasure?) - don't fret. Krusty has already found things to carp about since returning to his lair, and is winding up for a rant soon enough, and besides, tomorrow means back to the melee.

Hot Cross Bonkers

It's Maundy Thursday, and in Guildford - perhaps now best known for being where ageing rock stars go to live, and being the Cathedral where Damien Thorn got spooked - HM The Queen has been dishing out the Maundy Money to worthy subjects. Subjects, note, what a charming word, just in case we'd forgotten our place in this modern world...and even more worth noting when you remember that her Prime Minister exercises considerable power on her behalf through the Royal Prerogative. And she doesn't wash their feet, either.

Maundy Thursday, is, of course, a part of what we call Easter, which, if you're a Christian, is about as important a festival as it gets. It is the very embodiment of those three values which are taught to Christians, namely Faith, Hope and Charity. I understand that it is also the main Jewish festival, Passover, and if you go back through history, this time of year has had serious religious significance for a long, long time, and often for profound, and not unrelated reasons, for people throughout history and geography.

So on this note of deep spirituality, and dare I say, ecumenicalism and tolerance, Krusty The Baker is delighted to let you know, because it's his business to know, that this week, the British will eat between 55 and 60 million hot cross buns, most of which they will push and shove at the modern temples we call supermarkets in order to snaffle before the other guy, which they will buy in offers that are designed only to drag people through the door, and to allow them to make claims about being cheaper than the other supermarket. Is it me, or isn't it just a little sad that it's all reduced to nothing more than a distasteful scramble of buns and chocolate for nothing more than profit and fuck-your-God attitudes. I'm not a religious man, but it just strikes me as all a little tragic and limited.

George Orwell, who had a talent for writing unpleasant things, begins one of them, 'Keep The Aspidistra Flying' - incidentally, the movie is yet another reason among many to question the point of Richard E. Grant - with a rewrite of St. Paul's piece about 'Faith, Hope and Charity, and the greatest among these is Charity' replacing the word Charity with Money.

That happy bastard had a point, didn't he?

On a completely different theme, today saw the return to the office of not one but two of my more favourite people, or more accurately, views. Not for long, unfortunately, but it did relieve the boredom of what was otherwise not the most riveting of times today.

I am getting unhealthily lustful, and nobody seems to want to take advantage of it. What a terrific waste.

Smelly Nappies?

I've mentioned before how most people are not really that interested in somebody elses baby, which is why I spared you, my beloved readers, the details of my new niece. So when a colleague, of whom I have a fairly jaded opinion anyway, rolls in pushing a pram and there is the expectation that we'll all coo over the miraculous child, I am a little conspicuous in my failure to participate. All the mothers of young children gather around, cluck cluck, and, under the guise of admiration and adoration, comment on just how beautiful their own progeny were at four months, and how this particular infant is "hmmm, a bit small for her age...", and it all gets a little competitive. Almost a meeting, really...

I, however, take the opportunity to deliver a particularly ruthless fart; and I had been practising all morning with some real stinkers, heh, heh; whilst perambulating past the perambulator. This has the double impact of a) distressing all those in the vicinity and b) rather taking the gloss off the 'event' as the baby is accredited with the drifting noxiousness and its mother is required to leave her meeting with her boss and take it away for inspection, with all the associated embarrassment.

Oh, how dastardly! What a rotter! Or simply a master of high-efficiency, low-cost bio-degradable weaponry?

Loony Racing and Homo-eroticism

Loony Racing, or motorcycling as it is more commonly known, is a really strange business. Don't get me wrong, I've commented elsewhere that I've a great deal of respect for those guys - there is no way you would get me on one of those machines. I'm talking about proper motorcycling here, the Superbikes or MotoGP, those are serious machines going at serious speeds, and it is a pretty dangerous activity.

But just consider. Man in leather sits astride hot throbbing thrusting thing, and pursues other man in leather sitting astride hot throbbing thrusting thing, of whom the only visible parts are the leather stretched taught across his buttocks as they writhe from side to side attempting to keep his thighs and knees tight around the hot throbbing thrusting thing. And an exhaust pipe.

Grrrrr, more testosterone than you can shake a stick at. And it gets better. All the advertising hoardings proclaim the virtues of sausages and lubricants. I kid you not.

On a slightly different note, those of you who know who Miffy is won't need me to tell you that this is probably a good place to go. Don't ask why I've posted this now - I should have done it before, maybe it's something to do with the arrival of the niece. Whatever. Enjoy.

South of Harrow

Interestingly for the neighbours, the random play facility on the music software has discovered a taste for Slayer this morning. I say interestingly for the neighbours because this coincides with my discovery of how to convey the sound through the main domestic stereo, thereby beefing up the sound considerably, and generously sharing my exquisite taste with aforementioned neighbours. But it's the least I can do since they share the steady rhythms of their installing laminate flooring each morning and night, and the accompanying cheers of their domestic violence too.

Still, must be a bit of shock on a Sunday morning. Better than 'Quote Unquote with your host, Nigel Smug' or 'The Food Programme', with which I might be boring them to death if I was as truly vindictive as has been suggested in some quarters. Only Penfold need fret on that front, and I am merely one of the Alliance in plotting his discomfort. [At this point Mr. The Baker doubles up in malevolent laughter reminiscent of the late Vincent Price.] Penfold...I wouldn't give him the drippings off of my nose, to use a particularly charming expression from my native lands.

However, Com-pooh-ah is certainly set upon the hardcore path this morning, as we have just plunged into a gentle seam of Rollins Band, with that ever-mellow chap Henry the tattooed beat muthafucka, fervent anti-Bush campaigner and latter-day Bob Hope. The first time I went to a Rollins gig was in Sheffield with T, whilst I was resident in that Athens of the north, and on the walk back home we dropped in on some friends, ostensibly for a cup of tea, whence we watched 'Let Him Have It' on the goggler. How full of righteous anger do you wanna get? Heh, heh, I really think Com-pooh-ah is a tad raggy this morning, as it's now selected some Danzig. How soon afore we hit the darker stretches of Black Sabbath and do it properly? What other delights does it have access to? Paradise Lost, Godflesh, Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains, tee hee...

I did something radical yesterday, and bought some new knickers. I hate the word underpants, it's tatty and grey. I bought new knickers (black briefs if you're interested, mmm, just think about that and be glad I don't put pictures on this site) and, like the hopeless Brit that I am (it's an accident of geography, honest), I bought them at Marks & Spankers. They are to replace some old black boxers which are no longer 'fit for purpose' following the erosion of the gusset - when I say old, we're talking geological time here - and are themselves now tatty and grey. The main question around the knickers is this; why is each pair wrapped around a 'U-card' within the outer wrapping? Pointless, or what?

The Monthly Meeting

I'm sitting in a meeting room facility at a venue in the Midlands, a venue which has lost one of its major attractions since the removal of a GT40 from its exhibition. [Again, this is taken from notes made at the time]. I'm sitting in a meeting room because I'm in a meeting, one which is scheduled to take several hours, and it is my least favourite event of the month, and so one which I generally take pains to avoid unless truly I am forced to be there.

This need to take hours is slightly unfortunate, not least because I have a sore nipple, an affliction the origin of which is unknown to me, thus making it difficult to prevent re-occurrence. As ever, it is the right side which is causing me such discomfort. The possible causes vary, from being a consequence of my always-restless sleep, or excessive vigour when towelling myself post-bath, to something more subconscious, of which I am in no control. This latter is a little worrying.

Is it me or is the trailer for 'Lonesome Dove' unbelievably shit? The first time I saw it I was sure it was a spoof, indeed I kept expecting someone like Charlie Higson or the late Kenny Everett to appear.

A good friend sent me a link to a recent BBC Radio 4 programme about 'prog rock' which featured an interview with, amongst others, Capt. Brock. This is fine, but, of course, whenever such material is covered on radio or telly there are always the usual suspects. Keith Emerson, for one, Rick Wakeman, and the frankly ghastly Jon Anderson. What unites these people? Most obviously, a complete lack of self-doubt. They all acknowledge the extremity of indulgence about their musical ambition, but all equally believe that their talent merited such indulgence. Anderson seems to believe himself underindulged.

My friend Mr. Han Solo today offered the word 'envidulator'. Needless to say, he failed the exam, which said officer was over-seeing...

God I love ice-cream...better still, I love to share ice-cream. It always makes people smile.

I often describe people as being 'pronounally challenged', by which I usually mean that they have a tendency to use 'I' when describing achievement, in place of a more accurate and appropriate 'he/she/we'. I am increasingly aware of another phenomenon, however; the use of 'myself' instead of 'I'. It appears to be an effort to lend gravitas to the statement. I think it's just careless and clumsy.

Oh alas, alack, the GT40 has gone, departed. It has been sold, and is unlikely to be replaced. Why on earth else do they think I would want to visit a car museum? To look at old Rovers?

Being Conscientious...

This morning I am 'working from home', as they say, whilst waiting for an engineer to come and repair my washing machine. He is now late, and I have had to ask his boss to chivvy him along a little. In the meantime, what to do with my time?

Well, I've done some work, but there is only so much I can do outside of the office. I've made some calls to people to ask them to do work for me too. Then I went and did some shopping, and stopped to drop a suit in at the dry cleaners, where the proprietress asked how I am and commented that she hadn't seen me for a while. Which is true as I've been patronising an establishment near the office, but which I realise I don't have to, so I will return as a loyalist to my local cleaner. I like it in there, not least because she is an attractive woman, and in her younger days must have been an absolute stunner.

Then I've moped about here, ironed a couple of shirts (oh, the excitement) and listened to the wireless. But I had to turn that off, because it was 'You And Yours', and frankly, I hate consumer shows. Take a bit of responsibility for yourselves, folks, and you'll be surprised at how responsive various organisations will become.

However, speaking of 'You And Yours' brings me to one of my favourite subject, and that is voices. Specifically, sexy voices on the radio, voices that make me want to listen if the material is drivel. So, in no particular order and for no other reason than it's nice to share, here is a list of voices I like on the radio, and some of them I like on the telly too...

Winifred Robinson
Barbara Flynn
Charlotte Green
Souad Faress
Tamsin Greig
Fiona Shaw

This is not exhaustive, by any stretch, but clearly I like a woman who is well-spoken, and you'll agree that these are all voices worth listening to, no?

Office of the Living Dead

Having lain in the bath this morning and bemoaned the iPoltergeist's reluctance to indulge me in some Stone Rosary, two of the seven choons thus far cet matin are of that particular flavour. [N.B. these ramblings are verbatim from my desk as the day passed.]

But don't worry, the Byrds have indeed paid their customary early morning visit. You gotta admit, it is strange... after all, it doesn't like Spiritualized - it was a rendition of 'Come Together' on the wireless first thing which triggered this line of thought - but it does like Stereolab. And it also likes very early Motorhead - especially 'City Kids' and 'On Parole'. And this particular morning, it really loves Bill Hicks. A spiritually awakened iPoltergeist?

Interestingly, iPol also has a taste for Serge Gainsbourg, and in particular for '69 Annee Erotique'. This little nugget of desir francais, which features the delightful Jane Birkin (now there is a woman who has aged well, dare I say) is in regular rotation.

Over the millennia, thousands of generations of our ancestors have acknowledged the importance of the golden orb that illuminates our sky and graciously imparts its precious life-giving warmth and light unto our world, each day passing our way, and they have paid homage and worship. Even as monotheism and science have squeezed the ancient beliefs into obscurity, we still wonder at our absolute relationship with our parent star, its utter power and potency, and our special place in its orbit and our dependency upon it.

So I find it a little disappointing to have to work with a bunch of people who begin every single day by pulling down the blinds.

But then they so lack any soul, or sense of magic, that the span of a double rainbow across the sky holds no joy or interest for them. Nor does Fats Domino.

Send for the Soma, the Deltas need some consolation, some numbing.

Now it is afternoon, the Sun is in retreat. We have the blinds open now, now that the clouds have carpeted the sky, it must be added, and my troglodytic associates feel that they can come out into the half-light, rubbing the blinking thimbles of darkness which pass for eyes in the dough-balls of their faces, mouths agape in awe, wonder or is it simple stupor? To mock departing Helios?

On a more prosaic note, I find myself jotting these jottings whilst waiting for both people and computer to deliver on relatively simple requests.

Is this a slightly tedious situation to be in? Of course it is. There is always the usual pleasure to be had, and indeed there are some fine views to be enjoyed today, with some of our regular exhibits in a particularly good shape, noting a couple of my more established favourites, as well as an influx of new talent. Admittedly, the Wild Witch is absent, but there is a new addition to our ranks who has caught the eye, and the ear as she is chatty-fun too, and there is also the presence today of new bodies from visiting suppliers, and that too offers some entertainment of a relatively high order but, ultimately, I'm sitting here waiting for others to get their houses in order.

--

Well folks, you can see, absolutely riveting at the factory today, but, well, you can't have it all, can you? But you gotta try....

Na-na-na-na

I've just watched that 'Life on Mars', and I gotta say I like it. Well, I love the Sweeney, as you may know, and this pays due homage I reckon, laughs and darkness aplenty, and with a clever twist, and the music is good too, I understand there is to be an exposition of Hawkwindism in a future episode, of a 1973 vintage, and not only the obvious ditty. Yeah, good telly, followed up by 'Day of The Jackal' which I've never seen all the way through and it doesn't look like I'm going to now, either...but I did get around to reading it last year after many years of resisting, partly out of the authorship, and mostly out of snobbery.

I have to admit I enjoyed it, and, you know, Freddie Forsyth...he's a rum 'un, I reckon. I mean, I get a bit frightened sometimes, 'cause I hear him harping on and I find myself agreeing with him about something, that is a bit scary, yeah? It shows I'm getting old! But he's a bit of a nutter generally, isn't he? Anyway funny old day at work today, ha ha funny really, and a good discussion with K on why people get so hung up about flatulence. Why is it that we all try and pretend that it doesn't happen? Why do people get embarrassed about farting? What's wrong with farting? I feel better when I fart. I have to fart, we all have to fart, and we all feel better when we fart, so why pretend it doesn't go on. Nobody pretends they haven't got to go to work. I have to go to work, and there are things I do I don't like doing, but they are for my own good. I don't like brushing my teeth, but it is for my betterment, and farting is for my betterment, so I don't feel uncomfortable, and I like it. Nature forces us to fart, and in return she makes it a pleasurable experience. And we're too busy getting embarrassed to enjoy it! Look at other pack animals, sheep, cows, dogs, horses, they don't all stop and titter at one another, or all blush and ponce around, when one of 'em farts, so why do we? It's bananas.

I didn't notice in the police show whether the sirens were nena or woowoo? Wouldn't that be weird?

Soft Bun

What a fantastic week I've had, sorry I've not posted for a few days, but just so much excitement. Krusty has, for the first time, become an uncle, to a gurgling niece. My sister has been delivered of a 7lb10oz little girl, who I have yet to see but I'm going this afternoon, but I do have a picture. And, because a) to preserve her dignity, and b) because to be honest we're none of us that interested in the babies of strangers, I'm not going to post it here. But I am a very happy bun right now.

Well folks, what else is news? Good week at work, so you'll be glad there's no whingeing on that front here, and yes, I'm aware that I do it.

Ah, it's Sunday now, began this on Friday, and spent yesterday evening and this morning with new family, ha, ha, really not such a prickly old Krusty right now! Have enjoyed the motor racing this arvo, very exciting! Good day, really, even the radio and telly pretty good, heard the end of an interesting programme this morning which had guests including Norman Schwarzkopf, Tom King, Patrick Cordingley and John Simpson discussing Desert Storm and the current situation in Iraq, and seeming like sad men to me.

I'm just watching an advert; can you imagine if William Shatner just walked in on your life? No, nor can I. Boy there are some shit ads, if you're going to bother to attempt to make me well disposed to your product at least have the decency to entertain me.

Anyway, I'm pretty made up right now. And I think that I'm about to get 'ToTP' with the previously entertaining Mr. Hound.