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.