Folks, I'm so pleased with myself today, and about something so irrelevant as to be ridiculous. I was doing my toilet this morning, admiring myself in the mirror as I took a Gillette to the mutton-chops, when I heard something that made me nearly cut myself. My letter being read out on the wireless.
I've got a recording, it's an mp3 file, if anybody can help me post it in such a way as to make it hearable, you too can enjoy, as it was read out verbatim, unedited. But I don't know how to do it. If it needs to be in another format, let me know, I have conversion options - wav, m4a etc. I just can't figure out how to post it.
Now, for the benefit of Tom, whose rant has some validity, some overtaking at Monaco.
Anyway, hoped you liked that. Right, I'm off for some strawberries and cream, and maybe a blob of ice-cream too. Love y'all.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
Knockers, Tits and Big Dick
Yes, Tom, and you fell for it, ha ha ha, I'm afraid too long have I spent around shameless marketeers, and I can't help but have picked up some of their dastardly tricks. Knockers, tits, and, for the ladeez Big Dick (take yer pick!).
Oh what a phenomenally lazy day. I've spent two hours ploughing through all the letters and bank statements and bills that have not had a response for the last four months, most of it has gone in the bin, some has gone on the 'to question' pile, like the building society circular from the 'Head of Investments' who is writing to inform me of the cut in the interest rate on my savings account - hang on mate, I didn't notice a cut in base rates, so are you not investing very well, then?
Then there is the listening to loads of music. Oh, such wonders as the jukebox has turned up today [Excuse me, it's giving out 'The Rocker' right now, I am compelled to dance][Oh, back to back delight, 'Down At The Doctor' for some Dr. Feelgood, those cheeky chappies.] And reading. With a week to go, I have finished the book for the bookgroup, which was 'Barcelona Plates' by Alexei Sayle, and I loved it. Yes, pretty gruesome, but that's what short stories are for, isn't it - my experience of the genre is Dahl and Saki, so I guess that sets a certain expectation - anyway, I liked it. I don't think I'm Too Sexy For My Lorry will, though. It doesn't address ishooz, there's no starving peasants or oppressive dictators, no illustration of imperialist American hegemony, just lots of middle-class people, so bourgeois (Oh, thanks, I'll have a glass of chilled chardonnay, do they have any olives?), so no, probably won't tickle her thing. Besides, it wasn't her choice. It's grim up North Berkshire.
Oh Lord, I'm a couple of sherberts down the line, and they're suddenly coming home to roost. That, and the late night last night, as I attempted to watch the baseball - I didn't take any of it in, other than the continuing aggro about Barry Bonds, who did yesterday get to 715. [There's no need for me to say that, is there? If you're interested, you know that he got 715 yesterday, so you don't need me to tell you, and if you're not interested you have no idea what the fuck I'm on about, and equally don't give a fuck what I'm on about, do you?]
'Better a relativist than a Trotskyite, I always say - this coming from a country full of people so dense that they bend light on their own.' For the funniest thing I've read for a while, this gets a link.
Who is Tom DeLay?
"Hi folks, I'm an otter. My friends the gannets did warn me, but I still wasn't quite prepared for it. That eejit Simon King has moved in on my patch. No, not the drummer, the naturalist. The gannets spent a week shitting on him before he buggered off, I'm debating whether to do the same. Why does he insist on calling me Buster. My name is Geoff. All the girls know that - especially Stella and Trinny, my wifelets. But he thinks he's terribly funny. The badgers 'phoned to say that that Humble woman with the nice arse and absolutely nothing else to offer television other than a willingness to do whatever she's told in an effort to justify the contract the BBC obviously signed in a moment of madness, has moved in down the road from them. There's a camera outside their front door too. So they've taken to coming out later, then having a shit before clearing off into the woods. That's where they go to watch X-Factor Celebs.
"My cousin the Stoat, Bryan, tells me he ate the woodmouse's kids. That's the way it goes. I dunno, the lions get Attenborough. We get this."
Oh what a phenomenally lazy day. I've spent two hours ploughing through all the letters and bank statements and bills that have not had a response for the last four months, most of it has gone in the bin, some has gone on the 'to question' pile, like the building society circular from the 'Head of Investments' who is writing to inform me of the cut in the interest rate on my savings account - hang on mate, I didn't notice a cut in base rates, so are you not investing very well, then?
Then there is the listening to loads of music. Oh, such wonders as the jukebox has turned up today [Excuse me, it's giving out 'The Rocker' right now, I am compelled to dance][Oh, back to back delight, 'Down At The Doctor' for some Dr. Feelgood, those cheeky chappies.] And reading. With a week to go, I have finished the book for the bookgroup, which was 'Barcelona Plates' by Alexei Sayle, and I loved it. Yes, pretty gruesome, but that's what short stories are for, isn't it - my experience of the genre is Dahl and Saki, so I guess that sets a certain expectation - anyway, I liked it. I don't think I'm Too Sexy For My Lorry will, though. It doesn't address ishooz, there's no starving peasants or oppressive dictators, no illustration of imperialist American hegemony, just lots of middle-class people, so bourgeois (Oh, thanks, I'll have a glass of chilled chardonnay, do they have any olives?), so no, probably won't tickle her thing. Besides, it wasn't her choice. It's grim up North Berkshire.
Oh Lord, I'm a couple of sherberts down the line, and they're suddenly coming home to roost. That, and the late night last night, as I attempted to watch the baseball - I didn't take any of it in, other than the continuing aggro about Barry Bonds, who did yesterday get to 715. [There's no need for me to say that, is there? If you're interested, you know that he got 715 yesterday, so you don't need me to tell you, and if you're not interested you have no idea what the fuck I'm on about, and equally don't give a fuck what I'm on about, do you?]
'Better a relativist than a Trotskyite, I always say - this coming from a country full of people so dense that they bend light on their own.' For the funniest thing I've read for a while, this gets a link.
Who is Tom DeLay?
"Hi folks, I'm an otter. My friends the gannets did warn me, but I still wasn't quite prepared for it. That eejit Simon King has moved in on my patch. No, not the drummer, the naturalist. The gannets spent a week shitting on him before he buggered off, I'm debating whether to do the same. Why does he insist on calling me Buster. My name is Geoff. All the girls know that - especially Stella and Trinny, my wifelets. But he thinks he's terribly funny. The badgers 'phoned to say that that Humble woman with the nice arse and absolutely nothing else to offer television other than a willingness to do whatever she's told in an effort to justify the contract the BBC obviously signed in a moment of madness, has moved in down the road from them. There's a camera outside their front door too. So they've taken to coming out later, then having a shit before clearing off into the woods. That's where they go to watch X-Factor Celebs.
"My cousin the Stoat, Bryan, tells me he ate the woodmouse's kids. That's the way it goes. I dunno, the lions get Attenborough. We get this."
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Birds and Tits
I have spent the latter part of the day watching loads of birds on the telly, tits galore. Phwoar!!! Nearly as exciting as the race in Monaco this arvo.
Now, of course, it goes without saying ("So why are you saying it, K?") that I'm delighted that Sr. Alonso won, but I must concede a little sympathy for Messrs. Webber, Raikkonen and Trulli, all of whom broke down. Still, it's a team game, folks, so none of that crap I heard a lot of last year about KR being 'robbed'. And Fisichella, more of that kind of racing in the future, I think.
I'm debating whether or not to make a pot of coffee, and attempt to stay awake and watch the baseball. I haven't seen any this year, and I do quite like the game - so skilled and interesting and subtle unlike your other 'games', dear friends. Which reminds me, does anybody read this who is from Canada or any of the other colonies? Only joshing, I'm just curious, the comments all come from Blighty or the US, and it would be interesting to know if any other part of the English-speaking world is looking at this crap and thinking "Why does he bother?" Betty, you tell me, I'm just grateful that he reads it at all.
The coffee would be an interesting addendum to the pinacolada - it's just a fad, I'll be back on the cheap cider soon enough - which took the heat away following a large bowl of....yes, chicken liver fricasse! Nearly as good as real foie gras, Sonia, which I haven't had since a rather lovely dinner party last summer at a friends house on a south coast cliff top, where I contributed the f-g, cigars and a bottle of calvados (now there's a thought to go with the coffee, it is a bank holiday after all, no need to get up especially early, baseball or no), and a wonderful concoction or three by my malcontent but talented friend Mr. H.
I'm sat here listening to Pink Floyd. Yeah, so what? Well, it's a new-ish thing for me, I've always shied away from that, on numerous grounds, but I must concede that I'm enjoying it. My hosts at last weekends party (should that have an apostrophe, answers on a postcard), E and K have introduced me to a load of early PF, upto 'Wish You Were Here', as well as the Strawbs and Fairport Convention. In return I've exposed them to the delights of GD, Mr. Zappa, the good Captain and, as well as a healthy dash of Pink Fairies, of course, a big slice of Hawkwind. Well, live albums anyway. E and K enjoyed their party, and when I phoned the shop yesterday to say thank you to E for their contribution to my aural stimulation we had a good giggle about it. I also had a good giggle with H, who, whilst her husband D was propping up the bar, was doing serious damage to my knees by constantly hauling me up to dance. H is a devotee of Morten Harket, or is it Haarket/Haaket (same postcard please, don't waste a stamp), for some reason.
On the subject of live HW, if anyone knows where I can get a copy of 'Love In Space' to replace the one I lost eighteen months ago, that would be great. A what-I-can-only-describe-as-a-cunt crowbarred his way in to my flat and stole all my HW and related CDs, and a fistful of other music, most of which is now replaced. Among the more evasive to replace so far were 'Captured Rotation', which I had to buy from a dealer in Buenos Aires, and 'Distant Horizons' (New Jersey). Bedouin material, and 'Love In Space' remain untraced. Also, 'Pleasure Island' by Pink Fairies. I think it was this amongst other things that made it difficult for me to listen to HW for ages, until last December, since when my appetite has firmly returned. One big positive of the whole business was that it showed me that not all insurers are arseholes, and most generous of all was Marion and Huw Lloyd-Langton who, when I wrote asking if they could sell me some CDs, just sent me copies of Huw's albums, which was about as sound and kind a thing as a complete stranger could do for another. Not only does he play like an angel, he's a thoroughly decent bloke as well.
The birds are still on. It ought to be added that some of these birds have talons, and all have beaks - this is David Attenborough, not David Sullivan.
The coffee is brewing, my decision is made, back soon -ish!
Now, of course, it goes without saying ("So why are you saying it, K?") that I'm delighted that Sr. Alonso won, but I must concede a little sympathy for Messrs. Webber, Raikkonen and Trulli, all of whom broke down. Still, it's a team game, folks, so none of that crap I heard a lot of last year about KR being 'robbed'. And Fisichella, more of that kind of racing in the future, I think.
I'm debating whether or not to make a pot of coffee, and attempt to stay awake and watch the baseball. I haven't seen any this year, and I do quite like the game - so skilled and interesting and subtle unlike your other 'games', dear friends. Which reminds me, does anybody read this who is from Canada or any of the other colonies? Only joshing, I'm just curious, the comments all come from Blighty or the US, and it would be interesting to know if any other part of the English-speaking world is looking at this crap and thinking "Why does he bother?" Betty, you tell me, I'm just grateful that he reads it at all.
The coffee would be an interesting addendum to the pinacolada - it's just a fad, I'll be back on the cheap cider soon enough - which took the heat away following a large bowl of....yes, chicken liver fricasse! Nearly as good as real foie gras, Sonia, which I haven't had since a rather lovely dinner party last summer at a friends house on a south coast cliff top, where I contributed the f-g, cigars and a bottle of calvados (now there's a thought to go with the coffee, it is a bank holiday after all, no need to get up especially early, baseball or no), and a wonderful concoction or three by my malcontent but talented friend Mr. H.
I'm sat here listening to Pink Floyd. Yeah, so what? Well, it's a new-ish thing for me, I've always shied away from that, on numerous grounds, but I must concede that I'm enjoying it. My hosts at last weekends party (should that have an apostrophe, answers on a postcard), E and K have introduced me to a load of early PF, upto 'Wish You Were Here', as well as the Strawbs and Fairport Convention. In return I've exposed them to the delights of GD, Mr. Zappa, the good Captain and, as well as a healthy dash of Pink Fairies, of course, a big slice of Hawkwind. Well, live albums anyway. E and K enjoyed their party, and when I phoned the shop yesterday to say thank you to E for their contribution to my aural stimulation we had a good giggle about it. I also had a good giggle with H, who, whilst her husband D was propping up the bar, was doing serious damage to my knees by constantly hauling me up to dance. H is a devotee of Morten Harket, or is it Haarket/Haaket (same postcard please, don't waste a stamp), for some reason.
On the subject of live HW, if anyone knows where I can get a copy of 'Love In Space' to replace the one I lost eighteen months ago, that would be great. A what-I-can-only-describe-as-a-cunt crowbarred his way in to my flat and stole all my HW and related CDs, and a fistful of other music, most of which is now replaced. Among the more evasive to replace so far were 'Captured Rotation', which I had to buy from a dealer in Buenos Aires, and 'Distant Horizons' (New Jersey). Bedouin material, and 'Love In Space' remain untraced. Also, 'Pleasure Island' by Pink Fairies. I think it was this amongst other things that made it difficult for me to listen to HW for ages, until last December, since when my appetite has firmly returned. One big positive of the whole business was that it showed me that not all insurers are arseholes, and most generous of all was Marion and Huw Lloyd-Langton who, when I wrote asking if they could sell me some CDs, just sent me copies of Huw's albums, which was about as sound and kind a thing as a complete stranger could do for another. Not only does he play like an angel, he's a thoroughly decent bloke as well.
The birds are still on. It ought to be added that some of these birds have talons, and all have beaks - this is David Attenborough, not David Sullivan.
The coffee is brewing, my decision is made, back soon -ish!
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Like a Bowl of Kustard
There's a guy on the telly called Martin White who is playing an accordion and singing 'Wuthering Heights' and sounds uncannily like Kate Bush. Great stuff.
I've had a nice day today, I arose around ten, mooched around a little then went shopping for groceries. Well, actually, chicken livers (we all know what that means, but it is a bank holiday weekend), a halibut steak and some vegetables, some strawberries, icecream and more coconut cream and bacardi because I'm currently enjoying pinacoladas a lot and with a bit of practise have got it just about right. NB don't eat chocolate with pinacoladas, it has a similar effect to orange juice and toothpaste. Not a good idea.
As I was coming out of the supermarket I had a brief conversation with an elderly gentleman, of no consequence and perfectly civil. Anyway, I'd returned to the Krustymobile, and was sitting there just about to clear off when I realised that the old fellow was shambling across the car-park towards me, so I wound (I've never noticed this before, wound and wound) down the window, and waited to hear what he was obviously desperate to say.
I've no clear idea what he was going on about, but he enjoyed it, we chatted for about five minutes, and it was good to make him smile.
On the way up to the supermarket I'd chugged past the entertaining sight and sound of the local Baptist Church congregation gathered outside of Iceland and singing whatever it is they have to sing and getting really animated about it (Hallelujah!). On the way back they had pissed off, as it was raining. I'm sure there's a message there, but I'm not sure what...
I have just enjoyed the halibut steak with some chicory and butternut squash, and a glass of rose. Strawberries and icecream to come, mmmmm!!
I spent most of the afternoon sleeping, my average Saturday afternoon, with a brief interlude when I attacked the grime in the kitchen, what a shed, ugh, but now almost respectable.
The point of all this is that I'm feeling really mellow and gentle, and pleasantly disposed to all and sundry. Now I'm just going to make me a pina, and put my feet up.
I've had a nice day today, I arose around ten, mooched around a little then went shopping for groceries. Well, actually, chicken livers (we all know what that means, but it is a bank holiday weekend), a halibut steak and some vegetables, some strawberries, icecream and more coconut cream and bacardi because I'm currently enjoying pinacoladas a lot and with a bit of practise have got it just about right. NB don't eat chocolate with pinacoladas, it has a similar effect to orange juice and toothpaste. Not a good idea.
As I was coming out of the supermarket I had a brief conversation with an elderly gentleman, of no consequence and perfectly civil. Anyway, I'd returned to the Krustymobile, and was sitting there just about to clear off when I realised that the old fellow was shambling across the car-park towards me, so I wound (I've never noticed this before, wound and wound) down the window, and waited to hear what he was obviously desperate to say.
I've no clear idea what he was going on about, but he enjoyed it, we chatted for about five minutes, and it was good to make him smile.
On the way up to the supermarket I'd chugged past the entertaining sight and sound of the local Baptist Church congregation gathered outside of Iceland and singing whatever it is they have to sing and getting really animated about it (Hallelujah!). On the way back they had pissed off, as it was raining. I'm sure there's a message there, but I'm not sure what...
I have just enjoyed the halibut steak with some chicory and butternut squash, and a glass of rose. Strawberries and icecream to come, mmmmm!!
I spent most of the afternoon sleeping, my average Saturday afternoon, with a brief interlude when I attacked the grime in the kitchen, what a shed, ugh, but now almost respectable.
The point of all this is that I'm feeling really mellow and gentle, and pleasantly disposed to all and sundry. Now I'm just going to make me a pina, and put my feet up.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Self, Self, Self
Yet more of this 'myself' stuff today, a whole inbox full of it from the Important People, full of 'themselves', who are so busy telling anyone who is not interested in what 'myself' is doing and has achieved that they are failing to notice their own illiteracy. Most amusing is that the worst offenders are those who have yet to prove anything.
Nobs.
Nobs.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
By Popular Demand...
"He's back, he's the man behind the mask..." as Alice Cooper sang on a particularly ghastly film soundtrack song. Popular demand? Well, Cherrypie, at least, and that will do for me.
So where has The Baker been? Well, as commented last week, I was on a course, so be warned, I take no responsibility, although I will take 'ownership', should any management-speak bollocks (fellow Jargonauts who wish to offer examples of bingo-able bullshit feel free to submit for perusal and comment by fellow Krustians, we can have much chucklesome entertainment together, perhaps compare transatlantic notes) creep in here. It was indeed an attempt to indoctrinate, I approached with my usual scepticism, and, perhaps because of unbelievably low expectations, was pleasantly surprised at the quality on offer. Better than the usual fare, and they at least passed what I call the '80% test'. Doh, no, not the '80/20 Pareto' thing, which is not quite as simple as the average 'coach' likes to think, no, this is that mantric drivel that '80% of communication is body language.' Folks, this is bollocks. Body language may be important - I can be notoriously undemonstrative professionally, and have been described as 'a difficult audience' ("I've been talking for 45 minutes, I know you're listening because you haven't taken your eyes off me, but I've no idea if you think I'm spot on or talking pants" was one comment. I'm still listening, pal, you do the maths) - but it ain't that important. Or at least, it ain't the most important bit. Why? Well, Mr. Knowitall Coach, here's a telephone, order me a pizza with body language. Exactly. We have a brain and throat that is different to other animals, because it's adapted for language, on a big scale - massive vocabulary, grammar (think Chomsky here, not 'French For Today', heh, heh, I love to trot out those colourless green ideas when I'm into that groof and getting the point across that I have a little bit of background here, no expert, but certainly educated) and sophisticated intonation. It sets us apart; cetaceans and neanderthals, that's about it for comparison, and we ain't sure about them. (I bet body language is a major component of communication for a whale moaning about the weather to her chum miles away in the dark abyss...) It's a big investment evolution-wise, like walking upright. I suppose that, like walking upright, there is downside. Walking upright frees our hands for important things like cricket and beerglasses and going throught the CDs at the second-hand shop, but it means we get backache, bad hips, knees and ankles, and haemorrhoids. The effort of evolving sophisticated language means we get Chaucer and Shakespeare and Roberts Hunter and Calvert, but it also means Wordsworth and Littlejohn and Bliar. Anyway, these fellows (the trainer/coaches) passed the test, so they were in for a sympathetic time from yours truly.
Thank you for all the comments on the 'breasts' conversation. I neglected to point out that my associate is a bit of a fruitcake, and is not on the agenda for this prince other than as laughing company, and in small, albeit regular, doses. But your concern and advice was much appreciated. I love this blogosphere thing, all this concern and togetherness. Tom, what are you thinking of, how can you walk away from it?
Weekend meant family, and niece (ok, I hear you switching off in droves) and to some friends' 10th Anniversary bash, which was fantastic, and my knees are still hurting from all that bippin' an' a-boppin' an' a-tellin' the dirty jokes. A great night out, and everytime I sat down to eat or drink one of my ladyfriends - I do have them, they're just all spoken for, fingers beringed - came and frogmarched me back onto the floor for more gyrating. And singalong. A band, who were basically jamming, having stepped in at very short notice and with one rehearsal, provided covers galore, the usual stuff - Beatles, Stones, Kinks, Free, a bit of Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd, and a version of 'Superstition' by S. Wonder. I don't know if you've ever heard this played by a four-piece guitar r&b band, but I was struck but how much it reminded me of 'Trampled Under Foot'. There were also copious doses of that ol' fall back Status Quo. Highlight of the night, rock'n'roll-wise, was a rendition of 'I Saw Her Standing There' that compared with, though not quite as fabulously rough and raucous, as that from the Pink Fairies. Good fun.
The downside of all this fun was that I missed the media event of the weekend, the success of Lordi. Ha ha ha, it really sums that event up, doesn't it? My mother had the Prince's Trust do videoed, and this provided the entertainment on Sunday afternoon. Actually, I slept through it, to catch up on the sleep I hadn't caught up on on Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. I did unfortunately wake up to see both Patrick Kielty - why doesn't someone just put him out of everybody else's misery, "Minister!" - and Ben Elton, gurning out of the telly.
Ben Elton. I challenge the Minister to deliver suitable punishment. That would be Ben Elton the "working class 'ero, eh, eh? Only me Dad and me Uncle Geoff are leading academics, eh, eh?", fuck off pal, you're no more working class than me and don't try and pretend otherwise, you tart. Thank you for some of your telly scripts, but 'Thin Blue Line' rather counts against you, and do you want us to take into consideration your involvement with Andrew Lloyd Poem-Fucker-Upper and other crimes against the stage? "You pay forty quid to see a covers band and because I've put the songs in a specific order you think it's a musical, that's not a cynical exploitation and frankly disgracefully lazy waste of a stage and theatre then, eh, eh? Margaret Thatcher, eh? You couldn't make it up, my name's Ben Elton, give us yer money you ignorant plebs (leer, leer), goo'nigh'!"
'It makes my skin crawl' - second Alice quote of the night. And on that note, I'll bid you all goodnight. Love ya.
So where has The Baker been? Well, as commented last week, I was on a course, so be warned, I take no responsibility, although I will take 'ownership', should any management-speak bollocks (fellow Jargonauts who wish to offer examples of bingo-able bullshit feel free to submit for perusal and comment by fellow Krustians, we can have much chucklesome entertainment together, perhaps compare transatlantic notes) creep in here. It was indeed an attempt to indoctrinate, I approached with my usual scepticism, and, perhaps because of unbelievably low expectations, was pleasantly surprised at the quality on offer. Better than the usual fare, and they at least passed what I call the '80% test'. Doh, no, not the '80/20 Pareto' thing, which is not quite as simple as the average 'coach' likes to think, no, this is that mantric drivel that '80% of communication is body language.' Folks, this is bollocks. Body language may be important - I can be notoriously undemonstrative professionally, and have been described as 'a difficult audience' ("I've been talking for 45 minutes, I know you're listening because you haven't taken your eyes off me, but I've no idea if you think I'm spot on or talking pants" was one comment. I'm still listening, pal, you do the maths) - but it ain't that important. Or at least, it ain't the most important bit. Why? Well, Mr. Knowitall Coach, here's a telephone, order me a pizza with body language. Exactly. We have a brain and throat that is different to other animals, because it's adapted for language, on a big scale - massive vocabulary, grammar (think Chomsky here, not 'French For Today', heh, heh, I love to trot out those colourless green ideas when I'm into that groof and getting the point across that I have a little bit of background here, no expert, but certainly educated) and sophisticated intonation. It sets us apart; cetaceans and neanderthals, that's about it for comparison, and we ain't sure about them. (I bet body language is a major component of communication for a whale moaning about the weather to her chum miles away in the dark abyss...) It's a big investment evolution-wise, like walking upright. I suppose that, like walking upright, there is downside. Walking upright frees our hands for important things like cricket and beerglasses and going throught the CDs at the second-hand shop, but it means we get backache, bad hips, knees and ankles, and haemorrhoids. The effort of evolving sophisticated language means we get Chaucer and Shakespeare and Roberts Hunter and Calvert, but it also means Wordsworth and Littlejohn and Bliar. Anyway, these fellows (the trainer/coaches) passed the test, so they were in for a sympathetic time from yours truly.
Thank you for all the comments on the 'breasts' conversation. I neglected to point out that my associate is a bit of a fruitcake, and is not on the agenda for this prince other than as laughing company, and in small, albeit regular, doses. But your concern and advice was much appreciated. I love this blogosphere thing, all this concern and togetherness. Tom, what are you thinking of, how can you walk away from it?
Weekend meant family, and niece (ok, I hear you switching off in droves) and to some friends' 10th Anniversary bash, which was fantastic, and my knees are still hurting from all that bippin' an' a-boppin' an' a-tellin' the dirty jokes. A great night out, and everytime I sat down to eat or drink one of my ladyfriends - I do have them, they're just all spoken for, fingers beringed - came and frogmarched me back onto the floor for more gyrating. And singalong. A band, who were basically jamming, having stepped in at very short notice and with one rehearsal, provided covers galore, the usual stuff - Beatles, Stones, Kinks, Free, a bit of Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd, and a version of 'Superstition' by S. Wonder. I don't know if you've ever heard this played by a four-piece guitar r&b band, but I was struck but how much it reminded me of 'Trampled Under Foot'. There were also copious doses of that ol' fall back Status Quo. Highlight of the night, rock'n'roll-wise, was a rendition of 'I Saw Her Standing There' that compared with, though not quite as fabulously rough and raucous, as that from the Pink Fairies. Good fun.
The downside of all this fun was that I missed the media event of the weekend, the success of Lordi. Ha ha ha, it really sums that event up, doesn't it? My mother had the Prince's Trust do videoed, and this provided the entertainment on Sunday afternoon. Actually, I slept through it, to catch up on the sleep I hadn't caught up on on Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. I did unfortunately wake up to see both Patrick Kielty - why doesn't someone just put him out of everybody else's misery, "Minister!" - and Ben Elton, gurning out of the telly.
Ben Elton. I challenge the Minister to deliver suitable punishment. That would be Ben Elton the "working class 'ero, eh, eh? Only me Dad and me Uncle Geoff are leading academics, eh, eh?", fuck off pal, you're no more working class than me and don't try and pretend otherwise, you tart. Thank you for some of your telly scripts, but 'Thin Blue Line' rather counts against you, and do you want us to take into consideration your involvement with Andrew Lloyd Poem-Fucker-Upper and other crimes against the stage? "You pay forty quid to see a covers band and because I've put the songs in a specific order you think it's a musical, that's not a cynical exploitation and frankly disgracefully lazy waste of a stage and theatre then, eh, eh? Margaret Thatcher, eh? You couldn't make it up, my name's Ben Elton, give us yer money you ignorant plebs (leer, leer), goo'nigh'!"
'It makes my skin crawl' - second Alice quote of the night. And on that note, I'll bid you all goodnight. Love ya.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Somebody Said Something Really Nice To Me Today
Firstly, I've been forced to go back and re-appraise 'Vincibus Eruptum' when I finally got in this evening. Yes, it rocks, but it's gotta long way to go to be a DID for me.
To business. I've been on the first day of a course today, not bad, better than I had feared - they're usually such pointless dross. But it was OK. The high spot of the day though was a colleague saying to me "If it wasn't for you I might not have breasts still", as a thank you for my concern when she got a bit emotionally screwed up and shed loads of weight, and I pointed out to her that she was looking poorly. OK, I didn't cop a feel, but that is a small price as now they are there to be admired and appreciated. And so is she too, more importantly, rather than getting seriously ill. Too much frog-kissing, I'm afraid, whilst she ignores the princes around her.
That's it, to be honest, for today. A big thank you to Betty for clarifying the shorts issue.
To business. I've been on the first day of a course today, not bad, better than I had feared - they're usually such pointless dross. But it was OK. The high spot of the day though was a colleague saying to me "If it wasn't for you I might not have breasts still", as a thank you for my concern when she got a bit emotionally screwed up and shed loads of weight, and I pointed out to her that she was looking poorly. OK, I didn't cop a feel, but that is a small price as now they are there to be admired and appreciated. And so is she too, more importantly, rather than getting seriously ill. Too much frog-kissing, I'm afraid, whilst she ignores the princes around her.
That's it, to be honest, for today. A big thank you to Betty for clarifying the shorts issue.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
There's More To Shorts Than One Sixth Of A Gill
Another good day on the Arse front today, with that favoured, sparkly-eyed supplier [I've just stumbled across a radio programme called 'The Organist Entertains', Church, Wurlitzer and Hammond, what a tickle.] in house to entertain. I commented on her outfit - oh Krusty, you smoothie you, who needs double cream or custard... - and we got into a debate on something that remains a bit of a grey area for me.
How are the following distinguished?
culottes
city shorts
pedal pushers
knickerbockers
capri pants
plus-fours
cut-offs
It is all too confusing for me, so help would be appreciated.
'The Organist...' has 'Entertained', and very good it was too. There's plenty of scope with playing, tubes, blowing &c, but I won't go there. You can get that somewhere else...
There's a lot of ... today, isn't there? Sorry, but my mind is wandering a little, drifting. Not as lonely as a cloud, howe'er, not least because despite the envelope-stretching limits of boredom to which I am occasionally pushed, few get close to that of reading Wordsworth. I was made to do that at school, and it's one of the things for which I have not forgiven that institution.
Anyway, purely to test my ability to put a picture on this site, 'cause folks, this is the first, and because it shows that I made some effort to understand all these different types of shorts, some hotpants;
And because I'm not sure on the copyright issues with this kind of thing, here is where you can buy those hot-tastic-pants if you wish, or better still, buy them for someone.
Such a sight were those that I felt forced to go and make myself a pina-colada to get over them. That's better.
Anyway, now we know that Krusty can put pictures on here. Don't get excited, I'm not intending to do it often, but it does offer a little relief.
Have I been throught the concept of 'cottage cheese music' before? It comes from the description of Blue Cheer as being so heavy they 'turn the air into cottage cheese'. I like that idea. I like it more than I like Blue Cheer, as it happens, but que sera. Well, I was trying to convey this to the aforementioned sparkly-eyed one today, 'cause she asked what I was listening to, and it just so happened that I was listening to what is, for me, the definitive cottage cheese choon. 'Whole Lotta Love'. I don't need to say any more, do I? You too can feel that bass throb, that drum slapping and pounding, that dirty thrusting guitar...(there he goes again, ...ing all over the place with wanton abandon, is there a technical name for such a punctuation, if so please share your knowledge with gap-toothed Krusty and spare him the humiliation of having to ask at the bookgroup), you can feel the air change as your toes tap and you feel driven to jyrate and gump. She had never heard of the tune. Not even when I mention TotP. OK, alternative reference point then, how about Jimi Hendrix? No. I'm opening and closing my mouth like a koi - well, I'm a bit more upmarket than a goldfish - I just can't believe I'm having this conversation. There's no point in trying anything else, is there? Whatever you think of it, it is impossible to have avoided the music of the late Mr. Hendrix. Popular media will endeavour to make you make the effort to avoid it. Like The Beatles, you don't have any choice. It's one of these cultural 'norms' of modern society, like the expectation that you've read Dan Brown (x for Krusty there) and Harry bleedin' Potter (oops, another x there Krusty), you like Abba (golly Krusty, it's another x there too) and you watch 'Lost', 'Big Brother' and 'The Apprentice' (jeez Krusty, you're more out of it than Ovid under anaesthetic). But no, not sparkly-eyes. Poor wench. She's just not going to get what I'm on about.
She needs coolin'.
How are the following distinguished?
culottes
city shorts
pedal pushers
knickerbockers
capri pants
plus-fours
cut-offs
It is all too confusing for me, so help would be appreciated.
'The Organist...' has 'Entertained', and very good it was too. There's plenty of scope with playing, tubes, blowing &c, but I won't go there. You can get that somewhere else...
There's a lot of ... today, isn't there? Sorry, but my mind is wandering a little, drifting. Not as lonely as a cloud, howe'er, not least because despite the envelope-stretching limits of boredom to which I am occasionally pushed, few get close to that of reading Wordsworth. I was made to do that at school, and it's one of the things for which I have not forgiven that institution.
Anyway, purely to test my ability to put a picture on this site, 'cause folks, this is the first, and because it shows that I made some effort to understand all these different types of shorts, some hotpants;
And because I'm not sure on the copyright issues with this kind of thing, here is where you can buy those hot-tastic-pants if you wish, or better still, buy them for someone.
Such a sight were those that I felt forced to go and make myself a pina-colada to get over them. That's better.
Anyway, now we know that Krusty can put pictures on here. Don't get excited, I'm not intending to do it often, but it does offer a little relief.
Have I been throught the concept of 'cottage cheese music' before? It comes from the description of Blue Cheer as being so heavy they 'turn the air into cottage cheese'. I like that idea. I like it more than I like Blue Cheer, as it happens, but que sera. Well, I was trying to convey this to the aforementioned sparkly-eyed one today, 'cause she asked what I was listening to, and it just so happened that I was listening to what is, for me, the definitive cottage cheese choon. 'Whole Lotta Love'. I don't need to say any more, do I? You too can feel that bass throb, that drum slapping and pounding, that dirty thrusting guitar...(there he goes again, ...ing all over the place with wanton abandon, is there a technical name for such a punctuation, if so please share your knowledge with gap-toothed Krusty and spare him the humiliation of having to ask at the bookgroup), you can feel the air change as your toes tap and you feel driven to jyrate and gump. She had never heard of the tune. Not even when I mention TotP. OK, alternative reference point then, how about Jimi Hendrix? No. I'm opening and closing my mouth like a koi - well, I'm a bit more upmarket than a goldfish - I just can't believe I'm having this conversation. There's no point in trying anything else, is there? Whatever you think of it, it is impossible to have avoided the music of the late Mr. Hendrix. Popular media will endeavour to make you make the effort to avoid it. Like The Beatles, you don't have any choice. It's one of these cultural 'norms' of modern society, like the expectation that you've read Dan Brown (x for Krusty there) and Harry bleedin' Potter (oops, another x there Krusty), you like Abba (golly Krusty, it's another x there too) and you watch 'Lost', 'Big Brother' and 'The Apprentice' (jeez Krusty, you're more out of it than Ovid under anaesthetic). But no, not sparkly-eyes. Poor wench. She's just not going to get what I'm on about.
She needs coolin'.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Lazy Sunday Afternoons
Lazy? [At this point it is worth commenting that there is a documentary feature on Liverpool on the telly. I've spent what little effort I could be bothered to expend on anything this weekend on taking the piss out of that city on another blog, where there was a general consensus.] I don't know a word that is stronger than lazy. Bone bleedin' idle. Today I didn't even bother to get dressed. Just put on my dressing gown. You lazy, stinky git, Krusty.
I've dipped in and out of yesterday's 'paper, not really too bothered, and had a series of 'afternoon' naps. Breakfast was two kippers, accompanied by camomile tea - yes, I would much rather have had proper tea, but as I've explained, I really can't. You have no idea of the tremor that I had before the caffeine withdrawal, it was like George Best. It's still pretty bad, but better than was. [There's a fucking car alarm outside that is going off for the third time in an hour and is pissing me off.] Anyway, kippers was accompanied by 'The Archers'. Is Alistair a twat? Is Schula a smug old hypocrite who's just had a nasty wake-up call? Is Emma Carter just the most appalling slapper, the village bike whose mother Susan "Oi can take the moral hoighgroand 'cause Oi've been to giaol fer theft and fer hoiding my attemp'ed murderer and aarsonist psoicherparth brother Cloive and Oi down' loike the vikker be-in photograrphed kissin' 'iz girlfriend, it's not dignifoid, 'specially what wiv 'er bein' an Asian an' orl thart, not uz Oi iz a racist, o' course, ooh ar, an' Oi know orl aboo' dignity wiv my slattern of a daughter troi-in' to do a runner wiv 'er kid despoit the court tellin' 'er 'ow it is an' orl thaar" Carter is perhaps the most ghastly character in any soap opera ever?
I realise that this absolutely incomprehensible to Krustians and Krustacea (it's one apiece at present) who are not from the UK or rabid enthusiasts of the World Service. If you are a fan of the WS, please, what on earth is the appeal of 'West Way'? Isn't it just shit?
Anyway, after all that excitement, it was time to settle down to the important business of watching events from the Circuit de Catalunya, with the added element of attempting to spot my sister amongst the busy bees in blue. She 'phoned me yesterday just to shout "Listen to this" down the 'phone so that I could hear the crowd going mental. Heh, heh, I bet it was even louder this arvo!
--
Having taken a break from writing this last night I promptly fell asleep on the sofa, so have returned on Monday evening. My eyes are a little fucked, having spent a large part of the day looking at multi-coloured charts that are vaguely psychedelic but in no way interesting. Like an Ozric Tentacles gig, then? No, not that shit, but nearly. There was light relief when, late afternoon, summoned to the weekly sermon, an event I usually attempt to avoid by judicious use of the facilities available, I found myself seated with a view that allowed me to take in not one, not two, but six of my favourite bums in our office. Six of my top ten. Arse-o-rama. I was somewhat challenged by the giggles that I fought to stifle. However, in keeping with the theme of the latter part of day, I then had a major computer issue, so my day ended on a bum note.
Anyway, back here am I, delighted to see that there is traffic, having taken the (for me) risk of adding a counter - big puncture to the ego if traffic was really low. If you're visiting here and not commenting - yes, I know, everyone says this on their blog, but hell, I'm going to say it too - please, do feel welcome to piss up the post as you pass, and let us all know what you think. Indeed, it appears that it is now a message board anyway, which is great, it means I really do know how to host a party!
Oh, I forgot to include this; expensive American motors are In Heaven; I personally find this just so bizarre a way to flog a car, but then I've been a-Wreckin', and it ain't no luxury ride....but it's bloody good fun.
Shame they didn't use 'Slow Down You Grave-Robbin' Bastard'...
Apparently Mariah Carey is to compose a set of ringtones for some 'phone business or other. Yeah, you're sellin' it to me, folks.
Anyway, time to let it go for tonight, and I'm sure you're all delighted to see that Lusty Krusty is back, won't be long before there's one of those regular looney rants - such as 'What the fuck is an actor of the quality of Don Warrington doing making adverts for Kenco? And with the guy who plays that twat Tom Archer?' Love the symmetry, don't you...that's poetry for you. [Krusty, seeing as you have so little time for the characters in 'The Archers', why do you listen? Habit. Same reason I listen to 'Gardeners' Question Time' when I have no garden. Besides, that's what I pay £120 p.a for, and if the bastards try to do away with any of it I've got more reason to hound them, ha ha ha foam foam...] And let me just take that nugget of joy, Arse-o-rama, with me. Ooooooh.....
I've dipped in and out of yesterday's 'paper, not really too bothered, and had a series of 'afternoon' naps. Breakfast was two kippers, accompanied by camomile tea - yes, I would much rather have had proper tea, but as I've explained, I really can't. You have no idea of the tremor that I had before the caffeine withdrawal, it was like George Best. It's still pretty bad, but better than was. [There's a fucking car alarm outside that is going off for the third time in an hour and is pissing me off.] Anyway, kippers was accompanied by 'The Archers'. Is Alistair a twat? Is Schula a smug old hypocrite who's just had a nasty wake-up call? Is Emma Carter just the most appalling slapper, the village bike whose mother Susan "Oi can take the moral hoighgroand 'cause Oi've been to giaol fer theft and fer hoiding my attemp'ed murderer and aarsonist psoicherparth brother Cloive and Oi down' loike the vikker be-in photograrphed kissin' 'iz girlfriend, it's not dignifoid, 'specially what wiv 'er bein' an Asian an' orl thart, not uz Oi iz a racist, o' course, ooh ar, an' Oi know orl aboo' dignity wiv my slattern of a daughter troi-in' to do a runner wiv 'er kid despoit the court tellin' 'er 'ow it is an' orl thaar" Carter is perhaps the most ghastly character in any soap opera ever?
I realise that this absolutely incomprehensible to Krustians and Krustacea (it's one apiece at present) who are not from the UK or rabid enthusiasts of the World Service. If you are a fan of the WS, please, what on earth is the appeal of 'West Way'? Isn't it just shit?
Anyway, after all that excitement, it was time to settle down to the important business of watching events from the Circuit de Catalunya, with the added element of attempting to spot my sister amongst the busy bees in blue. She 'phoned me yesterday just to shout "Listen to this" down the 'phone so that I could hear the crowd going mental. Heh, heh, I bet it was even louder this arvo!
--
Having taken a break from writing this last night I promptly fell asleep on the sofa, so have returned on Monday evening. My eyes are a little fucked, having spent a large part of the day looking at multi-coloured charts that are vaguely psychedelic but in no way interesting. Like an Ozric Tentacles gig, then? No, not that shit, but nearly. There was light relief when, late afternoon, summoned to the weekly sermon, an event I usually attempt to avoid by judicious use of the facilities available, I found myself seated with a view that allowed me to take in not one, not two, but six of my favourite bums in our office. Six of my top ten. Arse-o-rama. I was somewhat challenged by the giggles that I fought to stifle. However, in keeping with the theme of the latter part of day, I then had a major computer issue, so my day ended on a bum note.
Anyway, back here am I, delighted to see that there is traffic, having taken the (for me) risk of adding a counter - big puncture to the ego if traffic was really low. If you're visiting here and not commenting - yes, I know, everyone says this on their blog, but hell, I'm going to say it too - please, do feel welcome to piss up the post as you pass, and let us all know what you think. Indeed, it appears that it is now a message board anyway, which is great, it means I really do know how to host a party!
Oh, I forgot to include this; expensive American motors are In Heaven; I personally find this just so bizarre a way to flog a car, but then I've been a-Wreckin', and it ain't no luxury ride....but it's bloody good fun.
Shame they didn't use 'Slow Down You Grave-Robbin' Bastard'...
Apparently Mariah Carey is to compose a set of ringtones for some 'phone business or other. Yeah, you're sellin' it to me, folks.
Anyway, time to let it go for tonight, and I'm sure you're all delighted to see that Lusty Krusty is back, won't be long before there's one of those regular looney rants - such as 'What the fuck is an actor of the quality of Don Warrington doing making adverts for Kenco? And with the guy who plays that twat Tom Archer?' Love the symmetry, don't you...that's poetry for you. [Krusty, seeing as you have so little time for the characters in 'The Archers', why do you listen? Habit. Same reason I listen to 'Gardeners' Question Time' when I have no garden. Besides, that's what I pay £120 p.a for, and if the bastards try to do away with any of it I've got more reason to hound them, ha ha ha foam foam...] And let me just take that nugget of joy, Arse-o-rama, with me. Ooooooh.....
Thursday, May 11, 2006
F-Factor
The subject of morning coffee has arisen. I now take a single cup of coffee of a morning, to accompany my toast and marmite at around 9.30. I have a latte, one of the benefits of the New Regime being the installation of a proper coffee machine making fresh coffee. Occasionally I will have further coffee, a single cup, in the afternoon, taken as an emergency measure when I realise that I am about to bang my chin on the table in a particularly needless and tedious meeting. Very occasionally I allow myself the indulgence of a cup of tea; nothing fancy, just strong tea, no sugar and a petit nuage, an expression used to describe my tea-drinking which I learnt from a French friend, of milk.
I've mentioned before that I used to drink staggering amounts of tea, and I do still miss it sometimes, but there we are. It isn't really very good for me, and it really isn't very good for anybody in my vicinity.
I spent a large part of the day under the impression that somebody was eating foie gras. I could smell it, I just couldn't see it. I was also aware that for a large part of the day I suffered from persistent flatulence. Then I realised that the two were connected. It was a consequence of eating a facefull of chicken liver fricasse last night. The secret ingredient was the addition of some slices of sweet potato.
I started writing this on Thursday, it's now Friday. What a day. But I won't bore you with that.
There are limits for any man, the point at which he really will tell people to Just Shut The Fuck Up. I used to do that, used to tell them exactly that, but these days, well, I tend to point out that I don't really need to be having that particular conversation with them, they're welcome to do something if they can do it better - Violet Elizabeth was somebody who had to be told that - but I'm going to leave it. I don't really expect to be getting a slating from my own team when I've just been getting stamped on by the opposition front row, know what I mean? If you give me a bow and arrows to fight against a tank, don't be surprised when I stagger back later, a bit bloodied, and get a bit ratty when you mention that you had a sword too...
Anyway, I don't get so narky these days. I just terminate the conversation. It will be curt, nay abrupt, but it will be quiet, clear and, in every sense, discrete. 1-0 to the Greek Genius, I guess. (I didn't like a recent comment, intended as a compliment, that I "fought like a Trojan." The Trojans lost. But then I have often compared myself to Cassandra.)
Have you ever had that moment, when you catch sight of somebody, or think of somebody, when you suddenly feel such a strong emotion in your heart that you catch your breath, put your hand to your mouth and have to close your eyes? For that briefest of moments you are totally isolated, alien to all that is around you, removed.
I'm waiting for my regular take-away, my Friday treat, which I will wash down with a cold ale from the 'fridge, having warmed up with a trio of stiff gins. I'm debating whether to watch 'Baghdad Cafe' - I love that film and haven't seen it for yonks.
There's an actress on the telly, I've no idea who she is, with a great pair of legs. I'm not notoriously a legs man, more a breasts and bum man (oh, and shape, not size is what matters here at the Bakery). That reads as though I have the option. Ha fucking ha.
Sorry to be a bit blue this week, Krustyans (or would you prefer Krustacea? Let me know), but that's the way it is. Ain't life funny?
I've mentioned before that I used to drink staggering amounts of tea, and I do still miss it sometimes, but there we are. It isn't really very good for me, and it really isn't very good for anybody in my vicinity.
I spent a large part of the day under the impression that somebody was eating foie gras. I could smell it, I just couldn't see it. I was also aware that for a large part of the day I suffered from persistent flatulence. Then I realised that the two were connected. It was a consequence of eating a facefull of chicken liver fricasse last night. The secret ingredient was the addition of some slices of sweet potato.
I started writing this on Thursday, it's now Friday. What a day. But I won't bore you with that.
There are limits for any man, the point at which he really will tell people to Just Shut The Fuck Up. I used to do that, used to tell them exactly that, but these days, well, I tend to point out that I don't really need to be having that particular conversation with them, they're welcome to do something if they can do it better - Violet Elizabeth was somebody who had to be told that - but I'm going to leave it. I don't really expect to be getting a slating from my own team when I've just been getting stamped on by the opposition front row, know what I mean? If you give me a bow and arrows to fight against a tank, don't be surprised when I stagger back later, a bit bloodied, and get a bit ratty when you mention that you had a sword too...
Anyway, I don't get so narky these days. I just terminate the conversation. It will be curt, nay abrupt, but it will be quiet, clear and, in every sense, discrete. 1-0 to the Greek Genius, I guess. (I didn't like a recent comment, intended as a compliment, that I "fought like a Trojan." The Trojans lost. But then I have often compared myself to Cassandra.)
Have you ever had that moment, when you catch sight of somebody, or think of somebody, when you suddenly feel such a strong emotion in your heart that you catch your breath, put your hand to your mouth and have to close your eyes? For that briefest of moments you are totally isolated, alien to all that is around you, removed.
I'm waiting for my regular take-away, my Friday treat, which I will wash down with a cold ale from the 'fridge, having warmed up with a trio of stiff gins. I'm debating whether to watch 'Baghdad Cafe' - I love that film and haven't seen it for yonks.
There's an actress on the telly, I've no idea who she is, with a great pair of legs. I'm not notoriously a legs man, more a breasts and bum man (oh, and shape, not size is what matters here at the Bakery). That reads as though I have the option. Ha fucking ha.
Sorry to be a bit blue this week, Krustyans (or would you prefer Krustacea? Let me know), but that's the way it is. Ain't life funny?
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
I'm Too Sexy For My Lorry
I've had this in my inbox since yesterday, courtesy of a friend who appreciates the pleasures of a boerewors, and whilst pretty unsavoury, it is extremely entertaining. Is it me, or does that guy look a little like the equally unsavoury Eugene Terreblanche? I thought it appropriate to share it with you as I sit here listening to 'On The Hour' ("Nyooooz"). It's that kind of a tale, I think.
Blimey, a really tedious day if you don't mind my saying so. I was also a bit tired, 'cause I was up late last night. I'd been to the book group, for the first time in ages, and it was great...but there is a new member and, well, she really isn't my cup of tea. She spent most of the two hours making sure we're all aware of just how clever she is, and establishing her left-wing credentials; she's been to lots of meetings to discuss the terrible things that naughty people are doing around the world, don't you know, and she's got the souvenirs and t-shirts (I bet that makes a real difference), and then illustrated why, for me, no-one can be arsed with intellectual lefties anymore. Because whilst two of us where discussing a book about Apollo astronauts she muscled in and harped on about how she couldn't believe in the moon-landings because, as a scientist, she needed proof. Then why don't you fucking prove they didn't go there, arsehole?
Her main argument is that the Americans needed to claim they got there because they wanted to put one over the Russians. So actually, she doesn't want to believe because it was the Americans who went there. The problem with people like her is that they're so busy being clever that they take the easy option of doubting, rather than enjoying, the magic of momentous achievement and the wonder at the difficult, and taking inspiration from it, as the product of collective human endeavour. Why do I admire Brunel? After all, he was crap at managing budgets, his ships were never commercially successful - only one remains and that having been rescued from rotting - and he had to start again with his railway line 'cause broadguage didn't catch on. But he had vision, real vision for what was far, far beyond his time, and achieved wonders - Paddington Station and Royal Albert Bridge are awesome structures - and I don't care whether the sun shines through Box Tunnel on his birthday or not, because I don't doubt that a man of that capability could've made it happen if he wanted.
The left, in this country anyway, has allowed mainstream politics to pass it by because it has become represented by a bunch of sanctimonious killjoys like my new acquaintance or amusing, but ultimately irrelevant, Seventies throw-back nutters like Bob Crowe. It offers nothing to the majority of British voters. That's why so many of them aren't voters anymore, as there are no alternatives.
Oh, did I mention her ethnicity? She did, repeatedly. No love, I don't care, I realise I'm a toothless awe-struck peasant, but I can decide whether I like you as an individual. The only thing that we heard more about was her even more brilliant teenage daughter. You just know that she sends a round-robin at Christmas. Although I suspect that Christmas is a bit bourgeois and just so obvious. Think David Baddiel without the laughs. Hang on, that is David Baddiel.
iPol was on amazing form today, quite perfect timing, because I needed my phantom phriend to be in the right groof - yes, there was Byrds - though no Small Faces - but it chucked up Spiritualized for the first time in yonks, and a double helping of both ZZ Top and.....Johnny Kidd & The Pirates. I struggled not to sit there 'Shakin' All Over'. And more Tijuana Bible. It still has a preference for 'City Kids' when offering Motorhead. Oh, and there were back-to-back covers, Gypsy Kings 'Hotel California' and They Might Be Giants 'Yeh Yeh'. But any inkling of a lapse into our old ways and I just mutter the words 'Mistletoe and Wine'.
I saw a little bit of the football tonight, with Middlesborough getting a bit of a pasting. Now, at the risk of causing controversy, does it really merit grown men crying? There were shots of blokes in the stands weeping, and lots of drivel from the commentator (is that tautologous?). I'm sorry, but I find it hard to take people like that very seriously - it's a fucking game.
Right, I'm off to my pit, I'm knackered.
Blimey, a really tedious day if you don't mind my saying so. I was also a bit tired, 'cause I was up late last night. I'd been to the book group, for the first time in ages, and it was great...but there is a new member and, well, she really isn't my cup of tea. She spent most of the two hours making sure we're all aware of just how clever she is, and establishing her left-wing credentials; she's been to lots of meetings to discuss the terrible things that naughty people are doing around the world, don't you know, and she's got the souvenirs and t-shirts (I bet that makes a real difference), and then illustrated why, for me, no-one can be arsed with intellectual lefties anymore. Because whilst two of us where discussing a book about Apollo astronauts she muscled in and harped on about how she couldn't believe in the moon-landings because, as a scientist, she needed proof. Then why don't you fucking prove they didn't go there, arsehole?
Her main argument is that the Americans needed to claim they got there because they wanted to put one over the Russians. So actually, she doesn't want to believe because it was the Americans who went there. The problem with people like her is that they're so busy being clever that they take the easy option of doubting, rather than enjoying, the magic of momentous achievement and the wonder at the difficult, and taking inspiration from it, as the product of collective human endeavour. Why do I admire Brunel? After all, he was crap at managing budgets, his ships were never commercially successful - only one remains and that having been rescued from rotting - and he had to start again with his railway line 'cause broadguage didn't catch on. But he had vision, real vision for what was far, far beyond his time, and achieved wonders - Paddington Station and Royal Albert Bridge are awesome structures - and I don't care whether the sun shines through Box Tunnel on his birthday or not, because I don't doubt that a man of that capability could've made it happen if he wanted.
The left, in this country anyway, has allowed mainstream politics to pass it by because it has become represented by a bunch of sanctimonious killjoys like my new acquaintance or amusing, but ultimately irrelevant, Seventies throw-back nutters like Bob Crowe. It offers nothing to the majority of British voters. That's why so many of them aren't voters anymore, as there are no alternatives.
Oh, did I mention her ethnicity? She did, repeatedly. No love, I don't care, I realise I'm a toothless awe-struck peasant, but I can decide whether I like you as an individual. The only thing that we heard more about was her even more brilliant teenage daughter. You just know that she sends a round-robin at Christmas. Although I suspect that Christmas is a bit bourgeois and just so obvious. Think David Baddiel without the laughs. Hang on, that is David Baddiel.
iPol was on amazing form today, quite perfect timing, because I needed my phantom phriend to be in the right groof - yes, there was Byrds - though no Small Faces - but it chucked up Spiritualized for the first time in yonks, and a double helping of both ZZ Top and.....Johnny Kidd & The Pirates. I struggled not to sit there 'Shakin' All Over'. And more Tijuana Bible. It still has a preference for 'City Kids' when offering Motorhead. Oh, and there were back-to-back covers, Gypsy Kings 'Hotel California' and They Might Be Giants 'Yeh Yeh'. But any inkling of a lapse into our old ways and I just mutter the words 'Mistletoe and Wine'.
I saw a little bit of the football tonight, with Middlesborough getting a bit of a pasting. Now, at the risk of causing controversy, does it really merit grown men crying? There were shots of blokes in the stands weeping, and lots of drivel from the commentator (is that tautologous?). I'm sorry, but I find it hard to take people like that very seriously - it's a fucking game.
Right, I'm off to my pit, I'm knackered.
Monday, May 08, 2006
The Loneliest Place In The World Is The Other Half Of The Bed
I'd been intending to be in bed by now, but I've been a bit distracted. I've not left my scribblings here since Friday, as I was in for a busy weekend up at the country seat. The Ruby Anniversary party was a great success - a little friction in the build-up, but they just won't learn not to poke the hornets' nest, so they got stung - but all the guests seemed to thoroughly enjoy themselves, and there was the entertainment of the two Uncles, and their apparently contrasting styles, which actually aren't a million dollars apart. The Career Soldier and the Career Hippie. It makes for good value. And I didn't poison anybody with the curry or the pork concoction.
The motor racing, what I saw of it, was a bit of a disappointment, though well done to Fisichella, and I believe he had words with M. Villeneuve, which is a good thing too. Also funny was the idea of footballers with the trots.
I just looked up at the telly and there was the fizzog of Uncle Dickie....aaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhh!!!!!! Telling us all about the campaign in the Far East.
Today, I got hold of some Lardy Cake. Mmmmmmmm. Actually, I was a little disappointed, I felt that they have not been as lardy as they might have been, it is a bit short on shortening and shugar for my taste, but it still went down well with a mug of cold milk.
I've been busy leaving my spoor around on a few other blogs the last few nights, thought I'd widen the net, besides, I had nothing worth saying. You might say that I don't most nights. Glad you enjoyed the Zappa vid, folks, I did too, which is why I shared.
I've been a bit pre-occupied today with les affairs de coeur, or more precisely, my lack thereof. I'm feeling a bit lonely, I guess, which I haven't for a while, or at least since I realised that the reason I got the boot from my last great love was that I had stopped being much fun to be around, and so I had no right to feel lonely. I wonder if I'm not getting a little broody (oh yes, she had a starring role over the weekend), in which case I'm concerned. Although a lot of my friends over the years have said "Krusty, you'll make a great dad." Their enthusiasm for this idea has waned dramatically when I invite them to be mum.
The Greek Genius had something curious to say last week, namely that the premise of capitalism is fear. I realise that this is not necessarily original, but I was struck that our conversation was veering towards a Marxist critique of society. Forget Dr. Anthony Clare, or the rather unctuous Dr. Raj 'State the bloody obvious' Persaud, how about 'In The Psychiatrist's Chair, with Mark Steel/Alexei Sayle'? That would be worth the licence fee. I commented that as fear is also the underlying basis of feudalism - I pledge fealty to my lord as I'm scared of starving/being hanged, he pays homage to the King because he's scared of decapitation - we haven't really come a long way, have we? He's a great enthusiast for Socrates.
Anyway, enough moping and mithering for one day. I'd say 'it's good to be back', but I think that's a somewhat discredited phrase these days...
Love y'all. Oh, by the way, if you get the chance, drop by Wendy's latest posting. It's worth it.
The motor racing, what I saw of it, was a bit of a disappointment, though well done to Fisichella, and I believe he had words with M. Villeneuve, which is a good thing too. Also funny was the idea of footballers with the trots.
I just looked up at the telly and there was the fizzog of Uncle Dickie....aaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhh!!!!!! Telling us all about the campaign in the Far East.
Today, I got hold of some Lardy Cake. Mmmmmmmm. Actually, I was a little disappointed, I felt that they have not been as lardy as they might have been, it is a bit short on shortening and shugar for my taste, but it still went down well with a mug of cold milk.
I've been busy leaving my spoor around on a few other blogs the last few nights, thought I'd widen the net, besides, I had nothing worth saying. You might say that I don't most nights. Glad you enjoyed the Zappa vid, folks, I did too, which is why I shared.
I've been a bit pre-occupied today with les affairs de coeur, or more precisely, my lack thereof. I'm feeling a bit lonely, I guess, which I haven't for a while, or at least since I realised that the reason I got the boot from my last great love was that I had stopped being much fun to be around, and so I had no right to feel lonely. I wonder if I'm not getting a little broody (oh yes, she had a starring role over the weekend), in which case I'm concerned. Although a lot of my friends over the years have said "Krusty, you'll make a great dad." Their enthusiasm for this idea has waned dramatically when I invite them to be mum.
The Greek Genius had something curious to say last week, namely that the premise of capitalism is fear. I realise that this is not necessarily original, but I was struck that our conversation was veering towards a Marxist critique of society. Forget Dr. Anthony Clare, or the rather unctuous Dr. Raj 'State the bloody obvious' Persaud, how about 'In The Psychiatrist's Chair, with Mark Steel/Alexei Sayle'? That would be worth the licence fee. I commented that as fear is also the underlying basis of feudalism - I pledge fealty to my lord as I'm scared of starving/being hanged, he pays homage to the King because he's scared of decapitation - we haven't really come a long way, have we? He's a great enthusiast for Socrates.
Anyway, enough moping and mithering for one day. I'd say 'it's good to be back', but I think that's a somewhat discredited phrase these days...
Love y'all. Oh, by the way, if you get the chance, drop by Wendy's latest posting. It's worth it.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Kurry and Kountry Musik
Fungus is gone, Fungus is gone, hoorah, hoorah! But wait, what is this? Reefer Reid for Home Sec? Well he brings a wealth of experience to the job, I'm sure. Just the man to tackle violent drunkenness on the streets.
Well, the weekend is here, nary a moment too soon for me after a difficult few days. This evening I have been slaving over a hot stove, preparing goodies for the party that I am hosting at the ancestral pile this weekend to celebrate the Ruby wedding anniversary of Mummy and Daddy, notably the basis of what will be a fine chicken curry and something I do with pork (oi, no sniggering at the back, there). This entails entertaining some of their friends. As my sister has done the bookings and invitings, I've been able to negotiate some say in this in return for contributing foodstuffs and booze. I don't know about you, but I've always been really uncomfortable with that parents' friends thing, that they are automatically my friends too....there are some I'm just not so keen on. It's strange. But then, they haven't always been keen on some of my friends, so I guess it's legitimate to reciprocate.
Came across this in my meanderings; I think it's hilarious. Note our hero's foot starting to really motor as he gets more irritated with the dickhead. My foot does that too, I always thought it was just a Krusty thing. This is a twenty yr old clip. I don't know if the issue is still relevant in the US, but it is here. You will know that if you drop by here occasionally, and I don't need to rant again. Suffice to say, if you try and ban words because you don't like the ideas they are associated with, well, that's newspeak. Aaaaargghhh, that cheery chappie Orwell rears his ugly head again. (His real name was Blair!!!!)
I'm watching Emmylou Harris on the telly, wearing a truly appalling outfit, playing what is possibly the most un-animated set ever, on a stage set which is borrowed from a pilot for a Terry Wogan vehicle, and with a commentary from the man who does the voiceover for the Lottery - to what fucking end, exactly, do I care what fucking machine and balls it is, no, I just care what fucking numbers, and I can see that for myself, what a great use of my licence fee - from the depths of Auntie's Archives, because it is preferable to 'Grumpy Old Men', which whilst a good premise is spoilt by the presence of Rick Wakeman. Not on my telly. On the subject of telly, Zen, yes, I should have heeded thine warning, for 'Lonesome Dove' is indeed dire, even worse than the trailers, but in an oddly compelling manner.
John, what few readers come here are Americans, so I'll be sparing about taking the piss, but I take your point. But they do have better teeth than us. What I would like to do, and if you have any ideas do offer them, is find a way to bait some of those DeadHead pedants who get all wound up about crappy details, and forget that it is just pop music. They are so funny. I agree on the thing with people not 'sharing' being at a good show. Heh, heh, should've gone to HW, eh? That's a shared night. Why do people not want to party together at a good gig?
Last night I ate boerewors. I've never had it before. Delicious.
It wasn't the nob from the Lottery after all, it was someone called David Allen. As opposed to Daevid Allen. And the show was from Wembley Arena in 1984, which would explain the awful outfit, and the audience that appeared to have been placed in stasis.
The effect of a glass of wine and some cider is that I'm falling asleep at the coalface here, so I'll take my leave and bid you goodnight.
Well, the weekend is here, nary a moment too soon for me after a difficult few days. This evening I have been slaving over a hot stove, preparing goodies for the party that I am hosting at the ancestral pile this weekend to celebrate the Ruby wedding anniversary of Mummy and Daddy, notably the basis of what will be a fine chicken curry and something I do with pork (oi, no sniggering at the back, there). This entails entertaining some of their friends. As my sister has done the bookings and invitings, I've been able to negotiate some say in this in return for contributing foodstuffs and booze. I don't know about you, but I've always been really uncomfortable with that parents' friends thing, that they are automatically my friends too....there are some I'm just not so keen on. It's strange. But then, they haven't always been keen on some of my friends, so I guess it's legitimate to reciprocate.
Came across this in my meanderings; I think it's hilarious. Note our hero's foot starting to really motor as he gets more irritated with the dickhead. My foot does that too, I always thought it was just a Krusty thing. This is a twenty yr old clip. I don't know if the issue is still relevant in the US, but it is here. You will know that if you drop by here occasionally, and I don't need to rant again. Suffice to say, if you try and ban words because you don't like the ideas they are associated with, well, that's newspeak. Aaaaargghhh, that cheery chappie Orwell rears his ugly head again. (His real name was Blair!!!!)
I'm watching Emmylou Harris on the telly, wearing a truly appalling outfit, playing what is possibly the most un-animated set ever, on a stage set which is borrowed from a pilot for a Terry Wogan vehicle, and with a commentary from the man who does the voiceover for the Lottery - to what fucking end, exactly, do I care what fucking machine and balls it is, no, I just care what fucking numbers, and I can see that for myself, what a great use of my licence fee - from the depths of Auntie's Archives, because it is preferable to 'Grumpy Old Men', which whilst a good premise is spoilt by the presence of Rick Wakeman. Not on my telly. On the subject of telly, Zen, yes, I should have heeded thine warning, for 'Lonesome Dove' is indeed dire, even worse than the trailers, but in an oddly compelling manner.
John, what few readers come here are Americans, so I'll be sparing about taking the piss, but I take your point. But they do have better teeth than us. What I would like to do, and if you have any ideas do offer them, is find a way to bait some of those DeadHead pedants who get all wound up about crappy details, and forget that it is just pop music. They are so funny. I agree on the thing with people not 'sharing' being at a good show. Heh, heh, should've gone to HW, eh? That's a shared night. Why do people not want to party together at a good gig?
Last night I ate boerewors. I've never had it before. Delicious.
It wasn't the nob from the Lottery after all, it was someone called David Allen. As opposed to Daevid Allen. And the show was from Wembley Arena in 1984, which would explain the awful outfit, and the audience that appeared to have been placed in stasis.
The effect of a glass of wine and some cider is that I'm falling asleep at the coalface here, so I'll take my leave and bid you goodnight.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Bits 'N' Pieces
Fret not, nothing to do with the abomination that was once the Radio 1 Roadshow. (Is there still such a thing...I haven't listened to Radio 1 since I was 14, which is, ahem, twenty years ago, in the days of DLT and Simon 'Our Tune' Bates and other assorted shit. Do I have to mention Steve Wright In The Afternoon and "ooooh, Gary Davies"...damn, I have.) Anyway, this is a bit bitty, 'cause I've had a weird ole day, the detail of which I don't need to share, so I'll share other stuff 'cause it's worth sharing. I hope. To Krustyans in the US and elsewhere, you probably have no idea what that first couple of sentences was about, and I recommend that you keep it that way. Unless you want to take a summer tour of the market squares and piers of the UK. Wow-a-munga, what japes. "Live, from Burnham-On-Crouch...."
I had intended to come here this evening with all manner of profundities, but I left my notes somewhere else, and so you'll have to manage with this titbits...
Anyway, first up is a big thank you to my associate sonia-belle. I know 'her' site isn't to the taste of everyone, but I have to thank her for helping me clarify my thoughts on an issue of the day, and for being courteous about our disagreement...so good stuff. Similarly, the return of sweeteffay with some sharp stuff about the current farce that is Government here, and what is just a weird piccy has lightened an otherwise crappy couple of days...so more thank 'e kindly sir.
Purely in the interests of research, I signed up to this. In an expectation of something a bit more than just the kind of crude rubbish that no less a man than Alistair Campbell used to write for twat mags. But I was to be disappointed. Suffice to say, Anais Nin it ain't.
On the subject of dirty, I'm listening to 'Ladies and Gentlemen...the Grateful Dead'. Yeah, so what, I hear you say, there is nothing so boring as people who harp on about a band, and especially the GD. I just wanted to comment that 'I'm A King Bee' on said record is rude. Really Rude. Ruder than my book of Pirelli Calendar pictures. And that is rude.
Anyway, as the consolation prize of a glass of port leaves its sinister sediment behind to remind me that it is time for my pit, and I have a whole new day to look forward to; including a well-worked excuse to evade Meeting of the Month and the disappointment of the missing GT40 (mourn, mourn), and probably the fug of the tiny drop of port taking its evil vengeance; I take my leave of you, friends. Back soon for more ramblings.
I had intended to come here this evening with all manner of profundities, but I left my notes somewhere else, and so you'll have to manage with this titbits...
Anyway, first up is a big thank you to my associate sonia-belle. I know 'her' site isn't to the taste of everyone, but I have to thank her for helping me clarify my thoughts on an issue of the day, and for being courteous about our disagreement...so good stuff. Similarly, the return of sweeteffay with some sharp stuff about the current farce that is Government here, and what is just a weird piccy has lightened an otherwise crappy couple of days...so more thank 'e kindly sir.
Purely in the interests of research, I signed up to this. In an expectation of something a bit more than just the kind of crude rubbish that no less a man than Alistair Campbell used to write for twat mags. But I was to be disappointed. Suffice to say, Anais Nin it ain't.
On the subject of dirty, I'm listening to 'Ladies and Gentlemen...the Grateful Dead'. Yeah, so what, I hear you say, there is nothing so boring as people who harp on about a band, and especially the GD. I just wanted to comment that 'I'm A King Bee' on said record is rude. Really Rude. Ruder than my book of Pirelli Calendar pictures. And that is rude.
Anyway, as the consolation prize of a glass of port leaves its sinister sediment behind to remind me that it is time for my pit, and I have a whole new day to look forward to; including a well-worked excuse to evade Meeting of the Month and the disappointment of the missing GT40 (mourn, mourn), and probably the fug of the tiny drop of port taking its evil vengeance; I take my leave of you, friends. Back soon for more ramblings.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Salt In The Wound
It is worth commenting that as I was bemoaning the cancellation of the movie last night, the presenter of the football was telling me that the matches they were about to show me were of no consequence as all the major issues have been settled.
Thanks.
Thanks.
What on Earth?
I've not been here for a couple of days, a combination of factors, including remorse at a home-made lentil curry, professional pressures, a bit of bloggers' block, and an awareness that I could easily bore the pants of everyone by continuing to rant about the bunch of tossers (that word again W!) 'running' the country. Suffice to say that those of you who live here and pay your tax here are probably feeling similarly bemused/enraged/lynch-mob-esque as me, whatever your default political persuasion, and those of you who don't live here and pay your tax here are a) blissfully unaware of what's been happening this week, or b) just blissful that you aren't living here and paying here. Unless you live in one of the places we're busy shitting up at the moment.
Right, on the more positive side of thing, I've spent the weekend with my sister and brother-in-law and niece, who is just gorgeous. Although her appeal wore off a little when she spewed milk-sick onto my feet this morning. But that's what babies do. But she's so cute....no, I must stop, because as we all know, other people's babies is boring.
Whilst work has been a serious chore this week (when is it not?), there have been some moments of light relief. Breast quotient has been high, so whilst 'thinking' and 'problem solving', which entail a lot of staring into the middle distance with a bemused expression on my face, I've been able to do a fair bit of quiet aesthetic appreciating, reinforced by the iPol's decision to fully fall into line. The Cliff Richard line has obviously done the trick, as amongst the many pleasures to turn up was some Tijuana Bible and some Ian Dury - whose praises I don't need to sing, as most of what might be said has been. (It's gone midnight, I'm watching the snooker, not because I enjoy it, but because I'm waiting for 'The Wild Bunch' 'cause I've never seen it, and some twat is outside tooting his horn.)
I've also had the question foisted upon me; how can one miss? "Uh?", you say. Well, I walked into our woefully poor lavatories at work, where because of the insistence of the 'Environment Manager' we have cisterns that are too small and so 'not up to the job' as it were, small craps only please, and what should I find but...a segment of turd on the floor. I'm just going to let you consider that a moment. So, how does one miss? I just don't know, I don't understand. It's surely impossible, it's a point blank shot.
K rang this evening, she has started to ask some pretty direct questions, much to my amusement.
I have next to me here the most beautiful jug of tulips, some white, some red and yellow. The stems are upright, the flowers still fairly closed, and the leaves that beautiful squeaky waxy way that is so much fun. I bought some for me, and some for each of my sisters. I love tulips. I love flowers, actually. Does that make me sound gay?
I wish this fucking snooker would finish and I could turn on the video and go to bed. Mind you, knowing my luck they'll cancel the film and show bloody 'Match of the Day' instead. Or worse. Is there worse than MOTD? I suppose it could be show-jumping.
Right, on the more positive side of thing, I've spent the weekend with my sister and brother-in-law and niece, who is just gorgeous. Although her appeal wore off a little when she spewed milk-sick onto my feet this morning. But that's what babies do. But she's so cute....no, I must stop, because as we all know, other people's babies is boring.
Whilst work has been a serious chore this week (when is it not?), there have been some moments of light relief. Breast quotient has been high, so whilst 'thinking' and 'problem solving', which entail a lot of staring into the middle distance with a bemused expression on my face, I've been able to do a fair bit of quiet aesthetic appreciating, reinforced by the iPol's decision to fully fall into line. The Cliff Richard line has obviously done the trick, as amongst the many pleasures to turn up was some Tijuana Bible and some Ian Dury - whose praises I don't need to sing, as most of what might be said has been. (It's gone midnight, I'm watching the snooker, not because I enjoy it, but because I'm waiting for 'The Wild Bunch' 'cause I've never seen it, and some twat is outside tooting his horn.)
I've also had the question foisted upon me; how can one miss? "Uh?", you say. Well, I walked into our woefully poor lavatories at work, where because of the insistence of the 'Environment Manager' we have cisterns that are too small and so 'not up to the job' as it were, small craps only please, and what should I find but...a segment of turd on the floor. I'm just going to let you consider that a moment. So, how does one miss? I just don't know, I don't understand. It's surely impossible, it's a point blank shot.
K rang this evening, she has started to ask some pretty direct questions, much to my amusement.
I have next to me here the most beautiful jug of tulips, some white, some red and yellow. The stems are upright, the flowers still fairly closed, and the leaves that beautiful squeaky waxy way that is so much fun. I bought some for me, and some for each of my sisters. I love tulips. I love flowers, actually. Does that make me sound gay?
I wish this fucking snooker would finish and I could turn on the video and go to bed. Mind you, knowing my luck they'll cancel the film and show bloody 'Match of the Day' instead. Or worse. Is there worse than MOTD? I suppose it could be show-jumping.
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