Ker-nackered Krusty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red Baron Caught Red Handed

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

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

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

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



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

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

I've no idea what to call this one

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

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

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

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

Anyway, that'll do for today.

The Return Of The Beast

The Apocalypse didn't occur on Tuesday, then, as many people have pointed out in many other places. I've not commented 'til now because I've had considerable difficulty in being allowed access to blogger.com, make of that what you will, so I've been able to see what many of my favourite bloggers have said on a variety of issues and totally unable to comment - is that a sigh of relief I hear, thank the Lord no drivel from that loony Krusty for a few days - and I've now forgotten all the wonderfully witty things I wanted to say. But I've seen some high quality stuff the last couple of days.

But albeit a few days late, the Beast is returning on Monday. This is the news that a colleague who has been away for her maternity leave returns to an undefined role on Monday, and who is frankly a crock o'shite. Dogmatic? I don't think I know a word that is stronger - bigoted, perhaps. Redeeming features? Huge breasts. But, even for the Superlech that is Krusty, this is not enough of a mitigation.

I don't like wasting my time with people. It's not fair on any of us, is it? So, if somebody says that they would like to hear my opinion, I expect them to hear it, and take notice of it. After all, I'm taking the trouble to form an opinion and invest my time in making it available to them in a manner with which their [usually] inferior mind can cope. I don't expect to expend all that effort just so they can tick the box that says 'Did you ask Krusty his view'.

My colleague wastes my time in this way, and is prone to wobblies when she doesn't like the message. She has also fucked the lives of two of the kids in the office who have had the misfortune to work for her. The damage she did to the confidence of one of them is unforgiveable. So we're not delighted at the prospect of her return.

However, on a lighter note, I did manage to once get Satan, as we might call her, to make a right spectacle of herself. She was rifling through the drawers of a colleague whose desk is next to mine. Innocently, I asked what she was looking for, could I help? "I'm looking for some painkillers," came the response. Oh, naif Krusty; "Why don't you just ask one of us for some?" said I.


"Coz I can do what the fuck I like when I'm on."

Having delivered this in a manner that combined snarl, scream and cobra-like venom-squirt, Satan stalked out of the office and, presumably, to the pharmacist. Leaving the open-plan workspace full of gaping mouths and boggle eyes, as men and women alike pondered the exchange.

"Well that told all of us," came the comment.

I've spent today at a 'trade conference' and what a load of bollocks, expensive bollocks, it was too. Suffice to say, folks, that come three o'clock, I was more than ready to fall in with the suggestion that my two chums and I retire to a nearby hostelry, where I drank IPA. I'm not usually an IPA man, I like my maltiness me, but it just hit the spot - ain't this whether glorious? The one redeeming feature of the conference was the presence of....Sparkly Eyes! Yes, just a few moments of conversation with said woman was a pleasure to restore the broadest of grins to the chops of this Baker, and better still, she had her boss with her too, a boss who is equally endowed with buxom bosom, equally be-bottomed and toothsome grin and jolly countenance, and who is six inches taller thus adding extra calf-and-thigh delight as a bonus. The heat had brought out an array of attractive outfits; as well as the business suit-clad, professional looking women, there were some who frankly looked as though they were dressed for a wedding. Gorgeous, more of it please.

My sister sent me this, it may be of amusement to you;

Why You Should Always Get Married In A Church



Cherry, I have spent time in both Crawley and Croydon, neither has much to offer me other than a change from where I do live, which is at the conjunction of Harrow and Northolt. Narrow, in fact. Near Netto. Which reminds me that one of the things I wanted to comment on was a thread somewhere which raised the topic of Netto, I am occasionally required to purchase 'samples' at the local outlet, and I have now taken to asking for danger money and decontamination at the food-lab at work, followed by a healthcheck with the Nurse.

And, to celebrate our close encounter with the Apocalypse, I offer this little nugget;



Bluddy 'ell, fellers.

Just Too Mellow

It's Sunday afternoon, the weather is glorious, so what am I doing other than lying on the sofa watching telly and doing this? Nothing, zilch. Boy am I a lazy git. I have done a lot of laundry this weekend, taking advantage of all that warm fresh air to dry it, and I have cooked and read and conversed with K, but I have not done a lot of any use. Such was the stress of deciding what to call a thing made from flour and yeast, baked in an oven then cut into pieces that I have needed much recuperation. This has involved quite a lot of cider, some rum, and some nosh.

Last nights delicious concoction was calf's liver fried in lardons, served with roast squash and sweet pepper. Mmm. Tonight there is a fillet of wild salmon waiting in the fridge, with more of the roast vegetable bit. I have also partaken of some pork pie, which I must cede was a disappointment.

The problem with pork pies is this. I grew up in Warwick, which means that I had regular access to pies from The Pork Shop; beautiful soft pastry, lots of jelly, and pink spicy meat. So, the 'Melton Mowbray' effort, with its ultra-short pastry, an increasing lack of jelly and grey meat - I once met someone at a food trade conference who regarded the greyness of the meat as what made his MM pies special - does not really have the desired effect for me. Even with plenty of brown sauce.

Apologies, I started to write this about 5pm, then promptly fell asleep. I return at 9.30, having eaten the salmon fillet with a glass, a generous glass, of pink wine. Anyway, I'm back now, fully fed - though making space for the strawberries and ice-cream to come - and my mind is all over the shop.

I've enjoyed some hot loonyracing this afternoon (ooh, those leather suits all stretched tight...). But mostly I've just enjoyed the hot weather, with all the windows open and a gentle breeze blowing through the flat. Just so mellow, really.

Cherry, yes, 'unctuous' is a terrific word, as is the similar 'oleaginous', and, strangely, I very nearly used 'unctuous' in a recent post, but chose not to as it did not do justice to what I hoped to say. I ended up not saying it anyway.

Right, the ice-cream calls, so I gotta love yers and leave yer. I might have a cheeky pina with it.

Please note the absence of rant. This can't last.

It's The Best Thing, But What Is It?

Here's a question for you. What is this stuff? Are you sure about that? Think hard now...ok, so you're sure you know what it is, and what to call it. Good. Now, think again, and consider what this is, and how we can tell them apart;

Ok? Got that? Took a long time that, didn't it? Well, such is my exciting world, I've just spent eight, yes eight, hours considering exactly that. And then another hour and a half parked on the M3 waiting to come home. Still, beats touring the KwikSaves of Anglesey.

Talking of touring, whilst exploring the interweb for means of delivering to you the sound of Chris Hawkins reading out the words of your least favourite Baker, I did come across some rather amusing material which is worth sharing;

For the Tonsorially Challenged

For when you've had a day like I've just had

Because it's unnecessarily entertaining

Because we are unable to find a solution to the sound problem, 'though thanks to Cherry Pie and Tom for suggested routes to market (aaaargh, call the Jargonauts), I herein publish the text in question.

Some context; Mr. Hawkins, on his early morning radio show on BBC6 Music (big audience then) has invited suggestions for suitable arrangements to accompany the clock to the 6th minute past the 6th hour of the 6th day of the 6th month, '06, on 6. So, I offered the following; it shouldn't be a surprise to the loyal Krustians and Krustacea, and I don't anticipate that the more interesting bits will be the selection;

Chris,

how about

'Number of the Beast' - Iron Maiden - a bit fierce for the early morning, but then you have woken me up with the Dead Kennedys before, so baps to anyone who gets upset at a bit of pompous NWOBHM of a morning.

Alternatively, for sheer fear and foreboding, how about the original 'Black Sabbath' by, er, Black Sabbath. Panic-struck horror as the apocalypse arrives over Birmingham. You could go for 'NIB' off that album too, is it me or did Ash rip that riff on their first album?

The Evil Elvis, Mr. Glenn Danzig, has 'Heart of the Devil' to offer off his dark opus 'Danzig III: How The Gods Kill' - ooh, scary...

For something that is so left field it merits a wider audience, try 'Solitaire Devil' from Mick Farren's Tijuana Bible 'Gringo Madness'. Reassuring in it's own little tequila-sodden way.

The Elvis Elvis gives us 'You're The Devil In Disguise'.

As it would be a 'revelation' to most people in this country, how about a little Grateful Dead, 'Friend Of The Devil'.

I think the late Mr. Presley might be in the running, but I ain't holding my breath.