In The Deep Midwinter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the Festive Gluttony...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He Seems Quite Pleased With Himself...

And the word is fecund.

Er...

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

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

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

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

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

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

xK