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?