Given that I am this evening unsupervised - Tabatha is in London, ma-in-law is out exercising The Force, I am at liberty to indulge in some hard-core blogging. And to plug me ear'oles into some tunery.
Well, I say tunery. I have recently developed a sneaky penchant for a certain hook-nosed screeching Canadian, with a line in excessively indulgent epic rawk, and particularly crass metaphoric lyrics. It is a little embarrassing, but I feel comfortable confessing here.
My name is Krusty and I'm becoming a Rush fan.
I learnt something very interesting today; nah, only kidding. I did hear some complete bollocks, and was impressed by the ability of the purveyors thereof to keep a straight face and apparently, in all honesty, expect the audience to take them seriously. Actually.
I have just noticed with some alarm, that iPol has listed a Rick Wakeman tune. This is unforgivable (see previous references to matters Yes).
So what has the move to rural Hampshire done for The Baker? Well, I am rediscovering the pleasure of being talked down to by people who assume that I know nothing of village life. This has now happened twice. I grew up in a 'village' that is about half the size of my current location, and am perfectly well acquainted with all its foibles - gossip, scandal, slanderous rumour, sympathetic racism ("Ooh I am sorry, I just heard about your new neighbours" - my Daddy used to let slip in the pub that our new neighbours were Chinese and see how long it took to get back to mother. 13hrs was pretty much the average. The other game was to suggest that it was a policeman - the feller who lived opposite us was referred to as 'Officer' for 15 years by one parish councillor.)
I am also delighted by the fact that the last sound I hear at night is an owl. Or if I'm really lucky, the agonised, tortured screams of an alpaca as it is sheared. I honestly thought that it must be the vet amputating a limb (which on an alpaca is highly likely to be a leg), given that there was this awful emission from the animal, reassuring murmurs of the owner, and the buzzing of a mechanical device. Oh, and it was 10.30 on Sunday evening, not the most obvious time to set about your pet camelids with the clippers. But it was just the shearer.
In the mornings I am awoken by the dawn chorus, and a splendid sound it is too. I look from the window and see the bunny rabbits prancing around the fields, awaiting the later escape as the sniper shoots, and the crows and the woodpecker pulling up worms. And the strange man from the newsagent arrives with the 'paper. I don't think he really likes me - he looks at me like I'm a conquistador and all I bring is TB. And I don't want to buy anything in his shop - but then I don't like pot noodle and I have no regular need for tinned otter hearts.
The sun gently beams down, and I drive along the leafy lanes, avoiding the deer carcass, and attendant buzzards, as I make my way for an honest day's toil.
At the weekends I can mix with a variety of people and enjoy their company. I can get helplessly drunk and walk home, and not worry about being arrested (getting drunk in the company of the local constabulary may be of some value in this), or slipping up on the pile of shite outside the various local fast-food joints, or mugged by the 'innit' crown on the corner.
On the subject of Pot Noodle, I love their advertising. It's always excellent. It has to be. The aim of marketing and sales is to;
a) persuade people to buy a product in the first place ('Trial'),
b) persuade those people to buy it again ('repeat'),
c) persuade more people to buy it ('penetration'),
d) persuade those people to buy it again more often ('frequency'),
e) persuade those people to buy more of it when they buy it ('trip volume')
Now, having 'trialled' a Pot Noodle, are you honestly likely to 'repeat'; of course not, it's repeated on you, not the other way round. So the advertising has to be shit hot to continue to 'drive trial'.
So congratulations to Pot Noodle, definitely a Type 4 or 5.