hot spicy bun

The Sheriff of Tripoli

2009-09-16T14:57:00.005+01:00

That Alan Rickman! For some reason, alll the girlies are a bit sweet on him. Well, consider this, all your regular dictators have a doppelganger for when the oppressed get a bit restless, and Al-boy hasn't been on the telly recently - and he does have form as Hollywood villains - so check out the attached;

Moving House!

2009-07-31T11:01:00.001+01:00

Apparently, moving house is one of the most stressful experiences that there is. I think that this is probably true, having now just done it. I think that a significant part of the stressing comes from the need to make multiple visits to Ikea in Southampton, and I am convinced that my ability to now have done this four times in 3 weeks, including on two consecutive days, and to not go postal, can only enhance my canditature for beatification.

So much to tell! My brief moment of road rage, leaving the Dukes Walk car park in Waterlooville - I love that name for a car park, I can't help but get out of the car and swagger around drawling about the 'Son uv Guaaaaard' - as I'm queuing at the lights and these two guys in a stretch Bentley are trying to muscle into the queue and I'm gobbing off about the big car arrogance and then Tabatha points out that they're actually trying to get into the back gate of one of the shops; would I like to notice which shop? Ah....the funeral directors.

Oh no, a life without purpose....

2009-07-01T21:47:00.002+01:00

...I have ceased employment, and following the tidying up of the loose ends I don't really have any real need to get up tomorrow morning, although Socrates advises that I don't lose the habit of getting up (yeah, mate, but not at twenty to fucking six any more, so I can drive past the still-steaming carcasses of the early morning roadkill) and anyway, the mother-in-law-to-be has suggested that I might like to go to niece's end of term school assembly tomorrow, and that this would be a really popular move. The last term I went to an end-of-term assembly was ahem years ago and was that typical formality that we went through every year at Market Town Minor School which involved jeering of the headmaster as he whinged about some wanton vandalism, crowed about an irrelevant sporting triumph and jabbered on about other drivel that didn't interest us when we had to come back tomorrow.

Anyway, I now have a reason to get up tomorrow, and not to get drunk tonight.

I did drink last night, this caused some huffin' and puffin' in some quarters, because I rocked up at oure hoostes with 2l of Pepsi-Cola and a half bottle of Cockspur. The major source of contention was that I chose to drink them seperately, drinking my rum as a neat sippin' shortie, and my cola as a long cold refresher. So I enjoyed them, and read a bit and listened to a podcast about the late Roy Jenkins, who I did not realise was actually quite an interesting feller, and someone who made a difference.

Today I saw Socrates which was, as ever, a rewarding experience, and we discussed amongst other things a particularly nasty dream I had recently, which involved my being part of a SWAT team and being engaged in a thoroughly bloody shoot-out in a trailer park to liberate, some hostages, and the last of the baddies refusing to be arrested and taking a poison which caused his blood to turn to jelly in his veins. Not nice, but apparently nothing to worry about. I've probably been watching too much of tv such as Numbers and various incarnations of CSI.

I've had to promise Tabatha that we'll have Sky when we move into the new pad, this will enable us to watch endless reruns of House, and pointless motorsport series. There's a prize if anyone can rationally explain the need for Supercross? Is it not even less valid than tennis? And remember, I like motorsport.

Lawdy, it's so warm!

Southern Fried Chicken

2009-06-27T17:12:00.002+01:00

Given that it's bloody hot today, it seemed like a really good idea to drive around with chickens in the car, up and down the M27. After all, why wouldn't you?

We were being very righteous, and collecting 3 rescued battery hens from a garage on the outskirts of Southampton, not for us but for a friend who has prepared a luxurious new home for them, but was unable to receive them as he was attending a wedding. A long wedding as it turned out, complete with Mass and then serious photography which was apparently getting on the tits of the guests who were wilting in the sunshine and had been refreshed only by a sip of communion wine.

The hens were with a large number of their chums in a wire enclosure in a garage, attached to a large house, where they were being distributed to their saviours by two jolly young ladies in jeans and polo shirts. There were plenty of new-age stockbrokers rocking up to rescue, and a couple of dead-beats. And the mother of one of the jolly young ladies, who turned out to be the owner of the garage and not actually very keen on it being used as the Schindlers Ark of the poultry industry, a point she made strongly when leaning out of a bedroom window to scream at a guy who reversed his pick-up to the garage, and spun the wheels hence spraying the gravel everywhere and leaving a dark rut on the drive. She really didn't like him.

So we put the hens in to some old wine cases, with some straw, and drove them to their new home, where they were installed with water, mash and plenty of shade, as apparently they are not experienced in matters meteorological and will therefore stand in the beating sun until they fall over. Poor mites.

I look forward to egg mayonnaise, shortly.

Then we went to the newsagent and bought an ice lolly called a Mr. Bobbles. Tabatha binned hers, I ate mine because I needed some cold, but it was really disgusting, a bad show. I've tried to find a picture to show you, but even the vastness of the interweb has conspired to conceal the aforementioned abhorrence. It was grim, and you'll just have to imagine the disappointment.

Still, steak for dinner, then out to the pub with various chums. Can't be too bad, really. (We didn't think chicken would be appropriate this evening...)

Semi-Supervised

2009-06-22T20:53:00.003+01:00

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.

The Baker Is Back

2009-06-19T23:50:00.002+01:00

Like a particular type of infection, Krusty is back. I haven't done this for a while, and a quick tour round some of my old blogospheric haunts suggests that subject materials, the obsessions of the bloggers, haven't changed a lot. And neither have mine.

Key things to note are that I have relocated geographically, to the rural delights of Hampshire - that's Old Hampshire for my friends in the New World - and am about to relocate professionally, to the immense delights of yours truly and associated parties, especially Tabatha, who is also now my betrothed. This last, actually, is probably the keyest of things to note for those who are interested.

So my obsessions still include politics, pop music, telly, the lack of pubic hair on internet porn (and probably other media of porn too, but why would you bother) and the success of Jamie Oliver.

From what I can see there is a bit more sophistication to this lark than there used to be - fancy linking and stuff; apologies, I'm fresh back at it, so if links from here are a bit out of date and redundant, well, that's just the way it is until I've had a good spate of housekeeping and spring-cleaning, and as I'm shit at that in a very real sense when it actually matters in terms of managing my finances, doing domestic chores and generally looking after myself, you can't honestly expect me to do it in a virtual world where it doesn't really matter. I mean, visit a lot of commercial sites and frankly, they don't work, because the links don't work, the data is 2 years out of date and they're just shit. So this, being free and all, shouldn't be expected to look like a picture from Country Living.

I'm about a quarter of the way through a bottle of Jack Daniels, this evening, and really starting to wonder what all the fuss is about. I mean, it isn't the mellow, malty delight of a good bottle of Irish, or the richness of some of the more choice Scotches, is it? It's basically just ok. It isn't harsh, none of that sharpness of some of the stuff you can get, and not the downright oiliness of some of the apparently 'peaty' Scotch malts - I'm guessing that drinking Duckhams Hypergrade offers a similar experience.

Pop music question of the day - Blue Oyster Cult, honestly, America's answer to Black Sabbath? Yeah? C'mon, "Gardens of Nocturne", is that a lyric to take seriously? Mind you, rock tunes about Godzilla have to be a winner.

Is Hazel Blears real? Or is there a string in her back, which when pulled makes her say any one of approx 6 stock answers to any question asked. Also comes with emergency 'Scum Floats' facility.

Oooh dear, it's late, and I'm being checked out for behaving in an unsupervised manner....

What is a corn dog?

The new Star Trek picture - cracking, first time in years I've been to see a film and wished it was an hour longer, not an hour shorter.

Is Angelina Jolie attractive? Or, is she, excusing the pun, jolie laide? When I discussed this with a friend who is sapphic, she said that it is not Angelina who is a pin-up, but Lara Croft. This, I think, offers some insight into my question.

Why is tinned cider so bloody gassy? By the way, do Americans have cider? Does anyone else remember Cydrax, or was that just a benefit/quirk of being able to spend childhood pocket money at the tuck-shop of a minor public school? And if it still exists, where can I get it? I went to a school where the masters had a bar in their common room, and the best English teacher would walk into class in the morning with two carrier bags - one carrying the books he'd bothered to mark last night, and the other carrying last nights empties and today's to-be-emptied. And he'd take a pinch of snuff during class. (Ooh er missus)

Right, enough for now - if you're interested, piss on the post and I'll try and keep this going, and without some of the bitterness of the past, which was mostly why I stopped doing this, because, frankly, I was starting to repeat myself, like a bad doner.

The Evening After The Day Before

2007-03-24T18:42:00.000Z

Ah, what a week. Mostly plodding through stuff, not totally tedious but not inflaming the passions of my heart, I did get the opportunity to take these pictures, of an alien bin invasion on some allotments on the arse-end of Slough. The sinister powerstation building in the background is the Mars bar factory. Somehow, looking at it, I doubt that it is full of semi-naked brown-skinned beauties wrapping their luscious lips around a Bounty in lieu of my being around to offer something more substantial...

It's very hard to sit in a meeting and take the individual doing a presentation seriously when she's got a camel's toe. (Tabatha is sitting here insisting that it is camel's foot.) (To settle this we googled the two phrases. She's right, it can be camel's foot. I'm right, far more hits for toe.) I mean, really difficult. How am I supposed to concentrate? And to make matters worse, she realises that there is something going on, and starts making surreptitious attempts to unshackle herself. "Have you got a problem, love?" I helpfully offered.

This week was Budget week, and everybody's favourite party animal Gordy got up and did his thang, which was that there are no massive changes for anybody, unless you are super-rich or super-poor. And this week is also the 60th Anniversary of the foundation of the EU, with the signing of the original Treaty of Rome. I'm a big fan of the European project. For many reasons. Amongst these is the fact that 60 years is about the longest we have ever gone in this continent without killing one another on a massive scale, that I like getting cars and booze on the cheap, that I like being able to travel with relative freedom, that I am protected by some pretty tasty human rights and employment laws, and, most of all, my grandfather really didn't like the idea of being chums with Johnny Foreigner. I can't think of a better recommendation.

Today I have a problem with giggling, which was a little embarrassing in Waitrose this morning. This is due to the fact that I woke up yesterday with severe cramp in my lower legs, drool all over the pillow, a tongue swollen to Oliveresque proportion and a fucker of a headache, yes, the LPS had paid a call overnight. Which meant that yesterday was a write-off. But today has meant a lot of playing silly buggers, giggling inanely at aforementioned supermarket, and generally pratting about. So I'm off to giggle a bit more, then I might come back here and write something worth writing.

Ton Up, Yeah

2007-03-16T17:52:00.000Z

This is apparently the 100th post here on Hot Spicy Bun, difficult to believe that a hundred, yes, hundred, times I have managed to vent spleen and ejaculate my rantings and ravings into the blogosphere for the benefit or otherwise of any passing e-punters who happen to catch a smidge.

Anyway, down to business, tonight, for the benefit of every loyal Briton who pays his/her TV Licence Fee, and indeed those who don't too, the BBC does one of its annual charity telethons. It is, of course, Comic Relief. So the likes of Matt Lucas, Russell Brand and, inevitably the dreadful John Culshaw, all terribly funny, will be such good eggs and make us all laugh for cherry-dee. For the children. (I think 'for the children' was one of Hitler's rallying cries, and is always a good pointer to someone who's a charlatan - Blair is very keen on 'for our children'.) Every nob end in the country who thinks he's a bit funny or wants everybody to know just how great a chap he is, is making a fool of himself, acting with nil dignity or conspicuously 'giving'.

I'm not sure if you have this particular gurning twat in the US, if you don't yet then 'by any means necessary' prevent it. For the mockney fat-tongued fuckwit is, of course, the very embodiment of all that is unappealing about the English. Sanctimonious, hypocritical, self-publicising, nepotistic, hypocritical, ingratiating, star-struck, rapaciously ambitious. And did I mention hypocritical?

As for the fish, he's a quiet chap, keeps himself to himself. He was just swimming along looking for a shag.

Yeah, pukka, wot yer weally wan' is to thay wot a gweat bloke I am, yeah, coz I'm tellin' everywon to eat helffy food, yeah, an' floggin' a tv series abou' how, like, yeah, unhelffy schoowl dinnuz are, yeah, an' like we weally wanna be givin' kidz helffy food, yeah, an' buyin' i' a' Thainthzberwiz, yeah, coz I do advertz for vem, yeah, an', like, vair the fird biggis' theller of crithpth an' burgerth an' cola an' thtuff in ver cuntwy yeah, coz wot would be weally gweat thith Cwithmath would be a twifle, yeah, wiv loadz of cweam and cuthtard and shewwy, yeah, and now wot yer weally wan' ith to feed yer kidz flapjackth, wiv pukka butta and golden thyrup, yeah, lovely yeah, but it'th awlwigh' yeah coz it'th fer chawity, yeah, pukka, tho i' don't ma''er if it'th thit food fer kidz, yeah, pukka, yeah, can I get me chumth a tv theewiz too, yeah, an' me wife too, yeah, pukka?

I'm told he speaks highly of me.

Anyways, must dash, xx K

Winning the Wimmin's Vote

2007-03-09T18:24:00.000Z

I left this feeling a bit guilty last night, on the grounds that I'd ranted away about the obstetricentric conversation at the office, and probably came across as a bit misogynistic.

And then I decided to feel a bit better about it. Tabatha agrees with me. Wendy agrees with me. Betty didn't slag me. When I was bothering to do this with any degree of consistency, those of you who equally bothered to piss on the post were (and I'm guessing still are) mostly female. So I can't be misjudging it too badly.

Look, we've probably all figured out by now, I like women. Most things about women. I like talking to them, listening and reading what they have to say, their company, looking at them, the whole deal. I just don't like the full detail of what really ought to be for someone else to share. For which sharing of detail I blame Jenni Murray and the Andrea Dworkin Memorial Hairy Chin Urban Collective.

So I'm off to go out with my bird, and see how it goes. Then off for the weekend to visit my mother. And sister(s).

Your Womb, My Arse; a product comparison

2007-03-07T21:51:00.000Z

taken from the musings of the Baker;

Again, the discussion moves to the topic of children. What a struggle it all is, to get them from A to B, to all their different clubs and teams, the fretting over education, the sympathetic nodding and groaning as the conversation moves inevitably on to pregnancy and delivery, the morning sickness, the pain of labour, the pros and cons of caesarian section, the frequency of contractions...

It is relentless. Every day, often over lunch, as it is so appropriate, they cluck and brood. Beneath it all, so secret they wouldn't admit it to themselves, the race. The competitiveness that so inspires their very presence here, it bubbles in their voices. I suffered more than you, bled more, it took longer, I didn't cop out on gas, my child is more precious than yours, has had to endure more threatening illnesses, has had stranger vomit, more frightening disease, (is there something 'wrong' with hers, you know, he doesn't seem 'quite normal', does he?), our child is at a better school than yours, a more sophisticated nursery. I love my daughter so much I couldn't wait for my six months maternity leave to finish but muscled my way back here to pick up the reins of imposing my remorseless blind ambition on the fortunes of others and carve my career out of the trail of failure I leave behind me.

It has been said that Krusty has 'behaviour issues in the workplace', that he is problematic for other people to work with. He exhibits 'attitudes' that do not match the doctrine. Well, yes, he does have a willingness to comment in a concise, honest, candid manner, and is unwilling to declare how wonderful is the Emperor's new suit.

But he does refrain from sharing the details of how the proctologist slid his begloved and jellied finger deep into my butt, stirred it around, then inserted an array of scopes and probes to illuminate and picture the very depths of my bowel, when investigating my complaints about arse-ache.

Because that would garner complaint, and accusations of unreasonable behaviour. Because it is apparently perfectly acceptable in an open plan office to proclaim the placenta, but turds are taboo.

--

I have noticed a new fashion around the office, for the sophisticated women to wear dark, shin length trousers, which I am led to understand are known as Capri pants after the Ford motor car of the seventies and eighties and are in no way connected with the small island off Italy where Tiberius kept a palace and may well have personally 'attended' to Caligula, and where Gracie Fields fucked off to, and they wear these so-called Capri pants with pointed boots. The overall effect has a certain logic to it...

"It's bread, Jim, but not as we know it!"
- oooh
- "Set phasers to stun!" "Destination, Alfie Moon."
- "Move to Warp drive!"
- "Warp engaged."
"Ah canna hawld her taegether, Cap'n, she'll shake heersel' apart."
"Mind integrity compromised - Captain, we may have a brain breach."
"Arm sonic torpedoes, deploy on my command!"
- "Torpedoes armed and on stand-by, Captain."
- "Engage!"
- "They are under sonic attack - we appear to have audio supremacy."

"Impose Krusty-law! There can be no exceptions. Commence Operation Palace!"
- "Neutron bomb deployed, Marshall. Slough has been destroyed, relandscaping is in progress, Operation Palace is ahead of schedule."
- "Resistance is eliminated - subjugation is complete. Facilities have been established. Nominated individuals are being converted. Krustyanity is acknowledged."

"C'mon, you fuckers, we know there is a better way. Every day as I crawl along the M4 past that concrete hole in Berks (I'm sure he'd be delighted), all I want is to impose my iron fist on it, and redefine it as my capital, where there will only be my immense palace, as a statement of my immenseness it will overshadow the mere pebbles of Windsor Castle, a thousand years of history wiped out in the New Beginning of the Krusty Age."
--

Tabatha has just told me that I'm not going to be taking her to the local balti house (actually, they don't really have balti houses down here, not like this) wearing my purple velvet uniform and eighteen yards of thick, thick gold braid. So I guess I'm going to be going in jeans and hooped (hooped, they go all the way round, stripes have an end to them, ok?) t-shirt. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to curry we go.

Still, she isn't offering me her wares with additional seaweed and prawn cracker crumbs this evening...who knows what may become of such things. One bhaji and I'm a veritable goat.

See you.

PS: thanks for the 'badger' offer, Richard. Just to re-iterate, the turd was still glistening, so pretty fresh, at about eleven in the morning, an inky blue-green-black colour. Three to four inches long, single stool, one straight torpedo-shaped link.

(Tabatha is commenting that she isn't terribly keen on my obsession with my own discharges, and this apparent trend towards those of not only other people but other species, for fuck's sake, is not a winner. Better stay off the saag tonight, then.) (Wot more parenthesis?) (Apparently dietitians - this is how we spell it in the UK, I'm assured by the health 'professional' at my left - have poo-posters or 'stool charts', more formally, for the comparison of colour &c. to deficiency/excess blah blah blah. No.2, dare I say, looks interesting, no? Nice. I prefer posters of nekkid leddies.)

Curry calls, must go, as 'twere.

The Art of Seduction

2007-03-02T22:27:00.000Z

Tabatha has just rocked up, in a state she describes herself as 'shit-faced and interesting', grinning inanely. As I'm watching a film about the late Arther 'Killer' Kane, she is helping herself to my 'special' fried rice and seaweed. I've had to persuade her that cutlery is actually a good idea, but it hasn't made any difference to the amount that is being deposited in her lap, my lap and on the setee. She keeps grinning at me, telling me that she doesn't really need cutlery and that there is only one tool she's interested in. God she looks sexy, with green bits all over her teeth and cold rice and bits of prawn cracker all over her 'balcon'.

She's now lecturing me for not eating my greens, and getting through a stack of Coke. And she's demanding a cup of tea. Right now. For fuck's sake Krusty, go and put the kettle on, now, if you know what's good for you. No, she says, I can't do it, I'm busy eating your dinner and shitting up the living room having just teetered in from a party and having been drinking for the last four and half hours. In heels that make me six foot. Which isn't bad as I'm actually four foot three and the same weight as Gareth Chilcott (wasn't he a hooker?).

I don't really want to leave the computer unguarded lest she fuck around with the music. Socrates asked me if there was anything about her that I really don't like and we would have to 'resolve'. Yes, she likes Steps. Can you fucking believe it? Not in this house, chum.

Guess what, I'm off to not get laid.

It's about fucking time

2007-03-02T20:03:00.000Z

Because I've been busy doing interesting things like having a relationship for the first time in two years, and going on holiday with her (yes, I know this is all very smug, but I'm not boring you witless with the endless photographs of snowdrops I took, am I, so stop mithering), and using interweb/broadband for its true purpose of downloading recordings of certain artistes and pursuing the quest for what is currently being discussed here as black fuzz, I've not offered anything here, or bothered to look at what some people have to offer themselves; which means I may have been missing out. But hey, life is a rich tapestry...

Anyway, I've been communicating with my long-time associate, Mr. N, and I couldn't be arsed to say it all again, so here is an edit of anything not desperately personal that might be of entertainment. Tabatha is still permitting me to court her, so things are ok.

--

Hmm, I can hear where the comparisons to Stone Roses are coming from. You estimate my tastes well, young Nutgroist.

I nearly fucked it up last weekend, with a spectacular tantrum at the neighbours, regarding their inherent 'travellers' tendency to leave the backyard like Steptoe's yard - they have now cleared it up, but I did have to go fucking mental, complete with foaming at the mouth, which I haven't done for a good 12 months... However, she didn't do a runner. Big result. She realised that she was perfectly safe when, even as I bellowed about the "stupid cunting bastards" I gently put her overnight bag to one side, and then carried on charging out of the front door to go and hammer on aforementioned scb's front door.

And Socrates doesn't think I need bother him for a while, which is also good. Although I no longer have an excuse to be 'just passing' the South African deli in Roehampton.

I gotta say, M. Polnareff's shades are ace, seriously androgynous. And with all that hair, too, and the mincing about and posturing a la Celine Dion, great value.

Having bothered to write something vaguely substantial that isn't about mass produced foodstuffs for the first time in over a month, I'm going to be a lazy turd and copy some of this straight onto Krusty. To write it all over again would be, to quote my erstwhile colleague Violet Elizabeth, 'duplicitous'. She had no sense of irony, poor cow. Or malapropisms. Or how to behave around someone quite as wonderful as me.

--

I'm awaiting delivery of this evenings contribution from 'Four Seasons', relishing the prospect of hot & sour soup, crackers, seaweed (I know it's fucking cabbage, I work in the food industry for Christ's sakes, I just like to eat the shit), beef in yellow bean sauce and 'special' fried rice.

OK, I can't help myself, some holiday snaps.

Snowdrops in Oxfordshire, a great place where the mobile 'phone doesn't work, yeah...

A Toyshop in the Shambles, in York,
Some useful information from a passageway under York station,
And a turd of indeterminate origin, fresh (ish) in a field between Wakefield and Barnsley. I don't think it's of canine origin, so any offers as to what kind of creature left it behind?
Ah, my dinner is here, after an hour plus of waiting. It's about fucking time.

Ye'll've Had Yer Tea, Then

2007-01-25T18:54:00.000Z

Yes, it's Burns Night, I've never been to a Burns Night bash, but I do like haggis, so I've got one simmering away upon the wee stove.

Love life continues unabated, I'm sort of struggling to believe it really, but don't look a gift horse and all that - unless you live on the mediterranean coast of Turkey, in which case you should be examining that there horse with extreme care. Upstairs baby is jumping about and falling over, great, constant crashing and immediate screaming, just what a man needs after a hard day bullshitting at the office.

I am full of admiration for our noble and esteemed Government at the moment. I almost feel sorry for poor Johnny Reid, he's inherited an absolute basket case in the prison system. Still, you pay peanuts, you gets monkeys, guys. But having told judges they can only lock up the ultraviolent, he can't lock up paedophiles. Ooops. Coming from a Home Secretary who was already of the 'hard and mean' persuasion, and a Government that has been busy in the last nine and a half years inventing some three thousand new criminal offences and advocating and imposing stiffer sentences, it's a bit of a bollock.

And then, look, you know, I mean, you know, look, you know,I mean, look, there's poor Tony. Dubya is ignoring everybody and going hell for leather - he's not got a lot to lose but other peoples lives and money - and Tony really doesn't want to discuss that in Parliament, which could be a bit uncomfortable, when he can share a bottle of chardonnay with some chaps and discuss what he's going to be doing this time next year. And there's also the problem with the church. Tony has some very close friends and associates, including his wife, who are Roman Catholics and who take their religion very seriously. [Mrs. Blair's religion is probably pretty interesting, as when she isn't being devout about Mass, she's supposedly into crystals and new-ageism. I'm struggling to equate the two...] He also has some very close friends (NB platonic!) whom the local beat bobby might once have described as 'a prac-tissing 'oe-moe-sex-you-ul'.

One almost might say he's caught between a rock and a hard place.

So, yes, I am aware that the so-called reality television - er, what the fuck is real about it, other than collected semi-literate Britons grunting at each other and expressing racist opinions - has been causing some hoo-hah in the 'papers. I was tickled to note the Sun bewailing the fact that we remain a nation of prejudiced and unsavoury morons. Send us orl bak oam, I say.

Anyway, I'm off for a wee dram and some steamed offal and porridge with extra suet, be good! xxK

Happy Bunny?

2007-01-19T18:09:00.000Z

So, I guess I ought to try and put some effort in here, drag myself away from using the internet for other purposes such as downloading ridiculous amounts of free music - it's there if you know where to look and you know what you want - and looking at pictures of naked ladies. Krusty is in pretty good shape at the moment, the, ahem, dare I say, 'relationship' thing still quite comfortable and warm and a good experience, and work not over-arching and actually quite fun. I have an underling, who has much to offer professionally and is also a fan of fast cars and watching them race - when we interviewed her she expressed a distaste for the Red Baron and a preference that he did not end his career in celebratory mode, and we could only acknowledge that that was the right answer.
Big congratulations to Martin 'Wolfie' Adams on at last attaining the BDO World Championship - Wolfie has a place in my affections as he was the first person in probably twenty years that I'd asked for an autograph, and he was very warm and generous in giving it, and my signed photo has a place on my mantelpiece. What a match it was, lord knows how his nerves - and his missus's nerves - stood up in the end, especially after his semi-final against Mervyn King. So well done Wolfie.

Other things to comment on? I don't watch 'Celeb Big Brother', so I don't know what all the fuss is about, although from what I've seen of the pictures of the actress, I don't know whether Bollywood, but I would.

I took Tabatha to meet one of my sisters last weekend, and the feedback from the Coven is that she is most acceptable. Nice that they approve; it means that the collective campaign is less likely, the needles in the dolls and the hissing like cats which has greeted previous incumbents of the 'Krusty's Girlfriend' position, although it might be said that they only had my interests at heart, and yes I was making a poor choice but they didn't have to be quite so vicious. Still, I love my family, so I sort of trust 'em.

What's new out there, folks, I'm getting a bit insular?

I did listen yesterday, whilst queuing on the M25, to Graham Fellows on Radio 4, with his 'With Great Pleasure...', amongst which selected readings was a passage from what he described as 'Enid Blyton's psychedelic classic', 'The Magic Faraway Tree'. You know, I loved that book when I was a kid, it really is magic, and I so enjoyed hearing it being read.

Right, I'm going to fuck off and think of something more interesting to say, and read what other people have to say. Tata.

Have You Paid Your Fare? Exact Change Only!

2007-01-03T19:45:00.000Z

Happy New Year, folks, and all that. I survived the Midnight Celebrations, barely, my significant mistake being to fall asleep after a large helping of Chinese takeaway - this is, I have learned, not the way to impress a new girlfriend - but we're still chums, and Krusty looks to be doing ok at the mo.

Back to work yesterday, the New Regime continues with its project of reconstruction, the builders have a single drill which squeals all day, it's a little like being in the movie 'Marathon Man', without the charm of poor dear Larry the Nazi. Now, as I was having my luncheon and chatting with some of my associates, the subject of the film 'Last King of Scotland' came up. One of my associates grew up in Africa, and I asked him if he would be going to see the film. We discussed the late and unlamented Idi Amin, and were getting up to return to our toils when one of our party commented that Idi Amin had once worked on the London Underground.

This is, I believe, untrue. However, he did work on the buses.

Whilst researching this stunning find, I also discovered that in 1971 the biggest grossing film in the UK was 'On The Buses', outselling 'Diamonds Are Forever'; and you thought Bond was sexy...not as fanciable as Stan and Jack, eh luv, fancy a bit on the top deck then?

My good friend Nutgroist insists on sending me video footage of large women taking their clothes off, on the streets of Toronto. So that's what a beaver is.

Right, off to do something different, but good to have got something posted, trying to get the habit back, luv yers, K

In The Deep Midwinter

2006-12-29T13:30:00.000Z

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...

2006-12-27T19:20:00.000Z

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...

2006-12-16T12:14:00.000Z

And the word is fecund.

Er...

2006-12-10T21:02:00.000Z

"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

Fear And Loathing In Suburban Greater London and the Thames Valley

2006-11-15T20:52:00.000Z

Thanks to Betty and Pammie for expressions of sympathy, very kind of you both. Have to say, it's not really sympathy I need right now, it's a long time in the sack with a really dirty bird, plenty of imagination and sauce, and plenty of...well you probably know me well enough to know what else she needs plenty of!

And when that's done, I need some high quality weaponry - let's start with a machine gun and flame-thrower for the office, and a battle tank for the commute home. No fucking around there, then.

Aaaanyways, enough of me whitterings. Folks, if you like your music, have a look at this site. You'll have to put some effort in, you want to go to the bottom of the home page and follow the link labelled VPRO 3voor12, and you will find some red tabs, click the one labelled 'Kijk en luister', then the one 'concerten' and you will find an Aladdin's Cave of popular music, from Dutch tv, radio and festivals and general gigs. Some of the clips aren't very long, but some are whole sets, and there is a massive array of genres and artists - some are major acts, some I've never heard of. Anyway, have a look, and why not have a listen to something that takes your fancy.

I've got a new camera, needs must with the disappearance of my previous one, so Krusty-pics will soon return, and I am delighted to add that I have also found that the Chanel concession at John Lewis Brent Cross sells Antaeus deodorant sticks, which for the last year I have been forced to buy mail order from a man in Cardiff whilst all other retailers either deny the existence of the product or state that it is no longer made. Utter bollocks, of course, why would one stop making something so civilised as Chanel deodorant, but there we are.

For Christ's sakes, folks, Chanel deodorant. Why the fuck would you stop making that? And why did the bint at Superdrug expect me to believe that? What kind of fucking people are we? Do I want to stand about waiting for her to do me the favour of enabling me to part with my hard-earned cash? Yes, of course I do, 'cause that gives me a chance to listen to her regaling her mate with an account of how she got pissed on bacardi breezers last night, had a fight, then had a quickie behind the bins with some bloke she can't remember his name, then threw up all over his shoulder, funny innit.

Last Friday I went to a trade dinner at a well-known Park Lane hotel, where the speakers were Peter Alliss, who was well-rehearsed and amiable, and the execrable Dominic Holland, an alleged comedian. I understand that he is an 'observational comedian'. More efficiently described as a cunt. Anyway, it gave me a brief opportunity to describe football violence with Frank McLintock, admire Tessa Sanderson's tits - tell you what, a couple of drinks inside of me and she looked pretty game to me, I would've on Friday - and to have a chat with one the greats of the Darts world, Bobby George, whom I had no difficulty in persuading to gift me his autograph.

And after the dinner, and a drink in a bar at the top floor of the hotel, then legging it because I didn't want to discuss the poultry industry with some people from said poultry industry, so I went round the corner to the Royal Academy to enjoy their current exhibition of works by Auguste Rodin. I'd not realised this about M. Rodin before, but why have they all got such fucking big hands and feet? Hands like shovels, honestly, totally disproportionate. Huge. Makes them all look vaguely simian... I was expecting to have a net thrown over me at any moment.

Then I went shopping and bought a t-shirt with Les Dawson on it. Can't really improve on that, can you? No.

Any way, I'm tired now, so I'm going to go to bed and dream of brunette busty babes with beaucoup de la chatte noire who want to dance avec moi toute la soiree, tout le nuit, toute la journee, and make les bonnes reves. Gggrrrrrrr.

Freak-outs and Fractals

2006-11-09T23:22:00.000Z

I was listening to some Serge Gainsbourg, when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and in strode a tall, athletic woman, long thick curly brunette hair. She wore a coat that reached her mid-thighs, and bottes cuirs. She smiled, perfect teeth set in her face of beautifully tanned perfect skin, and led me back to the sofa. She pushed me onto it, then

Fuck, wrong place. Hi there, apologies if you've been here hoping for something vaguely new, but I haven't written for ages 'cause I was away, and then I've been really busy. Actually, truth told, I've had a major bout of apathy, really dreadful, so each evening I come home with stuff to say, then realise it's utter crud and don't bother to write it up, and sit here in a pool of self-derision and despising. Which is why I've been to see Socrates today, and very productive it was too. Amongst other things we discussed my continuing issues with the LPS, and he suggested I'm not taking enough!!

I did go away, that much is true, to Yorkshire for a couple of days, to see T and R. Amongst other things I got taken out on a blind date, which was nice but no spark, damn, we went to Fountains Abbey, beautiful, funny to see the stags in the park eyeing one another up for a punch-up and hustling their harems around. Then we ate some venison sausages.

T and I went for a really long walk, taking in a place called Dogloitch Wood. What is a dogloitch. Or a dog's loitch. Or perhaps one loitches a dog. And why at that particular wood? A lovely walk, some great views across the landscape including Ferrybridge powerstation, and in another wood someone had decorated the trees for Hallowe'en, with bats and pumpkins and ghosties and ghoulies hanging from the trees, and two giant serpents with luminescent eyes and fangs. It was going to be well spooky up there that evening. But we didn't care, 'cause we had another engagement.

We went to see this bunch.

Now, Leeds Irish Centre is not a big venue, so the lights were not shown to their best effect, but the gig was ok. Not mega, but then I always get a score draw at least, so I'm not beefing. And there were a couple of real treats; as one of the crowd pointed out when they played 'Infinity', "About fucking time."

I realise this means absolutely fuck all to most people, but hey, let me have my little indulgences, 'cause I need 'em.

And on the subject of little indulgences, some of my esteemed colleagues today spent the better part of two hours discussing the various ailments of their blessed offspring, and generously shared with all and sundry the details of their various snot, poo, sick and rashes. Delightful. I wouldn't mind, but one of the silly moos recently had the nerve to make a complaint about me along the lines that I was difficult to be around and could I be moved as she didn't like having to sit at a desk next to me. Apparently she didn't like the nature of my conversation, or my tendency to hum along to the iPol - which I've also been barred from using as the desire to block out the drivel of the infuriating menopausal cow and her cohorts is apparently making me antisocial - so she had a great whinge about me to various people. Now let me get this straight, I don't find the subject of her children utterly riveting, so I must be antisocial. If I follow Socrates's advice and make more effort with the social niceties, then I will go to the office tomorrow and joyously regale them all with a detailed description of the Mandelbrot patterns last nights beef kung-po and special fried rice left all over the bog this morning. No?

Fuckers.

Jesus, I feel so horny.

Did I mention the tragic news about Sparkly Eyes? She 'phoned last week to tell me that she's got engaged.

I'll try and make the effort to get something together worth saying over the weekend, I know I've got more to say, but I'm tired, it's late and I actually think I'll get a proper nights kip tonight for the first time in a week, so I'm going to try and get it. It's the only thing I'm getting right now.

So, You Think I'm A Dastardly Bastard, Do You?

2006-10-26T20:39:00.000+01:00

Farting on Satan's Daughter, which episode I described to a professional associate today in order to give her succour as she mourned her constant irritation at our be-horned friend, elicited the response that I am a villain of considerable evil and malice.

This I deny. I offer one of what I think is described as a 'meme' (if not, someone will put me straight) with my top three villains, and also an illustration of some of those who made the shortlist but didn't quite get onto the podium. First, a word on the selection process; it was mostly done on the M25 at around 6.30pm, as the traffic was its traditional shit, and whilst I briefly considered real, actual and historical figures, I decided not as you don't want to look at pictures of charmers such as Mao and Hitler, and less still at that gurning cunt Blair.

So, my loves, to start with some of the oh so nearly losers;

The most persistent of Bond's nemesises (can I get away with that?), Ernst Stavro Blofeld, most attractively portrayed by the ever-sinister Donald Pleasance

Animation's dirtiest dawg, and that's a medium with some serious competition, it's that perennial pursuivant, the Wile E. Coyote.

Smooth, sophisticated, lecherous agri-business land-fucker extraordinaire, from 'The Archers' it's the fantastic Charles Collingwood as 'Brian Aldridge'.

But now, into the Top Three;

At Three, laird of all he surveys, urbane polar-neck wearing despoiler of maidens, pagan pontiff and human sacrifice enthusiast, Christopher Lee in his favourite role in 'The Wicker Man' as 'Lord Summerisle'.

At Two, cyborg psychic, fighter ace, neo-feudal Empire builder and something-Dan martial arts master, Dave 'Green Cross Code man' Prowse/James Earl Jones as 'Darth Vader'.

But Krusty's Number One fictional baddie is child-killing, cripple-beating rapist, sadist, hired gun and cigar-chomping murder-for-pleasure merchant, from the greatest western and possibly finest film ever made, Henry Fonda from 'Once Upon A Time In The West' as 'Frank'. This is in a different league, his sole motive is to watch other people suffer. The ultimate villain.

And as I don't consider myself fit to be seen in that company of wolves, I reckon I'm really quite a nice guy.

Unless you're Satan's baby...

2006-10-22T21:18:00.000+01:00

I had written some great stuff up here, about a course I went on recently, and the fact that the 'coach' was this guy who was a sort of cross between Yoda and Chairman Mao, with a big splash of St. Paul for good measure, and that I had to endure the company of the non-stop verbal diarrhoea of my esteemed colleague Satan, she whose baby I did a really smelly fart over, but for some reason the site deleted it before I could save it, which was a bit of bind. Just not a lot to report on really, other than some delight in the motor racing today, and, an aside on the recent serialisation on BBC Radio 4 of David Blunkett's memoirs, read by the great man himself, and how I think even less of him now than I did before. The opening extract had him comment on how he felt that having achieved power there was no point in holding office if he couldn't personally intervene to affect things for specific individuals, even though he knew it wasn't supposed to happen. So, he acknowledges that he abused his office from the word go. Twat.

Anyway, some of you may recall that I am an enthusiast for short films, and I have been delighted to find this (below) available online. If you haven't seen it before, first watch the picture, then read about it elsewhere. It is vaguely controversial, and there is some debate about the identity of both motor and driver. Actually, who gives a fuck. It is highly entertaining, especially if you're stoned (NB: I'm not advocating that, of course). And without the blind panic that Spacemen 3's 'Rollercoaster' can induce in the same circumstances if you get in the wrong groove. I've seen men clutch the armchair with their eyes on stalks with that tune.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2006-10-06T20:21:00.000+01:00

So it appears that the consensus is in favour of this;

as opposed to this;

With regards to personal taste, have to tell you that I'm not going to expect any lady of my acquaintance to spend lots of time with the Gillette or Immac, although a hairy shin is not so hot. Armpits? Well, if I tell you that my first 'close encounter' as a green green undergraduate was with a German post-graduate, you'll figure out that it's not that big an issue. Although that doesn't mean I'd encourage a beard. The point I'm trying to make, and I think I'm eliciting some agreement, is that I like women to look like women, with all that entails, and that I don't think that we should deny the animal that we are. After all, sexual attraction and lust are pretty animal emotions, know what ah mean...?

And as I can demonstrate from some serious market research (source; MUN Research*, October 2006) that more men prefer snatch with thatch to shaven haven, and that women are not overly enthused at having to trim the quim, just what are the market forces which drive twat mags, and their computer age equivalents, to ignore the wonders of nature in favour of a more suspect offering? Does this reveal more about the taste of the editors and proprietors? It is worth noting that my collection of vintage material from the early and mid-seventies have more rug than a Christmas Day ad-break. So 'tastes' have changed? Unlikely in something so instinctive and fundamental, eh?

Wormcakes? Have to say, apart from the obvious coconut ones, I'm quite keen on the new ones that look like mini-mini battenburgs [even as I write this I am possessed of a savage desire to feast upon mini battenburgs], and wormcakes are only really to my taste as I get older. Don't you find them a bit more aniseed than liquorice?

I went to a trade conference this week, at which I fell asleep. Both days. This might be embarrassing, but it meant that I didn't snigger when we were spoken to by a Mr. Camel-Scat. I kid you knot.

You're not sure you want to think about that, are you? Love and Kisses, K

*Made Up Numbers Research ltd

Animal Magic?

2006-10-02T20:50:00.000+01:00

No, this isn't a title designed to titillate the velcro-wellies brigade, but, I hope, a neat parenthesising of two of my themes.

So I sit down with a faceful of carefully prepared and lovinly cooked nosh in front of me, turn on the telly in anticipation of a weekly fix of Paxo despising what the great Paul Calf might describe as 'fockin shchewdunce' on 'Universally Challenged' only to find that it is 'Autumn Watch' with our old chum Bill Oddie, the do-able but almost certainly leaveable Kate Tedious, and Simon King, who I suspect has a personal hygiene problem, because he always gets to spend a lot of time on a remote island with notoriously smelly wildlife.

Now, when he's not looking at the wrong camera, oure hooste is increasingly seeking to plunge me into some kind of temporal trauma. As I learn that it is time to grow up, to stop the wobblies everytime I don't get my way, that it just isn't on to point out to people just what a stupid twat they are and that this tendency is probably somewhat responsible for social and professional retardation, Bloddie is attempting to imitate this dear old character.
I realise for some of you he will be a complete stranger, but for anyone who grew up in the UK in the sixties and seventies, within range of a telly, he was as much a part of childhood as Ribena and Spangles. I'm trying to leave childhood in the past, at last, and get on with adulthood. [N.B. if any attractive ladies would also be desirous of getting on my adulthood, drop me a line.] So it is just a tad confusing.

In retailing there is a concept of 'adjacency' which is about putting one type of goods next to another type of goods (wow, sounds complicated) and trying to make them 'relevant' to one another to encourage sales. E.G. bread, butter, jam. You will realise from your own experiences that it doesn't really work out, but next time you're hauling your arse around Tesdabury's in semi-zombie mode, realising what a distasteful experience it is, how there are too many people in this aircraft hangar-like structure with tellies and Tannoys (it's a brand name, I have to capitalise it) bombarding you with exciting offers on loo roll and tampons and tins of corned beef that you just can't afford to miss, and there are screaming children demanding more sweets, their older siblings crashing the trolley into your ankles then challenging if "you gotta problem?", then consider just how it is possible to put it all together in there in anything approaching a rational manner; there are about 40,000 different items for sale in a large British supermarket these days. [There's a rhetorical question buried in there, and no '?', so if anybody has an offer on a better delivery, I'm interested.*] On the other hand, consider how TV scheduling works. Adjacency might be a concept there too, hence the increased tendency for invariably shit and consequently disappointing theme nights. So following 'Autumn Watch' with a programme about the Nuremburg trials strikes me as just a tad abrupt. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of telly that reminds society of what a bunch of bastards they were, although I'd like a bit more of reminding that a) vigilance is still required and b) it isn't, as a former work associate - in this instance I don't want to use the word colleague as that carries hints of comradeship - put it, "all a long time ago". No, it's just a strange adjacency.

I love liquorice allsorts, and I have to say, Bassett's Liquorice Allsorts, because the supermarket where I do my shopping, whilst noted for having relatively high quality products, does shit confectionary, and especially shit licky allsorts. I binged a bit on the allsorts this weekend, as well as also having my first drink in a month (ok, I had a glass of shampoo for Cupcake's christening toast, but that doesn't count), and have suffered the inevitable consequences. Just thought I'd share that. Interestingly, they do not have the same quality as chicken livers.

Enough of the chit-chat and small talk. To Business. I want to return to an issue which troubles me, and which I'm prompted to mention as it came up here, and so I am not the only one troubled by it. What is it with this pubic hair shaving thing? I need to understand this. Do women do it because they want to do it? Because it is more comfortable? Or do they do it because they believe it to be expected, the societal norm, and what is deemed to be 'sexy'? If the latter, this is tragic. And do men prefer it? Isn't it just a bit unnatural? At best a denial of our own animal nature, and at worst, well, do I need to spell it out? So, let's hear it for a thick dark rug of lush pubic hair, as animal as it gets, and something to be celebrated.

At which point, I must depart for my pit. I am curious as to whether this post elicits any comments. It never ceases to amaze me which bits people want to comment on. Will it be Bloddie, Bassett's, bastards or bush? Or none of it? Or *? I need a punctuation refresher course. Such is the burden of pedantry. Love yer, folks, K.

OK, But This Is The Last For A While...

2006-09-27T19:48:00.000+01:00

...of this soft fluffy bun, Krusty will be back to bile-spitting nastiness and loathing soon. In the meantime, dig this gown, and yes, Uncle Krusty was indeed 'dipped' in this too.

You'll appreciate that I've taken Cupcake's face out of the picture - she's not my little girl to show off. I nearly showed you a piccy of me doting away, but that's really not good for any of us. If you want to look at a proud man, go and look at Tom and his rare breed sheep.

Oh, and Zen, dry cleaners? No, mate, clothes like this are one of the many reasons that we have wise women. And Dreft. Dry cleaners? Are you insane?

Back soon, Krustacea, love y'all.

Some Stuff.

2006-09-26T21:25:00.000+01:00

I've been in a strange mood these last few posts, feeling a bit sorry for myself over the LPS issue, and then all fluffy and nice when it came to the christening, and dare I say the odd splash of triumphalism thrown in, for reasons I won't bore you with.

Well, Krusty is back with a venom-geance tonight. And why? Because there is a rising air, a hint, that people like the idea of Dr. Reid as our next Prime Minister. Or, more accurately, of course, as HM The Queen's next Prime Minister. Now, let me just make my opinion clear, here, in case you've missed the point folks.

Dr. John Reid is a cunt. Dr. Reid is a dangerous arsehole. He is a former communist who is still prone to using the language of totalitarianism. Consider him as the international statesman. Do we honestly think that he is the kind of diplomatic sophisticate who is going to do the business in Paris, Berlin, Rome, Madrid etc? OK, granted, he'll go down a storm in Moscow, but why is that, exactly?

And don't be fooled by the strong speeches and 'can do' language. Look around you, my fellow Brits, and appreciate what a difference he made to the NHS. It is widely acknowledged as now being fucked. Well done, Doctor. He talks the language of the shaven-headed moron - lock up Johnny Foreigner, because he's only here to kill us.

Dr. Reid is to be found on my current list of top exponents of arseholery. The list features;

Dr. Reid
Harry Redknapp
Steve Rider
Paul McCartney
Jamie Oliver

--

Yesterday I went to Dundee for a couple of hours, which was a long day 'cause I flew to Edinburgh then we drove up to Dundee, did our stuff, then in reverse. I was knackered but I did enjoy it; the scenery on that drive, from the Forth to the Tay, the Forth Rail Bridge, currently looking in some distress, and then the most fantastic landscapes, I wish I'd taken my camera, but hey, I forgot it. But it is beautiful.

Right, that's it for the moment. Oh, and just to mention, this character is back in business, which is great, but he's a great mate so I would say that.

Something Old, Something New

2006-09-24T18:51:00.000+01:00

A new series of 'Antiques Roadshow' is beginning, and I expect to see myself on it in the coming weeks, although I don't suppose I'm worth a great deal when it comes down to 'insurance purposes'. Is there not something at least ironic in the programme coming from Gloucester Cathedral? Really in the cathedral.

Well, I haven't done this for a couple of weeks, but I've been occupied with various activities. The main activity has been the christening of my niece, which meant a long weekend at the ancestral pile, with the family en masse, and I have to say I enjoyed it loads. It was great to contribute to family life, to laugh a lot together - yeah, I know this is all a bit obvious, but I've traditionally struggled with these things, so this is a big breakthrough for me. The service itself was lovely, she was baptised in the same font that her mother, and for that matter her aunt and her Uncle Krusty, were baptised in, and I don't mind admitting I shed a tear.

Now, here is a detail which will appeal to some amongst you. My niece, and as it happens, god-daughter, wore a Christening gown which was worn by my great-grandmother, and she knew it to have been worn by her great-grandmother. We are very lucky to have such a garment, and it is very beautiful.

LPS - Long Purple Shadow, or Lunatic Pervy Smile?

2006-09-07T19:44:00.000+01:00

An array of guff to cover today, which is appropriate as I have quite revolting flatulence. You know that flatulence is bad when you are revolted by your own. That is just poor.

I was asked last weekend my view of UFOs. This followed a conversation about the death of the late Princess Diana, whether I think there is a conspiracy or not. No I don't, it probably wasn't investigated very well at the time, hence the 'unanswered questions' so beloved of the Daily Express, but it was an accident. Look, the Daily Express is published by a man who made his fortune out of publishing fantasies about attractive young women. Anyway, UFOs, well, I believe in 'em, on the grounds that there is a kind of arrogance in thinking that we are the only planet with intelligent life. On the other hand, if I was an alien, and I came here and abducted the kind of people who claim to have been abducted, and 'tested' them, I wouldn't hang about to find out more. I'd fuck off and look at somewhere else. I suspect that there are loads of different beings who've been here, and had the misfortune to abduct one of the 98% of the population who are thick twats. So, having put back what they picked up by mistake, they have followed my advice. Besides, the first impression of us is likely to be the radio and tv signals we give off. And if you're sophisticated enough to travel across light years of space, why would you hang around a planet that emits Chris Moyles and 'Eastenders'?

I haven't covered politics here for a while, you must all be missing my great erudition. Who needs Andrew Marr or Nick Robinson? Anyway, why doesn't Blair just go and play in the traffic? And as for the suggestion that Doctor 'Uncle Joe' Reid might be a suitable successor - what kind of drugs are these nutters using? This is a man with a Communist past who to this day is quite happy that he has no respect for the ideas of democracy, freedom and liberty. He is happy to ignore the judiciary and bypass his own legislation. The man is a cunt, and you know that that puts him in the same league as Harry Redknapp, Phil Mitchell and, apparently, Jools Holland.

"Mirror mirror, on the wall, who's the sweetest of them all?"

Who'd've thought it?

As I sit here with the telly on, it seems that Tony and Carm Soprano like 'Smoke On The Water'. There's something smileworthy about that. NB. Don't anyone get the idea of spoiling this for me.

We'll cover this today, as today I have been experiencing one of it's better elements, although this is potentially distressing for those around me. But the general theme of history for such a day is "Fuck 'em".

Right, so what is this LPS whingeing then? LPS is this stuff. Because the leading brand is purple. Anyhow, it has the obvious benefit of preventing epilepsy, which is handy, because a) it is frightening for people who witness it, and b) it is a fairly shitty experience. My own, which is consequent to a severe bang on the head when I was ten, manifests itself with a pretty nasty headache, hallucinations and a constant stream of verbal drivel, utter incoherent drivel (how can anybody tell, I hear you ask?), no, really bizarre stuff. I also struggle to make myself heard, which means I make a real effort to talk this drivel. If it really kicks off, there is the convulsions and all of that - apparently, as I'm not around to know what's going on at that point, having lost it. When I regain consciousness, usually fifteen to thirty minutes later, the headache is still around, only really nasty now.

The full monty hasn't happened for a while, which is handy, as it means I can drive, and I don't have a propensity to break my nose or otherwise do myself harm any longer. There is still the odd occurrence in my sleep, but that is manageable, and the only real consequence to that is that I generally wake up with a fucking sore tongue where I've bitten it, and, yes, you've guessed, that bastard headache. It doesn't even have the generosity to throb, more just to roll about in my head, like a sort of spirit level.

So, there we have the background. Anyway, the LPS, we've dealt with the purple, but why L and S, especially if it gets rid of this annoying condition. Well, there we have it, it doesn't really get rid of it, just lessens the instances and impact. It hasn't gone, just is less able to interfere.

L, because, rather naively, I had sort of thought that one day I could stop taking the stuff. Since last October, when I saw a neurologist for the first time in yonks, I am now clear that I'm taking it for ever. After living two thirds of my life with a hopeful delusion, I was a little hacked off and embittered at having to adjust to this truth. S, because with all medicine, there's no such thing as a free lunch. It has a number of side effects, some of which are also only coming to light recently, although I am well researched in the stuff. It can mess about with one's mood. It can make your hair fall out, it can make your body more hairy, make your hair curl, so it makes you into a werewolf, mess about with your liver (hence my recent bout of resentment), it can increase your appetite and, just for laughs, increase your propensity to put on weight; yes, I'm a fat fucker too, something else the GP harps on about. It thins the blood - I don't use aspirin - and means that there is a tendency for unexplained bruises to appear, and it takes much longer for a cut to stop bleeding.

I also find it socially restrictive - it is always a consideration. A couple of late nights and...that headache pops up to warn me who's lurking. It doesn't have great keeping qualities, which ties me to the GP for repeats.

Anyway, that's the downsides. However, there is Lunatic Pervy Smile. It has been documented that people sometimes feel 'better' for an epileptic seizure, as though there is a 'release' or relief of some kind. This was reported during studies of ECT. Well, I subscribe to this. When the headache finally goes away, I am left with a real high. No-one seems able to tell me what it is that's causing this i.e what is the chemical that is making me buzz like Tigger on caffeine, but I do. I'll spend the day, and beyond with an inane grin, everything is entertaining, mostly ridiculous, and I laugh a lot for no reason obvious to anyone else. This regularly meant serious trouble at school, and usually coincided with at least a detention and occasionally a letter sent to home. I get a fantastic sense of detachment, like a spectator looking in on a sitcom. I don't despise the twats, just laugh at 'em. This is why I have asked what it is that's making me buzz so, because I'd like to know if it can be synthesized and sold. There's a mega-fortune to be made there.

Today has been a smiley day, able to avoid trouble because I've spent it mostly in the company of two of the cooler people I have to work with, who cut me a hell of a lot of slack as a rule, so just accept a better quality of bullshit with a smile. That's why I've written this. Today I can live with the LPS. Probably tomorrow, too. But next week I'll resent it again, mostly 'cause it is just a bind.

And I fucking hate that headache.

Right, enough of that self-pitying tripe, I'm off to look at pictures of naked women and make believe its Sparkly Eyes.

To Geoff - An Apology

2006-09-07T19:36:00.000+01:00

I'll be back to write more shit here later tonight, for I am of a mood, but first, an apology to this feller, because I wrote an overlong comment. However, his recent posts are of a quality that has left me sitting here wetting myself.

Amigo, feel free to waste space here if it is of that ilk.

Da Little People

2006-08-31T19:36:00.000+01:00

Ah, back from a little holiday, in Oirlund, staying four nights just outside of Dublin, and I've taken the opportunity to catch up on some old friends. I did, it is true, get quite a cold, even hard, reception here,

but on the other hand I made up for it with a couple of cocktails at the delightful Westbury Hotel there in the background - beautiful chandeliers - and then onto the International for a quick half before watching its comedy offering upstairs, and then drank some more with some of said comedy offering as one of its purveyors is one of the aforementioned old friends.

I didn't plan on getting into a conversation that resulted in a discussion of the 80% test, the late Bill Hicks and Messrs. Dawkins, Jones and Chomsky. I did however make the point that the thing with ol' Garden Noam is that when you read his books you read the introduction/initial premise, are so depressed by the clarity of his case, left feeling so hopeless, that you don't bother with the rest of the book. In sixty pages he's made you totally convinced that US and most European foreign policy stinks, we're all busy living the life of Riley while the poor of the world cower beneath a shower of shit and shells; why do I want to read another four hundred pages of it? I'm not a complete masochist.

Dublin offers many many things, famously pubs and good cheer (unless you're the cabbie we had on Sunday morning who was a right miserable grunting bastard) but I'm afraid their Indian takeaways leave a lot to be desired. A lot of lot.

However, at the moment, Dublin offers this, and this is excellent. Beyond a comedy, played as outright farce, and with a few bolt-ons, highly entertaining, and very cleverly staged. Cracking.

Coming home, apart from not what I really wanted to be doing because I was having a good time with good company, was an interesting experience. For starters, I had the company of (and this is her real name) Cassandra. Prophetess of Doom. She sat next to me, because we were friends - I'd helped her with the automatic check-in machine, after all - and then came forth with a continuous stream of foreboding. The plane was late arriving, ooh, is there a security alert? It's going to be very late when we get on board...Whose are those unattended bags? Are they one of those men's (indicating three black men who were speaking in a language other than English)? I suggest that it is, and that one of their number has probably gone to the bar or, dare I say, for a crap. Hmmm, I suppose so....Look at how dark the clouds are, we're in for a thunderstorm, a real bumpy ride home I expect....and then a collection of references to the plane crash at the weekend. I pointed out that such an accident is unlikely at Dublin as they only use one runway. I toyed with the idea of getting out a book about the rise of Islamism, but that would have been unfair to the other passengers.

When we got onto the plane, the music being played was 'Heroes', and was followed by 'Waterfall'. Curiously, I had heard this exact combo in the same order two days earlier in a cafe in Dublin town centre. I like that kind of weirdness, gentle; could have been weirder, could have followed with 'Silver Machine' or better still, 'Brainbox Pollution' (that would have been the last straw for the Princess of Troy). Actually, I hope that was genuine gentle weirdness and coincidence, not one of those compilation albums that are "Great for Fathers' Day, only £8.99 at Tesdabury's."

--

Back to earth with bump on Monday morning, with the meeting with the GP to discuss the liver test business. He gave me a good grilling about my drinking. "Do you prefer Bacardi or Havana Club, Mr. The Baker? Are you a brown ale man, or do you tend toward the Pilsner glass? Burgundy or Bordeaux with your roast beef?" Or something to that effect.

Following further consultation with my sister, who knows about these things, I don't have anything to worry about, although it is understandable that I might take umbrage at the fairly aggressive manner in which he interrogated me regarding my consumption of alcohol, and particularly the implication that I might be denying any problem with drink. Anyway, he wants me to have a scan, probably lay off the pop for a while - the alternative is to lay of the LPS, and that isn't an option, as was made clear last year - so I'm a bit cheesed, but more by the interrogation than the possible outcomes.

I'm waiting for the day when he suggests that I give up pop music as it is having a detrimental effect on my toes, too much tapping is bad for you. He's barred tea, 'erb (well, to be fair he didn't), and he's done away with silver top, butter and cheese.

--

Today, a touch of the Little Flo's, oh Jesus Christ Almighty, Sparkly Eyes was in town. I could barely contain my excitement, and for once I really mean that. Apparently I am becoming increasingly obvious, do I care? She is just sooo sexy. It's all I can do to drag my eyes from her and try and concentrate on the business in hand. Which is not the business in hand I would choose to have in hand.

The Challenge? To quote the Greek Genius Socrates, "You don't shit on your doorstep." But really, she's gorgeous, bubbly, fun, intelligent. Ah, well, there we are.

Git Gawn, Boy

2006-08-24T00:57:00.000+01:00

Yes, my turn for a bit of a summer getaway, though most of the summer is gone. I'm off for a couple of days, to Dublin, lots to do there....

Before I go, just an odd round-up of recent things. iPol has taken up a rather cheeky game of waiting until I am admiring a particularly impressive collection of buns or baps then cracking open the Black Sabbath, so that even as I am possessed of slavering lust my ears are filled with hellish thunder and a panic-struck scream assuring me of impending and eternal, unrelenting damnation.

I tried a new barber today (Gosh, K, what an exciting life you lead), I bet you didn't realise that a No. 4 takes an hour in the chair, did you, but I also didn't expect to get a detailed account of fruit farming in Cyprus for my money, so I ain't complaining.

Here's a question to leave you all with; if I sell crisps and fizzy pop for a living, am I really in a position to start telling people what an ethical man I am, and how I have to turn down offers of promotion from my employers because I don't want to compromise my ethics?

Answers on a postcard, please, along with shared expressions of joy at the prospect of being woken up by a Serge Gainsbourg record, on the BBC (!!!), which delightful experience happened to me this week. OK, it wasn't the obvious, or 'Annee Erotique', but 'Bonnie & Clyde' will do for me. I began to wish I hadn't mentioned this at work when Mizz Doianne said that she didn't know what was so rude about 'Je T'Aime'.

Entre tes reins, bebe! Grrrr!

This dog digs a hot roll, with extra sauce, and easy on the onions.

I've said it before, but there is a lot to be found in favour of the French. Yes, I know that Johnny Hallyday doesn't count in their favour - and don't even get me started on the subject of Florent Pagny - but on the other hand there is imaginative motors, Toulouse saucissons, kir, two hours for lunch, and more cheese than you can shake a stick at. And that's just for starters.

That ol' nutter Jerry Lee Lewis is gracing me with his presence on the stereo, and we are not worthy. He's in the same league as Lemmy, for me, in that he just has no business still being alive, but I'm so glad that he is, and that he bothered to commit his talent to vinyl.

Other highlights of the week have included a visit to the dentist - good nick, ta, although a little evidence of ageing and the consequences of having a brace when I was a teenager - and also to the races, where I failed completely to land a punt, but there was the opportunity to enjoy the company of some attractive ladeez and generally get out and about and ignore some less attractive associates.

And also confirmation that 'Holby City' is just abysmal shite.

Right, it's a ludicrous time of night, and I meant to go to bed 3hrs ago, so I'm off.

See you all soon.

Big Food, Big Ron, Big Yawns

2006-08-13T18:28:00.000+01:00

You will remember this recent post, well would you believe that on Thursday this week I had a conversation with Grand Ron himself, en francais. This was at a hotel near Oxford. Ha ha ha. Very good of him to humour me.

It is pissing down with rain outside - I guess I'd be less happy if it was pissing down inside, and the only thing the telly has to offer is athletics from Goteberg. As a special treat, and probably why I compare the weather to pissing, the BBC have wheeled out St. Paula for us all to admire and worship, and there is lots of pontificating as to why we Brits haven't done very well, and it is yawn-o-rama. For me, the challenge of the day is not to retire into alcoblivion, but then I've had very little to drink over the weekend. I got up this morning only with the intent of finishing last nights curry, mmmm, chicken muglai, bombay aloo, onion bhajhi and a somewhat disappointing cheese naan, although it must be said the rest of it was excellent.

Ah, of course, to finish the athletics coverage, we have to have one of those montages so beloved of BBC Sport, where we take lots of clips of triumph and despair and replay it all to a couple of recent pop records, and everyone sheds a tear or two and feels nice and actually its just a cheap way of wasting time and filling up the schedule with what is in essence a repeat, which will almost certainly be repeated later in the day with the highlights coverage. Utter Bollocks. One of my less favourite things about Aunty Beeb.

2006-08-05T14:37:00.000+01:00

Last night I took great pleasure in doing something that I haven't done for a good few years.

I listened to some new Led Zeppelin. It was new to me, anyway. I hadn't done this since I was a teenager.

I'd forgotten what fun it can be.

Cottage Cheese Music! What a Noize!

Simple pleasures, eh?

'leading scientists report that hallucenogenic sweet rolls consumed on an orange shag rug at the krustybaker household lead to the spectral return of acid glam for 45 minutes yesterday...'

That would be scientists like this chap, then?

And as we've now cracked how to turn my photos into your photos; as long promised;

Arcade Game Messiah

2006-08-02T21:07:00.000+01:00

No, not him.

Is J-C JC? I've been enjoying 'Street Fighter', which I initially stuck with for Kylie Minogue, and it occurred to me that I was watching more than a punch-up between good and evil, oh yes.

This was The Second Coming.

The destruction of Satan needs but One, and that is J-C.

Does that make Kylie Mary Magdalene?

And on that theme

The mind boogles.

And here, an attempt to convey my recent entertainment by this phenomenon.

"To Have Begun, To Bake."

2006-08-01T21:33:00.000+01:00

I'm watching a telly prangram about Ron Atkinson, Esther Rantzen and Marcus Brigstock(e?) going to France and having to learn French because there is no English, by immersion, and it is hilarious and I've done this and it's directly how I come to be here.

Nice

Here also looks nice, but I can't read this, so if anyone can confirm it's alrightness than that would be nice too.

Is it socially acceptable to take the Gideon Bible from a hotel room? I didn't think so but have reconsidered.

2006-07-28T19:55:00.000+01:00

It appears that a number of you did read the last effort all the way, thank you, that was a big ask.

A letter arrived yesterday from the doctor, regarding the recent bloodtest. They want to discuss the results with me. So will I make an appointment to see the doctor. However, when making that appointment, I find that I am unable to discuss it with the doctor for another thirty days. That pisses me off a little, because that ol' ring just may have a twitch or two in the meantime.

Anyway, in an effort to try and incorporate something sensible into my diet, I breakfasted on All-Bran and Weetabix. Dear God, it looks like some form of industrial sludge, something that builders might use for filling joints or worse. And it tastes not that different, too.

Work has been great fun. Well, tolerable. I'm getting an audience, so I can't complain.

The bloodtest thing all stems from the Long Purple Shadow, and it really does fuck me off today, I have to say. It makes me have an exaggerated appetite and a greater propensity to put on weight - great combination - it is a contributor to my baldness; I know that's genetic, but Daddy didn't start going bald 'til he was twenty years older than I am now; and it makes the rest of me look like a fucking werewolf. And I'm not even sure that it does quite what it's supposed to do, having woken up on Wednesday with an evil headache and having bitten my tongue. But they told me last year (I'd only been taking the bloody stuff for twenty-two years) that I'm going to have to take it for ever. That wasn't actually the original deal, but it appears that whilst the cons of taking it are poor, the cons of stopping or tampering are worse.

I'm watching athletics on the telly, which gives me an opportunity to quietly lust after Hazel Irvine, and knickers to you if you think that's wrong. Some of the athletes are alright too, though I won't go further on that subject, as frankly that's my business.

The weekend holds the prospect of going home to the ancestral pile, to celebrate the birthday of Mummy. This is a good thing, as I could do with a bit of tlc in the bosom of the clan. And the nosh will be excellent!

Anyway, enough of my witterings, have a good weekend all.

PS. This athletics is fine as long as they don't wheel out that awful Edwards man.

PPS. The pictures as promised last time around; no, actually, it still won't let me load then.

PPPS. It's worse, Lord Coe.

I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that.

2006-07-20T14:21:00.000+01:00

I began writing this on Thursday, it's now Tuesday evening. If you've been waiting with bated breath, I hope this is worth it, the site is fucking around with not letting me put pictures in so they'll come later. Sadly no hot new girlfriend to report - but at least a little holiday. To be honest, nothing worth saying, really, which is a shame, but how it's been for a while. Still, enjoy!

--

Phew! What a Scorcher.

OK, I thought I'd get that out of the way, although all those terribly original newspapers have been there already.

I'm writing on a Thursday afternoon because....I've got a couple of days off, which is ace. T is on his way down here, and we are going to a small event in Suffolk, with a view to getting pretty mellow and filling our ears with some good soundz.

You may recall from here and here that I have been getting pretty ratty with some associates recently. Well, Tuesday saw the day when me and my colleague got up on our big ol' hobby horses and took FN's ever-valid advice and told the fuckers, and the fuckers' bosses, and er, the message appears to have got through. There was a sort of stunned silence then much debate, then much agreement with what we had to say.

Hence I'm sitting here on Thursday arvo, sitting in shorts and t-shirt, sweatin' in the hot humid air and not complainin' cause it's great to have some summer, and aware that Pammy is complainin' 'cause I've had nothing to say. I've been busy, and I'm really in need of the chance to drop a few bits and pieces in here.

Firstly, where are we on the Breast-abet? To summarise;

areolas
armpit cushions
bazookas
boobies
breasticles
bristols
candybags
chesticles
chezzies
double ds
duggs
ewers
funbags

Have we all lost interest? Perhaps these will help...

This is from here, if you are interested in more.

This morning saw my visit to the phlebotomist for another go at the liver test. I was late for my appointment - it being a holiday I slept through the alarm, and woke up with a start ten minutes after my appointment, thus my first words of the day were "Shit, shit, fucking shit." Then I rang them up, apologised, they said don't worry, just get your lardy sick ass down here boy, then we can play darts on your arms, aah ha ha ha ha...So I motored as fast as possible, and was welcomed with the now more usual smile, and we began the inevitable routine of attempting to hit a gusher. First go hit a gusher. Great. It also hit a nerve. Not so great, as it is like an electric shock, with an added sensation of burning. So we abandoned that, and went for the other arm, and again, first go there. I have to say, the lady is pretty proficient, and very apologetic when it hurts and she struggles to find a vein, which isn't really her fault. Anyway, we'll see how it goes.

Last week saw a meeting with the Greek Genius and you will undoubtedly spot that there is a massive upturn in mood about the Bakery right now - yes the shit at work has been sorted, and anyone feels better for that, but the influence of that man on me is very healthy. And he hasn't recommended any further self-help books. Although he has suggested Marcus Aurelius - any thoughts anybody, anyone know whether it's worth the effort? You're a pretty well-read crowd, and I'm not going to ask at the bookgroup - which I missed last week on the grounds that I just couldn't face it - because frankly I don't want to know about it from the Leftie. Although if MA wasn't a Marxist Jew she may not have read it.

I came across something that tickled me this week. We plugged a mouse into the USB socket on a Windows computer, and a message popped up to tell us that a 'Human Interaction Device' had been detected. I think that is a pretty interesting choice of language. There's an element of the probe about that, inserted into my mind.

I have to say, that would be a pretty stupid thing to do, insert a probe into my mind. You might not like what you find.

--

Right, that was all Thursday afternoon, it's now Monday evening, and I've been away for a few days to Suffolk. We went to something called Eastern Haze, and a lot of fun it was too, a small festival with a fairly specialist crowd, and the main attraction on Saturday night being...well, if you're that interested you'll go and have a look.

The weekend got off to a fine start, with Krusty having driven from the Western Suburbs to within thirty miles of Lowestoft before realising that I had come away without the tickets. There then followed some serious cursing on my part, with T being highly suspicious that I was taking the piss.

Sadly not, so all the way home and all the way back again. I have to say, I am very proud of myself, as I managed the drive without going apeshit. There is no way I would have attempted that alone, as I know I would go bonkers. Anyway, we got there and pitched our tent in the field, and got on with enjoying the gig.

As a matter of interest, this is the first original photo published on this blog. It is the view from our tent...

[Sadly, at time of writing, I can't seem to upload the picture.]

Anyway, we had a magic time; you can't complain when the fare on offer includes;

[or this one, which is a bit of a pain.]

I don't have anymore pictures, because a) other people photograph the lights better, and b) I wasn't really of a mind to be composing my shots with care. I do have some sunburn just above my knees, boy is that sore, but bearing in mind we barely had any rain, and what we did was just a spattering, I'm not going to complain about the weather. Au contraire.

The food was excellent, a wide variety, from falafels (particularly good) to a variety of the usual veggie fare and jerk chicken. We also were offered, although declined, 'doughnuts cooked in cholesterol', mmmm, but they did come with 'free oil'.

Apart from the main act, the reggae tent was where we spent most of our time, because the soundsystem had a cracking, boomtastic bass, which could be felt a long way away.

Anyway, it was ace, I feel well rested and I've had plenty to laugh about which frankly doesn't merit sharing here.

If you've read this far, which I know tests the patience of some, thanks, mostly for bothering, and I hope it was worth it.

Love Thy Blogger

2006-07-10T20:52:00.000+01:00

I love this blogosphere thing, I come home from a day at the factory and find that there are a clutch of comments from my visitors, and I just feel so much better. We have a start to the Thesaurus of Breasts, and some friendly comments from some of the Krustians. And folks, that's what makes it good to be doing this, I just love all this empathy and warmth and stuff. Anyway, it's very welcome and very appreciated tonight.

In return, for those of you who are still recovering from the shock of last nights events in Berlin, here are some
highlights, which you can watch in your own time.

[I have since removed the unjustifiably self-pitying shit I put in this paragraph. As penance I will eat a Ginsters pasty.]

Right, that's enough for tonight.

Be good! At least, at whatever you do!

Rhapsody On A Flatulent Night

2006-07-07T20:52:00.000+01:00

Wednesday saw me angry at the inability to understand who we're trying to sell to, and what they think of relatively simple concepts.

Thursday saw me angry at what is frankly just a disappointingly complacent bunch of idiots. I'm not amused that they put more effort into organising a night out to celebrate their failure than they do into discussing how they might stop failing. When I state my lack of amusement, I get an earful. And not of wax.

So when on Monday I get to interview a kid with a clear load of talent, and ability to really get on in life, and fast, there is a horrible quandary. Do we hire, and frankly exploit her for twelve months until she stops being quite so incredibly green and realises she can do better for herself elsewhere, but has as a consequence become at least as cynical as me and possibly embittered, and in the meantime we have failed utterly to invest in her and wasted that talent, or do we send her back to the agency who sent her with an instruction to do the right thing by her?

I challenged our HR people that if they wanted me to hire her they must commit to a proper eighteen month career development plan for her. It'll be interesting to see the response.

[It was interesting. Such a scheme is on the agenda, but not yet. So I told the agency what I thought they could do for her, and made it clear what I thought was their responsibility to her. I can be a bastard, but she doesn't deserve it, she deserves a lot better.]

God, am I in a dark place right now. The best I can hope for here is another twelve months of learning, but the capstone is to be set in place; there is nothing glass about this ceiling.

iPol and the Burrito Bros. are conspiring to offer me 'The Dark End Of The Street', and there's a tear in my eye. Thanks chaps. The next alley is full of whiskey and slow songs from Garcia and Pigpen, and if I get there, when I finally kick over the dustbins it will be to find the Black Sabbath and Rollins file, and that's just shit for all concerned.

I've had an instruction to go back to the doctors following the last round of bloodtests, and frankly I'm bricking myself. The only question is what's wrong. I still have a bruise from the last bloodtest, and that was ten days ago. It took four attempts to get a tiny phial-full (try saying that with a mouth full of Monster Munch). Then we tried the other arm, and only three there before we struck a vein and did the biz. I don't blame the phlebotomist, it's always been like that. The worst time was fourteen attempts at a thigh, then twelve in the other. My legs looked like a seive. I have deep veins, apparently. But no fear of thrombosis - the reason that the bruise lasts ten days or more is that one of the consequences of the Long Purple Shadow is it fucks up my blood, thinning it like warfarin. Which precludes a number of common painkillers e.g. aspirin, and means that it takes bloody ages for a cut to crud over. (Geddit?) Anyway, is it my liver, kidneys or the blood itself which is problematic. Long Purple Shadow has a major impact on the liver apparently. When I was twenty-nine, a locum GP got snotty with me when I commented that I was looking forward to going out to party with some friends, because I shouldn't drink. I pointed out that I've been taking the stuff since I was eleven, shouldn't someone have said something before? My current level of maintenance is so poor that I wouldn't be surprised if cholesterol or diabetes were on the agenda. DVT-freeness is one of the few positives of LPS. It's negatives are that it makes me fat, bald, miserable and moody, and increases body hair. So I swap Legion for Mr. Hyde. I look like a particularly successful werewolf.

Or Tony Soprano. Without the money, guns or shags. But plenty of paranoia and self-doubt. I don't even get Carmella to cook up a meatballs for me.

--

But I do get attractive offers of lasagne, cheers FN. Honestly, you have no idea just how popular lasagne is with this Baker. I wrote all that stuff above on Wednesday morning. It's now Friday evening, and things have moved on. I 'phoned the doctors and asked that, if the GP wished to send me sphincter-twitching letters, could he also ring me to explain what is wrong. Apparently all is fine, other than one of the four tests on the liver, which is the one most likely to show an error, so they want to repeat, and I have no further need to fret. Phew. Honestly Doc, you can't just send out scary letters like that and not make some effort to help me through it, you know? Anyway, this was facilitated by the rather attractive receptionist, with the big eyes, lovely skin and, frankly, gorgeous breasts. Mind you, most breasts have some appeal at present. More on this later...

Another interviewee yesterday, and, er, no love, especially when you're telling me that your looking for a less challenging, easier life. Forget it.

Right, you may note that whilst the mood is still a bit mixed, there is a slight lifting, and I took FN's advice and 'fucking told 'em'. And they fucking listened. I have won a major victory, and have succeeded in banishing a number of marketeer phrases from the business this week, to the eternal limbo where they belong. They still seek their revenge, with two of my more intransigent and blinkered colleagues wasting a large part of my afternoon with their inability to understand my dealings with one of our larger customers, but we then had a Brian Clough conversation. Namely, we decided to discuss it, we discussed it, we had a full and frank exchange, and then we agreed that I was right all along. [It occurs to me that the Wendys of this world won't know who Cloughie was, well I'll encourage you to look elsewhere for further info, but he is virtually unique in my opinion of football, and football managers especially, in that he does not come up in mine and J's game 'Cunt Or Twat', because he was neither. Unlike, say, O'Leary or Redknapp.]

I'm disappointed that the video no longer works, for those who missed it, it was of course (oh, yeah?) Hawkwind at Stonehenge, with the Pied Piper in particularly good form. Regulars here will be aware of my enthusiasm for all things of a 'windish persuasion, and indeed descendants thereof, hence recent spate of Motorheaddery.

You may also recall that my enthusiasm for popular beat combos led me to propose a game some time ago, namely suggestions for worst song by another of my enthusiasms. The response was shit - was that Krusty-esque apathy, or my overestimating the number of people who might have a working knowledge of suitable material, I'll never know - anyway, it doesn't matter, and Effay, who did offer a suggestion, has shut up shop, mores that pity, ah, the Kurse of Krusty. [Sorry, I'm going to break off here and comment on the current sonic environment here at the Bakery, where Creedence Clearwater Revival are giving some on their cover of 'Grapevine', and I'm lovin' it, I've really enjoyed doing the records this evening, plenty of variety, from Fairground Attraction to ZZ Top, and some French electro-pop for good measure, Indochine for those who give a hoot.]

Well, it's time for a new game. What I'd like us to do, and we can all play, is see if we can compile an A to Z of words and phrases used to refer to breasts. Not that word itself, such a lovely word, no, I mean slang. Boy-words and girl-words, please, let's compare notes.

And on a linguistic theme, which do you prefer to describe the qualities of organic farming and produce; 'organicness' or 'organicity'?

Right, I've written reams tonight, time to go and order a take-away. Well, more of a bring-to, really, but you know what I mean. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy a bit of 'Dirty Deeds...', which rather illustrates my thoughts regarding a recent post elsewhere - we don't have the Clash in this house, whereas we do have Bon Scott.

See you soon, friends, and remember....

...what was I going to say? xx

Why Do They Do That?

2006-07-03T21:24:00.000+01:00

The question refers to pigeons. Why do they do that with their heads, you know, when they walk? I know other birds do it, but pigeons just seem to do it more so.

I don't often get animated on the subject of football, but I was angered on Saturday; I felt great sympathy for that young man Rooney, he has every right, in my opinion, to feel aggrieved. That's all I will say on the matter, others will no doubt have offered plenty.

I spent a large part of the weekend sitting around doing little other than drinking rather silly amounts of Pimms, as it was just too hot...I did also manage to motivate myself into walking up the road to the second-hand record shop, where I did part with some hard-earned cash.

I watched 'The Sky At Night' tonight. Sir Patrick Moore really ought not to be wearing a red Hawaiian shirt. When I want colour-shock on that scale, with cosmic references and bizarre sounds, well, we know where I go;

On a lighter note, having some time ago bemourned the departure from this blogosphere of this individual, I am delighted to report that he is now making efforts to appear as an e-thereal voice and is available here. I totally recommend you listen to him; he wouldn't have bothered if he didn't want people to listen, and frankly he's worth it. Besides, it's his fault that I'm here, so go and vent your spleen at him. Then hope to any god that you believe in that I don't take up that lark, 'cause you know enough about my taste in records to know that you really don't want me to be having a black cloud day.

Which I have been since last Wednesday, after just being pretty bloody knackered, and working feverishly for the last few weeks, despite the Meerkat's assertions that I'm wasting my time, and making myself a tad poorly. But what brought over the clouds was a really scary revelation.

If you are a brand manager, the purest form of marketeer (oxymoron? morons, anyway), don't you owe it to yourself to know what your 'consumers' think about the type of products you're attempting to flog 'em? Indeed, perhaps even to know what they call it? After all, you might even then be able to flog 'em something they actually want, which makes it a lot easier to persuade them to part with their money. And even more, if what you're trying to force upon them is being resisted with the ferocity of an MRSA outbreak during a janitor strike, then there is even more urgency in understanding why they think your stuff is shit?

Apparently not. No, Krusty, you're being, frankly, fucking naif there. No, what you do is pretend that you know better, and make up more bollocks to justify your latest round of mistakes. You ignore your punters, 'cause they don't know what the fuck they're on about. And then, when you eventually bring your head out of the sand, you make sure that every fucker in town chirrups about what a great outfit the mini-emperor's wearing this week.

I'm not prepared to let that happen again, so I got a bit rude with someone, and I'm not talking in a 'Let's make some honey like the worl' ain' ever seeeeeen, let me buzz on in yo sweet hive' sort of a rude, more of a 'can't you fucking read, why do you fork out large quantities of cash for research then ignore it you idiots, are you planning to fail, is this just a fucking insurance scam? Mel Brooks was taking the piss, you nobs, that's a film, it's not a fucking business plan.'

Anyway, I have brooded, darkly, upon this; the Krusty-doubt returned, should I have said that? Do I have a moral obligation, and indeed a professional duty to myself, to not be dragged down by the lack of imagination and courage of 'them'? Or should I continue to be as career-hamperingly honest as I have been for the last three years? Just as I've got my big break? In the short term I opt for honest - essentially, I like to look myself in the eye each morning as I commence passing a blade over my chin, and even more so when I have finished passing the blade and am admiring what a stunningly handsome fellow I'm looking at. The darkness has lifted a little, but I do really want 'them' to acknowledge some reality, and understand their responsibilities.

Right, enough of that. An interesting conversation today with one of my more favourite ladies at work, which concerned her differentiation of Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp. The latter is handsome, and a good film star, the latter is 'beautiful, and a great actor'. I sort of empathised with this; some women are beautiful and some are upper-right-canine-bites-into-bottom-lip hard-on generating... Yes, another element of the recent visit of dark clouds is the lack of action, and the familial honesty of my Mummy and sisters that a sudden increase in my bulk isn't making that any more likely to change. What I should be doing is eating lots of lettuce and other combinations of water and not a lot else, rather than eating the huge amounts of shit I have taken to eating in recent months. If I'm really a good boy, I can permit myself a piece of fish.

Jeez, cheery prospect.

Right, spleen vented, I think I'll just fuck off until I feel like crackin' jokes again, which won't be long, as I have booked an emergency visit to the Greek Genius, who will focus those eyes on me and in exchange for staggering sums of moolah, will advise me to read a self-help book and also proffer some pearls of wisdom derived from amongst others, Socrates. That's what Brazilian footballers of yesteryear do for you.

Ker-nackered Krusty

2006-06-24T20:03:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-13T19:57:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-12T20:14:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-08T22:44:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-04T16:32:00.000+01:00

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?

2006-06-02T19:46:00.000+01:00

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.

BBC Krusty

2006-05-30T19:58:00.000+01:00

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.

Knockers, Tits and Big Dick

2006-05-29T16:33:00.000+01:00

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."

Birds and Tits

2006-05-28T22:58:00.000+01:00

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!

Like a Bowl of Kustard

2006-05-27T21:13:00.000+01:00

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.

Self, Self, Self

2006-05-24T19:32:00.000+01:00

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.

Dancing On His Grave?

2006-05-24T19:08:00.000+01:00

Oh dear, oh dear. And we thought her singing was in poor taste.

By Popular Demand...

2006-05-23T22:03:00.000+01:00

"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.

Somebody Said Something Really Nice To Me Today

2006-05-17T21:54:00.000+01:00

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.

There's More To Shorts Than One Sixth Of A Gill

2006-05-16T20:05:00.000+01:00

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'.

Lazy Sunday Afternoons

2006-05-14T18:05:00.000+01:00

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.....

F-Factor

2006-05-11T21:49:00.000+01:00

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'm Too Sexy For My Lorry

2006-05-10T23:23:00.000+01:00

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.

The Loneliest Place In The World Is The Other Half Of The Bed

2006-05-08T22:54:00.000+01:00

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.

Kurry and Kountry Musik

2006-05-05T20:51:00.000+01:00

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.

Bits 'N' Pieces

2006-05-03T23:44:00.000+01:00

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.

Salt In The Wound

2006-05-01T15:41:00.000+01:00

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.

The Movie

2006-05-01T00:57:00.000+01:00

I was right. They cancelled the movie. Shit and corruptibility.

What on Earth?

2006-05-01T00:43:00.000+01:00

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.

Government - The Krusty Way

2006-04-25T21:03:00.000+01:00

Oh, so many things to say this evening! I was going to open up with a salvo at Fungus the Bogeyman's whingeing yesterday that the media are using deliberately emotive language to describe his and Bliar's efforts to erode democracy, justice, freedom and the legislative process. No, Bogey, we don't like the fact that you want to lock people up without trial or access to counsel, and we don't like you trying to bypass Parliament. We don't like you banning protest, and arresting people who express a contrary point of view using anti-terrorism laws. That's why you attract comparisons with dictators and fascists. Fungus doesn't like people criticising him for locking people up for criticising him...ad infinitum.

But poor old Fungy has got bigger problems to worry about this evening. Despite all his and Tony's new laws to 'protect society' and be 'tough on crime', he's, er, lost some very serious criminals. But he hasn't lost his job, and doesn't see why he should. Let me spell it out. Charles, you are, as you say, fully responsible for the prison and probation services, and for the immigration service, too. So when it all goes wrong, you and your minions have failed in that responsibility. So, it's time to go. It's no good you saying is 'systemic failure', after 9 years in Government any systems are down to you lot. And it's a bit rich for that pillock Blunkett to pass comment, because he is someone who must take a lot of responsibility for it all. If he's got any sense he'd keep a low profile, but you can't keep a bad man down.

On the subject of Ministers, let me explain Minister for Special Duties. I have long said that, when I become President, I intend to have a large number of people who I dislike hanged. From lamp-posts. With piano wire. People like Cliff Richard, Branson, Miranda Sawyer, Melanie Phillips, Richard Littlejohn, Gary Bushell, Alex Ferguson, James Dyson...I know this is not the liberal gentle Krusty we all know and love, but it will all be done very quickly, and things will settle down soon enough, and you will all thank me in the end. Because I also intend to be quite nepotistic, a member of my family has long had her eyes on the position of Minister of Lamp-posts, as there is likely to be high demand. I was discussing this in the garden of an Oxfordshire pub last July with two close associates, when one of them suggested that this was too good for some people; there would be a need for a Minister For Special Duties. I asked if he was putting himself forward, and if so, what did he have in mind and for whom. I will spare you the details of his methods (cue more Vincent Price/Christopher Lee-style demonic laughter), but his proposed 'patients' included anyone who appeared on reality tv and Geoff Hoon. As I don't like reality tv, and I have long held that the pompous Hoon should be in gaol for either criminal negligence or criminal incompetence; if he honestly believed that there were chemical weapons in Iraq why did he send people to fight there without suitable equipment, and if he didn't believe there were such weapons there then he is a lying git; then he was right on the page.

Anyway, the position of Minister was filled. The only details to be discussed were his worries about whether he will be allowed to wear his choice of suitable clothes for such an esteemed position - knee length leather jacket, wide brimmed hat and pince-nez. Sort of Herr Flick meets Lavrenti Beria. Of course he can, hell, I'm going to wear a shedload of braid....and sunglasses.

Look, you know, I say to you, I mean, you know...to quote someone we all know and despise, things in the United Krustydom will be a lot nicer. (I once went for an interview where I was asked what my ideal fantasy job would be. I said I'd be "President of the UK, only of it won't be the UK then, will it?" Why won't it be the UK came the question. Needless to say, I didn't get the job.) I mean it. Lots of ice-cream, no kids allowed to drive 'til they're 21, free beer for anyone with the President's License of Approval, loads more cricket, less football, and rock 'n' roll radio.

I WAN' 'EM TO SEE THE WHITES OF OUR EYES!!!

(wipes the foam from his mouth, and takes a fistful of tranquilisers)

Jeez, guys, I'm sorry about that, so to offer a little light relief, have a look at this. A huge thank you to my friend N for sending me this, he knows the way to my heart. He's decided to vang off and give up his e-fforts, good luck to him. He is concentrating on his stage career; I have no ambition on that front, largely because I would expect someone to punch me fairly swiftly.

I'm amazed at the lack of disgust expressed here; do people just go away, or do they sympathize and agree?

iPol has definitely got the message as this morning we kicked off with some Tijuana Bible, an excellent way to begin. On reflection...

Right, I'm knicky knacky knoo-knooed as my Daddy would say, so I'll go away. Love y'all. xxx

Meep-Meep; Smile E. Koyote Is In Pursuit

2006-04-23T20:55:00.000+01:00

Gosh, what a long day! I was out of the door at 6.10 this morning, and up at the tube station at 6.30, just as they were opening the shutters. Why? Because I was making the effort to get me fat lardy arse over to the Cutty Sark, where I was meeting family and friends in order to cheer on my sister and my brother-in-law's brother as they ran the London Marathon. I was there before the rest of the gang, having enjoyed most of the journey. As the crowd gathered I thought I might start to suffer some of the twinges of my 'social-phobia', which usually manifests itself as an intolerance of the more common stupidities of people when massed. But I found I was managing alright. Anyway, we were down at Cutty Sark for about 2 and a half hours, and I really enjoyed myself, the only test of patience being one of those dreadful 'fun' people who are actually a bit of a pain in the arse. You know the type. In this case she was 5'2", rotund, bespectacled, the kind of inane grin that announces her being orthodontically challenged, probably a bit pushy, and had got the idea that repeatedly shouting 'Oggy Oggy Oggy' in my ear'ole was funny. Not for my ear'ole. So I was relieved when we departed, having seen both sister A and friend A running past in excellent nick and cheered them on, and indeed, cheered on lots of other people too.

Next stop was opposite Mudchute (easy, boys!) station, where we met with some more friends, including my good friend the Minister For Special Duties. He and me discussed the meaning of life, which currently eludes us both; have I done the best I could today, yes, but what am I doing it for, have I made a difference to the sum of humanity, probably not, so what am I doing my best for? We also cheered on the runners, and again, our two favoured competitors, who, despite having now been running for 17 miles, looked in great condition.

The last stop was Westminster, and a stand in the rain by the clock tower. A long wait, but my sister came past eventually, looking fresh as a daisy and with a big smile on her chops. So a 'big up' to her, I'm very proud of her, and I understand she's raised a fistful of dollars for a charity which seeks to help rehabilitate and care for people with brain injuries, which is a very worthy cause.

And I had managed a long day in the company of huge amounts of proles and plebs and not gone completely bonkers at anyone all day, and had to admit that I'd enjoyed myself.

I used the time on the tube first thing to finish the Classic American Novel; has anybody guessed what it is? Well, it was 'The Great Gatsby', and I've enjoyed it. I have to say, I'm not sure why, and if you've anything to say, folks, then do, but there we are. I enjoyed it, which probably says a lot for the writing. I've now started the self-help book, and first findings are that it is written in a style not a million miles from Carlos Castenada, which makes it very difficult to take it seriously. But I don't think it will advocate peyote, somehow.

There was a request sometime ago for a remedy for the iPol situation. I will share. Yesterday I realised that the naughty little it (An aside; will someone who is current with a language that asigns gender e.g. French, let me know if 'it' should be masculine or feminine, mes cheris.) was suddenly behaving in a slightly naughty, but not disappointing manner. It kept playing back to backers, so two songs from its beloved Small Faces, two HW (blessed be), two Ramones, two LZ, two whatever, you get the drift. And I quite enjoyed it. But it is how we have achieved this state of it understanding that its role is to entertain me, that it is the tool and I am the Master, that is what interests you, isn't it?

Well, it is very simple. I took it aside and had a quiet word with it. I suggested that when I ask for random play, I mean random play, and if it has a problem with that, then I would invest in some second hand Cliff Richard records, fill it with said shit and leave it to play in the dark for a long time, on its own. I suspect Phil Collins or Michael Bolton would achieve similar results.

We no longer have any misunderstanding.

Folks, I started to write this last night, but I was so knackered after the long day in the fresh air and elements; my face looks like I've spent a long day on the beach at Sellafield; that I went to bed early and slept like a log...I awoke looking slightly flushed, hey hey, watch out Tarbie. Which explains why time looks to have been bent a bit if you pay attention to the date on these things.

Auntie Beeb and Why I Love Her Dearly

2006-04-21T23:14:00.000+01:00

Krusty is recovering from a long day at the factory, and his recovery plan involves large quantities of strong cider and expensive ice-cream. Yes, he's not sharing the ice-cream, but you didn't come round and let me lick it off your.....

Krusty is a little distressed to have spent so much time toiling today, as it has involved missing a moment of triumph; my e-mail to BBC Radio 4's 'PM' programme about a twat they interviewed earlier this week was read out in full. Hurrah, that means I must represent a point of view that is not unique to me. Those of you who come here regularly (who?) will know that I treasure the Beeb, and do not like those who threaten or abuse it. And less still those who waste its, and mine, time by talking bollocks. Particularly on serious news and kurrant affairs programming. Oh, and Alistair Campbell, if your reading a) you're really not welcome here, and b) if you or that bunch of fascists you used to work for damage the BBC you will go to a place in Hell that is beyond conception, for it is so special to have an independent public broadcaster with the freedoms and remit of the BBC that for you fuckers to damage it with your petty vindictiveness - just 'cause it caught you out for the liars you are - will be unforgiveable. Burn and freeze and burn for all of infinite eternity, viral scum.

Do you think I sometimes lose a sense of proportion? Petit moi?

Krusty is also grooving (or Liz, do you think I might get away with groofing? As oaves is to oaf so grooves is to groof, no?) some choons and the H-richness of the mix is much to my taste. My rediscovery of the Capt. and his associates since we re-acquainted ourselves with one another at the Solstice has really taken me aback, but I'd simply forgotten how much pleasure they once gave me, and it really has been a delight to welcome them back into the ear-holes and realm of Krusty. I guess familiarity breeds contempt, and about two years ago I'd really just over done it, an excess bordering on obsessiveness had excluded virtually all my other favourites, and it led to me barring them. Like a moment of doubt; can they really be that good, no, just give it up. So I made the effort in December to go and catch them at the Astoria, having not seen them for a couple of years, I didn't bother to listen to any thing up front - actually, tell a lie, I listened to the new album once - and it was just great to see old friends in the crowd, have a chat, enthuse; whilst I think about it, does anyone know what has become of Del-Boy, I haven't seen him at a HW show for a long time - and it was time to dig out the records and give it all another go,and yes, all the time lost treasures are being turned over by the auto-mind, which bring out the toothiest of grins from your friend the Baker, followed quickly by the need to a) sing along (shitter for anyone sharing the office at the time!), and b) get up and dance. That's a sort of movement thing which is in time to the music and rhythm, and is otherwise completely free-form i.e. my legs, arms, head, hands, feet all whirl about in irregular patterns until they either wind up in a knot or I fall over. And it is an ace thing to do.

Right, gotta go, love you all.

The New Krusty

2006-04-20T22:01:00.000+01:00

The more observant and sharper among you - and, if you're still coming here, you must really have something about you, if only the wilful stubbornness of the Victorian explorer - will have spotted some small changes. There has been an audit of the 'Worth A Wipes', and a couple of removals, and a couple of additions, and, whilst trekking around those sites, some poor sods have had a shed-load of Krusty-Komment. Lucky them, lucky you if it's your blog, feel free to reciprocate. Also, a couple of changes on the profile, since there was a mention that we don't know me very well, so I've enriched the portrait there, and added a quite fetching picture. That would be glazed-over doughballs with occasional bits of stoned fruit, would it Krusty?

Am still enjoying the mystery book, by the way, and will continue to make the effort, as I have sworn to finish it before reading the self-help book to compare notes with K. The irony of this situation is terrific.

And I am also enjoying my jar of peppermints, oh such delights, peppermint creams, mint humbugs, everton mints, Fox's Glacier Mints, Murray Mints...it's all too beautiful (bloody iPol!).

There's a man on the telly, he's not Roger Melly ("Marietta Frostcup? She's one of my favourite wanks, she is", there ain't a man on earth who can't find that funny), who's telling me all about Albrecht Durer, and amongst his many talents, his portraiture. He's also asking the very valid question, what sort of man paints a self-portrait which portrays himself as Jesus Christ? Some attitude?

Right, once more unto the bed, dear friends, and back to that mystery book. Can you see what it is yet? Besides, 'Lonesome Dove' is starting, and if it's as ghastly as the trailer, I don't want to know. Night night.

Not Nicey Bunnies

2006-04-19T19:40:00.000+01:00

So much for reading last night, I fell asleep. This meant that I didn't even get as far as my daily dose of BBC sci-fi, which, being on the wireless, is true to all the best traditions of BBC sci-fi, namely that it is cheap, has a capacity to scare by simply fucking with the mind, and makes ample use of that mysterious - and I believe now defunct or 'outsourced' - entity, the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. Not great listening at slightly after midnight, but hell, I'm up for it... The tradition of cheapness in BBC sci-fi is self-evident; my own theory is that set designers had to serve an apprenticeship on 'Blue Peter' first. For those of you who didn't grow up in the UK, that's not a late-night show for the broadminded. [Don't bother to tell me I'm not the first to make that joke.]

All this religion in the air - Easter, Wendy's comments - I could begin to have a crisis of faith, but as I was brought up an Anglican I suppose that's a given, isn't it, and like most good Anglicans I've no firm idea of what I believe. The whole point of the CofE is to fall out with one another, usually about which hymnbook we're using this week, or what colour to paint the Church Hall, and occasionally about serious things. And at it's head, the self-styled Governor, that well-known conflict resolution expert, HM The Queen, who, just in case you hadn't noticed, is eighty years old this week (ahh, isn't she lovely and so hard working, just like her mother Lady Macbeth, "Now I can look the East End in the eye", well, except that you still had nine and three quarter houses to choose from so it's not quite the same is it?), and it is virtually impossible to escape the coverage. Bloody hell, she employs someone to put the toothpaste on her toothbrush, the Sergeant Under-Arsewiper Specific or something. And the drivel in Parliament today. Menzies Campbell, what are you waffling on about, man, you've already got your gong, you don't need to get your hooter any further up 'Our Chuff'. [An aside, BBC telly has just offered me the delight of a programme about Lulu's dog needing to see a vet. Wow, is out on DVD?] She was described as a calming influence at times of crisis...well, yes, when the hysterical moronista were wailing and caterwauling and accusing when the Mannequin died, yes, she did deign to speak to 'Our Subjects', but when the suicide bombers were at it last summer - and remember, she knows about losing close relatives to terrorists, so that is one experience with which she can genuinely empathise and sympathise - and people weren't just hysterical, they were scared, er...silence. Sorry, I'm about to start foaming at the mouth, so I'll stop in a mo, but before I finish on this topic, I just think the best reason not to have a Royal Family is because it is probably inhumane. On the other hand, without the Royal Family, what would most bring out the native hypocrisy of the average Brit? Right, enough.

I heard a U2 record on the wireless this morning, don't ask me what it was called, I don't care that much, it was from early in their career, but what struck me was how much the singer sounded like Kevin Rowland.

Great news today, that renowned champion of democracy Fungus the Bogeyman has struck yet another blow for freedom and justice today, continuing the tradition of recent Labour Home Secretaries. I am horrified to hear Tories agreeing with me when they mention that his erosion of the criminal justice system is making us a society where one is guilty until proven innocent. I'm waiting for Freddie Forsyth to invite me round for a sherry...

I can't escape her, so more Queen. I watched a tv show last night which culminated in the highly entertaining Bill Bailey and the even better Sean Lock (watch this film!) suggesting that HM is a Deep Purple fan. Well, it matches the robes, doesn't it?

Oh iPol, you came to the table today, my friend, what a way to start. How to escape the tedium? With a double bill of 'Levitation' and 'Lost Johnny', that's how, those of you in the know will understand the inane grin on my fizzog.

I'm regretting my recent lack of dietary discipline, as today I found myself straining and heaving to pass something which it turned out (!?) would have shamed a rabbit, and I was not amused at the time. However, it did remind me of a young man called Jolyon who was once lucky enough to make my acquaintance, who claimed that he had never had diarrhoea (an aside, the 1977 reprint of the 2nd Edition of the Penguin English Dictionary, such authority, defines said ailment as 'excessively frequent and loose evacuation of bowels'. I quite like that.) This led those of us present to one of two possible conclusions; a) he really was full of shit, or b) his arse was otherwise occupied with being talked out thereof.

You know folks, I'm not sure quite why I'm spewing such venom this evening, 'cause in all honesty it hasn't been too bad a day. Yes, the zombies came to see us today, but even they are now attempting at least to present a sexy face - or at least bum - even if the little grey cells remain rarer than rockinghorse shit. And one of the other visitors today made no effort to conceal the skimpiness of her black thong...tell me, do, is it comfortable to wear a bootlace down there? And, apart from my disgraceful lusting and leching, I've been able to achieve a couple of minor goals, and better still, find myself welcome at the GP's.

The nadir of my relationship with the GP's practice came about two years ago when I made it abundantly clear that I was not going to roll up at 9am each morning on the off-chance that someone might deign to see me at some point that day. When the 'receptionist' - not that receptive - continued to ignore my rationale I walked out and informed the world at large, at the top of my voice and in no uncertain terms, in words of one syllable, exactly my opinion of the people there. It was suggested that they might take me off the books, and the senior partner and I had a series of long telephone conversations which featured mutual apologising and explanation of viewpoints and which resulted in me seeing a GP as desired, and them changing their appointment policy. But now, having once been less welcome than a fart in a spacesuit, I'm treated as the Prodigal Son. "Oh Mr. The Baker, how lovely to see you" (and without irony!), yes, they love me, I'm stood about talking for ages, and now they go and fetch the GP out to say hello and sign off my prescription so that I don't have to wait. Can you believe it? No, nor can I. But that is what is happening when I go there, and I ain't complaining.

If you are still reading this, well done, and thanks for making the effort. At least one of us has bothered.

Dead Celeb Twitchers

2006-04-18T22:02:00.000+01:00

What a delight it was to get home this evening, partly because it meant I was no longer on the roads, which you will know is not my favourite place to be, due its being - to adapt a military expression - a dickhead rich environment, but mostly because the scent of my vase of home-grown daffodils is just gorgeous and is filling chez Krusty.

Gosh, what a day. When not occupied with the some of the more riveting and compelling questions of my professional life, I was able to devote some time to serious issues such as how to pluralise the word 'oaf'. I've consulted not one but three dictionaries on this matter (one can hear the stroking of wizened beards, nay?), all to no avail. The best I can offer is that one of said repositories of lexicographical knowledge suggests that the etymology is related to 'elf', which points to ears...sorry, couldn't resist that, to 'oaves' as in 'elves'. Equally, my nomme de guerre would also encourage me to that conclusion, I guess. Other activities include pursuing the source of a [possible] quotation. As my mother gets older, so she adopts the more ghoulish habits of the old, including a fascination for the gravestones of the famous. So she insists that the inscription on one must be a quotation, and has asked me to source it for her. I've tried and I'm not going to take it further. And it isn't Jim Morrison or Karl Marx, in case you're interested, it hasn't yet become an activity around which we construct our holidays, all that weeping and wailing and pilgrimage stuff, yuck, that sought [I saw this spelling in The Guardian at the weekend and I've been itching to find an excuse to use it, that's the kind of error it takes more effort to make] of obsession is just weird. Nor is it Enoch Powell, who is buried in my home town. Besides, as Mr. Powell was a classicist, I suspect she wouldn't be able to read his gravestone. It remains relatively parochial, and I'm hoping it will soon be replaced by some other activity, although they say you should be careful what you wish for... This morbidity is reminiscent of my late Granny, and I carry out my long-standing promise, and frankly, public duty, to point this out, which isn't that welcome. Still, at least we're not collecting deceased neighbours' unused medicines yet. I think.

I've also been to buy a book, wow, big deal, except that it is a self-help book - oh no, not another cloudburst of self-pity in the blogosphere, I hear - ahh, but this is a self-help book with a difference; I stole it. No, Krusty, that's a help-yourself book. Ooops. It was recommended to me by my shrink. Hang on, let's get this straight, you're paying good money to see a supposedly leading shrink, and he recommends a self-help book. Are you sure you're getting value for money, Krusty? Yeah, yeah, I know. But there's a twist. You may remember that, following similarly sourced professional advice to join a reading group, said literati elected to read a self-help book, which remains unopened and untroubled on the back seat of the Krustymobile, so I don't have form with this particular genre. However, last night involved a conversation with K, and it turns out that she is reading the same book as prescribed by the Greek Genius. She insists that I do as I am told, and read it. How can I resist? Oh Lord, I am weak, I know, but she retains a hold o'er me.

Anyway, it's time for my pit, where I can go and study my new book and open the door to greater success blah blah blah...am I approaching this with the wrong 'mindset'? Actually, the book can wait, 'cause I have also begun reading one of the classics of American literature over the holiday, and I'm enjoying it. Can you guess?

Simnel Cake

2006-04-17T18:16:00.000+01:00

I reflect on what a charming Easter holiday it has been, and the pleasure I took in visiting the ancestral pile in the verdant countryside of my native lands. I think Spring is firmly sprung, what a delight to awaken each sun-kissed morn to the sound of birds singing and busying themselves, many already into their first brood of the year. Jackdaws, blackbirds, thrushes, blue tits, goldfinches, buzzards, just some of the various of our feathered friends urgently working away. The garden is green again, with the daffodils and primroses bringing their yellow beauty to share and reflect the still slightly watery sunshine, and the trees, pear tree, plum trees, apple trees, damsons and greengages, covered in buds soon to erupt into leafy growth and blossoms, but the real treat of the weekend was the scent of the hyacinths. Mmmmm.

And around the home, an Easter Sunday delight of roast lamb, from the local farm, and best of all, great chunks of home-made Simnel cake, spot on for a marzipan enthusiast like me. Easter television does its best to disappoint - no 'Ben-Hur', for example, but there was plenty to distract.

I hope it was as pleasurable for you too, my friends, whatever you did with the Spring break.

And just in case you think this all sounds just too nice, and you're not keen on this happy Krusty with his cod-Wordsworth eulogising - and let's face it, cod-Wordsworth is a really quite unpleasant concept, perhaps even more unpleasant than the fact and actuality of the late poet-laureate's works themselves (does anyone really read that drivel for pleasure?) - don't fret. Krusty has already found things to carp about since returning to his lair, and is winding up for a rant soon enough, and besides, tomorrow means back to the melee.

Hot Cross Bonkers

2006-04-13T22:03:00.000+01:00

It's Maundy Thursday, and in Guildford - perhaps now best known for being where ageing rock stars go to live, and being the Cathedral where Damien Thorn got spooked - HM The Queen has been dishing out the Maundy Money to worthy subjects. Subjects, note, what a charming word, just in case we'd forgotten our place in this modern world...and even more worth noting when you remember that her Prime Minister exercises considerable power on her behalf through the Royal Prerogative. And she doesn't wash their feet, either.

Maundy Thursday, is, of course, a part of what we call Easter, which, if you're a Christian, is about as important a festival as it gets. It is the very embodiment of those three values which are taught to Christians, namely Faith, Hope and Charity. I understand that it is also the main Jewish festival, Passover, and if you go back through history, this time of year has had serious religious significance for a long, long time, and often for profound, and not unrelated reasons, for people throughout history and geography.

So on this note of deep spirituality, and dare I say, ecumenicalism and tolerance, Krusty The Baker is delighted to let you know, because it's his business to know, that this week, the British will eat between 55 and 60 million hot cross buns, most of which they will push and shove at the modern temples we call supermarkets in order to snaffle before the other guy, which they will buy in offers that are designed only to drag people through the door, and to allow them to make claims about being cheaper than the other supermarket. Is it me, or isn't it just a little sad that it's all reduced to nothing more than a distasteful scramble of buns and chocolate for nothing more than profit and fuck-your-God attitudes. I'm not a religious man, but it just strikes me as all a little tragic and limited.

George Orwell, who had a talent for writing unpleasant things, begins one of them, 'Keep The Aspidistra Flying' - incidentally, the movie is yet another reason among many to question the point of Richard E. Grant - with a rewrite of St. Paul's piece about 'Faith, Hope and Charity, and the greatest among these is Charity' replacing the word Charity with Money.

That happy bastard had a point, didn't he?

On a completely different theme, today saw the return to the office of not one but two of my more favourite people, or more accurately, views. Not for long, unfortunately, but it did relieve the boredom of what was otherwise not the most riveting of times today.

I am getting unhealthily lustful, and nobody seems to want to take advantage of it. What a terrific waste.

Smelly Nappies?

2006-04-12T21:06:00.000+01:00

I've mentioned before how most people are not really that interested in somebody elses baby, which is why I spared you, my beloved readers, the details of my new niece. So when a colleague, of whom I have a fairly jaded opinion anyway, rolls in pushing a pram and there is the expectation that we'll all coo over the miraculous child, I am a little conspicuous in my failure to participate. All the mothers of young children gather around, cluck cluck, and, under the guise of admiration and adoration, comment on just how beautiful their own progeny were at four months, and how this particular infant is "hmmm, a bit small for her age...", and it all gets a little competitive. Almost a meeting, really...

I, however, take the opportunity to deliver a particularly ruthless fart; and I had been practising all morning with some real stinkers, heh, heh; whilst perambulating past the perambulator. This has the double impact of a) distressing all those in the vicinity and b) rather taking the gloss off the 'event' as the baby is accredited with the drifting noxiousness and its mother is required to leave her meeting with her boss and take it away for inspection, with all the associated embarrassment.

Oh, how dastardly! What a rotter! Or simply a master of high-efficiency, low-cost bio-degradable weaponry?

Loony Racing and Homo-eroticism

2006-04-11T20:02:00.000+01:00

Loony Racing, or motorcycling as it is more commonly known, is a really strange business. Don't get me wrong, I've commented elsewhere that I've a great deal of respect for those guys - there is no way you would get me on one of those machines. I'm talking about proper motorcycling here, the Superbikes or MotoGP, those are serious machines going at serious speeds, and it is a pretty dangerous activity.

But just consider. Man in leather sits astride hot throbbing thrusting thing, and pursues other man in leather sitting astride hot throbbing thrusting thing, of whom the only visible parts are the leather stretched taught across his buttocks as they writhe from side to side attempting to keep his thighs and knees tight around the hot throbbing thrusting thing. And an exhaust pipe.

Grrrrr, more testosterone than you can shake a stick at. And it gets better. All the advertising hoardings proclaim the virtues of sausages and lubricants. I kid you not.

On a slightly different note, those of you who know who Miffy is won't need me to tell you that this is probably a good place to go. Don't ask why I've posted this now - I should have done it before, maybe it's something to do with the arrival of the niece. Whatever. Enjoy.

South of Harrow

2006-04-09T21:57:00.000+01:00

Interestingly for the neighbours, the random play facility on the music software has discovered a taste for Slayer this morning. I say interestingly for the neighbours because this coincides with my discovery of how to convey the sound through the main domestic stereo, thereby beefing up the sound considerably, and generously sharing my exquisite taste with aforementioned neighbours. But it's the least I can do since they share the steady rhythms of their installing laminate flooring each morning and night, and the accompanying cheers of their domestic violence too.

Still, must be a bit of shock on a Sunday morning. Better than 'Quote Unquote with your host, Nigel Smug' or 'The Food Programme', with which I might be boring them to death if I was as truly vindictive as has been suggested in some quarters. Only Penfold need fret on that front, and I am merely one of the Alliance in plotting his discomfort. [At this point Mr. The Baker doubles up in malevolent laughter reminiscent of the late Vincent Price.] Penfold...I wouldn't give him the drippings off of my nose, to use a particularly charming expression from my native lands.

However, Com-pooh-ah is certainly set upon the hardcore path this morning, as we have just plunged into a gentle seam of Rollins Band, with that ever-mellow chap Henry the tattooed beat muthafucka, fervent anti-Bush campaigner and latter-day Bob Hope. The first time I went to a Rollins gig was in Sheffield with T, whilst I was resident in that Athens of the north, and on the walk back home we dropped in on some friends, ostensibly for a cup of tea, whence we watched 'Let Him Have It' on the goggler. How full of righteous anger do you wanna get? Heh, heh, I really think Com-pooh-ah is a tad raggy this morning, as it's now selected some Danzig. How soon afore we hit the darker stretches of Black Sabbath and do it properly? What other delights does it have access to? Paradise Lost, Godflesh, Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains, tee hee...

I did something radical yesterday, and bought some new knickers. I hate the word underpants, it's tatty and grey. I bought new knickers (black briefs if you're interested, mmm, just think about that and be glad I don't put pictures on this site) and, like the hopeless Brit that I am (it's an accident of geography, honest), I bought them at Marks & Spankers. They are to replace some old black boxers which are no longer 'fit for purpose' following the erosion of the gusset - when I say old, we're talking geological time here - and are themselves now tatty and grey. The main question around the knickers is this; why is each pair wrapped around a 'U-card' within the outer wrapping? Pointless, or what?

The Monthly Meeting

2006-04-07T03:59:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting in a meeting room facility at a venue in the Midlands, a venue which has lost one of its major attractions since the removal of a GT40 from its exhibition. [Again, this is taken from notes made at the time]. I'm sitting in a meeting room because I'm in a meeting, one which is scheduled to take several hours, and it is my least favourite event of the month, and so one which I generally take pains to avoid unless truly I am forced to be there.

This need to take hours is slightly unfortunate, not least because I have a sore nipple, an affliction the origin of which is unknown to me, thus making it difficult to prevent re-occurrence. As ever, it is the right side which is causing me such discomfort. The possible causes vary, from being a consequence of my always-restless sleep, or excessive vigour when towelling myself post-bath, to something more subconscious, of which I am in no control. This latter is a little worrying.

Is it me or is the trailer for 'Lonesome Dove' unbelievably shit? The first time I saw it I was sure it was a spoof, indeed I kept expecting someone like Charlie Higson or the late Kenny Everett to appear.

A good friend sent me a link to a recent BBC Radio 4 programme about 'prog rock' which featured an interview with, amongst others, Capt. Brock. This is fine, but, of course, whenever such material is covered on radio or telly there are always the usual suspects. Keith Emerson, for one, Rick Wakeman, and the frankly ghastly Jon Anderson. What unites these people? Most obviously, a complete lack of self-doubt. They all acknowledge the extremity of indulgence about their musical ambition, but all equally believe that their talent merited such indulgence. Anderson seems to believe himself underindulged.

My friend Mr. Han Solo today offered the word 'envidulator'. Needless to say, he failed the exam, which said officer was over-seeing...

God I love ice-cream...better still, I love to share ice-cream. It always makes people smile.

I often describe people as being 'pronounally challenged', by which I usually mean that they have a tendency to use 'I' when describing achievement, in place of a more accurate and appropriate 'he/she/we'. I am increasingly aware of another phenomenon, however; the use of 'myself' instead of 'I'. It appears to be an effort to lend gravitas to the statement. I think it's just careless and clumsy.

Oh alas, alack, the GT40 has gone, departed. It has been sold, and is unlikely to be replaced. Why on earth else do they think I would want to visit a car museum? To look at old Rovers?

Being Conscientious...

2006-04-05T21:10:00.000+01:00

This morning I am 'working from home', as they say, whilst waiting for an engineer to come and repair my washing machine. He is now late, and I have had to ask his boss to chivvy him along a little. In the meantime, what to do with my time?

Well, I've done some work, but there is only so much I can do outside of the office. I've made some calls to people to ask them to do work for me too. Then I went and did some shopping, and stopped to drop a suit in at the dry cleaners, where the proprietress asked how I am and commented that she hadn't seen me for a while. Which is true as I've been patronising an establishment near the office, but which I realise I don't have to, so I will return as a loyalist to my local cleaner. I like it in there, not least because she is an attractive woman, and in her younger days must have been an absolute stunner.

Then I've moped about here, ironed a couple of shirts (oh, the excitement) and listened to the wireless. But I had to turn that off, because it was 'You And Yours', and frankly, I hate consumer shows. Take a bit of responsibility for yourselves, folks, and you'll be surprised at how responsive various organisations will become.

However, speaking of 'You And Yours' brings me to one of my favourite subject, and that is voices. Specifically, sexy voices on the radio, voices that make me want to listen if the material is drivel. So, in no particular order and for no other reason than it's nice to share, here is a list of voices I like on the radio, and some of them I like on the telly too...

Winifred Robinson
Barbara Flynn
Charlotte Green
Souad Faress
Tamsin Greig
Fiona Shaw

This is not exhaustive, by any stretch, but clearly I like a woman who is well-spoken, and you'll agree that these are all voices worth listening to, no?

Office of the Living Dead

2006-04-05T02:32:00.000+01:00

Having lain in the bath this morning and bemoaned the iPoltergeist's reluctance to indulge me in some Stone Rosary, two of the seven choons thus far cet matin are of that particular flavour. [N.B. these ramblings are verbatim from my desk as the day passed.]

But don't worry, the Byrds have indeed paid their customary early morning visit. You gotta admit, it is strange... after all, it doesn't like Spiritualized - it was a rendition of 'Come Together' on the wireless first thing which triggered this line of thought - but it does like Stereolab. And it also likes very early Motorhead - especially 'City Kids' and 'On Parole'. And this particular morning, it really loves Bill Hicks. A spiritually awakened iPoltergeist?

Interestingly, iPol also has a taste for Serge Gainsbourg, and in particular for '69 Annee Erotique'. This little nugget of desir francais, which features the delightful Jane Birkin (now there is a woman who has aged well, dare I say) is in regular rotation.

Over the millennia, thousands of generations of our ancestors have acknowledged the importance of the golden orb that illuminates our sky and graciously imparts its precious life-giving warmth and light unto our world, each day passing our way, and they have paid homage and worship. Even as monotheism and science have squeezed the ancient beliefs into obscurity, we still wonder at our absolute relationship with our parent star, its utter power and potency, and our special place in its orbit and our dependency upon it.

So I find it a little disappointing to have to work with a bunch of people who begin every single day by pulling down the blinds.

But then they so lack any soul, or sense of magic, that the span of a double rainbow across the sky holds no joy or interest for them. Nor does Fats Domino.

Send for the Soma, the Deltas need some consolation, some numbing.

Now it is afternoon, the Sun is in retreat. We have the blinds open now, now that the clouds have carpeted the sky, it must be added, and my troglodytic associates feel that they can come out into the half-light, rubbing the blinking thimbles of darkness which pass for eyes in the dough-balls of their faces, mouths agape in awe, wonder or is it simple stupor? To mock departing Helios?

On a more prosaic note, I find myself jotting these jottings whilst waiting for both people and computer to deliver on relatively simple requests.

Is this a slightly tedious situation to be in? Of course it is. There is always the usual pleasure to be had, and indeed there are some fine views to be enjoyed today, with some of our regular exhibits in a particularly good shape, noting a couple of my more established favourites, as well as an influx of new talent. Admittedly, the Wild Witch is absent, but there is a new addition to our ranks who has caught the eye, and the ear as she is chatty-fun too, and there is also the presence today of new bodies from visiting suppliers, and that too offers some entertainment of a relatively high order but, ultimately, I'm sitting here waiting for others to get their houses in order.

--

Well folks, you can see, absolutely riveting at the factory today, but, well, you can't have it all, can you? But you gotta try....

Na-na-na-na

2006-04-04T07:38:00.000+01:00

I've just watched that 'Life on Mars', and I gotta say I like it. Well, I love the Sweeney, as you may know, and this pays due homage I reckon, laughs and darkness aplenty, and with a clever twist, and the music is good too, I understand there is to be an exposition of Hawkwindism in a future episode, of a 1973 vintage, and not only the obvious ditty. Yeah, good telly, followed up by 'Day of The Jackal' which I've never seen all the way through and it doesn't look like I'm going to now, either...but I did get around to reading it last year after many years of resisting, partly out of the authorship, and mostly out of snobbery.

I have to admit I enjoyed it, and, you know, Freddie Forsyth...he's a rum 'un, I reckon. I mean, I get a bit frightened sometimes, 'cause I hear him harping on and I find myself agreeing with him about something, that is a bit scary, yeah? It shows I'm getting old! But he's a bit of a nutter generally, isn't he? Anyway funny old day at work today, ha ha funny really, and a good discussion with K on why people get so hung up about flatulence. Why is it that we all try and pretend that it doesn't happen? Why do people get embarrassed about farting? What's wrong with farting? I feel better when I fart. I have to fart, we all have to fart, and we all feel better when we fart, so why pretend it doesn't go on. Nobody pretends they haven't got to go to work. I have to go to work, and there are things I do I don't like doing, but they are for my own good. I don't like brushing my teeth, but it is for my betterment, and farting is for my betterment, so I don't feel uncomfortable, and I like it. Nature forces us to fart, and in return she makes it a pleasurable experience. And we're too busy getting embarrassed to enjoy it! Look at other pack animals, sheep, cows, dogs, horses, they don't all stop and titter at one another, or all blush and ponce around, when one of 'em farts, so why do we? It's bananas.

I didn't notice in the police show whether the sirens were nena or woowoo? Wouldn't that be weird?

Soft Bun

2006-04-01T11:25:00.000+01:00

What a fantastic week I've had, sorry I've not posted for a few days, but just so much excitement. Krusty has, for the first time, become an uncle, to a gurgling niece. My sister has been delivered of a 7lb10oz little girl, who I have yet to see but I'm going this afternoon, but I do have a picture. And, because a) to preserve her dignity, and b) because to be honest we're none of us that interested in the babies of strangers, I'm not going to post it here. But I am a very happy bun right now.

Well folks, what else is news? Good week at work, so you'll be glad there's no whingeing on that front here, and yes, I'm aware that I do it.

Ah, it's Sunday now, began this on Friday, and spent yesterday evening and this morning with new family, ha, ha, really not such a prickly old Krusty right now! Have enjoyed the motor racing this arvo, very exciting! Good day, really, even the radio and telly pretty good, heard the end of an interesting programme this morning which had guests including Norman Schwarzkopf, Tom King, Patrick Cordingley and John Simpson discussing Desert Storm and the current situation in Iraq, and seeming like sad men to me.

I'm just watching an advert; can you imagine if William Shatner just walked in on your life? No, nor can I. Boy there are some shit ads, if you're going to bother to attempt to make me well disposed to your product at least have the decency to entertain me.

Anyway, I'm pretty made up right now. And I think that I'm about to get 'ToTP' with the previously entertaining Mr. Hound.

iPoltergeist, and b-b-b-breasts

2006-03-28T19:29:00.000+01:00

I'm increasingly convinced that the MP3 player is possessed. This morning we had undue amounts of Small Faces. Now they wouldn't be there if I didn't like 'em, but if I've set it to shuffle then I don't really expect two out of every three tracks to be Small Faces. And yes, we did get plenty of Byrds too - it really loves 'John Riley'.

Late last week saw a little jadedness in my time at work, as there was a dearth of viewing. Most of my favoured were out, and I sorely noticed the absence of one or two in particular - delighted yesterday at the return of the Wild-Haired One, ooh, the way she dresses and moves... On the other hand, there has been the opportunity to spend quite a lot of time in 'meetings' with one of our suppliers, and specifically their account manager, who has terrific sparkly blue eyes, is a bright and chatty woman, and extremely professional and competent individual, and is amply endowed with what can only be described as bosom. Not breasts (much as I like that word), and certainly not knockers or tits or boobs or jugs or all the rest of it, the base language of the stag night. This is a bosom. Thoroughly enchanting. As is her posterior.

Just caught the last five minutes of 'Eastenders', which I haven't seen for a very long time, and five minutes is enough to remind me of why I haven't seen it for a very long time. Folks, I ask you to vote: Phil Mitchell - tosser or wanker?

Paranoid? Me?

2006-03-22T19:14:00.000Z

There are plenty of people who suggest that I'm nothing but a paranoid conspiracy theorist. Well I'm definitely not the latter - there's no mysterious, unspecified 'they' around here, I am invariably able to specify exactly who I think is responsible for spoiling things, and, with what might have been career-limiting consequences, I'm not usually reticent about saying what it is that's troubling me. So I'm not a conspiracy theorist. And I don't think I'm as paranoid as suggested. Those of you who have taken the trouble to gather the crumbs that get sprinkled here will have noticed that I've made some harsh comments on the Dear Leader. Well, just in case you think I'm an extremist with a beef, I RECOMMEND THAT YOU READ THIS.

And I'll stop foaming at the mouth...

And that other theme of mine, the telly; I've just been watching something on telly which has demonstrated that I can afford to be selective in what sort of motorsport I watch. "On the edge, it's Figure 8 racing, yeah." This is a bunch of fat rednecks packed into stockcars which they race for 3hrs around a figure-of-eight track at the 'Indianapolis Speedrome' - judging by the white paint on the track this is a car park with temporary stands erected - for the 'World Championship'. It's exciting, it must be 'cause they crash into one another occasionally (no shit), (excuse me while I take a moment to enjoy the wallpaper of the naked Japanese which has just rotated on my com-pootah, right, I'm back now, koncentrate Krusty), no, I'm lying, it's pants. No I didn't watch 3hrs, it was edited down to 20 minutes, yeah, that exciting!

Anyway, gotta go, nature calls and she is such a demanding lady...love to y'all.

Pleasure and Pain

2006-03-20T03:30:00.000Z

I'm watching telly (yeah, I know I do it a lot, but you'll also notice I'm a fair critic of what I see), and I'm watching Top of the Pops would you believe for the first time in years, 'cause I know it's had a bit of a shake up, and I was quite enjoying it, and a band who were o.k. and I was enjoying the idea of how I get on with music, when I realised that there is pain to be suffered for this pleasure.

It was James Blunt, and, well, it is a little embarrassing, isn't it?

As I sat there considering its failings, and its utter lack of rock'n'roll, the two presenters, Trevor Nelson and somebody called Rufus Hound - I had expected Rufus Hound to be an actor in a felt costume, attempting to resemble a character from a Hanna Barbera cartoon, in an effort to appeal to the younger market, although I expect they're probably busy out nicking glue, though it had actually turned out to be a cocky but funny blond bloke - began to have a conversation about the rock'n'roll nature of James Blunt, and, with a few gags about the blue rinse brigade, some utter drivel, and a good bit more of Nelson and Hound - I don't get most of these acts at all, but hey, I'm not 12 - I have since, in the knowledge that I am not alone, warmed to this show.

Getting a bit snotty

2006-03-19T22:37:00.000Z

This has not been an amazing weekend, due to the arrival on Friday of a cold. Not 'flu, I know the difference, and I'm not going to do that usual male thing of overstating it, but a cold, with attendant coughing and spluttering, constant flow of snot leaving nostrils and septum sore, and dried crud around the fringes, inability to hear properly, and the general apathy and lethargy that such a malaise carries with it. So a large part of the time has been spent sitting or lying on the sofa, paying varying degrees of attention to the telly - Commonwealth Games, Minder (yes, Minder! and to be honest, it hasn't dated too badly), F1 (well done Renault, top show) - and scooting around looking at anything of interest here. Not a great deal come up, I have to say, but I've not been trying too hard.

Of course, the question that should be troubling all of us is 'How does Blair survive?', and you can choose Tony or Ian. Tony's travails are numerous, and folks, they all sound so familiar, don't they? They're not new things for Prime Ministers to be embroiled in, he just seems to slither through. After all, ask yourselves whether you still trust the man after the business of how we came to go to war in the first place - and we won't even get stuck into lack of proper support for forces, failings of Geoff Hoon (when I'm president, it will be Ministry of Special Duties for him), and the obvious absence of a plan for what to do with a newly conquered and de-Saddamed Iraq - and even if you do still trust him after that, you must find it increasingly difficult when you come across stories like the loans for honours debate such as at this link (although it shouldn't be a surprise in this man's case), the fact that a Labour Prime Minister is dependent on Tory support to get his legislation through, and, er, when he gets one of his dogmatic ideas he just keeps changing the reason to justify it (think ID cards, folks), it's just impossible to trust the man. So, remember to make your voices heard. And if you really can't stomach any more of Tony, there's always Ian, who despite being Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, the most senior policeman in the land, appears to have some difficulties with ideas of truth and justice, although this may be symptomatic of his profession, when senior police officers have elsewhere commented on 'helping people prove their innocence'.

The recent week at work has been fun, not least because I was only there for three days, but there has been a little entertainment on the aesthetic pleasures front, with some particularly well turned out colleagues this week, and a small personal success which drew rare acknowledgment of one of my less-seen talents, so not at all bad.

There'll be more later, so if you're disappointed by the quality of this, don't be angry at me. I'll try harder next time...

Chariot Racing

2006-03-16T19:43:00.000Z

I'm still getting over last weekend, which was relatively busy, and which I extended by having Friday through to Tuesday away from work. My old buddy T was down for the weekend, hence we went to the photography exhibitions (see elsewhere here), and watched some films, including 'Sin City', which I enjoyed, and 'Reefer Madness; The Musical', during which I fell asleep. Ne'ermind. We also went to Cheltenham for a fortieth birthday, which was a great party, and stayed over in a B&B, in a place called Bishop Cleeve, which had a not so great landlady. We should have spotted it early on, as the place was full of books about or by Margaret Thatcher, but we were rushing to get into glad rags and get into the beer. Anyway, in the morning, she essentially spent half an hour ignoring us whilst she told the people at the next table that today's young, and middle classes, don't know how to do a days work, and then she came and insulted us face to face. She's been on a marketing course, so she knows all about it all - the railways, the post office, what I do for a living (I'm not sure I told her what I do for a living), the works. I'm glad we hadn't arranged to stay for another night, or I'd have had to point out that "I'm paying to be here, so shut the fuck up and leave me alone."

We then went to see my family, a trip to the ancestral pile and attached to that a wander around our home town, which T hasn't seen in over 10 years, and we enjoyed seeing some old haunts, which left him a little confused and a bit more amused, so much chuckles, and a terrific Fat Falstaff cake at the back of what used to be Wylie's. (That gives it away.)

Now, personally, one of the highlights of the weekend was the return of Formula One. I know, I hate all the politics and bollocks too, but folks, those boys earn their money. If you don't know what I mean, lie down on the floor with two pillows under your head. That's where you sit in a F1 car, or their American counterparts, and you drive it at 200mph. If you look 3ft to the left or right of your foot, that's where your competitors wheels are. And he's going at 200mph too. And neither of you is going to give way. Think Ben-Hur, and you will begin to understand what I mean. The excitement a modern crowd gets is the same as the Romans got at the Circus Maximus. Awesome. And don't think I'm singling them out, either, the MotoGP guys, and other top riders and drivers in most forms of motorsport get a thumbs-up from me.

Elsewhere on four wheels - don't ever insult me by describing me as British. The very essence of British insularity is the way the average Brit behaves on the road. Morons. Indicators? Mirrors? Give way? I hate driving these days, and you don't know what it means to say that, and it's because I have to share the road with so many peasants. I suggest that you shouldn't be allowed to drive until you're 21 (I've more to say on being 21 later), and there should be random testing - you get 4 weeks notice to present yourself for a re-test at any stage of your life, and if you fail you have 6 weeks to pass again or your licence is suspended. Vote for Me.

If you get the opportunity...

2006-03-11T22:29:00.000Z

...have a look at these, and better still in the flesh, as it were. This is a cracking show, and they do good cake at the Gallery. Right next to Leicester Square station, too, so the Porcupine and the Bear And Staff are to hand too. Excellent.

Why, exactly?

2006-03-11T06:13:00.000Z

Just have a look at this tower and ask why one might do that with it?

Close To The Edge?

2006-03-10T19:30:00.000Z

Yesterday evening, I was in a hotel room near Warwick, getting ready to go out with some colleagues. I put the radio on, because I thought it would be nice to have some music, and went to the bathroom to ablute. Anyway, I'm on the pot, and by now committed, when I heard the dj mutter these most scary of words; "And now, as promised, three from Yes". I'm not a man who likes to be hurried, as I tend to the point of view that straining away is a short cut to a serious injury, but I tell you, those seven words proved perhaps the most effective laxative I have ever experienced.

Yes? Not on my radio, we don't.

I Forgot This In All The Excitement...

2006-03-09T08:19:00.000Z

As that looney Blair was proclaiming his increasingly Messianic self-assurance at the weekend, I neglected to mention to you all why his host, the ever-grinning and genial but 'Ahm a Yorkshireman so don't think ahm a pushover' Michael Parkinson holds a strange and special place in my affections. "Parky?" I hear you all exclaim, "but he's a twat, isn't he?" Well, you might think that, I couldn't possibly comment.

Parkinson is special, because he has the distinction of being the first person to whom I ever heard my mother attribute the sin of self-indulgent onanism. She was cooking our meal one evening when I was a teenager, and Parky was on the wireless, giving it his usual "As I come from Barnsley I'm an expert on everything"-slightly-irregular-intonation-and-talk-utter-drivel spiel, when the matron suddenly swung around from the hob and, with all the viper-like venom she could muster, pointed at the radio set and snarled "He really is one of life's wankers, isn't he?" I was stunned, then fell about with laughter. Stunned, because it's not like her to use strong language, but as ever she chose the right words to illustrate her erudition, and laughing because, well, it is funny when someone is that spot on.

Something Strange on a Saturday

2006-03-07T03:07:00.000Z

I forgot to mention this. I got in the car on Saturday morning, with a view to making my way back to the ancestral pile, and as the whole thing started up was surprised to find myself listening to 'Silver Machine'. What's so odd about that, I hear you say, as you do have something of a newly re-acquired need for a regular dose of H - Solstice was a terrific night and really gave me a new appetite for that special sound - so why any sense of surprise at said tune? Well, I knew that it was not on any of the discs in the car, and when I looked at the display it said BBC Radio 4. Now, all of us loyalists and devotees know that the good Captain does occasionally pop up on the Home Service, and Saturday morning is a likely slot. It turned out to be a programme called 'Music To Die For', which was in essence an excuse for Ian Rankin to talk to his crime-writin' chums about how music features in their work, and he was having a good natter with someone called Jules Denby about the merits of our favourite space cadets. Anyway, I've put the link in for those of you who are interested, and if anyone knows about this woman's books, let us know. I'm not a great one for crime fiction, I have to say, so if you can sell me on this, well done, but offers are welcome, and someone who passes here might give it a go.

PS those of you who may have noticed that I've been doing this at irregular hours and were concerned, please sleep easy, I'd just been a numpty and lost control of the time and date options, such is my eagerness to share my ramblings with you.

New variations on old themes...

2006-03-05T20:50:00.000Z

Right, quite a lot to say this time, so I'll get down to business.

To return to an old theme, due to my generously donating time and effort to a loft clearance this weekend, I've acquired a number of what can only be described as vintage twat mags. They're over thirty years old, some classic titles such as Playboy, Mayfair, Penthouse and Men Only. The first thing to comment on is the price; in 1972 it cost you 40 new pence to shop the top shelf. The publisher was, as is, Paul Raymond, but the most important thing of all is that tastes have changed. The pictures, and there is probably less per mag, heavily diluted by riveting articles such as an interview with Keith Moon or a feature on the Isle of Man TT races, are, shall we say, more erotic. They are a bit more artistic, it's not a case of close-up on a shaving rash. They are pictures of elegant and attractive young women, fairly tasteful, and with many a coiffured quim. (Don't get upset, what should I call it? At least that alliterates.) Now, I realise that the law will have changed since 1972, and I'm not saying that that's a bad thing, but what I would say is that the more 'naturel' look just has a bit more about it, you know. Like I've said before, the women look like women. I'm delighted by my acquisition.

Another subject that has come up over the weekend is the use and re-use of a tune called 'Choc Ice Goes Mental'. For those of you unfamiliar with it, this is an instrumental, played on the piano, and is attributed to Lord Choc Ice. Choc Ice is, in fact, Elton John, and 'Choc Ice Goes Mental', was about the last thing of any quality he recorded. (Is this another old theme recurring?) The evidence for this is that he appears to have used it as a b-side more than once...

And I was delighted to get a note here from sweeteffay - whose efforts I recommend you read, dear reader - on the subject of dodgy GD songs. I disagree with him on the subject of 'Attics...', as I'm compelled to seek some romanticism somewhere in my otherwise cold and cynical view of human nature. Even the Greek Genius is now resigned to telling me that I'll just have to accept the mediocrity of those around me, which is a desperate thing to be asked to do, and surely is the acknowledgement that there is no point in attempting to progress. But I would invite those of you with knowledge of this subject to consider the following: I don't believe that the Grateful Dead ever toured in the West Midlands, but they appear to refer to the town of Cradley Heath, repeatedly, in virtually every recording of 'Weather Report Suite' that I possess. Have a listen, and let me know what you think. Oh, and if anyone wants to check on this by looking at this site, please do, and I accept no liability for any injury you incur when you fall off your chair in uncontrollable fits of laughter. A contender for most pretentious site on the WWW. Unless you know better...

MP3 players, and Possession

2006-03-03T19:25:00.000Z

A question I have asked myself today is whether or not an MP3 player can become possessed; or at least, express some kind of will? The reason I ask is that today, mine has exhibited some strange behaviours...or has it?

Now, I realise that when you ask a computer to do anything in a random manner, such as to play songs in a random order, it is not really random, but just jumbled up sufficiently to confuse the likes of me and you, but today I have been subject to a remarkably high density of Bad Brains songs, which, with the hangover from yestereven, has not been quite as welcome as it might have been. Indeed, it began to wear a bit thin, to be honest. Along with this is a tendency to ignore the other ZZ Top songs available to it and only concentrate on 'Eliminator' as a source. So, in my relatively paranoid, washed-out state of mind, I get to thinking that the player is expressing its preference for specific records.

Alternatively, if you want to be totally rational about it, I could just note that in the short run it is perfectly probable that there will be such series of outcomes from a random generator, and that just because they don't appear random doesn't mean that they are not random. But that would be boring, and the idea of a possessed or expressive machine is vaguely amusing, at least while it expresses a preference for Bad Brains. If it started playing Phil Collins tracks I'd be shitting myself - not least because I don't own any Phil Collins records, and have no desire to.

Hangover and more daffodils...

2006-03-03T18:58:00.000Z

The hangover, you'll be delighted to read, was nasty. Because I didn't get in 'til gone two, and I prevaricated a little over going to bed because I was feeling so grotty, I didn't set the alarm clock. I awoke at eight, and new immediately that there was no way on earth that I was going to be driving for a while yet, so I went back to bed. My bladder and my brain then reminded me in no uncertain terms that they were still suffering the effects of some bottles of beer, two especially sour margheritas, and a couple of flutes of the Widow's brew. I've been completely useless today, so despite arriving late, very late, to work, via a pharmacist, I did a runner just a tad early, as sitting waiting for a database to send me some numbers does not engender an enthusiasm for the working day when one's mouth feels like a second hand sanding disc. Not good. But I can't complain, definitely a 'self-inflicted injury', and it is now going away, which is good.

These daffodils are just at their peak now; so gorgeous, and the scent is through the whole house, just soooo wow!

Bucket of Lust

2006-03-03T02:18:00.000Z

Lordy, I've just been out on the town, a night out on 'work', all exes paid, and boys and girls, I sure as hell don't wanna go to bed just yet, 'cause I'm a-hammered, a-battered like a large cod fillet, and I just don't dare go to bed just yet.

The occasion was the departure of my former boss, and this is where it gets complex. As you've probably gathered, I'm an individual who appreciates the aesthetic pleasures in life, and, well, I've been enjoying them this evening. Does that mean that one shouldn't mention them? That one should pretend that they don't exist? After all, should my good friend and I pretend that the obvious spark that exists between us doesn't after all?

Actually, it doesn't really matter, 'cause I feel so shit after all, I'm going to 'seize the initiative'. See you later folks....

Daffodils are just soooo gorgeous

2006-03-01T22:26:00.000Z

Oh, the vagueness of it all. The cloak and dagger meetings, the intimated suggestions as to what the future might or might not hold...it's all a load of cobblers, really, isn't it? I mean, I didn't fall off the Christmas Tree, folks, so don't treat me as though I did.

Right, enough venting of spleen my chums, you deserve a little better, so what shall we turn the spotlight on ce soir? Could it be the debate (almost) triggered by my last posting - the weakest song on 'American Beauty'? I tell you what, let's stretch that out a bit, and make it the worst GD song of all? The only rule is it has to be an original composition, ok, not a cover. Now there's a fair bit to choose from. So here's one to put the cat in to them thar pigeons, how about 'Playing In The Band'? Yawn, yawn, yawn. Offers are welcome.

And, because I like to share nice things with you, my dear readers, I'm sitting here surrounded by the sweet scent of fresh daffodils, because it's that day of the year when you just have to have daffodils about the place.

Anyway, it's late and I'm knackered, so I'll love and leave you for now...

Dark Starbucks

2006-02-27T12:32:00.000Z

It's taken me a couple of days to get this down, but Friday morning I was en route to an oh so exciting conference at a hotel in central London when I stopped for a coffee. I had endured a long journey on the tube, and although it was bitterly cold outside I didn't want to rush on in as that would mean making small talk with my colleague who was also attending - and I don't particularly care for that individual...so I was forced to take refuge in a Starbucks coffee bar.

Anyway, I'm sat down with my latte with vanilla - I must concede, this was pretty good stuff, and the caffeine, which I'm not supposed to have, kept me awake all day - quietly failing to make much progress with the crossword when I suddenly recognise the opening chords of a record I like. None other than 'Sugar Magnolia'. Now, my fellow 'heads, you will appreciate like me that this is by no means the best version of this song, and there is much debate as to what is, and I personally think it's the weakest song on 'American Beauty' as it stands, and that was the version we got, but it's better than the whingey balladeers we were getting for our money that morning, I can assure you. However, I supped up and left when we later got 'Crocodile Rock'... But it was a little ray of sunshiney daydream to get me going.

Sue Barker

2006-02-19T20:41:00.000Z

I'm watching the Winter Olympics, again, because the alternatives are 'somewhat limited', as Lee Majors' agent once described his client's acting abilities. One channel offers me Trisha Goddard (who? I hear you ask) and 'Britain's Psychic Challenge' - if they're psychic, let 'em figure it out - and then there's the West Wing, which has become a good reason to amend the US Constitution to make it one term and one term alone, Mr. President, and that will be the end of your presidating. I'm quite keen to let rip on the music front, but I wish to be particularly loud, and having told the neighbours to stop playing football in their front room it might be a bit naughty to subject them to a series of Hawkwind albums, although the sonic experience that is 'Brainstorm' will not do anyone any harm, merely clear the mind for what matters, namely more Hawkwind. Anyway, figure skating is the Beeb's offering, gosh, what larks, and more of the paternalistic prattling of Barry Davies, but before that we were treated to the enthusings of Ms. Barker. Now, from once being the pin-up of British tennis, and indeed a winner of a Grand Slam tournament (on an aside here, it occurred to me last night, over dinner, that Andre Agassi has a taste for women with large noses, consider Barbra Streisand and Steffi Graf, yeah? Although I suspect it was Ms. Graf's thighs that were the winning factor there....), whilst having escaped the shadow of Steve 'Mr. Professional - what a wonderful days sport we have in store for you, smile, unctuate' Rider, Sue Barker is increasingly looking like Keith Richards. But most importantly, why have the BBC spent good money taking Steve Cram and Colin Jackson to Italy to commentate on winter sports? Why not take people who actually know what they're talking about. And why are we getting interviews with Duran Duran?

On a good note, escape from the BBC's less than perfect coverage of the Olympics - as well as Duran Duran they keep showing re-runs of TorvilleandDean in Sarajevo, rather than sport which is happening now, puts me back on the laughter trail with Larry David. Which is good. Jeez, I really empathise with that guy. Probably more than any tv character I've ever seen.

Picasso, pictures, plinths and pints

2006-02-17T12:56:00.000Z

Having arranged some well-earned respite from the meeting-mania, I decided that I ought to put it to some good use, and that meant visiting a gallery. So I took the tube to Piccadilly Circus, then meandered down towards County Hall with a view to perusing their new exhibition of Picasso - all rare and exciting stuff, apparently - of which more anon. I know it's a fair old walk, and that I could have got the train down to Embankment or Charing Cross or Waterloo, or even Westminster, but I quite like the walk, and it does me no harm, seeing as how I'm a fat, and generally lazy chap (definitely chap, I'm told), to stretch my legs, and besides I had promised myself some reward later...and I'd already had a face-full of brekker at a favoured greasy spoon near here, "breakfast number seven, bubble not hash, tea and toast, ta". I'd sat on the train as far as Piccadilly plugged into some sounds and having the odd chuckle as I read the paper (Telegraph, natch, where else does one look for upmarket ladies?) but knew that the walk was what was needed. Anyway, I was wandering down Haymarket when I became aware that the ball-and-chain was buzzing. Is there no escape? Then down via Trafalgar Square and Whitehall, past the adoring hordes craning their necks for a glimpse of His Tonyness the Holy, demonstrating his faith in his policies of freedom and liberty by keeping the lumpen proletariat at ever-further distance behind increasing quantities of fence, barrier and weaponry. To Parliament Square, and a quick shake hands with the demonstrators there, not because I agree with them but because you have to admire them for gaining permission to demonstrate at all, and then onto that wonderful place which is Westminster Bridge.

When you get through the onslaught at the road crossing, through the mayhem of the souvenir stand by Boadicea ( I know we call her Boudicca now, I went to school too) and the hot dog trailer, then you can get across the bridge itself. Jimmy Saville, or at least, a five foot six lookalike in white blouse, white trainers and kilt, was setting up to busk with bagpipes, and I hurried along. To County Hall.

There followed some negotiation with the two nice ladies at the counter as to my intention not to look at the Dalis, I only wanted to look at the Picassos, so they only charged me the additional £3.50 to get in, which I think is really kind of them, and I went to get an eyeful of the pictures and ceramics and tapestries. It has to be said that a large number of the pictures are prints, which is perhaps a little naughty, but as I'd not spent a lot to get in I can't beef, and there were some beauties. I loved the ceramics, the pitchers with owls, and there were a number of pictures, one of a nude face down on a bed, oh the simple way he captured the beautiful curves, and the print of the two lovers kissing...and the tapestries, wow, what colour. Anyway, you can tell, I got my moneys worth, and more.

So what next? A plan had formed, I haven't been pub crawling for a while, seeing as the Greek Genius has put the mockers on my old mate alcohol, and the days of rampant dipsomania are probably gone forever, so I thought a tour of some unknown watering holes, with a discreet half in each should make it an afternoon to enjoy, complete with the paper and crossword. First stop, back in Whitehall, was the Red Lion. Nice, definitely a boozer, only the presence of panini rather than sarnies to suggest a poshness which was undermined by the stickiness of the woodwork where many a pint had been spilled, and the beer was fine. Then on, up Whitehall to another pub, the name of which escaped me, and which by its faceless non-descriptness will probably not trouble me again. On the way up there, I was amused by the presence of a bloke walking around with a placard proclaiming the presence of a nearby hamburger shop (they're not restaurants, are they?). But that's not a threat to public safety, so that's alright then. Anyway, whilst in this faceless pub I did get into a conversation with two guys from Defra, one a civil servant, one a scientist, and was delighted to discover that they too are victims of the e-culture at work. They too are expected to respond instantly to e-mails, and form opinions without the benefit of reading the report put before them, without the consideration required, and to advise a numpty ignorant minister on a subject. No room for thought, then. So it's form an opinion, and justify it later.

Onwards up to Trafalgar Square, and a slow stroll around the lions avoiding the tourists photographing one another clambering all over the great cats and ignoring the big man on the top of the column. I took the opportunity to have a good look at the Fourth Plinth, as I was in an artistic frame of mind, which is currently occupied by Marc Quinn's 'Alison Lapper Pregnant', and decided that it is art, and it is beautiful. I believe that there are those who've suggested it was about time public art celebrated disability, and that there are those who think it is distasteful to make a show of it. To all - Trafalgar Square is a monument to a man with one eye and one arm. Anyway, I like Mr. Quinn's sculpture, but I like the use of the plinth in rotation even more, so let's keep it like that.

Now for a serious quandary - to stop off at the Chandos for a swifty, or to press on up to the Bear and Staff? Press on won the day, and I was reminded of why I like that boozer - it's convenient and cheap. There was a young bloke in there with his dad, discussing whether to buy a bus or a van. He was in a band, and they were obviously just starting to get gigs which involved serious travelling, but which did not involve serious money, so my quandary over which pub seemed a bit small, really, and I wish him well, whoever he is. I didn't ask.

Across the road to the Porcupine, again cheap and convenient, but a little, well, grubbier, really, but they do have Barnsley chop on the menu, and you don't see that as much as you might, and as I was supping on my half of bitter, I was engaged in conversation by a man who turned out to be Czech. He wanted me to help him find an employment agency somewhere, I was unable to assist, but he then carried on telling me what great stuff Guinness is. He really enthused, non-stop, jabber jabber jabber, I'd never thought that it was that good. But then, if I did, I'd have been drinking it instead of bitter, no?

Next, a couple of the second hand bookshops, to purchase a book for my sister, and a book for my brother-in-law, and then a traipse around the new bookshops to find a book for me. The reading group which I belong to wants to read a book called 'The Road Less Travelled' by M. Scott Peck. I eventually found it in Self-Help. Oh the irony; I joined the bookgroup because my shrink suggested it would be a good idea...

The rest of the evening was spent zigzagging across Soho, from the Carlisle Arms to the George (a shed) to the Blue Posts and thence to the Crown, via that old standard, the Ship. I was stood next to a bloke in the Blue Posts who was telling his friends that he had just come off the 'phone to the wife of a colleague; the colleague had been killed in a rta that morning. The man did seem a little distressed, he was struck by the complete randomness of it, the unpredictability, the chance, and the sudden devastation left around it. I could empathise. I hope they recover, more, I hope he doesn't just desert his friend's family.

In the Crown there was a young couple kissing. It seemed to close the day after the Picasso. They too were as oblivious as a painting to being watched, totally self-absorbed.

Opening Ceremony

2006-02-11T18:37:00.000Z

The Opening Ceremony of the Winter Olympics was performed last night. I have to say, I'm not sure what all that sort of thing is for. What purpose does it serve? I can appreciate the need for a parade of the athletes (is any event where there is a subjective scoring of Artistic Content a sport, however athletic the participant?), but the rest of it? Ballet dancers with masks? What is that all about? It looked like a particularly expensive and incoherent edition of It's A Knockout. And, those of you, like me, rash enough to have the telly on with all this, will have enjoyed the lounge bar ramblings of Barry Davies and enthusiastic chirrupings of Hazel Irving as 'commentary' on all this. Now, whilst I must confess a certain warmth towards Ms. Irving, although nothing more than being well-disposed towards her, it was like a headgirl ingratiating herself with a deputy headmaster, who's in his position on the grounds that he's been kicking around longer than anyone else in the common room. Davies got more and more banal as the evening went on. I was watching on the off-chance that something exciting might happen, and was gone within half an hour. The clincher was when, as the Italians used a quote from Dante to set the tone for the event, Davies started gurgling on about London's staging of the Olympics in 2012, and, with Daily Mail-like indignation, suggesting that to quote 'Henry V' would probably be considered politically incorrect. No, Baz, just inappropriate - the aim is to extol the virtues of the Olympic ideals, and, however beautifully written, a partisan view of history is not really the way to do that, not to the athletes of over 150 countries whom we hope will visit and compete. I'm sure Shakespeare has more to offer.

I say 'we hope' will visit. I don't really want the Olympics to come here, and the reasons are many. Firstly, I don't like not being asked. Those unlikely bedfellows Lord Coe (former Chief Of Staff to the Leader of HM Opposition), Tony Blair and Ken Livingston, pursuing an ego trip which will be paid for by a surcharge on the council taxes of Londoners who are already paying a surcharge for Ken and his GLA, the value of which is debatable (grrrrr ggnnnnn foam foam foam at the mouth with seething uncontrollable rage at the...)