Something Old, Something New

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?

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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."

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red Baron Caught Red Handed

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

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

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

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



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

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

I've no idea what to call this one

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

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

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

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

Anyway, that'll do for today.

The Return Of The Beast

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Why You Should Always Get Married In A Church



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

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



Bluddy 'ell, fellers.

Just Too Mellow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Tonsorially Challenged

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

Because it's unnecessarily entertaining

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

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

Chris,

how about

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

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

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

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

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

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

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