iPoltergeist, and b-b-b-breasts

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?

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

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

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

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...

...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?

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

Close To The Edge?

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...

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

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...

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...)

Kurrant Affairs

Some things I've learnt and considered over the past few days.

Whereas I've never though very much of Mark Oaten, at least I now know that that particular activity is technically called coprophilia.

Is the gaoling of Abu Hamza a success or a failure for Tony Blair and Charles Clarke? Surely it demonstrates that there is sufficient law to achieve their stated aims, without adding their 'Religious Hate' stuff? Which suggests, to the cynic, that there may be more than meets the eye to their agenda. (Consider the ever-changing reasons why we really want and need an ID card scheme, oh yes we do, and I'll put you in prison if you don't, at undetermined cost and with even more undetermined regulation and accountability.) Now, it's not my intention to frighten people here, so please, sleep easy tonight, knowing that we're all that little bit safer in a country where the Government has rapidly centralised power, the Prime Minister has fully exploited the Royal Prerogative, where the right to trial by jury is now being eroded, where the accused's previous record is put before a jury (only the prosecution can ever gain from that), and where you can now be locked up without charge, trial or recourse to a lawyer of your choice. Because you present a threat. But not such a threat that there's sufficient evidence to prove it. Because if we had that evidence, we'd have you in front of jury, wouldn't we? Oh, and if you don't like any of this, you can be arrested for protesting your distaste, because that is terrorism.

It's happening folks, and I feel just as hopeless and helpless as you. So let's not all be fighting each other, 'cause that's just what the bastards want.

And, because we need something to cheer us up, and 'cause I just can't stay away from things lovely, check out this lot - paintings.