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.

BBC Krusty

Folks, I'm so pleased with myself today, and about something so irrelevant as to be ridiculous. I was doing my toilet this morning, admiring myself in the mirror as I took a Gillette to the mutton-chops, when I heard something that made me nearly cut myself. My letter being read out on the wireless.

I've got a recording, it's an mp3 file, if anybody can help me post it in such a way as to make it hearable, you too can enjoy, as it was read out verbatim, unedited. But I don't know how to do it. If it needs to be in another format, let me know, I have conversion options - wav, m4a etc. I just can't figure out how to post it.

Now, for the benefit of Tom, whose rant has some validity, some overtaking at Monaco.



Anyway, hoped you liked that. Right, I'm off for some strawberries and cream, and maybe a blob of ice-cream too. Love y'all.

Knockers, Tits and Big Dick

Yes, Tom, and you fell for it, ha ha ha, I'm afraid too long have I spent around shameless marketeers, and I can't help but have picked up some of their dastardly tricks. Knockers, tits, and, for the ladeez Big Dick (take yer pick!).

Oh what a phenomenally lazy day. I've spent two hours ploughing through all the letters and bank statements and bills that have not had a response for the last four months, most of it has gone in the bin, some has gone on the 'to question' pile, like the building society circular from the 'Head of Investments' who is writing to inform me of the cut in the interest rate on my savings account - hang on mate, I didn't notice a cut in base rates, so are you not investing very well, then?

Then there is the listening to loads of music. Oh, such wonders as the jukebox has turned up today [Excuse me, it's giving out 'The Rocker' right now, I am compelled to dance][Oh, back to back delight, 'Down At The Doctor' for some Dr. Feelgood, those cheeky chappies.] And reading. With a week to go, I have finished the book for the bookgroup, which was 'Barcelona Plates' by Alexei Sayle, and I loved it. Yes, pretty gruesome, but that's what short stories are for, isn't it - my experience of the genre is Dahl and Saki, so I guess that sets a certain expectation - anyway, I liked it. I don't think I'm Too Sexy For My Lorry will, though. It doesn't address ishooz, there's no starving peasants or oppressive dictators, no illustration of imperialist American hegemony, just lots of middle-class people, so bourgeois (Oh, thanks, I'll have a glass of chilled chardonnay, do they have any olives?), so no, probably won't tickle her thing. Besides, it wasn't her choice. It's grim up North Berkshire.

Oh Lord, I'm a couple of sherberts down the line, and they're suddenly coming home to roost. That, and the late night last night, as I attempted to watch the baseball - I didn't take any of it in, other than the continuing aggro about Barry Bonds, who did yesterday get to 715. [There's no need for me to say that, is there? If you're interested, you know that he got 715 yesterday, so you don't need me to tell you, and if you're not interested you have no idea what the fuck I'm on about, and equally don't give a fuck what I'm on about, do you?]

'Better a relativist than a Trotskyite, I always say - this coming from a country full of people so dense that they bend light on their own.' For the funniest thing I've read for a while, this gets a link.

Who is Tom DeLay?

"Hi folks, I'm an otter. My friends the gannets did warn me, but I still wasn't quite prepared for it. That eejit Simon King has moved in on my patch. No, not the drummer, the naturalist. The gannets spent a week shitting on him before he buggered off, I'm debating whether to do the same. Why does he insist on calling me Buster. My name is Geoff. All the girls know that - especially Stella and Trinny, my wifelets. But he thinks he's terribly funny. The badgers 'phoned to say that that Humble woman with the nice arse and absolutely nothing else to offer television other than a willingness to do whatever she's told in an effort to justify the contract the BBC obviously signed in a moment of madness, has moved in down the road from them. There's a camera outside their front door too. So they've taken to coming out later, then having a shit before clearing off into the woods. That's where they go to watch X-Factor Celebs.

"My cousin the Stoat, Bryan, tells me he ate the woodmouse's kids. That's the way it goes. I dunno, the lions get Attenborough. We get this."

Birds and Tits

I have spent the latter part of the day watching loads of birds on the telly, tits galore. Phwoar!!! Nearly as exciting as the race in Monaco this arvo.

Now, of course, it goes without saying ("So why are you saying it, K?") that I'm delighted that Sr. Alonso won, but I must concede a little sympathy for Messrs. Webber, Raikkonen and Trulli, all of whom broke down. Still, it's a team game, folks, so none of that crap I heard a lot of last year about KR being 'robbed'. And Fisichella, more of that kind of racing in the future, I think.

I'm debating whether or not to make a pot of coffee, and attempt to stay awake and watch the baseball. I haven't seen any this year, and I do quite like the game - so skilled and interesting and subtle unlike your other 'games', dear friends. Which reminds me, does anybody read this who is from Canada or any of the other colonies? Only joshing, I'm just curious, the comments all come from Blighty or the US, and it would be interesting to know if any other part of the English-speaking world is looking at this crap and thinking "Why does he bother?" Betty, you tell me, I'm just grateful that he reads it at all.

The coffee would be an interesting addendum to the pinacolada - it's just a fad, I'll be back on the cheap cider soon enough - which took the heat away following a large bowl of....yes, chicken liver fricasse! Nearly as good as real foie gras, Sonia, which I haven't had since a rather lovely dinner party last summer at a friends house on a south coast cliff top, where I contributed the f-g, cigars and a bottle of calvados (now there's a thought to go with the coffee, it is a bank holiday after all, no need to get up especially early, baseball or no), and a wonderful concoction or three by my malcontent but talented friend Mr. H.

I'm sat here listening to Pink Floyd. Yeah, so what? Well, it's a new-ish thing for me, I've always shied away from that, on numerous grounds, but I must concede that I'm enjoying it. My hosts at last weekends party (should that have an apostrophe, answers on a postcard), E and K have introduced me to a load of early PF, upto 'Wish You Were Here', as well as the Strawbs and Fairport Convention. In return I've exposed them to the delights of GD, Mr. Zappa, the good Captain and, as well as a healthy dash of Pink Fairies, of course, a big slice of Hawkwind. Well, live albums anyway. E and K enjoyed their party, and when I phoned the shop yesterday to say thank you to E for their contribution to my aural stimulation we had a good giggle about it. I also had a good giggle with H, who, whilst her husband D was propping up the bar, was doing serious damage to my knees by constantly hauling me up to dance. H is a devotee of Morten Harket, or is it Haarket/Haaket (same postcard please, don't waste a stamp), for some reason.

On the subject of live HW, if anyone knows where I can get a copy of 'Love In Space' to replace the one I lost eighteen months ago, that would be great. A what-I-can-only-describe-as-a-cunt crowbarred his way in to my flat and stole all my HW and related CDs, and a fistful of other music, most of which is now replaced. Among the more evasive to replace so far were 'Captured Rotation', which I had to buy from a dealer in Buenos Aires, and 'Distant Horizons' (New Jersey). Bedouin material, and 'Love In Space' remain untraced. Also, 'Pleasure Island' by Pink Fairies. I think it was this amongst other things that made it difficult for me to listen to HW for ages, until last December, since when my appetite has firmly returned. One big positive of the whole business was that it showed me that not all insurers are arseholes, and most generous of all was Marion and Huw Lloyd-Langton who, when I wrote asking if they could sell me some CDs, just sent me copies of Huw's albums, which was about as sound and kind a thing as a complete stranger could do for another. Not only does he play like an angel, he's a thoroughly decent bloke as well.

The birds are still on. It ought to be added that some of these birds have talons, and all have beaks - this is David Attenborough, not David Sullivan.

The coffee is brewing, my decision is made, back soon -ish!

Like a Bowl of Kustard

There's a guy on the telly called Martin White who is playing an accordion and singing 'Wuthering Heights' and sounds uncannily like Kate Bush. Great stuff.

I've had a nice day today, I arose around ten, mooched around a little then went shopping for groceries. Well, actually, chicken livers (we all know what that means, but it is a bank holiday weekend), a halibut steak and some vegetables, some strawberries, icecream and more coconut cream and bacardi because I'm currently enjoying pinacoladas a lot and with a bit of practise have got it just about right. NB don't eat chocolate with pinacoladas, it has a similar effect to orange juice and toothpaste. Not a good idea.

As I was coming out of the supermarket I had a brief conversation with an elderly gentleman, of no consequence and perfectly civil. Anyway, I'd returned to the Krustymobile, and was sitting there just about to clear off when I realised that the old fellow was shambling across the car-park towards me, so I wound (I've never noticed this before, wound and wound) down the window, and waited to hear what he was obviously desperate to say.

I've no clear idea what he was going on about, but he enjoyed it, we chatted for about five minutes, and it was good to make him smile.

On the way up to the supermarket I'd chugged past the entertaining sight and sound of the local Baptist Church congregation gathered outside of Iceland and singing whatever it is they have to sing and getting really animated about it (Hallelujah!). On the way back they had pissed off, as it was raining. I'm sure there's a message there, but I'm not sure what...

I have just enjoyed the halibut steak with some chicory and butternut squash, and a glass of rose. Strawberries and icecream to come, mmmmm!!

I spent most of the afternoon sleeping, my average Saturday afternoon, with a brief interlude when I attacked the grime in the kitchen, what a shed, ugh, but now almost respectable.

The point of all this is that I'm feeling really mellow and gentle, and pleasantly disposed to all and sundry. Now I'm just going to make me a pina, and put my feet up.

Self, Self, Self

Yet more of this 'myself' stuff today, a whole inbox full of it from the Important People, full of 'themselves', who are so busy telling anyone who is not interested in what 'myself' is doing and has achieved that they are failing to notice their own illiteracy. Most amusing is that the worst offenders are those who have yet to prove anything.

Nobs.

Dancing On His Grave?

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

By Popular Demand...

"He's back, he's the man behind the mask..." as Alice Cooper sang on a particularly ghastly film soundtrack song. Popular demand? Well, Cherrypie, at least, and that will do for me.

So where has The Baker been? Well, as commented last week, I was on a course, so be warned, I take no responsibility, although I will take 'ownership', should any management-speak bollocks (fellow Jargonauts who wish to offer examples of bingo-able bullshit feel free to submit for perusal and comment by fellow Krustians, we can have much chucklesome entertainment together, perhaps compare transatlantic notes) creep in here. It was indeed an attempt to indoctrinate, I approached with my usual scepticism, and, perhaps because of unbelievably low expectations, was pleasantly surprised at the quality on offer. Better than the usual fare, and they at least passed what I call the '80% test'. Doh, no, not the '80/20 Pareto' thing, which is not quite as simple as the average 'coach' likes to think, no, this is that mantric drivel that '80% of communication is body language.' Folks, this is bollocks. Body language may be important - I can be notoriously undemonstrative professionally, and have been described as 'a difficult audience' ("I've been talking for 45 minutes, I know you're listening because you haven't taken your eyes off me, but I've no idea if you think I'm spot on or talking pants" was one comment. I'm still listening, pal, you do the maths) - but it ain't that important. Or at least, it ain't the most important bit. Why? Well, Mr. Knowitall Coach, here's a telephone, order me a pizza with body language. Exactly. We have a brain and throat that is different to other animals, because it's adapted for language, on a big scale - massive vocabulary, grammar (think Chomsky here, not 'French For Today', heh, heh, I love to trot out those colourless green ideas when I'm into that groof and getting the point across that I have a little bit of background here, no expert, but certainly educated) and sophisticated intonation. It sets us apart; cetaceans and neanderthals, that's about it for comparison, and we ain't sure about them. (I bet body language is a major component of communication for a whale moaning about the weather to her chum miles away in the dark abyss...) It's a big investment evolution-wise, like walking upright. I suppose that, like walking upright, there is downside. Walking upright frees our hands for important things like cricket and beerglasses and going throught the CDs at the second-hand shop, but it means we get backache, bad hips, knees and ankles, and haemorrhoids. The effort of evolving sophisticated language means we get Chaucer and Shakespeare and Roberts Hunter and Calvert, but it also means Wordsworth and Littlejohn and Bliar. Anyway, these fellows (the trainer/coaches) passed the test, so they were in for a sympathetic time from yours truly.

Thank you for all the comments on the 'breasts' conversation. I neglected to point out that my associate is a bit of a fruitcake, and is not on the agenda for this prince other than as laughing company, and in small, albeit regular, doses. But your concern and advice was much appreciated. I love this blogosphere thing, all this concern and togetherness. Tom, what are you thinking of, how can you walk away from it?

Weekend meant family, and niece (ok, I hear you switching off in droves) and to some friends' 10th Anniversary bash, which was fantastic, and my knees are still hurting from all that bippin' an' a-boppin' an' a-tellin' the dirty jokes. A great night out, and everytime I sat down to eat or drink one of my ladyfriends - I do have them, they're just all spoken for, fingers beringed - came and frogmarched me back onto the floor for more gyrating. And singalong. A band, who were basically jamming, having stepped in at very short notice and with one rehearsal, provided covers galore, the usual stuff - Beatles, Stones, Kinks, Free, a bit of Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd, and a version of 'Superstition' by S. Wonder. I don't know if you've ever heard this played by a four-piece guitar r&b band, but I was struck but how much it reminded me of 'Trampled Under Foot'. There were also copious doses of that ol' fall back Status Quo. Highlight of the night, rock'n'roll-wise, was a rendition of 'I Saw Her Standing There' that compared with, though not quite as fabulously rough and raucous, as that from the Pink Fairies. Good fun.

The downside of all this fun was that I missed the media event of the weekend, the success of Lordi. Ha ha ha, it really sums that event up, doesn't it? My mother had the Prince's Trust do videoed, and this provided the entertainment on Sunday afternoon. Actually, I slept through it, to catch up on the sleep I hadn't caught up on on Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. I did unfortunately wake up to see both Patrick Kielty - why doesn't someone just put him out of everybody else's misery, "Minister!" - and Ben Elton, gurning out of the telly.

Ben Elton. I challenge the Minister to deliver suitable punishment. That would be Ben Elton the "working class 'ero, eh, eh? Only me Dad and me Uncle Geoff are leading academics, eh, eh?", fuck off pal, you're no more working class than me and don't try and pretend otherwise, you tart. Thank you for some of your telly scripts, but 'Thin Blue Line' rather counts against you, and do you want us to take into consideration your involvement with Andrew Lloyd Poem-Fucker-Upper and other crimes against the stage? "You pay forty quid to see a covers band and because I've put the songs in a specific order you think it's a musical, that's not a cynical exploitation and frankly disgracefully lazy waste of a stage and theatre then, eh, eh? Margaret Thatcher, eh? You couldn't make it up, my name's Ben Elton, give us yer money you ignorant plebs (leer, leer), goo'nigh'!"

'It makes my skin crawl' - second Alice quote of the night. And on that note, I'll bid you all goodnight. Love ya.

Somebody Said Something Really Nice To Me Today

Firstly, I've been forced to go back and re-appraise 'Vincibus Eruptum' when I finally got in this evening. Yes, it rocks, but it's gotta long way to go to be a DID for me.

To business. I've been on the first day of a course today, not bad, better than I had feared - they're usually such pointless dross. But it was OK. The high spot of the day though was a colleague saying to me "If it wasn't for you I might not have breasts still", as a thank you for my concern when she got a bit emotionally screwed up and shed loads of weight, and I pointed out to her that she was looking poorly. OK, I didn't cop a feel, but that is a small price as now they are there to be admired and appreciated. And so is she too, more importantly, rather than getting seriously ill. Too much frog-kissing, I'm afraid, whilst she ignores the princes around her.

That's it, to be honest, for today. A big thank you to Betty for clarifying the shorts issue.

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

Another good day on the Arse front today, with that favoured, sparkly-eyed supplier [I've just stumbled across a radio programme called 'The Organist Entertains', Church, Wurlitzer and Hammond, what a tickle.] in house to entertain. I commented on her outfit - oh Krusty, you smoothie you, who needs double cream or custard... - and we got into a debate on something that remains a bit of a grey area for me.

How are the following distinguished?

culottes
city shorts
pedal pushers
knickerbockers
capri pants
plus-fours
cut-offs

It is all too confusing for me, so help would be appreciated.

'The Organist...' has 'Entertained', and very good it was too. There's plenty of scope with playing, tubes, blowing &c, but I won't go there. You can get that somewhere else...

There's a lot of ... today, isn't there? Sorry, but my mind is wandering a little, drifting. Not as lonely as a cloud, howe'er, not least because despite the envelope-stretching limits of boredom to which I am occasionally pushed, few get close to that of reading Wordsworth. I was made to do that at school, and it's one of the things for which I have not forgiven that institution.

Anyway, purely to test my ability to put a picture on this site, 'cause folks, this is the first, and because it shows that I made some effort to understand all these different types of shorts, some hotpants;





And because I'm not sure on the copyright issues with this kind of thing, here is where you can buy those hot-tastic-pants if you wish, or better still, buy them for someone.

Such a sight were those that I felt forced to go and make myself a pina-colada to get over them. That's better.

Anyway, now we know that Krusty can put pictures on here. Don't get excited, I'm not intending to do it often, but it does offer a little relief.

Have I been throught the concept of 'cottage cheese music' before? It comes from the description of Blue Cheer as being so heavy they 'turn the air into cottage cheese'. I like that idea. I like it more than I like Blue Cheer, as it happens, but que sera. Well, I was trying to convey this to the aforementioned sparkly-eyed one today, 'cause she asked what I was listening to, and it just so happened that I was listening to what is, for me, the definitive cottage cheese choon. 'Whole Lotta Love'. I don't need to say any more, do I? You too can feel that bass throb, that drum slapping and pounding, that dirty thrusting guitar...(there he goes again, ...ing all over the place with wanton abandon, is there a technical name for such a punctuation, if so please share your knowledge with gap-toothed Krusty and spare him the humiliation of having to ask at the bookgroup), you can feel the air change as your toes tap and you feel driven to jyrate and gump. She had never heard of the tune. Not even when I mention TotP. OK, alternative reference point then, how about Jimi Hendrix? No. I'm opening and closing my mouth like a koi - well, I'm a bit more upmarket than a goldfish - I just can't believe I'm having this conversation. There's no point in trying anything else, is there? Whatever you think of it, it is impossible to have avoided the music of the late Mr. Hendrix. Popular media will endeavour to make you make the effort to avoid it. Like The Beatles, you don't have any choice. It's one of these cultural 'norms' of modern society, like the expectation that you've read Dan Brown (x for Krusty there) and Harry bleedin' Potter (oops, another x there Krusty), you like Abba (golly Krusty, it's another x there too) and you watch 'Lost', 'Big Brother' and 'The Apprentice' (jeez Krusty, you're more out of it than Ovid under anaesthetic). But no, not sparkly-eyes. Poor wench. She's just not going to get what I'm on about.

She needs coolin'.