Ye'll've Had Yer Tea, Then

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Bunny?

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



















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

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

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

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

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

Have You Paid Your Fare? Exact Change Only!

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

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

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


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

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

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

In The Deep Midwinter

It's a little over 24 hours since I last posted, and I'm sitting here reflecting on those hours. I think I said I was feeling well-disposed to my fellow humans, and one of you suggested that this was a little excessive. How correct.

Having posted I went out, initially to KwikFit, for new tyres. Well, not the tea or the quality of conversation. Whilst my motor was in their care, I went and braved the excitement of Northolt Road, oh such an environment of delight. Actually, the shopping is shit there, which is why I failed to purchase very much. It isn't helped very much by the way in which anybody regards one. I went into four, yes four, different pharmacies in pursuit of a specific product [none of your business, suffice to say specialised although not unreasonably so], and was treated like a leper. When I got the motor back, I rolled on down to a local electrical goods outlet, to take advantage of the sales, and found that they weren't really interested in parting me from my money. So they didn't.

I'm listening to Jenni Murray interviewing some bloke from ITV on the wireless. She is a shit interviewer. Not as bad as Peter White, who is a smug little twat, as are most presenters of consumer programmes (yes, I know he's 'differently abled' but that doesn't mean I can't have a, ahem, view of him as a broadcaster, and it is poor). What is it at the Beeb? Leave the antagonistic interviewing to the specialists, folks, Paxo and Humphries, Naughty Naughtie and Stourton and the charming Miss Montague. And why is the voice - no, voice is not an adequate word for such a phenomenon, but I know no alternative - of Winifred Robinson wasted on 'You and Yours', the whinge-athon that provides bandwidth for White and the perhaps even worse - he thinks he's amusing - John Waite.

I haven't been up for two hours and yet I have just been for my second almighty shit of the day. I should be concerned, but, Jim, logic tells us that there is a correlation between frequency and quality of defecatory activity and diet, and consumption of takeaways and especially last nights salt and pepper spare ribs and prawn crackers and crispy seaweed (ok, crispy savoy cabbage) are probably having an antagonistic effect on the digestive tract. To quote a piece of vintage advertising material for a well known bakery brand, they 'stimulate the eliminatory organs'.

I was going to do the ironing today, having done none for over a fortnight, but as the weather is shit I won't be doing it after all. [The man from ITV has just told us that 'Heartbeat' is not going to be canned, which is fucking devastating news.] So I'm sat here in a tatty dressing gown [forgive the interruption, Tabatha rang which is ace, and is coming to see me tomorrow morning with an expectation that I have a plan for our mutual entertainment for the day. That too is ace. She makes me have to think and stop being the lazy arse you are reading about. However, I don't think she means that she wants to go shopping for a new mouse because mine has packed in, despite the obvious interest and excitement that has for me. And I don't want to just resort to the pub, as that won't create a very good impression, now, will it?] downloading a shedload of music off the internet, and half watching a movie about Liberace, can you believe it? The feller playing the late besequinned Maestro, so beloved of the blue rinse brigade, carefully surrounding himself with young men in the mansion he shares with his mother, looks familiar. Got it, he was the slightly creepy ingratiating Cardassian in Star Trek DS fucking Pointless.

I may well come back later to drivel on some more, I've taken some great delight in reading what other peoples experience of Christmas has been. Hey, Betty, look no kids, no 'luvvy duvvy family', no, just the usual stuff.

Does anybody else find that turkey 'bungs them up'? Know what I mean?

After the Festive Gluttony...

Well, I've been to the Ancestral Pile for the holiday, eaten perhaps a little too much, and then fled because it is all just a little too much, really, and I don't want to be described as antisocial because I'm not up for some three hours of soap opera of an evening. Much delight in spending time around Cupcake, who is fascinated by everything, eats most things, and is now putting together sounds which whilst they make no sense are distinguishable from one another. Pat Coombes made the same sounds when playing Albert in 'Albert And Me' opposite Richard Beckinsale.

Now, down to the really exciting bit. After four dates, and a bit of a fig, you could kinda say that I'm 'on the arm'. Yes, me. And I'm enjoying it. The subject of my affection (I daren't say object of my desire in case I get a gobfull from an Andrea Dworkin wannabe) is a curvy (hence recent celebration of ample women) speech therapist, whom we'll call Tabatha here, who makes me laugh. And h-h-h-hard. [OK, I'm not going to write with the breathless passion you might hope for, but then I can't compete with Chaucer's Bitch on that front, so you'll just have to put up with the more visceral titbits I offer. Besides, if you're still coming here, you know the score...]

It dawned on me that she is equally keen when I rocked up at work at 10am, eyes like the original pissholes in the snow, and having been nowhere near a razor. And one of my matiest co-conspirators took one look and suggested that I looked like the cat what got the cream. I just sat there and purred, and then proceeded to fall asleep at my desk, repeatedly.

So, I'm pretty smiley at present, pretty lusty, and not feeling that badly disposed towards my fellow mankind.

There may be more to follow, and I'm inclined to make the effort to start writing again.

In passing, I went to see Hawkwind last week, great to see Huw back on the scene and clearly a pleasure for all involved. Sadly, I had indulged in some chocolate cake that was a little 'richer' than planned for, and was consequently a little distracted, thus unable to fully enjoy the gig. I also think that the sound was fucked, but as I say, that may be due to my being somewhat compromised.

Right, I'm off to order a takeaway chinois, can't beat that ol' kung-po, love y'all. xK

He Seems Quite Pleased With Himself...

And the word is fecund.

Er...

"Rub your eyes, this is no dream", to quote a certain rhythm combo originally from West London and now based in Devon, Krusty has finally galvanised himself and bothered to write. To be honest, I haven't written anything for ages because I don't really think there's been anything I could put forward that would add any value to anybody's life. I've come across things that have made me laugh, but they would be of no entertainment to anyone who reads this because you would not know the individuals concerned. They were of the 'you had to be there' variety.

I'm also concerned that I was getting repetitive and, frankly, tedious. Dare I say stale.

Anyway, Satan continues to antagonise, on the recent 'jeans day' Friday the Wild Haired One wore a concoction that not only showed off her generous arse to its full advantage but also abundantly clear the full glory of her 'balcony', and I'm watching 'Planet Earth', which is beautiful, only to be stricken by a desperate and sudden need for a shit, and no prospect of an ad-break because this is BBC. I recently dined at what I think is the second shittest curry house in England, in Windsor, where the service was appalling, and the food was either uncooked or unidentifiable. Our order, our food, and our bill were three wholly unrelated entities, and we didn't pay. The table was booked for 9pm, we got our seats at 9.55pm, the first waiter took orders from two of our party of eight then fucked off and vanished, and the whole evening was poor. It is called Spice Route, and is second in shitness to a place in Manchester opposite Piccadilly Station, which smells of vomit and where the wiring for the entire restaurant is visible. That place offers a bonus in its general state of filthiness, and I can't remember the name of it.

My general state of horniness continues (see above reference to Wild Haired One), much to the amusement of some, although I have avoided the mistake I made in my late twenties when I damaged my then car by driving into a roundabout in Croydon because I was distracted by a particularly well turned out woman who was walking down the pavement.

Anyway, as I say, I've really not had a lot of value to say recently (quelle change? I hear you ask), so I'll fuck off and try and become a bit more interesting. Actually, there may be developments (touch wood) afoot, of which more anon, so you will be [almost] the first to know, folks.

Hope you're all ok, I'm off to read what some of you have to say, take care.

xK

Fear And Loathing In Suburban Greater London and the Thames Valley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Freak-outs and Fractals

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

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

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

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

We went to see this bunch.

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

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

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

Fuckers.

Jesus, I feel so horny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now, into the Top Three;

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

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

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


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

Unless you're Satan's baby...

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

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

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

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

as opposed to this;

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

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

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

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

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

*Made Up Numbers Research ltd

Animal Magic?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Back soon, Krustacea, love y'all.

Some Stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Reid
Harry Redknapp
Steve Rider
Paul McCartney
Jamie Oliver

--

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

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

Something Old, Something New

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

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

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

LPS - Long Purple Shadow, or Lunatic Pervy Smile?

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

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

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

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

Who'd've thought it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I fucking hate that headache.

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

To Geoff - An Apology

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

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

Da Little People

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

--

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

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

Git Gawn, Boy

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

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

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

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

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

Entre tes reins, bebe! Grrrr!

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you all soon.