The Sheriff of Tripoli

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

Moving House!

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

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

Oh no, a life without purpose....

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

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

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

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

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

Lawdy, it's so warm!

Southern Fried Chicken

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

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

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

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

I look forward to egg mayonnaise, shortly.

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

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

Semi-Supervised

Given that I am this evening unsupervised - Tabatha is in London, ma-in-law is out exercising The Force, I am at liberty to indulge in some hard-core blogging. And to plug me ear'oles into some tunery.

Well, I say tunery. I have recently developed a sneaky penchant for a certain hook-nosed screeching Canadian, with a line in excessively indulgent epic rawk, and particularly crass metaphoric lyrics. It is a little embarrassing, but I feel comfortable confessing here.

My name is Krusty and I'm becoming a Rush fan.

I learnt something very interesting today; nah, only kidding. I did hear some complete bollocks, and was impressed by the ability of the purveyors thereof to keep a straight face and apparently, in all honesty, expect the audience to take them seriously. Actually.

I have just noticed with some alarm, that iPol has listed a Rick Wakeman tune. This is unforgivable (see previous references to matters Yes).

So what has the move to rural Hampshire done for The Baker? Well, I am rediscovering the pleasure of being talked down to by people who assume that I know nothing of village life. This has now happened twice. I grew up in a 'village' that is about half the size of my current location, and am perfectly well acquainted with all its foibles - gossip, scandal, slanderous rumour, sympathetic racism ("Ooh I am sorry, I just heard about your new neighbours" - my Daddy used to let slip in the pub that our new neighbours were Chinese and see how long it took to get back to mother. 13hrs was pretty much the average. The other game was to suggest that it was a policeman - the feller who lived opposite us was referred to as 'Officer' for 15 years by one parish councillor.)

I am also delighted by the fact that the last sound I hear at night is an owl. Or if I'm really lucky, the agonised, tortured screams of an alpaca as it is sheared. I honestly thought that it must be the vet amputating a limb (which on an alpaca is highly likely to be a leg), given that there was this awful emission from the animal, reassuring murmurs of the owner, and the buzzing of a mechanical device. Oh, and it was 10.30 on Sunday evening, not the most obvious time to set about your pet camelids with the clippers. But it was just the shearer.

In the mornings I am awoken by the dawn chorus, and a splendid sound it is too. I look from the window and see the bunny rabbits prancing around the fields, awaiting the later escape as the sniper shoots, and the crows and the woodpecker pulling up worms. And the strange man from the newsagent arrives with the 'paper. I don't think he really likes me - he looks at me like I'm a conquistador and all I bring is TB. And I don't want to buy anything in his shop - but then I don't like pot noodle and I have no regular need for tinned otter hearts.

The sun gently beams down, and I drive along the leafy lanes, avoiding the deer carcass, and attendant buzzards, as I make my way for an honest day's toil.

At the weekends I can mix with a variety of people and enjoy their company. I can get helplessly drunk and walk home, and not worry about being arrested (getting drunk in the company of the local constabulary may be of some value in this), or slipping up on the pile of shite outside the various local fast-food joints, or mugged by the 'innit' crown on the corner.

On the subject of Pot Noodle, I love their advertising. It's always excellent. It has to be. The aim of marketing and sales is to;

a) persuade people to buy a product in the first place ('Trial'),
b) persuade those people to buy it again ('repeat'),
c) persuade more people to buy it ('penetration'),
d) persuade those people to buy it again more often ('frequency'),
e) persuade those people to buy more of it when they buy it ('trip volume')

Now, having 'trialled' a Pot Noodle, are you honestly likely to 'repeat'; of course not, it's repeated on you, not the other way round. So the advertising has to be shit hot to continue to 'drive trial'.

So congratulations to Pot Noodle, definitely a Type 4 or 5.

The Baker Is Back

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

What is a corn dog?

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

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

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

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

The Evening After The Day Before

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












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

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

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

Ton Up, Yeah

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

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

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

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

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

I'm told he speaks highly of me.

Anyways, must dash, xx K

Winning the Wimmin's Vote

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

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

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

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

Your Womb, My Arse; a product comparison

taken from the musings of the Baker;

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

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

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

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

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

--

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


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

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

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

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

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

See you.

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

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

Curry calls, must go, as 'twere.

The Art of Seduction

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

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

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

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

It's about fucking time

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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


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

Ye'll've Had Yer Tea, Then

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.