Betty's Utility Room

This morning, I was tweaking with my blogger profile, in a pathetic effort to make myself seem like an interesting person with wide-ranging interests. I'd been meaning to do this for ages as the original one was written in haste. A completely pointless exercise, mind. The "view my profile" heading doesn't appear in the top right hand corner of my blog, possibly because that facility was not available when I chose my template. I think it dates back to the time when golfball typewriters and having a wedge and flick hairdo like the Human League girls were all the fashion. As I date back to the time when golfball typewriters and having a wedge and flick hairdo like the Human League girls were all the fashion, I think it is only appropriate. Not that I am going to make this blog look interesting, but there may be one or two surreptitious changes in the near future.

Rest assured, I will NOT be putting a profile picture of a South Park character at the top of the page. Being grim and austere is a way of life for me, and you will have to suffer too.

Rest in peace Eugene Record, vocalist and driving force behind magnificently Afro-ed shmaltzy 1970's soul band the Chi-Lites. They had a string of great hits, including "Lonely Girl", "You Don't Have To Go", "Oh Girl", and "For God's Sake Give More Power To The People" - this last one has the best intro of all time, ever, but the rest of the song is a not that good Temptations rip off.

When I was eight years old I cried because I thought the lyrics to the number one hit "Have You Seen Her?" told the singer's true story, and he was still pining for the girl.

I'm off now to have another cry to "The Coldest Day Of My Life" from my vinyl copy of"The Chi-Lites Most Golden Collection Of Golden Hit Moments" or whatever it is called, if I can find the fucking thing.

My mother-in-law is hoping to acquire a computer soon.

Mother-in-law: "Perhaps I could do those funnies like you do ... what do you call it?"

Me: "Blogging."

Mother-in-law: "Right."

The one regular reader of this blog will know that it is about as funny as sciatica.

Anyway, she may well go ahead and blog, like the rest of us lemmings who are jumping off the cliff into indifference. Just to let you know, if you find yourself clicking on that "next blog" key in the top right hand corner, look out for something like the following posts:

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Sainsbury's has really gone downhill. Their fruit and veg is rubbish.
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I tell you, I had a bit of a senior moment yesterday! I only bloody left a bag of shopping outside! I got up this morning and there was a right mess outside, a fox must have got at it or something!
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Marks and Spencers' clothes aren't all that these days. I think they design everything for teenagers - everything clings to you. I had to take another top back because it clings in all the wrong places.
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Robbie Williams is on drugs. Look at his mad staring eyes! He thinks he's the new Sinatra - bloody cheek! There'll never be another Frank.
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Those bizzie lizzies we got at the Kent Show have lasted ever so long.
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I really want to see that film with - what's her name - Brenda Blair? Blessed? Blethyn? in??? She's ever so good.
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Anyway, that'll be the mother-in-law, that will.

I am suffering from 24-hour-news-channel fever and it is messing up my mind. In the aftermath of the failed bombings, the main story is still the tragic shooting by the police of an innocent man originally described as of "Asian appearance" and "linked to the bombings" - a light-skinned Brazilian man. During the past few days of news-watching, I've seen suspects described by passers-by as being "black", "olive-skinned", "of Moroccan appearance" and "of Ethiopian appearance" - most often, the descriptions were of people a distance away or running. I'm sure that after the blasts, there were a lot of people running, but best to suspect those of swarthier appearance, eh? Or anyone who has dark hair, basically.

I can only conclude that the only people who are above suspicion are those very rare people of a flaxen haired appearance.

In other words, Boris Johnson.

Last night was spent catching up with all the stuff on Sky Plus. There was now less of a backlog because BBC4's showing of the first series of "Heimat" had finished, and great diligence had meant we'd now seen all eleven hour/hour and a half long episodes.

We'd recorded "The Royal Tenenbaums" earlier in the evening, but only saw about fifteen minutes of it.

"I'm sorry, I can't watch anymore. It's just smug, self-congratulatory clever-clever bollocks" said the man of the house. So that was that then.

Next up was that Jarvis Cocker-hosted programme about great pop telly moments, wherein the usual great pop telly moments were wheeled out one more time: the Sex Pistols on "So It Goes", Jimi Hendrix doing that Cream song on the Lulu show, Pans People dancing to Gilbert O'Sullivan's "Get Down", etc., etc. Best moment came during an interview with Jimmy Savile.
He showed a mock up film poster he'd been presented with - a portrait of Sir James with the words "Apolcalypse Now Then" written underneath.

"The horror, the horror" said Jarvis. Jimmy responded with one of his yodels.

Running out of Sky Plus programmes, we resorted to the old standby. We're now onto series three of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" on DVD. We were about ten minutes into the one where Richard Lewis's girlfriend ends up with a hideously bloated face as a reaction to a peanut allergy, when my other half spluttered something incomprehensible through a mouthful of wine and pointed over to my right. There sat a frog, apparently watching the telly attentively, even though the screen had just been put onto pause. At first I assumed I must be hallucinating - the fact that it was about midnight and I'd had a couple of large glasses of wine only heightened the effect.

I can ony assume the frog was attracted by the numerous moths in our kitchen. Keeping all the doors and windows open in a boxy Wimpey house on a sweltering July night is the only way to avoid expiring from heat stroke. Therefore, all sorts of winged beasts flock around the lights. Now there was amphibian wildlife to add to the multitudes.

Or, alternatively, he might have been trying to escape all those kids dressed as wizards and witches celebrating the arrival of the latest Harry Potter tome. They might have been attempting to catch frogs, toads and the like for some sort of evil spell they were casting.

He decided to do a tour of the living room, landing in a Ryman's carrier bag, realising that wasn't a good idea, then retreating behind the telly, getting tangled up in all the cables. What were we going to do - phone an RSPCA 24 hour emergency helpline? Fortunately, his tour led him round the back of the hi-fi. An attempt to climb the stairs was thwarted and the man of the house managed to persuade him to get into a jar. He was then released back into the great outdoors, for his own good, and to allow him to make his own way in the world.

Of course, if there was such a 21st century object as a digital camera in the house I could have taken a picture of him looking at the telly, and printed it to accompany this post with an hilarious caption underneath saying "a frog's eye view!!!!".

Still, I'm sure you'll realise that the story is not made up. In this case, truth is slightly more mundane than fiction.

According to the world's most reliable news source, erm, GMTV, Jacques Chirac has set up his stall during G8 week. Apparently, in an off-mic moment, he said that the British can't be trusted because our cuisine is the worst in the world, and all that Britain has contributed to agriculture is the mad cow (... I know, I know, but she was booted out of office in 1990. Oh, how my sides ache).

Heartening to see a world leader getting things into perspective. Bob Geldof must be chuffed.

Still, I'm sure that at some point there will be a big banquet this week at Gleneagles where Tony Blair will be able to get his own back, and the two will be able to pass hastily scribbled notes down the table to each other:

TONY BLAIR: I don't care. Our food is the best, and at least we don't eat horses, and our apples don't taste all watery and horrible.

JACQUES CHIRAC: I don't care. Anyway, at least I haven't got stupid sticky out ears.

BLAIR: Oh, ha ha. Nobody likes the French anyway because they all smell.

CHIRAC: That is so not true. Anyway, YOU fancy Condoleezza Rice.

BLAIR: That is SO not true.

CHIRAC: It so is. AND you sent her a text telling her she is well fit and that. AND you blush like a girl when you talk about her.

BLAIR: Oh, piss off.

Chirac stands up to make an announcement to the table:

"Listen everybody! Tony Blair fancies Condoleezza Rice!"

(All the other G8 leaders start laughing))

"AND he texted her, AND he thinks she has got nice tits, but nothing will come of it because they are both gay queers!!"

The rest of the G8 leaders laugh their heads off and point at Tony Blair and throw their serviettes at him. A food fight ensues.

We really can make poverty history.