Thursday, December 27, 2007
ZERO COMMENTS
Okay, this is a music post, which means that most of you will say "bah, all I'm interested in at the moment is the unmitigated triumph of my six year old's performance as The Guiding Star in the school nativity play. Can't you at least talk about the best way to use up the rest of the turkey?" Well to you I say: clear orff. There are other blogs where you can read about all that stuff.
This is the annual Best Of The Music I Liked That Nobody Else Liked This Year post. As I've grown older, rather than putting aside foolish things and listening to *serious* music which is more becoming of my age, my tastes have become more banal and childish. I suppose I should really be enthusing about The Hold Steady (the new Broooce Springsteen! Swoon!) or Feist (the sort of music they play at a polite volume in vegan restaurants. Yeuch).
Instead, here are some mindless dance tracks and one or two relatively famous bands. Nothing that's needlessly obscure: that's one thing I've grown out of at least. Click on the links to see some YouTube performances (like, anyone is going to do THAT).
Acceptable In The Eighties - Calvin Harris. I think it was *acceptable* to like Calvin Harris for about a fortnight in March, but I can't quite remember. He seems to be hated by indie twats, which is usually a good thing.
NYC Beat - Armand Van Helden. Nobody cares about Armand Van Helden any more, which means he can go away to make esoteric and excellent albums (of which Ghettoblaster is the most recent, and sounds like a tribute to Todd Terry. It's alright, I can get away with writing this incomprehensible crap because no bugger is reading anymore. Heh heh). Some nice footwear in this video.
With Every Heartbeat - Robyn. Just a brilliant, maudlin pop song which got to number one. Did Belgian priests wear shoes like that in the fourteenth century?
There Is No I In Threesome - Interpol. From the wonderful album Our Love To Admire. I like my rock music the way I like my men and my tea - dark, brooding, deliciously doomy and with a dash of soya milk. Eh?
I Found You - Axwell. Another house *anthem* for you to avoid. I'm sure that somebody else, somewhere, must like this.
Golden Skans - The Klaxons. As the other half said while watching the Glastonbury highlights on telly "they just piss all over Arcade Bloody Fire, don't they?" Too true.
Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem. From Sound Of Silver, the album of the year by General Consensus. For once, I'm in agreement with General Consensus, whoever he is. Probably trying to sort out the mess in Afghanistan.
Let Me Think About It - Ida Corr Vs. Fedde Le Grand. Fedde Le Grand has had three great and ridiculous top five records and no one knows who he is, apart from Mrs Le Grand, perhaps. This is probably the greatest and most ridiculous of all. The ridiculousness of the bloke who turns up in the middle of this video verges on the ridiculous.
On Call - The Kings Of Leon. Well, of course I was going to put something by The Kings Of Lemon in here, just to prove that I like some guitar music and am not just a 1981 synthesiser fop.
D.A.N.C.E. - Justice. One-two-sree-four-fifes!
I am Somebody - DJ Mehdi feat. Chromeo. Actually, it was out at the tail end of last year but I probably listened to it more than any other single this year. Two beautiful men dancing in a rather camp manner in the video as well. What's not to like? Oh, and is the Chromeo album worth getting with my HMV vouchers?
Glamorous - Fergie feat. Ludacris and someone else, I can't remember. HONESTLY. DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THIS?
Righty ho, I'm going to take my broke ass home now.
This is the annual Best Of The Music I Liked That Nobody Else Liked This Year post. As I've grown older, rather than putting aside foolish things and listening to *serious* music which is more becoming of my age, my tastes have become more banal and childish. I suppose I should really be enthusing about The Hold Steady (the new Broooce Springsteen! Swoon!) or Feist (the sort of music they play at a polite volume in vegan restaurants. Yeuch).
Instead, here are some mindless dance tracks and one or two relatively famous bands. Nothing that's needlessly obscure: that's one thing I've grown out of at least. Click on the links to see some YouTube performances (like, anyone is going to do THAT).
Acceptable In The Eighties - Calvin Harris. I think it was *acceptable* to like Calvin Harris for about a fortnight in March, but I can't quite remember. He seems to be hated by indie twats, which is usually a good thing.
NYC Beat - Armand Van Helden. Nobody cares about Armand Van Helden any more, which means he can go away to make esoteric and excellent albums (of which Ghettoblaster is the most recent, and sounds like a tribute to Todd Terry. It's alright, I can get away with writing this incomprehensible crap because no bugger is reading anymore. Heh heh). Some nice footwear in this video.
With Every Heartbeat - Robyn. Just a brilliant, maudlin pop song which got to number one. Did Belgian priests wear shoes like that in the fourteenth century?
There Is No I In Threesome - Interpol. From the wonderful album Our Love To Admire. I like my rock music the way I like my men and my tea - dark, brooding, deliciously doomy and with a dash of soya milk. Eh?
I Found You - Axwell. Another house *anthem* for you to avoid. I'm sure that somebody else, somewhere, must like this.
Golden Skans - The Klaxons. As the other half said while watching the Glastonbury highlights on telly "they just piss all over Arcade Bloody Fire, don't they?" Too true.
Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem. From Sound Of Silver, the album of the year by General Consensus. For once, I'm in agreement with General Consensus, whoever he is. Probably trying to sort out the mess in Afghanistan.
Let Me Think About It - Ida Corr Vs. Fedde Le Grand. Fedde Le Grand has had three great and ridiculous top five records and no one knows who he is, apart from Mrs Le Grand, perhaps. This is probably the greatest and most ridiculous of all. The ridiculousness of the bloke who turns up in the middle of this video verges on the ridiculous.
On Call - The Kings Of Leon. Well, of course I was going to put something by The Kings Of Lemon in here, just to prove that I like some guitar music and am not just a 1981 synthesiser fop.
D.A.N.C.E. - Justice. One-two-sree-four-fifes!
I am Somebody - DJ Mehdi feat. Chromeo. Actually, it was out at the tail end of last year but I probably listened to it more than any other single this year. Two beautiful men dancing in a rather camp manner in the video as well. What's not to like? Oh, and is the Chromeo album worth getting with my HMV vouchers?
Glamorous - Fergie feat. Ludacris and someone else, I can't remember. HONESTLY. DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THIS?
Righty ho, I'm going to take my broke ass home now.
Labels: Arcade Bloody Fire, Bruce Springsteen, French house music which nobody else likes, music which nobody else likes, tedious end of year lists, turkey
Sunday, December 23, 2007
BROKEN WOMAN
Christmas is a time to think of those less fortunate than yourself, i.e., ME. So here's an update on my heartrending wrist fracture saga.
The cast came off last week. The consultant didn't seem too happy about my lack of ability to do one or two of the flexibility tests, so I now do a selection of exercises several times a day, and it seems to be taking forever to improve.
It feels as though someone has injected quick drying cement into my wrist and it looks all thick and disgusting. It feels as though I have two left arms. So it looks as if I have a bleak future with an unsightly, gammy arm. Boo hoo.
Even better, my arm was cruddy and covered in skin scales when the cast was removed. The skin scales have been depositing themselves everywhere ever since. There may not be snow in Bexleyheath this Christmas, but there is a two inch layer of dead skin wherever I walk.
So, spare a thought for me as you tuck into your Christmas dinner, and let that thought be tinged with pathos.
:(
Still, upwards and onwards. Here is an old chestnut, a Christmas tune by a mate of the late lamented Princess Of Hearts. Judging by the amount of face pulling and general effervescence, I would hazard a guess that our Reginald has been tooting at the Christmas bugle a lot.
... "We can watch the snow for ever and ever." Yeah ... riiight.
Happy haaahlidays, you lot.
The cast came off last week. The consultant didn't seem too happy about my lack of ability to do one or two of the flexibility tests, so I now do a selection of exercises several times a day, and it seems to be taking forever to improve.
It feels as though someone has injected quick drying cement into my wrist and it looks all thick and disgusting. It feels as though I have two left arms. So it looks as if I have a bleak future with an unsightly, gammy arm. Boo hoo.
Even better, my arm was cruddy and covered in skin scales when the cast was removed. The skin scales have been depositing themselves everywhere ever since. There may not be snow in Bexleyheath this Christmas, but there is a two inch layer of dead skin wherever I walk.
So, spare a thought for me as you tuck into your Christmas dinner, and let that thought be tinged with pathos.
:(
Still, upwards and onwards. Here is an old chestnut, a Christmas tune by a mate of the late lamented Princess Of Hearts. Judging by the amount of face pulling and general effervescence, I would hazard a guess that our Reginald has been tooting at the Christmas bugle a lot.
... "We can watch the snow for ever and ever." Yeah ... riiight.
Happy haaahlidays, you lot.
Labels: Colombian marching powder, Elton John, fractured wrist, fractured wrist - not healing properly, pathos, two left arms
Thursday, December 20, 2007
GURLL POWER
Most annoying Christmas advertising campaign so far? Boots for their "Here Come The Gurlls" one, which seems to be a rip off of the videos for the Rachel Stevens song Some Girls or, ahem, Vindaloo by Fat Les, but with what advertising executive dimwits would call "funky music that will appeal to the young funky career woman demographic".
Basically, it shows a load of hot young gurlls preparing for an office party. Fair enough, there are a couple of barely glimpsed older *ladies* among the fifteen year olds from the model agency, but the plain, frumpy, overweight or tired middle aged women who would normally make up about ninety nine per cent of the workforce of this seemingly huge company have been elbowed out of the ad. What a dream for the creepy married blokes who work there, eh? They must really be looking forward to the Christmas do.
Oh, and the use of that word, "gurlls" ... it's what cheeky market traders have always done to flatter older women. "C''mon gurlls, greengages daahn to a florin a paahnd!" they've said through the centuries. Those market traders, and the twats who've dreamed up the Boots campaign, are patronising bastards. Show me a woman beyond her mid twenties who likes to be called a "gurll" and I'll show you a sadly deluded fool.
Oh, and the use of that word, "gurlls" ... it's what cheeky market traders have always done to flatter older women. "C''mon gurlls, greengages daahn to a florin a paahnd!" they've said through the centuries. Those market traders, and the twats who've dreamed up the Boots campaign, are patronising bastards. Show me a woman beyond her mid twenties who likes to be called a "gurll" and I'll show you a sadly deluded fool.
Even worse, you have to hear the (otherwise quite nice) "Here Come The Gurlls" music whenever you go into Boots to buy your jam rags or Umberto Gianni scrunching mousette gellee complex, accompanied by the dulcet tones of the woman who always does voiceovers on Boots special offers. She combines being "sexily husky" with sounding as if she is wearing horse dentures ... presumably so that she will appeal to the "young funky career woman demographic" such as the likes of me. Har har.
She is probably a BAFTA winning actress who I have never heard of, mind.
Labels: advertising executive wankers, Boots, Ernie K. Doe, Fat Les, Gurlls, horse dentures, horse faced women, Rachel Stevens, tired middle aged women, Umberto Gianni hair products
Friday, December 14, 2007
STINKEROO
As Christmas approaches, an unprecedented number of celebrities have put their names to perfumes and aftershaves in the rush to make a quick buck.
David "Spread 'em, Darlin'" Beckham's Intimately Beckham range is in the shops. "Does it smell of his golden balls then?" I have been heard to remark, with the usual levels of sophistication and understatement.
When I saw Cliff Richard on television promoting his fragrance, which apparently includes frangipani and tuberose, I realised that we have reached some kind of celebrity endorsed perfume critical mass.
FRANK WORTHINGTON
There's a whiff of something awful about it all, even if it does have a top note of ylang ylang ...
When I saw Cliff Richard on television promoting his fragrance, which apparently includes frangipani and tuberose, I realised that we have reached some kind of celebrity endorsed perfume critical mass.
I mean, look at the number of unlikely has-beens, never-weres and Z-list celebs who have got fragrances on the market for a man, a woman, a cat, a dog or possibly all four!
FRANK WORTHINGTON
SHANE MACGOWAN
PAULINE QUIRKE
BILLIE JEAN KING
BILLIE JO SPEARS
MERRILL OSMOND
LES DENNIS
JUDITH DURHAM
HORACE BATCHELOR
JUDITH DURHAM
HORACE BATCHELOR
KEITH WATERHOUSE
MC TUNES
THE RIGHT HON. DOUGLAS HURD
BARRY DAVIES
BARRY DAVIES
GARY DAVIES
SUE POLLARD
THE REBEL MC
TIMMY MALLET
MICHELLE MCMANUS
NORMAN COOK & ZOE BALL
THE MARQUIS OF BATH
DANA INTERNATIONAL
DANA
HAROLD BISHOP FROM NEIGHBOURS
THE SOUP NAZI FROM SEINFELD
THE BASS PLAYER FROM CHAPTERHOUSE
CAROLE MALONE
FORMER OLYMPIC GOLD MEDAL WINNING PENTATHLETE MARY PETERS
NEIL AND CHRISTINE HAMILTON
PHIL COOL
PATTY HEARST
STEVE LAMACQ
SYLVESTER STALLONE'S MUM
GARY KEMP
ERICA ROE
JIM DIAMOND
JIM DIAMOND
MATT LE TISSIER
PETE WYLIE
DJ QUICKSILVER
ROUND THE WORLD YACHTSLADY ELLEN MACARTHUR
MURIEL GRAY
Look, it's ridiculous! Think of all the rare flowers and spices that have been lost to the world just so this sorry list of apologies for human beings can line their pockets (er, in their dreams!)
There's a whiff of something awful about it all, even if it does have a top note of ylang ylang ...
Labels: making a quick buck, MC Tunes, tuberose, what is a critical mass exactly?
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
SOFT SOAP
Today's guest post comes courtesy of recent Coronation Street returnee Jim McDonald, who the vast majority of readers won't know because they don't own a television set. Still, you can't cater for all tastes, can you?Take it away, Jim.
"What about ye? I'm just back out of the Big House, so I am. Let me tell ye, I'm a changed man, so I am.
When I went in the Big House, I'd been acting buck crazy, so I had. I'd never really grown out of the army way of thinking, and it used to cause ructions with My Elizabeth, so it did. She had had enough of me acting the Big I am, so she had, and fair play.
Still, being in the Big House allows you to take stock, so it does. I think I've changed. I tell ye, getting out of the Big House has been a surprise, so it has. Yer man Steve has offered me a job, so he has, valeting cars. I'm working for my own son! Jeez ... "catch yerself on!" I thought, "it only seems like yesterday that yer man was a wee boy along with our Andy, running rings around me and Elizabeth and acting buck stupid. Now Steve has a wee girl of his own.
I think I've calmed down. My Elizabeth has taken up with another man since I went into the Big House, so she has, and by all accounts yer man is a complete idjeet, buck stupid, so he is. Now, a few years ago, I would've gone steaming in there and beaten him to a pulp. These days though, I've knocked the booze on the head and I'm a lot calmer and more focused. I'm going to bide my time and see how My Elizabeth feels in a few months, so I am.
I owe it to myself to make a go of living and stay out of the Big House. What's more, I owe it to My Elizabeth, Steve, and that wee girl of his.
Fair play."
Labels: does anyone from Norrn Irrrn actually talk like this?
Thursday, December 06, 2007
LEARNING CURVE
Gosh, crumbs, I'm publishing two posts in a row that have a strong visual element! What bad form! No wonder I don't have one of those acclaimed blogs!
Anyways, in the comments box on the previous post, Tom suggested ways to attract more feedback from readers.
Frankly, my comments level has been going down a bit in the last few weeks, and I'm desperate enough to do anything to attract attention, so I'll abide by his rules on this one.
(a) not too long a post
Indeed, so without further ado ...
(b) don't get serious about anything ever
I try my best not to.
(c) take a satirical stance (legs apart and one slightly forward of the other)
Hmm, difficult to visualise "a satirical stance". I don't really like Monty Python, but needs must ...
(d) always leave a hook in there for the girls who like to flirt and dream of romance (obviously, that's guys in your case)
So, a hook for all the male readers. Look out for my new up to the moment football results service, coming soon!
(e) regular posts about sex
the male organ
(... well, male organists)
and breasts
There you go. If I don't get at least a hundred comments and a job writing for the TV Quick after this post, then I will be suing Tom.
Anyways, in the comments box on the previous post, Tom suggested ways to attract more feedback from readers.
Frankly, my comments level has been going down a bit in the last few weeks, and I'm desperate enough to do anything to attract attention, so I'll abide by his rules on this one.
(a) not too long a post
Indeed, so without further ado ...
(b) don't get serious about anything ever
I try my best not to.
(c) take a satirical stance (legs apart and one slightly forward of the other)
Hmm, difficult to visualise "a satirical stance". I don't really like Monty Python, but needs must ...
(d) always leave a hook in there for the girls who like to flirt and dream of romance (obviously, that's guys in your case)
So, a hook for all the male readers. Look out for my new up to the moment football results service, coming soon!
(e) regular posts about sex
the male organ
(... well, male organists)
and breasts
There you go. If I don't get at least a hundred comments and a job writing for the TV Quick after this post, then I will be suing Tom.
Labels: blogging paranoia, breasts, frogs, John Cleese, neediness, not getting enough comments, please leave a comment, Reginald Dixon, Tom 909
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN
Rock 'n' roll/Scouse infidel lookalikes: the first in a series.
... Aleister Crowley fan Jimmy Page ...
.. and primary school teacher and former Portishead frontwoman Gillian Gibbons ...
... Aleister Crowley fan Jimmy Page ...
.. and primary school teacher and former Portishead frontwoman Gillian Gibbons ...
Labels: cuddly toys, Daily Mail, international diplomatic incidents, Led Zeppelin, no it's not a perm, religious fundamentalists, the black arts
Sunday, December 02, 2007
BRIDAL PATH
In a state of complete indifference, I can announce that plans are in the pipeline to sell off the Register Office that I got married in. I don't have any sentimental reasons to object to it being sold off, and merely think that it's a sign of the capitalist times. These things happen nowadays.
You may well ask why someone who still admits to having unfashionable feminist beliefs would get married at all. Er, you may well ask.
Hmm ... I was certainly not a prime candidate for sitting around believing that a knight in shining armour would sweep me off my feet. I've always hated weddings, brides, hats, crying mothers, plans for weddings, having to socialise with relatives and *friends* that I haven't seen for twenty years, engagement rings and all that crap.
Even from an early age I didn't believe that would make me happy. What's the point of thinking your life is only valid if a mayy-ernn gets down on one knee and proposes, you have a big tacky wedding, and the only things you have to look forward to in life are squeezing out babies, baking, pretending you have a mental age of 8 and, eventually, babysitting your grandchildren. Yeuch!
Even from an early age I didn't believe that would make me happy. What's the point of thinking your life is only valid if a mayy-ernn gets down on one knee and proposes, you have a big tacky wedding, and the only things you have to look forward to in life are squeezing out babies, baking, pretending you have a mental age of 8 and, eventually, babysitting your grandchildren. Yeuch!
Still, I got married after living in sin (which still sounds sooo much more appealing) for four years.
The decision came about NOT because of a tacky romantic proposal over a tacky romantic meal involving a couple of starry eyed twentysomethings who would no doubt be going through a long and painful divorce a decade later. It was a mutual decision made by a clapped out, been around the block couple in their mid thirties who wanted to put their financial matters in order.
The year before, my dad had died. Despite his telling me at regular intervals that YOU HAVE TO MAKE A WILL AND GET EVERYTHING SORTED OUT FOR THOSE YOU LEAVE BEHIND, in the last months of his life he went a bit loop-de-loop and mislaid the will in his house. When he died, it was nowhere to be found. Months of stressful dealings with solicitors later, we managed to find the will by chance, nowhere near where it was originally supposed to have been.
Nope, I didn't care about getting my hands on his money (well, aside from paying for funeral expenses and the other gubbins that gets tied up with someone's death). It's just that, at the point when all I wanted to do was mourn someone, I was having to deal with all that hassle, which could've been avoided with a few simple procedures beforehand.
Nope, I didn't care about getting my hands on his money (well, aside from paying for funeral expenses and the other gubbins that gets tied up with someone's death). It's just that, at the point when all I wanted to do was mourn someone, I was having to deal with all that hassle, which could've been avoided with a few simple procedures beforehand.
I swore after that that I'd make my own will, keep it at a solicitor's office and for things to be very cut and dried. Getting married made things easier.
So married we were, on a Monday morning, with four guests, no rings and the most basic ceremony on offer. My dress cost a fiver from a second hand shop (all part of my principle to go completely against the idea of a silly over the top wedding). We only had a handful of pictures taken, and there was no official photographer.
Rather predictably, A LOT OF PEOPLE DIDN'T APPROVE. Disappointingly, this included some people who I thought would have been more, shall we say, enlightened.
Surely this was a lot less bother than forcing people to attend a long, drawn out boring ceremony and reception, pay out for a present, have to travel long distances and take time out of their annual leave? What did anyone have to grumble about exactly?
I'm still married, I still don't have a wedding ring, and I still use my maiden name. I rather hoped that I wouldn't have to explain why this is the case in the year 2007, but I still frequently do.
Still, when I get all those Christmas cards addressed to Mr and Mrs (Contains Mild Peril) in a week or two, I'll just shrug my shoulders. It's all you can do.
Labels: boring weddings, feminism, my crayzee family, over the top weddings, showing off, silly women, tacky weddings, wills
Thursday, November 29, 2007
NEVER IN A MONTH OF ...
In the 1980's John Peel used to champion a band called Serious Drinking. One of their songs was Countdown To Bilko. The lyrics seemed to be based around the fact that Sundays were crap. There was nothing to do and you would be bored silly until Bilko was on BBC2 in the early evening (I think Bilko was on BBC2 on Sunday evenings for about half a century).
Still, that was the 1980's for you. As I've said on a previous post about, er, a year ago, older generations were lucky by comparison. A Sunday morning at church would be followed by a cycle home through muddy country lanes, then you'd get a sound thrashing from father and everyone would gather around the wireless to listen to The Larkins, The Navy Lark, Wot Larks Pip and Round The 'Orn (Bona Fide Bona Bona Drag Racing) With Kenneth Williams, Kenneth Connor and Kenneth "Ooh, Get The Sturdy Knees In That Kilt!" McKellar.
Nowadays, Sundays are also much more exciting because the twenty four hour lifestyle means that even the most sleepy hamlet has a Starbucks and an opium den on every corner to while away the day before the seven hour commute into London.
If there isn't enough to entertain you in your home town, then you must drive off to join the nearest fifteen mile long traffic tailback to a designer retail outlet or out of town *shopping and leisure experience*.
If that isn't enough to entertain you, perhaps you feel that your life is an empty consumerist race. Maybe it is time for you to become a modern Christian. Why not spend Sunday mornings among acne riddled dungaree clad sorts clapping along to "enlightened" vicars in '80's style black denim jackets and paisley shirts playing modern hymns on the acoustic guitar?
If there isn't enough to entertain you in your home town, then you must drive off to join the nearest fifteen mile long traffic tailback to a designer retail outlet or out of town *shopping and leisure experience*.
If that isn't enough to entertain you, perhaps you feel that your life is an empty consumerist race. Maybe it is time for you to become a modern Christian. Why not spend Sunday mornings among acne riddled dungaree clad sorts clapping along to "enlightened" vicars in '80's style black denim jackets and paisley shirts playing modern hymns on the acoustic guitar?
Sundays: something has been lost; but something has been gained. Although not everybody yearns for what has been lost, or cares. Or, indeed, remembers.
Labels: Bluewater, Bona Drag, Countdown To Bilko, dungarees, Kenneth Williams, modern vicars, opium dens, Serious Drinking, Sundays
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
RICHARD THE POPWORLD HORSE
In the 1980's John Peel used to champion a band called Serious Drinking. One of their songs was Countdown To Bilko. The lyrics seemed to be based around the fact that Sundays were crap. There was nothing to do and you would be bored silly until Bilko was on BBC2 in the early evening (I think Bilko was on BBC2 on Sunday evenings for about half a century).
For me, the modern equivalent of Countdown To Bilko is Countdown To Amstell. As I've grown older, Friday Nights are no longer extended into the very small hours. Getting dressed up, pubbing, clubbing, waiting around in the freezing cold for night buses and eating cheese on toast at four in the morning while talking gibberish. Those days are well behind me, thank the feck.
Instead, Friday nights revolve around imbibing suspiciously musty tasting wine that was on a special offer at Oddbins and catching up with whatever is on Sky Plus, apart from that three hour Japanese film which was on BBC4 in March and is highly acclaimed.
First stop after Coronation Street will be Never Mind The Buzzcocks feat. Simon "Countdown To" Amstell.
All evening, I will be doing the Countdown To Amstell, in the hope that Simon will say something reasonably funny and in fairly bad taste.
Fortunately, last Friday night wasn't a letdown, because of the gag about befriending C*urtney L*ve (she murders you then pretends you committed suicide).
We live to fight another day.
For me, the modern equivalent of Countdown To Bilko is Countdown To Amstell. As I've grown older, Friday Nights are no longer extended into the very small hours. Getting dressed up, pubbing, clubbing, waiting around in the freezing cold for night buses and eating cheese on toast at four in the morning while talking gibberish. Those days are well behind me, thank the feck.
Instead, Friday nights revolve around imbibing suspiciously musty tasting wine that was on a special offer at Oddbins and catching up with whatever is on Sky Plus, apart from that three hour Japanese film which was on BBC4 in March and is highly acclaimed.
First stop after Coronation Street will be Never Mind The Buzzcocks feat. Simon "Countdown To" Amstell.
All evening, I will be doing the Countdown To Amstell, in the hope that Simon will say something reasonably funny and in fairly bad taste.
Fortunately, last Friday night wasn't a letdown, because of the gag about befriending C*urtney L*ve (she murders you then pretends you committed suicide).
We live to fight another day.
Labels: cheese on toast, Friday nights, musty wine, Richard The Popworld Horse, Serious Drinking, Simon Amstell
Thursday, November 22, 2007
GRIM
It has been suggested on several occasions here that I am a frightening woman, so here is pictorial evidence to suggest that this is a longstanding condition, and one that has run in my family for several generations. It ain't my fault guv. It's genetic.
Here I am on a joyful family holiday in 1967, the summer of love. At the time, the likes of Tom 909 were *getting it together* with some *chick* in a field while tripping out to the sounds of Big Brother And The Holding Company. Some of us were having to endure a damp and overcast week in North Wales with seriously annoyed parents who were dressed as if they were twenty years older.
I am the miserable shortarse in the ridiculous bonnet which I DIDN'T CHOOSE TO WEAR MYSELF, my dad is Grandpa Munster and my mother is the one that has a face like thunder.
This post comes to you courtesy of Photo Scanning At Boots Week. Further results can be seen here.
Here I am on a joyful family holiday in 1967, the summer of love. At the time, the likes of Tom 909 were *getting it together* with some *chick* in a field while tripping out to the sounds of Big Brother And The Holding Company. Some of us were having to endure a damp and overcast week in North Wales with seriously annoyed parents who were dressed as if they were twenty years older.
I am the miserable shortarse in the ridiculous bonnet which I DIDN'T CHOOSE TO WEAR MYSELF, my dad is Grandpa Munster and my mother is the one that has a face like thunder.
This post comes to you courtesy of Photo Scanning At Boots Week. Further results can be seen here.
Labels: family holiday, grimness, I DIDN'T CHOOSE THAT BONNET, moody bastards, my crayzee family
Saturday, November 17, 2007
THE ADDAMS FAMILY
You may have gathered by now that I managed to avoid any of the horrendous operations that were described on the internet, and was sent away with a cast on my arm which will be removed in five weeks.
The cast was put on by a young bloke who had a wonderfully delicate and precise touch. All the grains of the bandage seem to be aligned to one another! What an artist!
Then he ruined the effect by saying "two fings you need to know: DO NOT get the cast wet and DO NOT put nuffin daaaaahnn it".
When I escaped from the hospital, I was deliriously happy. Of course, this didn't last long.
I returned home to find that the Ongoing Problems with the elderly and ailing relative in the Midlands were getting more complicated.
I don't want to turn this into one of those Boo Hoo, Pity More Me blogs, particularly as most other people have horrible things to deal with themselves, but it really would be nice to get through a few years without having to deal with family illness, hospital visits, a responsibility to everyone in the S*rbian community to look after *family*, oncology units, phoning social services, people going a bit loopy, emotional blackmail, people who refuse to have medical treatment, weird Orthodox funerals, missing wills, solicitors and every kind of hassle you can think of.
Still, hey! That's my crayzee family for you. Anyone who wants to house and look after the ones that are left is quite welcome to them. The further away you live the better.
If anyone wants to leave a comment advising me that I should have a more positive outlook on life, and that worrying about things is a waste of time, perhaps they should consider putting their fingers into a paper shredder instead.
Grr.
Rant over. I will leave you with a test card. A test card for monochrome TV sets, no less. Keep raising money for Pudsey Bear, you lovely people, and have a nice weekend.
The cast was put on by a young bloke who had a wonderfully delicate and precise touch. All the grains of the bandage seem to be aligned to one another! What an artist!
Then he ruined the effect by saying "two fings you need to know: DO NOT get the cast wet and DO NOT put nuffin daaaaahnn it".
When I escaped from the hospital, I was deliriously happy. Of course, this didn't last long.
I returned home to find that the Ongoing Problems with the elderly and ailing relative in the Midlands were getting more complicated.
I don't want to turn this into one of those Boo Hoo, Pity More Me blogs, particularly as most other people have horrible things to deal with themselves, but it really would be nice to get through a few years without having to deal with family illness, hospital visits, a responsibility to everyone in the S*rbian community to look after *family*, oncology units, phoning social services, people going a bit loopy, emotional blackmail, people who refuse to have medical treatment, weird Orthodox funerals, missing wills, solicitors and every kind of hassle you can think of.
Still, hey! That's my crayzee family for you. Anyone who wants to house and look after the ones that are left is quite welcome to them. The further away you live the better.
If anyone wants to leave a comment advising me that I should have a more positive outlook on life, and that worrying about things is a waste of time, perhaps they should consider putting their fingers into a paper shredder instead.
Grr.
Rant over. I will leave you with a test card. A test card for monochrome TV sets, no less. Keep raising money for Pudsey Bear, you lovely people, and have a nice weekend.
Labels: Children In Need, fractured wrist, Monochrome Set, my crayzee family, ranting
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
BIONIC WOMAN
Thanks for all your kind comments about my current predicament. Sadly, I STILL haven't been given any money or beautiful Scandinavian men. Ah, well ... I know who my friends are, that's all I'm saying ...
So: how did it happen?
On Friday morning, I put some washing in the tub and got the laundry basket from the top of a cupboard.
I turned, lost my balance, reached out for the wall to stop my head bashing into it, and the next thing I knew was that I was looking at my right arm, which was horribly lumpy and distorted.
A few minutes later, I had put the washing on, because I was taught that we have to pull ourselves together, keep a stiff upper lip and, if the worst comes to the worst, have a cup of sugary tea.
For the next half an hour I was frantically tidying the living room.
I still hadn't had a cup of sugary tea.
Then I thought it might be a good idea to phone around to see if I could get a lift to the local minor casualty department.
"Oooh, poor you, that looks horrible!" said the woman behind the desk. "Helen, come in here and see this one!"
"Oooh, that's a good one, that's really different!" said Helen, David Lynch fan and collector of pictures of Victorian sideshow freaks.
An X-Ray later meant that I was on my way to A & E.
Well, I say "on my way".
My in-laws were the escorts.
My MIL delayed the journey by about ten minutes. "Looook, it's my friend Barbara over there!" she said in the car park, which meant that she had a good old chinwag with Barbara when I was potentially DYING.
When we got to A & E, and after the inevitable NHS hold ups and mix ups, I was given some sedatives and put on a trolley bed and told that there was a *possibility* that I would need an operation.
Within minutes, a couple of people seemed to be trying to stretch my arm to approximately twice my height. It's possible that I may have a lucrative future career as a human cherry picker.
"I've got it!" one of them said.
A cast was put on my arm and I was whisked off for another X-Ray.
An appointment was made to see a specialist.
When I get home, predictably enough. I START GOOGLING.
The potential operation could involve having pins inserted ... or a bone graft from my pelvis.
*faints*
*faints again*
On the plus side, my forthcoming infection with MRSA and subsequent death will lead to some very frank and moving writing here, which may even mean that I break through the Post Of The Week four nominations but no shortlist barrier. I won't win though, beaten by a frank and moving account of someone's pet chinchilla having kidney failure, surviving against all the odds, but tragically dying in a fire.
Then, the posthumous written collection will do great business in WH Smiths Stories Of Great Personal Suffering section, and Geoff will be able to give up his job, move to Hollywood and *find happiness* with a 19 year old blonde socialite-turned-reality TV show star.
The hospital appointment is tomorrow :(
I should say as a footnote that anybody who slags off people who work at the coalface of the NHS is a c*nt, by the way.
So: how did it happen?
On Friday morning, I put some washing in the tub and got the laundry basket from the top of a cupboard.
I turned, lost my balance, reached out for the wall to stop my head bashing into it, and the next thing I knew was that I was looking at my right arm, which was horribly lumpy and distorted.
A few minutes later, I had put the washing on, because I was taught that we have to pull ourselves together, keep a stiff upper lip and, if the worst comes to the worst, have a cup of sugary tea.
For the next half an hour I was frantically tidying the living room.
I still hadn't had a cup of sugary tea.
Then I thought it might be a good idea to phone around to see if I could get a lift to the local minor casualty department.
"Oooh, poor you, that looks horrible!" said the woman behind the desk. "Helen, come in here and see this one!"
"Oooh, that's a good one, that's really different!" said Helen, David Lynch fan and collector of pictures of Victorian sideshow freaks.
An X-Ray later meant that I was on my way to A & E.
Well, I say "on my way".
My in-laws were the escorts.
My MIL delayed the journey by about ten minutes. "Looook, it's my friend Barbara over there!" she said in the car park, which meant that she had a good old chinwag with Barbara when I was potentially DYING.
When we got to A & E, and after the inevitable NHS hold ups and mix ups, I was given some sedatives and put on a trolley bed and told that there was a *possibility* that I would need an operation.
Within minutes, a couple of people seemed to be trying to stretch my arm to approximately twice my height. It's possible that I may have a lucrative future career as a human cherry picker.
"I've got it!" one of them said.
A cast was put on my arm and I was whisked off for another X-Ray.
An appointment was made to see a specialist.
When I get home, predictably enough. I START GOOGLING.
The potential operation could involve having pins inserted ... or a bone graft from my pelvis.
*faints*
*faints again*
On the plus side, my forthcoming infection with MRSA and subsequent death will lead to some very frank and moving writing here, which may even mean that I break through the Post Of The Week four nominations but no shortlist barrier. I won't win though, beaten by a frank and moving account of someone's pet chinchilla having kidney failure, surviving against all the odds, but tragically dying in a fire.
Then, the posthumous written collection will do great business in WH Smiths Stories Of Great Personal Suffering section, and Geoff will be able to give up his job, move to Hollywood and *find happiness* with a 19 year old blonde socialite-turned-reality TV show star.
The hospital appointment is tomorrow :(
I should say as a footnote that anybody who slags off people who work at the coalface of the NHS is a c*nt, by the way.
Labels: Barry Sheen, David Lynch, fractured wrist, Green Wing, Kanye West, MRSA, Post Of The Week, the MIL, worrying
Saturday, November 10, 2007
BONER
This is me at around 15:30 GMT today hyped up on a cocktail of painkillers and sedatives (that Codeine is some good shit man, as a Spacemen Three fan might say).I've got my arm in a semi-cast to allow it to swell up and cause me to have sleepless nights because of the fucking pain. I've got a fractured wrist and will furnish you with the full, tedious details in the next post.
I'm trying to make a rude gesture in the picture, but have got limited arm movement and can't get it up.
*waits for inevitable comment from MJ regarding previous paragraph*
In the meantime, all messages of sympathy, donations of money and offers of help to look after me from beautiful Scandinavian men to be sent to the usual address.
Labels: beautiful Scandinavian men, fractured wrist, painkillers, the finger
Monday, November 05, 2007
THUMBS ALOFT
... so, anyway, we're sandal-munching, lentil-recycling Guardian readers, who are interested in, I dunno, independent schools, sneering with a sense of indignation at poor people who join the army because they think they are going to get some hot dating action (apparently), that sort of thing.
This weekend we had to go against type and buy a tabloid newspaper in order to read an *explosive* muckraking two page article about someone who is related to someone who is related to someone who I am married to. This person has also been mentioned on a blog post here!
Obviously, I can't give you a direct link to the article ... here ... or the repercussions could be DISASTROUS, har har.
A pity, because the article gave us several minutes of amusement as did the pictures.
"Oooh, get his forty eight inch biceps!! He's goooorrgeous!" and other stuff was said that I can't really mention here, or link to here.
:(
Anyway, when we were walking back from the shops with the tabloid newspaper that shall remain nameless, Geoff told me that the main headline on the front page said "PAUL AND STELLA MCCARTNEY USED MY LEG AS A BAT IN ROUNDERS GAMES CLAIMS HEATHER MILLS".
I thought that he was telling the truth.
He was just joking.
More disappointment.
:(
This weekend we had to go against type and buy a tabloid newspaper in order to read an *explosive* muckraking two page article about someone who is related to someone who is related to someone who I am married to. This person has also been mentioned on a blog post here!
Obviously, I can't give you a direct link to the article ... here ... or the repercussions could be DISASTROUS, har har.
A pity, because the article gave us several minutes of amusement as did the pictures.
"Oooh, get his forty eight inch biceps!! He's goooorrgeous!" and other stuff was said that I can't really mention here, or link to here.
:(
Anyway, when we were walking back from the shops with the tabloid newspaper that shall remain nameless, Geoff told me that the main headline on the front page said "PAUL AND STELLA MCCARTNEY USED MY LEG AS A BAT IN ROUNDERS GAMES CLAIMS HEATHER MILLS".
I thought that he was telling the truth.
He was just joking.
More disappointment.
:(
Labels: Fab Macca, fit FHM birds, Heather Mills, muckraking, muscle Marys, son (big stupid)
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
BLINK AND YOU'LL MISS IT
Simon Hoggart has said in a recent Grauniad column that he's managed to beat sleeplessness.
The thing to do when you wake up during the night is to keep your eyes open. If your eyes are closed, you're more likely to start worrying about all your problems and stay awake for a couple of hours (something that has happened to me at least a couple of times a week, every week, for as long as I can remember, regardless of personal circumstances).
If you keep your eyes open, though, you'll soon feel your eyelids drooping and will be off back to the land of nod and lovely dreams about having your earlobes nibbled by somebody you fancy on the telly.
Or, in Simon's case, dreaming about the long queues and admiring glances of people attending a book signing at the launch of his grate new compilation of the crazy but pompous round robin letters that readers have sent him over the years. The ideal stocking filler and only £7.99 at all good retailers, folks.
Simon reckons that the "eyes open" method has worked like a treat for him.
I've tried to follow his advice, and, inevitably, it doesn't work. I still lie there worrying about all the problems that I try to avoid thinking about during the day.
The next couple of hours are still full of panicking about my future, getting old, what I could have done with my life, what I'll be unable to do with my life, whether I'll end up homeless, whether or not the Sky Plus box is on the blink again, whether or not my troublesome cough is a deep seated and incurable lung disease, what I'll be doing at Christmas, why my fucking hair is taking so long to grow, exactly how many journeys I'll have to take to the Midlands in the next few months, family problems, whether I'll have to get a new dentist, how bad the menopause will be and when it will start, why it is I can't lead a quiet life which is all I really want, whether I drink too much, whether or not I could live in reduced circumstances, whether that stuff will ever turn up from Amazon or not, whether or not that woman who lives in the flat upstairs next door will turn REALLY weird in the head and attack me in the street, whether or not the other neighbours' attempt to install gas central heating will lead to our house being blown up, whether or not I'll get REALLY FAT when I go through the menopause, whether or not I'll get the same horrible debilitating illnesses as my parents, what that unearthly wailing noise is outside, if, whether I'll get terrible arthritis in my hands and be unable to use tweezers, so I won't be able to get rid of the horrible black bristles that occasionally sprout on my chin. Indeed, will I suddenly grow loads of disgusting facial hair when I get old ?
Except that I now go through this process while keeping my eyes open, which means they end up dry and sore.
The reason that Simon Hoggart found it so easy to fall asleep again is that, judging by the frequent reports in his column, he has been staying in the South of France. After indulging in a nice bottle of claret, he later had a six course meal at a little restaurant, washed down with huge quantities of vintage wine.
Fuck me, I'm surprised that he can actually find the energy to wake up in the first place after all that consumption.
The thing to do when you wake up during the night is to keep your eyes open. If your eyes are closed, you're more likely to start worrying about all your problems and stay awake for a couple of hours (something that has happened to me at least a couple of times a week, every week, for as long as I can remember, regardless of personal circumstances).
If you keep your eyes open, though, you'll soon feel your eyelids drooping and will be off back to the land of nod and lovely dreams about having your earlobes nibbled by somebody you fancy on the telly.
Or, in Simon's case, dreaming about the long queues and admiring glances of people attending a book signing at the launch of his grate new compilation of the crazy but pompous round robin letters that readers have sent him over the years. The ideal stocking filler and only £7.99 at all good retailers, folks.
Simon reckons that the "eyes open" method has worked like a treat for him.
I've tried to follow his advice, and, inevitably, it doesn't work. I still lie there worrying about all the problems that I try to avoid thinking about during the day.
The next couple of hours are still full of panicking about my future, getting old, what I could have done with my life, what I'll be unable to do with my life, whether I'll end up homeless, whether or not the Sky Plus box is on the blink again, whether or not my troublesome cough is a deep seated and incurable lung disease, what I'll be doing at Christmas, why my fucking hair is taking so long to grow, exactly how many journeys I'll have to take to the Midlands in the next few months, family problems, whether I'll have to get a new dentist, how bad the menopause will be and when it will start, why it is I can't lead a quiet life which is all I really want, whether I drink too much, whether or not I could live in reduced circumstances, whether that stuff will ever turn up from Amazon or not, whether or not that woman who lives in the flat upstairs next door will turn REALLY weird in the head and attack me in the street, whether or not the other neighbours' attempt to install gas central heating will lead to our house being blown up, whether or not I'll get REALLY FAT when I go through the menopause, whether or not I'll get the same horrible debilitating illnesses as my parents, what that unearthly wailing noise is outside, if, whether I'll get terrible arthritis in my hands and be unable to use tweezers, so I won't be able to get rid of the horrible black bristles that occasionally sprout on my chin. Indeed, will I suddenly grow loads of disgusting facial hair when I get old ?
Except that I now go through this process while keeping my eyes open, which means they end up dry and sore.
The reason that Simon Hoggart found it so easy to fall asleep again is that, judging by the frequent reports in his column, he has been staying in the South of France. After indulging in a nice bottle of claret, he later had a six course meal at a little restaurant, washed down with huge quantities of vintage wine.
Fuck me, I'm surprised that he can actually find the energy to wake up in the first place after all that consumption.
Labels: Amazon, disease, insomnia, mucky dreams, Simon Hoggart, the M1, the menopause, unearthly wailing
Thursday, October 18, 2007
FRANKIE SAYS - ARM THE UNEMPLOYED
Hmm, I'm pretty busy here at the moment (mostly doing unpleasant stuff) so I haven't got time at present to do any more blogging about the Norfolk holiday (which I'll hopefully spin out until Christmas).
In the meantime, you'll have to make do with one of the occasional contributions from the Bexley Xtra's gossip columnist Polly Witterings. See you later.
* * * * * * *
Hi! Polly Witterings here once more with all the news that's hot - and some that you're not supposed to know about!!!!!!!!
Congratulations to Lily Allen (23), singing cockney reggae daughter of outrageous funnyman Keith Allen (56), who has dropped from a gargantuan, repulsive, sweaty, outlandish dress size 12 (size 157 in the USA folks!) to a chubby but more socially acceptable size 8. Lily credits her weight loss to stress caused by the break up with her man, DJ Somebody Or Other (28). Well done Lily, but we here at the Xtra think you should dye your hair blonde and get plastic surgery to look like somebody more pretty - Jessica Simpson (22) (for instance!!! LOL !!!!!
Lily Allen: fat munter
A "get well soon" from the Xtra desk to swarthy Welsh pocket Hercules, Kelly Jones of Welsh rockers The Stereophonics. Welshman Kelly (34) is nursing an injured arm after getting into a fracas with a security guard who wouldn't let him get into the ladies' toilets at a top London nightclub! Come on Kelly - is there something you'd like to tell us?????!!!!! After all, Kelly is a girl's name!!!!! LOL!!!!!!
Here at the Xtra, we girlies (average age: 37) are overcome with excitement at the prospect of the Sex And The City movie! We are virtually salivating over all the leaked pictures of the ladies wearing some droolsomely stylish outfits on set!!!! We're loving Sarah Jessica Parker's long argyle socks and retro Katherine Hamnett"Frankie Goes To Hollywood" big t-shirt!!!!!!!! We're all off now to frantically scour the shops to find all the copycat clothes in homage to the ladies. Sarah (58) (dress size minus 4) is probably THE style icon of all time!!!!
Sarah Jessica Parker - style icon (necklace - £758.99, Christian Lacroix vintage, model's own).
Video internet site YouTube went into meltdown last night as millions of people went online to see the latest footage of Britney Spears setting fire to her minge!
In the meantime, you'll have to make do with one of the occasional contributions from the Bexley Xtra's gossip columnist Polly Witterings. See you later.
* * * * * * *
Hi! Polly Witterings here once more with all the news that's hot - and some that you're not supposed to know about!!!!!!!!
Congratulations to Lily Allen (23), singing cockney reggae daughter of outrageous funnyman Keith Allen (56), who has dropped from a gargantuan, repulsive, sweaty, outlandish dress size 12 (size 157 in the USA folks!) to a chubby but more socially acceptable size 8. Lily credits her weight loss to stress caused by the break up with her man, DJ Somebody Or Other (28). Well done Lily, but we here at the Xtra think you should dye your hair blonde and get plastic surgery to look like somebody more pretty - Jessica Simpson (22) (for instance!!! LOL !!!!!
Lily Allen: fat munter
A "get well soon" from the Xtra desk to swarthy Welsh pocket Hercules, Kelly Jones of Welsh rockers The Stereophonics. Welshman Kelly (34) is nursing an injured arm after getting into a fracas with a security guard who wouldn't let him get into the ladies' toilets at a top London nightclub! Come on Kelly - is there something you'd like to tell us?????!!!!! After all, Kelly is a girl's name!!!!! LOL!!!!!!
Here at the Xtra, we girlies (average age: 37) are overcome with excitement at the prospect of the Sex And The City movie! We are virtually salivating over all the leaked pictures of the ladies wearing some droolsomely stylish outfits on set!!!! We're loving Sarah Jessica Parker's long argyle socks and retro Katherine Hamnett"Frankie Goes To Hollywood" big t-shirt!!!!!!!! We're all off now to frantically scour the shops to find all the copycat clothes in homage to the ladies. Sarah (58) (dress size minus 4) is probably THE style icon of all time!!!!
Sarah Jessica Parker - style icon (necklace - £758.99, Christian Lacroix vintage, model's own).
Video internet site YouTube went into meltdown last night as millions of people went online to see the latest footage of Britney Spears setting fire to her minge!
Labels: fat munters, horse faced women, Katherine Hamnett, men with girls' names, style icons, the Midlands, the Welsh, Welsh rockers
Monday, October 15, 2007
HAVE YOU GOT A LIFEBOAT?
Arabella suggested the following to Geoff as a task we should do on our break *at a mystery location in Norfolk*:
"Please do an ATV Today - type investigative report on why there is so much blogging going on in Norfolk, to include some black and white interviews in fields where a cow is about to do something embarrassing, if you get a moment."
Well, of course, we didn't have a moment to spare, but I managed to find out why blogging is so big in Norfolk.
The first blogger ever was a Norfolk man, and there's even a museum dedicated to him in Cromer.
He was Henry Blogg, the most decorated lifeboatman in the RNLI's history, but, more importantly, of course, blogging was named after the great man.
Here are a few excerpts from Henry Blogg's Blog, "Random Musings Of A Norfolk Lifeboatman" ...
14th June, 1947
Why the fuck do women persist in wearing Crocs? Ladies, pay attention: Crocs worn with long flowery skirts don't say "I understand directional fashion", they say "I'm a clueless middle aged housewife from Middle England who enjoys baking cakes for craft fayre competitions and lives for my grandchildren because I don't have anything else that's interesting to occupy my time".
That is all.
*
September 4th, 1936
Who are all those fuckwits who spit chewing gum out onto the pavement? They should be strung up and have their balls torn off without an anaesthetic.
That is all.
*
February 28th, 1948
Jack Penate, a message to you. Fuck off with your annoying "oy corn't wayt?" What the fuck is that supposed to mean anyway? Are you trying to pass yourself off as an 18th century farmhand, or, better still, an East End cabbie? Have you actually heard a working class person talk?
David Cameron, a message to you. Fuck off, you Old Etonian slimeball. "It's time for change! It's time to say that I'll cut taxes so I can ensure I end up being made Prime Minister!" Fuck right off back to daddy's country pile you privileged cunt!
That is all.
"Please do an ATV Today - type investigative report on why there is so much blogging going on in Norfolk, to include some black and white interviews in fields where a cow is about to do something embarrassing, if you get a moment."
Well, of course, we didn't have a moment to spare, but I managed to find out why blogging is so big in Norfolk.
The first blogger ever was a Norfolk man, and there's even a museum dedicated to him in Cromer.
He was Henry Blogg, the most decorated lifeboatman in the RNLI's history, but, more importantly, of course, blogging was named after the great man.
Here are a few excerpts from Henry Blogg's Blog, "Random Musings Of A Norfolk Lifeboatman" ...
14th June, 1947
Why the fuck do women persist in wearing Crocs? Ladies, pay attention: Crocs worn with long flowery skirts don't say "I understand directional fashion", they say "I'm a clueless middle aged housewife from Middle England who enjoys baking cakes for craft fayre competitions and lives for my grandchildren because I don't have anything else that's interesting to occupy my time".
That is all.
*
September 4th, 1936
Who are all those fuckwits who spit chewing gum out onto the pavement? They should be strung up and have their balls torn off without an anaesthetic.
That is all.
*
February 28th, 1948
Jack Penate, a message to you. Fuck off with your annoying "oy corn't wayt?" What the fuck is that supposed to mean anyway? Are you trying to pass yourself off as an 18th century farmhand, or, better still, an East End cabbie? Have you actually heard a working class person talk?
David Cameron, a message to you. Fuck off, you Old Etonian slimeball. "It's time for change! It's time to say that I'll cut taxes so I can ensure I end up being made Prime Minister!" Fuck right off back to daddy's country pile you privileged cunt!
That is all.
Labels: Crocs, lifeboatmen, Norfolk bloggers, random musings
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
HAVE YOU GOT A LIFE BUOY?
One thing I found out on re-visiting the spookily Gothic seaside resort of Cromer is that it only looks spookily Gothic when the weather is dark and dreary. We visited it on a sunny, busy weekend day and, for reasons I can't really explain, again on a dark, cold, windy and quiet weekday.
Short of anything else to do, we visited a record fair held in the parish hall. There wasn't much of interest on offer, although Geoff ended up getting Alex Chilton's ace Like Flies On Sherbert for a fiver.
At one point I had one of those "what is the point of existence?" moments. The stallholder opposite me was a corpulent bloke in his fifties, wearing a Police t-shirt. The song being played was She Blinded Me With Science by Thomas Dolby, which I probably hadn't heard for upwards of twenty years.
The synth bit that goes "eur eur euuur, eur"* in She Blinded Me With Science does enough to evoke nauseous memories of the early 1980's. Combined with the setting, it's surprising I didn't do myself in, there, on the spot.
The only saving grace was the fact that there was an entire section of vinyl dedicated to Norfolk hero The Singing Postman, of Hev Yew Gotta Loight, Boi? infamy.
Phwoarr!
The Singing Postman shouldn't, of course, be confused with Mancunian post punk type Jon The Postman ...
... who was also a real postman, but now runs a secondhand record shop, or my favourite singing postman of all (and Kate McCann lookalike), Vic Godard of Subway Sect ...
... whose Ambition is still probably one of my top five favourite singles of all time. When I ordered it from Small Wonder records from the NME back in 1846, I found it waiting outside our back door on returning from school and was THRILLED beyond belief. I then played it a dozen times in a row on our rubbish mono record player. I still can't decide if being fifteen was the best or worst time of my life.
Anyway, there you go, respect to the postmen (... and bollocks to Adam Crozier).
*you can tell at this point that you're not reading The Church Of Me, or Ooh, Missus, You're Turning The Air Blue! or whatever he's calling it this week, can't you?
Short of anything else to do, we visited a record fair held in the parish hall. There wasn't much of interest on offer, although Geoff ended up getting Alex Chilton's ace Like Flies On Sherbert for a fiver.
At one point I had one of those "what is the point of existence?" moments. The stallholder opposite me was a corpulent bloke in his fifties, wearing a Police t-shirt. The song being played was She Blinded Me With Science by Thomas Dolby, which I probably hadn't heard for upwards of twenty years.
The synth bit that goes "eur eur euuur, eur"* in She Blinded Me With Science does enough to evoke nauseous memories of the early 1980's. Combined with the setting, it's surprising I didn't do myself in, there, on the spot.
The only saving grace was the fact that there was an entire section of vinyl dedicated to Norfolk hero The Singing Postman, of Hev Yew Gotta Loight, Boi? infamy.
Phwoarr!The Singing Postman shouldn't, of course, be confused with Mancunian post punk type Jon The Postman ...
... who was also a real postman, but now runs a secondhand record shop, or my favourite singing postman of all (and Kate McCann lookalike), Vic Godard of Subway Sect ...... whose Ambition is still probably one of my top five favourite singles of all time. When I ordered it from Small Wonder records from the NME back in 1846, I found it waiting outside our back door on returning from school and was THRILLED beyond belief. I then played it a dozen times in a row on our rubbish mono record player. I still can't decide if being fifteen was the best or worst time of my life.Anyway, there you go, respect to the postmen (... and bollocks to Adam Crozier).
*you can tell at this point that you're not reading The Church Of Me, or Ooh, Missus, You're Turning The Air Blue! or whatever he's calling it this week, can't you?
Labels: Adam Crozier (cnut), Cromer, Jon The Postman, Magnus Pyke, postmen, Subway Sect, The Singing Postman, Thomas Dolby
Sunday, October 07, 2007
GET STUFFED
Two weeks spent in the holiday cottage *at a mystery location in Norfolk* involved one very COLD night when we huddled up over the patio heater because they'd got those Economy Seven heaters that only work between six and nine in the morning, or summat like that.
The owners, however, did say that it might be worth starting a real coal fire, and they'd tell us how to use kindling, coal, wood, live sacrifices etc.
"It'll really heat the place up!" said Mrs Cottageowner with great enthusiasm.
Indeed it would, because we would have undoubtedly set fire to their beautiful holiday home and several picturesque acres of wooded land around it.
It was a bit disconcerting hearing things screeching and barking at midnight. I don't know if the sounds came from nocturnal animals, or resulted from local pagan rituals. I didn't like to ask.
On display above the bottom of the stairs was this young gent:
I think the effect was meant to be intimidating, in the same way as the sign which says "THIS IS ANFIELD" above the entrance of the tunnel at Liverpool FC. Except, instead of freaking out opposition teams, this one sends out the subliminal message "HERE BE BEASTS HERE IN EAST ANGULAR. FUCK OFF HOME IF YOU DON'T LIKE OUR ANCIENT COUNTRY WAYS, YOU PONCEY SOUTHERN TOWNIE, OR WE'LL SHOOT YOU".
The owners, however, did say that it might be worth starting a real coal fire, and they'd tell us how to use kindling, coal, wood, live sacrifices etc.
"It'll really heat the place up!" said Mrs Cottageowner with great enthusiasm.
Indeed it would, because we would have undoubtedly set fire to their beautiful holiday home and several picturesque acres of wooded land around it.
It was a bit disconcerting hearing things screeching and barking at midnight. I don't know if the sounds came from nocturnal animals, or resulted from local pagan rituals. I didn't like to ask.
On display above the bottom of the stairs was this young gent:
I think the effect was meant to be intimidating, in the same way as the sign which says "THIS IS ANFIELD" above the entrance of the tunnel at Liverpool FC. Except, instead of freaking out opposition teams, this one sends out the subliminal message "HERE BE BEASTS HERE IN EAST ANGULAR. FUCK OFF HOME IF YOU DON'T LIKE OUR ANCIENT COUNTRY WAYS, YOU PONCEY SOUTHERN TOWNIE, OR WE'LL SHOOT YOU".
Labels: bestiality, Norfolk, pagan rituals, taxidermy
Thursday, October 04, 2007
MANURE
I appear to be back (... but for how long??).
I may not be cooking on gas yet, but I'm cooking on chickenshit.
I thought I'd be back on Blogger and there would be no problems, after the two and a half months of problems with being denied access to my blog, the problems with Orange, the problems with BT ...
It now seems that Blogger don't allow me to add hyperlinks, change text size, use different coloured text or view anything in HTML on the Mac.
So much for progress.
Oh, I can still use the Spellcheck facility, and add photos. The latter is so complicated that I can't be arsed to work it out.
I'm sorry for the long succession of whining posts, but honestly ...
I'm not sure if I can be bothered anymore.
I may not be cooking on gas yet, but I'm cooking on chickenshit.
I thought I'd be back on Blogger and there would be no problems, after the two and a half months of problems with being denied access to my blog, the problems with Orange, the problems with BT ...
It now seems that Blogger don't allow me to add hyperlinks, change text size, use different coloured text or view anything in HTML on the Mac.
So much for progress.
Oh, I can still use the Spellcheck facility, and add photos. The latter is so complicated that I can't be arsed to work it out.
I'm sorry for the long succession of whining posts, but honestly ...
I'm not sure if I can be bothered anymore.
Labels: BT - general rubbishness of, delayed shock, long absences, Orange - general rubbishness of
Friday, August 31, 2007
BE CAREFUL WITH THAT VASE!
Thanks for your comments and e-mails. I've replied to the e-mails but am now not able to access Blogger comments. It's getting frustrating, but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. So they say.
As it stands, I've moved over to Betty In Exile for the time being.
I don't know if it'll be a permanent move. All depends on whether I'm able to access Blogger again. If Girl With A One Track Mind can be spam blocked, it can surely happen to us more 'umble bloggers as well.
Anyway, I'm still coming to terms with WordPress, so there won't be fancy pictures, YouTube or the usual display of visual fireworks you get over here (ho ho, my sides are splitting). It's all very basic but hey - I've managed to work out how to do hyperlinks! Besides, they had to put up with more than this in the war - smearing their legs with gravy browning and using powdered egg as shampoo.
I shall bloody well pull myself together and get on with it.
Anyway, do pop over to my new, slightly reduced circumstances and I might crack open a Watney's Party Seven can if you're lucky. At least I can reply to comments over there!
As it stands, I've moved over to Betty In Exile for the time being.
I don't know if it'll be a permanent move. All depends on whether I'm able to access Blogger again. If Girl With A One Track Mind can be spam blocked, it can surely happen to us more 'umble bloggers as well.
Anyway, I'm still coming to terms with WordPress, so there won't be fancy pictures, YouTube or the usual display of visual fireworks you get over here (ho ho, my sides are splitting). It's all very basic but hey - I've managed to work out how to do hyperlinks! Besides, they had to put up with more than this in the war - smearing their legs with gravy browning and using powdered egg as shampoo.
I shall bloody well pull myself together and get on with it.
Anyway, do pop over to my new, slightly reduced circumstances and I might crack open a Watney's Party Seven can if you're lucky. At least I can reply to comments over there!
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
BLOCKAGE
This post is being published by Geoff from his workplace as I can't post from my home computer.
As I stated in the comments on the previous post, I've been unable to access Blogger's home page since Friday,
We assumed that we'd been blocked as a "spam blog" by Blogger. Blogger are suggesting that it could be a problem caused by our internet service provider (the infamous Orange, who imply that the future is bright).
Orange say it's nothing to do with them.
Whatever the situation, we seem to be blocked from getting into Blogger's home page, let alone logging in.
It's a strange situation: you feel as though you're in a glass cage. I can see my own blog, can see everyone else's blogs, but I can't log in to my Blogger account and can't send comments to other blogs unless they use Haloscan or other non-Blogger comments boxes.
Which means: all of my blogs, and Geoff's, could be in a state of suspended animation for ever. Or even deleted. We have no idea what's going on, or who is *responsible*. It is PISSING THE BOTH OF US OFF. Three and a half years of posting and building up an audience all fallen by the wayside.
Basically, I'm scuppered. If I can't leave comments on my blog or other blogs, I'll lose my (small but faithful) audience of confused, elderly, housebound and heavily medicated readers. Then, where will I be? Oh, woe is me.
It means that I may have to do something interesting or constructive with my life instead. Well, bollocks to that. If we're still blocked by the end of the week, we're setting up blogs at WordPress.
Whatever, if I do move to WordPress, I'll let you know on here (if possible). Otherwise I may have to e-mail you (or you can e-mail me at bettysroom AT btinternet DOT com).
Er, anyway, I now have to copy and paste my archives to Word while they're still there in case Blogger decides to delete my life's work. Sob.
Still, enough carping. If I don't see you again around here, I'd like to thank you for reading and commenting (for a few years in some cases - you poor bastards).
Stay safe.
Betty xx
As I stated in the comments on the previous post, I've been unable to access Blogger's home page since Friday,
We assumed that we'd been blocked as a "spam blog" by Blogger. Blogger are suggesting that it could be a problem caused by our internet service provider (the infamous Orange, who imply that the future is bright).
Orange say it's nothing to do with them.
Whatever the situation, we seem to be blocked from getting into Blogger's home page, let alone logging in.
It's a strange situation: you feel as though you're in a glass cage. I can see my own blog, can see everyone else's blogs, but I can't log in to my Blogger account and can't send comments to other blogs unless they use Haloscan or other non-Blogger comments boxes.
Which means: all of my blogs, and Geoff's, could be in a state of suspended animation for ever. Or even deleted. We have no idea what's going on, or who is *responsible*. It is PISSING THE BOTH OF US OFF. Three and a half years of posting and building up an audience all fallen by the wayside.
Basically, I'm scuppered. If I can't leave comments on my blog or other blogs, I'll lose my (small but faithful) audience of confused, elderly, housebound and heavily medicated readers. Then, where will I be? Oh, woe is me.
It means that I may have to do something interesting or constructive with my life instead. Well, bollocks to that. If we're still blocked by the end of the week, we're setting up blogs at WordPress.
Whatever, if I do move to WordPress, I'll let you know on here (if possible). Otherwise I may have to e-mail you (or you can e-mail me at bettysroom AT btinternet DOT com).
Er, anyway, I now have to copy and paste my archives to Word while they're still there in case Blogger decides to delete my life's work. Sob.
Still, enough carping. If I don't see you again around here, I'd like to thank you for reading and commenting (for a few years in some cases - you poor bastards).
Stay safe.
Betty xx
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A SHOW OF HANDS
Oh, woe was me the other day when I decided to do an update of the previous post, to include a couple of other candidates for Most Attractive Union Leader. Blogger wouldn't let me re-publish it!
Presumably, because of the summer holidays, a load of ten year olds are doing work experience at Blogger, hence everything is going wrong (text being thrown into triple spacing ... not being able to embed YouTube clips ... not being able to access blogs ... whole posts being lost ... comments not coming up ... etc., etc.).
In a fit of pique, I moved the text over to another post and, of course, it did publish, but I lost all of those comments. Worst of all, it was a great thread. The comments threads are usually better than my posts, but this one was a corker. Still, you can't undo spilt milk or words to that effect.
Thanks to everyone who contributed to what turned out to be a pansexual frenzy of voting. If you can't have a pansexual frenzy of voting every so often, life really isn't worth living, is it? Mind you, I don't remember that sort of thing happening when I was a member of the PCS ...
Anyway, as Derek Robinson would have said, "Way have cooom to a dishishun!"
After an early lead was established by the debonair Len Murray, there was a swing to the left. The outlaw won the day ...
Ladies and gentleman, I give you ...
Rodney Bickerstaffe!
Er, hold on ...
Rodney Bickerstaffe!
All who voted for Rodney will receive a hastily printed "Bickers For My Knickers" t-shirt (thanks to Boz for the slogan), a pair of Rodney Bickerstaffe spectacles from Dolland And Aitchison (worth £150.99) and an MP3 download of Rodney reading an M.R. James short story. Turn the lights down low and prepare to be frightened!
The rest of you will have to make do with watching this clip of the youthful Bickers in action. Beautiful and clean and so very very young.
Presumably, because of the summer holidays, a load of ten year olds are doing work experience at Blogger, hence everything is going wrong (text being thrown into triple spacing ... not being able to embed YouTube clips ... not being able to access blogs ... whole posts being lost ... comments not coming up ... etc., etc.).
In a fit of pique, I moved the text over to another post and, of course, it did publish, but I lost all of those comments. Worst of all, it was a great thread. The comments threads are usually better than my posts, but this one was a corker. Still, you can't undo spilt milk or words to that effect.
Thanks to everyone who contributed to what turned out to be a pansexual frenzy of voting. If you can't have a pansexual frenzy of voting every so often, life really isn't worth living, is it? Mind you, I don't remember that sort of thing happening when I was a member of the PCS ...
Anyway, as Derek Robinson would have said, "Way have cooom to a dishishun!"
After an early lead was established by the debonair Len Murray, there was a swing to the left. The outlaw won the day ...
Ladies and gentleman, I give you ...
Rodney Bickerstaffe!
Er, hold on ...
Rodney Bickerstaffe!
All who voted for Rodney will receive a hastily printed "Bickers For My Knickers" t-shirt (thanks to Boz for the slogan), a pair of Rodney Bickerstaffe spectacles from Dolland And Aitchison (worth £150.99) and an MP3 download of Rodney reading an M.R. James short story. Turn the lights down low and prepare to be frightened!
The rest of you will have to make do with watching this clip of the youthful Bickers in action. Beautiful and clean and so very very young.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
THE BROTHERS
Kaz complained that I didn't accompany the previous post with a picture of dreamy, Gallic former TUC General Secretary Len Murray.
So, here is a post about the Pin Up Boys of The Trade Union movement and a chance for you to decide ... who is the most gorgeous?
This is a celebration of a time when you couldn't switch on a "television set" (as they were called in that golden era) without seeing a bunch of grim looking men in donkey jackets sitting around a brazier.
Still, enough about Dexy's Midnight Runners. Trade Union Leaders were heroes to the dispossessed in the days when men were men and women ought to go and make us a brew, there's a love, and can we 'ave some of them biscuits to be going on with?
Take your pick.
Len Murray, purveyor of dry cough and world weary French bohemianism without actually being French. The Jake Thackray of the TUC.
White collar union leader Clive Jenkins always seemed like the kind of clammy, sweaty and slightly creepy little man who would play the part of a clerk in an office-based drama who had power over somebody because he knew An Awful Secret about them and would resort to blackmail so that the secret didn't get out, all the while wearing an ingratiating smile.
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One of the great outrages I've just become aware of is that I CAN'T FIND A PHOTO OF POSTAL WORKERS LEADER TOM JACKSON ON THE INTERNET. The flamboyant Yorkshireman had the best anachronistic facial hair of the 1970s alongside Lord Lucan. Instead, I have had to resort to using someone whose facial hair looks a bit like Tom Jackson's - oh, the humiliation! If anyone is aware of a photo of Tom Jackson being available on the internet, please let me know.
Vic Feather was given the title Baron Feather during those crazy hazy loony lefty days. People like that would have been imprisoned by that nice Mrs Thatcher. In fact, it's a surprise he wasn't deported to Australia as a criminal as he admitted to stealing sheep in the 1930's. May win the vote of women who like the tough-talking rogue type.
As Arabella said "(those) glasses! Be still, my beating heart!" Rodney's irresistible magnetism may win the day. After all, my dad, who'd been asleep all afternoon, with the TUC Conference on in the background, once woke up and announced "bloody hell, he has got such a sexy voice, that bastard!" while Mr Bickerstaffe was at the podium, before promptly falling asleep again.
Still, don't let me try to sway your vote. Let me know in the comments box: WHO WAS THE MOST ATTRACTIVE TRADE UNION LEADER?
UPDATE
The people have spoken, which means I have to offer up two new candidates for your delight and delectation, as Leonard Sachs would have said.
He headed the final stand against Thatcherism, he was THE redhead in the decade of redheads (Cilla Black, Neil Kinnock, Mick Hucknall), he "grabbed defeat from the jaws of victory" (said X Moore of The Redskins, har har), he had the only combover in history that was better than Bobby Charlton's ... ladies and gents, it's Big Hearted Arthur Scargill!
Derek Robinson reminded me a bit too much of the sort of people my dad used to work with, but was a major figure on Midlands Today in the late 1970's as Peter Colbourne announced that there were rumours of yet more redundancies at Longbridge. Garfer mentions his "jackets made of old curtains", but I could only find a picture of him wearing what is known by fashionistas as "an environmental science teacher's jacket". Oh well, never mind. "After a lung mayting with the manidgement, we 'ave coom to a dishishun": that was his catchphrase.
Once again, I throw the vote out to the public, in true trade union style. One out, all out.
So, here is a post about the Pin Up Boys of The Trade Union movement and a chance for you to decide ... who is the most gorgeous?
This is a celebration of a time when you couldn't switch on a "television set" (as they were called in that golden era) without seeing a bunch of grim looking men in donkey jackets sitting around a brazier.
Still, enough about Dexy's Midnight Runners. Trade Union Leaders were heroes to the dispossessed in the days when men were men and women ought to go and make us a brew, there's a love, and can we 'ave some of them biscuits to be going on with?
Take your pick.
Len Murray, purveyor of dry cough and world weary French bohemianism without actually being French. The Jake Thackray of the TUC.
White collar union leader Clive Jenkins always seemed like the kind of clammy, sweaty and slightly creepy little man who would play the part of a clerk in an office-based drama who had power over somebody because he knew An Awful Secret about them and would resort to blackmail so that the secret didn't get out, all the while wearing an ingratiating smile.
.jpg)
One of the great outrages I've just become aware of is that I CAN'T FIND A PHOTO OF POSTAL WORKERS LEADER TOM JACKSON ON THE INTERNET. The flamboyant Yorkshireman had the best anachronistic facial hair of the 1970s alongside Lord Lucan. Instead, I have had to resort to using someone whose facial hair looks a bit like Tom Jackson's - oh, the humiliation! If anyone is aware of a photo of Tom Jackson being available on the internet, please let me know.
Vic Feather was given the title Baron Feather during those crazy hazy loony lefty days. People like that would have been imprisoned by that nice Mrs Thatcher. In fact, it's a surprise he wasn't deported to Australia as a criminal as he admitted to stealing sheep in the 1930's. May win the vote of women who like the tough-talking rogue type.
As Arabella said "(those) glasses! Be still, my beating heart!" Rodney's irresistible magnetism may win the day. After all, my dad, who'd been asleep all afternoon, with the TUC Conference on in the background, once woke up and announced "bloody hell, he has got such a sexy voice, that bastard!" while Mr Bickerstaffe was at the podium, before promptly falling asleep again.
Still, don't let me try to sway your vote. Let me know in the comments box: WHO WAS THE MOST ATTRACTIVE TRADE UNION LEADER?
UPDATE
The people have spoken, which means I have to offer up two new candidates for your delight and delectation, as Leonard Sachs would have said.
He headed the final stand against Thatcherism, he was THE redhead in the decade of redheads (Cilla Black, Neil Kinnock, Mick Hucknall), he "grabbed defeat from the jaws of victory" (said X Moore of The Redskins, har har), he had the only combover in history that was better than Bobby Charlton's ... ladies and gents, it's Big Hearted Arthur Scargill!
Derek Robinson reminded me a bit too much of the sort of people my dad used to work with, but was a major figure on Midlands Today in the late 1970's as Peter Colbourne announced that there were rumours of yet more redundancies at Longbridge. Garfer mentions his "jackets made of old curtains", but I could only find a picture of him wearing what is known by fashionistas as "an environmental science teacher's jacket". Oh well, never mind. "After a lung mayting with the manidgement, we 'ave coom to a dishishun": that was his catchphrase.
Once again, I throw the vote out to the public, in true trade union style. One out, all out.
Labels: anachronistic facial hair, animal magnetism, dour Yorkshiremen, Jake Thackray, The Strawbs, TUC
Thursday, August 16, 2007
VIRUS FROM OUTER SPACE
A terrible cloud of illness has hung over our house for around a month and a half now.
When Geoff announced that he had got a sore throat, I ignored him. This is a man who complains that he *thinks* he's in the early stages of a cold on at least a weekly basis.
However, this time he actually became ill, and developed a fever and chesty cough.
The sort of chesty cough that tended to keep him awake at night.
... or, more importantly, kept waking ME up at night.
"HEUGH, HEUGH, HEUGH" would wake me up at midnight. I would go back to sleep.
"HEUGH, HEUGH, HEUGH" would wake me up at one o'clock. I would go back to sleep.
"HEUGH, HEUGH, HEUEUEUGH HEUGH" would wake me up at one thirty.
That was it. I couldn't get back to sleep and would have to get up and read for a couple of hours.
This carried on for a week and a half until, amazingly, Geoff admitted that he was feeling better. Never one not to wallow in illness, it takes a lot for him to confess that he's on the mend.
That night, I woke up with a raging sore throat. This was about the tenth sleepless night in a row.
The next night I developed a cough - a dryer cough, or, as it is known to professionals, a Len Murray cough.
While my parents watched interminable footage of TUC Conferences in the 1970's, I wasn't paying attention to what was going on during the speeches: only to the TUC's saturnine General Secretary Len Murray and his persistent, annoying dry cough.
"Hem hem. Hem HEM Hem." That's all I remember of Len Murray's contribution to the disruptive 1970's trades union action.
It doesn't surprise me to find out that he died because of complications from emphysema and pneumonia.
... so I had now fallen victim to the 'lurgy, and was hem hemming my way through another few sleepless nights. Even the Venos cough mixture, with the picture on the packaging of the lantern jawed woman, apparently in a state of heightened sexual enjoyment, couldn't help me sleep.
I'm someone who always bounces back from colds after a couple of days, so the week or so of coughing and squeaky voiced-ness must prove how debilitating this bug was. Still, at last I recovered ...
... only for Geoff to find out that his germs had gone away, re-grouped and had decided to once more tear the roof off the motherfucker (as we used to say in the 1970's).
At one o'clock in the morning for the past week ... HEUGH HEUGH.
Two o'clock ... HEUGH HEUGH.
Two thirty ... HEUGH HEUEUEUGH HEUGH.
I am currently reading Simon Reynold's Rip It Up And Start Again until the sun rises, as well as suffering from sleep-deprived hallucinations.
When Geoff announced that he had got a sore throat, I ignored him. This is a man who complains that he *thinks* he's in the early stages of a cold on at least a weekly basis.
However, this time he actually became ill, and developed a fever and chesty cough.
The sort of chesty cough that tended to keep him awake at night.
... or, more importantly, kept waking ME up at night.
"HEUGH, HEUGH, HEUGH" would wake me up at midnight. I would go back to sleep.
"HEUGH, HEUGH, HEUGH" would wake me up at one o'clock. I would go back to sleep.
"HEUGH, HEUGH, HEUEUEUGH HEUGH" would wake me up at one thirty.
That was it. I couldn't get back to sleep and would have to get up and read for a couple of hours.
This carried on for a week and a half until, amazingly, Geoff admitted that he was feeling better. Never one not to wallow in illness, it takes a lot for him to confess that he's on the mend.
That night, I woke up with a raging sore throat. This was about the tenth sleepless night in a row.
The next night I developed a cough - a dryer cough, or, as it is known to professionals, a Len Murray cough.
While my parents watched interminable footage of TUC Conferences in the 1970's, I wasn't paying attention to what was going on during the speeches: only to the TUC's saturnine General Secretary Len Murray and his persistent, annoying dry cough.
"Hem hem. Hem HEM Hem." That's all I remember of Len Murray's contribution to the disruptive 1970's trades union action.
It doesn't surprise me to find out that he died because of complications from emphysema and pneumonia.
... so I had now fallen victim to the 'lurgy, and was hem hemming my way through another few sleepless nights. Even the Venos cough mixture, with the picture on the packaging of the lantern jawed woman, apparently in a state of heightened sexual enjoyment, couldn't help me sleep.
I'm someone who always bounces back from colds after a couple of days, so the week or so of coughing and squeaky voiced-ness must prove how debilitating this bug was. Still, at last I recovered ...
... only for Geoff to find out that his germs had gone away, re-grouped and had decided to once more tear the roof off the motherfucker (as we used to say in the 1970's).
At one o'clock in the morning for the past week ... HEUGH HEUGH.
Two o'clock ... HEUGH HEUGH.
Two thirty ... HEUGH HEUEUEUGH HEUGH.
I am currently reading Simon Reynold's Rip It Up And Start Again until the sun rises, as well as suffering from sleep-deprived hallucinations.
Labels: debilitating illness, hypochondria, Len Murray, productive coughs
Saturday, August 11, 2007
MANCUNIAN WAY
You know, someone once said to me "I'd love to say that Tony Wilson was a complete wanker, but he re-mortgaged his house to help finance Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures, so I can't".
As Blogger doesn't seem to want to let me embed YouTube clips at the moment (grrrr), you'll have to go here to see what I'm talking about. I'll try to re-publish later ...
Labels: Factory Records, Manchester, the soundtrack to my adolescence
Thursday, August 09, 2007
FREDA PAYNE
Unconfined joy in our house recently: Geoff's sister has married.
It's not the fact that she's got married that's the source of joy. It's the fact that she eloped to Gretna Green with a couple of witnesses and only had a celebratory meal afterwards with the two sets of parents. Therefore WE DIDN'T HAVE TO ATTEND A WEDDING.
More summers have been blighted in my life by HAVING TO ATTEND A WEDDING than I care to remember.
Weddings are shite at the best of times. In the case of this one, I wouldn't have known anybody beyond Geoff's immediate family. Given that most of the guests would have been from South London (in other words, *bubbly*, *cheery* and *extrovert*) the likelihood of our being able to hold a conversation with them would have been virtually zero. In fact, we would've been driven into a corner, keeping ourselves to ourselves, and have people say under their breaths "they're a right stuck up pair. Some people don't know how to have a good time, do they?"
As I've said here before, having to socialise with people is one of my least favourite forms of activity. In fact, the older I get, the less I want to socialise. I should imagine that within the next fifteen years, I'll be living in a cave and avoiding any human contact whatsoever ... with any luck.
Unfortunately, very little provision is made in society for people who want to *keep themselves to themselves*. Weddings are supposed to be grand gestures where hundreds of guests have a right old knees up to celebrate the happy couple's union and conveniently forget the fact that they'll probably be divorced within the next few years ....
Er, anyway, to conclude: everybody thinking of tying the knot should elope. Well, it would be absolutely lovely not to have to attend a wedding ever again, wouldn't it?
It's not the fact that she's got married that's the source of joy. It's the fact that she eloped to Gretna Green with a couple of witnesses and only had a celebratory meal afterwards with the two sets of parents. Therefore WE DIDN'T HAVE TO ATTEND A WEDDING.
More summers have been blighted in my life by HAVING TO ATTEND A WEDDING than I care to remember.
Weddings are shite at the best of times. In the case of this one, I wouldn't have known anybody beyond Geoff's immediate family. Given that most of the guests would have been from South London (in other words, *bubbly*, *cheery* and *extrovert*) the likelihood of our being able to hold a conversation with them would have been virtually zero. In fact, we would've been driven into a corner, keeping ourselves to ourselves, and have people say under their breaths "they're a right stuck up pair. Some people don't know how to have a good time, do they?"
As I've said here before, having to socialise with people is one of my least favourite forms of activity. In fact, the older I get, the less I want to socialise. I should imagine that within the next fifteen years, I'll be living in a cave and avoiding any human contact whatsoever ... with any luck.
Unfortunately, very little provision is made in society for people who want to *keep themselves to themselves*. Weddings are supposed to be grand gestures where hundreds of guests have a right old knees up to celebrate the happy couple's union and conveniently forget the fact that they'll probably be divorced within the next few years ....
Er, anyway, to conclude: everybody thinking of tying the knot should elope. Well, it would be absolutely lovely not to have to attend a wedding ever again, wouldn't it?
Labels: bridezilla, elopement, social phobia, South London
Monday, August 06, 2007
THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS
Gentle Giant
We are sitting in our living room reading various bits of the Saturday Grauniad.
Geoff is reading a story about the large, shaggy, Newfoundland dog that has apparently been mistakenly dubbed "The Beast Of Dartmoor", although there appears to be some dispute about this.
"I bet that the dog's referred to as A Gentle Giant at some point in that article" I say.
"How high is the chance?" asks Geoff.
"Oh, it's got to be at least eighty per cent. I'd be very surprised if it wasn't."
A few minutes later, Geoff has finished reading the article.
"Well, the dog wasn't described as A Gentle Giant, but he was described as ..."
"... A Big Softy?" I suggest.
"Yes" replies Geoff.
A Big Softy
You'll notice that the expression A Gentle Giant DOES occur in the online BBC story, however.
Labels: enormous shaggy dogs, Gentle Giant, Homo Escapeons, Tom 909
Thursday, August 02, 2007
PAGING PETER NO ONE
As recently discussed in the comments box, Michelangelo Antonioni died after I'd done the three-for-the-price of one obituary, which was very inconsiderate of him. So I ended up looking at this scene featuring The Yardbirds in Blow Up again ...
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER PART TWO: SLIGHT RETURN
Here are the results of the day before the day before yesterday's Spot The Difference competition!
The picture was the one above of MJ hanging around near to a hospital meal assembly factory waiting for staff to put reject or out of date food out into the bins so that she can sift through them for tasty treats.
The five differences in picture B:
* her cigar was even longer
*her trousers had a Royal Stewart Tartan pattern
* she had a Groucho Marx moustache
* she was wearing purple Crocs instead of those big, spongey Walls Viennetta trainers that all elderly American tourists wear
* she was wearing wraparound shades instead of George Burns spectacles
Today's lucky winner in ROGER WIGGINS of Vancouver, who is the lucky recipient of a Gordon Lightfoot box set. Congratulations Roger!
The five differences in picture B:
* her cigar was even longer
*her trousers had a Royal Stewart Tartan pattern
* she had a Groucho Marx moustache
* she was wearing purple Crocs instead of those big, spongey Walls Viennetta trainers that all elderly American tourists wear
* she was wearing wraparound shades instead of George Burns spectacles
Today's lucky winner in ROGER WIGGINS of Vancouver, who is the lucky recipient of a Gordon Lightfoot box set. Congratulations Roger!
Labels: big cigars, Bill Clinton and big cigars, crayzee Canucks, frightening old harridans, George Burns
Monday, July 30, 2007
CRIES AND WHISPERS
The Spot The Difference post has been mothballed until later in the week. Mind you, it's been the subject of cruel indifference from my dwindling readership ... thanks for the lone comment anyway Billy.
However, I have to acknowledge the three deaths that have occurred over the last couple of days, which will probably be acknowledged by loads of other bloggers with more style and decorum.
Rest in peace Ingmar Bergman, who was the fucking business. Which filmmaker is going to throw light onto the human condition now? Spike Jonze? Yeah, right.
Rest in peace Frank Butcher from Eastenders (aka Mike Reid of Runaraaaaaahhnd fame). I'm not really familiar with Frank/Mike's oeuvre, but I know he was the master of the gimlet eyed, thin lipped smile which you only ever see on men from London (preferably accompanied by hairy forearms and a large expensive watch).
Rest in peace Phil Drabble, Midlands naturalist (that's NATURALIST) who I remember from my childhood as being a frequent guest on Midlands Today, usually accompanied by his pointer Bessie (um Bessie was a dog). Phil grew up in Bloxwich, which means he may have remembered the Bloxwich to Walsall trolley buses.
The world is a darker place tonight:(
However, I have to acknowledge the three deaths that have occurred over the last couple of days, which will probably be acknowledged by loads of other bloggers with more style and decorum.
Rest in peace Ingmar Bergman, who was the fucking business. Which filmmaker is going to throw light onto the human condition now? Spike Jonze? Yeah, right.
Rest in peace Frank Butcher from Eastenders (aka Mike Reid of Runaraaaaaahhnd fame). I'm not really familiar with Frank/Mike's oeuvre, but I know he was the master of the gimlet eyed, thin lipped smile which you only ever see on men from London (preferably accompanied by hairy forearms and a large expensive watch).
Rest in peace Phil Drabble, Midlands naturalist (that's NATURALIST) who I remember from my childhood as being a frequent guest on Midlands Today, usually accompanied by his pointer Bessie (um Bessie was a dog). Phil grew up in Bloxwich, which means he may have remembered the Bloxwich to Walsall trolley buses.
The world is a darker place tonight:(
Labels: auteurs, naturalists, the Grim Reaper, thin lipped smiles
Sunday, July 29, 2007
FAGGITS AND PAYS
Local weather report at 11:00 hrs GMT.
"I'll go to Brierley Hill. It's black over Bill's mother's."
Labels: Midlands Today
Thursday, July 26, 2007
IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
Here are the results of yesterday's Spot The Difference competition!Yesterday, I asked you to spot the five differences in the two seemingly identical pictures of "Big Mo" off of Eastenders looking uncharacteristically glammed up at the 2004 TV Quick Awards.
In picture B she:
* wore black lipstick
* had one yellow eye
* had more cleavage hanging out of her dress
* had a fainter moustache
* had a cloven hoof
I'm happy to announce that the competition winner is TRACEY WIGGINS OF WIGAN. Congratulations Tracey, a box set of drippy, winsome songs by the late Jim Croce will be winging its way to you up there in Wigan!
LOOK OUT FOR THE NEXT SPOT THE DIFFERENCE COMPETITION WHICH WILL BE ALONG SOON, WITH A CHANCE TO WIN ANOTHER SINGER/SONGWRITER BOX SET!!
Labels: cloven hooves, frightening old harridans, nicking competition ideas from London Lite, spot the difference
Monday, July 23, 2007
SUNNY SIDE UP
It appears that the continually shite weather in Britain can be blamed on one source, and one source only.
Not global warming. No, the blame must lay fairly and squarely with this young lady:
Not global warming. No, the blame must lay fairly and squarely with this young lady:
Rihanna has been at number one in the hit parade for about three months now with the song Umbrella, in which she invites some bloke or other to "come under (her) umbrella" for shelter.
This isn't just a saucy sexual metaphor. Oooh, no. Neither is the bit where she sings "it's raining (raining)/Ooo baby it's raining/baby come into me/Come into me."
What we're dealing with is a hex on the British climate.
I can vouch for this because when I was on holiday, we'd set off in the car for a few hours lazing on the beach, or for a hearty coastal stroll, with radio accompaniment on the journey. Inevitably, the *nation's number one* would be played within an hour or so ...
"NOW THAT IT'S RAINING MORE THAN EVER!" Rihanna would declare ...
Which would immediately result in flash floods, hurricanes, thunder bolt and lightening (very very frightening, me). Which meant our lovely relaxing summer's day was curtailed - again.
Drastic measures have to be taken. If there's any hope at all of getting something that resembles a late blossoming summer in August, the market must be (ho ho) *flooded* with songs and bands that make references to sun or summer, regardless of whether they are crap or not. It's the only way to remove the curse.
The likes of ...
Good Day Sunshine - The Beatles
Chase The Sun - Planet Funk
Sunny - Bobby Hebb
Beach Baby - First Class
Hello Summertime - Bobby Goldsboro
Sunny Afternoon - The Kinks
Summer In The City - The Lovin' Spoonful
Anything by Sunn O))) (...just the band you'd want to turn up at a beach party, plugging their guitars into the sand, after all)
Any more suggestions in the comments box, please. If we act now, the British public can go back to grumbling about the usual summer stuff: wasps; hay fever; mugginess; hosepipe bans; people who don't use deodorant and stand next to them on trains; the fumes from barbecues.
Oh, and really "well built" women who have "glandular problems" can once more say "oh, I hate this hot weather, I can't stand it, I'll be glad when there's a storm so it cools down a bit. Pass us another pork pie will ya?"
Labels: anti histamines, flash floods, people who claim they don't need to use a deodorant, umbrella as a metaphor for women's down below bits
Saturday, July 21, 2007
SMILEY MILEY
In the most shocking development since Mike Read, as a tennis fan, announced that he was backing Boris Becker to stand as London Mayor, former Radio One jock and pal of Mike's, Paul Burnett now announces that he is to stand as London Mayor. Here, he explains why.
"A couple of nights ago, I was at a fundraising event with Mike, DLT and a few other showbusiness pals, including Shaky, Cliff, The Icicle Works and a few others. It was a very worthwhile cause - we were raising money for the Retired Radio One Disc Jockeys Association. Those guys do so much to help veteran former jocks who are, say, suffering ill health or, as is the case with poor Noel Edmonds, a terrible financial crisis.
Anyway, talk got around to the nominations for London Mayor. Mike felt, as a tennis fan, there was only one way his vote could go - to Boris Becker. However it inspired me to take the plunge and stand myself!
What will I be focusing on? Well, it's a cause close to my heart - radio in London!
You know, I flick across the radio dial in my car and I get so angry. Whatever happened to quality radio?
I particularly despair about the way my old station - Radio One - has gone downhill.
I listened to it the other day and it was such a racket that I had to switch off after half an hour! All that tuneless new wave music by The Cooks, Katie Nash and The Feelings! What happened to decent quality adult orientated pop music? I particularly objected to some combo called The Twang. Really, it was some guy shouting gibberish about being "on one about the silliest of stuff" in a comedy Brummie accent! I felt as though I'd been dragged back in time and was listening to the comedy Brummie on the hit single I performed on with DLT - Laurie Lingo And The Dipsticks' zany Convoy GB!!!
So, I thought - "enough is enough!!!"
Here are my pledges to all you lovely Londoners to make London radio stations the envy of the rest of the world:
* More playlists full of quality songs by Sutherland Brothers And Quiver, Sad Cafe and The Bellamy Brothers!!!
* More DJ's who can actually do the job! NOT so-called "Shock Jocks" like Joe Wylie and Edith Bowman (can anyone actually understand her accent???!!! As DLT would say, "she's a bonnie wee lassie fray north o'the border!!!!!") No - let's bring back REAL jocks who learnt their chops on the good ship Caroline or at Radio London in the beat music heyday!!!!!
* More jobs at Radio One, Heart and Virgin for DJ's the people really want to hear again - Simon Bates, DLT, Tony Brandon, "The Emperor" Roscoe, Adrian Juste, Mike Read, Peter Powell, "Diddy" David Hamilton and my good self!!!!
* Decent salaries for all of us!!
I hope you'll all be getting behind my campaign which I'm going to be calling the "ONE-DERFUL LONDON" campaign. Here's to a brighter future!!!"
*With thanks to Herr Footman Of The Gestapo for making reference to the Mike Read Comment Is Free article.
*Paul Burnett is appearing in Mother Goose at Bicester Tivoli Theatre from December 3rd.
Labels: 275 and 285, quack quack oops, Quiver from Sutherland Brothers And Quiver, Sir Cliff, Sir Shaky, The Hairy Cornflake, The Icicle Works, Tidybeard - tragic financial predicament of
Thursday, July 19, 2007
AUTHOR! AUTHOR!
I seem to have been tagged by Mangonel to complete the TEN AUTHORS I MUST SMASH WITH A BAT UNTIL THEY ARE MOTIONLESS meme.
Well, I was asking for it because I left a comment on the aforementioned post.
As you've probably gathered, I'm approximately the third most stupid person to use the internet (I'm so stupid I don't know who the other two are). At least I can blame it on society, maan, and having to grow up surrounded by the sort of people who would garrote you if you read any sort of book.
So I can't come up with any sort of INFORMED list drawn from the millions of books I've read. Still, as, er, Max Erhmann said, even the dull and ignorant have their story ...
... and it gives me a chance to hurl gratuitous insults around.
THE FIVE AUTHORS I MUST SMASH WITH A BAT UNTIL THEY ARE MOTIONLESS
1. Jeffrey Archer. Not read anything by him. Never will. All I will say is this: never trust anyone with a cum face who gets involved in politics. The same applies to Paddy Ashdown.
2. Virginia Woolf. Look, I tried. I've read To The Lighthouse twice and a compilation of works. They bored the arse off me. From the "I've got a pair of ovaries and I'm too sensitive for this world" school of writing. Also, apparently, a complete snob who was revolted by the *lower orders*, therefore influencing the likes of Ch*vscum.com (well, probably). Face it, you'd rather be reading Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't you?
3. Helen Fielding. "no glasses of wine: v. good. Twenty seven cigarettes: v. bad". Modern women can identify with Bridget Jones, apparently, because she wants to marry a Jane Austen character. Right you are.
4. Any chicklit writer who rattles on about "serious retail therapy". All those books with curly gurrlly writing on the front and pink covers and little cartoons of 1950's women carrying masses of fashion store bags on the cover that have taken over the space in book shops normally occupied by proper books designed to be read by people with an IQ above ten.
5. The writers of any of those books about war that you find in budget bookshops. The ones called stuff like Great Scottish Battles Of The Late Seventeenth Century written by Major James Andrew George Edward Fitzhenry Fitzgibbon Fitzwilliam. Great Doorstop, more like.
... well, nobody said anything about having to read the authors, did they?
Well, I was asking for it because I left a comment on the aforementioned post.
As you've probably gathered, I'm approximately the third most stupid person to use the internet (I'm so stupid I don't know who the other two are). At least I can blame it on society, maan, and having to grow up surrounded by the sort of people who would garrote you if you read any sort of book.
So I can't come up with any sort of INFORMED list drawn from the millions of books I've read. Still, as, er, Max Erhmann said, even the dull and ignorant have their story ...
... and it gives me a chance to hurl gratuitous insults around.
THE FIVE AUTHORS I MUST SMASH WITH A BAT UNTIL THEY ARE MOTIONLESS
1. Jeffrey Archer. Not read anything by him. Never will. All I will say is this: never trust anyone with a cum face who gets involved in politics. The same applies to Paddy Ashdown.
2. Virginia Woolf. Look, I tried. I've read To The Lighthouse twice and a compilation of works. They bored the arse off me. From the "I've got a pair of ovaries and I'm too sensitive for this world" school of writing. Also, apparently, a complete snob who was revolted by the *lower orders*, therefore influencing the likes of Ch*vscum.com (well, probably). Face it, you'd rather be reading Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't you?
3. Helen Fielding. "no glasses of wine: v. good. Twenty seven cigarettes: v. bad". Modern women can identify with Bridget Jones, apparently, because she wants to marry a Jane Austen character. Right you are.
4. Any chicklit writer who rattles on about "serious retail therapy". All those books with curly gurrlly writing on the front and pink covers and little cartoons of 1950's women carrying masses of fashion store bags on the cover that have taken over the space in book shops normally occupied by proper books designed to be read by people with an IQ above ten.
5. The writers of any of those books about war that you find in budget bookshops. The ones called stuff like Great Scottish Battles Of The Late Seventeenth Century written by Major James Andrew George Edward Fitzhenry Fitzgibbon Fitzwilliam. Great Doorstop, more like.
... well, nobody said anything about having to read the authors, did they?
Labels: bad education, W H Smith's rubbish selection of books
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
THE LONG ABANDONED RUINS
It's difficult to ignore the *elephant in the room*.
Since I came back from my two week break, my comments on posts have halved.
Considering the fact that I'm going away for a two week break again in September, I should imagine that I'll be down to an audience of zero by the time I get back from East Angular. Back to where I started from, in other words.
Fair enough, the posts I've published have been shite. All that cliched celebrity mag rubbish about Posh Spice. Who am I - Carla Romano reporting on Hollywood gossip on GMTV fer farx sake?
Anyway, in an effort to get out of the rut, I pledged to visit a blog I've either lurked on or not been to before and leave a comment every day for a week.
... which was unnerving. All the worries about being frozen out, seeming like a comments whore (Har har! As if! Har har!). Well, on some blogs you definitely get the same feeling that you get when you walk into a pub where you're not a *local*.
... except you can't always tell ...
... which means I lost my nerve after a couple of days. Might pluck up the courage again. Might not.
In the meantime, if anyone comes over here wondering who the fuck that old bint was that left the comment on their blog when they've not been properly introduced, and god, she's got a nerve, and really, people will do anything to pimp their awful blogs ...
Don't be concerned. It will not harm you. It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of.
Since I came back from my two week break, my comments on posts have halved.
Considering the fact that I'm going away for a two week break again in September, I should imagine that I'll be down to an audience of zero by the time I get back from East Angular. Back to where I started from, in other words.
Fair enough, the posts I've published have been shite. All that cliched celebrity mag rubbish about Posh Spice. Who am I - Carla Romano reporting on Hollywood gossip on GMTV fer farx sake?
Anyway, in an effort to get out of the rut, I pledged to visit a blog I've either lurked on or not been to before and leave a comment every day for a week.
... which was unnerving. All the worries about being frozen out, seeming like a comments whore (Har har! As if! Har har!). Well, on some blogs you definitely get the same feeling that you get when you walk into a pub where you're not a *local*.
... except you can't always tell ...
... which means I lost my nerve after a couple of days. Might pluck up the courage again. Might not.
In the meantime, if anyone comes over here wondering who the fuck that old bint was that left the comment on their blog when they've not been properly introduced, and god, she's got a nerve, and really, people will do anything to pimp their awful blogs ...
Don't be concerned. It will not harm you. It's only me pursuing something I'm not sure of.
Labels: being a has been, being oversensitive, Bob Lind, comments whores, cruel indifference, not being loved anymore, self pity
