Thursday, November 20, 2014

La Grande Bellezza...

or, The Great Beauty is a staggeringly good film about an elegant 65 year old Roman journalist specialising in art, culture and the ocassional catty put down. Rome looks, well, ravishing if a little wrinkled at the edges not unlike Jep himself. An event from the past reaches out to shake Jep's urbane cool and we then follow this quizical comical man who likes to party but wearies of partying. A living saint arrives in Rome whom Jep has to interview but instead she sleeps on his floor. The following morning drinking coffee on his balcony this dessicated diva suggests to Jepp that life among the glitterati might be rootless and with that she gently blows away the gathering of pink flamingoes that parade before them strutting and preening. And Jep, watching in astonishment wonders, like us, if she might be right.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


in West Yorkshire and a bit of Basho...

autumn colors
without a pot
of red-brown soup

"Autumn is marching on: even the scarecrows are wearing dead leaves." -  Otsuyu Nakagawa

Sunday, February 02, 2014

Vatican doves...

in release horror reports the BBC. Pope Francis who likes to be known as Francis last weekend released two peace doves from his bedroom window that were promptly devoured by a seagull and a crow. Microphones recorded the following.

Dove one: "I'm free, I'm free. What the fuck!..."

Dove two: "My god they've got Bertie. Fucking hell... Arrrggghhhhh..."

A spokesdove told Associated Press, "No one saw that coming."

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Falling into a Black Hole...

is like falling into the fire, or so reports The Belfast Telegraph.

Ruminating over astronauts tumbling into black holes some chap called Polchinski "hypothesised that instead of being gradually ripped apart by gravitational forces, the event horizon would be transformed into a 'highly energetic region', and anyone who fell in would hit a wall of fire and burn to death in an instant - violating Albert Einstein's theory of relativity."

Rather than ripped apart you're burned to death. Phew, and here's me worrying over ripped apart.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Glucose in tears to be...

measured by Google or so claims today's Observer. I understand they plan next to measure orphan's tears for viscosity as a fall back for when the oil runs out. From weeping orphans to fuel security the bastard Tories will salivate even more the moment they grasp the connection. Hmmm, wonder what might be mined from saliva? Quite a lot given the amount currently drooling from the ruling class's sagging jowels.

I don't feel better for writing that... and it's only day 19... grrrr...


Sunday, November 17, 2013

507 year old clam...

killed on birthday, shock. Or so reports yesterday's Independent newspaper. Having spent the previous half a millennium scratching beneath the cold Atlantic waves off Iceland Ming the Clam died in a pan surrounded by his friends. Chief Scientist Bill Chowder told the waiting press, "Ming gave his life for the advancement of both science and a good lunch. Some think it cruel to eat such aged creatures but we know from previous experience that hot crusty bread and a robust Chardonnay deadens any guilt. And let's not forget that Ming died knowing how old he was. So, another plus there then. Thank you all for coming. There'll be time for further questions after the second course."

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Bio-degradable electronics...

only short time away or so predicts some clever professor in today's Observer. 

A simple wafer, swallowed as if at communion will open our innards to scrutiny. Innard data will pour forth with such uncontained force as to place passing children at risk of being bowled over. It will become impossible to stand in proximity to a radio or speakers or someone wearing an ear piece for fear that vital information from our vitals leak across. And who among us would want that?

Awash with tiny devices, up our nose, down our throat, in those hard to reach crevices we'll broadcast like a fucking beacon. What we eat, drink, excrete. Who we slept with, if it was good, if we were good, if we were shite. The particularly sensitive will no longer have to contend only with the chip on their shoulder.

Every morning a dilemma over what to take, every evening a crisis about what we gave. I'm bloody exhausted just thinking about the whole process. Finally though, and happily, these silicone slivers have limited life and dissolve inside of us to be then pissed away. Pissing away ones troubles, ah, if only.

And the madelaines? Apparently next month is the 100th anniversery of something Proust did.