some students in Vietnam are wearing wigs as a means of cheating exams. Said wigs are reported to be stuffed with electronic hardware so associates can forward correct answers to examinees. Teachers became suspicious when students wearing 18th Century North European headgear began arriving for an important matriculation. Unfortunately heavy horsehair and South East Asian temperatures mix not and a number of sweating students short circuited and therefore, in more ways than one, failed. Some were mortified to discover they could only receive the BBC's South Asia Service and one became linked to a passing NSA satellite that insisted his name was Dominique. Missiles were prepared on the US Indian Ocean fleet until someone established that phrases such as,
"Well it was on page bloody 23 last night,"
and,
"The answer's pi r squared dammit. Bollocks, your doing literature? I thought it was physics!" Who is this? Get off the line."
were not Al Qaeda attack codes.
Expect arrests and renditions soon.
On a separate wig issue, the true story of their demise has a connection to those modern student japes reported above. As the 17th Century drew to a close wigs developed an ostentation not previously seen. With the expansion of cities and particularly London land prices put the promise of a country home beyond the reach of those previously considered wealthy. For a short period during the 1750's a number of wigs were marketed with smallholdings knitted into the thatch. The idea was stunning in it's brilliance and would have worked but for a series of highly publicised deaths by conflagration. The foppish rich (and isn't it always them) seeking to make savings through reduced staff numbers were unaware that at night fire requires careful husbandry, or at the very least to be put out. At nightfall throughout London sightings were reported of a phenomenon initially thought to be huge horizontal matches with brightly burning heads. Only on closer examination was it discovered they were in fact rich people with brightly burning heads. Many of these heads were stolen by urchins to the East End where a spattering skull properly maintained could provide heat to a poor family for months.
Smallholding and country house wigs soon fell from fashion though one concomitant fact did not escape rationalists of the time. The 10 years during which these rich fools fought to establish this ridiculous fashion and during which many fell foul of their own foolishness was also the only decade in that century when syphilis showed a decline.
There's something poetic about that, dontchathink?
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Last week I had cause...
to remember the story of the Princess and the Pea. It ends when the princess is finally proved to be royal by suffering a disturbed night atop 16 or so mattresses beneath which hides a single pea. Is that spoilt, or what?
Many years ago I discovered a sleepless night often follows the eating of toast in bed. Not sure if that proves anything, other than foolishness.
Someone once told me of this woman who took to her bed and stayed there for 30 years, wees and poos aside that is. By all accounts she liked to chop wood in bed, with an axe, for the fire. As the years passed and her eyesight weakened she took to lopping not just wood but also bits of leg as well. Slowly, almost imperceptibly she chopped her way upwards until only the arms, shoulders and head remained. She convinced her children it was the right thing to do by claiming it would make for a cheaper funeral. Finally the day arrived when she was reduced to one arm and a head. The children, by then tired of their mother's eccentricity but inspired by her thrift decided not to wait for death. Instead they turned what was left upside down and made a nice hanging basket for the garden.
The moral of this story is: don't piss your children off by chopping wood in bed.
Many years ago I discovered a sleepless night often follows the eating of toast in bed. Not sure if that proves anything, other than foolishness.
Someone once told me of this woman who took to her bed and stayed there for 30 years, wees and poos aside that is. By all accounts she liked to chop wood in bed, with an axe, for the fire. As the years passed and her eyesight weakened she took to lopping not just wood but also bits of leg as well. Slowly, almost imperceptibly she chopped her way upwards until only the arms, shoulders and head remained. She convinced her children it was the right thing to do by claiming it would make for a cheaper funeral. Finally the day arrived when she was reduced to one arm and a head. The children, by then tired of their mother's eccentricity but inspired by her thrift decided not to wait for death. Instead they turned what was left upside down and made a nice hanging basket for the garden.
The moral of this story is: don't piss your children off by chopping wood in bed.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
My mate Sean...
has insisted I buy goldfish for my little pond. Under other circumstances I would have posted a photo of said pond but being sans posh camera that's no longer an option.
In the local pet shop I was told that herons sometimes eat pond fish. Now that did impress me, not that herons eat fish but that anything as gracious as a heron should knock around these parts. I've never seen one in the neighbourhood but Big Trev the halitotic alley cat who lives out back has. Last week whilst changing the battery of my super duper electronic cat scarer/stabber/boiler of feline eyer I noticed Trev lurking.
Trev, "Was admiring your fish the other day when I saw an eagle."
"An eagle?" I said.
"An eagle." He said.
"What did it look like?" I said.
"An eagle," He said.
"Are you sure?" I said.
So he said, "Yes."
I said, "Have you ever seen an eagle before?"
He said, "No."
"Then how did you know it was an eagle?" I said.
"I just assumed." He said.
Give me some details." I said.
So he said, "It was tall with beady eyes and thin legs and a long beak. Oh yeah, and beady eyes."
"I think that was a heron." I said.
"A heron?" He said.
So I said "Yes."
"Have you ever seen a heron before?" He said.
"No." I said.
"Then how did you know it was a heron, you weren't even there."
"The pet shop man said there were herons about,"
Shading his eyes with a paw Big Trev looked skywards.
"He didn't mention eagles then?"
"No," I said.
"Thank fuck for that." He said.
"Why?"I said.
"I saw on the telly that eagles can carry off a whole sheep in one swoop. Was worried."
"About sheep?" I said.
"No, about swooping and things being carried off." He said.
I said, "Apparently herons don't swoop, they stab."
"Stab?" He said.
"Stab." I said.
"It had very beady eyes." He said.
"All the better to see you with." I said.
"And a very beaky beak." He said.
"All the better to stab you with." I said.
"Bloody hell." He said and proceeded to slink away then he hesitated and said, "I read somewhere that herons only eat fish."
"You're thinking of catholics." I said.
"Bugger," He said and continued the slink, ducking and weaving down the alley, dodging imaginary herons.
"Look out!" I shouted and with a screeching miaooowwwwww he skittered through the bins and disappeared.
Ah were reet cheered up.
In the local pet shop I was told that herons sometimes eat pond fish. Now that did impress me, not that herons eat fish but that anything as gracious as a heron should knock around these parts. I've never seen one in the neighbourhood but Big Trev the halitotic alley cat who lives out back has. Last week whilst changing the battery of my super duper electronic cat scarer/stabber/boiler of feline eyer I noticed Trev lurking.
Trev, "Was admiring your fish the other day when I saw an eagle."
"An eagle?" I said.
"An eagle." He said.
"What did it look like?" I said.
"An eagle," He said.
"Are you sure?" I said.
So he said, "Yes."
I said, "Have you ever seen an eagle before?"
He said, "No."
"Then how did you know it was an eagle?" I said.
"I just assumed." He said.
Give me some details." I said.
So he said, "It was tall with beady eyes and thin legs and a long beak. Oh yeah, and beady eyes."
"I think that was a heron." I said.
"A heron?" He said.
So I said "Yes."
"Have you ever seen a heron before?" He said.
"No." I said.
"Then how did you know it was a heron, you weren't even there."
"The pet shop man said there were herons about,"
Shading his eyes with a paw Big Trev looked skywards.
"He didn't mention eagles then?"
"No," I said.
"Thank fuck for that." He said.
"Why?"I said.
"I saw on the telly that eagles can carry off a whole sheep in one swoop. Was worried."
"About sheep?" I said.
"No, about swooping and things being carried off." He said.
I said, "Apparently herons don't swoop, they stab."
"Stab?" He said.
"Stab." I said.
"It had very beady eyes." He said.
"All the better to see you with." I said.
"And a very beaky beak." He said.
"All the better to stab you with." I said.
"Bloody hell." He said and proceeded to slink away then he hesitated and said, "I read somewhere that herons only eat fish."
"You're thinking of catholics." I said.
"Bugger," He said and continued the slink, ducking and weaving down the alley, dodging imaginary herons.
"Look out!" I shouted and with a screeching miaooowwwwww he skittered through the bins and disappeared.
Ah were reet cheered up.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
In the press...
this week I was reminded of that great joke about a horse on entering a bar being asked by the steward 'Why the long face?'
Watching one of the many re-runs of Jurassic Park on the telly last night there was the bit where a corrupt employee is killed by these small spitting dinosaurs that also have this expanding neck flange arrangement. I was really impressed with them. You can keep your T-Rex and your velociraptors they've always seemed a bit too one trick for my liking. Even if important body parts can be severed with one snap of their mighty jaws, so what. Your gobbing dinosaur, now that's an entirely different kettle of history.
Imagine how cool it would be to have one of them as a constant companion. How useful in a bar, say when someone is being boorish or too loud. With a spitting reptile on the next seat, maybe nursing a Jim Beam and eyeing up the custom it wouldn't take much for it to hock a post Cambrian loogie of astonishing proportions across the bar and knock that fucker right off his stool. And, should some student then decide to barf their liquid lunch in your direction would that umbrellic throat feature not provide the perfect splash guard? Finally, strolling alongside such a buddy what encountered horse could escape the observation, "Long face? You should get a load of his neck."
It's a shit that Evolution has denied us those pleasures.
Watching one of the many re-runs of Jurassic Park on the telly last night there was the bit where a corrupt employee is killed by these small spitting dinosaurs that also have this expanding neck flange arrangement. I was really impressed with them. You can keep your T-Rex and your velociraptors they've always seemed a bit too one trick for my liking. Even if important body parts can be severed with one snap of their mighty jaws, so what. Your gobbing dinosaur, now that's an entirely different kettle of history.
Imagine how cool it would be to have one of them as a constant companion. How useful in a bar, say when someone is being boorish or too loud. With a spitting reptile on the next seat, maybe nursing a Jim Beam and eyeing up the custom it wouldn't take much for it to hock a post Cambrian loogie of astonishing proportions across the bar and knock that fucker right off his stool. And, should some student then decide to barf their liquid lunch in your direction would that umbrellic throat feature not provide the perfect splash guard? Finally, strolling alongside such a buddy what encountered horse could escape the observation, "Long face? You should get a load of his neck."
It's a shit that Evolution has denied us those pleasures.
Monday, June 12, 2006
I mentioned...
to a few blog friends that only my early death would prevent tonight's publication of Pt II. I never thought for a moment my server software would stop working. Maybe it was the burden of anticipation. Trouble is I'm too busy tomorrow night to blog so Wednesday is the next chance I get.
Until Wednesday then.
Sigh.
Until Wednesday then.
Sigh.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Unfortunately...
Pt II of my little tale will not be ready until tomorrow. Today I pointed the bricks that make up half the floor area of my yard. It took twice as long as I'd planned, six hours instead of three. It was so hot even the alley cats were catching rays, lounging atop various walls and when they could summon the energy shouting advice on sand cement ratios. Of course they know nothing about cement, four sand to one cement, pssht. The local tiny tots were shouting eight sand to half cement but given they're all convinced nothing comes after the number two I wasn't taking any notice of them. A green budgerigar flew by breathlessly declaring his name to be Billy, he also declared his heart to be so full of love it was his intention to shake everyone's hand as a means of proving it. Even the smallest of tots couldn't resist watching this. So we waited and watched, some sat and some stood and some were even a little awed as Billy landed neatly beside Big Trev a fat alley cat with halitosis. Billy proffered a wing but big Trev wanted a breast and a leg, in fact both legs plus the head. One of the tots spelled out in the bluntest of fashion what we all were thinking. "Fucking idiot." She said. And everyone nodded in agreement except Big Trev who just burped.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Right then...
I am over the theft of my camera. Been thinking of blogs. So, from tomorrow a Frankenstein tale in three parts. It will have monsters (maybe more than one), supermarkets (only one), bottle and paper banks (one of each), little children (of course), redemption for the righteous and ridicule for the er, unrighteous.
Until tomorrow then. Hi ho Silver and awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!
Until tomorrow then. Hi ho Silver and awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Boo hoo...
my beautiful camera that I loved more than life itself has been stolen. On Friday my car was broken into and the camera taken from the boot. Je suis desole.
It was a hot day, the merciless sun beat down on dry earth, flitting flies licked salt from parched skin. My heart tripped to the beat of Friday's song, a freedom song, an anticipatory song, a weekend song. Music by Sergio Leone infused the shimmering landscape and at every corner sat unshaven men on dusty burros furtively watching from beneath wide brimmed hats. Streams of brown gob streaked the pavement and frightened children hid in their mother's skirts. It was going to be a top weekend, I could tell. Then tragedy struck.
Whilst visiting a house someone broke into my car and rifled the boot; camera gone, mobile phone gone. The weekend suddenly cloudy.
Je suis tres desole.
In consolation my friend Karen fed me gin and tonic with ice and lemon. It helped.
It was a hot day, the merciless sun beat down on dry earth, flitting flies licked salt from parched skin. My heart tripped to the beat of Friday's song, a freedom song, an anticipatory song, a weekend song. Music by Sergio Leone infused the shimmering landscape and at every corner sat unshaven men on dusty burros furtively watching from beneath wide brimmed hats. Streams of brown gob streaked the pavement and frightened children hid in their mother's skirts. It was going to be a top weekend, I could tell. Then tragedy struck.
Whilst visiting a house someone broke into my car and rifled the boot; camera gone, mobile phone gone. The weekend suddenly cloudy.
Je suis tres desole.
In consolation my friend Karen fed me gin and tonic with ice and lemon. It helped.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
There's been snippets...
in the news that wild boars are once again roaming the land, eating sheep and stealing small children, at night, from their beds, using hankies to muffle the tiny cries.
In reply a boar spokesboar (pictured) said "Darling, none of this is true. We're dealing with a witch-hunt here, pure and simple."
In Sussex and Kent gin sodden huntsmen, coats as red as their faces and veins as blue as their politics were seen saddling up for the chase. A boar spokesboar (pictured) said "Darling, these people are savages."
Someone speaking for the Department of the Environment Farming and Rural Affairs (Defra) said, "Only guns and a tremendous amount of bloodshed will sort this problem out."
A boar spokesboar (pictured) said "Darling, I am fucking right off."
Monday, May 29, 2006
Here's some views...
from the Headland across Hartlepool Bay in the North East of England. The view looks south towards the steel works at Redcar. Hartlepool Bay must be four or five miles across and is dominated by steel, oil and chemical production plus a nuclear power station to drive the whole affair. The bayside therefore is one huge factory.
At sea tankers and container ships queue to enter Teesport. I've always thought of Hartlepool Bay as both majestic and bleak.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Me and my mate Sean...
have been transforming my little yard. It has rained so much today that we didn't manage to complete it. I'm seeking that Babylon look, sort of abundance without the ostentation. Ha ha. The photo was taken by me hanging out of the bathroom window.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The Da Vinci Code...
has upset the Catholic Church. Astonishingly they are complaining the film is not an accurate representation of history. Now, I've seen Da Vinci's The Last Supper (TLS) and apart from the goat it seems a fair representation of that fateful night. At Christ's feet lie a pair of samsonite suitcases (to symbolise leaving) leaning against the wall some ladders (to symbolise upwards) and finally there's a man with a hammer (to symbolise hammering). Christ is reaching for another drink, a taxi is idling outside and Peter is arguing with John over who ordered the creme brulee. Early drafts of TLS, now lost in time showed the work to be populated with not 12 apostles but 26 plus local boy band 'The Huge Dumplings'. Indeed more than once over the evening an intoxicated Jesus remarks on how much the drummer reminds him of his dog Herod. A fight is only averted when Jesus apologises for observing rather too loudly that both Herod and the hapless percussionist seem to share the same grin. Police are called but leave when reassured he intended no insult.
As the door closed Jesus was heard to mutter, 'He's the fucking spit of Herod, I'm telling you." A comment it was fortunate for history the officer ignored.
It is a little known Galilean fact that around the time of Jesus's death it became fashionable amongst young musicians to replace their teeth with canine dentures. In public health terms this led to a decrease in rabies infections not because the carriers could no longer bite their victims but rather because dogs with no teeth whistle and this became a warning to everyone that trouble was near. Sadly there was also a concomitant increase in the shooting of delivery people.
At this juncture I must mention the body of Caleb slumped just behind Jesus and whose unconscious hand is pointing at Judas. The symbolism here may seem straightforward, a drunk, someone who might aptly be described as poisoned with excess has fallen to the ground and fatefully points a finger of responsibility. Judas can be seen recoiling as if struck. Unfortunately for conspiracy theorists Caleb was a notorious drinker who suffered a significant childhood trauma that froze his hand into an accusing posture. What we really see therefore is simply a consequence of the way he fell. Incidentally, the childhood trauma from which he never recovered happened when as a three year old he was set upon by an early whistling dog.
One final point about TLS that is worth remembering when listening to the attacks made by the Catholic Church on 'The Da Vinci Code'. Sporting an engagement ring and beaming smile the person sitting in Jesus's lap is Mary Magdalene.
As the door closed Jesus was heard to mutter, 'He's the fucking spit of Herod, I'm telling you." A comment it was fortunate for history the officer ignored.
It is a little known Galilean fact that around the time of Jesus's death it became fashionable amongst young musicians to replace their teeth with canine dentures. In public health terms this led to a decrease in rabies infections not because the carriers could no longer bite their victims but rather because dogs with no teeth whistle and this became a warning to everyone that trouble was near. Sadly there was also a concomitant increase in the shooting of delivery people.
At this juncture I must mention the body of Caleb slumped just behind Jesus and whose unconscious hand is pointing at Judas. The symbolism here may seem straightforward, a drunk, someone who might aptly be described as poisoned with excess has fallen to the ground and fatefully points a finger of responsibility. Judas can be seen recoiling as if struck. Unfortunately for conspiracy theorists Caleb was a notorious drinker who suffered a significant childhood trauma that froze his hand into an accusing posture. What we really see therefore is simply a consequence of the way he fell. Incidentally, the childhood trauma from which he never recovered happened when as a three year old he was set upon by an early whistling dog.
One final point about TLS that is worth remembering when listening to the attacks made by the Catholic Church on 'The Da Vinci Code'. Sporting an engagement ring and beaming smile the person sitting in Jesus's lap is Mary Magdalene.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Only recently I've discovered...
fire pits . Prior to this I'd blithely assumed that if folk wanted a fire in the open air they dug a hole or pit. I am just sooooooo last century. Like, uh, get with the programme Dan, yah! To cut a long story short I have a friend who enjoys setting fire to stuff and it was her birthday party this weekend. So my mate Sean, he of the decorating bent suggested as a present we purchase a fire pit. Oddly, over the past weeks fire pits were mentioned somewhere in the press then suddenly here was Sean talking about the very same item. Spooky or what? The article I read stated that on many camp sites in the UK if folk wanted a fire they were now expected to bring their own pit. Whatever happened to bringing your own spade? Now a person is expected to bring their own hole, how can this be? The Net is a funny place and whilst looking for fire pit links I stumbled across a Guide to Wilderness Sanitation that went on about managing pooh in't country. It suggests the model ramblers might follow to keep the wilderness sanitised is that of the cat. To quote, "Cats are very particular and clean creatures, especially with regards to their toilet practices. With the small trowel you now carry it is easy to copy the cat and dig a small scrape for your toilet. Choose a secluded spot..." Model of good fucking behaviour? The bastard cats who live around here (and seem unable to crap anywhere but my yard) are not discreet, or neat, or leave no mark. Oh no. In my alleyway the cats are dangerous, untidy, have scarring and names like Potted Meat, Septic Cleaver, Exposed Bone. Nor do the bastards believe in replacing that which they have moved. Dig hole, shit, leave shit AND hole. Cheeky gets. I've bought a sonic cat scarer and disposer. Apparently it works using one of those Passive Infra Red (PIR) sensors. Any cat exposed to its remit is impaled on an enormous barbed spike that springs forward and then hauls the twitching corpse into the machine through a bloodied door. At the same time as with cuckoo clocks a plastic man leans from an upper window shouting "Turn the gas up Mabel there's meat for't bairns tonight." I think it's manufactured in Berne.
Mention of 'scraping' in the wilderness guide above has given me the idea of a yearly 'cat scrape', maybe in the form of a festival where cats can be scraped off things. I see prizes being awarded for the most imaginative feature from which a cat might be scraped, for instance wheel arches, paving, truck radiator grills, the elderly. Or the most imaginative tool by which a cat might be scraped, a pressure spray for instance, pneumatic drill, spoon, lathe.
One more thing. Whilst looking for info on fire pits I came across this site that declared King Tutankhamen had no willy . One possible explanation for its absence is that in the poor light tomb raiders mistook it for a panatella. Believe me stranger things have happened.
Mention of 'scraping' in the wilderness guide above has given me the idea of a yearly 'cat scrape', maybe in the form of a festival where cats can be scraped off things. I see prizes being awarded for the most imaginative feature from which a cat might be scraped, for instance wheel arches, paving, truck radiator grills, the elderly. Or the most imaginative tool by which a cat might be scraped, a pressure spray for instance, pneumatic drill, spoon, lathe.
One more thing. Whilst looking for info on fire pits I came across this site that declared King Tutankhamen had no willy . One possible explanation for its absence is that in the poor light tomb raiders mistook it for a panatella. Believe me stranger things have happened.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
Haiku
Cherry blossom joy
Pink petals one spring morn fall
Like flecks of heaven
Spring is well and truly underway. Rhododendron, tulips, and wonderful white and pink cherry blossom. Manchester has the look of Japan about it. Not that I've ever been to Japan but I understand Japanese folk love cherry blossom, and so do I.
Pink petals one spring morn fall
Like flecks of heaven
Spring is well and truly underway. Rhododendron, tulips, and wonderful white and pink cherry blossom. Manchester has the look of Japan about it. Not that I've ever been to Japan but I understand Japanese folk love cherry blossom, and so do I.
Another pic of
the exhibition with some added friends.
God! With this groovy new camera I can take loads of pics. However I need to get a copy of fotoshop so I can produce loverly pictures. At moment am stuck with Nikon's Picture Project which fairly basic. Yada yada yada yada, yawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnn, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Just think what it's gonna be like once I get the proper software!
God! With this groovy new camera I can take loads of pics. However I need to get a copy of fotoshop so I can produce loverly pictures. At moment am stuck with Nikon's Picture Project which fairly basic. Yada yada yada yada, yawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnn, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Just think what it's gonna be like once I get the proper software!
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Been to Liverpool...
today and took these photos of Anthony Gormley's incredible exhibition titled 'Another Place' on Formby beach.
There are 100 of these lifesize figures stretching 3K up the beach.
And 1k out into the surf. It's an astonishing sculpture that changes as the tides ebb and flow and as the seasons alter.
The weather was crap.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
It seems the Pope...
was due to attend a gathering in the Vatican Square this week. He planned to tell catholics they could now use condoms as a means of contraception however at the last minute he changed his mind and pulled out.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...
That was my mate Sean's joke.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...
That was my mate Sean's joke.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
I am not much of a...
painter. This is a bit of my yard wal
l painted on Saturday. Sean, who did most of the other bits was frustrated by my inability to keep it neat. The blame for this lies with a catholic education that (when I were a lad) believed the only way to develop a child's practical skills was via the lash. Result? I learned nothing except to fear paint and going over lines. In adulthood I've overcome that fear and now paint over lines just because I can. In fact it has become a principle, see a line paint over it, see another line step over it.
In metalwork there were T squares (?) which we used to establish 90 degree angles. I was bloody rubbish at that, could manage 89 degrees and even a wavy line but never ever in 5 years of high school a single 90 degree angle, no siree not one. The only exciting thing I ever remember from those lessons was some boy with an oxy/acetyline torch turning round and sweeping it across chest of innocent boy standing behind. The smell of that burning pullover/flesh combo has remained with me to this very day. I'm almost sure I was thrashed for that as well, but wait, could that boy with the blue flame have been me? Hang on, a mist is lifting, OHMIGOD IT WAS ME! AND WHAT'S THAT THERE, SMOULDERING IN THE YARD, BY THE BIN? IT LOOKS LIKE OLD RAGS. OHMIGOD!!!!! WHERE'S SEAN?
l painted on Saturday. Sean, who did most of the other bits was frustrated by my inability to keep it neat. The blame for this lies with a catholic education that (when I were a lad) believed the only way to develop a child's practical skills was via the lash. Result? I learned nothing except to fear paint and going over lines. In adulthood I've overcome that fear and now paint over lines just because I can. In fact it has become a principle, see a line paint over it, see another line step over it.In metalwork there were T squares (?) which we used to establish 90 degree angles. I was bloody rubbish at that, could manage 89 degrees and even a wavy line but never ever in 5 years of high school a single 90 degree angle, no siree not one. The only exciting thing I ever remember from those lessons was some boy with an oxy/acetyline torch turning round and sweeping it across chest of innocent boy standing behind. The smell of that burning pullover/flesh combo has remained with me to this very day. I'm almost sure I was thrashed for that as well, but wait, could that boy with the blue flame have been me? Hang on, a mist is lifting, OHMIGOD IT WAS ME! AND WHAT'S THAT THERE, SMOULDERING IN THE YARD, BY THE BIN? IT LOOKS LIKE OLD RAGS. OHMIGOD!!!!! WHERE'S SEAN?
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
A bright sunny day...
in Manchester. For some reason this shot makes me think of the 1950's and hardboiled tales of menace and intrigue in the concrete jungle.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Here's another photo of that...
castle in East Yorkshire. The tower shown here was sans roof. Shoddy workmanship is probably the main cause, well that and the English Revolution. There were also a number of stone canon balls lying around, sort of thing a person might stub their toe on. These ancient types had no sense of health and safety what with all their garroting and slaughter and torture and gutting and gizzards and innards. Life in those days was a messy business and sticky too what with all that blood lying around.
I was in an old castle...
in East Yorkshire the other weekend and noticed this very thin door. I'd previously assumed medieval folk to be sturdy because of all the meat they ate, however this door might prove othewise, methinks.
I read somewhere that the rich, ie the type who owned castles didn't think much of vegetables and believed meat was the only food worth eating. I also read that they regularly suffered from chronic constipation. Serves em right. This doorway therefore was clearly designed for the non meat eaters, or thin folk, then again it might have been an arrow slit. Built just in case the non meat eaters ever acquired a taste for meat, sort of as a means of keeping them from the high table. In those times it was also a capital crime to poach deer though personally I've always preferred it roasted.
I read somewhere that the rich, ie the type who owned castles didn't think much of vegetables and believed meat was the only food worth eating. I also read that they regularly suffered from chronic constipation. Serves em right. This doorway therefore was clearly designed for the non meat eaters, or thin folk, then again it might have been an arrow slit. Built just in case the non meat eaters ever acquired a taste for meat, sort of as a means of keeping them from the high table. In those times it was also a capital crime to poach deer though personally I've always preferred it roasted.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
North York Moors Pt II: The storm passed as quickly as it arrived and...
sunshine made diamonds of every drop of water that collected on the tips of grass, or atop walls or dripped from the country bumkin who was lingering when the car stopped. His badge said Country Bumkin *Third Class* and he'd been left outside as a test, the test being to notice the rain and come in. He failed yet didn't seem unhappy which I suppose is the main thing. I asked for a spade so the cat could be scraped from the front wheel and he observed.
"Take more'n a spade to put that right."
"Put what right?" I said
"That'm cat." He said nodding at the whiskered face peaking from under the same front wheel that hid the rest of its flat carcass.
"It's dead, I'm not trying to put it right."
"Ah," He said and wandered indoors.
I began to work the feline flesh from between the tyre treads, once unpeeled it retained a half moon shape. Later, a clever razor lamb slung beneath the cat's curved corpse cheerfully demonstrated paragliding to her mates. I remember thinking what a rare example of the virtuous circle, well, half circle.
Public houses on the North Yorkshire Moors have penchants for Toby Jugs. I'd noticed this previously in The Cracked Mind where a high shelf was lined with jugs representing famous breakdowns, pride of place went to a Norman Bates jug whose handle was a carving knife twisted through a shower curtain. Only The Slaughtered Lamb was without a display however on reflection I'm almost sure its high shelf was populated with grotesque enamel faces that made lewd suggestions throughout the time we were there.
Above this pub door creaked a wooden sign that carried neither name nor picture. I pondered the heavy board as it swung slowly one way then the other. The brickwork similarly carried no name and the unimaginative beer advert didn't help stating only "Beer, get it here." Unlike the other establishments we visited this pub had only one room with a rough bench laid over wooden barrels and rather than a high shelf populated by thematic jugs there was instead a low shelf upon which rested a single jug of enormous size. A further striking feature of the jug was it's resemblance to one of the villainous sheep we had passed earlier. I mentioned this to the barman who unabashed told me it was modelled on his cousin.
After this there seemed little point in asking for the menu.
Descending from the Moors we paused to watch another storm as it broke. A large bird circled casually on the updraft. Then driven toward us on a powerful squall the following words lashed our car with a ratatat of manic diction, "Cats!... dontcha just love em... Ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... "
It might not have been a bird.
"Take more'n a spade to put that right."
"Put what right?" I said
"That'm cat." He said nodding at the whiskered face peaking from under the same front wheel that hid the rest of its flat carcass.
"It's dead, I'm not trying to put it right."
"Ah," He said and wandered indoors.
I began to work the feline flesh from between the tyre treads, once unpeeled it retained a half moon shape. Later, a clever razor lamb slung beneath the cat's curved corpse cheerfully demonstrated paragliding to her mates. I remember thinking what a rare example of the virtuous circle, well, half circle.
Public houses on the North Yorkshire Moors have penchants for Toby Jugs. I'd noticed this previously in The Cracked Mind where a high shelf was lined with jugs representing famous breakdowns, pride of place went to a Norman Bates jug whose handle was a carving knife twisted through a shower curtain. Only The Slaughtered Lamb was without a display however on reflection I'm almost sure its high shelf was populated with grotesque enamel faces that made lewd suggestions throughout the time we were there.
Above this pub door creaked a wooden sign that carried neither name nor picture. I pondered the heavy board as it swung slowly one way then the other. The brickwork similarly carried no name and the unimaginative beer advert didn't help stating only "Beer, get it here." Unlike the other establishments we visited this pub had only one room with a rough bench laid over wooden barrels and rather than a high shelf populated by thematic jugs there was instead a low shelf upon which rested a single jug of enormous size. A further striking feature of the jug was it's resemblance to one of the villainous sheep we had passed earlier. I mentioned this to the barman who unabashed told me it was modelled on his cousin.
After this there seemed little point in asking for the menu.
Descending from the Moors we paused to watch another storm as it broke. A large bird circled casually on the updraft. Then driven toward us on a powerful squall the following words lashed our car with a ratatat of manic diction, "Cats!... dontcha just love em... Ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... "
It might not have been a bird.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
Last Sunday I was driving...
across the North Yorkshire Moors with two friends looking for somewhere to have lunch. Beautiful countryside but no sense of how to feed hungry travellers. In Manchester pubs that serve food, SERVE FOOD! Not on the North Yorkshire Moors though. We visited a number of pubs that advertised food but did not serve it. Pubs in North Yorkshire only serve food between 12 noon and 2pm, not a moment before, nor a moment after. In our first pub The Cracked Mind, the waitress who took our order became distracted by a spider and never spoke to us again. We were shown the door by a cackling old crone with a single tooth who whistled about it being 31 years since she had last seen a dentist. Opposite lay The Dripping Innard which looked promising but for a scarred crone who wouldn't let us in. In the nearby hamlet of Much Weeing we found a hostelry called 'A Rotted Stump' apparently owned by MacDonalds so we gave it a miss. Some miles on we reached the ancient settlement of Jutting Mandible wherein was situated, 'The Slaughtered Lamb'. A place eerily familiar, more so when everyone stopped talking as we entered. Being only midday the locals soon ignored us and returned to their business. I remember the landlord as a strikingly hirsute man who responded to our order with growls and that pained look one gets when troubled with excess acid. Shaking his head and grasping in his paw a lump of chalk he scrawled across the bar, 'It's gone two'. Disappointed we drove away just as a mist rolled over the village until it seemed as if nothing had ever existed in that blasted place. Our Ordinance Survey parchment indicated a crossroads four miles further and we set off just as it began to rain. The high moorland was suddenly cut with jagged shadows as lightning flashed and thunder boomed. We drove on, following that crooked track past terrified faces of sheep that loomed then were gone, their fearful eyes bulging with every roar of the storm. We saw many stoats and some criminal sheep who were laughing just because they could. A group of razor lambs kicked down a section of dry stone wall for pleasure. Suddenly the narrow path gave way to a flat open area where centuries earlier a tavern and assorted buildings were built to serve what back then must have been an important junction. The road was very slippy but the pub cat provided extra traction when it became stuck under the front wheels, indeed were it not for that cat's sacrifice we might have carried right on through.
More of this in the next post.
More of this in the next post.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
What the world...
looks like when April showers have passed.
Is it becoming obvious I've got a digital camera?
Monday, April 03, 2006
I remain to be convinced...
that Lourdes will be saved as the Catholic Church's premier attraction in France. Miracle Lite cannot be the solution, whereas a massive theme park can. With each ride designed to bring the average visitor closer to God could anywhere be more religious than the apex of a 500 metre high roller coaster just before the dip? Or anything so moving as the scream of pilgrims plunging headlong toward a pool of water that's been blessed?
When I was a child people would return from Lourdes with plastic Virgin Mary shaped bottles whose blue crown was the screw lid. Once I was given a tiny shrine with two lead doors that opened to expose a glow in the dark Sacred Heart. It disappeared around the same time the dog's teeth fell out.
When I was a child people would return from Lourdes with plastic Virgin Mary shaped bottles whose blue crown was the screw lid. Once I was given a tiny shrine with two lead doors that opened to expose a glow in the dark Sacred Heart. It disappeared around the same time the dog's teeth fell out.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
April showers...
yesterday in Crowcroft Park. The light was incredible changing from bright sunlight to dark and overcast in a matter of moments. A few minutes before this photo hailstones rattled down and a gale whipped across the park. The winter moment passed as quickly as it arrived until once again the sun shone.
5 minutes on and the light has become watery with no loss of contrast. I hear people whingeing about April's unpredictability but this is the very feature that most excites me. Spring is so dramatic, what other season can deliver winter energy and summer calm one after the other? Ah spring, washing Crowcroft Park, preparing it for the summer.
On a less cerebral note I understand from today's papers that the catholic church is changing the method by which miracles are classified. I gather it's something to do with competition between Lourdes and Eurodisney for tourists. Tomorrow I intend to say a little more about this because I think both attractions have something to learn from each other. For instance just as children are assailed by Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck in Eurodisney why not offer pilgrims similar opportunities as they promenade toward the blessed shrine but this time using oversize Madonnas and maybe a few saints? It's a definite money spinner, more of which tomorrow.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Similar to the squirrel issue...
mentioned yesterday, in the UK we also have a badger issue. It appears that badgers are carriers of TB and can pass it on to other animals, wouldn't be an issue if the other animals were anything but cows. Badgers therefore represent a huge economic problem, solution, kill badger. Not quite the twee outcome described so movingly in Kenneth Graham's timeless trilogy, 'Badger Gets It In The Chest.'; 'Poor Badger.' and 'Put A Brick On That Lid Mother, This One's Not Going Quietly.'
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Squirrels and badgers...
have been receiving a poor press in the UK this past week. Grey squirrels originally from the US have almost driven out the native red squirrel though I'm not sure how. One news bulletin said the greys were aggressive, smoked short stubby cigars and referred to everyone as Bud. Red squirrels on the other hand organise village fetes and drink weak tea. I've been unable to ascertain how the grey squirrel first arrived on these shores but I presume it was with a visa, or shipwrecked and clinging to a spar. Squirrels are expert clingers, maybe the first one arrived clinging to someone's hat. Victorian Customs and Excise were not as versed as we are today on American hat couture so it would be an easy thing to miss. Hat clinging as a means by which animals might avoid detection of course ended when it became policy in this country to x-ray everyone's head. Concern visited one hat owner when a feature she thought an example of avant garde styling was shown to be a moose.
Red squirrels strike me as a pretty feeble bunch and with names such as Tarquin and Algy it's easy to see why. I can imagine them simpering on some beach when the first grey washed up.
"I agree Tarquin, a fine spar indeed but what pray might be clinging to it"?
Tarquin waves his nosegay in merriment, "I do declare it is a squirrel, a huge grey squirrel. Ha ha ha".
Both Tarquin and Algy titter for some time each hoping the other would make a useful suggestion. The grey squirrel meanwhile opens a weather eye and pulls from his rusted thermidor a stubby cigar.
"Got a light Bud.".
In response Algy laughs, "Ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha". And fingers his ruff.
"Are you a... squirrel"? Asks Tarquin who offers the grey his flint and cotton.
"That I am. New Jersey born and bred."
"And in this New Jersey are all squirrels large and grey?"
"They are."
Algy flourishing a handkerchief wipes his little red brow before asking, "But, ah... you're the only one here... in the country... yes? "
"For the moment."
"For the moment?"
"I got a brudder coming in on the nine o'clock hat."
Tarquin and Algy both say,"Oh".
Red squirrels, they had it coming the wimps. Tomorrow I'll say a little about badgers.
Red squirrels strike me as a pretty feeble bunch and with names such as Tarquin and Algy it's easy to see why. I can imagine them simpering on some beach when the first grey washed up.
"I agree Tarquin, a fine spar indeed but what pray might be clinging to it"?
Tarquin waves his nosegay in merriment, "I do declare it is a squirrel, a huge grey squirrel. Ha ha ha".
Both Tarquin and Algy titter for some time each hoping the other would make a useful suggestion. The grey squirrel meanwhile opens a weather eye and pulls from his rusted thermidor a stubby cigar.
"Got a light Bud.".
In response Algy laughs, "Ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha". And fingers his ruff.
"Are you a... squirrel"? Asks Tarquin who offers the grey his flint and cotton.
"That I am. New Jersey born and bred."
"And in this New Jersey are all squirrels large and grey?"
"They are."
Algy flourishing a handkerchief wipes his little red brow before asking, "But, ah... you're the only one here... in the country... yes? "
"For the moment."
"For the moment?"
"I got a brudder coming in on the nine o'clock hat."
Tarquin and Algy both say,"Oh".
Red squirrels, they had it coming the wimps. Tomorrow I'll say a little about badgers.
This is my mate Rachel...
currently touring India. I promised her a mention so here it is, though that desert could be anywhere. North of Liverpool is a 10 mile or so stretch of shallow coastline that has sandunes and sand. To the best of my knowledge it doesn't have camels so I suspect she really is in India.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A joke.
Man really drunk late at night with his mate in the pub. They stagger back to the man's house and settle down in the front room to drink more. Mate notices a huge gong hanging in the corner and asks what it is. Man says it's a clock. Mate says how does it work? So man picks up a hammer from floor and in his drunken state eyes gong before giving it an enormous wack. The room begins to shake and the noise is tremendous, both man and his mate are shocked by the din. Suddenly a thumping can be heard through the partition wall and a muffled voice shouts. "It's three o'clock in the fucking morning!"
Friday, March 17, 2006
So I was driving along...
and it started to snow, really snow, like blizzard conditions, and in Manchester at that. I knew immediately the snow was not a regular visitor to these parts because my windscreen quickly became covered with thousands of icy particles each bearing a tiny shocked face mouthing "What the fuck!!!!" and clinging on to the glass for all they were worth. Opening the window I could hear a cacophony of high pitched voices whining like that trapped creature in the concluding scene from the 1958 version of The Fly. "Help meeeeeeeeeeeeee." they cried, "Help meeeeeeeeeeeee." and others said, "Ooof. Ooof. Ooof" as their brother and sister crystals boffed in behind. Many at the front became squashed shouting "For fuck's sake! Watch it at the back, if you don't mind." One or two of the lighthearted began a running commentary for those who were still landing.
"Yeah, he looks weird, mad staring eyes, pursed lips, uneven teeth, half an ear but at least his hairy hands are on the wheel. Ooof. Ooof. Excuse me!"
Another said, "I think my doze is broken."
An unshaven one grunted,"Shut the fuck up, you weed." before it turned to me and demanded, "What you looking at wanky boy? Ooof." A chaplain crystal declared that we should love all our fellow creatures.
"What's he doing now? Ooof." Came a voice from the rear.
"Hang on, there's movement, there's movement." And all peered in, except of course the one with a squint who could only comment on the passing shops, though to his credit he did push the chaplain through an air intake, an act that brightened everyone up, myself included.
Other voices shouted, "Is he still there? The one with the ear?"
"Half an ear," Someone corrected.
"Half an ear? Where's the other half then? Go on ask him."
So I said, "I haven't got half an ear, it's just misshapen."
"He said a bear ate it." And loads nodded, like they were impressed.
"How does he account for those teeth then?"
That was the final straw so I turned the heater to 14, or MEGATHERMICBOILINGSUNSCORCH alongside which is the handy warning (Only recommended if vehicle of no further use). The wipers were cranked to RUTHLESS, a setting famous on the Ford Thug as the sole alternative to, WIPETHEMYOURFUCKINGSELFYOUWHININGARSE.
New reports were sent from the front, "He's grinning now. No, laughing aloud, very aloud. And there's an odd look in his good eye."
A recent arrival paused before asking, "Is that maniacal laughter?"
And another said. "Ooof. Hang on, this sweeping bar, it's a Aaaiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
Brutal but efficient. Two arcs immediately blew over the roof and the rest were got by the heater but not all were melted. I know this from words that reached me as I pulled away.
"Oooh, I'm glad we're getting off here cos there's a sale on in that shop, or shops. Well, over there..."
"Yeah, he looks weird, mad staring eyes, pursed lips, uneven teeth, half an ear but at least his hairy hands are on the wheel. Ooof. Ooof. Excuse me!"
Another said, "I think my doze is broken."
An unshaven one grunted,"Shut the fuck up, you weed." before it turned to me and demanded, "What you looking at wanky boy? Ooof." A chaplain crystal declared that we should love all our fellow creatures.
"What's he doing now? Ooof." Came a voice from the rear.
"Hang on, there's movement, there's movement." And all peered in, except of course the one with a squint who could only comment on the passing shops, though to his credit he did push the chaplain through an air intake, an act that brightened everyone up, myself included.
Other voices shouted, "Is he still there? The one with the ear?"
"Half an ear," Someone corrected.
"Half an ear? Where's the other half then? Go on ask him."
So I said, "I haven't got half an ear, it's just misshapen."
"He said a bear ate it." And loads nodded, like they were impressed.
"How does he account for those teeth then?"
That was the final straw so I turned the heater to 14, or MEGATHERMICBOILINGSUNSCORCH alongside which is the handy warning (Only recommended if vehicle of no further use). The wipers were cranked to RUTHLESS, a setting famous on the Ford Thug as the sole alternative to, WIPETHEMYOURFUCKINGSELFYOUWHININGARSE.
New reports were sent from the front, "He's grinning now. No, laughing aloud, very aloud. And there's an odd look in his good eye."
A recent arrival paused before asking, "Is that maniacal laughter?"
And another said. "Ooof. Hang on, this sweeping bar, it's a Aaaiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
Brutal but efficient. Two arcs immediately blew over the roof and the rest were got by the heater but not all were melted. I know this from words that reached me as I pulled away.
"Oooh, I'm glad we're getting off here cos there's a sale on in that shop, or shops. Well, over there..."
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Of late my car has...
been plagued with thumping noises from under the bonnet so I took it to a garage. The aged mechanic said "Leave it with me and I'll phone once I've identified the problem."
"Fair enough." I said and walked the couple of streets to my office. He phoned later.
"I've identified the problem." He said.
"Oh yes?" I said.
"Yes." He said.
Then followed a silence until I said "And?"
He replied, "And what?"
"What have you discovered?"
"It's a car troll."
"A what?"
"A car troll."
"A car troll?" I repeated.
"A car troll."
So I said " What's a car troll?"
And he replied "A troll that lives in cars."
So I said "A troll that lives in cars?"
And he said "Yes."
So I said, "I didn't think trolls really existed."
And he said, "Well there's one in your car."
So I said, "What's it doing?"
And he said "I think its lurking."
"Lurking?" I said.
"Lurking." He replied.
"Is this a common problem? " I asked.
"I don't know." He said. "Is it a common problem?"
So I said, "How should I know?"
And he replied "Well, it's your car."
There then followed a silence.
So I said, "What is it doing?"
And he said, "What's what doing?"
"The troll."
"It's just sitting there, looking bedraggled on a little shelf just behind the engine."
So I say "Well tell it to fuck off."
"Fuck off?" He says.
"Fuck right off." I say.
Later the garage urchin accepted £60 in payment though being illiterate offered no receipt however before returning the keys he did press a greasy thumb to my cheek. I'd not driven far when loud thumping began from the engine compartment. Furious, I stopped the car jerked up the bonnet and made room as the aged mechanic climbed out.
Wiping his oily rag around his oily neck he said "Sorry about that."
We stood together for a moment until I said.
"The troll fucked off then?"
And he said "What troll?"
So I ran him over.
"Fair enough." I said and walked the couple of streets to my office. He phoned later.
"I've identified the problem." He said.
"Oh yes?" I said.
"Yes." He said.
Then followed a silence until I said "And?"
He replied, "And what?"
"What have you discovered?"
"It's a car troll."
"A what?"
"A car troll."
"A car troll?" I repeated.
"A car troll."
So I said " What's a car troll?"
And he replied "A troll that lives in cars."
So I said "A troll that lives in cars?"
And he said "Yes."
So I said, "I didn't think trolls really existed."
And he said, "Well there's one in your car."
So I said, "What's it doing?"
And he said "I think its lurking."
"Lurking?" I said.
"Lurking." He replied.
"Is this a common problem? " I asked.
"I don't know." He said. "Is it a common problem?"
So I said, "How should I know?"
And he replied "Well, it's your car."
There then followed a silence.
So I said, "What is it doing?"
And he said, "What's what doing?"
"The troll."
"It's just sitting there, looking bedraggled on a little shelf just behind the engine."
So I say "Well tell it to fuck off."
"Fuck off?" He says.
"Fuck right off." I say.
Later the garage urchin accepted £60 in payment though being illiterate offered no receipt however before returning the keys he did press a greasy thumb to my cheek. I'd not driven far when loud thumping began from the engine compartment. Furious, I stopped the car jerked up the bonnet and made room as the aged mechanic climbed out.
Wiping his oily rag around his oily neck he said "Sorry about that."
We stood together for a moment until I said.
"The troll fucked off then?"
And he said "What troll?"
So I ran him over.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
We've got a new...
automatic front door at work. Not one of those that discreetly shush aside like on the Starship Enterprise, oh no. This is a single door that opens outwards and with some venom since local children discovered the tension control and turned it to max. They then ran a book on how far over the houses opposite small animals might tossed after being thrown into the infra red beam. I won £20 for guessing the 250 metres flown by an indeterminate rodent belonging to a little girl with pony tails known as Sherry because of what she was drinking. Apparently some fat kid with an expertise in geometry ran the whole show. Later the police were called when they began throwing each other in but only because it's illegal in the UK to bet on yourself. Bloody kids, don't know the meaning of the word restraint.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Cat dies...
of bird flu. How ironic is that? The news has terrified the alley cats who live at the back of my house. I know this from hearing them whispering about it on Wednesday evening when I looked over the gate. One was reading aloud from a newspaper about the dangers of avian flu in the wider animal population and particularly amongst cats. Laugh? I almost threw an embolism. A scrawny cat with scars noticed me grinning and nudged the reader who looked up. "Yeah, you fuckers," I shouted. "Be no more shitting in my pots when you're all dead from bird flu. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha." And then I ran back inside before things turned nasty.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Similar to other cities...
at this time of year Manchester does not look its best. Winter's attrition has been severe. Beneath every privet hedge, down every alley, under every bus shelter old fag ends, faded news sheet and absolutely hundreds of those green fizzy drink bottles lurk. I was made particularly aware of this today when I kicked one of said bottles that was just there, in front of me, the way they are. To my surprise a muffled "Hey, yer fuggin bassard, watch yer feet!" rose up from the pavement and thinking I'd stepped on a homeless person I jumped back. The voice continued to mutter . "Yerrrr, fuggin bigfoot. Step on me. I'll fuggin show yer... yer, er, er... bollocks. Hrr hrrr, arse!" My eyes were drawn to the bottle and bending down I could see within it a green imp.
"Fuck me," I said, "It's a green imp."
Peering up from his plastic home he replied, "I wouldn't fuck you even if they threw in a bonus winch to make it easy. And I'm not an imp duh, I'm a genie. Dontcha know anything about genies? Genies, bottles, bottles, genies, gedditt? Ever heard of an imp in a bottle? Huh! Huh! Only genies in bottles," Hands on hips he paused then said, "What the fuck's an imp?"
"A type of tiny magical being." I replied.
He was tapping his foot impatiently, "And do they come in bottles these imps?"
"I've never heard of one in a bottle. But then again I thought you lot traveled in lamps,"
"Only yer lamp genie son, only yer lamp genie. I'm a bottle genie, it's obvious to most people." This restless creature with frizzy hair and dilated pupils had a wild maniacal look about him. He took to pacing a few steps one way then the other, stopping every now and then to look at me.
"You seem agitated," I said.
"It's the sugar. Lots of it, in the drinks. Man I'm fucking wired I can tell you." He flexed his shoulders and began one of those little dances boxers do before a fight, punching the air, dodging and weaving. "Yeah, wired. COME ON! COME ON! Hurr hurr." From nowhere he produced a kitchen chair and sat down.
"Is there many of your sort in bottles of pop?" I was curious and at the same time drawn to this odd little phenomenon.
Crossing his legs he lit a cigar that appeared as if out of the green. "One in every hundred thousand bottles. That's the ratio. Specialist posting you see. Only for those who can handle THE FUCKING SUGAR! Oh yes. And look, still got me own teeth." He grinned and indeed his mouth seemed full of, well, teeth though it was hard to assess their condition through billowing tobacco smoke. He started to cough and choke.
I became worried, "You okay?"
I could barely make out his spluttering shape in the thickening cloud. A faint and cracked voice reached out to my ears. "Help, help. Not enough, cough... cough... air."
My anxious face pressed closer to the bottle "Bloody hell!" I said "What do you want me to do?"
"The lid," He gasped, "Undo the lid, let... in... air."
So I said "Open the lid? Do I look like an idiot?"
As suddenly as it came the smoke disappeared and there he stood boldly, arms crossed and pouting. "Always worth a try."
I was late for my next appointment so had to rush away. "Right," I said, "Got to go." And then remembering I asked. "How come you're trapped in that empty bottle, why didn't you escape when it was opened?"
Grumpily he replied. "Ugly fat gobbing teenager with spots and saliva and greasy skin and... fucker opened the bottle downed it in one and I was just making my break when he burped and to be honest the gases drove me back. Fuck, I was heaving for ages afterward. The bottle stank, took three aerosols to shift the smell. And then he goes and screws back the top! Screws it back! A fucking arsey stomach churning gobshiteing teenager, would you believe it? Screwed the fucking cap back on." He began marching again and stamping his feet, "Little bastard, I'll fucking kill him. Fucking kill anyone. DO YOU HEAR?"
It was definitely time to leave so I said. "Got to go. In a hurry you see. Appointments and stuff."
"You fucking turd!" He shouted, "Don't think you'll get away that easy do you?"
And I swear he started to run within the bottle and the bottle started to roll and I started to run, and run, and run. Then like they always do it suddenly swung left and flew under the hedge from where I heard him exclaim "Bollocks. Just my luck."
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Spring is...
springing here in sunny Manchester. Flowers are once again peeking their heads above the grass. In Crowcroft Park crocuses collect like tiny Carmen Mirandas with blossoming hats made of purple, orange, white and blue petals. Waiting on the sidelines and in abundance are the ever patient daffodils not yet ready to bloom but whose flower heads can be seen tightly bound as if beneath a robe pulled snug against the cold. They remind me of those tall elegant women from 30's films who wore full length wrap around coats. The other weekend in Wales I saw snowdrops crowd the riverbanks and peer between rocks coated with frost. Not long now before the light becomes softened by the northerly moving sun. Hurrah!
Spring, the season that leads us out from the darkness of winter.
Dontchajustlovit?
Spring, the season that leads us out from the darkness of winter.
Dontchajustlovit?
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Lately I've been...
driving through strange parts of town, unfamiliar places, odd environs with crazy angles and roads that seem to have no beginning or end. I've noticed the people are gnarled and have crooked sticks, and curly nails, and gimlet eyes. Oh yeah, and they're all named Caleb and say things to me in country voices, like "You be not from round here." Even whilst I'm filling up with petrol. It can make a person jump. I asked one the directions to Misery Grove and was told, "You don't want to be going there, to Misery Grove. Oh no." Stroking his stubbled chin he cackled to no one in particular, "Only fools go to Misery Grove." Then he laughed until a choking lump of phlegm dropped him like a shot elephant. Through the rear view mirror his receding figure heaved and spluttered, arm outstretched towards me, a rictus of pain scarring his deeply troubled face. Two miles later when I stopped on Misery Grove his tobacco pouch fell from the car roof. Being both a charitable person and non smoker I gave the evil weed to a passing twelve year old who amused me by using the word "Luvaducks" in a sentence about youth crime. I also gave him a shilling to hire the jack he carried in his back pocket. Clever kid, by hiring the jack I stopped him taking my wheels for half an hour . "Sort of insurance you see, Mister. " He said in a cockney accent. I left before he broke into song.
At the end of a long drive the house I was to visit glowered like the Bates place in Psycho, fortunately no one came when I rang the bell. Back on the road Spud, for I'd nicknamed the boy Spud on account of his filthy neck, was casting covetous glances at my vehicle. "Hoy!" I shouted. "You said half an hour." He shouted back, "It has been half an hour mister." He was right, convinced the crows above were talking about me I lingered too long on that rutted gravel track. My bird suspicion was confirmed when the car pulled away and one said, "Isn't that kid a bit young to be driving?" Reader, I could have wept.
At the end of a long drive the house I was to visit glowered like the Bates place in Psycho, fortunately no one came when I rang the bell. Back on the road Spud, for I'd nicknamed the boy Spud on account of his filthy neck, was casting covetous glances at my vehicle. "Hoy!" I shouted. "You said half an hour." He shouted back, "It has been half an hour mister." He was right, convinced the crows above were talking about me I lingered too long on that rutted gravel track. My bird suspicion was confirmed when the car pulled away and one said, "Isn't that kid a bit young to be driving?" Reader, I could have wept.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Moles put tiny children...
at risk shock. And they have thin heads shock. Moles are currently plaguing a school field in the West Midlands town of Rugby. A BBC report shows these supposedly cuddly creatures are also able to snap a child's leg just by looking at it. One local councillor told a reporter "Only last week a mole robbed my seven-year-old granddaughter at gunpoint. Something needs to be done." There is evidence that moles have been tunneling from surrounding parishes to participate in digging up the playing field. Another councillor who wished to remain anonymous said, "Some of these moles are not local." Jethro Lump, Regional Finalist for the Honourable Company of Molestabbers told anyone who would listen, "When I were a lad we respected the elderly. And that's all I'm prepared to say at this juncture." It's a little known mole fact but they protect their paper thin noggins by avoiding stony soil. A representative for the moles said "It's true we don't like stony soil." In the packed community centre during a post bed-time debate tired tots cheered to the rafters on hearing one of their number demand they be issued with toffee hammers as a matter of urgency.
Responding to the children's proposal a mole spokesperson told the BBC, "You can't reason with a mob."
Responding to the children's proposal a mole spokesperson told the BBC, "You can't reason with a mob."
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Shock news just in...
God declares for Evolution. Interviewed in a evening newspaper he said. "I hold my hands up, I was wrong." An ashen faced God declared that only one day's rest since the big bang had addled his thinking. He told our reporter it was a swivel eyed tambourine banging Creationist who did for him. "He just would not shut the fuck up!" Said God. "So I thought bollocks I'm throwing my lot in with Darwin, man had a bigger beard than me but I'll not let such trifles put me off a damn good theory." Shaken by this momentous event God told us of his future plans. "I'm thinking of a return to College, maybe do a course, study snails. Neat little guys, quite inoffensive, never upset anyone. Unlike those who argue for Intelligent Design. You see there's nothing Intelligent about the universe at all. It wasn't invented, it came about via natural processes and you know what? The biggest secret of all? So did I." God laughed, shook his head and said "That's why Creationism's a crock of shit. Hmmm, could do with a stiff drink. Hope the Student's Union is open. Cheap beer. Fantastic! Couldn't lend us a fiver could you?" The chalkboard indicated Happy Hour had begun and our intrepid reporter's last sight was of God forcing his way through the student throng.
In tomorrow's edition: A 24 hour drinking spree, God goes partying and tries drugs for the first time. "I'm completely off my face." Says a sweat soaked God before throwing himself once more into the dance floor melee.
In tomorrow's edition: A 24 hour drinking spree, God goes partying and tries drugs for the first time. "I'm completely off my face." Says a sweat soaked God before throwing himself once more into the dance floor melee.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
I was planning not...
to say another thing about dogs until Guyana Gyal posted to me about those with bows in their hair. Grrr. I can't think of a dog joke so here's a budgie one.
How do you turn a budgie into a dog?
Dip it in petrol, throw a match and watch it go WOOF!
Great joke, still makes me laugh. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, urghh, I'm all dizzy now.
I have noticed that dogs with decorative bows are carried everywhere, the little rat faced layabouts. A dangerous occupation though for in evolutionary terms no leg use can so quickly turn into no legs at all. They would then no longer be dogs but trunks. Yapping trunks with tartan collars and perhaps a little bell or one of those squeaky things that when stood upon squeaks. A blessing if it opens new areas of possibility, in bridge safety for instance. Manchester has many railway bridges under which trucks that are too tall can become jammed. By suspending trunks from beneath those bridges in a manner similar to corks on an Australian bush hat such unhappiness might be avoided. One expects the sound of squeaking trunks bumping over a cab roof to be enough warning for most drivers. Only someone with a heart of stone would fail to stop.
The patent office shall hear from me first thing on the morrow.
How do you turn a budgie into a dog?
Dip it in petrol, throw a match and watch it go WOOF!
Great joke, still makes me laugh. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, urghh, I'm all dizzy now.
I have noticed that dogs with decorative bows are carried everywhere, the little rat faced layabouts. A dangerous occupation though for in evolutionary terms no leg use can so quickly turn into no legs at all. They would then no longer be dogs but trunks. Yapping trunks with tartan collars and perhaps a little bell or one of those squeaky things that when stood upon squeaks. A blessing if it opens new areas of possibility, in bridge safety for instance. Manchester has many railway bridges under which trucks that are too tall can become jammed. By suspending trunks from beneath those bridges in a manner similar to corks on an Australian bush hat such unhappiness might be avoided. One expects the sound of squeaking trunks bumping over a cab roof to be enough warning for most drivers. Only someone with a heart of stone would fail to stop.
The patent office shall hear from me first thing on the morrow.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
It can only be a matter...
of time before the rich start botoxing their dogs. I'd be surprised if this were not already available in Beverley Hills. Today's press reports the cost of botox is reducing to a level that ordinary mortals can afford. Botoxing as a means to resculpt the family dog therefore might soon be within everyone's reach. Bored with that faraway look you once found so endearing? Have him re-done. Christian owners might favour a saint, Muslims a nice floor design, Jains, well Jains would probably having nothing done for fear of the dog being a relative. Spiteful types could have their dog botoxed to resemble whom they wish to insult. To alleviate the pain of a long separation (should your employment so demand) the dog could be botoxed to a likeness of the missing loved one. Botoxdog might be given as a great Christmas gift, or birthday treat. Think of the excitement, 'Darling I'm home' and under your arm a miniature Britneydog or Eminem. There might be some social downside such as increased street accidents through people walking into things because their eyes have been captured by a Cheneydog weeing on some lamp post, or the shock of seeing a dog that looks like a dog. I reckon botoxing dogs will bring us humans closer together, even if only to exclaim.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
It seems Tutankhamen enjoyed...
a snifter or two of white wine or so says today's New Scientist Magazine. Of the six jars tested from his burial chamber one had evidence of red wine and the rest of white. I've seen photo's of those ancient Egyptian jars and we're not talking jam sizes here, no siree. Your average Egyptian jar was the size of a small giraffe and could hold a substantial quantity of wine. Legend says that a year passed before the sound of partying and vomit from within the Royal tomb finally gave way to silence. Many ancient Egyptians worried the boy King might have drank his fare rather than immediately boarding the celestial packet boat as he'd been ordered to by his mum. But hey, he was young, headstrong, first time away from home, what did they expect?
The evidence surprised archeologists who up to now believed white wine (incidentally a liebfraumilch which explains why it took so long to catch on) first appeared in 3AD. However 2,500 years previously Pinot Grigio and Chablis were the tipple of Pharoahs, though not being stupid the ex boy King also knew it was easier for a pilgrim to pass through the innards of a camel than enter Valhalla smelling of cheap plonk.
An alternative theory to explain the large jars is that Tut simply wasn't prepared to pay the outrageously inflated prices they charge for a drink on ferries.
The evidence surprised archeologists who up to now believed white wine (incidentally a liebfraumilch which explains why it took so long to catch on) first appeared in 3AD. However 2,500 years previously Pinot Grigio and Chablis were the tipple of Pharoahs, though not being stupid the ex boy King also knew it was easier for a pilgrim to pass through the innards of a camel than enter Valhalla smelling of cheap plonk.
An alternative theory to explain the large jars is that Tut simply wasn't prepared to pay the outrageously inflated prices they charge for a drink on ferries.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Last Friday...
whilst driving home from work a massive lorry passed me on the inside lane and as it turned a great hunk of steel tore the passenger side mirror from my car. Slipping into psycho mode I pursued said lorry until he stopped. From the lofty heights of his cab (so high there was a snow line with some boastful off-piste skiers who had about them the look of corporate lawyers) the driver stared down and through high altitude gusts mouthed that I was to blame. J'Accuse! I replied. His lips moved for some considerable time but the only words to reach me were "..uck off you knob." In circumstances such as these it's normal to exchange insurance details but by then his condors were sizing me up so it seemed more prudent to leave. Losing a mirror is a pisser but having my eyes pecked out by huge Andean Buzzards would have been a pill too bitter even for me to swallow, especially on a Friday night. I retreated, though as the truck pulled away was lucky enough to see one of the braggarts disappear toward the upper slopes hanging beneath a pair of talons. Small compensation I know but better than nothing.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Reported in today's press...
Californian minister gets eighteen months for selling church to buy BMW. Apparently parishioner suspicion was aroused when arriving for morning service they noticed the new auditorium only sat 4.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Strange dream...
last night. I was in a place where all communication was via neatly folded handwritten notes that were slid like playing cards across tables or furtively palmed by those wishing to remain discreet. It seemed an up-market cafe served by a short order chef dressed in whites behind the polished bar. On his head was a small cotton hat and around his neck a cravat that gave him the look of a young Al Pacino. Up and down the bar people were sliding notes that only after making eye contact would he pass on. The place was busy and even though no one spoke it was full of noise and chatter because when people unfolded their squares of paper words were released into the air like conversation.
I had an idea it was Saturday night and everyone was relaxed. Some of the notes made people laugh and everyone was patient even those I could see waiting outside the tall double doors for the doorman to write his greeting. He used a beautiful maroon fountain pen and I could hear the satisfying scratch of its nib on the heavy paper. He creased each sheet twice to make sure the edges were neat then folded a square which guests opened so they might enter the room with words.
The dream changed, a pity because it was so unusual.
I had an idea it was Saturday night and everyone was relaxed. Some of the notes made people laugh and everyone was patient even those I could see waiting outside the tall double doors for the doorman to write his greeting. He used a beautiful maroon fountain pen and I could hear the satisfying scratch of its nib on the heavy paper. He creased each sheet twice to make sure the edges were neat then folded a square which guests opened so they might enter the room with words.
The dream changed, a pity because it was so unusual.
Monday, February 06, 2006
This universe of ours...
is a tricky place. For instance a headline in today's scientific press claims they have finally measured the 24% that's called Dark Matter . The remaining 72%, known as Dark Energy has yet to be accounted for because at present there's no means by which it can be detected. On the way into work this morning I stepped on a paving stone where from beneath more water gushed with more force soaking more of my leg than is proper in a Newtonian Universe. Methinks the hunt for dark energy might profit from a little look under the pavements of Salford.
I'll be on to the Council in the morning.
I'll be on to the Council in the morning.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
This evening...
between the hours of 6:05 and 8:50 I've been mainly fixing my ipod. It is done. Nearly three hours, for fucks sake! I've had nothing to eat, the evening's gone, my throat is parched, my hair is unkempt and my sense of self is askew. Still, got it going again and that's the main thing. Not sure taking the back off was such a good move especially as half the tiny musicians made a run for it and only threats to fetch the hoover got them all back in again. Cheeky gets.
Monday, January 30, 2006
This morning on Radio 4...
Professor Jeremy Metters, Her Majesty's Inspector of Anatomy was lamenting the decline in those willing to donate their bodies to medical science. His sincerity might have been more convincing if in the background we'd been spared the sound of things being chopped.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
A sad tale hit...
the UK news this week when a couple split up after she had an affair. The affair was exposed by the man's parrot who apparently is an excellent mimic. The woman, whom we might call Karen was having a dalliance with her boyfriend's best mate, whom we can call Darren. Farren, the boyfriend got wind that something was amiss when the parrot using perfectly modulated Karen tones took to saying, 'I love you Darren. I love you Darren.' Karen apparently did not deny the affair and has since left Farren and his parrot for the warm arms of Darren, but not before telling a local newspaper that she was driven to the affair because Farren loved that bird more than he ever did her. Farren responded by saying he was gutted, shame the same couldn't have been said about the parrot.
A tale of woe that confirms an iron rule in the Flynn household, never let a pet into your home because if they're not shitting on your carpets they're shitting on your relationships.
Today the weather in Manchester has been beautiful with clear skies, a winter sun and icy cold temperatures. Manchester has its fair share of statuary and they irritate me no end for on nearly every plinth is some Victorian businessman or other such worthy. In Piccadilly Gardens there's a statue to Victoria herself where she sits on a throne looking every inch like Jabba the Hutt, sort of hugely bulbous and with a very low centre of gravity. At her feet are angels who look up in an awe without doubt inspired by the consequences for them should her Imperial Bigness ever fall off. You can see in this statue how the sculptor has struggled to convey enormous power and authority and at the same time not make the real Queen seem like a person who was generally more comfortable only when in proximity to a crane. In the end he obviously abandoned delicacy for bulk and so she squats like an enormous toad at the South Eastern corner of Piccadilly Gardens. Interestingly her head is also of a very strange proportion perched as it is like a bowling ball atop a pile of bath towels. The City Fathers bless them have recently installed a pissoir within weeing distance though I'm not sure the two things are related.
Don't get me wrong I'm not against statuary and the like I just prefer them a little more democratic for instance I'm particularly impressed by the statue of 'Alison Lapper Pregnant' that currently adorns a plinth in London's Trafalgar Square, and I love 'The Angel of the North' in Gateshead (which is what they call South Newcastle) and Manchester's 'The 'B' of the Bang'. I just don't like statues of miserable undemocratic rich bastards who did nothing of worth other than be grasping and greedy, the fuckers.
Still, the weather remained nice, so that was something.
A tale of woe that confirms an iron rule in the Flynn household, never let a pet into your home because if they're not shitting on your carpets they're shitting on your relationships.
Today the weather in Manchester has been beautiful with clear skies, a winter sun and icy cold temperatures. Manchester has its fair share of statuary and they irritate me no end for on nearly every plinth is some Victorian businessman or other such worthy. In Piccadilly Gardens there's a statue to Victoria herself where she sits on a throne looking every inch like Jabba the Hutt, sort of hugely bulbous and with a very low centre of gravity. At her feet are angels who look up in an awe without doubt inspired by the consequences for them should her Imperial Bigness ever fall off. You can see in this statue how the sculptor has struggled to convey enormous power and authority and at the same time not make the real Queen seem like a person who was generally more comfortable only when in proximity to a crane. In the end he obviously abandoned delicacy for bulk and so she squats like an enormous toad at the South Eastern corner of Piccadilly Gardens. Interestingly her head is also of a very strange proportion perched as it is like a bowling ball atop a pile of bath towels. The City Fathers bless them have recently installed a pissoir within weeing distance though I'm not sure the two things are related.
Don't get me wrong I'm not against statuary and the like I just prefer them a little more democratic for instance I'm particularly impressed by the statue of 'Alison Lapper Pregnant' that currently adorns a plinth in London's Trafalgar Square, and I love 'The Angel of the North' in Gateshead (which is what they call South Newcastle) and Manchester's 'The 'B' of the Bang'. I just don't like statues of miserable undemocratic rich bastards who did nothing of worth other than be grasping and greedy, the fuckers.
Still, the weather remained nice, so that was something.
Friday, January 27, 2006
My fellow blogger...
Dcver whose link is on the right has posted a cocktail recipe that seems designed only to be drunk at weekends. Err, it's the weekend, so HURRAH! It's cocktail time again!
He also mentions that after drinking this witches brew one has to be careful not to run down any Irish nuns, yet surely this is a reason for drinking the stuff in the first place. Previous readers of this blog will know I'm no great respecter of the Catholic Church and it's clergy but I will not have it said I'm prejudiced, oh no. With drink such as this inside me I'm prepared to run down nuns from any Order. Lucky for me then that only half a mile away there is in fact a nunnery, so I won't have too far to go.
On a related matter this past few weeks I've been suffering from stigmata. Sort of unexplained marks on my body and no memory of how they might have got there. What set me worrying was the one on my thigh that was a dead giveaway for the Turin Shroud. Suddenly they started to appear everywhere. On my right shoulder last Wednesday morning I woke up to a Last Supper, and similar to Ray Bradbury's 'The Illustrated Man' (but not quite because this time there was sound as well) I could watch and hear the action.
Jesus says, 'Why is there no one sitting opposite?"
Peter who's completely pissed puts arm around Jesus and slurs in reply, "I fucking love you, you're my best mate. Do you hear that everyone, my best mate. Fucking top bloke..." He then slides under the table. I was in a hurry for work so put my shirt on only to hear Paul say, "Fuck, bloody meter's gone, anyone got any change? Judas?" When I returned home it had miraculously disappeared. Then emerged a lump on my shin the same shape as that small rock in the North Sea upon which a naked St Columbus used to sit out his winters. At least I presume it was St Columbus, he certainly had a very tiny penis though that could have been a trick of the light. I thought the stigmata a worry until the first Rorschach materialised. Okay, I admit to a little paunch but who doesn't? However it was unnerving to discover Rorschachs unfolding as I stood up. A particularly disturbed blot interpreted as 'Thou shalt not lay with any family pet' was shaped like one of the Blessed Saints lying on a warm hearth being attended to by a monkey with a cane. Honest, it would not wash off. I'm aware that Rorschachs are a means by which the Id might be exposed for examination and I'd almost made an appointment to see the Dr when a stigmata of Doubting Thomas reassured me that they weren't mine but instead those of a newly enthroned Cardinal who has started to farm out his guilt. The Catholic hierarchy are such bastards.
Right then, I'm orf to get drunk.
He also mentions that after drinking this witches brew one has to be careful not to run down any Irish nuns, yet surely this is a reason for drinking the stuff in the first place. Previous readers of this blog will know I'm no great respecter of the Catholic Church and it's clergy but I will not have it said I'm prejudiced, oh no. With drink such as this inside me I'm prepared to run down nuns from any Order. Lucky for me then that only half a mile away there is in fact a nunnery, so I won't have too far to go.
On a related matter this past few weeks I've been suffering from stigmata. Sort of unexplained marks on my body and no memory of how they might have got there. What set me worrying was the one on my thigh that was a dead giveaway for the Turin Shroud. Suddenly they started to appear everywhere. On my right shoulder last Wednesday morning I woke up to a Last Supper, and similar to Ray Bradbury's 'The Illustrated Man' (but not quite because this time there was sound as well) I could watch and hear the action.
Jesus says, 'Why is there no one sitting opposite?"
Peter who's completely pissed puts arm around Jesus and slurs in reply, "I fucking love you, you're my best mate. Do you hear that everyone, my best mate. Fucking top bloke..." He then slides under the table. I was in a hurry for work so put my shirt on only to hear Paul say, "Fuck, bloody meter's gone, anyone got any change? Judas?" When I returned home it had miraculously disappeared. Then emerged a lump on my shin the same shape as that small rock in the North Sea upon which a naked St Columbus used to sit out his winters. At least I presume it was St Columbus, he certainly had a very tiny penis though that could have been a trick of the light. I thought the stigmata a worry until the first Rorschach materialised. Okay, I admit to a little paunch but who doesn't? However it was unnerving to discover Rorschachs unfolding as I stood up. A particularly disturbed blot interpreted as 'Thou shalt not lay with any family pet' was shaped like one of the Blessed Saints lying on a warm hearth being attended to by a monkey with a cane. Honest, it would not wash off. I'm aware that Rorschachs are a means by which the Id might be exposed for examination and I'd almost made an appointment to see the Dr when a stigmata of Doubting Thomas reassured me that they weren't mine but instead those of a newly enthroned Cardinal who has started to farm out his guilt. The Catholic hierarchy are such bastards.
Right then, I'm orf to get drunk.
Monday, January 23, 2006
A big freeze...
from Siberia where temperatures reached minus 60 is about to hit the UK and we're all gonna get cold. For the last two years or so I've been at war with three cats living nearby who insist on digging up the pot plants in my yard and leaving their shit where previously grew beautiful flowers. My real hope for the coming weather is that a la 'The Day After Tomorrow' an incredible temperature plunge will sweep from the skies catch them mid poo and freeze the fuckers to death. I would be soooo happy if come the following morning I might look through my kitchen window to see frozen solid, just at the moment of strain, three frosted cats. Wish fulfillment I know but without dreams we are diminished.
When I say at war with the cats what I really mean is that I've surrendered, given up. Yet these spawn of Beelzibub for too long have prevented me from planting flowers in my back yard pots. To scare them away during this period I've tried black pepper, white pepper, cayenne pepper, some incredibly stinky stuff from the pet shop that was like green jelly and smelled so strong the back door warped and I couldn't get out. The door was reduced to such a state I then worried the smell might get in. Were the cats bothered? Not a bit, they laughed, sneered, indeed one of them in full view took to dabbing the green stuff behind its ears and giving me the finger (well paw) from atop the gate. Other neighbourhood animals caught on and started to snigger behind my back and for a while I seemed never far from laughter, a mocking and cruel laughter that crept from alleyways, that echoed out of drainage grids, that seemed to lunge over walls, but then again that might just have been the bad drugs so I never took any of it too seriously. Friends suggested solutions such as a powerful water pistol or an air pistol, maybe razor wire, or shards of glass cemented on the wall top. The razor wire or glass solutions seemed too problematic and besides I'd no wish to turn my yard into a mini Folsom. I have been attracted to the shooting suggestion, particularly if it involves a proper GUN though sitting in my yard for hours on end cradling a rifle like some nutter holds no appeal at all. My mate Sean says there's machines that generate sounds pitched to scare the bejabers out cats, dogs and other animals. If these machines do exist then they're the ones for me! Mind you I am saddened there's to be no suffering involved, not even a little bleeding from the ears. Ah well, can't have everything. Might get a gun anyway.
When I say at war with the cats what I really mean is that I've surrendered, given up. Yet these spawn of Beelzibub for too long have prevented me from planting flowers in my back yard pots. To scare them away during this period I've tried black pepper, white pepper, cayenne pepper, some incredibly stinky stuff from the pet shop that was like green jelly and smelled so strong the back door warped and I couldn't get out. The door was reduced to such a state I then worried the smell might get in. Were the cats bothered? Not a bit, they laughed, sneered, indeed one of them in full view took to dabbing the green stuff behind its ears and giving me the finger (well paw) from atop the gate. Other neighbourhood animals caught on and started to snigger behind my back and for a while I seemed never far from laughter, a mocking and cruel laughter that crept from alleyways, that echoed out of drainage grids, that seemed to lunge over walls, but then again that might just have been the bad drugs so I never took any of it too seriously. Friends suggested solutions such as a powerful water pistol or an air pistol, maybe razor wire, or shards of glass cemented on the wall top. The razor wire or glass solutions seemed too problematic and besides I'd no wish to turn my yard into a mini Folsom. I have been attracted to the shooting suggestion, particularly if it involves a proper GUN though sitting in my yard for hours on end cradling a rifle like some nutter holds no appeal at all. My mate Sean says there's machines that generate sounds pitched to scare the bejabers out cats, dogs and other animals. If these machines do exist then they're the ones for me! Mind you I am saddened there's to be no suffering involved, not even a little bleeding from the ears. Ah well, can't have everything. Might get a gun anyway.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
I gather that some priest...
in Galway has become a father at the ripe old age of 73. I also read that he was immensly popular, well clearly, though I suspect he's now lost that crown. Given his advanced age he presumably completed his priestly training in the 1950's or thereabouts, a time when the Catholic Church was serious about hell and damnation, and birching, and torture, and beating children, and guilt, and sin, and punishment, and blood, and scourging. I could go on, no I really could but better not, don't want to get too excited, then I'll miss my nap.
I seem to recall that the church is opposed to contraception so we know at least one area of his life where he wasn't a hypocrite.
Which brings me back to scourging, well Ruth Kelly, and Opus Dei. I can't look at her without wondering the whereabouts on her person of the scilla, that spiky band thing whose purpose is to dig into the flesh and cause discomfort and pain. I'm not sure having someone who is so clearly into bondage is a wise choice as Education Secretary, not that I'm opposed to bondage, or think that those who are into bondage should be barred from public life, oh no. What I am opposed to as Education Secretary is some extremely right wing tosser who wears bondage as atonement for the rest of us not being into bondage. She's sacrificing herself for us, purging herself because we are all really so very very naughty, it was our fundamental naughtiness that got us kicked out of Eden in the first place, then later, just to put some icing on that cake we killed Jesus as well. What an absolute bunch of bastards, spelled out like this I begin to suspect she probably wears two.
I seem to recall that the church is opposed to contraception so we know at least one area of his life where he wasn't a hypocrite.
Which brings me back to scourging, well Ruth Kelly, and Opus Dei. I can't look at her without wondering the whereabouts on her person of the scilla, that spiky band thing whose purpose is to dig into the flesh and cause discomfort and pain. I'm not sure having someone who is so clearly into bondage is a wise choice as Education Secretary, not that I'm opposed to bondage, or think that those who are into bondage should be barred from public life, oh no. What I am opposed to as Education Secretary is some extremely right wing tosser who wears bondage as atonement for the rest of us not being into bondage. She's sacrificing herself for us, purging herself because we are all really so very very naughty, it was our fundamental naughtiness that got us kicked out of Eden in the first place, then later, just to put some icing on that cake we killed Jesus as well. What an absolute bunch of bastards, spelled out like this I begin to suspect she probably wears two.
Friday, January 20, 2006
The Catholic Church...
has let it be known it agrees with the theory of Evolution and not with the lie that calls itself Intelligent Design. According to press releases this week they've rejected Intelligent Design (that God made everything, no questions asked) and embraced Darwin. A superficial reading of Benny the Umpeenth's position might lead us to conclude the Catholic Church has rejected God and allied itself with, er, science. Now that would be revolutionary however on closer reading they've simply rejected Intelligent Design as a means of understanding God's will. What they say is that God did make everything but didn't make it that obvious and that those who argue Intelligent Design are just crude reductionists. So what appears as a fairly enlightened position is at heart that same old same old. Mind you, if they're prepared to argue with the nutters who currently run the White House that Evolution is a science who am I to object?
I do wonder though if this argument might not have caused God to pause and look over his newspaper to see what the fuss was about. And from the Messianic sofa might not an eyebrow have been raised at Benny arguing that rationality rather than faith was the most fruitful means by which nature can be known? And for a moment, until reassured by the small print might not the sacred hand of Jehovah have stroked the blessed designer stubble, scratched the immortal ear, drew in a deific breath and exhaled a celestial sigh before relaxing once more behind the racing pages? We'll never know, and therein lies the rub, nothing useful can be learned through faith, with science we can learn everything, even the truth that God doesn't exist. Oh to be in heaven when that news came through!
Lowly type runs in and says "God, God, just in, science has finally proved you don't exist."
God snatches paper, "Let me see that! Shi...."
I do wonder though if this argument might not have caused God to pause and look over his newspaper to see what the fuss was about. And from the Messianic sofa might not an eyebrow have been raised at Benny arguing that rationality rather than faith was the most fruitful means by which nature can be known? And for a moment, until reassured by the small print might not the sacred hand of Jehovah have stroked the blessed designer stubble, scratched the immortal ear, drew in a deific breath and exhaled a celestial sigh before relaxing once more behind the racing pages? We'll never know, and therein lies the rub, nothing useful can be learned through faith, with science we can learn everything, even the truth that God doesn't exist. Oh to be in heaven when that news came through!
Lowly type runs in and says "God, God, just in, science has finally proved you don't exist."
God snatches paper, "Let me see that! Shi...."
Sunday, January 15, 2006
There is a row...
of canal locks at Marple in Cheshire and this afternoon a mate and I walked down them, sort of for fresh air and health and stuff. Some people were feeding the ducks and I tell you those ducks had loser written all over them, they might as well have been carrying signs. (That's a bird flu joke by the way.)
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Not far...
from where I live there is a tanning salon, a shop where you can get a suntan. Whilst walking past said shop this morning out stepped a completely orange woman. I tried not to look but my eyes were drawn to her like a magnet. She noticed, I smiled sheepishly, she returned my smile which was friendly given I was so blatantly staring. I really wanted to mention that the particular hue she had chosen was one not normally found in nature but that would have been insulting so I said nothing. Then I thought, well, she must think she looks fantastic which is fair enough, though personally I would avoid any machine that might turn me into such an odd shade of orange, or indeed any shade of orange.
Oh yeah, the shop was called Tanfastic, now how vomit inducing is that?
Oh yeah, the shop was called Tanfastic, now how vomit inducing is that?
Friday, January 13, 2006
Flourescent Green...
pigs have been developed in Taiwan for medical purposes, of course. A photograph of said pigs appears in the British Press today. An odd video can be seen on greenpig.wanton.wonton.org.tw. The video is most illuminating (hur hur hur) and carries a soundtrack. It seems these pigs are flourescent throughout and this is some kind of breakthrough as previously flouresced animals carried only surface flourescence. Now you can see what's going on inside. A discussion between the pigs, well more an argument really, was recorded thus.
Mother pig to adolscent pig "I know you took those sausages Billy because I really can see right through you. Oh and you need a pooh so you'd better go now."
Adolescent pig. "Mum!"
Dad pig "Leave the boy alone Vera he's really struggling at the moment."
Mum pig "Don't you side with him, hold it, what's that? There, near your large colon. Harry Pig what have I said to you about eating the children. That's our Barry in there, well what's left of him."
Dad pig, "It were dark Vera, ah thought he were an egg, all glowing and just lying there, in the trough. It's them scientists they've gone glow mad, everything glowing, glowing water, glowing food. It's given me a headache, I can tell you."
Mum pig, "Yes I can see that but try not to eat the children love, eeh our Barry just look at him. He were a right little tinker, well blinker, especially after they got the mix wrong. I suppose it's for the best especially as we could never really tell if he were in or out. Poor lamb. Anyway you also need a pooh so you'd best be off."
A short film that I think says it all. Don't fuck with nature, it can only lead to sorrow.
Mother pig to adolscent pig "I know you took those sausages Billy because I really can see right through you. Oh and you need a pooh so you'd better go now."
Adolescent pig. "Mum!"
Dad pig "Leave the boy alone Vera he's really struggling at the moment."
Mum pig "Don't you side with him, hold it, what's that? There, near your large colon. Harry Pig what have I said to you about eating the children. That's our Barry in there, well what's left of him."
Dad pig, "It were dark Vera, ah thought he were an egg, all glowing and just lying there, in the trough. It's them scientists they've gone glow mad, everything glowing, glowing water, glowing food. It's given me a headache, I can tell you."
Mum pig, "Yes I can see that but try not to eat the children love, eeh our Barry just look at him. He were a right little tinker, well blinker, especially after they got the mix wrong. I suppose it's for the best especially as we could never really tell if he were in or out. Poor lamb. Anyway you also need a pooh so you'd best be off."
A short film that I think says it all. Don't fuck with nature, it can only lead to sorrow.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
At 10:30pm on the...
2nd January one of my bookshelves collapsed. I've got a decent size bedroom and all my books are shelved on the walls. I was downstairs watching something really boring on the telly when a tremendous crash came from above so I rushed upstairs, well rushed to the stairs then paused. What stopped me was the thought that it might have been a burglar crashing through the ceiling or a madman with an axe sweeping my books to the floor in his demented rage, or a book troll unhappy that the plot of Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is so fiendishly complicated, these and many other daft ideas rushed hither and thither as I paused with one hand on the rail looking upwards like some Christian supplicant.
"Hullo" I called before me, "Is anyone there?" The kind of genteel question that by its tone and form would confirm to any waiting predator that in this house lives someone who is A VICTIM and therefore should cause them no trouble whatsoever. Every few steps I stopped to listen for heavy breathing and maybe the swish of something with a blade cleaving the air in practice, but there was nothing so with a toe I gently pushed my way into the bedroom taking care all the while to look through the crack and confirm that no psycopath lurked, behind the door, with a machete, on tiptoes, ready to pounce, the way they do.
A change in room accoustics really emphasised the pathetic in my hollow laugh.
The whole experience set me wondering if books were becoming more heavy. Over Christmas I read the excellent Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, a fantastic novel about English magicians at the time of the Napoleonic Wars and though brilliant is extremely heavy and gave me wrist ache when I read it in the bath. I also treated myself to Robert Fisk's The Great War for Civilisation: The Conquest of the Middle East, a recently published stupendously large and learned tome written by one of the great journalists of the last 30 years. Mind you these two books are on the floor by the bed and have never been on the shelves so it couldn't have been them that caused the collapse. In the end I determined it was my crap workmanship in using screws and rawplugs that were not adequate to the job when putting up the shelves. Of course the blame really lies with my school woodwork and metalwork teachers for fervently believing that violence was the only pedagogy worthy of the name. One result of their painful largesse was that I learned not a jot about 'do it yourself'. Pity it wasn't upon them that the shelves collapsed, though such a thing might have raised more questions than it answered.
"Hullo" I called before me, "Is anyone there?" The kind of genteel question that by its tone and form would confirm to any waiting predator that in this house lives someone who is A VICTIM and therefore should cause them no trouble whatsoever. Every few steps I stopped to listen for heavy breathing and maybe the swish of something with a blade cleaving the air in practice, but there was nothing so with a toe I gently pushed my way into the bedroom taking care all the while to look through the crack and confirm that no psycopath lurked, behind the door, with a machete, on tiptoes, ready to pounce, the way they do.
A change in room accoustics really emphasised the pathetic in my hollow laugh.
The whole experience set me wondering if books were becoming more heavy. Over Christmas I read the excellent Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, a fantastic novel about English magicians at the time of the Napoleonic Wars and though brilliant is extremely heavy and gave me wrist ache when I read it in the bath. I also treated myself to Robert Fisk's The Great War for Civilisation: The Conquest of the Middle East, a recently published stupendously large and learned tome written by one of the great journalists of the last 30 years. Mind you these two books are on the floor by the bed and have never been on the shelves so it couldn't have been them that caused the collapse. In the end I determined it was my crap workmanship in using screws and rawplugs that were not adequate to the job when putting up the shelves. Of course the blame really lies with my school woodwork and metalwork teachers for fervently believing that violence was the only pedagogy worthy of the name. One result of their painful largesse was that I learned not a jot about 'do it yourself'. Pity it wasn't upon them that the shelves collapsed, though such a thing might have raised more questions than it answered.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
It is New Year's
Eve. 2005 started off for me so well and really improved as the year wore on. However in November disaster struck, someone malicious said something about me which is untrue and my life has been plunged into a nightmare as a result. I'm hoping that in the next few weeks truth will prevail and the lies that have been told will be exposed for what they are.
It is at times such as these that friends really prove their worth and I'm lucky to have so many who have stood by me.
As ever I can also turn to the written word for solace. So here's a little more from Under Milk Wood. The wonder of this long poem is that every bit works and any piece from it can stand as an example of how joyous words can be.
At random then...
First Voice.
And in Willy Nilly the Postman's dark and sizzling
damp tea-coated misty pygmy kitchen where the
spittingcat kettles throb and hop on the range, Mrs
Willy Nilly steams open Mr Mog Edwards' letter to
Miss Myfanwy Price and reads it aloud to Willy
Nilly by the squint of the Spring Sun through the one
sealed window running with tears, while the drugged,
bedraggled hens at the back door whimper and snivel
for the lickerish bog-black tea.
Under Milk Wood is best read aloud if you want to experience the heady mix of words and sounds. The BBC have a brilliant production with Richard Burton narrating and if there is such a thing as literary heaven on this earth then it is to be found here. This poem cheers me up, it restores my faith.
It is at times such as these that friends really prove their worth and I'm lucky to have so many who have stood by me.
As ever I can also turn to the written word for solace. So here's a little more from Under Milk Wood. The wonder of this long poem is that every bit works and any piece from it can stand as an example of how joyous words can be.
At random then...
First Voice.
And in Willy Nilly the Postman's dark and sizzling
damp tea-coated misty pygmy kitchen where the
spittingcat kettles throb and hop on the range, Mrs
Willy Nilly steams open Mr Mog Edwards' letter to
Miss Myfanwy Price and reads it aloud to Willy
Nilly by the squint of the Spring Sun through the one
sealed window running with tears, while the drugged,
bedraggled hens at the back door whimper and snivel
for the lickerish bog-black tea.
Under Milk Wood is best read aloud if you want to experience the heady mix of words and sounds. The BBC have a brilliant production with Richard Burton narrating and if there is such a thing as literary heaven on this earth then it is to be found here. This poem cheers me up, it restores my faith.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Here's a bit of Billy Blake...
to get me back into blog mode.
The following poem was first published by William Blake in 1794 as part of his Songs of Experience collection. Its subject is the terrible majesty of industrialisation and of nature and of people bowed under change. It is of little surprise that the Songs of Experience was published only five years after the French Revolution of 1789 and during a decade of repression in Britain that arose from fear amongst the rich and powerful of revolution here. So astonishing is this poem that it can be applied 300 years on to what is happening in China as we speak, can still be applied to heartless capitalism everywhere.
The Tyger.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forest of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame they fearful symmetry?
The following poem was first published by William Blake in 1794 as part of his Songs of Experience collection. Its subject is the terrible majesty of industrialisation and of nature and of people bowed under change. It is of little surprise that the Songs of Experience was published only five years after the French Revolution of 1789 and during a decade of repression in Britain that arose from fear amongst the rich and powerful of revolution here. So astonishing is this poem that it can be applied 300 years on to what is happening in China as we speak, can still be applied to heartless capitalism everywhere.
The Tyger.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies,
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forest of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame they fearful symmetry?
Saturday, November 12, 2005
News today is that Goliath did...
exist! Or at least that's according to some nutty archeologist currently suffering from Trench Foot in the ancient Philistine city of Gath, in Israel. A shard of pottery has been found with Goliath's name on it, actually it was the letter G but lets not quibble about minor details. Already excitement is growing amongst Goliath's descendents that an historical wrong is about to be put right. The real truth which until now has remained hidden from history (a la the Da Vinci Code), they hope may soon become evident. It seems Goliath was really a quiet unassuming kind of guy who loved his dog and one day David, or Idiot as an earlier shard describes him killed the dog and ate it. Now David, also known as David the blind (from an even earlier shard) thought the dog a sheep and so he smote it down. Goliath went to remonstrate and David thinking a large baboon was loose in his front parlour thus also smote Goliath. There was the usual cover up and the rest, as they say, is history. My own feeling is that one has to be careful with Philistine artifacts given that these were a remarkably ignorant people, the original Philistines in fact. However I have seen a photograph of said shard and you can see the G scratched just above the image of a dog being turned on a spit by a baboon. The baboon is portrayed receiving instructions from some no eyed chap holding what looks like a Martini (with silverskin onion) so it must be true. The current day Goliaths (Christian fundamentalists to a man and woman) have released a press statement denying baboons have been ever been part of their family line. Meanwhile David's descendents shake their heads and readily agree their forebear was an idiot adding that not only could David not tell his arse from his elbow but he struggled with the difference between an onion and an olive, to their eternal shame. From the dark times of David's original faux pas to the present day his embarrassed family have been forced to avoid the great cocktail bars of history. Goliath's family on the other hand moved to what was to become the US where they too have sought to avoid something great, in this case the theory of evolution. Indeed it is on such things that history sometimes turns.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
The other day...
I was driving past a long fence that borders an industrial estate. Inside the fence was a factory of some kind or other. A strip of mown grass lay between the fence and public footpath. Halfway along this fence which ran for a mile or so sat a black cat looking pretty pleased with itself. I wonder what that was about?
Monday, October 31, 2005
How cool is...
this? I've bought a mini ipod, I know, I know, it may seem like I'm a slave to fashion but it is pretty smooth and groovy and the sound quality, well! I've also got a copy of Salif Keita's latest album M'Bemba and this afternoon was driving through deepest East Manchester (the ipod is to cheer myself up because my posh Ford cd player is buggered and Ford have told me to throw it away cos they no longer make them even though it's only three years old and was a pretty mean machine, yada yada yada)... anyway, there I was driving on a busy main road traffic to the left and right of me and heading east when from behind the setting sun lit the whole area. The music of Mali giving it what for in my head and everything suffused in a deep golden hue was mind bogglingly stunning. A quarter mile in front traffic crossed at a junction, white vans, red cars, silver vehicles, a large truck and trailer, an orange double decker bus whose windows flashed like they were on fire, all were picked out by the late afternoon sun. It was as if a beautiful necklace of huge stones passed in front of me and then was gone.
Such a lovely higlight in an otherwise crap day.
Such a lovely higlight in an otherwise crap day.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
All the students...
are returning to college. I was in Bangor, North Wales over the weekend and a tad under the influence. As I walked Bangor's mean streets with my mate a little worse for the wear I was struck by the number of adults with teenage offspring in tow. At first I thought it odd so many teenagers out with their mum and dad until it dawned that last week was freshers week at the university. Awww. Anxious parents trailing their offspring wondering where the previous eighteen years has gone, worrying about Tarquin or Jemima but more likely Baz and Mopsy after all this is Bangor. Many of the parents looked grey due no doubt to an overactive imagination seared with images of drug fueled orgies all night clubbing and vomit. You can tell the newies because, a) their clothes are clean; b) they look anxious; c) they laugh inappropriately, like in shops and stuff; d) their clothes are clean. My view is that freshers always look like freshers until they're not, such as when they return a battle scarred second years. Experience is a grubby business which is why the innocent are always clean and this rule applies especially to students. Despite this I still find something positive about freshers, maybe they remind me of the Spring and renewal I really don't know. Maybe I like the fact that they're about to embark on a FUCKING TOP TIME that will last three whole years. Am I jealous? Nah, been there done that moved on. Nevertheless it was good. Bless em.
I may return to student shennanigans in a later blog.
I may return to student shennanigans in a later blog.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Can I be the only one...
to notice Benedict the Umpteenth has become sponsored? The embroidered badges and sown on logos were a bit of a giveaway but it didn't really click until I looked at today's list of newly ensainted saints. When I was young the minimum criteria for saintdom (and I mean minimum) were: be dead at least a thousand years plus your death had to have been particularly unpleasant. You know the sort of thing, hot poker up the bum, tongs in the gizzard, something involving a wrench. In my catholic youth Saints were tough cookies, they were no nonsense don't fuck with me sorts. Adorning the various churches I frequented as a child were statues, representations in stone of these heroes, and everyone with a scar, a five o'clock shadow, reddened knuckles, even the women saints looked like bag men for the Mob. These were the type who laughed in the face of torture, spat in the eye of fear, wiped snot on the cuff of destiny, they died for what they believed. So it comes as a bit of a shock to learn it's now possible to sponsor a Saint. Of the five ensainted today three are supported by drugs companies, one by nuclear power and one by an unnamed cartel from Bogota. Never one to miss a trick the companies want some return for their investment so, as they say, everything really is in the name. Apparently Saint Exlaxica will become known as an efficacious treatment for all things relating to innards (her award winning logo "And Nothing Shall Linger" is seen by the industry as a marvel of brevity) Saint Viag of Ara speaks for itself and dying him blue was a nice touch and it seems cobalt does come off with vigorous scrubbing; Saint Beelzibub of the Black Lung I think demonstrates a tobacco industry still out of touch with public opinion. I did like Saint Radiumumhum represented as a small glowing child able to manage the average family's heating, lighting and contraceptive needs. Finally Benny the U should do something about the talc on his upper lip, it is not becoming especially when declaring Saint Charles of Medelin as the only one who didn't like either dogs or people with obvious colds.
So that was it today for Catholicism and sponsorship. Looking at some of the early rushes for the morning's press I see that George Bush has floated the idea of sponsoring hurricanes. No more Wilma and Katrina, nope if the Republicans get their way hurricanes are to be branded like everything else. Imagine it, Coca Cola did this? Wow! Or in an attempt at the teenage vote, 'Pepsi? Damage teeth? Psshht! You should see what it can do to your neighbourhood." Anything under category three is to be reclassified as Lite.
So that was it today for Catholicism and sponsorship. Looking at some of the early rushes for the morning's press I see that George Bush has floated the idea of sponsoring hurricanes. No more Wilma and Katrina, nope if the Republicans get their way hurricanes are to be branded like everything else. Imagine it, Coca Cola did this? Wow! Or in an attempt at the teenage vote, 'Pepsi? Damage teeth? Psshht! You should see what it can do to your neighbourhood." Anything under category three is to be reclassified as Lite.
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