Any band who allows the Halifax to use their music in their rubbish adverts should be taken out, put up against a wall and shot.
That means you, The Lightning Seeds. Shame on you you, you corporate prostitutes!
I hope you are proud of your thirty pieces of silver.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Through the ages to tea-pots.
Through the ages to tea-pots
Chapter One.
Tea-pots came to prominence in the early days of Presbyterianism, Catholics preferring to just brew nettles in their cupped hands, behind a hedge, so oppressed were they by the evil British Empire.
When the famine really hit home, and there were no potatoes to be had at any price, Iris Robinson famously announced, “Let them eat tea-pots.”
Telling them to spray the tubers with Dithane 945 might have been more helpful advice, but it must be borne in mind that these were the ould days, when people were stupid in the ways of science, believing that the world was only 6000 years old, and that gay people were wicked in some way.
While tea was invented in China or Japan (I can’t remember which, look it up in the World Book if you want to know) the tea-pot was invented in Swaziland, which despite sounding like a made up name, is actually a real country.
Early tea-pots were primitive affairs, nothing more than crudely fashioned clay pots with a handle and a spout.
Through time the tea-pot evolved into a highly sophisticated pot with a handle and a spout that dripped tea all over the table at a motorway service station.
Motorway service stations in the evil British Empire refuse to accept Isle of Man 5p coins, which seems petty and is rather annoying when you are parched and gasping for a cup of tea, mid-journey on the National Express from Manchester to Stranraer. The tea is inexplicably priced at £1.05p
Where do they get the people to work in these service stations? They are in the middle of nowhere. So these minimum-wage-niks must have to travel a long way to get to their mundane and unappreciated employment. This probably explains their belligerent stance vis a vis Isle of Man 5p coins.
Despite his various fanciful designs for war machines and a helicopter that didn’t work, Leonardo Da Vinci Code never invented a design for a tea-pot that didn’t drip all over the table. Who knows why? He was probably a Catholic or something.
Some people “collect” tea-pots, despite there being no reason for any sane person to own more than two. One for general, everyday personal use, and a larger more ostentatious model for when guests arrive unexpectedly, and require something hot and wet to counter-balance the dry, cold blandness of the plate of Marie biscuits you are obliged, as a hospitable host, to proffer on one of those ridiculous three tier plate thingies, complete with paper doilies, and perhaps the odd Nice biscuit, and a custard cream or two thrown in to suggest an ambience of opulence.
Americans, when in cafes or restaurants, or even in your own house, if you are unfortunate enough to have one of them as a guest, will stipulate that they want “hot” tea, as if you would otherwise serve them up with a cup of a two-day-old, stone-cold version of the beverage. This strange categorisation perhaps originates from the American predeliction for drinking tea cold, with ice. This, along with a fondness for nuclear weaponry and an inability to put an s on the end of the word “towards” are just several of the things we are forced to put up with when dealing with this insufferable and tedious race of people.
Tea-pots have fallen into decline in recent years, not least due to the tea-bag in general, and the “One-Cup” tea-bag in particular. This pernicious, some would say radical, development in tea technology, sparked the student riots in China, culminating in one young man standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square, saying, “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.” But in Chinese. Obviously. Otherwise the tank driver wouldn’t have understood him. Unless he spoke fluent English, of course, in which case he would probably have gone for a job as a translator in the offices of the Chinese Ambassador to English speaking countries, rather than driving a tank.
Picture the scene over cups of vile green tea and whatever the Chinese use that passes for biscuits:
So Mrs. Chinese woman, what does your son do?
He drives a tank.
How horridly, ghastlyly common!
Or:
So Mrs. Chinese woman, what does your son do?
Well, actually, he is a translator in the offices of the Chinese Ambassador to English speaking countries, by the way, don’t you know?
How impressively impressive. I am visibly impressed, and not a little envious, as my own son only works in a light-bulb factory.
The “One-Cup” is a miniature tea-bag with a string attached to a small piece of paper, usually emblazoned with an advertisement for the tea in question. The tea drinker is invited to “dunk” the bag in a cup of hot water, thereby foregoing the forlorn tea-pot altogether. Purists resent this practice to the point that a Buddhist monk set fire to himself in Saigon during the Vietnam War, in protest.
Autopsy reports suggest that the monk was wearing underwear whose cleanliness was “beyond reproach” adding yet more dignity, if any were needed, to the cause he wished to high-light.
Today, it is to be noted, that President Obama uses a tea-pot on a day-to-day basis, and this policy is at the heart of his commitment to depose despots the world over, and to restore the economy.
Osama-Bin-Laden wouldn’t know a tea-pot if it fell on his turbaned, long-bearded head, in his luxury three bedroom cave, with an AK47 in the background. He drinks coffee.
Out-takes from Osama Bin Laden’s last tape (like anyone uses tapes anymore. The guy is so obviously biccies).
Where’s the tea-pot?
What are you looking for?
The tea-pot.
What are you looking for?
The tea-pot. It’s like a little clay pot with a handle and a spout they give to waitresses.
Well you’re never going to find it in this mess. I told you to tidy this cave up months ago. Why don’t you keep it in a place where you know where it is?
I don’t know. Stop bothering me.
Well you’re never going to find it now, and while you’re looking, that girl is going to die on our carpet.
We don’t have a carpet.
That girl is going to die on our sand.
...
OK. You’re giving her a cup of tea. She’s English, so she might want milk and sugar.
Does it have to be exact?
Yes! You’re giving her a cup of tea, and she’s English, so I think it has to be pretty f***ing exact!
You pour the milk.
I’m not pouring the milk.
You’re pouring the milk. I’ve never done this before.
I’ve never done this before either. You’re pouring the milk. The time I bring some pooped up bitch to your house, I’m pouring the milk. You’re pouring the milk.
Is that enough?
I don’t know. I don’t know how milky she likes it.
That’s enough, just pop a couple of lumps of sugar in there and get on with it. We’re losing her.
What’s going to happen?
I don’t know. I’m kind of curious myself.
What? Am I going to kill her?
No. She’s supposed to come out of it just like that...
OK. Count to three.
ONE..
TWO..
THREE!
...
Oh, I say old stick, this tea is rather ghastly. Don’t you have any Earl Grey?
If you’re OK, say ,”Jolly hockey-sticks.”
“Jolly hockey-sticks!”
That was trippy!
Chapter One.
Tea-pots came to prominence in the early days of Presbyterianism, Catholics preferring to just brew nettles in their cupped hands, behind a hedge, so oppressed were they by the evil British Empire.
When the famine really hit home, and there were no potatoes to be had at any price, Iris Robinson famously announced, “Let them eat tea-pots.”
Telling them to spray the tubers with Dithane 945 might have been more helpful advice, but it must be borne in mind that these were the ould days, when people were stupid in the ways of science, believing that the world was only 6000 years old, and that gay people were wicked in some way.
While tea was invented in China or Japan (I can’t remember which, look it up in the World Book if you want to know) the tea-pot was invented in Swaziland, which despite sounding like a made up name, is actually a real country.
Early tea-pots were primitive affairs, nothing more than crudely fashioned clay pots with a handle and a spout.
Through time the tea-pot evolved into a highly sophisticated pot with a handle and a spout that dripped tea all over the table at a motorway service station.
Motorway service stations in the evil British Empire refuse to accept Isle of Man 5p coins, which seems petty and is rather annoying when you are parched and gasping for a cup of tea, mid-journey on the National Express from Manchester to Stranraer. The tea is inexplicably priced at £1.05p
Where do they get the people to work in these service stations? They are in the middle of nowhere. So these minimum-wage-niks must have to travel a long way to get to their mundane and unappreciated employment. This probably explains their belligerent stance vis a vis Isle of Man 5p coins.
Despite his various fanciful designs for war machines and a helicopter that didn’t work, Leonardo Da Vinci Code never invented a design for a tea-pot that didn’t drip all over the table. Who knows why? He was probably a Catholic or something.
Some people “collect” tea-pots, despite there being no reason for any sane person to own more than two. One for general, everyday personal use, and a larger more ostentatious model for when guests arrive unexpectedly, and require something hot and wet to counter-balance the dry, cold blandness of the plate of Marie biscuits you are obliged, as a hospitable host, to proffer on one of those ridiculous three tier plate thingies, complete with paper doilies, and perhaps the odd Nice biscuit, and a custard cream or two thrown in to suggest an ambience of opulence.
Americans, when in cafes or restaurants, or even in your own house, if you are unfortunate enough to have one of them as a guest, will stipulate that they want “hot” tea, as if you would otherwise serve them up with a cup of a two-day-old, stone-cold version of the beverage. This strange categorisation perhaps originates from the American predeliction for drinking tea cold, with ice. This, along with a fondness for nuclear weaponry and an inability to put an s on the end of the word “towards” are just several of the things we are forced to put up with when dealing with this insufferable and tedious race of people.
Tea-pots have fallen into decline in recent years, not least due to the tea-bag in general, and the “One-Cup” tea-bag in particular. This pernicious, some would say radical, development in tea technology, sparked the student riots in China, culminating in one young man standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square, saying, “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.” But in Chinese. Obviously. Otherwise the tank driver wouldn’t have understood him. Unless he spoke fluent English, of course, in which case he would probably have gone for a job as a translator in the offices of the Chinese Ambassador to English speaking countries, rather than driving a tank.
Picture the scene over cups of vile green tea and whatever the Chinese use that passes for biscuits:
So Mrs. Chinese woman, what does your son do?
He drives a tank.
How horridly, ghastlyly common!
Or:
So Mrs. Chinese woman, what does your son do?
Well, actually, he is a translator in the offices of the Chinese Ambassador to English speaking countries, by the way, don’t you know?
How impressively impressive. I am visibly impressed, and not a little envious, as my own son only works in a light-bulb factory.
The “One-Cup” is a miniature tea-bag with a string attached to a small piece of paper, usually emblazoned with an advertisement for the tea in question. The tea drinker is invited to “dunk” the bag in a cup of hot water, thereby foregoing the forlorn tea-pot altogether. Purists resent this practice to the point that a Buddhist monk set fire to himself in Saigon during the Vietnam War, in protest.
Autopsy reports suggest that the monk was wearing underwear whose cleanliness was “beyond reproach” adding yet more dignity, if any were needed, to the cause he wished to high-light.
Today, it is to be noted, that President Obama uses a tea-pot on a day-to-day basis, and this policy is at the heart of his commitment to depose despots the world over, and to restore the economy.
Osama-Bin-Laden wouldn’t know a tea-pot if it fell on his turbaned, long-bearded head, in his luxury three bedroom cave, with an AK47 in the background. He drinks coffee.
Out-takes from Osama Bin Laden’s last tape (like anyone uses tapes anymore. The guy is so obviously biccies).
Where’s the tea-pot?
What are you looking for?
The tea-pot.
What are you looking for?
The tea-pot. It’s like a little clay pot with a handle and a spout they give to waitresses.
Well you’re never going to find it in this mess. I told you to tidy this cave up months ago. Why don’t you keep it in a place where you know where it is?
I don’t know. Stop bothering me.
Well you’re never going to find it now, and while you’re looking, that girl is going to die on our carpet.
We don’t have a carpet.
That girl is going to die on our sand.
...
OK. You’re giving her a cup of tea. She’s English, so she might want milk and sugar.
Does it have to be exact?
Yes! You’re giving her a cup of tea, and she’s English, so I think it has to be pretty f***ing exact!
You pour the milk.
I’m not pouring the milk.
You’re pouring the milk. I’ve never done this before.
I’ve never done this before either. You’re pouring the milk. The time I bring some pooped up bitch to your house, I’m pouring the milk. You’re pouring the milk.
Is that enough?
I don’t know. I don’t know how milky she likes it.
That’s enough, just pop a couple of lumps of sugar in there and get on with it. We’re losing her.
What’s going to happen?
I don’t know. I’m kind of curious myself.
What? Am I going to kill her?
No. She’s supposed to come out of it just like that...
OK. Count to three.
ONE..
TWO..
THREE!
...
Oh, I say old stick, this tea is rather ghastly. Don’t you have any Earl Grey?
If you’re OK, say ,”Jolly hockey-sticks.”
“Jolly hockey-sticks!”
That was trippy!
Saturday, 7 August 2010
My bedroom
Just paying a bill
Hello!
And welcome to Virgin Media!
Just to let you know, you can now sign up to receive Virgin HD and upgrade your current package, ABSOLUTELY free. You can also.............................
About half an hour later...
We now have three options for you.
If you would just like to pay a bill, like you phoned us to do in the first place, press 1
If you would like to book a flight to the moon with Virgin Media, press 2
If you are now suffering from anger management issues just shout, "I ONLY PHONED UP TO PAY A BLOODY BILL, YOU ANNOYING, IF FRIENDLY SOUNDING, ROBOT WOMAN! PUT ME THROUGH TO A PERSON AND TAKE MY MONEY AWAY. THAT'S ALL I WANT TO DO!"
Then some music.
They actually ask you what kind of music you want to listen to while you are on hold.
For Pop, press 1
For Rock, press 2
For Easy listening, press 3
For Classical, press 4
For, "For goodness sake, just get on with it!" bash the handset against the main body of the phone and curse a lot.
Hello. I am Pooja. How can I help you?
I do have to say, when you finally get through to someone other than the robot woman, they are incredibly nice.
By the time I had paid my bill, I was seriously considering asking Pooja if she would like to go out for dinner with me some time.
But she probably lives in Bombay.
And welcome to Virgin Media!
Just to let you know, you can now sign up to receive Virgin HD and upgrade your current package, ABSOLUTELY free. You can also.............................
About half an hour later...
We now have three options for you.
If you would just like to pay a bill, like you phoned us to do in the first place, press 1
If you would like to book a flight to the moon with Virgin Media, press 2
If you are now suffering from anger management issues just shout, "I ONLY PHONED UP TO PAY A BLOODY BILL, YOU ANNOYING, IF FRIENDLY SOUNDING, ROBOT WOMAN! PUT ME THROUGH TO A PERSON AND TAKE MY MONEY AWAY. THAT'S ALL I WANT TO DO!"
Then some music.
They actually ask you what kind of music you want to listen to while you are on hold.
For Pop, press 1
For Rock, press 2
For Easy listening, press 3
For Classical, press 4
For, "For goodness sake, just get on with it!" bash the handset against the main body of the phone and curse a lot.
Hello. I am Pooja. How can I help you?
I do have to say, when you finally get through to someone other than the robot woman, they are incredibly nice.
By the time I had paid my bill, I was seriously considering asking Pooja if she would like to go out for dinner with me some time.
But she probably lives in Bombay.
Friday, 6 August 2010
But Photoshop
I was going to put together what I thought might be a vaguely humorous little rant about the various merits and drawbacks vis a vis Venn diagrams versus Pie charts, but Photoshop defied and thwarted me.
It informed me with the kind of adolescent cheek, that I consider should be dealt with a darned good thrashing, that it was unable to "parse" the file.
The impudence!
The arrogance!
The insubordination!
Well, as the the good father I am, I was forced to uninstall Photoshop from my computer and cast it into the wilderness, to contemplate the woe and shamefullness it had bestoed upon its merciful, benefactical father.
And, lo, it came to pass, that after a night out in the rain, there was Photoshop, soaked by the Holy rain of our Father, standing at my door, begging to be let in and to "parse" the file after all.
Like the loving parent that I am, I clicked OK.
And, lo, it came to pass that the file was parsed, and even though I don't know what parsing a file actually means, everything seems all right now.
Little Photoshop is tucked up in his hard drive, sleeping happily after I sung him Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep, and I'm off to my soft bed.
Nighty night.
It informed me with the kind of adolescent cheek, that I consider should be dealt with a darned good thrashing, that it was unable to "parse" the file.
The impudence!
The arrogance!
The insubordination!
Well, as the the good father I am, I was forced to uninstall Photoshop from my computer and cast it into the wilderness, to contemplate the woe and shamefullness it had bestoed upon its merciful, benefactical father.
And, lo, it came to pass, that after a night out in the rain, there was Photoshop, soaked by the Holy rain of our Father, standing at my door, begging to be let in and to "parse" the file after all.
Like the loving parent that I am, I clicked OK.
And, lo, it came to pass that the file was parsed, and even though I don't know what parsing a file actually means, everything seems all right now.
Little Photoshop is tucked up in his hard drive, sleeping happily after I sung him Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep, and I'm off to my soft bed.
Nighty night.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Midsomer Murders
Here is my theory about Midsomer Murders.
Every show has to be taken as a stand alone piece of drama.
If you view it as a series, it makes no sense.
For example.
A line from a recent episode had Bergerac sitting in a quaint little tea-shop with Troy, trying to thrash out the evidence of three murders inside a week, and the tea-shop lady came over and said, " I hope your investigations are going well Inspector Barnaby, because these murders are affecting our trade."
And you're thinking, like, you don't say.
At least five people get murdered there every day.
Picturesque as it is, I wouldn't go near the place if you payed me a million pounds.
But if it were to be viewed as a series, any sensible murderer would kill Barnaby/Bergerac first, before setting out on a killing spree, because he is always the one who catches them in the end.
Every show has to be taken as a stand alone piece of drama.
If you view it as a series, it makes no sense.
For example.
A line from a recent episode had Bergerac sitting in a quaint little tea-shop with Troy, trying to thrash out the evidence of three murders inside a week, and the tea-shop lady came over and said, " I hope your investigations are going well Inspector Barnaby, because these murders are affecting our trade."
And you're thinking, like, you don't say.
At least five people get murdered there every day.
Picturesque as it is, I wouldn't go near the place if you payed me a million pounds.
But if it were to be viewed as a series, any sensible murderer would kill Barnaby/Bergerac first, before setting out on a killing spree, because he is always the one who catches them in the end.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Scenario.
I don't know why. This just came to me.
Hello.
Hello.Where's my car?
Well, that's what I came to talk to you about.
Where's my car?
Well, that's what I came to talk to you about.
Where's my car?
I crashed it.
You crashed my car?
Yeah. I just hit a bump in the road and it swerved off and hit a tree.
You crashed my car into a tree?
Yeah. I'm really sorry.
YOU CRASHED MY CAR INTO A TREE?!
Yeah. I'm sorry.
You're sorry?
Yeah. I'm sorry I crashed your car.
Well that's just great. I'm really glad you're sorry you crashed my car into a tree.
There's no need to be sarcastic. It was an accident. It's not like I formed Nazi Germany and set about wiping the Jewish people off the face of the planet. All I did was accidentally crash your car into a tree.
Well, yes. I suppose when you put it like that, it's not such a big deal. I never liked that car anyway.
So we're cool?
Yeah, we're cool. Fancy a pint?
Hello.
Hello.Where's my car?
Well, that's what I came to talk to you about.
Where's my car?
Well, that's what I came to talk to you about.
Where's my car?
I crashed it.
You crashed my car?
Yeah. I just hit a bump in the road and it swerved off and hit a tree.
You crashed my car into a tree?
Yeah. I'm really sorry.
YOU CRASHED MY CAR INTO A TREE?!
Yeah. I'm sorry.
You're sorry?
Yeah. I'm sorry I crashed your car.
Well that's just great. I'm really glad you're sorry you crashed my car into a tree.
There's no need to be sarcastic. It was an accident. It's not like I formed Nazi Germany and set about wiping the Jewish people off the face of the planet. All I did was accidentally crash your car into a tree.
Well, yes. I suppose when you put it like that, it's not such a big deal. I never liked that car anyway.
So we're cool?
Yeah, we're cool. Fancy a pint?
Neil. Your lab's been testing bleaches for us 3. (3D?)
Neil.
What?
Your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
No we've actually been testing nuclear weapons. Oops! I don't think I was meant to say that.
What?
Your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
No we've actually been testing nuclear weapons. Oops! I don't think I was meant to say that.
Neil. Your lab's been testing bleaches for us 2.
Neil. Your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
Yeah, well it's a crappy job, but I need the money.
What were the results?
They're all the same. Bleach is bleach.
Yeah, well it's a crappy job, but I need the money.
What were the results?
They're all the same. Bleach is bleach.
Neil. Your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
Neil. Your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
Yes. And it's the most soul destroying horrible job I've ever had in my life!
I could have been somebody! I've got a Phd in biochemistry!
Yes Neil. Just stick to the script.
So. Neil your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
Yes. And my wife just ran away with another man.
Yes, but what were the results of the tests on the bleaches you were testing for us?
Then my dog ran away. I crashed my car and my house got re-possessed.
Then a volcano erupted and there was an earthquake!
Yes, Neil. This is an advert for bleach, not a blues song.
What about the bleaches Neil? We're only paying you to talk about the bleaches.
Oh, you mean which one killed germs longest in the lavatory?
Yes.
There was one overall winner.
Care to name it for us?
...No.
Yes. And it's the most soul destroying horrible job I've ever had in my life!
I could have been somebody! I've got a Phd in biochemistry!
Yes Neil. Just stick to the script.
So. Neil your lab's been testing bleaches for us.
Yes. And my wife just ran away with another man.
Yes, but what were the results of the tests on the bleaches you were testing for us?
Then my dog ran away. I crashed my car and my house got re-possessed.
Then a volcano erupted and there was an earthquake!
Yes, Neil. This is an advert for bleach, not a blues song.
What about the bleaches Neil? We're only paying you to talk about the bleaches.
Oh, you mean which one killed germs longest in the lavatory?
Yes.
There was one overall winner.
Care to name it for us?
...No.
Monday, 26 July 2010
Back in them days.
Do you remember the days when if you needed a job, you just located somewhere where you thought you would like to work and walked in and asked them if they needed anyone?
They said, well what can you do?
You said , well what do you need me to do?
They told you.
You said, I can do that.
Hey, Presto! You start tomorrow.
What should I wear?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Oh yes, we're all naturists here. The human body in all its glory is nothing to be ashamed of.
Yeah, I'd sort of noticed that. I think I might look for a job somewhere else.
Wait! Can you drive a fork-lift truck?
Yes.
Brilliant! We need someone who can drive a fork-lift truck.
And am I allowed to wear clothes while I'm doing it?
No.
Then no. I've just remembered that I don't know how to drive a fork-lift truck. Goodbye.
Ah them was the days all right!
I actually can drive a fork-lift truck. I've never done it naked, but in these dark days of recession I'd be willing to give it a go if the money was right.
They said, well what can you do?
You said , well what do you need me to do?
They told you.
You said, I can do that.
Hey, Presto! You start tomorrow.
What should I wear?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Oh yes, we're all naturists here. The human body in all its glory is nothing to be ashamed of.
Yeah, I'd sort of noticed that. I think I might look for a job somewhere else.
Wait! Can you drive a fork-lift truck?
Yes.
Brilliant! We need someone who can drive a fork-lift truck.
And am I allowed to wear clothes while I'm doing it?
No.
Then no. I've just remembered that I don't know how to drive a fork-lift truck. Goodbye.
Ah them was the days all right!
I actually can drive a fork-lift truck. I've never done it naked, but in these dark days of recession I'd be willing to give it a go if the money was right.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Packing up and leaving the festival.
I hate to compare our meagre plight with that of soldiers in the First World War, but these lines came to me as I awoke on the last day of the Donington festival. They are from Seigried Sassoon's poem, "Counter Attack."
We'd gained our first objective hours before
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes,
Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.
Things seemed all right at first. We held their line,
With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed,
And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench.
The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs
High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps;
And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,
Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;
And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,
Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime.
And then the rain began,--the jolly old rain!
Okay. We didn't have to post bombers and place Lewis guns, and we weren't in immediate danger of being shot or blown to pieces. But it was a grim sight we awoke to on that morning.
Abandoned tents, clothes, and remnants of food and litter of every description were scattered everywhere.
My brother said, "Come on. We have to get moving."
I said, "What am I going to wear?" as we had, we thought sensibly, taken all our possessions back to the the car the night before, not having forseen that we would get absolutely soaked by torrential rain.
"You'll just have to wear those." he said, and I literally started to cry as I pulled on a pair of trousers that looked like they had just been dipped in a river.
We packed up the tent and sleeping bags and began to trudge off through the Somme-like mud.
Then I was "Oh! Look. Someone's left some tins of beer behind."
I went to salvage them, and my brother said, "Come on. We don't have time for that."
I thought, is this really my brother? Maybe he was adopted or dropped on his head as a young child. This is free beer we're talking about here. We ALWAYS have time for that. So I grabbed a few cans and we made our way back to the car.
Endless praise must be heaped on my brother, as I slept through most of the journey and he drove us safely home.
After sorting out the tent and other equipment, I was never so glad in my life to see a bed.
I do have to say I enjoyed it immensely. But NEVER AGAIN!
We're getting too old for that.
We'd gained our first objective hours before
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes,
Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.
Things seemed all right at first. We held their line,
With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed,
And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench.
The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs
High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps;
And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,
Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;
And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,
Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime.
And then the rain began,--the jolly old rain!
Okay. We didn't have to post bombers and place Lewis guns, and we weren't in immediate danger of being shot or blown to pieces. But it was a grim sight we awoke to on that morning.
Abandoned tents, clothes, and remnants of food and litter of every description were scattered everywhere.
My brother said, "Come on. We have to get moving."
I said, "What am I going to wear?" as we had, we thought sensibly, taken all our possessions back to the the car the night before, not having forseen that we would get absolutely soaked by torrential rain.
"You'll just have to wear those." he said, and I literally started to cry as I pulled on a pair of trousers that looked like they had just been dipped in a river.
We packed up the tent and sleeping bags and began to trudge off through the Somme-like mud.
Then I was "Oh! Look. Someone's left some tins of beer behind."
I went to salvage them, and my brother said, "Come on. We don't have time for that."
I thought, is this really my brother? Maybe he was adopted or dropped on his head as a young child. This is free beer we're talking about here. We ALWAYS have time for that. So I grabbed a few cans and we made our way back to the car.
Endless praise must be heaped on my brother, as I slept through most of the journey and he drove us safely home.
After sorting out the tent and other equipment, I was never so glad in my life to see a bed.
I do have to say I enjoyed it immensely. But NEVER AGAIN!
We're getting too old for that.
Back in Black.
Okay. Now I'm back, and I am in black. I even changed my underpants and socks to ensure I would be totally in black, despite the fact that I had only been wearing them for a week and they didn't smell too bad.
That's how committed I am to be "Back in Black".
Because....
That is topical to the rant I am about to embark on.
My brother made me go to the Download festival at Castle Donington, probably remembered better by most people as Monsters of Rock.
The headline act were AC/DC.
First thing. I did a fair bit of walking about while we were there, and I never once saw a castle. So that was a rip-off straight away.
Next, when we got there they put this wristband on you that was impossible to remove (I'm still wearing it). I mean they might as well have issued you with a stripey pair of pyjamas with a six pointed star on them.
Then you went into what amounted to nothing more than a big field where you were expected to live for three days. To make matters worse, the big field was covered with people you didn't like.
And I mean covered. They were everywhere. The furthest away you could get from them was about 300mm.
They all seemed to be determined never to sleep, and to shout as loudly as possible in the middle of the night.
If I wasn't a pacifist, someone might have got hit.
Now here comes my AA Gill of the Sunday Times bit...
The food was utterly ghastly. Four pounds for a burger that looked like it wasn't particularly good to begin with, but had then been reversed over by a lorry.
More and more people appeared. The distance you were able to keep from them decreased to about 10mm.
Now, I rather naively, not having been to a festival before, thought that you would get out of your tent, and
there the bands would be.
How wrong I was. We had to walk so far that I was beginning to suspect that the show might actually be in a different country to the one we were camping in.
But we eventually got there, and after being practically strip-searched by nazis, they let us in to an area where the food was even more appalling and if you wanted a paper cup of beer you had to go through a process that was worse than USA immigration after September the Eleventh.
The organisers had obviously decided that everyone would like to listen to GWOAR! music early in the afternoon. So on came a succession of bands I had never heard of who played their guitars at a million miles an hour while someone who was clearly demented screamed unintelligable nonsense into a microphone. All well and good if you like that sort of thing, which I do, but I noticed some of the audience with looks of consternation on their faces, as if to say, "What's this?"
Finally, though, AC/DC came on, to a stage of their own construction, and made all the bad things go away.
I'm not even going to try to describe how good they were.
Then there were fireworks at the end and the march back to Auschwitz.
On the second day, after no sleep, due to the people I didn't like, who shouted at the top of their voices all night, I made a decision to break open some wine we had brought, and get roaring drunk. However, after a glass and a half, I abandoned this idea, as my brother surfaced from the tent and the idea came to me that it might be better to get out of this hell-hole and go to a nice little pub we had seen on our way in. It was walking distance away and looked like it might do food.
So this we did, and we we had a really nice lunch that hadn't been reversed over by a lorry, and the landlord and landlady, and the waiting staff were all really pleasant, and it was a nice break from the horror...the horror!
But we had to go back. I wanted to watch Rage Against the Machine that night.
My brother said he had never heard of them, but I suppose that's because he never went to art college in the mid-nineties, and he's a bit right wing.
You would think he would have known what to expect from a band called "Rage Against the Machine", but even I was shocked at the sight of a girl who can't have been more than six years old, sitting on her dad's shoulders giving a Black Power salute, and shouting, "FUCK YOU i WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!"
Modern parenting in action there, I suppose.
The last day came with the inevitable festival rain and mud, and us being middle-aged light-weights, we decided to retire to the tent for a couple of leisurely beers, on the grounds that we would have liked to see Motorhead and Aerosmith, but we didn't want to catch pneumonia doing it.
There's more to come on this subject, namely our packing up and leaving the site, but I think I will leave that for another time.
PS. When I said my brother is a bit right wing, I don't mean he's like a nazi or anything. He's just not a Pinko disestablishmentarianist like I am. In fact you could almost say he is an antidisestablishmentarianist, which is, by the way, the longest word in the dictionary.
That's how committed I am to be "Back in Black".
Because....
That is topical to the rant I am about to embark on.
My brother made me go to the Download festival at Castle Donington, probably remembered better by most people as Monsters of Rock.
The headline act were AC/DC.
First thing. I did a fair bit of walking about while we were there, and I never once saw a castle. So that was a rip-off straight away.
Next, when we got there they put this wristband on you that was impossible to remove (I'm still wearing it). I mean they might as well have issued you with a stripey pair of pyjamas with a six pointed star on them.
Then you went into what amounted to nothing more than a big field where you were expected to live for three days. To make matters worse, the big field was covered with people you didn't like.
And I mean covered. They were everywhere. The furthest away you could get from them was about 300mm.
They all seemed to be determined never to sleep, and to shout as loudly as possible in the middle of the night.
If I wasn't a pacifist, someone might have got hit.
Now here comes my AA Gill of the Sunday Times bit...
The food was utterly ghastly. Four pounds for a burger that looked like it wasn't particularly good to begin with, but had then been reversed over by a lorry.
More and more people appeared. The distance you were able to keep from them decreased to about 10mm.
Now, I rather naively, not having been to a festival before, thought that you would get out of your tent, and
there the bands would be.
How wrong I was. We had to walk so far that I was beginning to suspect that the show might actually be in a different country to the one we were camping in.
But we eventually got there, and after being practically strip-searched by nazis, they let us in to an area where the food was even more appalling and if you wanted a paper cup of beer you had to go through a process that was worse than USA immigration after September the Eleventh.
The organisers had obviously decided that everyone would like to listen to GWOAR! music early in the afternoon. So on came a succession of bands I had never heard of who played their guitars at a million miles an hour while someone who was clearly demented screamed unintelligable nonsense into a microphone. All well and good if you like that sort of thing, which I do, but I noticed some of the audience with looks of consternation on their faces, as if to say, "What's this?"
Finally, though, AC/DC came on, to a stage of their own construction, and made all the bad things go away.
I'm not even going to try to describe how good they were.
Then there were fireworks at the end and the march back to Auschwitz.
On the second day, after no sleep, due to the people I didn't like, who shouted at the top of their voices all night, I made a decision to break open some wine we had brought, and get roaring drunk. However, after a glass and a half, I abandoned this idea, as my brother surfaced from the tent and the idea came to me that it might be better to get out of this hell-hole and go to a nice little pub we had seen on our way in. It was walking distance away and looked like it might do food.
So this we did, and we we had a really nice lunch that hadn't been reversed over by a lorry, and the landlord and landlady, and the waiting staff were all really pleasant, and it was a nice break from the horror...the horror!
But we had to go back. I wanted to watch Rage Against the Machine that night.
My brother said he had never heard of them, but I suppose that's because he never went to art college in the mid-nineties, and he's a bit right wing.
You would think he would have known what to expect from a band called "Rage Against the Machine", but even I was shocked at the sight of a girl who can't have been more than six years old, sitting on her dad's shoulders giving a Black Power salute, and shouting, "FUCK YOU i WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!"
Modern parenting in action there, I suppose.
The last day came with the inevitable festival rain and mud, and us being middle-aged light-weights, we decided to retire to the tent for a couple of leisurely beers, on the grounds that we would have liked to see Motorhead and Aerosmith, but we didn't want to catch pneumonia doing it.
There's more to come on this subject, namely our packing up and leaving the site, but I think I will leave that for another time.
PS. When I said my brother is a bit right wing, I don't mean he's like a nazi or anything. He's just not a Pinko disestablishmentarianist like I am. In fact you could almost say he is an antidisestablishmentarianist, which is, by the way, the longest word in the dictionary.
I'm back!
But I'm not in black. I'm wearing green trousers and a blue and white checked shirt. Hang on. I'll go and change...
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Chess
You have to realise this is a one minute game. He has more time than I do at this stage. But I horse in and threaten his queen.
He does what most people do when their queen is threatened, and moves her out of the way.
Allowing my queen to steam in there and it's check-mate with 3 seconds to spare. This is more exciting than the World Cup!
Monday, 28 June 2010
Muraly stuff
There's Ballyclare Town Hall. That's part of the mural.
There's the end of it. That's the end of the mural there.
There's some marathon runners. There they are now, running along there. Look at the wheelchair competitor. A nice politically correct touch there, I thought.
Trees. There's some trees. Some trees there.
There's the marathon runners again. One man seems to have strayed off the path a bit. Not quite sure what's going on there. I maybe painted that on a Monday morning or a Friday afternoon. Not sure. There's the Mourne mountains at the top left. Look at them there, sweeping down to the sea there.
There's Swans. Those are swans there. And a train. And the Cave Hill. And more marathon runners.
There they are there going round the corner. I had to use a bit of artistic licence at this point, because it doesn't actually look like this in reality, but I got around it, by using a device we artists call "making things up". Artists are able to do that because they are incredibly clever. That's why I'm an artist, and you're not. You just do whatever stupid thing it is that you do. Because you're not an artist. Like me.
Here's another bit near the end. That's the Holestone. I know what you're thinking. That stone must be pretty big. It's as big as the town hall! But you'd be wrong, due to your stupidity and lack of a third level educational qualification in an art based subject. The reason the Holestone appears to be so big is due to a concept we artists like to refer to as "perspective". It would probably be hard to explain this theory to most simpletons, but it is basically that things that are close to you look bigger than things that are further away.
You might need to go to art college for at least four years to fully grasp this complex idea, so I won't even try to start explaining to you.
Right. This is just me showing off. Look at the length of that tunnel. It's at least a mile long. And I painted it all by myself. And not just one side. The other side too. And I never caught siphilus or got bitten by a big dog while I was doing it. Which was quite an acheivement, I think.
There's Sentry Hill there. Look at it there. There it is.
Sunday, 27 June 2010
Well. England there.
Trevor Brooking. Your thoughts.
"Well, obviously shite."
Alan Hansen?
"You have to agree with Trevor, there, they were shite. And onions."
Wise words there from our panel of experts.
Let's look again at some of the highlights of how shite England actually were.
Terry plays the ball through to Rooney, who just kicks it aimlessly in no particular direction, like a big useless cock. Harry Rednap. Your thoughts.
"Well Gary, I know I look like a man who has been drinking whiskey constantly for about a decade or two, but even I have to say they were unbelievably poor."
Thanks for that Harry. Let's go over now to Fabrianno Accapella to hear what that wanker has to say for himself.
Oh, we won't be able to bring you that interview. Cappello has been sacked.
Wayne Rooney, who did the square root of feck all throughout the tournament was also unavailable to make any intelligent comment.
Steven Gerard said," Ehhh? Ehhh?You know what I mean like? You know what I mean like?"
To which our reporter replied, "No. I don't know what you mean. Like."
Well, at least they qualified, which is more than Scotland, Wales, and the Irelands north and south can say for themselves.
"Well, obviously shite."
Alan Hansen?
"You have to agree with Trevor, there, they were shite. And onions."
Wise words there from our panel of experts.
Let's look again at some of the highlights of how shite England actually were.
Terry plays the ball through to Rooney, who just kicks it aimlessly in no particular direction, like a big useless cock. Harry Rednap. Your thoughts.
"Well Gary, I know I look like a man who has been drinking whiskey constantly for about a decade or two, but even I have to say they were unbelievably poor."
Thanks for that Harry. Let's go over now to Fabrianno Accapella to hear what that wanker has to say for himself.
Oh, we won't be able to bring you that interview. Cappello has been sacked.
Wayne Rooney, who did the square root of feck all throughout the tournament was also unavailable to make any intelligent comment.
Steven Gerard said," Ehhh? Ehhh?You know what I mean like? You know what I mean like?"
To which our reporter replied, "No. I don't know what you mean. Like."
Well, at least they qualified, which is more than Scotland, Wales, and the Irelands north and south can say for themselves.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Nostalgia
Do you remember when people used to make compilation tapes for each other?
It was usually a girlfriendy boyfriendy sort of thing, but when I was in Manchester, myself and my friend, Murdoch, used to make compilation cassettes, if for no other reason than to try to outdo each other with the stupid titles and cover illustrations we could come up with for them.
I sent Murd "Rowdy Howdy". On the rowdy side was Death Metal. On the howdy side was Country and Western.
He sent back, "Even the vegetables screamed!", which was a horrendous mixture of unlistenable Grind-core nonsense, and a million beats per second dance music.
I sent back "Saturday night/Sunday morning". One side featured the kind of music that could peel paint off your walls. Basically a few guys beating musical instruments with a brick, while some Neanderthal screams insane nonsense into a microphone in a language no-one understands. Just what you want on a Saturday night. The Sunday morning side was all dreamy trippy-hippy stuff, you know, like Melanie, and the Mamas and the Papas. That kind of thing.
Then Murdoch delivered the coup de gras.
I can't remember any of the music on the tape, but I will never forget the title he gave it.
"Smell your Granny, she's boggin'!"
It was usually a girlfriendy boyfriendy sort of thing, but when I was in Manchester, myself and my friend, Murdoch, used to make compilation cassettes, if for no other reason than to try to outdo each other with the stupid titles and cover illustrations we could come up with for them.
I sent Murd "Rowdy Howdy". On the rowdy side was Death Metal. On the howdy side was Country and Western.
He sent back, "Even the vegetables screamed!", which was a horrendous mixture of unlistenable Grind-core nonsense, and a million beats per second dance music.
I sent back "Saturday night/Sunday morning". One side featured the kind of music that could peel paint off your walls. Basically a few guys beating musical instruments with a brick, while some Neanderthal screams insane nonsense into a microphone in a language no-one understands. Just what you want on a Saturday night. The Sunday morning side was all dreamy trippy-hippy stuff, you know, like Melanie, and the Mamas and the Papas. That kind of thing.
Then Murdoch delivered the coup de gras.
I can't remember any of the music on the tape, but I will never forget the title he gave it.
"Smell your Granny, she's boggin'!"
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Start baking now!
Because if England actually win the World Cup, there will be a fierce demand among sport journalists for a large helping of humble pie.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Well done England.
They beat Slovenia. Slovenia.
They scored a crappy goal and then spent the last five minutes fecking about around the corner flag.
Top notch entertainment.
They are just about a football team.
Let's all just look forward to them getting knocked out on penalties in the quarter finals by Germany.
As usual.
They scored a crappy goal and then spent the last five minutes fecking about around the corner flag.
Top notch entertainment.
They are just about a football team.
Let's all just look forward to them getting knocked out on penalties in the quarter finals by Germany.
As usual.
Steven Gerrard's haircut.
Great goal by Dafoe!
What they didn't say was, my feckin' granny could have saved that. What was the goalkeeper thinking?
Normal? Who's normal?
Okay.
I once read an article in some magazine or something.
It said that the people you are sexually attracted to are a result of images that you were exposed to at the age of around seven. Seven is apparently the age when we start to become sexually aware.
The main body of evidence for this was that there are a large number of gas-mask fetishists among British people who grew up during the war, yet not many in America, where gas-masks were not issued so much at that time.
Sounds crazy.
But I am thinking there may be some truth in it.
You see, when I was about seven, my Mum used to buy this magazine called "Women's Own" , and I sometimes used to look at it.
There was an advert in it for a sort of a healthy fruit drink, called PLJ.
The advert featured a naked woman bending backwards with her arms above her head, in kind of a gymnast pose.
There was nothing pornographic or erotic about it, but she was naked, and I had never seen a naked woman before. It was fascinating to me.
The woman in the advert was of a fairly average build and she had quite small breasts.
I have always found that the women I find most attractive are of average build with quite small breasts.
So maybe there's something in it. If my Dad had read the Sun, I might be more attracted to busty blondes.
Can it really be that you will take someone to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until the day that you die, because they look similar to a photo you saw in a magazine when you were seven?
I once read an article in some magazine or something.
It said that the people you are sexually attracted to are a result of images that you were exposed to at the age of around seven. Seven is apparently the age when we start to become sexually aware.
The main body of evidence for this was that there are a large number of gas-mask fetishists among British people who grew up during the war, yet not many in America, where gas-masks were not issued so much at that time.
Sounds crazy.
But I am thinking there may be some truth in it.
You see, when I was about seven, my Mum used to buy this magazine called "Women's Own" , and I sometimes used to look at it.
There was an advert in it for a sort of a healthy fruit drink, called PLJ.
The advert featured a naked woman bending backwards with her arms above her head, in kind of a gymnast pose.
There was nothing pornographic or erotic about it, but she was naked, and I had never seen a naked woman before. It was fascinating to me.
The woman in the advert was of a fairly average build and she had quite small breasts.
I have always found that the women I find most attractive are of average build with quite small breasts.
So maybe there's something in it. If my Dad had read the Sun, I might be more attracted to busty blondes.
Can it really be that you will take someone to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until the day that you die, because they look similar to a photo you saw in a magazine when you were seven?
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
They certainly don't do it for the money.
Well, why pay them so much then?
I am sure top sport stars don't have money in mind when they start out, but it certainly seems to be having an influence on them now.
The Football World Cup is a good example.
You see, players don't get paid, as such, for representing their country. At least not in the same way their clubs pay them. And look at what happens. The french team in complete melt-down, the english players affronted that the fans are treating them with other than adulation when they perform like they just don't care.
One english player even turned down a place in the squad, saying he wanted to spend more time with his family.
I think maybe what he meant to say was, "What's in it for me?"
I am sure top sport stars don't have money in mind when they start out, but it certainly seems to be having an influence on them now.
The Football World Cup is a good example.
You see, players don't get paid, as such, for representing their country. At least not in the same way their clubs pay them. And look at what happens. The french team in complete melt-down, the english players affronted that the fans are treating them with other than adulation when they perform like they just don't care.
One english player even turned down a place in the squad, saying he wanted to spend more time with his family.
I think maybe what he meant to say was, "What's in it for me?"
Friday, 18 June 2010
Should
Schoud.
Shoud.
Should.
You know what you should have done? You should have spelt that word differently. It just doesn't look right to me.
Shoud.
Should.
You know what you should have done? You should have spelt that word differently. It just doesn't look right to me.
You know what you should do?
You know what you should do?
No. But I have a dreadful feeling you are about to tell me.
What I should do.
What should I do?
Well you should get a decent haircut for a start, and then you should blah blah blah, blah blah blah.
Well do you know what I think you should do?
I think you should go and take a flying fuck at a rolling donut.
That's all the advice I'm going to give to you.
No. But I have a dreadful feeling you are about to tell me.
What I should do.
What should I do?
Well you should get a decent haircut for a start, and then you should blah blah blah, blah blah blah.
Well do you know what I think you should do?
I think you should go and take a flying fuck at a rolling donut.
That's all the advice I'm going to give to you.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Fighting!
Briliant, isn't it? Nothing like a good fight.
But when did we realise that brutal violence was a better way to settle disputes than reasoned discussion?
History would perhaps suggest it was a fairly recent development. It has been suggested by some learned people that the Neanderthals died out because they lacked the power of speech, whereas we homosapiens survived because we had, in the words of every tedious job advertisement, excellent communication skills. So they were victims of natural selection because they they could only grunt or hit someone with a stick, while we developed the ability to say, " Could you pass me the salt?"
They had bigger brains than us, apparently.
Did we ever fight with the Neanderthals? Did we ever inter-breed with them? Nobody knows, but sometimes when I walk through Rathcoole, I suspect that we might have.
But back to the fighting. We are animals. The power of speech is not strong enough to make that go away.
Why do we fight?
Because we like it.
Go into any video shop and you will see they have a whole section dedicated to war movies. And most of the other movies will involve some sort of violence. And we respect violent people. They are strong, where people who are not good at being violent are seen as weak. Apart from maybe Gandi and Jesus.
Look at the world we live in. The highest honour a man can get is the Victoria Cross. You pretty much have to be in a war to get that little badge. And you have to be in it pretty deep. Single-handedly taking out machine gun nests and that sort of thing.
I recently single handedly painted a nice mural on a previously ugly tunnel under a motorway.
Now I don't expect the Victoria Cross for that. Maybe if I had been under constant sniper fire while I was doing it. But I wasn't.
The thing is, people don't have to be under threat of death to be heroes. Look at my Dad. His generation were thankfully spared a major war, but he brought up three balanced and successful children and me, while working tirelessly and imaginatively in a job he was brilliant at, without ever starting a fight with anyone.
Mind you, I did see Dad almost get in a fight once.
He was playing football at the time, and this big guy tried to start a fight with him. Dad gave as good has he got, and the big guy backed off.
Maybe it's okay to be a bit violent if you're provoked.
But when did we realise that brutal violence was a better way to settle disputes than reasoned discussion?
History would perhaps suggest it was a fairly recent development. It has been suggested by some learned people that the Neanderthals died out because they lacked the power of speech, whereas we homosapiens survived because we had, in the words of every tedious job advertisement, excellent communication skills. So they were victims of natural selection because they they could only grunt or hit someone with a stick, while we developed the ability to say, " Could you pass me the salt?"
They had bigger brains than us, apparently.
Did we ever fight with the Neanderthals? Did we ever inter-breed with them? Nobody knows, but sometimes when I walk through Rathcoole, I suspect that we might have.
But back to the fighting. We are animals. The power of speech is not strong enough to make that go away.
Why do we fight?
Because we like it.
Go into any video shop and you will see they have a whole section dedicated to war movies. And most of the other movies will involve some sort of violence. And we respect violent people. They are strong, where people who are not good at being violent are seen as weak. Apart from maybe Gandi and Jesus.
Look at the world we live in. The highest honour a man can get is the Victoria Cross. You pretty much have to be in a war to get that little badge. And you have to be in it pretty deep. Single-handedly taking out machine gun nests and that sort of thing.
I recently single handedly painted a nice mural on a previously ugly tunnel under a motorway.
Now I don't expect the Victoria Cross for that. Maybe if I had been under constant sniper fire while I was doing it. But I wasn't.
The thing is, people don't have to be under threat of death to be heroes. Look at my Dad. His generation were thankfully spared a major war, but he brought up three balanced and successful children and me, while working tirelessly and imaginatively in a job he was brilliant at, without ever starting a fight with anyone.
Mind you, I did see Dad almost get in a fight once.
He was playing football at the time, and this big guy tried to start a fight with him. Dad gave as good has he got, and the big guy backed off.
Maybe it's okay to be a bit violent if you're provoked.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
A dog in the street writes.
Today, after £200 million were spent, mostly on solicitors' fees, it was announced by a dog in the street that the Paratroop Regiment gunned down a load of people when they really shouldn't have on 30th January, 1972.
Hooray for Justice!
Hooray for Freedom!
I was too young to remember that, but I do remember the IRA killing a load of Paratroopers in Crossmaglen. Eighteen of them if I remember rightly, and some of them weren't much older than eighteen.
The murals and the gloating from the Republicans in the wake of this atrocity confused and sickened me.
Hooray for Justice!
Hooray for Freedom!
Hooray for Justice!
Hooray for Freedom!
I was too young to remember that, but I do remember the IRA killing a load of Paratroopers in Crossmaglen. Eighteen of them if I remember rightly, and some of them weren't much older than eighteen.
The murals and the gloating from the Republicans in the wake of this atrocity confused and sickened me.
Hooray for Justice!
Hooray for Freedom!
World Cup
Is that how they celebrate the beautiful game in South Africa?
By making your house sound like it is infected by a swarm of bees?
I personally won't be watching any more of it.
People who get paid more in a week than I earn in a year dribbling fairly unentertaining passes back and forward along the back four, and that bloody buzzing noise constantly, relentlessly microwaving your brain.
It kills the excitement of football.
The South Africans, like the Americans, obviously don't fully understand the game.
A constant din is just a constant din. The excitement in football is the ebb and flow of audience participation.
When your team scores, it's all, "You're not singing, you're not singing, you're not singing anymore!"
And when a shot goes close, or a goalie makes a good save, everyone goes, "Ooooh!"
And when a goal does eventually go in, everyone goes completely biccies, shouts at the top of their voice and hugs complete strangers.
That's half of what football is all about. If that atmosphere is drowned out by morons going, "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
" with crappy childrens' trumpets the whole way through the match, regardless of what is happening, that seems to me to defeat the whole purpose of watching football for pleasure.
Some of the best experiences I have had at football, are when one individual voice rings out.
I went to see Northern Ireland play Denmark once. Northern Ireland scored and we all went nuts for a minute or two.
Then Denmark equallized. There were a coach-load of Danish fans at the other side of the stadium, and they, fairly reasonably, started cheering and waving flags.
Then this big Belfast man about two rows back from us shouts, "Aye! Your fecking bus is on fire!"
Everyone laughed, because that is what football is all about.
I think some countries should be excluded. Because they just don't get it.
By making your house sound like it is infected by a swarm of bees?
I personally won't be watching any more of it.
People who get paid more in a week than I earn in a year dribbling fairly unentertaining passes back and forward along the back four, and that bloody buzzing noise constantly, relentlessly microwaving your brain.
It kills the excitement of football.
The South Africans, like the Americans, obviously don't fully understand the game.
A constant din is just a constant din. The excitement in football is the ebb and flow of audience participation.
When your team scores, it's all, "You're not singing, you're not singing, you're not singing anymore!"
And when a shot goes close, or a goalie makes a good save, everyone goes, "Ooooh!"
And when a goal does eventually go in, everyone goes completely biccies, shouts at the top of their voice and hugs complete strangers.
That's half of what football is all about. If that atmosphere is drowned out by morons going, "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
" with crappy childrens' trumpets the whole way through the match, regardless of what is happening, that seems to me to defeat the whole purpose of watching football for pleasure.
Some of the best experiences I have had at football, are when one individual voice rings out.
I went to see Northern Ireland play Denmark once. Northern Ireland scored and we all went nuts for a minute or two.
Then Denmark equallized. There were a coach-load of Danish fans at the other side of the stadium, and they, fairly reasonably, started cheering and waving flags.
Then this big Belfast man about two rows back from us shouts, "Aye! Your fecking bus is on fire!"
Everyone laughed, because that is what football is all about.
I think some countries should be excluded. Because they just don't get it.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
The Fear descends
It's not fear of flying. The actual flying part I don't mind. It's all the crap you have to go through beforehand.
I understand that security at airports is important and I suppose it's our own fault because it's so cheap now that you get herded like cattle.
I can still remember when air travel was considered pretty swanky, and the staff called you sir, and sounded vaguely like they meant it. And then you got loads of free stuff on the plane. Like tiny little tins of Coke, and tiny little bags of peanuts that you never saw anywhere else. It was like Gulliver's Travels.
Now it's just unpleasant and intimidating. I'm not much looking forward to it. Also I am flying to Gatwick, which has to be a candidate for the ugliest place on Earth.
But then we rock! (presuming I don't get mistaken for a terrorist and thrown into Guantanimo Bay )
I am quite pleased with my latest purchase. Millets are probably not best known for their comedy slogan tee shirts, but I was in there yesterday to buy a torch and there was a tee shirt with "YOUR TENT OR MINE?" which I thought was funny. I just hope when we get to the festival there aren't about a thousand other people wearing the same shirt.
I understand that security at airports is important and I suppose it's our own fault because it's so cheap now that you get herded like cattle.
I can still remember when air travel was considered pretty swanky, and the staff called you sir, and sounded vaguely like they meant it. And then you got loads of free stuff on the plane. Like tiny little tins of Coke, and tiny little bags of peanuts that you never saw anywhere else. It was like Gulliver's Travels.
Now it's just unpleasant and intimidating. I'm not much looking forward to it. Also I am flying to Gatwick, which has to be a candidate for the ugliest place on Earth.
But then we rock! (presuming I don't get mistaken for a terrorist and thrown into Guantanimo Bay )
I am quite pleased with my latest purchase. Millets are probably not best known for their comedy slogan tee shirts, but I was in there yesterday to buy a torch and there was a tee shirt with "YOUR TENT OR MINE?" which I thought was funny. I just hope when we get to the festival there aren't about a thousand other people wearing the same shirt.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Yes, Sir Alan
Right. Here's a man who looks like a chimpanzee. And as far as I can tell, despite what he thinks, he's about as intelligent as one. He invented the Amstrad computer. Which was rubbish. It took me two goes to pass my physics O' Level, and I think I could invent a better computer than the Amstrad.
I mean, who's still using an Amstrad?
I mean, who's still using an Amstrad?
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Okay. One more post today.
Because the tunnel is pretty much finished. Just one panel of it left to do, because it was drizzling rain all day and there's not much point in painting the wall when it's wet, because the paint just runs and you have to do it all over again.
I am looking at getting a digital camera, so expect some photos soon.
I am looking at getting a digital camera, so expect some photos soon.
Sorry to post so often today
But isn't Melvyn Bragg really annoying?
He has this way of asking a question that sort of suggests, "I obviously already know the answer to this because I'm so clever, but just for the benefit of our stupid listeners, would you care to expand on that point?"
And another really annoying thing on Radio 4 is the History of the World in 100 indescribably boring objects, described by indescribably boring people. And that music is doing my head in. Right. I'm away to finish painting the tunnel.
He has this way of asking a question that sort of suggests, "I obviously already know the answer to this because I'm so clever, but just for the benefit of our stupid listeners, would you care to expand on that point?"
And another really annoying thing on Radio 4 is the History of the World in 100 indescribably boring objects, described by indescribably boring people. And that music is doing my head in. Right. I'm away to finish painting the tunnel.
Wear pants. It makes sense
I got up yesterday, and I was running a bit late, so I was in a hurry getting dressed. I was looking around for some clothes, and I couldn't find a pair of pants. And I thought, "You know, I think I could just forgo pants today?"
It was a bad idea.
Pants are good. And going without them makes you feel a bit like you're only half dressed.
Well, today I am wearing pants. And they feel good.
It was a bad idea.
Pants are good. And going without them makes you feel a bit like you're only half dressed.
Well, today I am wearing pants. And they feel good.
Stop doing this
Now I don't want what I'm about to say to be misinterpreted. I respect older people. They won the war, which was fairly impressive, and we all appreciate that they did (apart from neo-Nazis).
But why are older people unconditionally entitled to things for free, which impacts on the rest of us?
For example, my Dad would be able to take the bus for nothing. Now, he doesn't. Because he has a very nice Mercedes car. I, on the other hand, don't have a very nice Mercedes car, but if I want to take the bus, it costs me £1.60.
The reason it costs me £1.60 is that half the people on the bus aren't paying for it. Now I assume this is somehow government subsidised, but there's nothing free unless you steal it, so we're all paying for it somewhere along the line.
Maybe older people should be encouraged to either own a nice Mercedes car, or just stay at home.
And here's another thing!
Right! (Rant alert)
They have a sign telling you to give up this seat for an elderly person. Aye, right. Even though you've paid for a ticket, you're expected to be prepared to stand up and allow someone who paid NOTHING to sit down? Is there any justice in this world?
But why are older people unconditionally entitled to things for free, which impacts on the rest of us?
For example, my Dad would be able to take the bus for nothing. Now, he doesn't. Because he has a very nice Mercedes car. I, on the other hand, don't have a very nice Mercedes car, but if I want to take the bus, it costs me £1.60.
The reason it costs me £1.60 is that half the people on the bus aren't paying for it. Now I assume this is somehow government subsidised, but there's nothing free unless you steal it, so we're all paying for it somewhere along the line.
Maybe older people should be encouraged to either own a nice Mercedes car, or just stay at home.
And here's another thing!
Right! (Rant alert)
They have a sign telling you to give up this seat for an elderly person. Aye, right. Even though you've paid for a ticket, you're expected to be prepared to stand up and allow someone who paid NOTHING to sit down? Is there any justice in this world?
Monday, 7 June 2010
Following Gerry's advice
Here's Gerry's advice.
"If you see a fly in your house, kill it straight away."
The thinking is, that if you kill them straight away they don't get an opportunity to breed, and then your house won't be full of them.
Sound advice there from your uncle Gerry.
"If you see a fly in your house, kill it straight away."
The thinking is, that if you kill them straight away they don't get an opportunity to breed, and then your house won't be full of them.
Sound advice there from your uncle Gerry.
shonen knife
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=astKY3mmDVI
I don't know how many of these girls you would go out on a date with, but I would personally go out with any of them.
This song is a bit dodgy though.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9RAbi2xEvo&NR=1
They supported Nirvana once. Kurt Cobain was a big fan, apparently.
I don't know how many of these girls you would go out on a date with, but I would personally go out with any of them.
This song is a bit dodgy though.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9RAbi2xEvo&NR=1
They supported Nirvana once. Kurt Cobain was a big fan, apparently.
Job Vacancy
I have a vacancy for a machine-gun nest operative. Duties will include sitting up all night and shooting anyone who grafittis my mural. Some digging and filling of shallow graves as required. Packet noodles, baked beans and a trangia stove will be supplied as part of an attractive salary package.
Apply in writing or in person.
Apply in writing or in person.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
This is really sad.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xRaVTKDipA
A man whose talent just fell apart. He seems like a really nice person, but something just went really wrong somewhere.
RIP Roger "Syd" Barrett.
RIP Roger "Syd" Barrett.
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Is it just me or is everyone sick of hearing about England and the World Cup already, even though it hasn't even started yet?
Let's just hope they get knocked out by Germany on penalties, like they usually do. Otherwise we will never hear the end of it.
Mural update
Yesterday was guest painter day down at the mural.
First off was a group of four young skateboarders. They did a bit.
Then two blokes came along and asked if they could get involved.
Then I saw two Chinese students and asked them if they would like to lend a hand.
They all signed their names on it, the Chinese girls writing theirs in Chinese script, which I think, lends a certain multi-cultural feel to the whole project.
Today I am going down there, but I suspect I am just going to paint the thing myself.
An occupation Damien Hirst would find alien.
First off was a group of four young skateboarders. They did a bit.
Then two blokes came along and asked if they could get involved.
Then I saw two Chinese students and asked them if they would like to lend a hand.
They all signed their names on it, the Chinese girls writing theirs in Chinese script, which I think, lends a certain multi-cultural feel to the whole project.
Today I am going down there, but I suspect I am just going to paint the thing myself.
An occupation Damien Hirst would find alien.
Friday, 4 June 2010
As if squatting wasn't enough.
When I lived in Manchester everyone squatted.
You were considered to be some kind of idiot if you actually paid rent for accommodation. All you had to do was find an unoccupied flat, and break in.
Not satisfiyed with that, we came up with a scheme to avoid paying the electricity bills.
When a bill came in, we would phone the electricity company and say, "I don't know who those people are. We've just moved in here last week."
They would say, " Oh, sorry. We'll issue you a new account. What's your name?"
So every time a bill came in we just repeated the same process, giving them a different name each time, and they fell for it every time.
And this is where it got funny.
I think we were the first people to do it, because we told them the house holder was Mr. Foo Man Choo.
They issued us with a card and we never paid a penny for our electricity.
Anyway. The word got around , and then everyone was doing it. And there was a sort of a competition to see who could come up with the most ridicuolous name.
My friend Murdoch always won. Among the names that he submitted were... Mr. Fhrr ( how do you spell that? ) and Mr. McGonagonagogal.
I swear I am not making this up.
We did this for a couple of years. I can't believe we got away with it.
You were considered to be some kind of idiot if you actually paid rent for accommodation. All you had to do was find an unoccupied flat, and break in.
Not satisfiyed with that, we came up with a scheme to avoid paying the electricity bills.
When a bill came in, we would phone the electricity company and say, "I don't know who those people are. We've just moved in here last week."
They would say, " Oh, sorry. We'll issue you a new account. What's your name?"
So every time a bill came in we just repeated the same process, giving them a different name each time, and they fell for it every time.
And this is where it got funny.
I think we were the first people to do it, because we told them the house holder was Mr. Foo Man Choo.
They issued us with a card and we never paid a penny for our electricity.
Anyway. The word got around , and then everyone was doing it. And there was a sort of a competition to see who could come up with the most ridicuolous name.
My friend Murdoch always won. Among the names that he submitted were... Mr. Fhrr ( how do you spell that? ) and Mr. McGonagonagogal.
I swear I am not making this up.
We did this for a couple of years. I can't believe we got away with it.
Artists can continue to make a very poor living with the exception of wonky faced Greek looking purveyors of what is, in most peoples opinion, a pile of Shoite.
That's basically true.
You can talk all your hoof-head bollocks about art that you like.
I spent today painting a tunnel. And am I expecting to win the Turner Prize for it?
No, I'm not. I'm getting a day's pay for a day's work.
That's art.
You can talk all your hoof-head bollocks about art that you like.
I spent today painting a tunnel. And am I expecting to win the Turner Prize for it?
No, I'm not. I'm getting a day's pay for a day's work.
That's art.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Re: Squirrel eating a burrito
Okay.
I know you might be thinking, "That squirrel's not eating a burrito. It's just posed in front of a piece of lettuce eating a bit of cheese or something. That doesn't look like any burrito I've ever seen."
Well.
I typed " Squirrel eating a burrito" into Google image search, and this picture came up.
That's good enough for me.
I've never actually had a burrito, but in my mind it is not beyond the realms of possibility that burritos contain not only cheese, but lettuce as well.
So like I said, that's good enough for me.
If anyone wants to have a fight about it, don't come round my house tomorrow morning. Because I will be out. I'm a very busy man.
And don't be coming round and throwing stones at my window the next day, because I hate to be disturbed while I am trying to watch the ommlette challenge on Saturday Kitchen.
It's a sin to fight on Sunday, and Monday I'm busy again.
So just leave it.
Okay?
Unless Tuesday suits you.
I know you might be thinking, "That squirrel's not eating a burrito. It's just posed in front of a piece of lettuce eating a bit of cheese or something. That doesn't look like any burrito I've ever seen."
Well.
I typed " Squirrel eating a burrito" into Google image search, and this picture came up.
That's good enough for me.
I've never actually had a burrito, but in my mind it is not beyond the realms of possibility that burritos contain not only cheese, but lettuce as well.
So like I said, that's good enough for me.
If anyone wants to have a fight about it, don't come round my house tomorrow morning. Because I will be out. I'm a very busy man.
And don't be coming round and throwing stones at my window the next day, because I hate to be disturbed while I am trying to watch the ommlette challenge on Saturday Kitchen.
It's a sin to fight on Sunday, and Monday I'm busy again.
So just leave it.
Okay?
Unless Tuesday suits you.
I don't know!
I had an idea of something I felt I wanted to talk about. But this web log thing made me enter more passwords than Napolean Solo, and then eat the evidence, or something, and I have completely forgotten what I was going to say.
Which was something really important. Really IMPORTANT!But it's gone now thanks to this stupid site and its security. I can't remember it.
I mean who would want to hack into my web log and write nonsense under the pretense that they were me?I contest that no-one would.
NO-ONE!
So in the meantime, until I remember what profound or profoundly inane thing I was going to say, you will just have to make do with a picture of a squirrel eating a burrito.
Sorry about that.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Monday, 31 May 2010
Good name for a show.
My friend Eleanor was talking to another artist friend of her's.
This artist was planning to have an exhibition of fabric-based sculptures. The idea was that you would be allowed to interact with the work, and it would be aimed at blind and visually impaired people who could "feel" the art.
Eleanor said, "That's a good idea. You should call it 'Touching Cloth'".
This artist was planning to have an exhibition of fabric-based sculptures. The idea was that you would be allowed to interact with the work, and it would be aimed at blind and visually impaired people who could "feel" the art.
Eleanor said, "That's a good idea. You should call it 'Touching Cloth'".
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Everyone understands each other.
Or R2 D2 goes "Poop de wheet! Poop de wheet!" and Luke Skywalker says, " I totally agree with you R2, I didn't rate that play at all. The plot was woolly and the characterisation just didn't work for me."
Does everyone in Star Wars naturally speak a thousand languages, including ones that consist of burps and beeps?
And Boba Fett. Boba Fett, right. He's at a party at Jabba's, and he's standing there in his full armour. I mean it's supposed to be a party. At least take your helmet off and have a beer for goodness sake!
And when Jabba catches Princess Leia, did he just happen to have that metal bikini in her size about the place? Because if not, where did he get it? He lives in the middle of a big desert. It's going to be pretty difficult to order up a metal bikini in that situation.
I hate to pick holes in the Star Wars storyline, but you do have to think about these things.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
War
I have been thinking about war a bit recently.
I don't like war, and if my country, if I have a country, which I don't believe I do, because I am a nation of one, as we all are, apart from married people, who are a nation of two, told me to go and fight, I would say no.
Because I don't want to. I shouldn't have to. There don't seem to be any wars going on at the moment that I would consider worth fighting for.
Maybe why I am thinking about this is because I have seen a lot of my Granda recently. He fought in a war.
I would like to think if I had been his age at that time, I would have gone too and not used my objection to war in general as an excuse to disguise cowardice.
The nazis had to be stopped. He, and millions of people like him, stopped them. And I'm really glad he did, because if he hadn't, I would be living in a world that wouldn't allow me to be a nation of one.
My nation doesn't have a Tourist Board by the way, but it is a very welcoming nation. It is very small but has nice views of the Cave Hill and a sofa you can crash on. It's not exactly a democracy. More a benign dictatorship, in that I benignly dictate when the cat gets fed and her litter tray changed.
You will always get a warm welcome in Michaelland, so come and visit anytime. I have to go now, into Photoshop, and design a flag for my nation.
I don't like war, and if my country, if I have a country, which I don't believe I do, because I am a nation of one, as we all are, apart from married people, who are a nation of two, told me to go and fight, I would say no.
Because I don't want to. I shouldn't have to. There don't seem to be any wars going on at the moment that I would consider worth fighting for.
Maybe why I am thinking about this is because I have seen a lot of my Granda recently. He fought in a war.
I would like to think if I had been his age at that time, I would have gone too and not used my objection to war in general as an excuse to disguise cowardice.
The nazis had to be stopped. He, and millions of people like him, stopped them. And I'm really glad he did, because if he hadn't, I would be living in a world that wouldn't allow me to be a nation of one.
My nation doesn't have a Tourist Board by the way, but it is a very welcoming nation. It is very small but has nice views of the Cave Hill and a sofa you can crash on. It's not exactly a democracy. More a benign dictatorship, in that I benignly dictate when the cat gets fed and her litter tray changed.
You will always get a warm welcome in Michaelland, so come and visit anytime. I have to go now, into Photoshop, and design a flag for my nation.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Blue smells you and then walks away.
This strange experience just came into my mind.
I was about twelve years old, and I was walking up to the leisure centre to have a swim.
This guy, who had hassled me before on a couple of occassions in Rathcoole suddenly jumps out and confronts me.
"You're a Fenian."
"What?"
"You're a Fenian. You're a dirty Fenian."
He was about a year older than me and he had a big mongrel labradorish dog with him.
"I'm not a Fenian. I'm Church of Ireland."
"You're a Fenian!"
The scabby dog walks up and sniffs me tentatively.
"You see? You're a Fenian! Blue smells you and then walks away."
Right. Alarm bells start ringing straight away.
He has a dog called "Blue".
How hillbilly is that?
"Come on now Blue, I gots me my shot gun here, let's go out and shoot us a few niggers. Gnhuuuk gnhuuk gnhuuk!"
As you can imagine, I was pretty scared. But you would be wrong about that. My natural instinct told me to launch into this idiot, which I did. I battered the face off him, and then he ran away crying like a baby.
I never saw him or Blue again.
I was about twelve years old, and I was walking up to the leisure centre to have a swim.
This guy, who had hassled me before on a couple of occassions in Rathcoole suddenly jumps out and confronts me.
"You're a Fenian."
"What?"
"You're a Fenian. You're a dirty Fenian."
He was about a year older than me and he had a big mongrel labradorish dog with him.
"I'm not a Fenian. I'm Church of Ireland."
"You're a Fenian!"
The scabby dog walks up and sniffs me tentatively.
"You see? You're a Fenian! Blue smells you and then walks away."
Right. Alarm bells start ringing straight away.
He has a dog called "Blue".
How hillbilly is that?
"Come on now Blue, I gots me my shot gun here, let's go out and shoot us a few niggers. Gnhuuuk gnhuuk gnhuuk!"
As you can imagine, I was pretty scared. But you would be wrong about that. My natural instinct told me to launch into this idiot, which I did. I battered the face off him, and then he ran away crying like a baby.
I never saw him or Blue again.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
Chess update!
So I was playing chess on the internet last night. I thought it would be a nice leisurely way to kill a bit of time before a decent film came on tv. But I was playing this really aggressive American. He had me pinned down all over the place and my Queen was in a hopelessly hemmed-in position.
This was a fifteen minute game. He had about five minutes left. I had less than one. As his rooks tightened the noose and his Queen loomed ominous, I moved a humble pawn, simultaneously blocking an imminent check-mate, and opening up a channel or two for my own Queen. He moved up a pawn of his own, obviously confident that the game was his. Then I saw a killer move. Knight to c3. Total check-mate out of nowhere.
My time on the clock?
0.07.0
Well I just had to get my butler to pour me a vodka martini after that. Shaken not stirred.
This was a fifteen minute game. He had about five minutes left. I had less than one. As his rooks tightened the noose and his Queen loomed ominous, I moved a humble pawn, simultaneously blocking an imminent check-mate, and opening up a channel or two for my own Queen. He moved up a pawn of his own, obviously confident that the game was his. Then I saw a killer move. Knight to c3. Total check-mate out of nowhere.
My time on the clock?
0.07.0
Well I just had to get my butler to pour me a vodka martini after that. Shaken not stirred.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Can't believe we never thought of this
As Mark was slogging towards the finish line on Sunday, instead of just shouting, "Come on Mark!", we should have built a massive film set that made the finishing line look like a Vietnam movie, complete with palm trees and hordes of Viet Cong chasing him, bullets spitting up the dirt around his feet, and Barber's Adagio for Strings crescendoing in the background, and we're all leaning out of the helicopter going, " Come on, man, you can make it. We ain't leavin' you behind!"
Then someone shoots him in the leg and he falls. Then Willem Dafoe jumps over the barrier, slings Mark over his shoulder, and under inexplicably innacurate gunfire, says, "I got you, buddy." He runs over the line, throws Mark into the "chopper" and it wheels upwards while I bladder away on the door-mounted M60 at the hapless people below, shouting, " Get some! Get some!"
Now that's how to finish a marathon with style.
Well done, Julie and Mark.
Starting a marathon in that heat was insanity. Finishing it at all, in any time, was a brilliant achievement.
Congratulations, you nutters.
Then someone shoots him in the leg and he falls. Then Willem Dafoe jumps over the barrier, slings Mark over his shoulder, and under inexplicably innacurate gunfire, says, "I got you, buddy." He runs over the line, throws Mark into the "chopper" and it wheels upwards while I bladder away on the door-mounted M60 at the hapless people below, shouting, " Get some! Get some!"
Now that's how to finish a marathon with style.
Well done, Julie and Mark.
Starting a marathon in that heat was insanity. Finishing it at all, in any time, was a brilliant achievement.
Congratulations, you nutters.
Monday, 17 May 2010
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Maths with Flybe.
A man books a flight to Edinburgh from Belfast at a price of £5.99 and a return flight from Edinburgh to Belfast at £19.99. How much does the man pay?
No. You're wrong!
According to Flybe, the man pays £120.
According to this particular man, Flybe can stick their plane up their arse and I'll be taking the ferry.
No. You're wrong!
According to Flybe, the man pays £120.
According to this particular man, Flybe can stick their plane up their arse and I'll be taking the ferry.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Speaking of the graphicness of that image.
I can't remember where I found it, but what possessed someone to take a photo of that and then think, "That's a good one. I'll put that on the internet."?
To be fair, it may have been a medical site, and the purpose of the photo was somehow educational.
Like back in the Dark Ages they analysed your poo to see what was wrong with you.
Maybe that's where we get the word "analysed" from. Anal meaning bum, ysed meaning looked at.
Oh, yes. I am fluent in Latin.
To be fair, it may have been a medical site, and the purpose of the photo was somehow educational.
Like back in the Dark Ages they analysed your poo to see what was wrong with you.
Maybe that's where we get the word "analysed" from. Anal meaning bum, ysed meaning looked at.
Oh, yes. I am fluent in Latin.
As the Americans would say.
I was going to do arse and elbow. But when I typed "arse" into Google image search, some of the results made me faint like a Victorian woman. The internet is filthy!
I am going now, to wash my eyes with carbolic soap.
Sorry about the graphicness of the first image.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Election sleep deprivation delerium
I have noticed some politicians and most journalists being either tetchy and irritable or downright delerious over the last few days. There was a show on Radio Four on Friday, and I swear, it was like listening to some people coming down off acid. Get to bed and have a good night's sleep!
I dread to think what they smell like.
I dread to think what they smell like.
Monday, 10 May 2010
A sandwich.
A sandwich walks into a bar and orders a pint of beer.
The barman says, "Sorry, we don't serve sandwiches."
The barman says, "Sorry, we don't serve sandwiches."
A man walks into a bar.
I would like to collect a lot of "a man walks into a bar" jokes. My personal favourite is Tommy Cooper's , "A man walks into a bar. He says, 'Ouch!' It was an iron bar."
Feel free to contribute.
Regards,
Michael.
Feel free to contribute.
Regards,
Michael.
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Pink snow
People playing in the pink snow.
There's the pink snow.
There it is, now. Look at the pink snow.
Don't you wish you lived here?
It's so beautiful!
Especially outside my house. I've been taking photos all around Merville, and outside my house is definitely the best bit.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Tom Waits
I don't listen to music much any more. But I do like this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrkThaBWa5c&NR=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XrkThaBWa5c&NR=1
Booking a wedding band.
When booking a band for a wedding, I would advise that you listen to their songs the whole way through.
If you only listen to three quarters of the song before saying, "Yeah, those guys sound pretty lively. We'll book them." you might end up in an embarrassing situation like this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkuOAY-S6OY
Imagine the scene. Elderly relatives jigging about to the modern beats. You sitting there smugly with a bit of wedding cake in your mouth, thinking, this band was a pretty good choice, I think. And then it all goes horribly, horribly wrong.
You might want to put your children to bed in a sound-proof room before listening to that link in its entirety.
If you only listen to three quarters of the song before saying, "Yeah, those guys sound pretty lively. We'll book them." you might end up in an embarrassing situation like this.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkuOAY-S6OY
Imagine the scene. Elderly relatives jigging about to the modern beats. You sitting there smugly with a bit of wedding cake in your mouth, thinking, this band was a pretty good choice, I think. And then it all goes horribly, horribly wrong.
You might want to put your children to bed in a sound-proof room before listening to that link in its entirety.
Vote for that guy!
Ah, the election. The erection of election posters on our lamp posts show a serious lack of imagination on the part of participants. A good design, I think, would be to wait until your competitors put up their posters and then put one below it with an arrow pointing up and the classic 1970's t-shirt slogan "I'm with this Idiot."
Or "I voted for this guy and all I got was this lousy poster."
A sense of humour might inspire voters to walk a couple of hundred yards and draw an X on a bit of paper.
Or "I voted for this guy and all I got was this lousy poster."
A sense of humour might inspire voters to walk a couple of hundred yards and draw an X on a bit of paper.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Living alone
Fight!
Living alone vs. living with a woman.
Well the contestants are stepping into the ring here. Living with a woman certainly looks better dressed, well groomed, and more well fed than Living alone.
And here we go. Round One. Living alone has switched on the TV and he says, "Oh! Football. Great."
Living with a woman is trying to compete but unfortunately the football clashes with Coronation Street and he's forced onto the ropes.
But oh! There's been a development.
Living alone's parents have called round unexpectly and it looks like he's in trouble here.
It certainly does Harry. He hasn't hoovered the place in a week and the sink is full of unwashed washing up.
"Look at the state of this place! Do you live like this?"
"No. I was just about to do it. I've been sort of busy, you know?"
Living with a woman sees his chance and moves in by opening his fridge to reveal a well stocked larder of healthy nutritional food.
Living alone can only respond with a weak week old carton of milk and a piece of Parmesan cheese that's been in there since God knows when.
It's a knockout victory. Living alone is rubbish. While Living with a woman is world champion.
Hmm. This sounds like I'm trying to be deep, but I never meant it to be that way when I started writing it. It's not like I'm a desperately lonely person or anything, but I do think you become very "set in your ways" when you live alone.And I don't know if that's a good thing. Humans are social animals.
So if you don't already have another person to share your life with, grab one as soon as possible, and hold on to them and never let go.
Now, don't just go out into the street and literally do that. You might get arrested for that.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Murals are important
I am painting a community mural at the moment.
A lot of people may say that that is a waste of money, and it would be better spent on schools and roads and hospitals and so on.
But I think art is important.
A small amount of money has been allocated for this project, but it will significantly improve peoples' experience of visiting the park, I think.
Instead of walking through a dark and intimidating space as they enter the park, I hope they will see a bright , uplifting image of Newtownabbey, that not only celebrates the history and diversity of our borough, but which also reflects the natuaral beuaty which can be observed by having a walk in the park.
I think that is important.
So if I catch anyone writing on it with a marker pen.... Well, I oughta!
A lot of people may say that that is a waste of money, and it would be better spent on schools and roads and hospitals and so on.
But I think art is important.
A small amount of money has been allocated for this project, but it will significantly improve peoples' experience of visiting the park, I think.
Instead of walking through a dark and intimidating space as they enter the park, I hope they will see a bright , uplifting image of Newtownabbey, that not only celebrates the history and diversity of our borough, but which also reflects the natuaral beuaty which can be observed by having a walk in the park.
I think that is important.
So if I catch anyone writing on it with a marker pen.... Well, I oughta!
Soap operas (by request)
Well, I have been asked to do this, so today, after watching a rather fine episode of Columbo, I sat down to watch Eastenders.
Here's a strange thing.
After Columbo, the acting in Eastenders is very naturalistic, and actually pretty good.
But the storylines.
I didn't catch the start of it, but I don't think that matters, because the start of it was actually 25 or so years ago and the end of it, if there ever is an end to it, looks like it is a long way off.
When I first tuned in there was a very sterio-typical asian family (overbearing father, hysterical mother in a bit of a sari sort of affair, lots of over-protective brothers) having a big row because their son-in-law to be had just confessed to being gay shortly before the wedding.
So just a slice of everyday life, then. The kind of thing that happens to us all on a daily basis.
Then there was a scene with Pat and Peggy having a nostalgiac conversation about when they were young. I think they were in the launderette at the time. It was quite touching, and very well acted, I thought.
But here are a couple of things about Eastenders that don't ring true with me.
The racial sterio-typing is ,it seems, as bad as ever. Years ago I watched an episode where they went to Ireland. They weren't off the boat to Dun Laoghaire five minutes and they had already met a drunk, two priests, and a donkey. This was back in the days of the Celtic Tiger, so realisticly they would have been more likely to meet a load of yuppies throwing money at each other in overpriced cappucino bars.
Another time they went to Italy for some reason. They were barely off the plane to the industrial heartland of northern Italy when they had encountered a procession of choirboys led by two priests (yes, more priests) corrupt police officers, and... a donkey.
The other thing is the launderette. When is the last time you went to a launderette? The last time I went to one was when I was a student. When I was a student I did studenty things, but when college was over, I put away studenty things and I got my own bloody washing machine.
But in Albert Square there are people who can afford to drive a top of the range BMW, but presumably can't afford a washing machine, because they are always in the launderette.
Anyway, next there was a scene with Phil Mitchell being a very reasonable parent, giving advice to his son and sorting out a disagreement between his son and daughter. All very sweet, except the actor who plays Phil Mitchell hasn't got a great range where acting is concerned. He always comes across as vaguely threatening, like a man who might glass somebody in the face at any minute.
Then Dot Cotton came on. Like some sort of rat that you try to poison to death, she just eats it all up and asks for more. The only way she will ever leave Eastenders is if Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones dies, and they want a look-alike to replace him.
I might need to go for a lie down in a darkened room for a while before tackling Coronation Street.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Troops too fat to fight
When I was at school I didn't get in a lot of fights, but I got in a few.
In my experience, big fat guys made for fairly formidable opponents.
Mind you, we didn't have rifles back in those days. Maybe you don't have to be such a good shot to hit a big fat guy as a little skinny one.
Jobs for genius people
I saw a job ad in the paper today, and at first I got quite excited.
Must know Flash animation techniques.
Yes. I know that!
Must be proficient in programmes such as Photoshop and Illustrator.
Yes. I am that!
Must be able to interpret complex information and convert it into a visual format that would be accessable to all users in a dynamic educational delivery environment.
Well... I wouldn't have worded it that way, but yeah, I can do that. I have done that. I have created interactive presentations which explain to people how wireless broadband works, even though I have no technical idea myself how wireless broadband works.
Must have experience of Java script, HTML, XML, PHP.
And a PhD in nuclear physics.
Okay, I made that last bit up, but I mean to say, how can they ask so much for a job that pays £18000 a year?
You are either a designer or a programmer. I don't even know what XML stands for. (xylophone markup language?).
It appears to me that you would effectively need at least two university degrees to be eligable to apply for that job. One in an art based discipline, and another in a science based one.
It is like advertising for a qualified chef in a new restaurant who must also be able to install and maintain a plumbing system within a dynamic restaurant food delivery environment.
They are two completely different jobs.
Now, I don't have a huge amount of experience in the computer industry, but when I did, the designers did the designing, and the programmers did the programming.
I never met any one who could do both things well. And I met some pretty talented people.
Either young people have evolved into multi-tasking Leonardo da Vincis, or I am just as stupid as my P6 teacher always told me I was.
Must know Flash animation techniques.
Yes. I know that!
Must be proficient in programmes such as Photoshop and Illustrator.
Yes. I am that!
Must be able to interpret complex information and convert it into a visual format that would be accessable to all users in a dynamic educational delivery environment.
Well... I wouldn't have worded it that way, but yeah, I can do that. I have done that. I have created interactive presentations which explain to people how wireless broadband works, even though I have no technical idea myself how wireless broadband works.
Must have experience of Java script, HTML, XML, PHP.
And a PhD in nuclear physics.
Okay, I made that last bit up, but I mean to say, how can they ask so much for a job that pays £18000 a year?
You are either a designer or a programmer. I don't even know what XML stands for. (xylophone markup language?).
It appears to me that you would effectively need at least two university degrees to be eligable to apply for that job. One in an art based discipline, and another in a science based one.
It is like advertising for a qualified chef in a new restaurant who must also be able to install and maintain a plumbing system within a dynamic restaurant food delivery environment.
They are two completely different jobs.
Now, I don't have a huge amount of experience in the computer industry, but when I did, the designers did the designing, and the programmers did the programming.
I never met any one who could do both things well. And I met some pretty talented people.
Either young people have evolved into multi-tasking Leonardo da Vincis, or I am just as stupid as my P6 teacher always told me I was.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Blossoms
Without meaning to sound gay, I love the pink blossom trees. They make the neighbourhood look so pretty.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Crosh!
I haven't seen this in years! (it was on itv4 tonight)
Conan, what is best in life?
Crush enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of the women.
I've always found that works for me too.
Also. The bit where he punches a camel has to be considered as one of the best moments in the history of cinematography.
John Humphries Zippy from Rainbow
Maybe they need Geoffrey on the morning show, just to rein Zippy in from time to time.
"Now Zippy, don't you know it's rude to talk over people?"
"Wha...What? I wasn't being rude, Geoffrey!"
"Yes you were Zippy. Now let the Prime Minister finish what he was saying and don't interrupt."
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Culture breaks down
Well, I have just been to the theatre to watch "The History Boys" by Alan Bennett.
I have to say I have changed my opinion about Alan. Whereas I used to think he was good, I now think he is sh*te.
With onions.
It was possibly the worst thing I have ever seen, and I've seen Hollyoaks.
I would like to try to tell you what it was about, but it didn't seem to be about anything.
The acting was of the kind that made you want to just stand up in the middle of the theatre and shout," You're sh*t! Get off the effing stage you w*nker!"
The play itself was so dull it made an hour feel like a decade.
The funniest bit?
Someone said the f word.
The man beside me positively rolled about laughing at this point, as if saying the f word is in and of itself somehow hilarious.
It isn't.
The f word isn't funny on stage. The only people who can use it for true comic effect are soldiers and builders.
I have heard soldiers and builders use that word in a way that approaches fine art.
When comedians, writers and actors use it, it is just a cheap way to get a laugh.
One of the best ones I ever heard was when this guy I used to work with walked into the yard where there was a lot of rubbish piled up.
"Right" he said, "We need to get all this f*cking sh*t out of here."
Then his seven year old son walked into the yard and innocently said, " Daddy. Where's all this f*cking sh*t going to go?"
Now that was funny.
I have to say I have changed my opinion about Alan. Whereas I used to think he was good, I now think he is sh*te.
With onions.
It was possibly the worst thing I have ever seen, and I've seen Hollyoaks.
I would like to try to tell you what it was about, but it didn't seem to be about anything.
The acting was of the kind that made you want to just stand up in the middle of the theatre and shout," You're sh*t! Get off the effing stage you w*nker!"
The play itself was so dull it made an hour feel like a decade.
The funniest bit?
Someone said the f word.
The man beside me positively rolled about laughing at this point, as if saying the f word is in and of itself somehow hilarious.
It isn't.
The f word isn't funny on stage. The only people who can use it for true comic effect are soldiers and builders.
I have heard soldiers and builders use that word in a way that approaches fine art.
When comedians, writers and actors use it, it is just a cheap way to get a laugh.
One of the best ones I ever heard was when this guy I used to work with walked into the yard where there was a lot of rubbish piled up.
"Right" he said, "We need to get all this f*cking sh*t out of here."
Then his seven year old son walked into the yard and innocently said, " Daddy. Where's all this f*cking sh*t going to go?"
Now that was funny.
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