Well, having survived National Drunk Blogging Day (see previous two posts), it's about time to shove 2006 into the box marked "Used Years" and kick the bugger out of sight under the bed.
Looking back through my diary, I see that I spent ninety-eight percent of this year's waking hours stuck on a train and the rest either at work or grumpy. A pretty good year then, all in all …
The one thing I did do, in August, along with Robyn and Sassy and Old Knudsen and Rich, is start a blog.
So Happy New Year to all my blogpals!
There. That's got the jollity out of the way. Now for some New Year's resolutions:
I rather liked Danæ's resolution in "Non Sequitur" (there's a link on Sassy's blog):
From memory it went something like: "Try not to improve on perfection", though I think that's more a Sassy resolution than a Dive one.
As for what to "resolve"; I don't smoke, I eat a ridiculously healthy diet, I get plenty of excercise, I have a great job which I love, I have spiffy - if somewhat strange - friends, I'm cute … what the fuck is there left to change?
Right. Here goes nothing:
In 2007, I resolve to:
- Be less of a miserable old bugger;
- Stop kicking children in supermarkets;
- Get a girlfriend (Hah!);
- Keep blogging;
- Keep getting 100 percent in my Japanese exams;
- Take up a new hobby; maybe macramé, caravanning or puffin-frottage.
- Eat a dolphin;
Ah, fuck it. I'll probably keep blogging but the rest of it doesn't stand a monkey's.
I suppose I could always start smoking and eat junk food to give me something to "resolve" next year, but I really can't be arsed.
In reality, the only resolutions I'm likely to keep are:
- Offend people;
- Swing wildly between black misery and overexcited childishness, with nothing in between;
- Spend more time stuck on trains;
The one thing I shall NOT be doing is going out tonight.
Between the ages of nine and forty-five, I spent every single Old Year's Night on stage and believe me, there's no better aversion therapy than that.
Here's a typical Old Year's Night for Old Dive:
Stay sober all day, then eat a high carb meal around three o'clock (just when you're not hungry).
Pack all the gear up and drive to the studio (or wherever, depending on the year). Unpack all the gear and load it into the truck/van/bus.
Drive to some posh fucking hotel.
Set up all the gear and soundcheck everything (including such immeasurable joys as listening to the drummer hit the snare drum once a second for five minutes while Rod gets the fucking levels right).
Sit in some miserable fucking hotel room, stone cold sober, munching crap snacks and drinking crap hotel coffee and watching suicidally dire crap TV until eleven pm, by which time we are all ready to kill someone and wired from all the caffeine.
Get changed into fucking dickie bows.
Go on stage and play (SOBER) until three in the fucking morning, sometimes backing some fucking washed-up chart has-been who thinks they're God, all the while having to stare at disgusting fucking drunks who are ripped to the tits, pawing and slobbering over equally pissed pretty girls, trying pathetically to dance and falling all over the monitor speakers (I hate you all forever).
Pull fucking party poppers off hot amps before they catch fire.
Smile (the worst bit of all).
Make our miserable fucking way back upstairs and change again, then wait for the drunks to piss off before spending a soul-destroying hour breaking down all the gear and packing it away.
Drive back to the studio, soberly waving at all the traffic police who are just as fucking miserable at having to work all night on the set of "Night Of The Living Drunks".
Repack all the stuff in our cars.
Drive home, sober and homicidal at breakfast time vowing NEVER to do it again.
(er … I'm not sounding just a teensy bit bitter here, am I? … Yes? … Good!) …
Much to the falling-over amazement of all my session musician buddies (I'll think of your suffering as I snuggle into my pillow, you poor sods), I made a break for it at forty-six and have been on the run ever since, refusing all offers, no matter how desperate and cash-laden they have been (and they have been).
The upshot of which is that for the past two years, my Old Year's Nights have been blissfully relaxing and I've been asleep well before midnight.
Tonight I will be doing the same again. I'll watch a DVD after dinner, then take a book and a scotch to bed around ten. Ahhh … bliss …
So enjoy your drunken revelries one and all. You're more than welcome to them.
Happy New Year everyone!
Duck! Here comes 2007!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
NaDruBloDa Redux
So farewell then, Saddam Hussein; staunch ally of the US for so many years before having that bitch-slapping hissy fit with the monkey-faced Bush boys.
I may write lots more about this later, or I may not … I'm a bit "morning after" at the moment.
So …
Okay … testing … testing … one, two …
Here we go again with NaDruBloDa Redux - The Director's Cut:
The magnificent glory that is National Drunk Blogging Day.
Scene One: Breakfast:
Enter: One seriously hung over piece of last night's party trash.
Eugh … My mouth tastes like the bottom of a zookeeper's boots. My bloodstream is still mostly alcohol from the party last night so I've got myself a nice head start for my drunk blogging in that I'm probably still drunk.
I wake to the news that they hanged Saddam this morning. Must've been after I left the party because I don't remember that bit …
Hokay … Breakfast.
Hair of the dog seems a good idea for NaDruBloDa … Start the day with something light and refreshing. A nice glass of chardonnay.
That's the lovely fresh, grassy, complex French stuff; not the "buttery oaky" Australian nonsense - as subtle as a gasmask full of gorilla-fart and as sophisticated as only an Australian can be. Delicious it may be, but chardonnay it ain't.
So … Corkscrew ready? … squeak, creak, grunt, POP! … gurgle, splash … slurp … yum.
I'd better eat something, too. Poached eggs on chunky toast coming right up …
My menu for today:
One bottle of chardonnay
One bottle of Rioja
One bottle of malt whisky (Macallan)
One bottle of vodka
Four cans of Adnams Suffolk Stong Beer
Of course, I'm not going to drink the whole damned menu; it's just there if I need it.
Scene Two: Mid morning: Sitting in the studio with a slight hangover (ameliorated no doubt by my vinous breakfast) …
Just getting the photos together from last night's Mexican party at Chris and Jann's. My stupid batteries ran out on the camera so I'll mix in some of our last party to fill in the gaps.
It doesn't matter as it's the same party anyway … For the past twenty-five years it's always been the same party, except that these days we've been joined by "Partygoers: The Next Generation", the grown up sons and daughters of some of the original partygoers now added to the mix.
In the quarter of a century since I left college, I've been partying with the same bunch of people, month after month, year in, year out. A motley crew of around forty musicians and artists, some of whom come and go, but the essential core membership stays the same.
This is part of the reason I never meet nice girls at parties; there's never anyone new (unless we breed 'em ourselves).
We're a pretty insular lot. Outsiders tend to find it kind of hard to fit in with a crowd who have
(a) been together for so many decades and;
(b) all seen one another naked in dressing rooms waaay too many times.
So here, without further ado - other than some more wine (slurp … mmm … refreshing) - is the true start of my NaDruBloDa …
My National Drunk Blogging Evening-Before …
Chris and Jann's place, Trellis Studio is a bloody great thatched house way out in Deliverance country. It's got a little outshot on the end, which is where they actually live, but most of it is taken up with two floors of recording studio and a DVD production facility.
And it's a GREAT place for a party.
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly discover two fridges full of beer … Mmmm …
The sombreros don't last for very long. They tend to get in the way. You can't get forty people in sombreros drinking beer in a small kitchen.
Jann and the girls have been cooking for two days solid. There's enough different kinds of chili to feed Santa Ana's army for a month. Mmmm …
Your hosts and MCs for the evening's musical entertainment: Old Neil and Old Dive, having a miserable time as always … Somehow - don't ask me how - the two of us have gained a reputation as the most "difficult" moody bastards in Norfolk. But we're really just fluffy happy bunnies. Honest …
As I have on a Spinal Tap teeshirt at a Mexican theme party, we name ourselves Spinal Tapas for the night.
Note to Utsav: That's my vintage Martin D18.
Our lovely flamenco dancer (John's daughter in law, from the cast of Partygoers - The Next Generation) does a whole bottle of tequila and spends the early hours of this morning in wailing and lamentation in the dowstairs toilet.
As my camera batteries die long before midnight, here are a few pics from our last party a few months back, in the "big room downstairs". Less Mexican, more Punk, that one …
Above, we see the inevitable picture of Dive at a party (whenever I'm not playing, you can find me in the kitchen).
Time for some bass … Things start to get a bit blurry … And yes, that's my original Stiff Records teeshirt from the seventies (for the uninitiated, it reads "If it ain't STIFF, it ain't worth a fuck") …
Nice, respectable people, musicians …
A piece of advice: Never move in next door to musicians. We're a miserable bunch of old sods who never have any fun (at least not when anyone's looking).
That's Chris in the middle, down by the barn, asleep in a lawn chair. Chris is a drummer and a one-man party. He can out-drink Australia.
Back to last night.
Keeley (one of Jann's daughters) drops her alto sax and starts to dance like your dad.
A signal I think for us to take leave of the party … mostly because I can't remember a whole lot after that.
I assume from this morning's news that sometime later we must have hanged Saddam, but it was all a bit blurry … I don't remember him being at the party …
So there you have it … The start to my NaDruBloDa; what old musicians get up to when there's no audience …
Now I'm going to have another glass of wine, check out a few friends' blogs, then think about making lunch … See you later.
Scene Three: Lunchtime. Downstairs:
What started out as a butternut squash risotto has kind of grown with the addition of a handful of locally picked wild mushrooms and a bag of chestnuts … and the rest of the chardonnay of course …
I'm actually feeling quite normal … ish (if a bit full of risotto). The beer and tequila sloshing around my bloodstream have been calmed by the bottle of chardonnay.
I dare say things will get a great deal hazier later on, but for now I'm going to chill out on the sofa with a DVD of Kiss Me Deadly (Ralph Meeker - Yaay!) and maybe a little nap …
And no I'm NOT going to watch Withnail and I. Doing the drinking game by myself, when my bloodstream is already turning my liver to paté, would mean a very short NaDruBloDa, with vomit and unconsciousness.
Nevertheless, I've opened the Macallan because you can't watch film noir without a tumbler of scotch in your hand …
Cheers!
Phil pops over later to pick up some stuff, affording me the very welcome opportunity to get some coffee inside me.
I freeze my movie and put the TV on for him while I'm in the kitchen.
Bloody hell, it's Zulu …
You certainly know it's Christmas with British telly. Zulu, The Great Escape, The Sound Of Music; every year the same fucking thing. As thrilling and exciting as a prolonged toothache.
Phil's got a Superman costume for tomorrow night's festivities. Only thing is, it's an all in one, which could be entertaining should he get caught short.
Then it's back to the movie, feeling a little bit swimmy as the caffeine and the alcohol square up to one another.
Scene Four: Er … Later.
The stairs … watch out for the stairs …
Careful now. Woozy swaying isn't the best thing to be doing at the top of the stairs.
Right. Go down 'em on my bum. Don't bump too hard in case I throw up …
Um … My original plan for today was to try to explain relativity to you (with all the maths) whilst steadily drinking all day.
But as I started the day already drunk, I kind of forgot …
… Then I fell asleep …
What I didn't feel like doing was drunkenly typing lots of embarrassing things about myself or my friends that I would regret tomorrow.
Shame, really, as that's what NaDruBloDa is all about.
I think that rather than drunk blogging, they should have suggested caffeine and sugar-rush blogging. Get people UP and overexcited so they post all kinds of silliness. Being drunk just makes me feel woozy and sleepy and a bit sick …
I'm now feeling just a teensy bit not so good. I'm alright sitting here, but I REALLY don't think it would be wise to try standing up right now. I don't want to waste all that lovely risotto from earlier, but I have the feeling it wants to come back and say hello.
Ooo … Woozy and nauseous …
So this is the feeling that the binge-drinking youth of today do their damnedest to experience at every available opportunity?
Believe me, there is nothing attractive or alluring about this at all.
I'm going to try to go to bed now. I know it's early, but I'm kinda hoping I can sleep this off.
I am NOT looking forward to the morning.
Scene Five: Later still, after some water and crackers and a torchlit walk around the garden in the fresh (if bloody windy and rainy) air.
Um …
Actually feeling a lot better now.
I know I said I wasn't going to post anything embarrassing, but I have a feeling that this whole episode kinda covers that territory. Ho hum …
Note to self: Probably not a wise move to participate in next year's NaDruBloDa … Perhaps if they have a National Slightly Tipsy And Giggly Blogging Day. How about it, Rootietoot?
So adios and goodnight from sunny Mexico.
If I'm not about in the morning, would someone please email me some Alka Seltzer?
I may write lots more about this later, or I may not … I'm a bit "morning after" at the moment.
So …
Okay … testing … testing … one, two …
Here we go again with NaDruBloDa Redux - The Director's Cut:
The magnificent glory that is National Drunk Blogging Day.
Scene One: Breakfast:
Enter: One seriously hung over piece of last night's party trash.
Eugh … My mouth tastes like the bottom of a zookeeper's boots. My bloodstream is still mostly alcohol from the party last night so I've got myself a nice head start for my drunk blogging in that I'm probably still drunk.
I wake to the news that they hanged Saddam this morning. Must've been after I left the party because I don't remember that bit …
Hokay … Breakfast.
Hair of the dog seems a good idea for NaDruBloDa … Start the day with something light and refreshing. A nice glass of chardonnay.
That's the lovely fresh, grassy, complex French stuff; not the "buttery oaky" Australian nonsense - as subtle as a gasmask full of gorilla-fart and as sophisticated as only an Australian can be. Delicious it may be, but chardonnay it ain't.
So … Corkscrew ready? … squeak, creak, grunt, POP! … gurgle, splash … slurp … yum.
I'd better eat something, too. Poached eggs on chunky toast coming right up …
My menu for today:
One bottle of chardonnay
One bottle of Rioja
One bottle of malt whisky (Macallan)
One bottle of vodka
Four cans of Adnams Suffolk Stong Beer
Of course, I'm not going to drink the whole damned menu; it's just there if I need it.
Scene Two: Mid morning: Sitting in the studio with a slight hangover (ameliorated no doubt by my vinous breakfast) …
Just getting the photos together from last night's Mexican party at Chris and Jann's. My stupid batteries ran out on the camera so I'll mix in some of our last party to fill in the gaps.
It doesn't matter as it's the same party anyway … For the past twenty-five years it's always been the same party, except that these days we've been joined by "Partygoers: The Next Generation", the grown up sons and daughters of some of the original partygoers now added to the mix.
In the quarter of a century since I left college, I've been partying with the same bunch of people, month after month, year in, year out. A motley crew of around forty musicians and artists, some of whom come and go, but the essential core membership stays the same.
This is part of the reason I never meet nice girls at parties; there's never anyone new (unless we breed 'em ourselves).
We're a pretty insular lot. Outsiders tend to find it kind of hard to fit in with a crowd who have
(a) been together for so many decades and;
(b) all seen one another naked in dressing rooms waaay too many times.
So here, without further ado - other than some more wine (slurp … mmm … refreshing) - is the true start of my NaDruBloDa …
My National Drunk Blogging Evening-Before …
Chris and Jann's place, Trellis Studio is a bloody great thatched house way out in Deliverance country. It's got a little outshot on the end, which is where they actually live, but most of it is taken up with two floors of recording studio and a DVD production facility.
And it's a GREAT place for a party.
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly discover two fridges full of beer … Mmmm …The sombreros don't last for very long. They tend to get in the way. You can't get forty people in sombreros drinking beer in a small kitchen.
Jann and the girls have been cooking for two days solid. There's enough different kinds of chili to feed Santa Ana's army for a month. Mmmm …
Your hosts and MCs for the evening's musical entertainment: Old Neil and Old Dive, having a miserable time as always … Somehow - don't ask me how - the two of us have gained a reputation as the most "difficult" moody bastards in Norfolk. But we're really just fluffy happy bunnies. Honest …As I have on a Spinal Tap teeshirt at a Mexican theme party, we name ourselves Spinal Tapas for the night.
Note to Utsav: That's my vintage Martin D18.
Our lovely flamenco dancer (John's daughter in law, from the cast of Partygoers - The Next Generation) does a whole bottle of tequila and spends the early hours of this morning in wailing and lamentation in the dowstairs toilet.
As my camera batteries die long before midnight, here are a few pics from our last party a few months back, in the "big room downstairs". Less Mexican, more Punk, that one …Above, we see the inevitable picture of Dive at a party (whenever I'm not playing, you can find me in the kitchen).
Time for some bass … Things start to get a bit blurry … And yes, that's my original Stiff Records teeshirt from the seventies (for the uninitiated, it reads "If it ain't STIFF, it ain't worth a fuck") …
Nice, respectable people, musicians …A piece of advice: Never move in next door to musicians. We're a miserable bunch of old sods who never have any fun (at least not when anyone's looking).
That's Chris in the middle, down by the barn, asleep in a lawn chair. Chris is a drummer and a one-man party. He can out-drink Australia.
Back to last night.Keeley (one of Jann's daughters) drops her alto sax and starts to dance like your dad.
A signal I think for us to take leave of the party … mostly because I can't remember a whole lot after that.
I assume from this morning's news that sometime later we must have hanged Saddam, but it was all a bit blurry … I don't remember him being at the party …
So there you have it … The start to my NaDruBloDa; what old musicians get up to when there's no audience …
Now I'm going to have another glass of wine, check out a few friends' blogs, then think about making lunch … See you later.
Scene Three: Lunchtime. Downstairs:
What started out as a butternut squash risotto has kind of grown with the addition of a handful of locally picked wild mushrooms and a bag of chestnuts … and the rest of the chardonnay of course …
I'm actually feeling quite normal … ish (if a bit full of risotto). The beer and tequila sloshing around my bloodstream have been calmed by the bottle of chardonnay.
I dare say things will get a great deal hazier later on, but for now I'm going to chill out on the sofa with a DVD of Kiss Me Deadly (Ralph Meeker - Yaay!) and maybe a little nap …
And no I'm NOT going to watch Withnail and I. Doing the drinking game by myself, when my bloodstream is already turning my liver to paté, would mean a very short NaDruBloDa, with vomit and unconsciousness.
Nevertheless, I've opened the Macallan because you can't watch film noir without a tumbler of scotch in your hand …
Cheers!
Phil pops over later to pick up some stuff, affording me the very welcome opportunity to get some coffee inside me.
I freeze my movie and put the TV on for him while I'm in the kitchen.
Bloody hell, it's Zulu …
You certainly know it's Christmas with British telly. Zulu, The Great Escape, The Sound Of Music; every year the same fucking thing. As thrilling and exciting as a prolonged toothache.
Phil's got a Superman costume for tomorrow night's festivities. Only thing is, it's an all in one, which could be entertaining should he get caught short.
Then it's back to the movie, feeling a little bit swimmy as the caffeine and the alcohol square up to one another.
Scene Four: Er … Later.
The stairs … watch out for the stairs …
Careful now. Woozy swaying isn't the best thing to be doing at the top of the stairs.
Right. Go down 'em on my bum. Don't bump too hard in case I throw up …
Um … My original plan for today was to try to explain relativity to you (with all the maths) whilst steadily drinking all day.
But as I started the day already drunk, I kind of forgot …
… Then I fell asleep …
What I didn't feel like doing was drunkenly typing lots of embarrassing things about myself or my friends that I would regret tomorrow.
Shame, really, as that's what NaDruBloDa is all about.
I think that rather than drunk blogging, they should have suggested caffeine and sugar-rush blogging. Get people UP and overexcited so they post all kinds of silliness. Being drunk just makes me feel woozy and sleepy and a bit sick …
I'm now feeling just a teensy bit not so good. I'm alright sitting here, but I REALLY don't think it would be wise to try standing up right now. I don't want to waste all that lovely risotto from earlier, but I have the feeling it wants to come back and say hello.
Ooo … Woozy and nauseous …
So this is the feeling that the binge-drinking youth of today do their damnedest to experience at every available opportunity?
Believe me, there is nothing attractive or alluring about this at all.
I'm going to try to go to bed now. I know it's early, but I'm kinda hoping I can sleep this off.
I am NOT looking forward to the morning.
Scene Five: Later still, after some water and crackers and a torchlit walk around the garden in the fresh (if bloody windy and rainy) air.
Um …
Actually feeling a lot better now.
I know I said I wasn't going to post anything embarrassing, but I have a feeling that this whole episode kinda covers that territory. Ho hum …
Note to self: Probably not a wise move to participate in next year's NaDruBloDa … Perhaps if they have a National Slightly Tipsy And Giggly Blogging Day. How about it, Rootietoot?
So adios and goodnight from sunny Mexico.
If I'm not about in the morning, would someone please email me some Alka Seltzer?
Friday, December 29, 2006
NaDruBloDa Embarrassment
To my eternal shame, I'm having to postpone my drunk blogging until tomorrow.
My stupid friends over at Trellis Studio have invited me to a "dress up as a Mexican and bring musical instruments" party at the recording studio, as a consequence of which I have to stay sober until this evening.
I'll try to remember to take my camera. These parties can get quite … er … good.
Although, as I don't posses a sombrero, a poncho, or a magnificent Zapata moustache - and wild horses won't drag me into Norwich to buy them during the January sales - I'll just take a pencil and go as Jaime Hernandez.
So, apologies to Rootietoot and her crew, but I'll be NaDruBloDa-ing in the morning.
My stupid friends over at Trellis Studio have invited me to a "dress up as a Mexican and bring musical instruments" party at the recording studio, as a consequence of which I have to stay sober until this evening.
I'll try to remember to take my camera. These parties can get quite … er … good.
Although, as I don't posses a sombrero, a poncho, or a magnificent Zapata moustache - and wild horses won't drag me into Norwich to buy them during the January sales - I'll just take a pencil and go as Jaime Hernandez.
So, apologies to Rootietoot and her crew, but I'll be NaDruBloDa-ing in the morning.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
More Old Tat
Robyn has asked "Would you change anything about your childhood if you could?"
Inevitably, the first thing that sprang to mind was my old nemesis, that haunt of spiders and darkness, the old outside privy that traumatised my early years.
But then I thought that changing the past doesn't have to mean getting rid of all the bad bits; it can also include lots more of the good bits.
So here we are at my favourite place in the whole of my childhood world; my grandparents' farm in Aldeby, Norfolk.
Where dad's standing with the camera was a big old kale field where the plants were taller than us kids and that was such a magical place to play.
The old bull that nearly gored grandad to death lived over on the right, just out of shot.
And my bedroom was right at the far end, in the attic, overlooking the churchyard where those lovely big yew trees are (unfortunately blown down in the hurricane).
The floors were all bendy and gnarly and there were beams everywhere for the grown-ups to hit their heads on. A wonderful place.
It's a private house now, but if I ever came into a shedload of money I'd buy it back like a shot.
So, Robyn; if I could change anything in my childhood, I'd like to have spent lots more time over at Aldeby.
Oh, and can I get rid of the outside privy too, please?
Inevitably, the first thing that sprang to mind was my old nemesis, that haunt of spiders and darkness, the old outside privy that traumatised my early years.
But then I thought that changing the past doesn't have to mean getting rid of all the bad bits; it can also include lots more of the good bits.
So here we are at my favourite place in the whole of my childhood world; my grandparents' farm in Aldeby, Norfolk.Where dad's standing with the camera was a big old kale field where the plants were taller than us kids and that was such a magical place to play.
The old bull that nearly gored grandad to death lived over on the right, just out of shot.
And my bedroom was right at the far end, in the attic, overlooking the churchyard where those lovely big yew trees are (unfortunately blown down in the hurricane).
The floors were all bendy and gnarly and there were beams everywhere for the grown-ups to hit their heads on. A wonderful place.
It's a private house now, but if I ever came into a shedload of money I'd buy it back like a shot.
So, Robyn; if I could change anything in my childhood, I'd like to have spent lots more time over at Aldeby.
Oh, and can I get rid of the outside privy too, please?
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
House Of Weemen
So who should turn up but Peahen, with Helen, too.
A splendid day, consisting (in alphabetical order):
Arthur Rackham illustrations; brass band music; Buffy; The Curious Sofa; Edward Gorey; Helen's sculptures; Ivor Cutler; the Japanese word for toilet; Joss Whedon; lost keys; The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy; miso soup; movies; My Bloody Valentine; nothing Christmassy; Old Knudsen (inevitably); pirate songs and sea shanties; seaweed (four sorts); Shakespeare and porn; Shizuoka green tea; shooting things; skinning rabbits and squirrels; strange words beginning with 'a'; wasabi eating; whalemeat;
… and many more.
Gosh it's quiet now they've gone …
A splendid day, consisting (in alphabetical order):Arthur Rackham illustrations; brass band music; Buffy; The Curious Sofa; Edward Gorey; Helen's sculptures; Ivor Cutler; the Japanese word for toilet; Joss Whedon; lost keys; The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy; miso soup; movies; My Bloody Valentine; nothing Christmassy; Old Knudsen (inevitably); pirate songs and sea shanties; seaweed (four sorts); Shakespeare and porn; Shizuoka green tea; shooting things; skinning rabbits and squirrels; strange words beginning with 'a'; wasabi eating; whalemeat;
… and many more.
Gosh it's quiet now they've gone …
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Lazy
Well, that's over for another year.
I'm back in my clean, un-festively-decorated, treeless (and needle-less), normal, non-Chrismassy house with healthy, non-processed food in the kitchen, a pile of books, some old movies on DVD, a comfy old sofa and nothing else to do.
I've just been for a walk and the whole village seems to be sleeping off the binge-eating pig-fest of yesterday. It's dead quiet. Wonderful.
The phone's on mute. The world can go fish. I'm recharging my batteries.
Mmmmm …
I'm back in my clean, un-festively-decorated, treeless (and needle-less), normal, non-Chrismassy house with healthy, non-processed food in the kitchen, a pile of books, some old movies on DVD, a comfy old sofa and nothing else to do.
I've just been for a walk and the whole village seems to be sleeping off the binge-eating pig-fest of yesterday. It's dead quiet. Wonderful.
The phone's on mute. The world can go fish. I'm recharging my batteries.
Mmmmm …
Monday, December 25, 2006
Festivities
Ho Ho Ho …
I'm currently down in Suffolk at mum's, posting from her cute old snow iMac, waiting for the family to turn up and munching her baking while the dinner cooks.
Mum says "Happy Christmas, Robyn."
For those who don't know, my old mum's a Mad Bint.
Christmas over at mum's is thankfully not too traditional. When I walked in this morning, her music was then switching from Leonard Cohen to Joy Division (covers by her mate Al Griffin). So much better than bloody Christmas songs (arrgh).
Anyway, the table is laden with presents and we just await the people to open them, although if they're much longer I'll have eaten myself into a Jabba-like state.
Merry Christmas one and all.
I'm currently down in Suffolk at mum's, posting from her cute old snow iMac, waiting for the family to turn up and munching her baking while the dinner cooks.
Mum says "Happy Christmas, Robyn."
For those who don't know, my old mum's a Mad Bint.
Christmas over at mum's is thankfully not too traditional. When I walked in this morning, her music was then switching from Leonard Cohen to Joy Division (covers by her mate Al Griffin). So much better than bloody Christmas songs (arrgh).
Anyway, the table is laden with presents and we just await the people to open them, although if they're much longer I'll have eaten myself into a Jabba-like state.
Merry Christmas one and all.
So Here It Is
"The Israeli-built wall is "a sign of all that is wrong in the human heart", the Archbishop of Canterbury said today in Bethlehem.
Speaking to the town's civic representatives, Dr Williams said the wall symbolised "the terrible fear of the other, of the stranger, which keeps us all in one kind of prison or another", from which God 2,000 years ago came to release people."
Still a lot of work to do, folks.
Merry Christmas.
Speaking to the town's civic representatives, Dr Williams said the wall symbolised "the terrible fear of the other, of the stranger, which keeps us all in one kind of prison or another", from which God 2,000 years ago came to release people."
Still a lot of work to do, folks.
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Lunch With Knudsen
The old bugger just made me hungry with his mouthwatering post about giant squid.
And as there's no sushi bar in my stupid village, all I've got is this tin of くじら (that's kujira for those of you too cheap to get a decent computer that shows kana) that Jun brought back from Tokyo.
Vegetarians and panty-waists start screaming now. Sorry, but it's delicious … Mmmm …
So, here's to lunch with Knudsen.
Sing along now: Whalemeat again, don't know where, don't know when, but I … etc.
Please Stop
One of my all time favourites from the splendid Engrish website (it's in my sidebar, check it every day).
Ho ho ho … Merry Christmas.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The Pre-Christmas Sales
Spooky moment:
I fell asleep reading on the sofa and just woke up to Robyn's voice …
It took several long moments of bizarre confusion before I realised it was Radio 3 playing the Opera Quiz from the NY MET and the quizmaster sounds just like her.
Hey, Robyn, you're not moonlighting, are you?
I must admit to a Crane Brothers moment of joy realising I had woken up to an opera quiz.
There was a time a few years back when my brother and I were convinced we were Frasier and Niles Crane.
We're pretentious, we're neurotic, we're apalling snobs, we meet for coffee in bookshop coffeebars and wipe our seats before sitting down, I'm an opera buff with a house full of books and modern art and I'm a disaster with women (though perhaps those two facts are linked) … The list goes on …
That all came back to me just then when I woke up. If you can picture Frasier in the same situation, leaping to his feet and exclaiming "An Opera quiz! How divine!" Well I'm ashamed to say that was me. Try as I might to be Homer Simpson, I end up a Crane …
Oh, well.
So, today was the "pre-Christmas sales" rush in Norwich. That most insane day of the year when all the retailers panic that (a) we are not going to spend enough at Christmas; and (b) their competitors might start their January sales a few hours earlier and get the jump on them.
Strange and stupid behaviour.
A few years back the January sales started in January.
Then they started moving them earlier until they started on Boxing Day and turned a family relaxation and leftovers-munching day into a frenzied dash around the shops.
Now they start before Christmas and the city is full of cheapskates who put off their present buying in the knowledge that the stores will cave in and start the sales early, and demented couples buying kitchens and sofas two days before Christmas in case they miss a bargain in January …
I love this day. It's a great day for sitting back in the window of a coffee bar and watching the carnage. It's also a good day to have my own lock-up parking space at the station. I have to get in early though, before the gridlock.
Then it's just kick back and people watch. Screaming arguments developing between loving couples; parents having nervous breakdowns and trying not to kill their children Oh, it brings joy to a curmudgeon's heart.
So, if you were out there today in the scrum, fighting for a piece of tat that's been marked up forty percent so they can mark it down thirty and make you think you got a bargain; chill out! Get a fucking life, you suckers. You're going into Christmas with terminal blood pressure and that vein in your forehead is pulsing already. And you've got the in-laws and cooking the Christmas dinner yet to come. And a house full of screaming, greedy brats …
These two days before Christmas, a Grinch's life is indeed a happy one. Hee hee …
Happy Christmas.
I fell asleep reading on the sofa and just woke up to Robyn's voice …
It took several long moments of bizarre confusion before I realised it was Radio 3 playing the Opera Quiz from the NY MET and the quizmaster sounds just like her.
Hey, Robyn, you're not moonlighting, are you?
I must admit to a Crane Brothers moment of joy realising I had woken up to an opera quiz.
There was a time a few years back when my brother and I were convinced we were Frasier and Niles Crane.
We're pretentious, we're neurotic, we're apalling snobs, we meet for coffee in bookshop coffeebars and wipe our seats before sitting down, I'm an opera buff with a house full of books and modern art and I'm a disaster with women (though perhaps those two facts are linked) … The list goes on …
That all came back to me just then when I woke up. If you can picture Frasier in the same situation, leaping to his feet and exclaiming "An Opera quiz! How divine!" Well I'm ashamed to say that was me. Try as I might to be Homer Simpson, I end up a Crane …
Oh, well.
So, today was the "pre-Christmas sales" rush in Norwich. That most insane day of the year when all the retailers panic that (a) we are not going to spend enough at Christmas; and (b) their competitors might start their January sales a few hours earlier and get the jump on them.
Strange and stupid behaviour.
A few years back the January sales started in January.
Then they started moving them earlier until they started on Boxing Day and turned a family relaxation and leftovers-munching day into a frenzied dash around the shops.
Now they start before Christmas and the city is full of cheapskates who put off their present buying in the knowledge that the stores will cave in and start the sales early, and demented couples buying kitchens and sofas two days before Christmas in case they miss a bargain in January …
I love this day. It's a great day for sitting back in the window of a coffee bar and watching the carnage. It's also a good day to have my own lock-up parking space at the station. I have to get in early though, before the gridlock.
Then it's just kick back and people watch. Screaming arguments developing between loving couples; parents having nervous breakdowns and trying not to kill their children Oh, it brings joy to a curmudgeon's heart.
So, if you were out there today in the scrum, fighting for a piece of tat that's been marked up forty percent so they can mark it down thirty and make you think you got a bargain; chill out! Get a fucking life, you suckers. You're going into Christmas with terminal blood pressure and that vein in your forehead is pulsing already. And you've got the in-laws and cooking the Christmas dinner yet to come. And a house full of screaming, greedy brats …
These two days before Christmas, a Grinch's life is indeed a happy one. Hee hee …
Happy Christmas.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Spidey Senses Tingling
This is specifically for Robyn.
She got spooked by all the frosted spiders' webs festooning the little monkey puzzle tree I grew from a seed and planted in my mum's front garden (don't ask) …
So as I was in Suffolk doing the Christmas card run, I thought I'd take a few more snaps to freak her out some more (sorry, Robyn). That's mum at the window. She says "Hi".
This is the season when all the British spiders (except one, rather oddly) get broody and start making spidey babies. Our gardens are garlanded with pretty webs like this. They look lovely covered in raindrops but even better in the frost.
So apologies to all you shrieking arachnophobics out there, but spideys are our friends, so the webs are staying, at least until the spidey babies have fled the nest.
Pretty, aren't they?
Mother Nature's own Christmas decorations.
Made from real silk, too.
Cool!
She got spooked by all the frosted spiders' webs festooning the little monkey puzzle tree I grew from a seed and planted in my mum's front garden (don't ask) …
So as I was in Suffolk doing the Christmas card run, I thought I'd take a few more snaps to freak her out some more (sorry, Robyn). That's mum at the window. She says "Hi".
This is the season when all the British spiders (except one, rather oddly) get broody and start making spidey babies. Our gardens are garlanded with pretty webs like this. They look lovely covered in raindrops but even better in the frost.
So apologies to all you shrieking arachnophobics out there, but spideys are our friends, so the webs are staying, at least until the spidey babies have fled the nest.Pretty, aren't they?
Mother Nature's own Christmas decorations.
Made from real silk, too.
Cool!
The Christmas Card Run
Hoorah for the holidays.
I had a lovely lie-in this morning, not getting out of bed until half past five. Even though the alarm didn't go off at 4:40 I still woke up then, but I had fifty wonderful wriggling, stretching, pillow-wallowing minutes of blissful lie in. Mmm …
Then a nice soak in the bath instead of a rushed shower.
I love holidays.
Now I'm getting ready to do the annual Christmas Card run. It's "rural" round here and the postal service is primitive and unreliable at best.
So even though it means driving all over three counties in the freezing fog, I think it's nice to turn up with a card and have a chat and catch up with people I haven't seen for ages.
And they always put the kettle on.
So. As I can't drive all the way over to yours, here's my Christmas Card to you, my blogpals:
Apologies to Robyn for the content.
This is actually a home-made card I sent out to my terrestrial friends a few years back. I found the original while I was going through some old photos and couldn't resist using it again.
I can't remember who painted this or what it represents (shocking for a guy who did 'A' Level History of Art) but it's always tickled me because they all look so pissed off.
I love the expression on the girl's face with the lemon. "How much longer am I gonna have to stand here? I'm missing my favourite soap opera."
And the BVM: "I'm being really patient here, but if somebody doesn't bring me a gin soon I'm gonna go postal."
And the girl on the other side looks like she's operating the Christ child, Muppet-style.
And the Christ child himself … Why couldn't mediæval painters use proper babies as models? Why did they always paint muscly little men?
This one looks like a rather expressive miniature mafia don … "What the fuck is this? Who does she think I am? A fucking lemon? Hey, Luigi; get this thing away from me. I ordered the clams."
So anyway. Print it out and hang it up with the others if you want, though I can't see Robyn doing that (sorry) …
Merry Christmas one and all.
And a Happy New Year.
Love from Grinchy old Dive.
xx
I had a lovely lie-in this morning, not getting out of bed until half past five. Even though the alarm didn't go off at 4:40 I still woke up then, but I had fifty wonderful wriggling, stretching, pillow-wallowing minutes of blissful lie in. Mmm …
Then a nice soak in the bath instead of a rushed shower.
I love holidays.
Now I'm getting ready to do the annual Christmas Card run. It's "rural" round here and the postal service is primitive and unreliable at best.
So even though it means driving all over three counties in the freezing fog, I think it's nice to turn up with a card and have a chat and catch up with people I haven't seen for ages.
And they always put the kettle on.
So. As I can't drive all the way over to yours, here's my Christmas Card to you, my blogpals:
You can click on it if you want a bigger one.
Apologies to Robyn for the content.
This is actually a home-made card I sent out to my terrestrial friends a few years back. I found the original while I was going through some old photos and couldn't resist using it again.
I can't remember who painted this or what it represents (shocking for a guy who did 'A' Level History of Art) but it's always tickled me because they all look so pissed off.
I love the expression on the girl's face with the lemon. "How much longer am I gonna have to stand here? I'm missing my favourite soap opera."
And the BVM: "I'm being really patient here, but if somebody doesn't bring me a gin soon I'm gonna go postal."
And the girl on the other side looks like she's operating the Christ child, Muppet-style.
And the Christ child himself … Why couldn't mediæval painters use proper babies as models? Why did they always paint muscly little men?
This one looks like a rather expressive miniature mafia don … "What the fuck is this? Who does she think I am? A fucking lemon? Hey, Luigi; get this thing away from me. I ordered the clams."
So anyway. Print it out and hang it up with the others if you want, though I can't see Robyn doing that (sorry) …
Merry Christmas one and all.
And a Happy New Year.
Love from Grinchy old Dive.
xx
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Home For The Holidays
Woohoo!
The artful party dodger has escaped again.
I popped in to the Big party to let my boss see that I was obeying orders.
It was wall to wall drunks shrieking at one another. There's sixty-two of us in the office, and loads of people's partners and office consultants were there, crowding round the free booze like flies round dogshit.
My boss, like most of the debauched mob, was already drunk and insisted on forcing a "festive" quart pot of London Pride and a large tumbler of champagne into my hands.
I had two choices; I could say "Look at you. You're a fucking disgrace. And now you're trying to get me in the same state. Well fuck off!" or I could accept the drinks with a smile, wish him Happy Christmas then sidle off and give them to JJ and JG, our regular hardened lunchtime drinkers.
I love my job so that's what I did.
They were serving the food out as I came in, but I had sampled that last year so I wisely nipped out for sushi before heading to the party.
The party catering can only be described as microwaved catering packs of amusingly shaped fat with salmonella, delicately encased in grease and garnished with burnt bits.
The boss had seen me and I sneaked into the edges of a couple of photos to prove I had been there, so then I wished a few people who like that sort of thing a Happy Christmas and legged it, pronto.
So I'm home for the hols. Whoopee!
No more 4:40am screaming at the alarm clock until next year. I have a skipload of good books, some old black and white movies, some rather good wine and the same healthy food I eat the rest of the year.
Bollocks to binge drinking and eating 'til you puke. I'm going to recharge my batteries.
Merry Christmas one and all.
Love from Scrooge.
The artful party dodger has escaped again.
I popped in to the Big party to let my boss see that I was obeying orders.
It was wall to wall drunks shrieking at one another. There's sixty-two of us in the office, and loads of people's partners and office consultants were there, crowding round the free booze like flies round dogshit.
My boss, like most of the debauched mob, was already drunk and insisted on forcing a "festive" quart pot of London Pride and a large tumbler of champagne into my hands.
I had two choices; I could say "Look at you. You're a fucking disgrace. And now you're trying to get me in the same state. Well fuck off!" or I could accept the drinks with a smile, wish him Happy Christmas then sidle off and give them to JJ and JG, our regular hardened lunchtime drinkers.
I love my job so that's what I did.
They were serving the food out as I came in, but I had sampled that last year so I wisely nipped out for sushi before heading to the party.
The party catering can only be described as microwaved catering packs of amusingly shaped fat with salmonella, delicately encased in grease and garnished with burnt bits.
The boss had seen me and I sneaked into the edges of a couple of photos to prove I had been there, so then I wished a few people who like that sort of thing a Happy Christmas and legged it, pronto.
So I'm home for the hols. Whoopee!
No more 4:40am screaming at the alarm clock until next year. I have a skipload of good books, some old black and white movies, some rather good wine and the same healthy food I eat the rest of the year.
Bollocks to binge drinking and eating 'til you puke. I'm going to recharge my batteries.
Merry Christmas one and all.
Love from Scrooge.
Festive
Apparently the US culture of Christmas is foreign to me. Woohoo!So where the hell did that two percent come from?
It must have leaked over from Robyn's blog.
Rats …
Well, I've managed to avoid three Christmas parties so far, on friday, monday and tuesday. Unfortunately, the powers that be are insisting that I at least poke my head around the door of the Big Office Christmas pukefest which kicks off this lunchtime before crawling around a succession of pubs and restaurants and clubs until sometime tomorrow.
We've already had mince pies and red wine forced down our throats like geese in a fois gras factory. And that was at ten this morning.
Half the staff are already binge-drinking their way to date-rape and chlamydia heaven. Shrieking girls have been crashing into things and singing crap songs.
The All New "Traditional" British Christmas seems to consist of cramming your body full of as much alcohol and fat as you can, between puking, brawling and indiscriminate rutting (for the boys) and puking, brawling and indiscriminate whoring (for the girls) right through to the new year.
And that fucking singing reindeer is still bawling away.
I usually have a veggie Christmas, but this year I'm getting some reindeer meat. Fuck it.
I am seriously not looking forward to this party …
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Normal Service Will Be Resumed …
Sorry about that last post. I'm just a bit down all of a sudden. I'll probably cheer up later when I see some drunk office worker fall flat on his arse, so please ignore my down-ness.
Inane
"Dashing through the snow,
In a one horse open sleigh …"
Bollocks!
Robyn's been working hard at de-Grinching me and getting me all festive and now The Other Girl has got me bang to rights in her latest post.
But why can't a guy be Grinchy at Christmas?
Actually, I was doing pretty good this morning until yet another person asked me the most inane question they could think of: "What are you doing at Christmas?"
… which kinda woke up the Grinch again.
As did the person with the death wish who just pulled the cord on the fucking singing reindeer the girls put up by the door. You're gonna be wearing that thing up your arse if I catch you!
So what am I doing at Christmas?
It won't stop these overexcited, Santa-hatted morons asking, but I'll tell you anyway because I'm a miserable bastard.
Nothing.
Same as every year.
It's just another fucking day, except that the TV is even crapper than usual.
(Private Eye had a good cartoon about that yesterday; a picture of a turkey reading the Christmas TV listings and saying "Luckily, I'll be dead by then." I almost felt jealous).
I started the day with good intentions but the incessant, squealing-two-year-old, infantile stupidity all around the office has worn me down and now I'm just sick to death of it all. That and the shouting drunk office parties falling all over the pavement outside. And the fucking singing reindeer.
Sorry to be such a downer, but it's all so depressing. I don't know WHY it's depressing, it just IS. This time of year the suicide rates jump to a huge peak. There must be a reason.
I'm just going to spend the rest of the day trying my hardest not to deck the next imbecile who asks me that same fucking inane question.
Roll on friday, when I can go home, close the curtains and not come out again until it's all over for another year.
You're welcome to have a lovely Christmas and I hope you do. But please leave me out of it.
In a one horse open sleigh …"
Bollocks!
Robyn's been working hard at de-Grinching me and getting me all festive and now The Other Girl has got me bang to rights in her latest post.
But why can't a guy be Grinchy at Christmas?
Actually, I was doing pretty good this morning until yet another person asked me the most inane question they could think of: "What are you doing at Christmas?"
… which kinda woke up the Grinch again.
As did the person with the death wish who just pulled the cord on the fucking singing reindeer the girls put up by the door. You're gonna be wearing that thing up your arse if I catch you!
So what am I doing at Christmas?
It won't stop these overexcited, Santa-hatted morons asking, but I'll tell you anyway because I'm a miserable bastard.
Nothing.
Same as every year.
It's just another fucking day, except that the TV is even crapper than usual.
(Private Eye had a good cartoon about that yesterday; a picture of a turkey reading the Christmas TV listings and saying "Luckily, I'll be dead by then." I almost felt jealous).
I started the day with good intentions but the incessant, squealing-two-year-old, infantile stupidity all around the office has worn me down and now I'm just sick to death of it all. That and the shouting drunk office parties falling all over the pavement outside. And the fucking singing reindeer.
Sorry to be such a downer, but it's all so depressing. I don't know WHY it's depressing, it just IS. This time of year the suicide rates jump to a huge peak. There must be a reason.
I'm just going to spend the rest of the day trying my hardest not to deck the next imbecile who asks me that same fucking inane question.
Roll on friday, when I can go home, close the curtains and not come out again until it's all over for another year.
You're welcome to have a lovely Christmas and I hope you do. But please leave me out of it.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Dive's Christmas Appeal
Around this time of year we are bombarded with Christmas appeals.
There are so many groups who are in need and it's nice to give something so that someone will have a less shitty time of it at the peak of the suicide season.
I like to slip my Big Issue guy a twenty pound note for the Christmas Issue, and my big 'pennies' jar (£170 odd this year) has gone toward Motor Neurone research, which also goes toward making me feel less shitty about myself. And there are lots of others …
This year, when you set aside a moment to consider those less fortunate, I'd like to remind you of a group who get left out year after year; snubbed and ignored, especially around the "party season" when everyone else is so happy.
So Dive's Christmas Appeal for 2006 is:
"Spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas".
I admit to a special interest here as I am a longstanding and fully paid up member of this group. Take it from one who knows: Christmas is a fucking awful time to be ugly.
I mean, I'm not hideous (well not very), but when I walk into a party and people turn to see who it is, I can feel a palpable flinch from all the unattached women in the room.
We ugs are the people who put the "N" in "hello" … We say "Hello" to a woman and her mind forms it automatically into "Hell No".
And even if one of us somehow makes it into a relationship, we get the feeling that we're as sexually attractive as yesterday's washing-up … You know, you see it all piled up and stinky in the sink and you know somebody's got to do it, but … (shudder). No way! Not even with Marigolds on …
And mistletoe. Fuck all round that.
And stupid drunk office girls in Santa hats snogging everything that moves … everything but an ug, of course.
And stupid "feel good" Christmas crap fucking TV. Where are the ugs? Nowhere.
Except for "fake ug", like Ugly Betty … Listen, you TV twats: putting a brace and glasses on a pretty girl does not make her ugly. Ug is Ug. If TV used real ugs, nobody would watch. Just like real life … Bastards!
And "the youth of today", pretty girls binge-drinking 'til they puke, then fucking in their own stink and leaving pools of chlamydia wherever they sit. But even semi-conscious from booze, they won't go near an ug.
And sicky-sicky married couples with their "lovely" kids. Do we ugs get to be attractive married couples? Do we bollocks! So don't invite us over at Christmas; seeing you so happy only makes us more fucking miserable when we get home alone to our dark empty houses.
And girlfriends who are 'friends who happen to be girls'. I've got girlfriends coming out of my fucking ears, but they'd all puke at the thought of dating me. (Ugs make girlfriends as easily as gay guys do; we're "safe" … Hah!).
And Christmas parties? Don't get me started … really … don't.
There's no love in our ugly lives and no prospect of any, so Christmas really sucks huge ass.
We ugs even have our own anthem. The lovely Mister Mozza wrote it for us; How Soon Is Now (sing along):
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen now,
Well, when exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
So, this is Dive's Christmas Appeal:
Embittered, lonely, rejected, heartbroken and self-pityingly miserable as we are, please spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas.
Grit your teeth, pucker up and kiss one of us. You can have some chocolate after to take the taste away.
And you can enjoy your Christmas knowing you've done your good deed.
Sorry guys; I tried, but the Grinch is back with a vengeance.
There are so many groups who are in need and it's nice to give something so that someone will have a less shitty time of it at the peak of the suicide season.
I like to slip my Big Issue guy a twenty pound note for the Christmas Issue, and my big 'pennies' jar (£170 odd this year) has gone toward Motor Neurone research, which also goes toward making me feel less shitty about myself. And there are lots of others …
This year, when you set aside a moment to consider those less fortunate, I'd like to remind you of a group who get left out year after year; snubbed and ignored, especially around the "party season" when everyone else is so happy.
So Dive's Christmas Appeal for 2006 is:
"Spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas".
I admit to a special interest here as I am a longstanding and fully paid up member of this group. Take it from one who knows: Christmas is a fucking awful time to be ugly.
I mean, I'm not hideous (well not very), but when I walk into a party and people turn to see who it is, I can feel a palpable flinch from all the unattached women in the room.
We ugs are the people who put the "N" in "hello" … We say "Hello" to a woman and her mind forms it automatically into "Hell No".
And even if one of us somehow makes it into a relationship, we get the feeling that we're as sexually attractive as yesterday's washing-up … You know, you see it all piled up and stinky in the sink and you know somebody's got to do it, but … (shudder). No way! Not even with Marigolds on …
And mistletoe. Fuck all round that.
And stupid drunk office girls in Santa hats snogging everything that moves … everything but an ug, of course.
And stupid "feel good" Christmas crap fucking TV. Where are the ugs? Nowhere.
Except for "fake ug", like Ugly Betty … Listen, you TV twats: putting a brace and glasses on a pretty girl does not make her ugly. Ug is Ug. If TV used real ugs, nobody would watch. Just like real life … Bastards!
And "the youth of today", pretty girls binge-drinking 'til they puke, then fucking in their own stink and leaving pools of chlamydia wherever they sit. But even semi-conscious from booze, they won't go near an ug.
And sicky-sicky married couples with their "lovely" kids. Do we ugs get to be attractive married couples? Do we bollocks! So don't invite us over at Christmas; seeing you so happy only makes us more fucking miserable when we get home alone to our dark empty houses.
And girlfriends who are 'friends who happen to be girls'. I've got girlfriends coming out of my fucking ears, but they'd all puke at the thought of dating me. (Ugs make girlfriends as easily as gay guys do; we're "safe" … Hah!).
And Christmas parties? Don't get me started … really … don't.
There's no love in our ugly lives and no prospect of any, so Christmas really sucks huge ass.
We ugs even have our own anthem. The lovely Mister Mozza wrote it for us; How Soon Is Now (sing along):
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen now,
Well, when exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
So, this is Dive's Christmas Appeal:
Embittered, lonely, rejected, heartbroken and self-pityingly miserable as we are, please spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas.
Grit your teeth, pucker up and kiss one of us. You can have some chocolate after to take the taste away.
And you can enjoy your Christmas knowing you've done your good deed.
Sorry guys; I tried, but the Grinch is back with a vengeance.
Detour
Just a quickie post …
On my way out to Sydenham yesterday, I took a detour up Shooters' Hill to the Greenwich Observatory. After three and a half butt-numbing hours on the train a nice walk in the park is as yummy as chocolate.
Unfortunately the weather was arse, so you only get one miserable picture. I'll have to go up there again next spring when there's a decent view. The walk was nice though; freezing but refreshing.
The white building in the foreground is the "Queen's House", designed by the splendid Inigo Jones. Behind that is the Royal Naval College, then the good old Thames, with Canary Wharf in the distance. London is off to the left with Westminster a few miles further upstream.
Our office summer ball is usually held on board a river cruiser which takes us down the Thames from Westminster to Greenwich and back. If I get really bored over the holiday I might post some photos from that.
Mister Grinch succeeded in getting me out of yesterday's Christmas party, as well as today's, but I think I'm going to have to develop some kind of tropical disease to escape from the big party on thursday (God, I hate parties) …
There was a splendid "Messiah" live on Radio 3 last night, if anyone caught it. Much better than any stupid party.
On my way out to Sydenham yesterday, I took a detour up Shooters' Hill to the Greenwich Observatory. After three and a half butt-numbing hours on the train a nice walk in the park is as yummy as chocolate.
Unfortunately the weather was arse, so you only get one miserable picture. I'll have to go up there again next spring when there's a decent view. The walk was nice though; freezing but refreshing.
The white building in the foreground is the "Queen's House", designed by the splendid Inigo Jones. Behind that is the Royal Naval College, then the good old Thames, with Canary Wharf in the distance. London is off to the left with Westminster a few miles further upstream.Our office summer ball is usually held on board a river cruiser which takes us down the Thames from Westminster to Greenwich and back. If I get really bored over the holiday I might post some photos from that.
Mister Grinch succeeded in getting me out of yesterday's Christmas party, as well as today's, but I think I'm going to have to develop some kind of tropical disease to escape from the big party on thursday (God, I hate parties) …
There was a splendid "Messiah" live on Radio 3 last night, if anyone caught it. Much better than any stupid party.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Yet Another Boring Architecture Post
Stupid busy day today.
If I disappear off the radar for a bit it's because I have to visit two of our schools today and give talks and tours of a couple of my buildings.
First stop is the "stealth building" in Sydenham. This is the one that looks like a stealth bomber from the outside; lots of lovely intersecting planes (no pun intended) and weird angles, all covered in solar panels.
Inside it is a big recording studio hidden away in the back of the building and an acoustic music performance space for solo and small ensembles in the main room (the orchestra goes in the main theatre next door). This is the stage end of the acoustic performance space …
… and this is the other end. The booths are for lighting and sound mixing/recording.
The acoustics took a lot of work, but I'm rather proud of the result. Walking round every corner of the room, the piano sounds exactly the same. No drop off in volume or tone. Spiffy!
Then after lunch, we're off to Wimbledon to see the new theatre. That's the 3D of it above (the building works aren't due to finish until the spring).
This is what the entrance lobby looked like last week, so there's still a way to go yet.
So anyway; that's what I'll be up to today instead of posting to my lovely blogpals. And when I've done that, I've got the far harder task of getting out of our departmental Christmas party tonight.
While I'm showing people round the buildings, the Grinch will be working overtime thinking up excuses.
Right. Off we go (hey ho … hey ho) …
If I disappear off the radar for a bit it's because I have to visit two of our schools today and give talks and tours of a couple of my buildings.
First stop is the "stealth building" in Sydenham. This is the one that looks like a stealth bomber from the outside; lots of lovely intersecting planes (no pun intended) and weird angles, all covered in solar panels.
Inside it is a big recording studio hidden away in the back of the building and an acoustic music performance space for solo and small ensembles in the main room (the orchestra goes in the main theatre next door). This is the stage end of the acoustic performance space …
… and this is the other end. The booths are for lighting and sound mixing/recording.The acoustics took a lot of work, but I'm rather proud of the result. Walking round every corner of the room, the piano sounds exactly the same. No drop off in volume or tone. Spiffy!
Then after lunch, we're off to Wimbledon to see the new theatre. That's the 3D of it above (the building works aren't due to finish until the spring).
This is what the entrance lobby looked like last week, so there's still a way to go yet.
So anyway; that's what I'll be up to today instead of posting to my lovely blogpals. And when I've done that, I've got the far harder task of getting out of our departmental Christmas party tonight.
While I'm showing people round the buildings, the Grinch will be working overtime thinking up excuses.
Right. Off we go (hey ho … hey ho) …
Sunday, December 17, 2006
'tis The Season
Following on from yesterday's nostalgia fest, here's another one. This one's slightly more seasonal.
Sorry about the quality; it's an old Kodachrome transparency from the mid-sixties and they tend to deteriorate over time (which is why I'm trying to scan them all in now).
This is me scoring a pretty good headshot on little brother Phil (sorry, bro).
I blame Robyn for all this. She's been chipping away at my Grinchiness until I'm almost beginning to feel festive.
If things go on in this apallingly jolly way, I might even make you a card.
So "Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas."
(Make the most of my good mood, Scrooge is plotting his comeback).
Sorry about the quality; it's an old Kodachrome transparency from the mid-sixties and they tend to deteriorate over time (which is why I'm trying to scan them all in now).
This is me scoring a pretty good headshot on little brother Phil (sorry, bro).
I blame Robyn for all this. She's been chipping away at my Grinchiness until I'm almost beginning to feel festive.
If things go on in this apallingly jolly way, I might even make you a card.
So "Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas."
(Make the most of my good mood, Scrooge is plotting his comeback).
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Steam Trains
Too busy to do a proper post today.
Into the city for breakfast and shopping, hanging about like a bloody middle-aged Jay to Dean's Silent Bob in Dean and Lisa's comic shop, over to Mikey's to do something secret for Bethany's Christmas (shhh!), the long drag over to Phil's to set up his new amp and play guitar and drums for a bit, back home for housework, housework and more housework, dinner and some housework …
So, apropos of bugger all and because I haven't got the time to write anything worth reading, here's a picture from the stack of old stuff I've been scanning in for mum (hint for a happy life: never tell elderly relatives you've got a scanner).
This is the lane out the back of our old house when I was a kid; Providence Place, it was called. It doubled as a footy pitch, much to the sweary and hitty annoyance of the good neighbouring folk (rugby was a "posh" boys' sport … you had to have grass to play it).
This is our gang, the Bash Street Kids.
At the back (they're girls, so they're not properly in the gang) are Janet and Wilma; sitting in our race cart is little brother Phil, Malcom and Neville; standing behind is Norman and that's old Dive standing on the cart in my sexy stripey shirt.
At the top of the lane was the chip shop and the Sunday School (see posts passim); and at the bottom of the lane, through a gap in the fence were the railway sidings where we still had old steam trains as "push and pull" shunting engines.
The long grass in the railway sidings is where we hunted for grasshoppers and slow worms (a kind of snake thing) and I indulged in the wonderful pastime of upside-down train watching.
That's where you let the engine go by, then run up close and lay down with your head between the sleepers, as close to the track as you dare, and watch the train go by, upside-down against the sky.
Hey, it was trippy and it was free. We didn't have bloody video games back then, just our pram cart and the trains.
Anyway, as I've nothing to write, I'll do a Robyn and set an assignment: Let's have some pics and stories from when you were little. No hurry, just do one when you feel like it so we can piece together our pasts and discover how we ended up like this.
Off you go then …
Into the city for breakfast and shopping, hanging about like a bloody middle-aged Jay to Dean's Silent Bob in Dean and Lisa's comic shop, over to Mikey's to do something secret for Bethany's Christmas (shhh!), the long drag over to Phil's to set up his new amp and play guitar and drums for a bit, back home for housework, housework and more housework, dinner and some housework …
So, apropos of bugger all and because I haven't got the time to write anything worth reading, here's a picture from the stack of old stuff I've been scanning in for mum (hint for a happy life: never tell elderly relatives you've got a scanner).
This is the lane out the back of our old house when I was a kid; Providence Place, it was called. It doubled as a footy pitch, much to the sweary and hitty annoyance of the good neighbouring folk (rugby was a "posh" boys' sport … you had to have grass to play it).This is our gang, the Bash Street Kids.
At the back (they're girls, so they're not properly in the gang) are Janet and Wilma; sitting in our race cart is little brother Phil, Malcom and Neville; standing behind is Norman and that's old Dive standing on the cart in my sexy stripey shirt.
At the top of the lane was the chip shop and the Sunday School (see posts passim); and at the bottom of the lane, through a gap in the fence were the railway sidings where we still had old steam trains as "push and pull" shunting engines.
The long grass in the railway sidings is where we hunted for grasshoppers and slow worms (a kind of snake thing) and I indulged in the wonderful pastime of upside-down train watching.
That's where you let the engine go by, then run up close and lay down with your head between the sleepers, as close to the track as you dare, and watch the train go by, upside-down against the sky.
Hey, it was trippy and it was free. We didn't have bloody video games back then, just our pram cart and the trains.
Anyway, as I've nothing to write, I'll do a Robyn and set an assignment: Let's have some pics and stories from when you were little. No hurry, just do one when you feel like it so we can piece together our pasts and discover how we ended up like this.
Off you go then …
Friday, December 15, 2006
It's That Mister Knudsen Again
I know it's another bloody meme, but this one has an impeccable pedigree, coming as it does from the lovely Gaijin Girl via the equally lovely Fake Knudsen.
Here we go then:
1. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?
Me.
2. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be?
Bono. Can I do it now, please?
3. Who would you really like to just punch in the face?
Tony Blair.
4. What is your favourite cheese?
Stilton or smegma (easy to confuse the two).
5. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your immediate disposal. What kind will you make?
Stilton and mango chutney. Mmmm …
6. You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached sex and it can only happen once. Who is the lucky celebrity of your choice?
Is Marge Simpson a movie celebrity? If not, then Akiko Wakabayashi from "You Only Live Twice".
7. You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who do you pick?
Any member of Morning Musume.
8. Now that you’ve slept with two different people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy shit, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it?
Unwisely.
9. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?
Harajuku, Tokyo. For the weemen …
10. Upon arrival to the aforementioned location, you get off the plane and discover another hundred-dollar bill. Now that you are in the new location, what are you gonna do?
Eat whale sashimi.
11. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. It is…?
I'm with Fake Knudsen on this; a top Islay malt, probably cask strength Talisker as I've only got a little left in the cupboard.
12. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-travelling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you travelling to and what are you going to do when you get there?
I'd go back to Biblical Jerusalem and bribe Pilate to let Jesus off.
Then I'd tell Jesus about all the shit that's been done in His and His Dad's names so he'd tell the disciples he was only joking about the son of God bit and then slope off with Mary Magdalen and run a nightclub.
13. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?
Women must not wear denim (ugh).
14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what’s the premise?
It's called "I'm A Celebrity, Beat The Crap Out Of Me" and stars every "celebrity" on the planet. They are brutally beaten and tortured for twenty minutes in front of a live audience, then put to death in amusing ways by cute Japanese girls in bikinis.
15. What is your favorite curse word?
Arse!
16. Your house is on fire! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the item?
My old Les Paul. No contest.
17. One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do?
Start wanking. An endless supply of tissue paper must be standing there for a reason.
18. The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. Whatcha gonna do in that half-hour?
Kill everybody else on the planet.
19. You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What’s it gonna be?
I already have a Superpower (it's about halfway down this post).
20. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?
Judith Flaxman. 1977. Just about any half hour. Mmmmmm … Nuff said.
21.You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?
Most of the first forty-eight years.
22. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-travelling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But you can move to anywhere else in the world! What country are you going to live in now?
Japan.
23. You have been eternally banned from every single bar in the world except for ONE. Which one is it gonna be?
Rick's Bar, Casablanca or Moe's Tavern … It's gotta be Moe's; I can't stand Nazis.
24. Hopefully you didn’t mention this in the super-powers question…. If you did, then we’ll just expand on that. Suddenly, you have gained the ability to float. Who are you going to show this to first?
Jesus. Then we'll do the helium balloon voice thing and scare the shit out of the disciples.
25. The constant absorption of magical moonbeams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous-person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life?
No celebrity is worth bringing back to life.
26. The Celestial Gates of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, once again Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person, etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back?
Nobody. Life sucks. They're better off dead.
27. What’s your theme song?
Prayer To God by Shellac
28. Who’s up next?
As you've all probably seen this on Old K's blog, there's no-one else to pass it on to, unless you're a new reader, in which case get to work, sucker.
Here we go then:
1. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?
Me.
2. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be?
Bono. Can I do it now, please?
3. Who would you really like to just punch in the face?
Tony Blair.
4. What is your favourite cheese?
Stilton or smegma (easy to confuse the two).
5. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your immediate disposal. What kind will you make?
Stilton and mango chutney. Mmmm …
6. You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached sex and it can only happen once. Who is the lucky celebrity of your choice?
Is Marge Simpson a movie celebrity? If not, then Akiko Wakabayashi from "You Only Live Twice".
7. You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who do you pick?
Any member of Morning Musume.
8. Now that you’ve slept with two different people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy shit, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it?
Unwisely.
9. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?
Harajuku, Tokyo. For the weemen …
10. Upon arrival to the aforementioned location, you get off the plane and discover another hundred-dollar bill. Now that you are in the new location, what are you gonna do?
Eat whale sashimi.
11. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. It is…?
I'm with Fake Knudsen on this; a top Islay malt, probably cask strength Talisker as I've only got a little left in the cupboard.
12. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-travelling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you travelling to and what are you going to do when you get there?
I'd go back to Biblical Jerusalem and bribe Pilate to let Jesus off.
Then I'd tell Jesus about all the shit that's been done in His and His Dad's names so he'd tell the disciples he was only joking about the son of God bit and then slope off with Mary Magdalen and run a nightclub.
13. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?
Women must not wear denim (ugh).
14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what’s the premise?
It's called "I'm A Celebrity, Beat The Crap Out Of Me" and stars every "celebrity" on the planet. They are brutally beaten and tortured for twenty minutes in front of a live audience, then put to death in amusing ways by cute Japanese girls in bikinis.
15. What is your favorite curse word?
Arse!
16. Your house is on fire! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the item?
My old Les Paul. No contest.
17. One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do?
Start wanking. An endless supply of tissue paper must be standing there for a reason.
18. The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. Whatcha gonna do in that half-hour?
Kill everybody else on the planet.
19. You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What’s it gonna be?
I already have a Superpower (it's about halfway down this post).
20. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?
Judith Flaxman. 1977. Just about any half hour. Mmmmmm … Nuff said.
21.You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?
Most of the first forty-eight years.
22. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-travelling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But you can move to anywhere else in the world! What country are you going to live in now?
Japan.
23. You have been eternally banned from every single bar in the world except for ONE. Which one is it gonna be?
Rick's Bar, Casablanca or Moe's Tavern … It's gotta be Moe's; I can't stand Nazis.
24. Hopefully you didn’t mention this in the super-powers question…. If you did, then we’ll just expand on that. Suddenly, you have gained the ability to float. Who are you going to show this to first?
Jesus. Then we'll do the helium balloon voice thing and scare the shit out of the disciples.
25. The constant absorption of magical moonbeams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous-person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life?
No celebrity is worth bringing back to life.
26. The Celestial Gates of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, once again Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person, etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back?
Nobody. Life sucks. They're better off dead.
27. What’s your theme song?
Prayer To God by Shellac
28. Who’s up next?
As you've all probably seen this on Old K's blog, there's no-one else to pass it on to, unless you're a new reader, in which case get to work, sucker.
What's That Racket?
I was going to leave this until the end of the year, but Sassy has asked us what we are listening to, so I'll do it now.
As my tastes lurk around the clankier and rather unlistenable recesses of modern "classical" music and the avant garde end of rock and experimental music, I won't bother subjecting you to any of that because you wouldn't listen to it anyway.
Instead, here's what's found its way onto my iPod this year from the more "commercial" end of things:
Album of the Year:
Jolie Holland: Springtime Can Kill You.
After two really good albums, Jolie Holland suddenly explodes, and out comes the astonishingly gorgeous Springtime Can Kill You. If you've not heard her voice yet, make sure and have a back massage before listening or the chills could damage your spine.
Dark, twisted and beautiful, Americana at its very finest. As mentioned in an early post, Ghostly Girl is my favourite song for listening to in a darkened attic …
Runners-up in no particular order:
Joanna Newsom: Ys.
Hokay … So we have a harpist with a voice like Billie Holiday doing Marge Simpson, singing reeeally long songs about … er … weird shit. Except she's recorded by my personal deity, Steve Albini, and VanDyke Parks has added an orchestration that is frankly mind-blowing.
This is stunning! Listen and fall in love.
Joan As Policewoman: Real Life.
Joan Wasser is one of Antony's gang; the New York art rock crowd. He appears on here, along with Devendra and a few others, but this is Joan's album and it's brilliant. This is about the closest thing to a pop album I've bought since Abbey Road, but it's bloody wonderful. And you can dance to it … well, some of it …
Richard Hawley: Coles Corner.
I'd love to have been there when he pitched this as a concept. "I'd like to do an album of loving pastiches of pre-1962 British chart music."
My mum's got this. She thinks it's lovely. I've got this. I think it's lovely. Buy it.
Richard is also Jarvis Cocker's guitar player, which leads us neatly onto:
Jarvis Cocker: Jarvis.
From the quiet instrumental opening to the rousingly anthemic singalong "C**ts Are Still Running The World", this is absolutely fucking glorious! The best Pulp album never made. It veers from 'Up' period REM, through classic Pulp, to Cocker and Hawley going completely apeshit and is utterly wonderful.
Regina Spektor: Maryann Meets The Gravediggers.
Not our own beloved Maryann; this one is the creation of mad Russian emigrée Regeeeena. Sassy already knows how good this is, so does Peahen, who bought it for me (hoorah). Now it's your turn.
Susanna And The Magical Orchestra: Melody Mountain.
Follow up to last year's wonderful "List of Lights and Buoys" by the Radio 3 Late Junction regulars, this is an album of very odd covers (Love Will Tear Us Apart, Crazy Crazy Nights, Hallelujah) given the 'Susanna' treatment; slowed down and stripped bare and jaw-droppingly transformed by her astonishing voice. The words "haunting", "ethereal", "beautiful" applied to classic rock anthems. The words "eh?' and "wow!" also spring to mind.
Party Album of the Year:
Rogue's Gallery: (Anti Records) Various illuminaries such as: Richard Thompson, Nick Cave, Loudon Wainwright III, Bill Frisell, Sting (eh?), Rufus Wainwright and Kate Mc.Garrigle, Martin and Eliza Carthy, Lucinda Williams, Jack Shit, Antony, Ed Harcourt, VanDyke Parks, Jolie Holland, Jarvis Cocker and Richard Hawley (yes, them again, going gloriously nutjob on "A Drop Of Nelson's Blood"), Lou Reed and many more; all gleefully ripping their way through 43 traditional sea shanties and pirate songs.
"What?", you may well ask …
All I'll say is, invite some musicians over, leave guitars, fiddles, pipes, pirate hats, grog, etc. laying around, then put this on. Loud. You'll wake up several days later from the best party you've ever had. Gloriously silly, yet musically transcendent. Skip the Bono track (as if you need telling). If nothing else, hearing Loudon Wainwright III's deliciously deadpan rendering of "The Good Ship Venus" is worth the price alone …
Don't play this to your mother!
Honourable mentions
Nina Nastasia
The Handsome Family
Tom Waits
Nordik Tree
Puerto Muerto
Right. Off you go to Amazon …
As my tastes lurk around the clankier and rather unlistenable recesses of modern "classical" music and the avant garde end of rock and experimental music, I won't bother subjecting you to any of that because you wouldn't listen to it anyway.
Instead, here's what's found its way onto my iPod this year from the more "commercial" end of things:
Album of the Year:
Jolie Holland: Springtime Can Kill You.
After two really good albums, Jolie Holland suddenly explodes, and out comes the astonishingly gorgeous Springtime Can Kill You. If you've not heard her voice yet, make sure and have a back massage before listening or the chills could damage your spine.
Dark, twisted and beautiful, Americana at its very finest. As mentioned in an early post, Ghostly Girl is my favourite song for listening to in a darkened attic …
Runners-up in no particular order:
Joanna Newsom: Ys.
Hokay … So we have a harpist with a voice like Billie Holiday doing Marge Simpson, singing reeeally long songs about … er … weird shit. Except she's recorded by my personal deity, Steve Albini, and VanDyke Parks has added an orchestration that is frankly mind-blowing.
This is stunning! Listen and fall in love.
Joan As Policewoman: Real Life.
Joan Wasser is one of Antony's gang; the New York art rock crowd. He appears on here, along with Devendra and a few others, but this is Joan's album and it's brilliant. This is about the closest thing to a pop album I've bought since Abbey Road, but it's bloody wonderful. And you can dance to it … well, some of it …
Richard Hawley: Coles Corner.
I'd love to have been there when he pitched this as a concept. "I'd like to do an album of loving pastiches of pre-1962 British chart music."
My mum's got this. She thinks it's lovely. I've got this. I think it's lovely. Buy it.
Richard is also Jarvis Cocker's guitar player, which leads us neatly onto:
Jarvis Cocker: Jarvis.
From the quiet instrumental opening to the rousingly anthemic singalong "C**ts Are Still Running The World", this is absolutely fucking glorious! The best Pulp album never made. It veers from 'Up' period REM, through classic Pulp, to Cocker and Hawley going completely apeshit and is utterly wonderful.
Regina Spektor: Maryann Meets The Gravediggers.
Not our own beloved Maryann; this one is the creation of mad Russian emigrée Regeeeena. Sassy already knows how good this is, so does Peahen, who bought it for me (hoorah). Now it's your turn.
Susanna And The Magical Orchestra: Melody Mountain.
Follow up to last year's wonderful "List of Lights and Buoys" by the Radio 3 Late Junction regulars, this is an album of very odd covers (Love Will Tear Us Apart, Crazy Crazy Nights, Hallelujah) given the 'Susanna' treatment; slowed down and stripped bare and jaw-droppingly transformed by her astonishing voice. The words "haunting", "ethereal", "beautiful" applied to classic rock anthems. The words "eh?' and "wow!" also spring to mind.
Party Album of the Year:
Rogue's Gallery: (Anti Records) Various illuminaries such as: Richard Thompson, Nick Cave, Loudon Wainwright III, Bill Frisell, Sting (eh?), Rufus Wainwright and Kate Mc.Garrigle, Martin and Eliza Carthy, Lucinda Williams, Jack Shit, Antony, Ed Harcourt, VanDyke Parks, Jolie Holland, Jarvis Cocker and Richard Hawley (yes, them again, going gloriously nutjob on "A Drop Of Nelson's Blood"), Lou Reed and many more; all gleefully ripping their way through 43 traditional sea shanties and pirate songs.
"What?", you may well ask …
All I'll say is, invite some musicians over, leave guitars, fiddles, pipes, pirate hats, grog, etc. laying around, then put this on. Loud. You'll wake up several days later from the best party you've ever had. Gloriously silly, yet musically transcendent. Skip the Bono track (as if you need telling). If nothing else, hearing Loudon Wainwright III's deliciously deadpan rendering of "The Good Ship Venus" is worth the price alone …
Don't play this to your mother!
Honourable mentions
Nina Nastasia
The Handsome Family
Tom Waits
Nordik Tree
Puerto Muerto
Right. Off you go to Amazon …
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Putting On The Ritz
So farewell then, the marvellous Peter Boyle.
Many thanks to Old Knudsen and to Rich for bringing to our attention the sad demise of this lovely man.
Old K. has written a touching euology for him which I am not going to attempt to better.
I stopped work early this afternoon to sit and watch Mr. Boyle's finest hour. Playing the Monster in Young Frankenstein.
This movie means a lot to me and I know it does for Robyn, too, so I've just taken a few screengrabs to remind us of Mr. Boyle's greatness.
Soup's on
Don't inhale until the tip is glowing …
Putting On The Ritz
And finally, with the beautiful, talented and equally sadly missed Madeline Kahn.
It's the way I'd like to remember them.
Thank you, Mister Boyle.
Many thanks to Old Knudsen and to Rich for bringing to our attention the sad demise of this lovely man.
Old K. has written a touching euology for him which I am not going to attempt to better.
I stopped work early this afternoon to sit and watch Mr. Boyle's finest hour. Playing the Monster in Young Frankenstein.
This movie means a lot to me and I know it does for Robyn, too, so I've just taken a few screengrabs to remind us of Mr. Boyle's greatness.
Soup's on
Don't inhale until the tip is glowing …
Putting On The Ritz
And finally, with the beautiful, talented and equally sadly missed Madeline Kahn.
It's the way I'd like to remember them.
Thank you, Mister Boyle.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Te Deum … Sorry; Tedium
So … Training day … No amount of swanky outside catering is worth that kind of teeth-grinding, arse-numbing mind-cheese …
What did I learn today?
I learned the "Flying Chef" can't make mochi for shit.
I learned not to look at the clock (at least I learned not to scream when looking at the clock).
I learned that the wise man times his flu bug to coincide with training day (nice one, Tim).
I learned to calculate how many fibres there are in the boardroom carpet (count 'em yourselves).
I learned I have conjunctivitis in my right eye, probably through boredom rubbing.
I learned that JJ got a stiffy while he dozed (much giggling).
I came home.
End of training day.
What did I learn today?
I learned the "Flying Chef" can't make mochi for shit.
I learned not to look at the clock (at least I learned not to scream when looking at the clock).
I learned that the wise man times his flu bug to coincide with training day (nice one, Tim).
I learned to calculate how many fibres there are in the boardroom carpet (count 'em yourselves).
I learned I have conjunctivitis in my right eye, probably through boredom rubbing.
I learned that JJ got a stiffy while he dozed (much giggling).
I came home.
End of training day.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Fear
Frightening thing, that … fear …
Robyn has once more assigned us a task.
This time, it is to "name at least one fear that torments you, and then agree to face the damn thing head on."
So … heights, and how to tell them to fuck off.
I was always petrified of heights, vertigo took me by the balls a good ten feet from any clifftop and had me crawling on my belly and whimpering like a girl (at least a girl who whimpers).
And yet now I can be regularly found walking nonchalantly around the tops of parapet walls on high buildings as easily as if I were walking across a flat field.
Eric, our Health and Safety Officer hates me. He cowers in his hard hat and safety harness while I lean out and peer down at the tiny people waaaaay below. He also swears at me a lot.
I know the moment I conquered my fear. I also know that I'm never, EVER going through THAT again!
As some of my older - or at least some of my more attentive - readers may know, way back in the mists of time the firm of Architects I once worked for was responsible for the upkeep of several hundred of Norfolk's Saxon, Norman and Mediæval churches. This involved quinquennial inspections. Which involved clambering up the insides of the bell towers on old, woodworm-eaten Victorian ladders. This also involved no safety equipment whatsoever (other than a plastic hard hat). Before the days of sweary Health and Safety Officers and harnesses, we were required to "get up there however you can".
Getting up the towers was scary enough, but it was what we had to do when we were up there which really filled our pants.
Around two hundred feet up in the old bell towers were the old bell frames. Most had the bells still in situ but most were too rotten and fragile to ring without the whole damned lot collapsing in a clangy mess. Most of the intervening floors had rotted away centuries ago and the view from the bell frame was straight down onto the stone flags of the church floor. My job was to lean off the top of the topmost ladder, grab hold of and swing up into the bellframe and give it a good poke around to see if it would stay up there for another five years.
These bellframes are made from massive, foot-thick oak beams. But they were put there nine-hundred years ago and are now a bit the worse for wear. The ends are all rotten and the whole rickety woodpile creaks and sways when you try to move. It is also shin-deep in pigeon shit … Nice …
Needless to say I hated this job. But I did it. Until Langley Church Tower. When the ladder slipped round out of reach and I was stuck up there.
I was by myself as we were short staffed, and the vicar who had let me in wasn't due back for several hours.
So, after an hour or so, involving lots of shouting and banging (unfortunately no bells left up here and this was years before mobile phones), I made the monumentally stupid decision to try to reach the ladder …
To say I will never try anything so FUCKING STUPID again as long as I live would be quite an understatement.
Let us just say all I achieved was to kick the damned thing further out of reach and then to hang there under the bellframe for a bit, knowing I was about to fall to my death.
How I managed to climb back up into the frame I will never know.
The vicar came back to lock up after dark, assuming I had gone. He managed to shift the ladder round and I got down safely, if shaking like a leaf.
The next day I found myself up the scaffolding on a building site and amazingly unafraid. And since that day, I have had no problem with clambering over cliffs, leaning off the tops of church towers, or any of the other things that used to scare the willies out of me.
I think my fear of heights must have been scared to death.
True story.
Robyn has once more assigned us a task.
This time, it is to "name at least one fear that torments you, and then agree to face the damn thing head on."
So … heights, and how to tell them to fuck off.
I was always petrified of heights, vertigo took me by the balls a good ten feet from any clifftop and had me crawling on my belly and whimpering like a girl (at least a girl who whimpers).
And yet now I can be regularly found walking nonchalantly around the tops of parapet walls on high buildings as easily as if I were walking across a flat field.
Eric, our Health and Safety Officer hates me. He cowers in his hard hat and safety harness while I lean out and peer down at the tiny people waaaaay below. He also swears at me a lot.
I know the moment I conquered my fear. I also know that I'm never, EVER going through THAT again!
As some of my older - or at least some of my more attentive - readers may know, way back in the mists of time the firm of Architects I once worked for was responsible for the upkeep of several hundred of Norfolk's Saxon, Norman and Mediæval churches. This involved quinquennial inspections. Which involved clambering up the insides of the bell towers on old, woodworm-eaten Victorian ladders. This also involved no safety equipment whatsoever (other than a plastic hard hat). Before the days of sweary Health and Safety Officers and harnesses, we were required to "get up there however you can".
Getting up the towers was scary enough, but it was what we had to do when we were up there which really filled our pants.
Around two hundred feet up in the old bell towers were the old bell frames. Most had the bells still in situ but most were too rotten and fragile to ring without the whole damned lot collapsing in a clangy mess. Most of the intervening floors had rotted away centuries ago and the view from the bell frame was straight down onto the stone flags of the church floor. My job was to lean off the top of the topmost ladder, grab hold of and swing up into the bellframe and give it a good poke around to see if it would stay up there for another five years.
These bellframes are made from massive, foot-thick oak beams. But they were put there nine-hundred years ago and are now a bit the worse for wear. The ends are all rotten and the whole rickety woodpile creaks and sways when you try to move. It is also shin-deep in pigeon shit … Nice …
Needless to say I hated this job. But I did it. Until Langley Church Tower. When the ladder slipped round out of reach and I was stuck up there.
I was by myself as we were short staffed, and the vicar who had let me in wasn't due back for several hours.
So, after an hour or so, involving lots of shouting and banging (unfortunately no bells left up here and this was years before mobile phones), I made the monumentally stupid decision to try to reach the ladder …
To say I will never try anything so FUCKING STUPID again as long as I live would be quite an understatement.
Let us just say all I achieved was to kick the damned thing further out of reach and then to hang there under the bellframe for a bit, knowing I was about to fall to my death.
How I managed to climb back up into the frame I will never know.
The vicar came back to lock up after dark, assuming I had gone. He managed to shift the ladder round and I got down safely, if shaking like a leaf.
The next day I found myself up the scaffolding on a building site and amazingly unafraid. And since that day, I have had no problem with clambering over cliffs, leaning off the tops of church towers, or any of the other things that used to scare the willies out of me.
I think my fear of heights must have been scared to death.
True story.
Checkup
I realise our hospitals are dangerous places; should you want to catch an MRSA bug and die, that's where you go to get it.
If, however, you're booked in for your six-monthly, "look out, you're middle-aged and getting ready to drop dead" checkup, you don't expect most of the hospital staff to be off sick.
The same flu bug I got last week.
The flu bug that the flu jabs we all had doesn't cover for …
Just an example from today's catalogue of absurdity: The University Hospital in Norwich (huge place, brand new, supposedly one of the best) has two blood test departments, each with four nurses.
Today, it had one shut down completely due to staff illness, and the one that was still open was down to two nurses.
I joined the queue and took my number. The indicator light said number 13 … I drew number 94 …
Three hours later, the nurses went to lunch, switching off the lights and putting a sign up (we had got to number 75).
My two hour chekup just took me all day.
And it cost me £12 to get off the fucking car park.
Too tired and pissed off to post anything but bile and abuse (so what's new), I'm going to watch old movies and then go to bed.
If, however, you're booked in for your six-monthly, "look out, you're middle-aged and getting ready to drop dead" checkup, you don't expect most of the hospital staff to be off sick.
The same flu bug I got last week.
The flu bug that the flu jabs we all had doesn't cover for …
Just an example from today's catalogue of absurdity: The University Hospital in Norwich (huge place, brand new, supposedly one of the best) has two blood test departments, each with four nurses.
Today, it had one shut down completely due to staff illness, and the one that was still open was down to two nurses.
I joined the queue and took my number. The indicator light said number 13 … I drew number 94 …
Three hours later, the nurses went to lunch, switching off the lights and putting a sign up (we had got to number 75).
My two hour chekup just took me all day.
And it cost me £12 to get off the fucking car park.
Too tired and pissed off to post anything but bile and abuse (so what's new), I'm going to watch old movies and then go to bed.
Monday, December 11, 2006
You Do WHAT For A Living?
More silliness from the BBC News website:
Utsav and Sohil better not read this one (although I suspect that they are in the proportion of men who don't have such shortcomings … and besides; Utsav's from Bhutan, where they probably have the opposite problem) …
"Condoms 'too big' for Indian men
By Damian Grammaticus
BBC News, Delhi
A survey of more than 1,000 men in India has concluded that condoms made according to international sizes are too large for a majority of Indian men.
The study found that more than half of the men measured had penises that were shorter than international standards for condoms.
It has led to a call for condoms of mixed sizes to be made more widely available in India.
The two-year study was carried out by the Indian Council of Medical Research.
Over 1,200 volunteers from the length and breadth of the country had their penises measured precisely, down to the last millimetre.
The scientists even checked their sample was representative of India as a whole in terms of class, religion and urban and rural dwellers.
The conclusion of all this scientific endeavour is that about 60% of Indian men have penises which are between three and five centimetres shorter than international standards used in condom manufacture."
It goes on a fair bit longer (groan), but much in the same vein (sorry).
The bit that got me was the sentence: "Over 1,200 volunteers from the length and the breadth (hee hee) of the country had their penises measured precisely, down to the last millimetre."
Down to the last MILLIMETRE?
"So, you want to date my daughter. What do you do for a living?"
"Oh, I measure mens' erect penises, down to the last millimetre."
I am at a loss for words, so I'll pass this one over to Mister Shakespeare:
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Indeed there are …
And this is one of them …
Somebody in Mauritius has accessed my blog by searching for "Men At Play Nude".
I've had a lot of this since posting about Spongebob Squarepants with the title "Naked Starfish Buttocks" … The "starfish" aspect never really struck me until now …
I shall endeavour to be more careful with my titles from now on.
In the meantime, I'm sorry to disappoint you, frisky Mauritius person. Perhaps I might end up taking that kind of photo of myself on National Drunk Blogging Day, but not today.
Utsav and Sohil better not read this one (although I suspect that they are in the proportion of men who don't have such shortcomings … and besides; Utsav's from Bhutan, where they probably have the opposite problem) …
"Condoms 'too big' for Indian men
By Damian Grammaticus
BBC News, Delhi
A survey of more than 1,000 men in India has concluded that condoms made according to international sizes are too large for a majority of Indian men.
The study found that more than half of the men measured had penises that were shorter than international standards for condoms.
It has led to a call for condoms of mixed sizes to be made more widely available in India.
The two-year study was carried out by the Indian Council of Medical Research.
Over 1,200 volunteers from the length and breadth of the country had their penises measured precisely, down to the last millimetre.
The scientists even checked their sample was representative of India as a whole in terms of class, religion and urban and rural dwellers.
The conclusion of all this scientific endeavour is that about 60% of Indian men have penises which are between three and five centimetres shorter than international standards used in condom manufacture."
It goes on a fair bit longer (groan), but much in the same vein (sorry).
The bit that got me was the sentence: "Over 1,200 volunteers from the length and the breadth (hee hee) of the country had their penises measured precisely, down to the last millimetre."
Down to the last MILLIMETRE?
"So, you want to date my daughter. What do you do for a living?"
"Oh, I measure mens' erect penises, down to the last millimetre."
I am at a loss for words, so I'll pass this one over to Mister Shakespeare:
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Indeed there are …
And this is one of them …
Somebody in Mauritius has accessed my blog by searching for "Men At Play Nude".
I've had a lot of this since posting about Spongebob Squarepants with the title "Naked Starfish Buttocks" … The "starfish" aspect never really struck me until now …
I shall endeavour to be more careful with my titles from now on.
In the meantime, I'm sorry to disappoint you, frisky Mauritius person. Perhaps I might end up taking that kind of photo of myself on National Drunk Blogging Day, but not today.
Careers Advice
Not yet decided on a direction in life?
Pissed off with your current job?
Hate the idea of actually working for a living?
Simple … Become an Architect. It works for me …
As you know, I am the kind of fool who likes mondays and loves my job. This morning I'm sitting here going "Yippee" and playing in my personal sandbox (and getting paid many a groat for it).
Here's what I'm up to today:
Some of you might remember this nice old Art Deco building (before you fell asleep from boredom last time).
Inevitably, the school have waited until everything's already finished and then changed their brief, so back I go to dick around with the design …
This is technically called "cursing the staircase" and involves regular consultations with Mister Knudsen's Dictionary of Profanity.
When I've done enough dicking around with the actual model, it looks kinda like this …
See? Told you it was easy.
Then I start to put clothes on it. Rough guide colours for when I render it properly.
And there it is finished. Voila!
It really is as easy as that. If you can fall off a log, you can be an Architect.
So come on. Join today!
You can win awards while still being a slacker.
And you get to shout at builders, too. Bonus!
That concludes today's careers advice.
Now I'm off over the road to the Brazilian deli for a cup of blissful coffee heaven … Hey, it's better than work!
Pissed off with your current job?
Hate the idea of actually working for a living?
Simple … Become an Architect. It works for me …
As you know, I am the kind of fool who likes mondays and loves my job. This morning I'm sitting here going "Yippee" and playing in my personal sandbox (and getting paid many a groat for it).
Here's what I'm up to today:
Some of you might remember this nice old Art Deco building (before you fell asleep from boredom last time).
Inevitably, the school have waited until everything's already finished and then changed their brief, so back I go to dick around with the design …
This is technically called "cursing the staircase" and involves regular consultations with Mister Knudsen's Dictionary of Profanity.
When I've done enough dicking around with the actual model, it looks kinda like this …See? Told you it was easy.
Then I start to put clothes on it. Rough guide colours for when I render it properly.
And there it is finished. Voila!
It really is as easy as that. If you can fall off a log, you can be an Architect.
So come on. Join today!
You can win awards while still being a slacker.
And you get to shout at builders, too. Bonus!
That concludes today's careers advice.
Now I'm off over the road to the Brazilian deli for a cup of blissful coffee heaven … Hey, it's better than work!
Sunday, December 10, 2006
A Curmudgeon Writes
Just borrowed this meme from the splendid Rootietoot, of National Drunk Blogging Day fame.
The sight of Robyn's lovely tree almost elicited a pang of Festive Feeling in my flinty old heart this morning, so I thought I'd counter that with some Scroogey grumpiness by filling in Rootietoot's Christmas survey:
1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Organic fairtrade cocoa; same as Sassy.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Santa just eats all the goodies and drinks the sherry that's left out. All the labouring these days is done by illegal immigrants on subsistence wages while the Fat Man looks on.
3. Coloured lights on tree/house or white? I don't have a tree, and I'm certainly not putting bloody lights up outside my house.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? Only in effigy. I'm way too ugly to get a kiss at Christmas.
5. When do you put your decorations up? I don't.
6. What is your favourite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
It's a side dish: Steamed Brussels sprouts, fresh and bright green, quickly tossed in a hot wok at the last second with button mushrooms and chestnuts in a splash of extra virgin olive oil, with garlic and ginger and a dash of soy. A steaming, glistening bowl of mouthwatering cheer beside all the artery-clogging muck, swimming in fat, on the rest of the table (See? I CAN enjoy myself at Christmas, but only if I do the cooking).
7. Favourite holiday memory as a child? The fell winter of 1963. The snow was a mile deep and we had proper snowmen and proper snowballs and proper sledges, not the crap we have now with global warming.
8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I am Santa Claus.
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Nope. That's just greed. Besides, I only get two gifts these days, so it would be kinda stupid.
10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree? I don't have a Christmas tree. I told you that already. Don't you listen?
11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Love it. It means I get to work from home instead of commuting seven hours a day.
12. Can you ice skate? Yes, if you allow for lots of falling over and cursing. Our office goes ice skating every Christmas at Somerset House by the Thames. Mostly this involves watching the girls fall over while getting drunk at the side of the rink.
13. Do you remember your favourite gift? The heart surgeons at Papworth brought my dad back to life when his aorta ruptured. They gave us six more years with him to do and say the things we never had before. That was good.
14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you? Not having to set the alarm clocks for 4:40am every bloody day.
15. What is your favourite holiday dessert? Macallan.
16. What is your favourite holiday tradition? Wandering around the city, laughing at Christmas shoppers as they try desperately not to have a nervous breakdown and kill their children.
17. What tops your tree? For the last time, I do not have a fucking tree!
18. Which do you prefer; giving or receiving? Giving makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and smug. Receiving generally involves covering my disappointment with a fake smile and insincere thanks for some piece of tat bought with no thought whatsoever … so "giving".
19. What is your favourite Christmas Song? Fairytale of New York: The Pogues with the late and sorely missed Kirsty Mc.Coll.
20. Candy Canes! yuck or yummy? Yuck!
21. Favourite Christmas movie? Anything black and white that makes me cry like a girl.
There you go. Fill it in for yourselves if you're feeling festive.
If not, then Bah, humbug to the lot of you.
The sight of Robyn's lovely tree almost elicited a pang of Festive Feeling in my flinty old heart this morning, so I thought I'd counter that with some Scroogey grumpiness by filling in Rootietoot's Christmas survey:
1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Organic fairtrade cocoa; same as Sassy.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Santa just eats all the goodies and drinks the sherry that's left out. All the labouring these days is done by illegal immigrants on subsistence wages while the Fat Man looks on.
3. Coloured lights on tree/house or white? I don't have a tree, and I'm certainly not putting bloody lights up outside my house.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? Only in effigy. I'm way too ugly to get a kiss at Christmas.
5. When do you put your decorations up? I don't.
6. What is your favourite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
It's a side dish: Steamed Brussels sprouts, fresh and bright green, quickly tossed in a hot wok at the last second with button mushrooms and chestnuts in a splash of extra virgin olive oil, with garlic and ginger and a dash of soy. A steaming, glistening bowl of mouthwatering cheer beside all the artery-clogging muck, swimming in fat, on the rest of the table (See? I CAN enjoy myself at Christmas, but only if I do the cooking).
7. Favourite holiday memory as a child? The fell winter of 1963. The snow was a mile deep and we had proper snowmen and proper snowballs and proper sledges, not the crap we have now with global warming.
8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I am Santa Claus.
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Nope. That's just greed. Besides, I only get two gifts these days, so it would be kinda stupid.
10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree? I don't have a Christmas tree. I told you that already. Don't you listen?
11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Love it. It means I get to work from home instead of commuting seven hours a day.
12. Can you ice skate? Yes, if you allow for lots of falling over and cursing. Our office goes ice skating every Christmas at Somerset House by the Thames. Mostly this involves watching the girls fall over while getting drunk at the side of the rink.
13. Do you remember your favourite gift? The heart surgeons at Papworth brought my dad back to life when his aorta ruptured. They gave us six more years with him to do and say the things we never had before. That was good.
14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you? Not having to set the alarm clocks for 4:40am every bloody day.
15. What is your favourite holiday dessert? Macallan.
16. What is your favourite holiday tradition? Wandering around the city, laughing at Christmas shoppers as they try desperately not to have a nervous breakdown and kill their children.
17. What tops your tree? For the last time, I do not have a fucking tree!
18. Which do you prefer; giving or receiving? Giving makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and smug. Receiving generally involves covering my disappointment with a fake smile and insincere thanks for some piece of tat bought with no thought whatsoever … so "giving".
19. What is your favourite Christmas Song? Fairytale of New York: The Pogues with the late and sorely missed Kirsty Mc.Coll.
20. Candy Canes! yuck or yummy? Yuck!
21. Favourite Christmas movie? Anything black and white that makes me cry like a girl.
There you go. Fill it in for yourselves if you're feeling festive.
If not, then Bah, humbug to the lot of you.
Space, £19.99
Over at the inestimable Mister Knudsen's place, the talk yesterday was of NASA's proposal for a manned moonbase.
This of course sparked off memories of the hilariously wonderful 1970's TV romp "Space, 1999".
In a childishly overexcited frenzy of confused memories, I posted a comment about the sparkly wigged, mini-skirted girls, and how our government would try to stop the Moon People from coming down here and taking our jobs and our weemen.
When I later hit Google Image with "Space, 1999", I was disappointed to find not a single sparkly-wigged girl.
It was then that I remembered the awesome, low budget magnificence of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson's "UFO" (Space, £19.99) …
"UFO" …
A "live action" spin off from the people who had made my sixties childhood so wonderful with Fireball XL-5 (gasp) …
Stingray (wowee) …
Thunderbirds (Yaaaaay) …
Captain Scarlet (Whoop) …
and Joe 90 ( … er … ) …
They abandoned the puppets, that fabulous "Superanimation" not seen again until Team America, World Police, but they did not abandon the puppet-like acting.
What they DID have, however, was Lt. Ellis …
Whaddya mean "Who"?
Look on the left. That girl in the purple sparkly wig.
By the time this came on TV, I was old enough to get wood.
Lt. Ellis gave millions of adolescent boys the opportunity to get sticky …
This was what adolescent girls got to fantasize about: their uncle in a string vest … Mmmmm.
And for the dads? … Hmm. Not quite the same nipple action (sorry, Robyn) as on the men's uniform. And saggy elbows, too …
And in charge of this farrago … Our gallant Commander Straker, played with admirable deadpan restraint by the lovely Ed Bishop.
Then there was gorgeous, sultry Aishea Brough, the only one to make it out of the series with her career intact.
Ahh … swoon … The unutterably beautiful if slightly tetchy-looking Lt. Ellis.
If only all the girls at school had looked like that. Purple wig, silver uniform, unfeasibly long eyelashes, moody pout (oh yeah, they did have that) … sigh …
So come on, NASA, get a base on the moon so we can have proper space weemen down here. Real, feminist-baiting weemen, who wear silver leotards with detachable sleeves and platform boots with perspex heels (apparently practical in zero gravity). And men can wear string vests and be considered attractive. And bring back Lt. Ellis.
What are you waiting for?
This of course sparked off memories of the hilariously wonderful 1970's TV romp "Space, 1999".
In a childishly overexcited frenzy of confused memories, I posted a comment about the sparkly wigged, mini-skirted girls, and how our government would try to stop the Moon People from coming down here and taking our jobs and our weemen.
When I later hit Google Image with "Space, 1999", I was disappointed to find not a single sparkly-wigged girl.
It was then that I remembered the awesome, low budget magnificence of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson's "UFO" (Space, £19.99) …
"UFO" …A "live action" spin off from the people who had made my sixties childhood so wonderful with Fireball XL-5 (gasp) …
Stingray (wowee) …
Thunderbirds (Yaaaaay) …
Captain Scarlet (Whoop) …
and Joe 90 ( … er … ) …
They abandoned the puppets, that fabulous "Superanimation" not seen again until Team America, World Police, but they did not abandon the puppet-like acting.
What they DID have, however, was Lt. Ellis …
Whaddya mean "Who"?
Look on the left. That girl in the purple sparkly wig.
By the time this came on TV, I was old enough to get wood.
Lt. Ellis gave millions of adolescent boys the opportunity to get sticky …
This was what adolescent girls got to fantasize about: their uncle in a string vest … Mmmmm.
And for the dads? … Hmm. Not quite the same nipple action (sorry, Robyn) as on the men's uniform. And saggy elbows, too …
And in charge of this farrago … Our gallant Commander Straker, played with admirable deadpan restraint by the lovely Ed Bishop.
Then there was gorgeous, sultry Aishea Brough, the only one to make it out of the series with her career intact.
Ahh … swoon … The unutterably beautiful if slightly tetchy-looking Lt. Ellis.If only all the girls at school had looked like that. Purple wig, silver uniform, unfeasibly long eyelashes, moody pout (oh yeah, they did have that) … sigh …
So come on, NASA, get a base on the moon so we can have proper space weemen down here. Real, feminist-baiting weemen, who wear silver leotards with detachable sleeves and platform boots with perspex heels (apparently practical in zero gravity). And men can wear string vests and be considered attractive. And bring back Lt. Ellis.
What are you waiting for?
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