So, where have I been since last Wednesday?
Well there was this tornado, see; and it picked the whole house up and blew it into some weird TechnicolorTM country and when it landed there was this pointy-nosed bint squashed underneath it and she was wearing these rather divine red shoes which were just my size, so naturally I nicked them and then all these vertically challenged people kept dancing round and singing, and somehow I had a basket with a small, yappy-type dog in it who was named after the Japanese word for tampon (とと) …
Rather more prosaically I have been at home for a long weekend and totally unable to get a connection good enough to even load a blog page.
Fuck.
And I'm back in London for one day only, so I'll be out of touch again until next Monday.
Ah, the downside of living somewhere beautiful but isolated. Crap internet connection, no mobile phone signal (which pleases me greatly as I don't have one and it means anybody popping in to see me has to talk to me instead of rudely yapping into their hand while I sit there twiddling my thumbs) and no satellite TV signal (which is great because I don't have satellite and don't watch telly anyway).
The internet is a pisser though.
So that's where I've been and that's where I'll be until Monday.
I might even write something worth reading then.
But not today.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
er … Pt.2
I remember her laugh (see previous post).
If you can picture the sound of a hyena being beaten with bagpipes (go on, try it);
then
(a) that's what she sounded like,
and
(b) you're a little bit weird.
If you can picture the sound of a hyena being beaten with bagpipes (go on, try it);
then
(a) that's what she sounded like,
and
(b) you're a little bit weird.
And Another Thing …
Continuing on from the previous post, I just remembered my favourite J-W anecdote.
I wish I could claim credit for this one but it was actually an ex.
Hennyway, the J-Ws came a-knocking and she answered the door.
After a brief but uninspiring round of repartée, they asked:
"Do you believe in the theory of evolution?"
To which she snapped back:
"Of course! My boyfriend's an animal!"
Then she collapsed into shrieking fits of hysterical laughter while the poor J-Ws stood there for a minute or two before sidling off, somewhat discomfited.
Absolutely true.
We lay on the hall floor and laughed and made monkey noises for ages after they'd gone (I didn't have a telly in those days so there was little else to do).
Hey ho.
I wish I could claim credit for this one but it was actually an ex.
Hennyway, the J-Ws came a-knocking and she answered the door.
After a brief but uninspiring round of repartée, they asked:
"Do you believe in the theory of evolution?"
To which she snapped back:
"Of course! My boyfriend's an animal!"
Then she collapsed into shrieking fits of hysterical laughter while the poor J-Ws stood there for a minute or two before sidling off, somewhat discomfited.
Absolutely true.
We lay on the hall floor and laughed and made monkey noises for ages after they'd gone (I didn't have a telly in those days so there was little else to do).
Hey ho.
Après-Vie? Non, Merçi
"Not so much an afterlife; more an après-vie." - Arthur Dent.
There was a bit in the 'stupid questions' section of The Guardian yesterday asking if anybody had actually been converted by the God-botherers on their doorstep.
Quite a few, it turned out.
Someone raised a good question, however. It seems that in Jehovah's Witness Heaven there are only a finite number of places available; something like 114,000, though that's from memory so correct me if I'm talking out of my arse (again).
It explains why they go away so quickly when you don't answer the door; they don't want to create too much competition for places.
I like the J-Ws; they are always ready for a chat but never come equipped with the answers to any tricky theological questions, just an entertaining array of confused and worried expressions and a sprinkling of risible platitudes. They usually catch me when I'm mowing the front lawn, then they seem rather eager to get away … I can't think why.
The last time I snared them I had just boiled the kettle so I made them tea and we sat around on the lawn and flicked through the Watchtower.
'That looks familiar', I thought … There was a big illustration that had been copied straight from one of Kurt Busiek's Superman graphic novels (yes, I'm that sad); a gap-toothed grinning old Chinaman and a happy white family with a baby. They told me that was what Heaven would be like … Hmmmm …
"So if you die of old age you end up a rickety old guy in Heaven?" I said, pointing to the rickety old guy.
Some amusing confused expressions and murmuring between themselves.
I pointed to the baby.
"And if you die in infancy you're stuck as a baby forever?"
They decided that perhaps you went to Heaven as whatever you wanted.
"So I can look like George Clooney?" (this was a while back) …
After that, they seemed in a hurry to finish their teas.
"Do you actually have copyright on that illustration? That's a Kurt Busiek painting."
And they were off.
Next time they come knocking, go answer the door. It can be a fun way to spend a few minutes. If you smile a lot it really spooks them.
Which brings me round to après-vie, the afterlife.
I'm happy with there being no God and no afterlife. I really don't understand why some people feel the need for such things but I accept that they do (sorry, Robyn, I know we disagree on this one, and you've heard all of this crap before so you can go have a coffee).
I mean, an afterlife?
For ever?
I don't know about you but that little bit of late Sunday afternoon just before teatime bores me to homicidal distraction … Douglas Adams correctly called it "The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul" … so the prospect of living forever gives me the creeping horrors.
When I die I will be dead.
That's it.
Anything that was me - other than a six foot length of compost - will cease to exist.
A few nice buildings and some music will carry on for a bit, but the person writing this drivel will not.
And that is such a relief.
As for my saggy old body, I had originally planned to leave it to alternative comedy, but apparently that's illegal. It would have been great to have it kicked around a stage or blown up for a laugh, but there you go … the law's an ass but it's still the law.
So wrap my mouldering corpse in a sack and chuck it in a hole.
On unconsecrated ground, please.
With no marker.
It's only bloody compost after all.
There was a bit in the 'stupid questions' section of The Guardian yesterday asking if anybody had actually been converted by the God-botherers on their doorstep.
Quite a few, it turned out.
Someone raised a good question, however. It seems that in Jehovah's Witness Heaven there are only a finite number of places available; something like 114,000, though that's from memory so correct me if I'm talking out of my arse (again).
It explains why they go away so quickly when you don't answer the door; they don't want to create too much competition for places.
I like the J-Ws; they are always ready for a chat but never come equipped with the answers to any tricky theological questions, just an entertaining array of confused and worried expressions and a sprinkling of risible platitudes. They usually catch me when I'm mowing the front lawn, then they seem rather eager to get away … I can't think why.
The last time I snared them I had just boiled the kettle so I made them tea and we sat around on the lawn and flicked through the Watchtower.
'That looks familiar', I thought … There was a big illustration that had been copied straight from one of Kurt Busiek's Superman graphic novels (yes, I'm that sad); a gap-toothed grinning old Chinaman and a happy white family with a baby. They told me that was what Heaven would be like … Hmmmm …
"So if you die of old age you end up a rickety old guy in Heaven?" I said, pointing to the rickety old guy.
Some amusing confused expressions and murmuring between themselves.
I pointed to the baby.
"And if you die in infancy you're stuck as a baby forever?"
They decided that perhaps you went to Heaven as whatever you wanted.
"So I can look like George Clooney?" (this was a while back) …
After that, they seemed in a hurry to finish their teas.
"Do you actually have copyright on that illustration? That's a Kurt Busiek painting."
And they were off.
Next time they come knocking, go answer the door. It can be a fun way to spend a few minutes. If you smile a lot it really spooks them.
Which brings me round to après-vie, the afterlife.
I'm happy with there being no God and no afterlife. I really don't understand why some people feel the need for such things but I accept that they do (sorry, Robyn, I know we disagree on this one, and you've heard all of this crap before so you can go have a coffee).
I mean, an afterlife?
For ever?
I don't know about you but that little bit of late Sunday afternoon just before teatime bores me to homicidal distraction … Douglas Adams correctly called it "The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul" … so the prospect of living forever gives me the creeping horrors.
When I die I will be dead.
That's it.
Anything that was me - other than a six foot length of compost - will cease to exist.
A few nice buildings and some music will carry on for a bit, but the person writing this drivel will not.
And that is such a relief.
As for my saggy old body, I had originally planned to leave it to alternative comedy, but apparently that's illegal. It would have been great to have it kicked around a stage or blown up for a laugh, but there you go … the law's an ass but it's still the law.
So wrap my mouldering corpse in a sack and chuck it in a hole.
On unconsecrated ground, please.
With no marker.
It's only bloody compost after all.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
London's Crispy Landmarks
Anyone planning a trip to London this year?
Well you can skip Greenwich unless you like charcoal.
Some of us at the office like to take the river taxi from Westminster down to Greenwich and sit at the tables outside the Cutty Sark pub with a nice pint and admire the view.
It used to be pretty impressive, as pub views go. This and the picture at the bottom were taken on our last visit to the pub.
Hey ho.
So the beautiful old tea clipper Cutty Sark caught fire yesterday morning and the fire brigade were there in five minutes.
But thanks to Health and Safety legislation they had to just sit there and watch it burn for forty-five minutes while they rousted the on-site contractor out of bed and got him to sign a method statement declaring that to the best of his knowledge there were no gas cylinders or hazardous chemicals on board. Then and only then could they get on and fight the fire … er.
What a bunch of wank.
Thanks to the fucking Health and Safety Executive (the bane of my life at work), this is what the old girl looks like now.
I spend a great deal of my working life hurling colourful profanities at Eric, our Health and Safety Officer.
"You can't go on that roof without a filing a method statement and wearing a safety harness." is one of his favourites.
"Bollocks!" is what I usually reply before going up on the roof and doing what I have to do.
All this is of course driven by the fucking insurance industry, for whom a specially built circle of Hell awaits.
Longtime blogpals will know my views on insurers. If you're new, just picture a lot of swearing.
Hey! What's the difference between an insurance company and the mafia?
If you pay money to the mafia, they'll protect you.
… oh, and they dress better, too.
Thankfully, they were in the middle of refurbishing the ship, so all of the masts, rigging, upper decks and original fittings were off site in storage. Thank to that fluke, one day she will look like this again.
No thanks to the fucking H&SE.
Useless bastards.
Well you can skip Greenwich unless you like charcoal.
Some of us at the office like to take the river taxi from Westminster down to Greenwich and sit at the tables outside the Cutty Sark pub with a nice pint and admire the view.It used to be pretty impressive, as pub views go. This and the picture at the bottom were taken on our last visit to the pub.
Hey ho.So the beautiful old tea clipper Cutty Sark caught fire yesterday morning and the fire brigade were there in five minutes.
But thanks to Health and Safety legislation they had to just sit there and watch it burn for forty-five minutes while they rousted the on-site contractor out of bed and got him to sign a method statement declaring that to the best of his knowledge there were no gas cylinders or hazardous chemicals on board. Then and only then could they get on and fight the fire … er.
What a bunch of wank.
Thanks to the fucking Health and Safety Executive (the bane of my life at work), this is what the old girl looks like now.I spend a great deal of my working life hurling colourful profanities at Eric, our Health and Safety Officer.
"You can't go on that roof without a filing a method statement and wearing a safety harness." is one of his favourites.
"Bollocks!" is what I usually reply before going up on the roof and doing what I have to do.
All this is of course driven by the fucking insurance industry, for whom a specially built circle of Hell awaits.
Longtime blogpals will know my views on insurers. If you're new, just picture a lot of swearing.
Hey! What's the difference between an insurance company and the mafia?
If you pay money to the mafia, they'll protect you.
… oh, and they dress better, too.
Thankfully, they were in the middle of refurbishing the ship, so all of the masts, rigging, upper decks and original fittings were off site in storage. Thank to that fluke, one day she will look like this again.No thanks to the fucking H&SE.
Useless bastards.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Fuck That, Too
I fear there's something wrong with our Rich.
Of late he sounds like he's been working under cover for Hallmark Cards.
Let's just clear up a few things here:
Numero uno: Life sucks.
It sucks huge hairy arse.
A positive mental attitude just gets you shat on.
Every fucker is out to get you.
Helping others just makes you look like a pervert.
Every cloud is a fucking cloud.
Smiling makes you look creepy.
You really do look fat in that.
And ugly.
All the work you do simply enriches other people.
See? They are laughing at you.
Life is a big fat box of fucking misery.
And don't you forget it.
I'm back, even if only sporadically.
Of late he sounds like he's been working under cover for Hallmark Cards.
Let's just clear up a few things here:
Numero uno: Life sucks.
It sucks huge hairy arse.
A positive mental attitude just gets you shat on.
Every fucker is out to get you.
Helping others just makes you look like a pervert.
Every cloud is a fucking cloud.
Smiling makes you look creepy.
You really do look fat in that.
And ugly.
All the work you do simply enriches other people.
See? They are laughing at you.
Life is a big fat box of fucking misery.
And don't you forget it.
I'm back, even if only sporadically.
Fuck This
Fuck this.
You know me; I like to post something every day, even if it is drivel.
But we're now entering the stupidly busy season at work, so I can't post from here (at least not daily) and I still can't get a connection in the village good enough to even load a blog, so fuck it.
I'll try to post something at least once a week, but between here and the end of October - when things calm down at work - don't expect your daily dose of dross.
Of course, should my internet service provider actually provide an internet service, I will blog evenings and weekends, but that is considerably less likely that the world being overrun by winged space monkeys.
I'm also depressed, so don't be surprised if I shoot myself.
Fuckity fuck.
You know me; I like to post something every day, even if it is drivel.
But we're now entering the stupidly busy season at work, so I can't post from here (at least not daily) and I still can't get a connection in the village good enough to even load a blog, so fuck it.
I'll try to post something at least once a week, but between here and the end of October - when things calm down at work - don't expect your daily dose of dross.
Of course, should my internet service provider actually provide an internet service, I will blog evenings and weekends, but that is considerably less likely that the world being overrun by winged space monkeys.
I'm also depressed, so don't be surprised if I shoot myself.
Fuckity fuck.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Norfolk? Flat?
Too busy to rant today, so as a filler here's some eye candy. I took this on the way home from Japanese classes a couple of weeks back. Click on it and it will grow.
Who on earth said that Norfolk is flat and wet?
Ah … Mister Dickens, j'accuse! This is one of the places from David Copperfield. It hasn't changed much.
Why the hell would I want to move to London when I live here?
Who on earth said that Norfolk is flat and wet?Ah … Mister Dickens, j'accuse! This is one of the places from David Copperfield. It hasn't changed much.
Why the hell would I want to move to London when I live here?
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
過労死
The Japanese have - somewhat inevitably - a word for it:
過労死
pronounced かろうし, it means "death from overwork".
Actually, this week has been rather fun.
We are entering our busiest period of the year; being schools Architects, most of our major works have to be carried out during the summer holidays, so everything is on site at the same time. As a consequence, all twelve of us in the "Grumpy Old Folks" department (the Architects) work our asses off between now and October.
My problem this week has been:
- three of us have retired this year and we have not been able to find replacements of anywhere near the quality we need (I've been interwiewing several a week and the word "crap" springs to mind);
- six more are either on leave or throwing sickies;
- of the two people I have here, Pauline is having a nervous breakdown and Heidi is still in training;
- everybody's phones have been forwarded to mine;
- ditto emails;
- I am also - with my Marxist hat on - staff representative for sixty-two of us and for most of this morning I have had a roomful of shouty people with pitchforks and torches who have been burning management in effigy … the natives are definitely revolting. The next committee meeting should be fun!
And I love it!
But it will kill me if it goes on much longer.
And it does mean I have no time to do a proper post, so you're stuck with this drivel.
Hey ho …
過労死
pronounced かろうし, it means "death from overwork".
Actually, this week has been rather fun.
We are entering our busiest period of the year; being schools Architects, most of our major works have to be carried out during the summer holidays, so everything is on site at the same time. As a consequence, all twelve of us in the "Grumpy Old Folks" department (the Architects) work our asses off between now and October.
My problem this week has been:
- three of us have retired this year and we have not been able to find replacements of anywhere near the quality we need (I've been interwiewing several a week and the word "crap" springs to mind);
- six more are either on leave or throwing sickies;
- of the two people I have here, Pauline is having a nervous breakdown and Heidi is still in training;
- everybody's phones have been forwarded to mine;
- ditto emails;
- I am also - with my Marxist hat on - staff representative for sixty-two of us and for most of this morning I have had a roomful of shouty people with pitchforks and torches who have been burning management in effigy … the natives are definitely revolting. The next committee meeting should be fun!
And I love it!
But it will kill me if it goes on much longer.
And it does mean I have no time to do a proper post, so you're stuck with this drivel.
Hey ho …
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Pointy Things
Ame commented yesterday how she misses sushi in Piccadilly Circus.
Well, spring is here, and with it come the fucking tourists, so Piccadilly Circus is now a no-go area and I take my sushi down the road to Green Park.
Here you go, Ame.
Last week I popped back to the British Museum to check out the revamped Japan section, which was closed when Ame and Bear were there.
I couldn't open the cabinet and nick this lot, which is a shame as it would be perfect for wearing on the tube.
Looking closely at these 刀 (Katana) it is easy to see the difference between them and the crappy pressed steel replicas that you can buy these days.
These are fucking scary!
Arse-tighteningly so.
Click on 'em and marvel at the craftsmanship.
I love that scene in Kill Bill above Sonny Chiba's sushi bar, where he unveils the sword he has made for Uma Thurman. These are like that only better.
Check this out:
This is the oldest still usable sword in the Museum's collection. It was made by Sueyuki in the 1100s and is a 太刀(Tachi), or the longer of the two swords carried by Samurai.
It is still in perfect condition and looks so sharp I had to hide my fingers behind my back when I stared at the blade.
Yikes!
Well, spring is here, and with it come the fucking tourists, so Piccadilly Circus is now a no-go area and I take my sushi down the road to Green Park.
Here you go, Ame.Last week I popped back to the British Museum to check out the revamped Japan section, which was closed when Ame and Bear were there.
I couldn't open the cabinet and nick this lot, which is a shame as it would be perfect for wearing on the tube.Looking closely at these 刀 (Katana) it is easy to see the difference between them and the crappy pressed steel replicas that you can buy these days.
These are fucking scary!
Arse-tighteningly so.
Click on 'em and marvel at the craftsmanship.
I love that scene in Kill Bill above Sonny Chiba's sushi bar, where he unveils the sword he has made for Uma Thurman. These are like that only better.
Check this out:This is the oldest still usable sword in the Museum's collection. It was made by Sueyuki in the 1100s and is a 太刀(Tachi), or the longer of the two swords carried by Samurai.
It is still in perfect condition and looks so sharp I had to hide my fingers behind my back when I stared at the blade.
Yikes!
Monday, May 14, 2007
Monday Melee
Hokay, who drugged my latte? It's Fracas Monday Melee and my ranty gland's malfunctioning. I'm sitting here as happy as a dog with two cocks.
Hey ho.
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating all the usuals, but for some stupid reason I'm in la-la land this morning and have lost the will to rant so I'll forgive the lot of 'em.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
My office telephone. Since last year the answerphone message on my direct line states that I'll be out of the office until September the fifth.
Neither I, nor any member of IT can get it so save any updated message, so if anyone needs me I'll be out of the office until September the fifth.
Please leave a message after the tone.
At least it's right once a year …
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
War. HUH! Good God, y'all. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing (sing it again).
Well actually it's pretty good for arms sales but I'm not exactly happy with that either.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Jake and Dinos Chapman for making me laugh out loud in the Tate Gallery. Their new exhibition involves brains, prosthetic genitalia and rubber chickens. Go see it.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I have astonishingly good finger vibrato.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
The return of Disco.
Hey ho.
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating all the usuals, but for some stupid reason I'm in la-la land this morning and have lost the will to rant so I'll forgive the lot of 'em.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
My office telephone. Since last year the answerphone message on my direct line states that I'll be out of the office until September the fifth.
Neither I, nor any member of IT can get it so save any updated message, so if anyone needs me I'll be out of the office until September the fifth.
Please leave a message after the tone.
At least it's right once a year …
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
War. HUH! Good God, y'all. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing (sing it again).
Well actually it's pretty good for arms sales but I'm not exactly happy with that either.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Jake and Dinos Chapman for making me laugh out loud in the Tate Gallery. Their new exhibition involves brains, prosthetic genitalia and rubber chickens. Go see it.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I have astonishingly good finger vibrato.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
The return of Disco.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Willy Wonka's French Whore
So, to Simpsons' of Piccadilly (now yet another Waterstones; they are the Starbucks of the book world … Bastards) for a book signing by Young Frankenstein himself, the very wonderful Gene Wilder.
He's also very blurry in this photo as the stupid bookshop people wouldn't let me take flash photos.
Hey ho.
His new book is a lovely little tale called "My French Whore". Unfortunately it is a nice, funny love story and not a steamy account of fornication with a cheese-eating surrender-monkey.
And that's not his French whore, but his publicist, as he was at pains to point out.
This is really just a post to make Robyn jealous because we are both such huge Gene Wilder fans and I got to meet him. Hee hee hee …
For a frail old guy just out of chemo with new baby hair growing on his head, he has still got the old sparkle in his eye and is an utterly charming and funny man.
So now I've got a triple bill of Gene Wilder DVDs for the weekend: The Producers, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein. Bugger the housework, I want to laugh.
He's also very blurry in this photo as the stupid bookshop people wouldn't let me take flash photos.
Hey ho.
His new book is a lovely little tale called "My French Whore". Unfortunately it is a nice, funny love story and not a steamy account of fornication with a cheese-eating surrender-monkey.And that's not his French whore, but his publicist, as he was at pains to point out.
This is really just a post to make Robyn jealous because we are both such huge Gene Wilder fans and I got to meet him. Hee hee hee …
For a frail old guy just out of chemo with new baby hair growing on his head, he has still got the old sparkle in his eye and is an utterly charming and funny man.So now I've got a triple bill of Gene Wilder DVDs for the weekend: The Producers, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein. Bugger the housework, I want to laugh.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tom Purdew Pt.5 (cont.)
After yesterday's post and the subsequent comment-fest about Peter Gabriel and my cock, a quick rummage in the attic produced these:
Good old Pete at Knobworth in '78.
"Oi! How come my microphone smells like your cock?"
"And did you piss on my shoes?"
Hey ho. I'll have another rummage at the weekend. I'm sure there are photos of Zappa and the Boomtown Rats and the Tubes somewhere in the attic.
Good old Pete at Knobworth in '78.
"Oi! How come my microphone smells like your cock?"
"And did you piss on my shoes?"Hey ho. I'll have another rummage at the weekend. I'm sure there are photos of Zappa and the Boomtown Rats and the Tubes somewhere in the attic.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Tom Purdew Pt.5 - The Dukes Of Dork
À la recherche du …
I never did get the thing with the madeleines …
Sure, I appreciate that you can trigger past memories by biting into something or sniffing stuff (well not the latter with me, being anosmic); it was just the madeleines I never got my head around.
I mean what's with the bun shaped like a shellfish? Eh, Proust, you wanker?
If it's shaped like a shellfish it should taste like a shellfish. Shouldn't it?
That's what pisses me off about Guylian chocolates, too. I'm expecting whelk and I get chocolate truffle. That's just not right …
But I digress.
The year is 1978.
This one comes flooding back because my iPod is on shuffle on the way in to work and Zappa's "Zoot Allures" is followed immediately by The Tubes "White Punks On Dope".
So … cue swirly thing and Twilight Zone music as we are zapped back to 1978 and a very noisy Knebworth Park.
On the "Knobworth" Festival bill this year (from what I remember) are Wilco Johnson's Solid Senders, Dave Edmunds' Rockpile, The Boomtown Rats, Peter Gabriel (in his baldy phase), Frank Zappa and The Tubes.
I am extremely drunk and rather foolishly am in the very front row, squashed up against the security barriers. Paul and I have spent the morning fighting our way here and we know that if we move away for any reason we will never get our places back.
We also know that the men's "hygiene facility" at Knebworth (back in those days, anyway) is a large corrugated iron swimming pool full of piss set delightfully in half an acre of slippery piss-mud. So we simply yank out our todgers and let rip on the grass area in front of the stage.
For sustenance, we have provided ourselves with two, five-litre plastic containers which we have filled with cheap red wine. The typical student diet of the day. And a bag of spliffs.
And it doesn't rain!
Glory be!
The Rats are actually pretty good. Geldof leaping about the stage in red jeans, swearing almost as much as he does these days at the UN.
Peter Gabriel is excellent. Just before his set, the roadies in front of us are joined by a bunch of bald guys in hi-vis jackets. Turns out this is Gabriel and his band. He very graciously shakes hands with me, standing unwittingly in a pool of my wine-scented pee before taking the stage for an excellent set of his spiffy early solo stuff, having recently come to his senses and leapt from the sinking ship of Genesis before they plunge shrieking into the fœtid pismire of Phil Collinsdom.
Next up is the guy I've come to see: Uncle Frank. Woohoo!
As this is 1978, however, the massed ranks of punks behind us start up a constant barrage of piss-filled cans and bottles. As these rain down on the stage, Frank gives the piss-bottlers the finger, turns his back on them and plays a twenty minute solo, which only enrages them more.
I am in hog heaven. The guy next to us goes down when a party-four full of piss hits him on the head and the security goons drag him away, leaving us more room to stagger. Zappa's set is one of my life's bizarre little highlights, made even better by the fact that I am wearing a Zappa "Titties and Beer" teeshirt and Frank himself is wearing a brown, old-ladies' cardigan.
Then it's The Tubes. Nobody seems to remember them now but for a few months in '78 they are pretty awesome; hilariously taking the piss out of the punks and themselves. They play an immaculate set that includes fifteen-inch platform shoes, massive codpieces, huge dancing cigarettes, a pink Cadillac and some lovely gimp suits and whips during the splendid Mondo Bondage. A delightful evening's diversion …
Which brings me to the Dukes of Dork episode …
During the firework display everybody rushes for their cars. Somehow we find Paul's Mini (which manages to survive this incident only to burst into flames and expire the following month at a gig at the UEA) and join the static queue for the single bloody exit.
On our way to the exit, we both notice that the line of cars seems to be skirting all the way round three sides of a huge field. We are both very, very drunk. We decide that it would be a good idea to simply cut across the middle of the field and push in to the queue at the exit.
Paul guns the throttle and we lurch off at a very unwise speed, bounding over the bumps and tussocks, the Mini ploughing its own somewhat foolish furrow through the long grass like an out-take from the Italian Job.
Oblivious of the massed car horns and jeers all around us we find ourselves suddenly flying …
Not so much the Dukes of Hazzard as the Dukes of Dork.
There is a large drainage ditch crossing the field.
We hit the other side of it and roll into the ditch in an extremely undignified manner …
I remember a huge round of applause. Probably the biggest one of the day.
I remember trying to find my glasses in the footwell and a girl named Sue, who we seem to have acquired and who has been asleep on the back seat, now laying, giggling across the inside of what is left of the windscreen.
We are dragged from the car and given a severe bollocking by the security guards as the crowd of laughing drivers rolls the car back onto its wheels and hauls it out of the ditch.
Amazingly the car starts and even better, we are allowed to cut across the rest of the field and - in the words of the security guards - to fuck off.
Having no windscreen kind of keeps us awake for the two hour drive home, where we eat coffee 'til we puke.
Were those the days?
I really have no idea …
I never did get the thing with the madeleines …
Sure, I appreciate that you can trigger past memories by biting into something or sniffing stuff (well not the latter with me, being anosmic); it was just the madeleines I never got my head around.
I mean what's with the bun shaped like a shellfish? Eh, Proust, you wanker?
If it's shaped like a shellfish it should taste like a shellfish. Shouldn't it?
That's what pisses me off about Guylian chocolates, too. I'm expecting whelk and I get chocolate truffle. That's just not right …
But I digress.
The year is 1978.
This one comes flooding back because my iPod is on shuffle on the way in to work and Zappa's "Zoot Allures" is followed immediately by The Tubes "White Punks On Dope".
So … cue swirly thing and Twilight Zone music as we are zapped back to 1978 and a very noisy Knebworth Park.
On the "Knobworth" Festival bill this year (from what I remember) are Wilco Johnson's Solid Senders, Dave Edmunds' Rockpile, The Boomtown Rats, Peter Gabriel (in his baldy phase), Frank Zappa and The Tubes.
I am extremely drunk and rather foolishly am in the very front row, squashed up against the security barriers. Paul and I have spent the morning fighting our way here and we know that if we move away for any reason we will never get our places back.
We also know that the men's "hygiene facility" at Knebworth (back in those days, anyway) is a large corrugated iron swimming pool full of piss set delightfully in half an acre of slippery piss-mud. So we simply yank out our todgers and let rip on the grass area in front of the stage.
For sustenance, we have provided ourselves with two, five-litre plastic containers which we have filled with cheap red wine. The typical student diet of the day. And a bag of spliffs.
And it doesn't rain!
Glory be!
The Rats are actually pretty good. Geldof leaping about the stage in red jeans, swearing almost as much as he does these days at the UN.
Peter Gabriel is excellent. Just before his set, the roadies in front of us are joined by a bunch of bald guys in hi-vis jackets. Turns out this is Gabriel and his band. He very graciously shakes hands with me, standing unwittingly in a pool of my wine-scented pee before taking the stage for an excellent set of his spiffy early solo stuff, having recently come to his senses and leapt from the sinking ship of Genesis before they plunge shrieking into the fœtid pismire of Phil Collinsdom.
Next up is the guy I've come to see: Uncle Frank. Woohoo!
As this is 1978, however, the massed ranks of punks behind us start up a constant barrage of piss-filled cans and bottles. As these rain down on the stage, Frank gives the piss-bottlers the finger, turns his back on them and plays a twenty minute solo, which only enrages them more.
I am in hog heaven. The guy next to us goes down when a party-four full of piss hits him on the head and the security goons drag him away, leaving us more room to stagger. Zappa's set is one of my life's bizarre little highlights, made even better by the fact that I am wearing a Zappa "Titties and Beer" teeshirt and Frank himself is wearing a brown, old-ladies' cardigan.
Then it's The Tubes. Nobody seems to remember them now but for a few months in '78 they are pretty awesome; hilariously taking the piss out of the punks and themselves. They play an immaculate set that includes fifteen-inch platform shoes, massive codpieces, huge dancing cigarettes, a pink Cadillac and some lovely gimp suits and whips during the splendid Mondo Bondage. A delightful evening's diversion …
Which brings me to the Dukes of Dork episode …
During the firework display everybody rushes for their cars. Somehow we find Paul's Mini (which manages to survive this incident only to burst into flames and expire the following month at a gig at the UEA) and join the static queue for the single bloody exit.
On our way to the exit, we both notice that the line of cars seems to be skirting all the way round three sides of a huge field. We are both very, very drunk. We decide that it would be a good idea to simply cut across the middle of the field and push in to the queue at the exit.
Paul guns the throttle and we lurch off at a very unwise speed, bounding over the bumps and tussocks, the Mini ploughing its own somewhat foolish furrow through the long grass like an out-take from the Italian Job.
Oblivious of the massed car horns and jeers all around us we find ourselves suddenly flying …
Not so much the Dukes of Hazzard as the Dukes of Dork.
There is a large drainage ditch crossing the field.
We hit the other side of it and roll into the ditch in an extremely undignified manner …
I remember a huge round of applause. Probably the biggest one of the day.
I remember trying to find my glasses in the footwell and a girl named Sue, who we seem to have acquired and who has been asleep on the back seat, now laying, giggling across the inside of what is left of the windscreen.
We are dragged from the car and given a severe bollocking by the security guards as the crowd of laughing drivers rolls the car back onto its wheels and hauls it out of the ditch.
Amazingly the car starts and even better, we are allowed to cut across the rest of the field and - in the words of the security guards - to fuck off.
Having no windscreen kind of keeps us awake for the two hour drive home, where we eat coffee 'til we puke.
Were those the days?
I really have no idea …
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Not More Bloody Buildings …
On a slightly less curmudgeonly note, my semi-underground theatre at the back of Wimbledon High School is finished at last (see here and here for early boring guff).
I didn't have a wide angle lens with me this morning, so you'll have to figure it out for yourselves.
By the way, the man walking across the playground has the best name in the world; he is the improbably magnificent Dick Goodenough (I kid you not). What better name could you give a guy in charge of a girls' high school?
Hey ho.
I didn't have a wide angle lens with me this morning, so you'll have to figure it out for yourselves.
By the way, the man walking across the playground has the best name in the world; he is the improbably magnificent Dick Goodenough (I kid you not). What better name could you give a guy in charge of a girls' high school?
Hey ho.
Monday Melee On A Tuesday (again)
It's Tuesday morning.
I'm back in the office after five days without an internet connection.
I'm not sure I should be doing a Fracas Monday Melee as all I want to do is kill every member of British Telecom, but I will try to be calm and rational …
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating British Fucking Telecom (calm and rational enough for you?).
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
I've said it before (twice now) and I'll say it again: that shitty little bit on your broadband agreement that says "service may vary according to your location and the distance from your exchange" which means that you pay through the nose for fast broadband and get a worse than dial-up speed, when it connects at all.
British Fucking Telecom, I am going to kill every last one of you bastards. And your families. And your pets.
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
See 1 and 2 above. Only with more swearing. And guns.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Fuck off!
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I am remarkably calm and easy-going.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
An internet service provider who provides an internet service (fat fucking chance).
I'm back in the office after five days without an internet connection.
I'm not sure I should be doing a Fracas Monday Melee as all I want to do is kill every member of British Telecom, but I will try to be calm and rational …
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating British Fucking Telecom (calm and rational enough for you?).
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
I've said it before (twice now) and I'll say it again: that shitty little bit on your broadband agreement that says "service may vary according to your location and the distance from your exchange" which means that you pay through the nose for fast broadband and get a worse than dial-up speed, when it connects at all.
British Fucking Telecom, I am going to kill every last one of you bastards. And your families. And your pets.
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
See 1 and 2 above. Only with more swearing. And guns.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
Fuck off!
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I am remarkably calm and easy-going.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
An internet service provider who provides an internet service (fat fucking chance).
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Disconnected
Bad news.
I'm still alive.
I have been totally unable to get a connection for the past three days, and now that I have one it is glitchy and keeps disconnecting me.
Fuck!
When I get back to London on Tuesday I will be able to catch up on your blogs.
Until then, here are some wisteria in St.Giles churchyard this morning.
And some more.
Normal service will be resumed on Tuesday, unless by some miracle I can get online before that.
Meanwhile, here is some light music … dum dum di dum diddly etc …
I'm still alive.
I have been totally unable to get a connection for the past three days, and now that I have one it is glitchy and keeps disconnecting me.
Fuck!
When I get back to London on Tuesday I will be able to catch up on your blogs.
Until then, here are some wisteria in St.Giles churchyard this morning.
And some more.
Normal service will be resumed on Tuesday, unless by some miracle I can get online before that.Meanwhile, here is some light music … dum dum di dum diddly etc …
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Thirsty
Well, it's now been forty-one blue-skied and sunny days since it rained in my village and I'm beginning to get thirsty.
Global warming sucks big fat hairy arse.
I like rain; it keeps the fucking tourists away.
I'm getting kinda nostalgic for last summer.
This is a river trip we took from Westminster down to Greenwich last July.
This is what a British Summer is supposed to look like.
Four miserable people sitting in the rain with beer.
If ever there were an appropriate time to use the word "party" as a verb (which there is NOT), this would not be it.
It was quite breezy, too. This is Kaf enjoying a Traditional British Summer.
I could never live in California.
I need to be moist.
Bring on the rain.
Yeah, I know it's a crappy filler post but I'm kinda busy today, juggling twenty-six huge and bellowing headmistresses, several building contractors, interviews for Cad-monkeys and hassle from all quarters.
Work can be fun but it fucks up my blogging.
Global warming sucks big fat hairy arse.
I like rain; it keeps the fucking tourists away.
I'm getting kinda nostalgic for last summer.
This is a river trip we took from Westminster down to Greenwich last July.
This is what a British Summer is supposed to look like.
Four miserable people sitting in the rain with beer.
If ever there were an appropriate time to use the word "party" as a verb (which there is NOT), this would not be it.
It was quite breezy, too. This is Kaf enjoying a Traditional British Summer.
I could never live in California.I need to be moist.
Bring on the rain.
Yeah, I know it's a crappy filler post but I'm kinda busy today, juggling twenty-six huge and bellowing headmistresses, several building contractors, interviews for Cad-monkeys and hassle from all quarters.
Work can be fun but it fucks up my blogging.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Maria's Blogville
Yesterday morning I was cruising your blogs at coffee time when I came across Maria's excellent post on blogging, "Blogville".
Go read it. It's a doozy.
She starts by comparing her blogpals to her "real" friends and is somewhat shocked to find she has blogpals whose politics have crawled straight from Satan's arse … "Republicans". Yikes!
I remember the same shock (and some hilarious swearfests - me being not merely a pinko fag but a full-on Marxist) on finding some of my own blogpals - who are wonderful people - are politically so far to the right they would be counted as neo-nazis over here in lefty Britland
(hi, Prudence, proud Republican and hi, Rich, who's more the "Patriotic American").
Yet because I like them and respect them so much I find I can actually listen to their side of things, and welcome their views as a balance to my own Socialist ranting … Thanks in particular to Dear Prudence I have discovered that Republicans are people, too.
Prudence is so gonna whup my patronising Commie ass for that one!
Then Maria goes over her reasons for starting a blog and asks us for ours.
Hokay …
I came across blogging by a somewhat odd route.
As most of you know, I design girls' schools for a living (it's a dirty job, but … etc.) …
We had a memo come round last year saying our schools were banning the use of MySpace and personal blogs for fear of pædophile grooming.
My first thought was "What the fuck's a blog?"
So I Googled it and came up with Blogger, took a look and thought … Hmmm … That looks fun.
Here's my first post, which kind of doesn't explain anything, except that I found ranty posts boring … then two posts later I started ranting and have not stopped since. To start with there was just me and my "real" friend Peahen, and my baby brother, but it was fun.
I just tootled along, writing any old crap (a method which still serves me well) and eventually a stranger dropped into my comment box (hi, Sassy), who, by sheer fluke happened to be an intelligent, lefty American. I was hooked!
Of course, once you've got one blogpal, the whole thing opens up and sucks you in. Through Sassy, I discovered that a bunch of us had started blogging at exactly the same time and I've stuck with them ever since. What a curious and diverse bunch they are, too:
There's Sassy: the voice of intelligent America; a fellow lefty ranter who is more fun than a busload of monkeys let loose in a nunnery;
Robyn: writer, artist and horn player; at first glance a quiet and lovely Christian wife and mother, but "Holy Crap" (as she would say), a real rebel underneath;
Old Knudsen: the sweariest, porniest, funniest cesspool on the web;
and Rich: handsome Boston medical man and coffee addict who'd be great in a TV hospital drama.
Of course, these are only their blog personas.
Just as Dive is a fictional creation, most bloggers only let a certain amount of themselves out into the public domain.
There is a secret underworld of emailing and instant-messaging that goes on beneath the blog-surface, too. Things that could never be revealed in a blog are furtively whispered or passed under the desk. Now some of you are going to be worried, thinking "Who's he talking to? What are they saying about me?", to which I reply "hee hee hee."
And new blogpals arrive all the time.
My lovely Very Personal Assistant, 外人ガールさん provides me with the poop on Tokyo, Kate and The Groover with the lowdown on Down Under, from both sides of the sexual divide. Dear Prudence from the beautiful lakes of New Hampshire and many more … (if you've not been namechecked, think yourself lucky).
Blogpals come by strange routes; one day Lynn dropped into my comments box.
That was an odd and scary day. I liked what she had to say so followed her profile and found the first chapter of her novel. Back then, however, the little minx hadn't labelled it a novel; it just looked like a very public suicide note. It took a few confused exchanges and some considerable relief to realise this was not the case. I'd spank her for it but I know she'd enjoy it too much.
Through Lynn came the Daily Photo Blog mob, including Monsieur B and the lovely Ame, with whom I had a ball when she came over to England (see the "Baps and Peepees" link toward the bottom of my sidebar if you're a newbie).
And talking of newbies, I always check out new commenters on blogpals' sites and usually they are worth an occasional browse, but sometimes someone comes along who is just too cool not to go in the sidebar, as has just happened with both Terroni and Maria, whose idea I stole for this post.
So … these are the strange denizens who currently inhabit the Lake Wobegonesque small town that is Dive's personal Blogville.
Pop across and visit one another if you don't already.
Rich has sent out to Rosa for coffee and Robyn's done some baking. Sassy's bringing "The Stuff" …
Welcome to Blogville. Enjoy your stay.
Go read it. It's a doozy.
She starts by comparing her blogpals to her "real" friends and is somewhat shocked to find she has blogpals whose politics have crawled straight from Satan's arse … "Republicans". Yikes!
I remember the same shock (and some hilarious swearfests - me being not merely a pinko fag but a full-on Marxist) on finding some of my own blogpals - who are wonderful people - are politically so far to the right they would be counted as neo-nazis over here in lefty Britland
(hi, Prudence, proud Republican and hi, Rich, who's more the "Patriotic American").
Yet because I like them and respect them so much I find I can actually listen to their side of things, and welcome their views as a balance to my own Socialist ranting … Thanks in particular to Dear Prudence I have discovered that Republicans are people, too.
Prudence is so gonna whup my patronising Commie ass for that one!
Then Maria goes over her reasons for starting a blog and asks us for ours.
Hokay …
I came across blogging by a somewhat odd route.
As most of you know, I design girls' schools for a living (it's a dirty job, but … etc.) …
We had a memo come round last year saying our schools were banning the use of MySpace and personal blogs for fear of pædophile grooming.
My first thought was "What the fuck's a blog?"
So I Googled it and came up with Blogger, took a look and thought … Hmmm … That looks fun.
Here's my first post, which kind of doesn't explain anything, except that I found ranty posts boring … then two posts later I started ranting and have not stopped since. To start with there was just me and my "real" friend Peahen, and my baby brother, but it was fun.
I just tootled along, writing any old crap (a method which still serves me well) and eventually a stranger dropped into my comment box (hi, Sassy), who, by sheer fluke happened to be an intelligent, lefty American. I was hooked!
Of course, once you've got one blogpal, the whole thing opens up and sucks you in. Through Sassy, I discovered that a bunch of us had started blogging at exactly the same time and I've stuck with them ever since. What a curious and diverse bunch they are, too:
There's Sassy: the voice of intelligent America; a fellow lefty ranter who is more fun than a busload of monkeys let loose in a nunnery;
Robyn: writer, artist and horn player; at first glance a quiet and lovely Christian wife and mother, but "Holy Crap" (as she would say), a real rebel underneath;
Old Knudsen: the sweariest, porniest, funniest cesspool on the web;
and Rich: handsome Boston medical man and coffee addict who'd be great in a TV hospital drama.
Of course, these are only their blog personas.
Just as Dive is a fictional creation, most bloggers only let a certain amount of themselves out into the public domain.
There is a secret underworld of emailing and instant-messaging that goes on beneath the blog-surface, too. Things that could never be revealed in a blog are furtively whispered or passed under the desk. Now some of you are going to be worried, thinking "Who's he talking to? What are they saying about me?", to which I reply "hee hee hee."
And new blogpals arrive all the time.
My lovely Very Personal Assistant, 外人ガールさん provides me with the poop on Tokyo, Kate and The Groover with the lowdown on Down Under, from both sides of the sexual divide. Dear Prudence from the beautiful lakes of New Hampshire and many more … (if you've not been namechecked, think yourself lucky).
Blogpals come by strange routes; one day Lynn dropped into my comments box.
That was an odd and scary day. I liked what she had to say so followed her profile and found the first chapter of her novel. Back then, however, the little minx hadn't labelled it a novel; it just looked like a very public suicide note. It took a few confused exchanges and some considerable relief to realise this was not the case. I'd spank her for it but I know she'd enjoy it too much.
Through Lynn came the Daily Photo Blog mob, including Monsieur B and the lovely Ame, with whom I had a ball when she came over to England (see the "Baps and Peepees" link toward the bottom of my sidebar if you're a newbie).
And talking of newbies, I always check out new commenters on blogpals' sites and usually they are worth an occasional browse, but sometimes someone comes along who is just too cool not to go in the sidebar, as has just happened with both Terroni and Maria, whose idea I stole for this post.
So … these are the strange denizens who currently inhabit the Lake Wobegonesque small town that is Dive's personal Blogville.
Pop across and visit one another if you don't already.
Rich has sent out to Rosa for coffee and Robyn's done some baking. Sassy's bringing "The Stuff" …
Welcome to Blogville. Enjoy your stay.
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