What the fuck?
Er … Welcome to my sixth year in Blogville.
On Monday, August 7th, 2006 I started this thing and at almost the same moment Robyn started her own blog over in Ohio. To be frank neither of us have any idea why we're still here but here we are, so happy birthday to us, the oldest neighbours in our little Blogville street.
I was going to have a party but I hate parties.
I was going to spend a few days going back through the best and the worst of the last five years but there's getting on for fifteen hundred posts back there, some of which are thousands of words long, and that's too much like hard work.
I was going to write about how Blogville has changed over the years, much like any other small town.
I was going to write about the people who moved out and the other people who moved in, but going through old comments boxes from years ago and wondering where those people are now got me all maudlin so I won't.
Suffice to say that five years ago yesterday I started this stupid blog with no idea of what a blog was. And here I am today, older but still no wiser.
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Monday, August 08, 2011
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Alma Mater
I was tootling around my old home town the other day when I stumbled upon the building that grew to become my old school.
This is the beautiful 16th century house remodelled in 1631 as the grammar school that eventually spread along the road to become the educational quagmire that produced this lifelong Marxist and curmudgeon.
As you can see, the gable started to fall outwards in 1670 so they added the tie rods through the roofspace to keep it in one piece.That crest used to adorn my blazer and cap (and the cover of the satirical school magazine I co-authored there).
The old Sir John Leman Grammar remains in my opinion one of the world's most perfect and beautiful small buildings and I love it deeply. These days it houses the local museum and is well cared for. Yay!What's going on at your old school?
Friday, April 17, 2009
964 Little Rays Of Sunshine
Holy, crap! I just added them up and found that this is my nine-hundred and sixty-fourth post! Another few weeks and it'll be my thousandth.
That is quite staggeringly scary … nine-hundred and sixty-four pages of complete and utter toss; a veritable fœtid pismire of unconscionable wank.
Will I let the side down by writing anything worth reading today?
Will I fuck …
Let's talk drivel.
Camp drivel, to be precise.
Both Katie and Lucio have recently held forth on the subject of camp, with lucidity and insight.
Never one to be blessed with either of those things, I - on the other hand - shall reminisce about that most disgusting and unpalatable of childhood privations: Camp "coffee".
Let me take you by the hand and lead you back in time to Austerity Britain shortly after the end of post-war rationing.
Exhausted by war and crippled by debt, we survived on such things as powdered egg, Spam™ and Camp coffee.
Those were the days when the only fruit we saw was an orange in our Christmas sock.
We didn't get to taste actual coffee until the 1970s, when mum and dad bought a new-fangled "percolator", which may go some way to explaining my overcompensatory caffeine addiction in adult life.
What we had was this wretched stuff:
Made by the Scots - probably in revenge for Culloden, and originally envisioned as a quick way of brewing something awful for military purposes - this ghastly concoction consisted (and still consists if you have the stomach for it) mostly of water and sugar, together with 26% chicory essence and 4 (yes, four)% coffee essence.
It is a thick, syrupy glop that is truly nasty, even when massively diluted in hot water and leavened with yet more sugar.
Totally unpalatable.
Utterly disgusting.
Ick.
To paraphrase Douglas Adams, it produces a cup of brown liquid that is almost but not quite entirely unlike coffee.
I still shudder at the memories …
In an amusing twist, a couple of years back, the company changed the label (much to the fusty spuffling fury of racist old tories and Daily Mail readers … "This is political correctness gone MAD!") to finally allow the Sikh manservant to sit down and share a mug of this revolting liquid with his Scottish superior, having been standing there with his tray since 1876, when the stuff was first unleashed upon us.
Anyhoo … enough camp nostalgia; let's get nostagic about condoms instead.
Yesterday's Japanese phrase was inspired by the title of the accompanying song: "Weekend".
The phrase was:
何かには週末
"Nani ka ni wa shuumatsu".
This probably makes no sense whatsoever in Japanese, as it is an English idiomatic phrase.
Another classic would be "A piece of cake" for something that we find easy, yet translated into French and rendered as "Un morceau de gâteau" it becomes gibberish.
As with 何かには週末, which - as any fule kno - means "Something for the weekend."
Apparently - having discussed this with a Colonial - the phrase is meaningless even to our cousins across the pond, so please allow me to elucidate.
Let us step back again for a moment into Austerity Britain.
Due to a mixture of prudish and cowardly government and nutjob religious pressure, condoms are not actually available anywhere in the country …
… except …
… for some unfathomable reason in … er … barbers' shops.
Accompanying dad to such establishments for a short back and sides in my youth I became familiar with the phrase.
Condoms were deemed too shocking to display, even in such a male-dominated environment as the back room of a barbershop and so - once a gentleman had been shorn - the barber would ask his customary question:
"Something for the weekend, sir?"
Monies would change hands and said gentleman would walk nonchalantly away, wearing an embarrassed smirk, his jacket pocket bulging with stinky rubber.
So …
Now we've got that out of the way, let's dance.
Or "踊りませんか", as you should have learned by now.
Today's phrase for you to learn is a handy one at a dance:
"酔っぱらっただけならまでしも、彼はとんでもないばかをやらかしたんだ。"
As it is Pizzicato Five Week here on the Planet, we'll get jiggy to another of Nomiya Maki's incomparably stylish homages: Baby Portable Rock.
Love that dress!
That is quite staggeringly scary … nine-hundred and sixty-four pages of complete and utter toss; a veritable fœtid pismire of unconscionable wank.
Will I let the side down by writing anything worth reading today?
Will I fuck …
Let's talk drivel.
Camp drivel, to be precise.
Both Katie and Lucio have recently held forth on the subject of camp, with lucidity and insight.
Never one to be blessed with either of those things, I - on the other hand - shall reminisce about that most disgusting and unpalatable of childhood privations: Camp "coffee".
Let me take you by the hand and lead you back in time to Austerity Britain shortly after the end of post-war rationing.
Exhausted by war and crippled by debt, we survived on such things as powdered egg, Spam™ and Camp coffee.
Those were the days when the only fruit we saw was an orange in our Christmas sock.
We didn't get to taste actual coffee until the 1970s, when mum and dad bought a new-fangled "percolator", which may go some way to explaining my overcompensatory caffeine addiction in adult life.
What we had was this wretched stuff:
Made by the Scots - probably in revenge for Culloden, and originally envisioned as a quick way of brewing something awful for military purposes - this ghastly concoction consisted (and still consists if you have the stomach for it) mostly of water and sugar, together with 26% chicory essence and 4 (yes, four)% coffee essence.It is a thick, syrupy glop that is truly nasty, even when massively diluted in hot water and leavened with yet more sugar.
Totally unpalatable.
Utterly disgusting.
Ick.
To paraphrase Douglas Adams, it produces a cup of brown liquid that is almost but not quite entirely unlike coffee.
I still shudder at the memories …
In an amusing twist, a couple of years back, the company changed the label (much to the fusty spuffling fury of racist old tories and Daily Mail readers … "This is political correctness gone MAD!") to finally allow the Sikh manservant to sit down and share a mug of this revolting liquid with his Scottish superior, having been standing there with his tray since 1876, when the stuff was first unleashed upon us.Anyhoo … enough camp nostalgia; let's get nostagic about condoms instead.
Yesterday's Japanese phrase was inspired by the title of the accompanying song: "Weekend".
The phrase was:
何かには週末
"Nani ka ni wa shuumatsu".
This probably makes no sense whatsoever in Japanese, as it is an English idiomatic phrase.
Another classic would be "A piece of cake" for something that we find easy, yet translated into French and rendered as "Un morceau de gâteau" it becomes gibberish.
As with 何かには週末, which - as any fule kno - means "Something for the weekend."
Apparently - having discussed this with a Colonial - the phrase is meaningless even to our cousins across the pond, so please allow me to elucidate.
Let us step back again for a moment into Austerity Britain.
Due to a mixture of prudish and cowardly government and nutjob religious pressure, condoms are not actually available anywhere in the country …
… except …
… for some unfathomable reason in … er … barbers' shops.
Accompanying dad to such establishments for a short back and sides in my youth I became familiar with the phrase.
Condoms were deemed too shocking to display, even in such a male-dominated environment as the back room of a barbershop and so - once a gentleman had been shorn - the barber would ask his customary question:
"Something for the weekend, sir?"
Monies would change hands and said gentleman would walk nonchalantly away, wearing an embarrassed smirk, his jacket pocket bulging with stinky rubber.
So …
Now we've got that out of the way, let's dance.
Or "踊りませんか", as you should have learned by now.
Today's phrase for you to learn is a handy one at a dance:
"酔っぱらっただけならまでしも、彼はとんでもないばかをやらかしたんだ。"
As it is Pizzicato Five Week here on the Planet, we'll get jiggy to another of Nomiya Maki's incomparably stylish homages: Baby Portable Rock.
Love that dress!
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Why I Am Like I Am
Many apologies to my lovely Blogville neighbours for not coming round to visit much these days but things at work are stupidly busy and I've just been getting home and going straight to bed.
I've also got no time to write anything, but I was talking to a friend in the Colonies a little while ago and discovered that the TV of our respective childhoods came from two completely different planets.
Mine revolved around "Watch With Mother" - featuring such awesomely freakish wonders as The Woodentops, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, Andy Pandy and Muffin The Mule.
So today, in lieu of a post, I have been wallowing in nostalgia for the vanished world of my childhood and staring - frankly open-mouthed with horror - at these clips of long-vanished shows I loved.
Creepy beyond all measure (especially Andy Pandy) these will raise a smile from mum and Phil - and probably Lynn, who will be twenty-eight on Monday and of course cannot remember this stuff, and hopefully they will explain a lot about me to my Colonial chums.
And of course, they save me from having to write a post.
First up comes the wonderful innocence of The Woodentops, then the sheer imbecility of Bill and Ben, followed by a whole episode of shudderingly scary Andy Pandy and a final clip of Muffin The Mule (an act legal here until a few years ago).
What the fuck was going on with kids' TV back then?
Scary, creepy puppets and plummy-voiced upper class women and awful, awful songs.
It's a wonder I'm not in therapy.
The freak show starts here.
Enjoy!
I've also got no time to write anything, but I was talking to a friend in the Colonies a little while ago and discovered that the TV of our respective childhoods came from two completely different planets.
Mine revolved around "Watch With Mother" - featuring such awesomely freakish wonders as The Woodentops, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, Andy Pandy and Muffin The Mule.
So today, in lieu of a post, I have been wallowing in nostalgia for the vanished world of my childhood and staring - frankly open-mouthed with horror - at these clips of long-vanished shows I loved.
Creepy beyond all measure (especially Andy Pandy) these will raise a smile from mum and Phil - and probably Lynn, who will be twenty-eight on Monday and of course cannot remember this stuff, and hopefully they will explain a lot about me to my Colonial chums.
And of course, they save me from having to write a post.
First up comes the wonderful innocence of The Woodentops, then the sheer imbecility of Bill and Ben, followed by a whole episode of shudderingly scary Andy Pandy and a final clip of Muffin The Mule (an act legal here until a few years ago).
What the fuck was going on with kids' TV back then?
Scary, creepy puppets and plummy-voiced upper class women and awful, awful songs.
It's a wonder I'm not in therapy.
The freak show starts here.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Homo Habilis Divii
Yup … Dive the handyman.
For some strange reason (I truly believe I will suddenly understand women the moment before I die and will leave this world with a very surprised look on my face) Lynn and Petrea seem to find the fact that I put up some crappy shelves in the gym on Sunday somehow sexy.
To knock that sexiness on the head, here are the crappy shelves.
I just needed somewhere to put a whole load of CDs and DVDs and there happened to be a spare wall in the gym so …
Just as well I left room for expansion. I can squeeze another three shelves up there and there are hundreds more CDs in the studio …
Sheesh!
And yes, laydees; that is where I get nekkid and sweaty (not currently having any reason to do so in the bedroom).
So …
Let's get serious with a screwdriver …
At the risk of causing swoons and simpering from Tewkesbury to Pasadena, pray allow me to take you way back in the mists of time to when I bought my first house.
I believe the term for this kind of thing is "a fixer-upper".
Well … I fixed the fucker up myself.
It took me eighteen months and at the end of it I never wanted to see any of it ever again, so I sold it on the very day I finished it.
Hmmm … This doesn't look good.
Right! Throw some old curtains over everything and let's rip the shit out of this place!
Having re-wired and re-plumbed it (and stupidly not taken photos … these are about all I could find … if only I knew then what weemen find sexy), I started replastering the ceilings and walls.
Note the neat re-wiring job on the new dimmer switch.
And okay, Ming the Menstrual did have a sweet ass, I'll give her that.
I do have a weakness for a cute bippy, laydees please take note.
Katie says:
Fuck off! This is MY dust sheet. Go find your own.
She also got kinda fascinated by just about everything …
"Wotcha doin'?"
"I'm hitting crap with a hammer, what's it LOOK like I'm doing?"
Anyhoo …
Here's some Divery:
Before …
During …
And after.
I used to love all this stuff.
Ming even helped with the papering. Sort of.
Dive and Nigel put up a greenhouse …
According to the instructions it was supposed to be a table but you know what Ikea are like.
While Dive and Phil make a start on the front garden.
Cheeses of Nazareth, I wish I were that skinny today!
Phil celebrates ripping the old kitchen to bits by adopting a classic eighties bad hair-do.
That's dad on the right. I love my dad and miss him a lot. He taught me how to do all this crap (except wallpapering … mum's the expert at that … I thought I'd better mention it before SHE did … OW)!
Note the little red First Aid kit on the right. Probably the most essential piece of kit for home renovations.
Check out the Osama bin Dickwad beard!
Fuck me, what was I thinking?
At least I found a use for one of those crappy jumpers I used to get for Christmas.
Hey, I've still got that drill! I used it to put the shelves up at the weekend. Yay!
"Feed me! … Stop dicking around with all this kitchen crap and FEED ME!"
There's always one screw … one fucking awkward screw you just can't get at.
Yay for a nice new gas hob!
Actually I could do with a new one here but bollocks to making another kitchen; I'll pay some other fucker to do that.
Anyhoo … I kinda liked that kitchen.
It was bigger than the crappy one I'm stuck with today.
Hey ho.
So … There you have it.
I can cook, iron and put up shelves.
All I need now is a pretty girl to do all that stuff for …
… with a cute bippy, of course.
To knock that sexiness on the head, here are the crappy shelves.I just needed somewhere to put a whole load of CDs and DVDs and there happened to be a spare wall in the gym so …
Just as well I left room for expansion. I can squeeze another three shelves up there and there are hundreds more CDs in the studio …Sheesh!
And yes, laydees; that is where I get nekkid and sweaty (not currently having any reason to do so in the bedroom).
So …
Let's get serious with a screwdriver …
At the risk of causing swoons and simpering from Tewkesbury to Pasadena, pray allow me to take you way back in the mists of time to when I bought my first house.
I believe the term for this kind of thing is "a fixer-upper".Well … I fixed the fucker up myself.
It took me eighteen months and at the end of it I never wanted to see any of it ever again, so I sold it on the very day I finished it.
Hmmm … This doesn't look good.
Right! Throw some old curtains over everything and let's rip the shit out of this place!
Having re-wired and re-plumbed it (and stupidly not taken photos … these are about all I could find … if only I knew then what weemen find sexy), I started replastering the ceilings and walls.
Note the neat re-wiring job on the new dimmer switch.And okay, Ming the Menstrual did have a sweet ass, I'll give her that.
I do have a weakness for a cute bippy, laydees please take note.
Katie says:Fuck off! This is MY dust sheet. Go find your own.
She also got kinda fascinated by just about everything …"Wotcha doin'?"
"I'm hitting crap with a hammer, what's it LOOK like I'm doing?"
Anyhoo …Here's some Divery:
Before …
During …
And after.
I used to love all this stuff.
Ming even helped with the papering. Sort of.
Dive and Nigel put up a greenhouse …According to the instructions it was supposed to be a table but you know what Ikea are like.
While Dive and Phil make a start on the front garden.Cheeses of Nazareth, I wish I were that skinny today!
Phil celebrates ripping the old kitchen to bits by adopting a classic eighties bad hair-do.That's dad on the right. I love my dad and miss him a lot. He taught me how to do all this crap (except wallpapering … mum's the expert at that … I thought I'd better mention it before SHE did … OW)!
Note the little red First Aid kit on the right. Probably the most essential piece of kit for home renovations.
Check out the Osama bin Dickwad beard!Fuck me, what was I thinking?
At least I found a use for one of those crappy jumpers I used to get for Christmas.
Hey, I've still got that drill! I used it to put the shelves up at the weekend. Yay!
"Feed me! … Stop dicking around with all this kitchen crap and FEED ME!"
There's always one screw … one fucking awkward screw you just can't get at.Yay for a nice new gas hob!
Actually I could do with a new one here but bollocks to making another kitchen; I'll pay some other fucker to do that.
Anyhoo … I kinda liked that kitchen.
It was bigger than the crappy one I'm stuck with today.Hey ho.
So … There you have it.
I can cook, iron and put up shelves.
All I need now is a pretty girl to do all that stuff for …
… with a cute bippy, of course.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Shopping With King Arthur
Norfolk's a lovely place, as my long-time Blogville neighbours will know from many a picturesque Dive photopost.
It is also home to some splendid people.
World's sexiest man Stephen Fry is a local lad, Bill Bryson lives just across the river from me and today - after our usual breakfast in the city, Phil and I bumped into another local denizen in the basement of the cheapo discount bookshop off Norwich market.
So who should we find buying a book of tales from King Arthur for £1.99 (reduced from £5.00), but the man who himself staged a musical version of King Arthur … er … on ice, back in the glorious days of prog rock, when bands vied to be the world's silliest and this man was unquestionably the silliest of them all.
There in the bookshop was Rick Wakeman, disguised as … er … Rick Wakeman.
I think he was even wearing the same jacket he wore on the HIGNFY clip (third one down, where he explains just why King Arthur was performed on ice).
He was remarkably happy to be collared by a couple of fanboys and chatted away as we queued together and he signed our copies of "Grumpy Old Men" (another TV show he stars in where a bunch of grumpy old men sit around and complain about young people … not like me at all) which I spotted in the bargain bin at £2.99 each.
Yay!
Hoorah for Phil for always carrying a pen around with him.
And many a hoorah for the lovely, chatty, sociable grumpy old man Mister Rick Wakeman; the man who played that beautiful piano on Bowie's Life On Mars, who was my hero in the heyday of prog with Yes and who is now officially a national treasure.
Ah … the hair, the cloaks, the bombastic pomposity, the sheer, unashamed silliness of it all.
Sigh …
Enjoy these nostalgia-fests, fellow wrinkly prog fans.
It is also home to some splendid people.
World's sexiest man Stephen Fry is a local lad, Bill Bryson lives just across the river from me and today - after our usual breakfast in the city, Phil and I bumped into another local denizen in the basement of the cheapo discount bookshop off Norwich market.
So who should we find buying a book of tales from King Arthur for £1.99 (reduced from £5.00), but the man who himself staged a musical version of King Arthur … er … on ice, back in the glorious days of prog rock, when bands vied to be the world's silliest and this man was unquestionably the silliest of them all.
There in the bookshop was Rick Wakeman, disguised as … er … Rick Wakeman.
I think he was even wearing the same jacket he wore on the HIGNFY clip (third one down, where he explains just why King Arthur was performed on ice).
He was remarkably happy to be collared by a couple of fanboys and chatted away as we queued together and he signed our copies of "Grumpy Old Men" (another TV show he stars in where a bunch of grumpy old men sit around and complain about young people … not like me at all) which I spotted in the bargain bin at £2.99 each.Yay!
Hoorah for Phil for always carrying a pen around with him.
And many a hoorah for the lovely, chatty, sociable grumpy old man Mister Rick Wakeman; the man who played that beautiful piano on Bowie's Life On Mars, who was my hero in the heyday of prog with Yes and who is now officially a national treasure.
Ah … the hair, the cloaks, the bombastic pomposity, the sheer, unashamed silliness of it all.
Sigh …
Enjoy these nostalgia-fests, fellow wrinkly prog fans.
"Six Wives", with Yes …
King Arthur on … er … Ice …
HIGNFY …
And many thanks to Lynn for this one … Rick on "Grumpy Old Men".
Yay!
Yay!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Fess up: First Car
Yay for Katie once again!
This morning I found she had posted a photo of her first car; to English eyes a behemoth straight out of Dukes of Hazzard. Woohoo!
So …
Everyone dive for your old photo collection and dig out your very first car.
For people my age this is gonna be embarrassing, but hey.
Meet Betsy! My 1965 Ford Anglia.
The same model and colour as the one in the Harry Potter books (so I'm told), except mine only flew over humpback bridges and the occasional kerb.
Those are my old college buds Sarah and Paul standing drunk next to it, outside one of our favourite pubs on Heydon village green way back in nineteen-seventy-something.
C'mon! Dig 'em up and post 'em! Let's see who had the coolest wheels (I have to admit, so far it is Katie).
This morning I found she had posted a photo of her first car; to English eyes a behemoth straight out of Dukes of Hazzard. Woohoo!
So …
Everyone dive for your old photo collection and dig out your very first car.
For people my age this is gonna be embarrassing, but hey.
Meet Betsy! My 1965 Ford Anglia.The same model and colour as the one in the Harry Potter books (so I'm told), except mine only flew over humpback bridges and the occasional kerb.
Those are my old college buds Sarah and Paul standing drunk next to it, outside one of our favourite pubs on Heydon village green way back in nineteen-seventy-something.
C'mon! Dig 'em up and post 'em! Let's see who had the coolest wheels (I have to admit, so far it is Katie).
Monday, June 30, 2008
Like Father, Like Son
Yet more unashamed wallowing in the past, courtesy of Mme. Benaut's wonderful post about herself and her mother.
So … Dad and me.
Apologies to mum and Phil for getting left out of this one but (a) it's a "dad and me" post to complement Mme. B's "mum and me" post, and (b) you both have stacks of humiliating and awful photos of me so I have to be careful what I post about you (dammit) and while dad's carousing in the Halls of Valhalla, he doesn't have access to a scanner.
So … Let's start in 1956.
Katie noted yesterday that dad was "very stylish".
Well here he is modelling the latest accessories for the man about Malta in the fifties.
Fifty years ahead of his time with the "manbag".
And here's dad and me back in '58 (or thereabouts).
Yesterday's cleaned up shot.
That's Mdina behind him and the Mediterranean in the distance.
It's all high-rise and hotels now, but if you look closely you can see a horse and cart in the middle distance on the left.
When Elvis ruled the world.
I love this photo.
Of course, dad wasn't the only stylish man-about-town in the family …
This is me hanging about for him outside the fire station where he was a volunteer fireman.
How cute was I back then?
Screw you guys; I'm going home.
Like father, like son.
Er … Like father, like son.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Better days, with Ana in Portugal.
Dad as Buddha.
So … Dad and me.
Apologies to mum and Phil for getting left out of this one but (a) it's a "dad and me" post to complement Mme. B's "mum and me" post, and (b) you both have stacks of humiliating and awful photos of me so I have to be careful what I post about you (dammit) and while dad's carousing in the Halls of Valhalla, he doesn't have access to a scanner.
So … Let's start in 1956.Katie noted yesterday that dad was "very stylish".
Well here he is modelling the latest accessories for the man about Malta in the fifties.
Fifty years ahead of his time with the "manbag".
And here's dad and me back in '58 (or thereabouts).
Yesterday's cleaned up shot.That's Mdina behind him and the Mediterranean in the distance.
It's all high-rise and hotels now, but if you look closely you can see a horse and cart in the middle distance on the left.
When Elvis ruled the world.I love this photo.
Of course, dad wasn't the only stylish man-about-town in the family …This is me hanging about for him outside the fire station where he was a volunteer fireman.
How cute was I back then?
Screw you guys; I'm going home.
Like father, like son.
Er … Like father, like son.Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Better days, with Ana in Portugal.
Dad as Buddha.Yeah, I miss him. We had some good times. That's as much as you can ask.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Devastating Man
Laydees and gentlemen … I give you:
The Devastating Man that is my baby brother Phil - aka Full, The Monkey God.
He has a birthday today!
Yaaaay!
And probably Woohoo, too!
To celebrate this momentous occasion, I will risk his eternal wrath and present you with a pictorial snapshot of the evolution of The Monkey God, from small animal sacrifice to full blown simian deity.
Big Pants!
One day I woke up to find this strange, frog-like balloon alien in the pram.
In olden days, nappies were lead-lined and got changed once a month.
There's about a fortnight's worth in there.
Don't fuck with me!
Not long after the end of rationing, in post-war austerity Britain, iced lollies were made from offal, putty and grit.
Phil's admirable food-snobbery started here.
Those gloves again.
Back then, masturbation deterrence started early.
That was a seriously great trike, though.
And then it all went wrong …
How did that cute little boy grow up to become the founder member of splendid rhythm and blues combo The Dubious Brothers?
And skinny, too!
What a bastard!
Phil is a drummer.
But he's also an excellent bassist - as seen here … if a little studious-looking - and a totally awesome guitar player.
Anyhoo …
Happy Birthday, Phil!
My baby brother.
You know I hate YouTube, but I couldn't resist this.
Skip the first minute or so (unless you're a gay man in which case simply revel in the fabness of Babs).
It's around a minute and a half in that this gets very wrong indeed and veers off into pædo-pervy territory in a quite hilariously inappropriate manner.
So to honour Phil's birthday, sing along with Babs as she belts out one of my favourite songs of all time:
"I'm five,
I'm five,
I'm a big girl now,
I'm five,
etc …"
Then pop on over to Phil's blog and wish him a happy birthday.
The Devastating Man that is my baby brother Phil - aka Full, The Monkey God.He has a birthday today!
Yaaaay!
And probably Woohoo, too!
To celebrate this momentous occasion, I will risk his eternal wrath and present you with a pictorial snapshot of the evolution of The Monkey God, from small animal sacrifice to full blown simian deity.
Big Pants!One day I woke up to find this strange, frog-like balloon alien in the pram.
In olden days, nappies were lead-lined and got changed once a month.
There's about a fortnight's worth in there.
Don't fuck with me!
Not long after the end of rationing, in post-war austerity Britain, iced lollies were made from offal, putty and grit.Phil's admirable food-snobbery started here.
Those gloves again.Back then, masturbation deterrence started early.
That was a seriously great trike, though.
And then it all went wrong …
How did that cute little boy grow up to become the founder member of splendid rhythm and blues combo The Dubious Brothers?
And skinny, too!What a bastard!
Phil is a drummer.But he's also an excellent bassist - as seen here … if a little studious-looking - and a totally awesome guitar player.
Anyhoo …Happy Birthday, Phil!
My baby brother.
You know I hate YouTube, but I couldn't resist this.
Skip the first minute or so (unless you're a gay man in which case simply revel in the fabness of Babs).
It's around a minute and a half in that this gets very wrong indeed and veers off into pædo-pervy territory in a quite hilariously inappropriate manner.
So to honour Phil's birthday, sing along with Babs as she belts out one of my favourite songs of all time:
"I'm five,
I'm five,
I'm a big girl now,
I'm five,
etc …"
Then pop on over to Phil's blog and wish him a happy birthday.
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