Oh, arse! A bloody meme …
Thanks for nothing, Old Man.
I hate these things.
For the record, this is the most piss-poor excuse for a meme I've ever come across. Uninspiring, tedious questions which deserve nothing more than the vitriol heaped on them by Old K and now myself.
Okay; let's get sweary …
1-Do you like the look and the contents of your blog?
What a fucking stupid question.
If I didn't like the look of it, I'd change it, and if I didn't like the content, I wouldn't write all this crap in the first place.
Tosser.
2-Does your family know about your blog?
Yes. But like Old K, they couldn't give a monkey's.
3-Can you tell your friends about your blog? Do you consider it a private thing?
I consider solo masturbation a private thing … oh, and puffin frottage.
If I'm masturbating with my friends, then it's not so private.
And I use the blog to spout off about stuff. What good would it be if no bugger read it?
4-Do you just read the blogs of those who comment on your blog? or you try to discover new blogs?
Of course I do. And I'm constantly trying to find new blogs from desperately lonely women who live just down the road from me. Preferably ones with poor eyesight and low self esteem. No luck so far …
5-Did your blog positively affect your mind? Give an example.
Only to the extent that my friends don't have to put up with my ranting any more. I can rant at strangers, which is nicely therapeutic.
6-What does the number of visitors to your blog mean? Do you use a traffic counter?
I couldn't give a toss.
7-Did you imagine how other bloggers look like?
I try not to but the bastards keep posting photos of themselves. And if I see another fucking baby blog, I'm going Godzilla on this stinking planet.
8-Do you think blogging has any real benefit?
No. The time I waste blogging could be more constructively used looking at porn.
9-Do you think that the blogosphere is a stand alone community separated from the real world.
No. It's a "Sit Alone" community of sad wankers who cannot face the real world.
10-Do some political blogs scare you? Do you avoid them?
No. Religious blogs and those with fucking babies all over them scare me. Stop breeding, you ignorant fuckers. The world cannot possibly feed your snivelling, ugly children.
11-Do you think that criticizing your blog is useful?
Not to me. Criticize all you want; I couldn't give a toss.
12-Have you ever thought about what would happen to your blog in case you died?
No. Why should I care? No offense to some of my American readers, but there is no God and no afterlife. When you're dead, you're dead.
13-Which blogger had the greatest impression on you?
Robyn. She's the person I'd most like as a neighbour. And - other than this meme - I tend to moderate my swearing a bit for her.
14-Which blogger do you think is the most similar to you?
Lonesome, lefty and cynical? That would be Sassy (sorry, gal).
15-Name a song you want to listen to?
Prayer to God by Shellac. The sweariest song about breaking up. Ever. If I had to choose a personal deity, it would be Steve Albini.
Well, that was the crappiest and most boring meme I've ever seen.
It doesn't deserve to be passed on to anyone else, so the only person I'll tag is the sad, miserable waste of oxygen who came up with it in the first place, together with a slap round the head for wasting my time.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
More Profanity
An attractive girl accosted me outside the Bank of England this morning on my way across the City, and handed me a stress pig.
While I normally ignore promotional freebies, this one was more than welcome and I happily squeezed my porker all the way to Westminster. There's nothing like a bit of hand relief in the morning …
More on that story later.
In the meantime, all that disgusting wallowing in self pity about my stupid birthday (somewhat compounded at five o'clock this morning by checking Sassy's blog to find a reminder that I would be in Club Suck once again this Christmas) distracted me from a rather nice story in the press a few days back:
I'll quote from the Guardian (I'm sure they won't mind).
"After more than five years of delicate and dangerous excavation on Derbyshire moorland, potholers have confirmed that Britain's biggest cave lies hidden below a fissure known for centuries as the Devil's Arsehole."
Why our dear Mister Knudsen sprang to mind I have no idea, but I'm relieved to discover that the Devil's Arsehole has not yet been bowdlerised by prudish nearby residents. I have great affection for rude historical names since my old mate Babs, up in Shetland, pointed out a standing stone to me, in front of which a small sign read (in a splendid attempt at the local vernacular) "The White Stane Of Willie."
I was disgusted to hear that Slut's Hole Lane, near my brother's house in Attleborough has now been re-named something inoffensive due to residents' complaints. This is a growing problem in crowded little Britain. We need to fight to keep our filthy places filthy.
The most famous example of this is a street I pass along every working day.
For centuries, fragrant ladies have plied their venerable trade there, offering such exotic delights as "penny up the wall" knee-tremblers, as a result of which, the place was officially known by the delightful soubriquet of (cover your eyes, Robyn) "Gropecunte Lane".
Unfortunately, when the Bank of England was located there, they renamed it Threadneedle Street (still a lingering trace of the old profession in the new name).
As if to prove that nothing ever really changes, this is the very street where I was given hand relief this morning.
Here's my porker. You're more than welcome to give him a squeeze …
"Oink".
While I normally ignore promotional freebies, this one was more than welcome and I happily squeezed my porker all the way to Westminster. There's nothing like a bit of hand relief in the morning …
More on that story later.
In the meantime, all that disgusting wallowing in self pity about my stupid birthday (somewhat compounded at five o'clock this morning by checking Sassy's blog to find a reminder that I would be in Club Suck once again this Christmas) distracted me from a rather nice story in the press a few days back:
I'll quote from the Guardian (I'm sure they won't mind).
"After more than five years of delicate and dangerous excavation on Derbyshire moorland, potholers have confirmed that Britain's biggest cave lies hidden below a fissure known for centuries as the Devil's Arsehole."
Why our dear Mister Knudsen sprang to mind I have no idea, but I'm relieved to discover that the Devil's Arsehole has not yet been bowdlerised by prudish nearby residents. I have great affection for rude historical names since my old mate Babs, up in Shetland, pointed out a standing stone to me, in front of which a small sign read (in a splendid attempt at the local vernacular) "The White Stane Of Willie."
I was disgusted to hear that Slut's Hole Lane, near my brother's house in Attleborough has now been re-named something inoffensive due to residents' complaints. This is a growing problem in crowded little Britain. We need to fight to keep our filthy places filthy.
The most famous example of this is a street I pass along every working day.
For centuries, fragrant ladies have plied their venerable trade there, offering such exotic delights as "penny up the wall" knee-tremblers, as a result of which, the place was officially known by the delightful soubriquet of (cover your eyes, Robyn) "Gropecunte Lane".
Unfortunately, when the Bank of England was located there, they renamed it Threadneedle Street (still a lingering trace of the old profession in the new name).
As if to prove that nothing ever really changes, this is the very street where I was given hand relief this morning.
Here's my porker. You're more than welcome to give him a squeeze …
"Oink".
Monday, November 13, 2006
Crappy Birthday
I can fight it off no longer. Time has beaten the crap out of me and I collapse into the reeking pismire that is my forty-eighth birthday.
Luckily I'll be in a meeting all day which will keep my mind off the utter arse-ness of it all.
When I get home tonight I shall drink myself into a stupor, and hopefully the world will explode before I wake up.
Whoop de do …
Luckily I'll be in a meeting all day which will keep my mind off the utter arse-ness of it all.
When I get home tonight I shall drink myself into a stupor, and hopefully the world will explode before I wake up.
Whoop de do …
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Tom Purdew Pt.3 - Dad
À la recherche du …
Remembrance Sunday.
Always gets to me …
In the family, up until recently, it was usually centred around dad's brother Tony.
He was a tailgunner. Just nineteen in the closing months of the war, his plane was shot down and crashed into the side of a hill. Nothing you could do if you were tailgunner. No room in your turret for a parachute …
We lost dad four years and a week ago, so this time of year I really miss him.
But lately, I've been scanning in lots of mum's old pictures for her, so to cheer myself up a bit before my rotten forty-eighth birthday tomorrow, here's a bunch of silly ones to remind me of dad:
When Elvis ruled the world …
Dad makes sure the fields and trees hear the good news that rock and roll is king.
Me and Phil got the old Dansette when mum and dad bought a radiogram in the sixties. You could load stacks of LPs on it and just let it play for hours. That's dad's box of 78s, which we still have. Early Elvis, Little Richard, Jerry Lee, et al … Wonderful.
This is the reprobate who somehow romanced mum (before the RAF mended his ways). Handsome devil, isn't he?
And this one cracks me up. Mum when she was around ten, wearing what looks like some old curtains, and with a table mat on her head. Somehow, these two were allowed to breed …
I like this one. This is dad in Mdina, Malta, a few miles from where I was born. He served in Cyprus on 39 Squadron nuclear bombers, but the wives were based in Malta and he certainly looks happy to be here.
And this is him in Cyprus. "Active service" they called it … Hmmm … Very active.
This, kids, was our nuclear deterrent at the height of the cold war. Tremble in your boots, mighty Soviet armies!
And this last one I've put in, not just because I'm in it (ain't I cute?), but because it's the only photo of my childhood nemesis, filled with spiders and darkness, the terrifying outside privy!
That's it: the door on the left (the door on the right is the coal shed). It looks quite benign in the daylight, doesn't it?
Don't be fooled. On a cold winter's night it was the most terrible place on earth to me … Brrr … I shudder even now to think of it.
So that's dad in his youth. He was great and I miss him loads.
Remembrance Sunday.
Always gets to me …
In the family, up until recently, it was usually centred around dad's brother Tony.
He was a tailgunner. Just nineteen in the closing months of the war, his plane was shot down and crashed into the side of a hill. Nothing you could do if you were tailgunner. No room in your turret for a parachute …
We lost dad four years and a week ago, so this time of year I really miss him.
But lately, I've been scanning in lots of mum's old pictures for her, so to cheer myself up a bit before my rotten forty-eighth birthday tomorrow, here's a bunch of silly ones to remind me of dad:
When Elvis ruled the world …Dad makes sure the fields and trees hear the good news that rock and roll is king.
Me and Phil got the old Dansette when mum and dad bought a radiogram in the sixties. You could load stacks of LPs on it and just let it play for hours. That's dad's box of 78s, which we still have. Early Elvis, Little Richard, Jerry Lee, et al … Wonderful.
This is the reprobate who somehow romanced mum (before the RAF mended his ways). Handsome devil, isn't he?
And this one cracks me up. Mum when she was around ten, wearing what looks like some old curtains, and with a table mat on her head. Somehow, these two were allowed to breed …
I like this one. This is dad in Mdina, Malta, a few miles from where I was born. He served in Cyprus on 39 Squadron nuclear bombers, but the wives were based in Malta and he certainly looks happy to be here.
And this is him in Cyprus. "Active service" they called it … Hmmm … Very active.This, kids, was our nuclear deterrent at the height of the cold war. Tremble in your boots, mighty Soviet armies!
And this last one I've put in, not just because I'm in it (ain't I cute?), but because it's the only photo of my childhood nemesis, filled with spiders and darkness, the terrifying outside privy!
That's it: the door on the left (the door on the right is the coal shed). It looks quite benign in the daylight, doesn't it?
Don't be fooled. On a cold winter's night it was the most terrible place on earth to me … Brrr … I shudder even now to think of it.
So that's dad in his youth. He was great and I miss him loads.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Wyrd Creatures
Robyn's photo scavenge for today is the word "growth".
A difficult one at this time of year. All the trees in my back garden are gloriously gold and red, but not exactly growing. So moss it is …
Deep in the overgrown woodland recesses of my unkempt garden/nature reserve, down near the place where the bats and hedgehogs live, lurks one of Helen's weirder sculptures.
Surrounded by the detritus of autumn, but with early primulas coming up behind him around the base of a laburnum, the deranged donkey has become home to moss and ivy. A monstrous growth, but a growth nonetheless. I'll clean him up in the spring … Promise.
Apropos of nothing, while Peahen and myself cavorted around Kett's Hill on thursday, we came across this alarming evidence of canine alcoholism …
Say "Hi" to Drinky Dog.
He tried to panhandle us for small change for his "bus fare and a cup of tea", but we had him sussed.
A difficult one at this time of year. All the trees in my back garden are gloriously gold and red, but not exactly growing. So moss it is …
Deep in the overgrown woodland recesses of my unkempt garden/nature reserve, down near the place where the bats and hedgehogs live, lurks one of Helen's weirder sculptures.
Surrounded by the detritus of autumn, but with early primulas coming up behind him around the base of a laburnum, the deranged donkey has become home to moss and ivy. A monstrous growth, but a growth nonetheless. I'll clean him up in the spring … Promise.
Apropos of nothing, while Peahen and myself cavorted around Kett's Hill on thursday, we came across this alarming evidence of canine alcoholism …
Say "Hi" to Drinky Dog.
He tried to panhandle us for small change for his "bus fare and a cup of tea", but we had him sussed.
Ow!
Why does my head hurt so MUCH?
Disjointed, crap, head-achey boring post follows:
I go to bed early with a book (currently re-reading "Ten Days That Shook The World", John Reed's splendid eyewitness account of the 7th. November, 1917 Bolshevik Revolution) and a glass of Rioja and wake up this morning with what can only be described as a stinking fucking headache.
Ow!
I feel like someone's been hammering Kryptonite into my sinuses all night and is now beating my head rhythmically with large parts of a tree.
(Sassy's been to a wine-guzzling evening and I bet she wakes up clear-headed).
I drag my stinking carcass down the landing to the shower.
I have two choices: stay in bed with painkillers and suffer, or get dressed and drive into Norwich for breakfast and some fresh air.
Into Norwich it is. Kick myself in the head with strong coffee. Oh, fuck … Mince pies in the coffee shop … Christmas is coming … Fuckity fuck … Roll on death …
Ow!
They're playing bloody New Age crap over the speakers. At least it's not Christmas music. Last week it was Bowie singing Rebel Rebel. God, I love that song! This week, New Age … I gotta change my coffee shop …
Ow Ow Ow!
Phil turns up and prescribes a nice walk in the (very) fresh air up to Borders. He's ordered me a birthday present but it hasn't arrived yet, so decides to get me a book to tide me over until the grim day (monday), and sensibly won't buy a book from a shop playing New Age crap …
He's a star. He buys me the authorised edition of the final 9/11 Commission Report.
A while back, I saw that godawful right-wing spin dramatised version of events on the telly with Harvey Keitel (shame on you Harvey) and the Report has been on my shopping list ever since (regular readers will know my stance on always searching out source material).
…
Sorry. Tuned out for a bit there. Two minutes' silence …
Today is Armistice Day and I've got the service from St. Paul's on the box. Up in the midlands tomorrow, at the Remembrance Sunday service, Peahen will break the two minute silence in her town by playing the Last Post. I'm so proud of her. She's been cacking herself with nerves. But she's brilliant, so I know she will be perfect.
…
Fuck! That's scary. The Lord Mayor's Procession has just got under way in London and there's Gog and Magog on the TV, the city giants made entirely out of wicker. Edward Woodward must be shitting himself in case they set fire to him again.
Ow!
Bugger this. I give up. I'm going to take some painkillers and go to bed … What a waste of a perfectly usable saturday morning.
Disjointed, crap, head-achey boring post follows:
I go to bed early with a book (currently re-reading "Ten Days That Shook The World", John Reed's splendid eyewitness account of the 7th. November, 1917 Bolshevik Revolution) and a glass of Rioja and wake up this morning with what can only be described as a stinking fucking headache.
Ow!
I feel like someone's been hammering Kryptonite into my sinuses all night and is now beating my head rhythmically with large parts of a tree.
(Sassy's been to a wine-guzzling evening and I bet she wakes up clear-headed).
I drag my stinking carcass down the landing to the shower.
I have two choices: stay in bed with painkillers and suffer, or get dressed and drive into Norwich for breakfast and some fresh air.
Into Norwich it is. Kick myself in the head with strong coffee. Oh, fuck … Mince pies in the coffee shop … Christmas is coming … Fuckity fuck … Roll on death …
Ow!
They're playing bloody New Age crap over the speakers. At least it's not Christmas music. Last week it was Bowie singing Rebel Rebel. God, I love that song! This week, New Age … I gotta change my coffee shop …
Ow Ow Ow!
Phil turns up and prescribes a nice walk in the (very) fresh air up to Borders. He's ordered me a birthday present but it hasn't arrived yet, so decides to get me a book to tide me over until the grim day (monday), and sensibly won't buy a book from a shop playing New Age crap …
He's a star. He buys me the authorised edition of the final 9/11 Commission Report.
A while back, I saw that godawful right-wing spin dramatised version of events on the telly with Harvey Keitel (shame on you Harvey) and the Report has been on my shopping list ever since (regular readers will know my stance on always searching out source material).
…
Sorry. Tuned out for a bit there. Two minutes' silence …
Today is Armistice Day and I've got the service from St. Paul's on the box. Up in the midlands tomorrow, at the Remembrance Sunday service, Peahen will break the two minute silence in her town by playing the Last Post. I'm so proud of her. She's been cacking herself with nerves. But she's brilliant, so I know she will be perfect.
…
Fuck! That's scary. The Lord Mayor's Procession has just got under way in London and there's Gog and Magog on the TV, the city giants made entirely out of wicker. Edward Woodward must be shitting himself in case they set fire to him again.
Ow!
Bugger this. I give up. I'm going to take some painkillers and go to bed … What a waste of a perfectly usable saturday morning.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Kermit
Thanks, Old K.
Another fucking survey …
This time, it's "What Tarot Card Am I"?
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a toss, but I'll give it a go, if only for the excuse to think about Jane Seymour as Solitaire in Live And Let Die … Mmmmmmmmmm …
So it turns out I'm Kermit the Hermit.
Whatever …
Looks a bit like the picture from inside the old Led Zep IV gatefold sleeve, so I'll take that as an omen and listen to Zep all day today.
No more fucking surveys.
Please.
Another fucking survey …
This time, it's "What Tarot Card Am I"?
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a toss, but I'll give it a go, if only for the excuse to think about Jane Seymour as Solitaire in Live And Let Die … Mmmmmmmmmm …
So it turns out I'm Kermit the Hermit.Whatever …
Looks a bit like the picture from inside the old Led Zep IV gatefold sleeve, so I'll take that as an omen and listen to Zep all day today.
No more fucking surveys.
Please.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
When Blogs Collide
Oh, spiffy day …
Peahen pops in to the Pit of Sadness, for coffee and a raucous chortle (and to raid my CD and DVD collection).
And here is the Empress Palpatine of her very own Evil Software Empire atacking my iTunes.
Yes I know that's a cranberry and raspberry smoothie; we had the coffee earlier. Don't be so bloody pedantic.
Peahen's blog lives a good three hour drive away, so naturally she wears her most sensible driving shoes (not) and stripey tights for sad old Dive (in colour, too, Sassy).
As it's a lovely day, we decide to drive up to Kett's Hill (see glorious socialist peasant uprising post), where we proceed to follow Kurt Vonnegut's excellent advice from his latest book, A Man Without A Country: "We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different."
… and watch the sun go down behind the cathedral.
After which, we come home to laugh at Knudsen's blog and watch a movie before the real fun starts …
Peahen has a Superpower (see my earlier post on Superpowers [about halfway down the Scunthorpe post]). She has had this power for all the years I have known her, but today the force is strong in her.
Peahen's admittedly crap superpower is the ability to lose her keys even if they are nailed to her head.
I have to leave for Japanese classes in a few minutes, so we say our farewells and head out to 'Fester', Peahen's magnificent car. Only Peahen cannot find her keys …
Oh, well. We are used to this. It happens every single time we meet.
So we look in all the usual places …
Then we check my car …
Then we look in all the usual places …
Then we check my car again …
Then we tear the house apart, strip out the car and start to panic …
Then we grab a Maglite from my kitchen cupboard, leap into the Divemobile and tear-arse back into the city (at evening rush hour) to search Kett's Hill in the dark for a car key with a black fob …
… in - as I said - the dark …
Luckily, I know all the back alleys and council estate short cuts in my lovely little city, so we do an "Italian Job" through the rush hour traffic and skid to a gravelly halt on top of Kett's Hill.
And THERE IS HER FUCKING KEY!
Well Whoop-di-doo! It only takes a couple of minutes to find it. It must have fallen off Peahen's lap as she got out of the car.
So we "Italian Job" it back out of the city and somehow I make it to Japanese classes (twenty miles in the opposite direction) bang on time.
My car, however, suffers a nervous breakdown (as - almost - do I, when, having skidded and screeched through the traffic and round some particularly nasty back routes at very, very illegal speeds, Peahen says "I think I'd better put my seatbelt on") …
After all that, Japanese classes are a piece of cake …
Peahen pops in to the Pit of Sadness, for coffee and a raucous chortle (and to raid my CD and DVD collection).
And here is the Empress Palpatine of her very own Evil Software Empire atacking my iTunes.
Yes I know that's a cranberry and raspberry smoothie; we had the coffee earlier. Don't be so bloody pedantic.
Peahen's blog lives a good three hour drive away, so naturally she wears her most sensible driving shoes (not) and stripey tights for sad old Dive (in colour, too, Sassy).
As it's a lovely day, we decide to drive up to Kett's Hill (see glorious socialist peasant uprising post), where we proceed to follow Kurt Vonnegut's excellent advice from his latest book, A Man Without A Country: "We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different."
… and watch the sun go down behind the cathedral.
After which, we come home to laugh at Knudsen's blog and watch a movie before the real fun starts …
Peahen has a Superpower (see my earlier post on Superpowers [about halfway down the Scunthorpe post]). She has had this power for all the years I have known her, but today the force is strong in her.
Peahen's admittedly crap superpower is the ability to lose her keys even if they are nailed to her head.
I have to leave for Japanese classes in a few minutes, so we say our farewells and head out to 'Fester', Peahen's magnificent car. Only Peahen cannot find her keys …
Oh, well. We are used to this. It happens every single time we meet.
So we look in all the usual places …
Then we check my car …
Then we look in all the usual places …
Then we check my car again …
Then we tear the house apart, strip out the car and start to panic …
Then we grab a Maglite from my kitchen cupboard, leap into the Divemobile and tear-arse back into the city (at evening rush hour) to search Kett's Hill in the dark for a car key with a black fob …
… in - as I said - the dark …
Luckily, I know all the back alleys and council estate short cuts in my lovely little city, so we do an "Italian Job" through the rush hour traffic and skid to a gravelly halt on top of Kett's Hill.
And THERE IS HER FUCKING KEY!
Well Whoop-di-doo! It only takes a couple of minutes to find it. It must have fallen off Peahen's lap as she got out of the car.
So we "Italian Job" it back out of the city and somehow I make it to Japanese classes (twenty miles in the opposite direction) bang on time.
My car, however, suffers a nervous breakdown (as - almost - do I, when, having skidded and screeched through the traffic and round some particularly nasty back routes at very, very illegal speeds, Peahen says "I think I'd better put my seatbelt on") …
After all that, Japanese classes are a piece of cake …
Oh, For Goodness Sake
Thanks (or possibly not) to "Deliberate Gentle Sex Master" Sassy with her "Dirty Little Secret" for getting me involved in this one …
Go do the test yourselves. If there's any "Maid Of Honour"s or "Sonnets" out there, run screaming because apparently we're compatible.
This is just soooo wrong …
Apparently I "thrive in small groups of smart people" … Hey, I hang around with drummers!
"Not exactly the life and soul of the party" … I'm ALWAYS the life and soul of the party; because I'm the twat up there on stage making the party go bang.
And "slow dancer"? … I dance like your dad, only worse.
And if I had a "Tight circle of friends" just like those described above, I'd shoot myself. All my friends (bar one) are musicians or artists and probably the most antisocial bunch of cynical curmudgeons you're ever likely to meet (and thank God for that).
For your information, I like a woman with attitude; strong, smart, funny, independent and lefty. Drippy just doesn't cut it.
And apparently my "love life improves every year" … Not this year, you bastards.
Surveys? What a bunch of toss!
I decided to skip their Politics test for fear I might break it.
Go do the test yourselves. If there's any "Maid Of Honour"s or "Sonnets" out there, run screaming because apparently we're compatible.
This is just soooo wrong …Apparently I "thrive in small groups of smart people" … Hey, I hang around with drummers!
"Not exactly the life and soul of the party" … I'm ALWAYS the life and soul of the party; because I'm the twat up there on stage making the party go bang.
And "slow dancer"? … I dance like your dad, only worse.
And if I had a "Tight circle of friends" just like those described above, I'd shoot myself. All my friends (bar one) are musicians or artists and probably the most antisocial bunch of cynical curmudgeons you're ever likely to meet (and thank God for that).
For your information, I like a woman with attitude; strong, smart, funny, independent and lefty. Drippy just doesn't cut it.
And apparently my "love life improves every year" … Not this year, you bastards.
Surveys? What a bunch of toss!
I decided to skip their Politics test for fear I might break it.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Woohoo!
Well, let's big it up for common sense invading America.
A huge hoorah for Robyn, Sassy, James, Tai, Rich, Jennifer et al for changing the world for the better.
And to anyone else who voted (but didn't vote Republican), a big thank you from the British people.
Any inquiry the Democrats now launch into Iraq will do immeasurable good over here by damaging Blair and maybe even getting rid of him sooner than we dare hope.
The rest of the world is pretty happy with you as well.
Of course, you've now got to do the same thing all over again.
Two years hence, all good lefties like Sassy must vote "Evil Lite" once more instead of Green to ensure we don't lose all we've gained.
Only when the Republicans are firmly out of power can the Green and Indy lobby hope to do some real good.
But in the mean time, thanks for the last twenty-four hours of sleepless excitement (accompanied by enough scotch to ensure my headache hangs around for a while longer yet).
As I write, we await Montana and Virginia for the Senate. Close, but still hopeful.
Wow. What a day. Big smiles all round.
A huge hoorah for Robyn, Sassy, James, Tai, Rich, Jennifer et al for changing the world for the better.
And to anyone else who voted (but didn't vote Republican), a big thank you from the British people.
Any inquiry the Democrats now launch into Iraq will do immeasurable good over here by damaging Blair and maybe even getting rid of him sooner than we dare hope.
The rest of the world is pretty happy with you as well.
Of course, you've now got to do the same thing all over again.
Two years hence, all good lefties like Sassy must vote "Evil Lite" once more instead of Green to ensure we don't lose all we've gained.
Only when the Republicans are firmly out of power can the Green and Indy lobby hope to do some real good.
But in the mean time, thanks for the last twenty-four hours of sleepless excitement (accompanied by enough scotch to ensure my headache hangs around for a while longer yet).
As I write, we await Montana and Virginia for the Senate. Close, but still hopeful.
Wow. What a day. Big smiles all round.
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