Saturday 1 June 2002

Steve Ryder covering the US Masters:
"Ballesteros felt much better today after a 69."

Having come into some unexpected cash which in an ideal world would involve a shotgun, the Venga Boys, a shallow grave and a jiffy-bag full of hundred pound notes, I set off for the West End to do some spending.
I bought some "2 for £12.99" DVDs, 'Deep Rising' (cheap tacky Sci-fi with cute Teach Williams - obviously a distant cousin), and 'The City of Lost Children' which looks like the sort of weird gothic stuff I love, and some second-hand SF books (1930s Pulp Fiction.. I love it), some new SF books and some strawberries and cream from Marks and Spencers... oh, and a pork pie.
There was a boy with a parakeet on his shoulder in my tube carriage and the homeless man outside the station had his pet white rat running in and out of his sleeve. I'm assuming it was his pet white rat, rather than an albino sewer rat come out to get some sun.
Later, getting my daily dose of Big Brother, I was fascinated to see tonight that woofy Lee's biceps are as wide as his head... oooher.
My advert of the week is the Lenor ad, Lenor being a fabric conditioner which removes disgusting odours from one's clothes. The scenario of the ad is as follows: A seemingly normal family like to make their own entertainment by blindfolding their father and letting him sniff his way round the room, identifying people by their smells as he goes along (I'm thinking dysfunctional, possibly from Kent).
He accurately identifies his daughter who stinks of chips, another male (relationship unspecified) who reeks of tobacco (and, I suspect, leather), but fails to identify his own wife, who has used her Lenor and so smells as fresh as a spring meadow.
One really has to ask why the mother of this family is so selfish that she only uses the Lenor on her own clothes, leaving the rest of her family stinking and no doubt branded as odorous pariahs within the community.

Sunday 2 June 2002

Steve Cram covering the men's 200 metres at the World Athletics Championships:
"Pumping away, Marlon Devonish has got the Olympic champion inside him."

The Ugly One has been watching his Xena Warrior Princess DVD collection for the last few days, which is fair enough. It keeps him quiet. I'm a bit disturbed by their interpretation of some aspects of Greek mythology though. Today's episode featured Bacchus, God of Wine.
Far from being the jolly fun-loving genial drunk I'd always considered him to be, Bacchus (according to Xena) is a demon-horned Lucifer lookey-likey with a red face, a nasty temper and a harem of vampire-warrioress lovelies.
I'm sure that's not right.
Still in a quandary about the Bacchus issue, I popped up to Buckingham Palace to see how preparations for the concert were going and sat on the roof, imbibing on a broccoli cheroot. So deep was I in thought that I dropped it somewhere, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't lit, and anyway, what harm could it do if it was?

Monday 3 June 2002

Peter Alliss, to the photographer blocking his view:
"Move your Bolex to one side, there's a good chap."

Bread and Circuses. The Roman Emperors knew all about it. Give the mob an open Coliseum, a few Christians, gladiators, assorted lions and a small buffet and they were guaranteed popularity.
We don't of course have lions these days, which is a shame given the quality of some of the performers at The Queen's Jubilee Concert tonight, but the principle remains the same.
I was on my way to the Elephant's Graveyard this evening and was forced to walk from Lancaster Gate since the roads had been closed off because of this senseless Royal nonsense. I could hear the sound of crowds singing 'Hey Jude' drifting across Hyde Park, and I despaired a little for the sanity of the British public.
This afternoon some high-placed religious personage had been talking on Radio Four about the immense spirituality of the Monarchy, a position 'ordained by God'. I despaired then too. God, I imagine, if he existed, would certainly not condone an anachronistic system of inherited privilege, obtained over the centuries though variations of murder, warfare, enforced marriages and plain villainy.
Would the Elephant's Graveyard assuage my despair?
They were having a Jubilee Karaoke Competition, first prize for which was two tickets to Ben Elton's Queen music show 'We Will Rock You'. (Please don't e-mail me to tell me that the second prize was four tickets. I was going to do that joke but felt it beneath me.)
I met and had a snog with a nice policeman which somewhat revived my faith in both human nature and the generosity of the British Police Force. There are times when one is very grateful for that thin blue line.

Tuesday 4 June 2002

Willie Carson telling Claire Balding how jockeys prepare for a big race:
"They usually have four or five dreams a night about coming from different positions."

I'm a little worried about my mate Glyn, as he's taken to sending me poetry extolling the dubious merits of Y-list celebrity Jeremy Spake. I'm in no position to criticise anyone's taste, but I feel compelled by a Higher Force to do it anyway.
The Monarchyfest continues, and I'm sure that all but the most die-hard sycophants must be heartily sick of it all by now. The Monarchy do try though, bless 'em. I was touched by The Queen's efforts to make it appear as though she was economising by sending all the minor Royals off to St Paul's packed nose to jowl in a bus.
The effect was somewhat spoilt though by the sight of Her Maj and Phil the Greek riding along behind in a solid-gold carriage. Come the revolution, that will be sold off to America and the money invested in the NHS.
I have not yet discovered a satisfactory explanation as to why the band en-route was playing the theme from Star Wars as Liz and Phil waved regally at the subservient fools lining the route. Could it have been some ironic joke? Star Wars is the story of Republican rebels battling against the evils of a self-elected monarchy, so maybe my Anti-Jubilee message has travelled through the power of the force to influence a rebellious Brass Section. Let's hope so, as nothing else about this weekend has made me laugh at all, apart from possibly Bryan May (a man one letter short of a box of matches) shaking his curly mop on the Palace roof as he played 'God Save The Queen', as if waving goodbye to any respect anyone ever had for him.

Wednesday 5 June 2002

'Chain Letters' host Allan Stewart, discussing a 6ft 5in contestant called Richard with two women competitors:
"That's enough Dick for both of you."

The Ugly One took me to see 'The Time Machine' tonight. Unfortunately this wasn't the 1960 classic with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux (now serendipitously available on DVD, and a far better bargain, as well as being a far better film) but the new version with Guy Pearce and Samantha Mumba. Ostensibly, one would have thought, the film is based on H(orrified) G(yrating in his grave) Wells' seminal novel.
Those of you who have read the book will know that it not only preaches of the stupidity and futility of warfare but also carries a socialist theme. Wells attacks the rigid class structure of the time by extrapolating human evolution to the point where the ruling classes and workers split into two separate species, the sheeplike and indolent Eloi and the savage predatory Morlocks.
This new version begins in a Victorian New York - which is worrying enough in itself - where no-one seems to have an American accent, let alone a New York one.
When our scientist hero's fiancee is killed he vows to change the past, and having finally created a Time Machine discovers that although he can travel into the past he cannot save her. So... he heads for the future (as ya do!) to try and discover why this should be.
The message of the book is entirely lost, since the Eloi are fairly intelligent and sophisticated, and the reason for their evolutionary split with the Morlocks left unexplained. This was a lost opportunity since one could conceivably argue that Wells today would see the Eloi as descendants of the effete and mindless image-conscious post-Thatcher style-over-illegal-substance generation (see Simon Cowell), and the Morlocks the children of disaffected inner city squalor.
What we are given is a typically American dumbed-down and misinterpreted version of the book.
After destroying The Morlocks (annoyingly, exactly how is never explained) our hero awakens a holographic librarian who has luckily memorised all the great works of American Literature (Literature from the rest of the world having presumably slipped his mind) and sets about re-educating the Eloi in the fine art of being American.
I haven't been so saddened by a film in years. Apart from anything else the design of the machine itself wasn't a patch on the 1960 design, the script was awful, the pacing atrocious, suspense non-existent and the structure was... well... shite.
Jeremy Irons, who stole the whole film despite his brief appearance as the Master mind-controlling Morlock (the evil British archetype once again appearing in a US film) was wasted and seemed to have only been written in to explain the plot to very dim viewers.
When the credits rolled to a halt we sat there dumbfounded, the silence broken only by the rattling sound of poor HG, revolving in his coffin.

Thursday 6 June 2002

Expert David Batty, examining a pineapple-shaped lid on 'Antiques Roadshow':
"This is the most magical, wonderful knob I have ever seen."

And the World Cup is pissing me off Royally... almost as much as the Royals themselves. Crossroads has been cancelled until the end of this four-yearly pantomime so I'm not able to tell you whether Billy managed to salvage anything from Sarah-Jane's frenzied attack with a baguette on his home, or whether Virginia gets her job back.
The world has gone mad.
We do however have Big Brother to keep us entertained while the lower evolutionary orders are busy with their ball-watching.
On a lighter and more interesting note, I was amused and cheered by two news items today. The first concerned an unfortunate young man who commissioned a Chinese tattoo from a Southend tattooist, which were purportedly the mandarin characters for 'Love, Life and Happiness' (or something similar). A few days later, however, upon visiting a Chinese Restaurant and becoming the subject of much mirth he discovered that the tattoo actually translated as 'At The End of The Day, This is a Very Ugly Boy Indeed.'
And there's good news for music lovers too, as Virgin records have finally dumped Victoria Beckham after her last album sold a meagre fifty thousand copies.
Hoorah!

Friday 7 June 2002

Slimming expert Sally Ann Voak, talking about John Suchet's belly:
"I'm sure you have a little bulge down there John."

England won against Argentina today, which seemed to create a great deal of excitement in some quarters.
'Does it mean nothing to you?' I was asked.
'No,' I said, 'I don't understand what the fuss is all about. It's not as if it's Eurovision or something important.'
That didn't go down too well for some reason, but it is how I feel. At the end of the day it's a group of men kicking a ball about on some grass. Just because one group of men manages to kick the ball into a net at one end despite the best efforts of the other group to stop them doesn't make it interesting.
'Where's your reality, Spike?' to quote the Bard.
My mate Paul came over this evening for a drink at the Station Garden Bar & Restaurant. We had Guinness in the garden and sorted out the problems of the world. Luckily for him, he's not a football fan, as the mood I was in I might have done a Sarah-Jane and laid about him with a baguette if he'd mentioned 'defensive play' or 'Batascuti' (which until today I thought was a type of Italian cake/bread hybrid).
Later, we had Chinese delivered and watched 'The League of Gentlemen' and 'Big Brother'.
It's an odd selection of people this year, as I've said before, and I was a little saddened that big Alison was evicted. It would seem that people rang in to keep mad Alex in the house rather than vote him out. Alex is a model. I think he must model pipe-lagging as he is disturbingly thin and a perfect example of a straight man trapped in a gay man's body.
PJ, who looks like he could be Alexei Sayle's lovechild, thinks that Alex fancies him, but to be honest, I've an inkling that PJ thinks the chickens and assorted pieces of furniture fancy him. He is gravely deluded. And as for Jade...

Spencer: "What country am I from? England. The city is called Cambridge, the county Cambridgeshire."

Jade: "So not Kent then?"

Spencer: "Nooooo.... The region is called East Anglia."

Jade: "East Angular? That's abroad. Is there not a place called East Angular abroad? Every time people tell me they work in East Angular, I actually think they're talking about near Tunisia and places like that. Am I thick? East Angular? That's abroad'

Spencer: "Well, I hate to say it, but you are."

Jade: "Cos Scottish and Irish and all that comes under England, doesn't it?"

Spencer: "No... They come under Great Britain. Scotland and Wales have their own flags. Northern Ireland and Ireland are different."

Jade: "So they're not together? Where's Berlin?"

Spencer: "Germany..."

Is it any wonder I fear for the future of the human race?

Saturday 8 June 2002

Steve Leonard, talking about vegetation on 'Vets In The Wild':
"There's something big growing between my legs."

I spent a very quiet day at home, and as The Ugly One decided to head out to the West End this evening I decided to spend a quiet hour with a pint of Guinness in the Station Garden. While there, I meditated ruefully upon advertising and its assumptions about our tastes.
There's an ad for McDonalds running at the moment (I hasten to point out at this juncture that I never visit McDonalds. They're the Dark Side of the burger business; Bun-servants of the Sith) in which a woman rings McDonalds regarding their Home Recovery Service.
Shortly afterwards a man arrives in a lorry, examines her comatose husband, pronounces him 'empty' and carts him off to McDonalds to be 'refilled'. However, the woman is informed by the driver of the lorry that she is entitled to a courtesy replacement at which a trendy model steps out of the lorry holding a red rose.
Now, call me perverse, but quite honestly, I'd prefer the man who drives the truck, who is quite hunky and wearing overalls. The replacement model not only looks like he might prefer the truck-driver too, but has a face like a bag of spanners.
What the hell are these advertising people thinking of? If I was that wife I'd send him back and write a strongly-worded letter.

Sunday 9 June 2002

Carenza Lewis about finding food in the Middle Ages on Time Team Live:
"You'd eat beaver if you could get it."

My mate Lou in Texas is instituting a Free Winona Now campaign (supported on this side of the ocean by ARSE - The Association of Recreational Shoplifters (Europe)) in an effort to highlight the persecution of this oppressed minority. Supporters of Winona Ryder are exhorted to wear a ribbon to show their solidarity with the beleaguered star which are available free from any haberdasher or Department Store. Simply employ a friend to distract any watching Sales Staff while you cut the necessary length of ribbon and slip it into a pocket, handbag, shoe or other device of concealment.
'Winona Came to London and All She Stole For Me Was This Lousy T-Shirt' shirts will be available shortly.

Monday 10 June 2002

Brough Scott:
"And there's the unmistakable figure of Joe Mercer...or is it Lester Piggott?"

I had one of my dreams last night. I was walking down the street with Vanessa Feltz (as ya do) naked as a jaybird but for a T-shirt (I was naked, not Vanessa. I'm not that perverse) and carrying a large open tin of blue paint. Vanessa was helping me search for the lid.
Now, if anyone has an inkling as to what this dream might mean, please let me know. If it's something horrible keep it to yourselves.

Tuesday 11 June 2002
From the Australian Bureau of Statistics:
3 Australians die each year testing if a 9V battery works on their tongue.

We watched 'The Falklands Play' tonight, a dramatisation of the events leading up to and including the 1982 'war' with Argentina, focusing on events within the Cabinet Room and the House of Commons. It was originally due to be broadcast in the Nineteen Eighties, but was shelved due to political sensitivity issues. One wonders why, since it shows an inevitable sequence of events, most of which would have been known to the public at the time, stemming from a failure on the part of the government to take heed of the warning that Argentina was planning to invade the Falklands.
Patricia Hodge, as Thatcher, was suitably bombastic, bullying and snooty, but came across as being far too attractive and likeable. I was amused by Thatcher's description of Galtieri whom she described - quite accurately - as a ghastly inflexible dictator, but then I expect it takes one to know one.
One can never be certain as to how accurate the portrayal of events was, but this production at least shed some light on Thatcher's decision to sink the Belgrano, which her military advisors insisted was half of a planned pincer movement which would pose a significant threat to British troops. There was no attempt to examine the issue from the point of view of the Argentinians, who may have a plausible claim to the islands, one which was scuppered by Galtieri's actions, designed to bolster his own popularity. Thatcher had the option to nominally relinquish the islands to Argentina, and take out a long lease on them, as we did with Hong Kong, but chose not to take it.
I am still confused as to why we claimed the Falkland Islands in the first place, some hundred and fifty years previous. If we'd just sailed on by and left them alone we'd have saved ourselves an awful lot of trouble.

Wednesday 12 June 2002
From the Australian Bureau of Statistics:
142 Australians were injured in 1998 by not removing all the pins from new shirts.

Sandy, the dour Big Brother Scotsman (Why are TV Scotsmen always dour?) has had enough of his housemates and after drinking a litre and a half of red wine, pissed in the House bin, climbed up a garden trellis and escaped over the wall.
I suspect he was sick to death of people moaning about not knowing the football scores.
I am grateful to my mate Lol for the Australian statistics. They have been checked and verified by an independent Welsh source, guaranteed correct and judged typical of the Australian psyche.
Today I had to go up to Islington to pick up an application form for a job with Islington Council. I suspect Islington thinks of itself as some kind of independent State now that El Presidente Blair lives there. Why don't they circulate their forms to other councils? I duly turned up and was given the form which I have to return by 12 noon precisely on Friday.
I made the ritual Islington sign of obeisance and walked out backwards, bowing.
It's a year since the death of the ghastly Ashley Cotton from 'Eastenders'. Hoorah!
People new to this website may not realise that it was in no small part due to our campaign to rid Eastenders of this useless waste of space that he was axed from the show. In its own way, it was a small Falklands-like victory and as Thatcher always said when she felt she was right (whether she was or not) 'We should Rejoice!'
Regular viewers may remember that Ashley made the fatal mistake of trying to ride a motorbike and talk at the same time, resulting in his crashing and being flung into the Albert Square laundrette window, after which he was pronounced sacked and jubilance swept the nation.
Now if we'd celebrated the anniversary of the Hairybloke Socialist Republic's victory last week instead of all this Feudal nonsense, the Nation would have taken to the streets in millions, giving its thanks to this website and the Eastenders Story-planners, rather than a few deluded souls waving flags in the hope of a free show and a wave from an unelected Head of State.

Thursday 13 June 2002
From the Australian Bureau of Statistics:
58 Australians are injured each year by using sharp knives instead of screwdrivers.

I had another inexplicable dream last night. In my dream I was part of investigative team searching a house belonging to a Mr Wyke (Mr Wyke was not present) in which I discovered a cupboard full of ceramic salt and pepper sets which fitted intricately together like jigsaws.
On his kitchen table was an abandoned pair of round sunglasses. I don't know anyone called Wyke, as far as I know. I wish I did, as his salt and pepper pot collection was very impressive.
To clear my head I set off for The Bush of Shepherds where I was accosted by three schoolboys, who were collecting statistics for a project. The most presentable one approached me and enquired if he could ask me some questions.
'How long did it take you to get here?' he asked. I was tempted to say 'About forty years, give or take a year or two', but thought better of it, since one of his schoolmates was large and thuggish and stood at the back looking as if he were rehearsing for a future role in nightclub security.
'Twenty minutes.' I said.
'That's 'C'' said the interviewer to a small fat schoolboy who dutifully wrote 'C' in the place provided on his clipboard, no doubt fearful of what would his large compadre would do if he wrote the letter in the wrong box.
'And how did you get here?'
'By bus!'
'That's 'D'' he said to the fat schoolboy. He scribbled it down faithfully. This process continued for a few minutes, after which the interviewer thanked me, the junior Minder glowered, and the fat one looked relieved to have accurately recorded my views.

Friday 14 June 2002
From the Australian Bureau of Statistics:
31 Australians have died since 1996 by watering their Christmas tree while the fairy lights were plugged in.

Having completed my application form I set off for the Independent State of Islington to return it. On the way back I saw Ed Hall, the cute TV presenter with ginger eyebrows who used to occasionally present 'The Big Breakfast', and latterly, 'Temptation Island'. He was buying an unspecified magazine from a news-stand. I wish I'd have noticed the title, as had it been pornographic filth, I could have reported an exclusive scoop. Alas, I am too honest to tell lies and say that it was a copy of 'Naked Chubby Asian Shopkeepers'. I suspect it was something far less interesting.
I returned to The Bush of Shepherds where I met The Ugly One having a coffee in Books Etc, having bought us tickets for Spiderman.
It was a good film, the main criticism of which seems to be Willem Dafoe's Green Goblin mask. The original Green Goblin didn't need a mask. Arguably, as Mr Soprano pointed out the other day, neither does Mr Dafoe.
It's a small criticism though. It was an enjoyable film which, as far as I can remember, was reasonably faithful to the spirit and the narrative of the original comic series. I did have a problem with vertigo halfway through, and felt unaccountably sick as Spidey swung madly through the streets of New York.
This evening I went out to the Elephant's Graveyard, as I am wont to do, where I had a chat with some mates before my Spidey-sense kicked in and I ensnared a Greek buyer of Leathergoods in my wicked web.
Enough said about that I think.

Saturday 15 June 2002
From the Australian Bureau of Statistics:
19 Australians have died in the last 3 years by eating Christmas decorations they believed were chocolate.

Talking of Australia (as I seldom do, which is a shame) I heard on the radio the other day that an Australian company is exporting camels to Saudi Arabia. Oz, apparently, has a surplus of the beasts running about loose in 'the bush', the ancestors of which were originally shipped over many moons ago on the quite reasonable assumption that they would feel quite at home in the Aussie desert and would be a handy and self-renewing means of transport.
They felt so at home in fact they they subsequently self-renewed with gusto.
Saudi, on the other hand, has a bit of a camel shortage and finds it cost-productive to import them in from the Antipodes, not - I was stunned to discover - in order to ride them gaily through the dunes but to eat them. They are allegedly low in fat and taste rather like beef.