Tuesday 10 September
2002
Having control over myself is nearly as good as having
control over others.
I can officially announce two things on behalf of the Socialist Republic of
Free Hairy Men.
Pronunciamento Uno: The Anthea Turner Competition is now closed and the jury
- after long and bitter debates, wrangles, fights, coffee-mornings and drug-induced
moments of philosophical insight - have decided on the three winning entries
- the creators of which will shortly be receiving their prizes.
Pronunciamento Duo: The Republic is proud to announce the official release
of the third album by those stalwart citizens of the Republic and harbingers
of the renaissance; The Chip Shop Boys.
The new CD is entitled 'Aladdin Sainsburys' and is a concept album 'like what
they used to do in the Seventies' as someone commented to me only the other
day.
Wednesday 11 September 2002
I honour my personality flaws, for without
them I would have no personality at all .
I do most humbly apologise to those of you who have been visiting faithfully
and expecting an update. I have no excuse, other than Mr Soprano came to visit
from Florida, and since then I've been a little under the weather.
I took Mr S to the Tower of London. The entrance fee is scandalous. Eleven
pounds fifty! Where does all that money go, I'd like to know? We had a great
day there though. I haven't been in for about twenty years and it was nice
to see the Crown Jewels again.
Some horrid children were taunting one of the armed guards (who are not allowed
to move or react unless the Monarch is in peril). If I were the monarch I'd
have given him special leave to deal with the kids as he wished. Shortly afterwards
I would abolish the monarchy and give everyone a week's holiday.
I did something today that I am not proud of, in that I wilfully and without
heed for the consequences broke wind in the Shepherds Bush branch of the Abbey
National.
In my defence I would like to say that I was in the middle of a depositing
a cheque into my account and would otherwise have gone outside where the breeze
would have dissipated my expulsion harmlessly.
As it was, I felt - with no-one in the immediate vicinity - that I would get
away with it.
However, just as I was relieving myself an elderly West Indian woman walked
in and sat in the chair immediately adjacent to the ATM I was employing. She
did not, I regret to say, remain seated for long.
'Oh no!' she screeched loudly, 'Somebody's shittin'!' at which she jumped
up and ran out onto the street.
Thursday 12 September 2002
Joan of Arc heard voices too.
Crossroads, alas, has closed its doors until the New Year, leaving us with
a cliff-hanger. Nicola, the only West Midlands teenager with lips larger than
her handbag, has fallen down the Crossroads emergency stairs and is in a coma.
She is the only one who can prove that Geordie Phil did not murder his evil
Geordie stepfather, who was found buried in the woods near the Crossroads
Pond of Death.
Poor Phil is languishing in a Kings Oak cell, facing the terrible prospect
of his contract not being renewed.
I have found from personal experience that Thursday 12th is statistically
more prone to random acts of malice on the part of the forces of Fate than
Friday 13th.
All our fish became ill again and the UO deemed it necessary to clean out
their tank. This wasn't nice. It involved using our new special tank-hoover
to syphon up fish-crap into a bucket. This took most of the day and by the
time the (now-medicated) fish were put back it was gone midnight.
We restarted the aquarium pump which gave a belch and vomited forth a nasty
eruption of fish crap which filled the tank with a murky cloud.
It soon settled though and the fish seem none the worse for it. Nevertheless
the UO has further decreed that we're having a new tank as the fish have grown
since we first bought them and need larger quarters.
We're very fond of our fish and their being ill frazzles my nerves no end.
To take my mind off things I watched 'Trading Spaces' the US version of 'Changing
Rooms'.
Now, American readers know that I love them dearly (well, some of you) although
occasionally I tend to point a finger and say 'Ha Ha!' in a Simpsons Nelson
kind of way.
Well... I'm going to it again.
(Points finger) 'Ha ha!'
I don't know what his name is, but one of the designers on 'Trading Spaces'
is a Big Ole Bear. Somebody please stop him. His design philosophy seems to
be 'If in doubt, stick a flowery border around it... If not in doubt... do
it anyway.'
Maybe the people and the houses were specially chosen for a particular audience,
but it tends to give me the impression that America never went through any
kind of style revolution in the Twentieth Century at all.
It's all a bit Twenty-First-Century-going-on-Victorian. The other day the
Big Ole Bear glued white picket fencing to the front of the kitchen cupboards
and painted a faux patchwork quilt around the walls which was only interrupted
by some painted hearts and the hand-written epitaph 'Happy Hearts Gather Here'.
If he'd done that to my kitchen I'd have pulled his heart out through his
ribs and hung it from a meat-hook above the fridge.
Friday 13 September 2002
I am grateful that I am not as judgmental
as all those censorious, self-righteous people around me .
The day passed quietly and without incident.
I went for a walk down to the Bush of Shepherds discovering on the way that
the old busker who sings in the underpass has learned a new song. For the
last few months it's been either 'Stand By Me' or 'Scarborough Fair.'
My brother rang today to tell me that during his recent trip to Wales my mother
had shown him a picture of the local newspaper 'The Wrexham Leader' in which,
apparently, there was a picture of me. The paper occasionally prints copies
of old annual school classroom shots that readers have sent in.
'Was it me?' I asked.
'Yes,' my brother said, 'It was a fat evil-looking child with a satanic smile.
It couldn't have been anyone else.'
Saturday 14 September 2002
I need not suffer in silence while I can still
moan, whimper and complain .
The producers of the newly released DVD of classic series 'Roots' get the
award for political incorrectness this week since the cast billing lists only
the white actors. Doh!
The Ugly One and I jumped on the bus and went off to the Fish Bowl in Fulham
to look at the new tanks. I love shops like that. They have exotic and wonderful
creatures like Axolotls and Japanese Fighting Fish. We're just sticking to
posh goldfish for the time being. Even they seem to be far more trouble than
they should be.
So, we bought a nice roomy tank, some volcanic lava and some gravel and after
dropping this off at home, went to the pictures to see 'Reign of Fire'.
The premise is that a little boy goes to visit his mother who is in charge
of a drilling operation deep below the surface of London. The drillers have
broken through into an underground cave and woken up some very grumpy fire-breathing
dragons.
Twenty years later the dragons have devastated the Earth and humans survive
in small communities, hiding from the fire-breathing beasties. One day a group
of cigar-chewing Americans arrive with tanks and a helicopter with a plan
to rid the world of the creatures.
Initially I was beginning to think this was going to be yet another film in
which the US saves the entire human race, but no... Lo and behold... all the
Americans get killed for being really stupid and not listening to sense. Hoorah!
It's a decent enough film, with some good dragons although I got rather confused
by the lead character being first Australian, and then Angry Cockney. On the
other hand, Doctor Bashir from 'Deep Space Nine' plays Doctor Bashir in a
grubby sweater.
It's worth seeing, but I'd wait until it comes on the telly.
Thursday 19 September 2002
Your file was so big.
It might be very useful.
But now it is gone.
(Haiku error message)
There I was, happily gluing together two pieces of volcanic lava as a kind
of major rock feature for the fishes' new tank when I had a call from my brother.
He needed me to go round urgently to set up his ntl Internet connection. Things
never go to plan round at my brother's. I took round copies of Doctor Deathray's
'Firm Onions' CD and 'Aladdin Sainsburys' - the new and frankly self-indulgently
intellectual album by the Chip Shop Boys. We never got to hear them.
We spent about four hours trying to work out why his sound wouldn't work -
inserting and reinserting cables and jackplugs - before I discovered that
his PC system had been set to global mute.
Then it took us just as long to set up the cables for his Internet access,
by which time I was merrily drunk. Eventually, all was set up and and after
a quick sample of his broccoli I found myself leaning over his toilet bowl,
watching my lunch disappear into the murky depths.
Eeeh, I were ill.
I made my excuses and fled into the night.
Friday 20 September 2002
The Web site you seek
Cannot be located,
but Countless more exist.
(Haiku error message)
I felt very delicate. We moved the fish into their new home, which they seem
very happy with. They're zipping about a great deal and seem to take great
delight in swimming straight into the jet from the circulation pump.
I feel they are taunting me with their exuberance and energy levels.
Saturday 21 September 2002
Chaos reigns within.
Reflect, repent, and reboot.
Order shall return.
(Haiku error message)
Subj: You're featured in Letters from the Soul!
Date: 9/16/02 10:22:39 GMT Daylight Time
From: HowardE@poetry.com
To: hairybloke@aol.com
Dear Roddy,
Several weeks ago, we informed you by mail that our editors have certified
your poem "Ode to Celine Dion" as a semi-finalist in our International Open
Poetry Contest.
I'm writing to remind you that your poem will automatically be entered into
the final competition held in September 2002. As a semi-finalist, you now
have an excellent chance of winning one of 104 cash or gift prizes--including
the $1,000.00 First Prize. You may even win the $10,000.00 annual Grand Prize!
We wish you the best of luck as you compete for these prizes in the coming
weeks.
And that's not all . . Roddy . . . Imagine Your Poem Featured in a Beautiful
Coffee-table Edition! As I mentioned in my letter, and in celebration of the
unique talent that you have displayed, we also wish to publish your poem in
what promises to be one of the most highly sought-after collections of poetry
we have ever published . . . Letters from the Soul* Library of Congress ISBN
0-7951-5160-8 *(actual publication title may be different)
Letters from the Soul, scheduled for publication in Fall 2002, will be a classic,
coffee-table quality hardbound volume printed on fine-milled paper specifically
selected to last for generations. It will make a handsome addition to any
library, a treasured family keepsake, or a highly valued personal gift. And
best of all, this magnificent volume will showcase the poetry of Roddy Williams!
NO OBLIGATION WHATSOEVER
Before going any further, Roddy, let me make one thing clear . . . your poem
was selected for publication, and as a contest semi-finalist, based on your
unique talent and artistic vision. We believe it will add to the importance
and appeal of this edition. In this regard, you are under no obligation whatsoever
to submit any entry fee, any subsidy payment, or to make any purchase of any
kind. Of course, many people do wish to own a copy of the anthology in which
their artistry appears. If this is the case, and you have not already obtained
your copy, we welcome your order--and guarantee you will be satisfied. Please
see your special discount information if you would like to acquire a copy
of Letters from the Soul.
Mmmm... I think I'll pass on the author's copy.
Sunday 22 September 2002
Program aborting:
Close all that you have worked on.
You ask far too much.
(Haiku error message)
The Ugly One cooked a lovely dinner of roast chicken and vegetables and we
watched 'Midsomer Murders'.
I love these regional murders. We don't get enough. We have Welsh serial killers
(A Mind to Kill) and Australian serial killers (Halifax FP) and any amount
of American ones. The Scots and the Irish haven't as yet fared very well in
this field, but I'm sure that time will tell.
This show is now trading on the fact that viewers and critics have pointed
out that Midsomer (a quiet county, much like Somerset, packed with quaint
little villages with names such as 'Badger's Drift', 'Midsomer Mallow' and
'Otter's Quim Parva') is a dangerous place, with a homicide rate equal to
that of three scary American cities, and fast approaching the level of murders
in Oxford as they were when Inspector Morse was in charge.
Every week, Detective Inspector Barnaby and Sergeant Troy are sent off to
some sleepy hamlet where inevitably, the body count begins to rise. This week,
an insane churchgoer was working his way through the bellringers and leaving
cryptic notes on each body.
Marvellous stuff
Monday 23 September 2002
Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.
(Haiku error message)
Talking of dead bodies, the Ugly One took me to the Gunther Von Haagens 'Bodyworlds'
exhibition last week, in the depths of the East End.
Gunther plastinates dead bodies and turns them into fascinating, if a little
gruesome, exhibits. In a sense they are strangely beautiful, and the way in
which they are displayed blurs the boundaries between art and science. After
a while you begin to forget that these were once walking breathing people,
but inevitably are reminded of it, as when we came to the exhibit of the flayed
man holding his own skin over one arm, like a raincoat. There was a notice
forbidding people to touch the exhibits but I did anyway. The skin, still
with its hair intact, felt just like leather. One can, if one wishes, donate
one's body for future Von Haagens projects. Am I tempted? Yes, but it needs
a lot of thinking about.
We had an earthquake last night, or rather, Dudley - international centre
of disaster and mayhem - was the epicentre of a quake which struck around
1 a.m. I heard a rumble but I assumed it was a neighbour moving the body of
one of the dead local bellringers.
'The worst earthquake in British history' the news was screaming.
A few chimneys fell down and an old lady was treated for shock.
Today I had to visit the Town Hall to tell them that my rent had gone up and
that my Housing Benefit needs adjustment. As I was leaving, I was stopped
in the corridor by a man in a disturbing Aran sweater (I find most Aran sweaters
disturbing. They seem to be generally worn by the disturbed).
'Oh it's terrible here!' he said.
'Is it?'
'Oh yes... To think I have come to this. My wife has left me, you know.'
'Has she? I'm sorry to hear that.' I didn't ask if her disappearance was somehow
connected with the sweater.
'Yes... she left me. Four days after my birthday. I came home to find everything
gone.'
Except the sweater.
'Oh dear!' I said.
'My grandfather was Secretary General of Canada.' This threw me a little.
'And now I have to come here and ask these people for help.'
I'm not sure that 'these people' were the people he should be asking.
Poor soul.
Friday 27 September 2002
Yesterday it worked.
Today it is not working.
Windows is like that.
(Haiku error message)
In the Bush of Shepherds today I walked through
the precinct to see a sign on the Doctor's window which said 'Surgery closed
due to illness'.
It's these little things that make life worthwhile.
Sunday 29 September 2002
A crash reduces
Your expensive computer
To a simple stone.
(Haiku error message)
It is my birthday tomorrow. Please do not send flowers. Cash will do.
I've spent the last few days scrubbing the kitchen from ceiling to floor in
readiness for painting. I think I overdid it a bit as I scrubbed off some
paint revealing the plaster underneath, but then if a job's worth doing, it's
worth overdoing, and if it's worth overdoing, it must be overdone properly.
Lots of things have cheered me up this week. Princess Anne has been summoned
to a Magistrates Court for letting her dogs bite common peasants in a London
park.
Hoorah!
Edwina Currie (ex-Conservative MP and madwoman) has confessed in her newly-published
diaries that she was 'making the beast with two backs' with ex-Prime Minister
John Major for four years! John Major has responded that he is (quite understandably
one would imagine) 'deeply ashamed'.
Hoorah!
And Jeffrey Archer, let out of prison for a home visit, was caught sneaking
off to a Posh Champagne Party hosted by former Conservative Minister Gillian
Shepherd, who should be ashamed of herself for inviting criminals to her party
in the first place.
Jeffrey has now had all his privileges revoked and has been sent to a tough
hard lad's prison to teach him a lesson.
Hoorah!
