Hairybloke's Socialist Republic

Sunday 1 December 2002
Tenebrous (adj) Smelling of canned lager.

As far as I know Zsa Zsa Gabor is improving since the accident the other day in which her hairdresser drove her into a lamppost, causing a giant lightbulb to fall onto her head.
Still no word from the Jeremy Spake website. I imagine they're busy counting Jeremy's book sales.
Nothing much else happened today. I went down to Safeways whose standards, I have to report, have slumped alarmingly since not only were there no pork pies at all in the 'reduced to clear' section, but the chicken shelves were empty. I was planning to do a curry this evening and eventually I was reduced to (not clear, no) buying jumbo chicken thighs.
Not on, Safeways, get a grip!
So... I did tomato, cumin, chilli, coconut and chicken madras, which came out rather well, apart from the fact it took hours to prepare.
I'm thinking of defecting to Tesco.
'There is no emoticon for what I am feeling!' as the fan man from the Simpsons might say.

Monday 2 December 2002
Paroxysm (n) A ceremony in which the tormented spirit of a dead bird is removed from a haunted house or cage.

I'm thinking of setting up a Top Ten page in which I will list my Top Ten this or Top Ten that, since, having a little of the obsessive-compulsive in my psyche, I am an inveterate list-maker. I would prefer it if I had the Anthea Turner variety of disorder, and felt compelled to clean the house every day, but then I'd have something in common with Anthea Turner and this would doubtless lose me friends.
One of my top ten TV series would have been 'Witchblade' since we watched the season one finale this evening. Season two starts next week. Unfortunately, as it turns out, season two is the last season as the TV executives pulled the plug on this excellent and innovative show after the witch (the strangely attractive and sexy Yancy Butler) went into rehab, possibly to be treated for wolfbane addiction. (Sigh!)
'Only the Good Die Young' might well apply to TV series since it is a crying shame that this series has to end when dreary predictable shows like 'Voyager' drag on for a seemingly interminable seven years. The Second World War was shorter than that, and a whole lot more entertaining.

Tuesday 3 December 2002
Matutinal (adj) Pertaining or analogous to Bernard Matthews, the millionaire turkey breeder, or any of his products.

I was skipping through the satellite channels this morning, as ya do, chucking copious amounts of coffee down my neck and imbibing on a restorative cigarette when I came across a new Channel, 'Simply Asian' which features various Asian dramas and promises regular Bollywood films.
Hoorah!
I am however, completely captivated by the daily soap 'Fassana' even though it is not in English.
There are two men, whom I suspect must be either rivals or passionately in love since they stare at each other with extreme intensity. Dramatic music swells as the camera switches from face to face. There is much eyebrow-raising so no doubt these actors are heavily influenced by John Black from 'Days of Our Lives'
Later, another man met a woman beside a car in some woods in what must have been a secret assignation, since an older man watched unobserved from a distance, a look of undisguised fury or possibly horror on his face. He maintained this expression for an unfeasibly long period of time and is no doubt deserving of some soap award.
I'm hooked now. I must know what is going on. It's shown every day at 12.30 pm and 7.30 PM on Channel 826. Please have a look and you will see what I am talking about.
Still no reply from the Jeremy Spake website. This is just not good enough.

4 December 2002
Lambeth (v) The Shakespearean present participle of the verb Lamb, to whine or lament, as can be found in Act II of 'Julius Caesar' where Cassius proclaims:-
'Thou Lambeth like a pig, I troth.
In truth most circumspect, a trough, I troth, would suit thy froth.'

excerpt from an e-mail sent to the Bear's mailing list concerning music and eclecticism, after someone confessed to being a fan of both Klaus Nomi and Rupert Holmes (who sang that Pina Colada song... yes, him):

'I find it somewhat refreshing that someone can be a fan of both Rupert Holmes and Klaus Nomi. One of the most annoying things I find about gay culture - especially in younger people - is a tendency to have a very narrow band of musical taste. I have never understood that, since I don't think I've ever been snobbish about music and have ended up with a very eclectic musical taste.
I'll be honest though, most people don't share my tastes, so I've given up forcing them to listen to early Tangerine Dream or the latest Rammstein.
I wish people were more adventurous. I am always willing to listen to something new, and if I find it interesting, then I'm willing to explore it further. I guess a lot of people are threatened by having their boundaries broadened (in the musical sense that is) mostly I suspect by an irrational fear of being seen as not conforming to the values of their peer group, particularly with regard to music which is not contemporary. A sixteen year old for instance, might be thought of by his (or her) friends as being somewhat odd if they confessed a secret passion for the music of Cab Calloway or Steve Hillage. Why gay people should fear the consequences of nonconformity though, rather baffles me.
Anyway, that's my lecture done with for the day.

Eclecticism is good. Listen to something new... Not Celine Dion though! That's just unforgivable. She is the Anti-Cher and must be stopped..'

It is with great relief that I can announce that I am no longer a drain on the public purse and am gainfully (if temporarily) employed by the government, well... local government (for local people). I'm based in Brixton and can't tell you what I'm doing as I'd have to track you all down individually and kill you.
Every day now I have to travel through the Mines of Moorgate to reach the land of Brixton... Where The Shadows Lie.

Thursday 5 December 2002
Ciabatta (n) The name of a popular character from George Lucas' original Star Wars film trilogy.

e-mail sent to the Wise Woman of Wigan

'I am now gainfully employed, in temporary going-on-permanent capacity by lambeth council (not digging roads, no).
I thought you ought to know i am no longer piss-idle-dole-scum-stinking-of-shite....
just stinking-of-shite.
I'm working in brixton. It's got very posh since I was last here. They have M&S and a Sainsbury's Local that sells sushi and obscure italian bread, often in the same packet.
I imagine I owe you the sort of chinese dinner that I pay for rather than cook myself.
I'm going to bed now as I have to get up for work.
I give it three days before the novelty of that wears off.'

Sainsburys do very nice Christmas Cookies. I bought a packet from the Ugly One and I to share while imbibing our coffee and catching up with Coronation Street.

Friday 6 December 2002
Designate (v) to assign the name Des to someone not normally associated with the appellation.

I had a rummage through the books in the Dr Barnardos shop in Brixton today. I can tell with my spooky Welsh powers exactly what sort of people have been dropping their excess stuff off. There were two copies of 'A Boy's Own Tale' by Edmund White, and 'Gay Men and The Law' (which at first I thought might be porn involving arrested men being molested by uniformed officers. Alas no.) and, most tellingly, shelves full of Danielle Steele. But then, I've only ever seen Danielle Steele novels in Charity Shops... Do the publishers send them straight there?

Saturday 7 December 2002
Appellation. (n) A process by which otherwise sane PC users are seduced by the evil lure of a Macintosh.

My one-line at the end of what I thought was a decent enough piece on my thoughts about music in general (see above) has prompted a somewhat disproportionate response. There's nothing like having a poke at a plaster saint for stirring up the muddy waters, but then I love a bit of a poke. At least it's got people talking about something else other than teddy bears or who's got the most obscure ailment.
I have to say that in all honesty I used the phrase Anti-Cher because it sounded good. I'm not really a big Cher fan. The Ugly One is, but then he's also got albums by The Pet Shop Boys which I tend to hide out of sight when we have visitors.
I'm more of a fan of old stuff like Kraftwerk or The Residents or Laurie Anderson, and loads of other more contemporary artists who I just wish would get more airplay, or at least some of the exposure which is given to the same people over and over and over again.
Tonight The Ugly one cooked a chilli worthy of St Delia herself and we watched 'Doctor Who and The Ambassadors of Death'.
It were fab!

Sunday 8 December 2002
Hydrant (n) A Mythical Greek Bathroom sink with seven taps.

That Cherie Blaire needs a good kicking.
Now that I am working I am sorely missing 'Fassanaa' on the Simply Asian Channel. The last time I saw it, the sinister businessman had lost his smart suit and gained a turban and was buying machine-guns in the jungle from a very unsavoury group of Indian roughnecks.
Then a glamorous lady terminated what must have been a very serious phone call (judging from the musical backing) and stared into the distance with a look of despair upon her face.

Monday 9 December 2002
Quantify (v) To calculate the number of people travelling to and from New Zealand.

I didn't get home till 7.30 though and have to be in at 8.30 tomorrow, but as I'm being paid by the hour that's perfickly fine with me. I treated myself to some Iceland pork pies and a bag of jelly babies on the way home.
I think I'll keep the jelly babies for tomorrow. Iceland are the only people left who make authentic jelly babies. Bassetts are shite.
That's my little bit of wisdom for today.

Tuesday 10 December 2002
Hillage (n) A small community of mountain dwellings.

'If you go down Lambeth way
Any evening, any day
You'll find them all
Doing the Lambeth Walk... Oi!' (The 'oi' is mandatory)

I've been working in Lambeth a week now and as yet I've not seen one local yokel launch into any form of dance, either evening, day or indeed, morning. Regional-based songs are all lies, it would appear.
It is colder than a Conservative's black heart today, so upon leaving work I headed into Brixton Tube Station, found myself a seat in an empty carriage, pulled out my copy of 'Dune Messiah' (Frank Herbert. The sequel to 'Dune'. Stonking stuff. I recommend it... but then I also recommend a night of drug-fuelled lust with a striking fireman, and I'm sure that wouldn't suit a lot of you at all) and looked forward to being taken home not, unfortunately, by a fireman, but one can't have everything.
Alas no. Due to some unspecified disaster at Warren Street there were 'severe delays occurring'. My nice empty carriage filled up with people with whom I had no wish to be in such close quarters, and I was forced to sit there for twenty minutes trying to concentrate on the political intrigues of Planet Arrakis.
When we finally got moving and arrived at Stockwell we were informed that there were likely to be further delays, so I took umbrage and huffed off to catch a Northern Line train. Two stops later we just... stopped.
'We're going to be waiting here for a while,' the driver said. 'There's a bit of a gap behind us so we're slowing this train down to even up the spaces between them.'
Bugger that!
Eventually I got to Moorgate and it seemed like forever before a Hammersmith train came along to take me back to the Bush of Shepherds.
I want another job, somewhere that's five minutes walk from my house, has a private room for entertaining striking firemen and a shop next door that sells hot sausage sandwiches and second hand Science Fiction novels.
To console myself when I got in I ate a pork pie, drank copious amounts of coffee and then settled down with my bag of Iceland jelly babies so that the UO and I could catch up with Coronation Street.
With minutes to go to her wedding, Wicked Sally told her fiancée, Gormless Kev, that she was holding a long felt want, and had fallen in love with a man with much cleaner overalls. Kev grimaced and frothed like an angry hamster, but finally managed to persuade Sally that his grease-monkey clobber was far superior, since it featured real sexy engine-oil rather than just paint.
It would certainly convince me.

Wednesday 11 December 2002

Once more I ventured forth to work, passing safely through the Mines of Moorgate and eventually reaching the Land of Brixton (Where the Shadows Lie). I have defeated the wiles of the evil Post Witch who attempted to get me to do her deliveries, and even thwarted the Dragon of Reception with my suave ways and easy manner.
It's only a matter of time before a rough oak-thewed warrior carts me off on the sandwich trolley.

Thursday 12 December 2002

I have been invited to the Office Christmas Party next week, but fear I will have to decline. It's going to be in a restaurant and as I've only been here a week I don't really feel I know any of these people well enough to sit about eating chicken-legs with them. Apart from that, with it being the local Council, you have to pay for your own food, and I don't see why, if I'm working for the Council anyway, they can't divert a bit of Poll Tax money for my Christmas dinner.
Office Christmas do's are not what they used to be. There was a time when we would have held the party in the office and set up a bar on one of the desks, usually in the wages section as I recall. I'm not absolutely sure why that should be, but it seemed to be a time-honoured ritual which no doubt stretched back to medieval days.
Partying on the premises had the advantage that management generally paid for the alcohol and someone always got drunk and did something disgraceful; usually me.
I once ended up in what might be described as a compromising position with a British Telecom Personnel Manager, and on another occasion in a club with my pockets full of sandwiches that I'd stolen from the party. I did offer them round but for some reason no-one seemed interested.
Snobs!
Tonight we had pasta and meatballs with garlic bread and Marks and Spencer's Toffee and Pecan Pie.
Hoorah! I can now afford real food.

Friday 13 December 2002

I had a wander up Brixton market today which was scary.
The Ugly One went off to his office Christmas party in a kilt. He's not the least bit Scottish, but I would imagine that a detailed examination of his genes would show him to be not the least bit English either. As a Welsh person I feel entitled to wear a kilt. I'm hoping the Welsh Powers That Be will take this on as a Welsh Initiative and implement the wearing of kilts by Welsh people as soon as possible.
Do the Welsh Assembly have an e-mail address? I think I will write to them and suggest this. I am certain it will be a forward step for Welsh culture in general.
I chatted with Mr Soprano from Florida this evening who asked me why American cinemas were full of British films this Christmas.
'Because we make better ones than you do,' I replied, secure and rather smug in the certain knowledge that I was absolutely correct.

Saturday 14 December 2002

I volunteered (tres noble of me, I think) to go to Tescos today. On the way I dropped in at the second-hand book shop on Shepherds Bush Road which always has lots of 'spacey nonsense' as The Ugly One calls it. My ever-loving is fussy about what he reads. It's taken me thirteen years to get him to read 'The Lord of The Rings'. I suspect it might be another thirteen before he finishes it.
Right now I'm reading Phillip Pullman's marvellous 'The Amber Spyglass' trilogy which the Wise Woman of Wigan gave me in one huge hardback copy.
'You should read this,' I said to the UO. 'It's really good,'
'Oooh no,' he said with a disdainful sneer. (He's good at those) 'I don't do hardbacks.'
So, I bought myself a selection of spacey nonsense (Bertram A Chandler, Robert Heinlein, Nancy Kerbs and John Sladek, for those of you who need to know, and I know there's one or two of you who do need to know, on a need to know basis) and trotted off to Tescos.
I got some half-price champagne for Christmas. I know that I'm working now, but I see no need to go mad. This evening we watched The Comedy Awards, which is an interesting annual event and often results in mayhem.
My favourite moment was Peter Kay, accepting his awards (via a videolink from his live show in Manchester) for Best Writer and the Viewers Choice Award for his series 'Phoenix Nights'
'Eeeeh' he said. 'I'm sweating like John Leslie.'

Sunday 15 December 2002

I have been commissioned by an American publisher to provide illustrations for a book. It is to be a trade paperback, which for me is a very posh thing indeed. I'm all of a tizz.
I could almost say that I am sweating like John Leslie.
I get paid a dollar for every copy sold. If it sells a million copies I shall be able to retire, so let's hope it doesn't end up in the Charity shops next to all those copies of 'Jeremy Spake's 'Airport''. I wouldn't be able to cope with the Welsh shame of that.
However, I resolved to fight the Donkey of Pessimism. Everything is going well lately, so I decided to sacrifice a chicken to Argos, Great and Awesome God of Catalogue Shopping.
Well, I sacrificed a couple of chicken breasts anyway and cooked a Chicken Madras. We both sweated (or is it 'swot'?) like John Leslie, and watched Coronation Street.
I feel sorry for the new ginger man, and not simply because he is married to a fat Stockard Channing and has evil children who show no sign of gingerness.
Mr and Mrs Ginger, as we have now discovered, are in a witness protection programme and have changed their names from Mr & Mrs Carrot-Toppe and moved to the Street to live a discreet life of secret redheadedness.
It's only a matter of time before bad lads track them down with an illegal gingerscope.

Monday 16 December 2002

My Chicken Madras vented its vengeance upon me this morning. Sacrificing to moody Gods can be a dangerous business, readers. Take heed! The Ugly One, clever bunny that he is (bless him), fixed the scanner this evening and cooked us a lovely pasta dinner while I sat vainly attempting to clean my Rotring isograph pens, which have been lying dormant for some time. Unfortunately, it is not the fact that they were blocked with ink or anything. Well, one was, and is currently soaking in a nice bath of soapy water. I fear my pens are old and need replacing. This means a visit to an expensive Art shop and parting with some new-found cash.
I think The Great God Argos is 'aving a larf, as my neighbours are wont to say. What he gives with one hand, he sends to the Art shop with the other.

Tuesday 17 December 2002

I've been quite fascinated lately with the decriminalisation of the word 'fart'. It wasn't that long ago that 'fart' was thought of as a Class B swearword. You wouldn't hear it on TV, at least not the word anyway. One was allowed to hear the sound effect, but the word was a trifle taboo.
If people spoke about it at all in what used to be called mixed company then it was in metaphorical terms.
'Who's let Polly out of jail?' for instance, which always made me wonder who Polly originally was, and why she was in jail in the first place.
Now that the word seems to have been declassified to a Class C word, everyone is saying it, far more than is actually necessary, as if a ban has been officially lifted and foul-mouthed folk were celebrating their new-found freedom.
It's even used on Saturday morning Kids TV, where the presenters do a parody of the cop show 'Heartbeat', but which is called, surprisingly enough, 'Fartbeat', and features a police station full of flatulent officers. I saw an ad for Scrabble on the tube this morning in which the word 'farting' was arranged on a scrabble board.
'The only time you'll get points for farting on the Tube' it said.
Now, I'm for decriminalising all words personally. I am delighted that this word has been downgraded to the point where I can use it in front of my mother, but I am still mystified by how the whole thing has happened. Have the government got some sort of secret office from whence they issue swearword guidelines?
I think we should be told.
Talking of ill winds and hot air, I have still heard nothing from the Jeremy Spake website. I will have to write them again, it seems.

Wednesday 18 December 2002

For some reason I was up with the lark this morning at about 6.30. Had there been an actual lark I would have been doubly pleased. There was however, on TV, Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple in 'Murder at The Gallop' which is as good a replacement for a lark as I can imagine.
I had another grim journey home, interspersed by an attempted visit to the Wheatsheaf Art Shop to get myself a new bit of arty equipment.
It was shut.
Upon arriving home I found a letter from Ladbrokes telling me I hadn't got the job that I travelled twice to Rayners Lane in a proper suit to be interviewed for.
Had we been blessed with a small infant I may well have waved it out of the window in a Michael Jackson style gesture of madness and frustration.
I made do with some glasses of wine and a bag of jelly babies, biting the head off each one with a large measure of satisfaction.

Thursday 19 December 2002

I think I've got this weird flu thing that's going around. I feel a bit dizzy and a bit sick, but otherwise OK. I met up with the Ugly One in the new Wetherspoons in The Bush of Shepherds and we adjourned to the Eat As Much As You Like for £14.50 Chinese Restaurant.
There was a man on the next table who did not stop talking the entire time we were there, although the subjects of his lectures were more interesting than usual.
He began with an examination of the science of the TV series 'Land of The Giants' which was concerned very much with gravity, mass and the practice of little people jumping off tables. He then went on to an extensive critique of 'The Lord of The Rings'. His family were suitably enthralled, but I suspect that was only because he'd paid for their cinema tickets.
Yes indeed, after a surfeit of duck, pork dumplings, singapore noodles, chicken rolls, lamb in black bean sauce, some sushi and a couple of slices of orange, we set off to see 'The Two Towers'.
I was very impressed by the manager of the Bush of Shepherds cinema who came in before the film and wished us all 'Happy Christmas'.
Bless him.
'The Two Towers' was, if anything, more awesome than 'The Fellowship of The Ring'. I can find no gripes whatsoever. Those of you who have not yet seen it yet must look out for the reappearance of Olay, Son of Loreal and his fierce but fabulously dressed company of fairy warriors.
I also like the Oliphants who were accompanying a batallion of Taliban henchmen off to join the forces of Mordor.
Gollum stole the film, though. Many people are saying that the actor who provided the voice and motion for this CGI creation should get an Oscar for best-supporting actor, and I tend to agree, for the brilliance of the performance possibly owes more to Andy Serkis (is that his name?) than to the admittedly brilliant CGI wizards who put the visuals together.
What can I say? I was agog and aghast.

Friday 20 December 2002

I am feeling sicker.

Saturday 21 December 2002

I went out feeling groggy with a pocketful of cash and bought a Christmas prezzie for the Wise Woman of Wigan, who is coming round this evening for some seasonal nosh. I bought her a Bad Taste Bear from The Gadget Shop. BTBs are marvellous little figurines of Teddy Bears in, as their name might suggest, bad taste. One of them is a flasher, and is holding his raincoat open to reveal a small teddy penis. Another is called Scarlett and is dressed in a red rubber dominatrix outfit with some natty high heels.
I asked for a Jason. Jason is wearing a ski-mask, is blood-spattered and is carrying an axe.
'I'm afraid we've sold out,' said the shop assistant, after hunting fruitlessly through the cupboards.
'We could sell you the display model,' said another assistant, attempting to be helpful.
'No we can't!' snapped shop-assistant #1.
'Why not?' I asked.
'Yes, why not?' asked shop assistant #2
'Our manager doesn't like us to do that,' replied #1. 'He likes to keep them on display.'
'But what is the point of having something on display if you have none in stock?' I asked.
#1 and #2 remained silent on this point.
'We're expecting some in in a couple of weeks,' said #1, attempting to be helpful. 'That's no good to me,' I said, stamping my inner foot. 'I want it now.' Suddenly, a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds outside and I felt the presence of Argos, Omnipotent God of Catalogue Shopping.
Assistant #3 suddenly appeared from nowhere and said 'We have one left!'
Hoorah!
I suspect assistant #3 had been hiding this last Jason just waiting for the moment when he could rush in to the rescue of an irate shopper. It's the sort of thing I would do.
It didn't have a box, unfortunately, but it was securely packed in styrofoam and it's bloody axe was wrapped up all neat and separate.
Later, I went to the Wheatsheaf Art shop to get a new isograph. (it's a posh very fine arty pen that I use to produce priceless works of genius that no one wants to buy. If you buy the whole pen they are £20.00, but a replacement nib section is £10.95).
'I'd like a point-two-five isograph nib, please!' I said to the (rather cute) shop assistant.
'I'm afraid we've sold out,' said the shop assistant, after hunting fruitlessly through the cupboards.
'Mmmmm!' I said. There was no point in enquiring about their policy on display models as there seemed little point in displaying them in the first place.
'We were expecting a delivery before Christmas, but it hasn't turned up.'
'Mmmmm!' I said again, feeling myself about to get right narked. Suddenly, a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds outside and I felt the deja-vu-ic presence of Argos, Omnipotent God of Catalogue Shopping.
'What I'll do,' he said (the cute assistant, that is, not Argos), 'is take a nib out of a full pen set, and replace it when we get the delivery... and I'll knock off two pounds as it hasn't got a proper box.'
Hoorah! Praise be to Argos and the cute men of the Wheatsheaf Art Shop!
Jason didn't have a proper box, and I didn't get money knocked off!
So... Gadget Shop... Nil Points! Wheatsheaf Art Shop... Douze Points!
On the way home I bought myself a copy of Michel Foucault's 'Madness and Civilisation' on a whim. I'm very interested in madness, especially at the moment, as it seems to affect a large percentage of the population of Brixton.
So... my personal shopping done, I headed off to Tescos, and in passing Hammersmith Tube Station I literally bumped into Robbie Jackson from Eastenders as he ran into a phone-box, looking extraordinarily orange in a Dale Winton/David Dickinson sort of way.
I'm told he's been sacked from Eastenders, presumably either for being too orange or for his fruitless attempts to act his way out of a paper bag.
I got home, feeling wan and limp, but was soon revived by a couple of Black Russians.
Sadly, they had to go off and organise a Communist uprising, but later on the Wise Woman of Wigan arrived and we ate loads of satisfyingly fattening food, exchanged pressies, drank a bucket of alcohol and watched Margaret Rutherford in 'Murder Ahoy'.
Bliss!

Sunday 22 December 2002

I sent the Ugly One out for bacon and when he returned I made us all sandwiches and a nice pot of tea. Sometimes I am just too butch for my own good.
We had a slow day. The Ugly One watched Doctor Who and I played with my new pen.
The Doctor Who was Colin Baker so I boycotted it. After Peter Davison (who had a few good stories but was far too young to play Doctor Who. Even today he looks too young to play Doctor Who) the show turned into a pile of stinking pants, and trust me, I'm being kind.

Monday 23 December 2002

Got to work late. No-one noticed. I had to pop out to make a delivery to another building and when I returned my boss had left me a post-it note which said 'Happy Xmas! See you on the 7 January'
I'm glad to know that I'm to be employed until then at least. I suspect it may be longer as they have given me a desk, a computer, a phone and an e-mail address now.
I am still feeling sick.
Big Gay Al, my friend from Florida, sent me a review of The Two Towers by one of these White Supremacy people, presumably the one that can write. They seem to believe that the film endorses their beliefs and portrays a world of nice caucasian people fighting against an army of dark(black)ness. Support is also given to their beliefs by the fact that Arwen and Aragorn (being of two separate races) realise that their relationship is doomed.
Mmmm... what I find sad is that anyone should take these morons seriously. What is also sad is that they do not realise that if this were an allegory of life as it should be then they and their cross-burning friends would actually turn out to be the orcs and the cave-trolls.
Let's hope there's a couple of American ents still living out there who can go round and stamp on their tiny little heads.
I watched a documentary about genetics the other day which suggested that all of us are descended from the ancestors of the Bushmen of the Kalahari. Genetic evidence discovered shows at least one ancient african from whom we can all trace our ancestry.
That'll please the White Power people.

Tuesday 24 December 2002

I still have some Christmas shopping left to do and have to work today. I feel like shite. We're supposed to be going out this evening but the way I'm feeling at the moment I'd rather crawl into bed and sleep till Saturday.
In the meantime, let us not forget the true meaning of Christmas... Shopping.
Happy Christmas to you all.

Wednesday 25 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.'

Christmas Day! Hoorah!
The Ugly One has been very devious. Some weeks ago we agreed not to get each other any presents and when I got up this morning I discovered that he had reneged on the sacred agreement and bought me some book vouchers. It is a ploy designed to make me feel guilty.
I will not succumb to such manipulation.
Both of us have been struck down by lurgi of such fiendishness that it can only have been concocted in a secret Taliban laboratory.
We both coughed and sneezed for a while before we opened the alcohol and laid into the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, that being our traditional Christmas morning treat.
I can't say the TV selections were particularly inspiring. No sign of Three Wise Men. It was a day of Men Behaving Stupidly. Dreary Jamie in EastEnders died after being mown down by Martin 'seven foot infant' Fowler and Norris from Corry knocked himself out on a plate of Christmas pudding.
Tracy Barlow is back with a new head, which might be cause for celebration were it not for the fact that this head has no more acting ability than the last one.
Mmmmmm.

Thursday 26 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.'

There is a tradition of showing something particularly horrifying and ghoulish on TV on Boxing Day, and this year was no exception, for upon switching to ITV I discover that the Halifax have now produced a CGI Howard, every bit as unpleasant-looking and creepy as his flesh-and-blood counterpart.
The Ugly One and I shuddered and leapt into a desperate fight for the remote in order to banish this new Horror from our screen.
Alas! It was too late. The damage was done.
In an attempt to lighten the mood we tuned in to a new version of 'The Hound of The Baskervilles' starring Richard Roxburgh (blank looks all round in our house) as Sherlock Holmes and someone else whose name I didn't even bother to make a note of as Doctor Watson.
Liza Tarbuck was great as Mrs Barrymore, sister of the escaped convict who was grabbed up the Grimpen Mire by a slavering phantom… Some people have all the luck.
Richard E Grant played the evil Mr Stapleton, although - as I kept telling the UO over and over to the point where he told me to shut up and watch the film - Richard E Grant would have been better cast as Sherlock. He does that 'skeletal coke-ravished mad person' look better than anyone else I know.

Friday 27 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.'

Three cheers for the University of Nebraska, I say.
Why should we cheer the University of Nebraska? you say.
Because I say so, I say.
I went out into town to spend my book vouchers today. I was hoping to spend them in 'Murder One' in Charing Cross Road since they have a 'spacey nonsense' basement and often have rare imports from the States.
I sauntered in, looking cheery, only to discover that they do not take Book Tokens, the scurvy knaves. Nil Points to Murder One!
So… I trotted off to Forbidden Planet, but their selection of real SF books has gone downhill of late and they seem to be concentrating on pushing the 'spinoffery' stuff like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and (shudder) Doctor Who novels.
So… despite the fact they wouldn't give me a job as a spacey nonsense expert I set off through the rain to Foyles and there discovered a new range of books published by (yes, I got there eventually) The University of Nebraska.
I'm not sure why they are doing it and I'm not sure I care why as long as they continue to do it but the U of N have decided to reprint a lot of spacey nonsense from the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth century. They are very nice large format paperback editions with the original illustrations and new introductions by other well-known authors.
Fab! I duly handed over my tokens and ran quickly out with my three volumes of ancient spacey bliss in case they changed their minds and decided they didn't take book tokens after all.

Saturday 28 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.'

Old Liz Windsor has told Charlie, Harry and Bill that they're not to go foxhunting any more.
Good!
I don't know if that was part of her Christmas speech as it's my Christmas tradition to refuse to listen to it. Christmas afternoon TV is bad enough without extremely rich people turning up and telling me what a terrible year they've had.
The first part of Jim Henson's 'Jack and the Beanstalk' was on tonight, and it was really good mainly, I suspect, because most of the cast were British. The hero, obviously, had to be American, as it's more or less against the law these days for a hero to come from any other country.
Vanessa Redgrave played a four-hundred-year-old English woman with a foreign accent rather well, as you might expect she would.

Sunday 29 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.'

We had pasta and meatballs and watched the second half of 'Jack and the Beanstalk'.
Absolutely nothing more to report about today.

Monday 30 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.'

I have decided that I am going to build a Memory Palace. Hannibal Lecter has one, as does the creepy TV psychological illusionist who seems to have the uncanny knack of knowing what you're going to say before you say it, so I think it's the sort of thing that I should have.
I certainly need a memory palace as my memory is not something to be relied upon.
The question is, do I have enough memory left to justify the construction of a Palace to put it in? Wouldn't I be better off with a memory shed?
The Ugly One went out today and bought a boxed set of three William Hartnell Doctor Who videos and a George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine.
We subsequently grilled a packet of Marks and Spencers sausages and started watching the latest in the BBC's 'Walking with Dinosaurs' series which so far has been as scientifically accurate and factual as it's possible to be. Now however, the BBC have decided to dumb it down and put in a Crocodile Hunter type explorer who is pretending to track the dinosaurs in the way that Steve Irwin might if he were thrown 65 million years into the past.
I had to turn over when one of the dinosaurs started snapping at the sound-man's furry boom.
Get a grip BBC! This is just silly.

Tuesday 31 December 2002

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre.'

I only spent half-a-day at work today since a) I still feel as rough as a bear's astrakhan coat and b) I wanted a rest before going out to XXL.
As one might expect, XXL was very busy. The Ugly One wore his kilt and was much admired, as was I, I am glad to say, as I was approached three times by very nice men without even having to offer them money or sweets.
I do remember walking about with one of those party hooters, tucking it into people's shirts and saying 'Will you take the Horn of Gondor and save the People of Middle Earth?'
Some people have no sense of humour.
Around 4am I had a funny turn, due I suspect to a combination of Grolsch and Max Strength Lemsip and so the UO and I hailed a cab and returned home (via a strange scenic route that included going the wrong way up one-way streets and a circular tour of Notting Hill). I had time to tell the UO very drunkenly that I loved him very much and wait for his reply (which he is bound to give by the power of magic from before the dawn of time) before I fell asleep.
It is 2003. Blimey!
I can't remember what his answer was. It had better have been the right one, or he'll get a popsicle up his kilt when he least expects it.