Wednesday 1January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.'

The Taliban virus has taken a terrible toll on me. I am blaming Al Qa'ida, although no doubt the sceptics will be blaming Al Qa'hol.
Either way, I feel as rough as the inside of a bear's arse-sandpaper box.
Today we watched 'Dr Who and the Gunfighters.' This is a very surreal tale in which the Doctor, on arriving in the Old Wild West, was mistaken for Doc Holliday and ended up getting embroiled in a feud with Wyatt Earp, Johnny Ringo and the Clanton Brothers (some of whom were from the Wild West via Clapham). The barman sounded annoyingly familiar and I could not place the voice until the Ugly One (steeped as he is in the lore of the TARDIS) told me that it was the man who does the voice of Brains in Thunderbirds.
'The Last Chance Saloon' ballad was sung by Nurse Gladys Emmanuel from 'Open All Hours'.
If that ever comes up in a pub quiz you'll be quids in.

Thursday 2 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.'

I got up this morning to an unusual dawn chorus, provided by one of my neighbour's gentleman guests who was shouting 'get yer hands orff me, copper!' in the style of The Bill.
I looked out of the window, saddened to have missed the actual arrest as the cythraul was no longer to be seen (or heard). There was a big police wagon and a smaller police car parked in the street, and a few 'bizzies' as Jimmy Corkhill might say, lurking about. A policeman came out of my neighbour's house then, carrying a big plastic evidence bag full of what looked like junk.
My neighbour followed him out.
'You've got my keys in there!' she said, pointing to the bag of incriminating mysteries.
She got her keys back, but the rest of the evidence was taken away for forensic analysis, confiscation and resale in another borough... I wonder if she's going to 'go dahhhn'.
My second Bonsai Tree is surviving far better than the first, I am glad to report. Despite a couple of funny turns during the autumn it is in fine fettle. The last one gave up the ghost, threw all its leaves to the floor and just died. I'm keeping this one in the kitchen since it's warm and humid, even more so since the Ugly One went out the other day and bought a 'Steam Buggy', or at least the Argos equivalent. He was steaming away the whole day while I was at work, and used it to defrost the freezer and clean out the fridge.
Bless him.

Friday 3 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.'

I hope Martin Platt in Corrie isn't watching Eastenders, because then he would discover that his old flame, Rebecca the dyslexic nurse, who called him 'Mutton' for at least six months, is not tending to injured arabs in Dhubai but is stalking Phil Mitchell in Albert Square. Argos alone knows why she'd want to. Give me the injured arabs any time. Maybe it's because he has a first name she can pronounce.
I'm getting very bored with Eastenders, but I worry not, for Crossroads 'a New Dynasty' is returning shortly, and from the trailers it looks as if they've sacked the entire cast and replaced them with Jane Asher.

Saturday 4 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr.on a Dr Pepper can.'

Midsomer Murders is back. Tonight we watched the episode that we taped last night. No one has yet noticed that since this is the twenty-fifth Midsomer Murder case, and that each episode of rural carnage notches up an average of four bodies, then that makes about a hundred gruesome killings in a relatively small area composed of sleepy English villages.
The killings never seem to be reported on TV, and one would have thought by now that Detective Inspector Barnaby and cute Sergeant Troy would have received some kind of commendation for having brought more than two dozen serial killers to justice, all from the same county too.
It is a cruel and unjust world.
As if to mark this act of gross under-recognition, someone set fire to a christmas tree in the middle of our street.

Sunday 5 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.'

Finally, after years of never having been seen on TV the BBC's version of 'Day of the Triffids' is being shown by UK Gold on Sunday evenings. Hoorah!
Despite the fact that the triffids themselves look a little like psychopathic daffodils it's still a remarkably disturbing and frightening series.
Take note BBC!
This: Cheap effects, nevertheless enthralling and meaningful.
Attack of the Clones: Expensive effects, shallow meaningless pants.

Monday 6 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.'

We have a new Gay High Court Judge! The first ever apparently, though I suspect that those red robes, nice wigs and the slap of gavel against leather have tempted a few closet cases to mount the steps of High Office before now.
This one has come out though, so Hoorah for him! According to The Metro he shares his home with a Spanish student, but I daresay a lot of us would if we had the salary of a High Court Judge.
I fell asleep on the Tube and ended up in Highbury and Islington, so I nipped out for a bar of chocolate to wake myself up. Next door to the Tube Station was a Big Issue vendor shouting 'Read all about Leonard De Caprico' while standing outside a pub called, I am pleased to announce, 'The Famous Cock'.
I was tempted to go in and ask to whom the original Famous Cock belonged (Leonard de Caprico, possibly) but I feared I may be mistaken for a Famous Cock myself and mobbed by fans, admirers and desperate North Londoners. Besides which, the Big Issue man had begun to eye me with an uncharitable glare after seeing me giggling at the pub sign, so I went home.
'Our Tracy' from Coronation Street was once sent upstairs to 'listen to tapes' and didn't come down for three years, so we never discovered if she was listening to audio-cassettes or was in fact, in the Northern vernacular, 'listening to't apes' ie, the sounds of voluble Manchester Monkeys as they chatted about rickets and quality mangles.
Then she went away to get married in a pair of Dr Martens to a man she frankly didn't deserve, and now, as I reported last week, she has returned with a new evil head and no acting ability.
Just out of spite she has told long-suffering Ken that his Mudroc-necked wife Diedre has been making the Beast with Two Backs (or indeed, the Turkey wirh Two Necks) with Dev, the local shopkeeper.
Needless to say, Ken didn't take it well. His eyes glinted in a menacing fashion and he stormed out through the back gate into the ginnel, which is the traditional way all Northern men leave the house in these sort of circumstances.

Tuesday 7 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.'

It is cold, and the commuters are beginning to annoy me. I was given an angry glare today by a woman who was standing on the Tube while I was sitting. Someone else stood up to allow her to sit down and she once more glared at me in a contemptuous fashion. It was only then that I realised that she was pregnant. I thought she was just fat. I decided not to explain my misconception (if you'll pardon the phrase) as it would no doubt have made matters worse.
On the next train a man who had been standing waiting for a seat had his chance usurped by another young woman.
'That's a bit cheeky' he said, 'I've been standing up longer than you.'
'I'm three months pregnant!' she snapped back, with something of a guilty look which I found suspicious.
I think she was lying. I think she was, in fact, just fat!

Wednesday 8January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

Horrible nasty tricksy snow. We hates it precious, yes we does. Go away and never come back! Thaw, melt and resolve thyself into a dew.
I hate snow. I had more than enough of it when I was growing up in Wales and one of the bonuses of moving South was that there would be less of it.
So much for that theory!
Plus, I got a snowball thrown at me by an evil young rapscallion who should have known better. He missed anyway, so Nil Points to the cheeky young twat!
I kept the cold from my mind (as I'm sure Captain Oates did in a similar manner) by thinking of a naked Phil Vickery holding me hostage in a pork pie factory and forcing me into alternate acts of gluttony and sex, and then combining the two in--- No, never mind, that's altogether far too much warming up.
The Ugly One and I were delighted to see the return of 'Footballers' Wives' tonight. In a theme-related way, oddly enough, one of our nice neighbours (yes we do have a couple) has noticed our satellite dish and knocked on our door asking if we'd mind taping the football match for him.
'I can't' said the Ugly One said to him, 'We both hate football so we haven't paid for any Sports Channels.'
'Oh!' the neighbour said, a little bemused, 'I thought I heard you cheering the other day during a match.'
The UO denied all knowledge, unwilling to tell him that it was either
a) When Adric died in Doctor Who, or
b) When William Shatner hung up his wig and popped his old space clogs in 'Star Trek: Generations'
On the other hand it could have been me when I got the news that they'd stopped producing 'Voyager'. I realise that this is old news, but I still cheer every time I relive the moment.
Talking of scraping the bottoms of barrels, I have still had no word from the Jeremy Spake website.

Thursday 9 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.'

Allegedly, in an admirable display of anti-capitalistic vim, Johnny Vegas sold his wedding photos to the comedy magazine VIZ for £1.00.
Good for him!
I have noticed, whilst waiting for the train in the mornings, many geese flying over the station and honking. Shouldn't they have flown somewhere else by now? Or have they come back early?
No doubt I will now get many e-mails from Fundamentalist Twitchers telling me that everyone knows that these are specimens of Atkinson's Goose which spends the winter in London W11 before flapping off to Rhyl for the spring.

Friday 10 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.'

I decided today, on a whim, to go out after work for a drink. Whims are great things. In fact, if it wasn't for the word 'whim', many of the great spontaneous acts of History might never have been performed.
After a pint of Guinness and a quiet hour up The Old English Gentleman (Now now... calm yourselves. It's a pub in The Edgware Road) I headed off for the Elephant's Graveyard where I was chatted up by another nice Sikh. I don't know what's happening in the Sikh world. They seem to be sending me representatives whenever I go out. I don't mind that. The more the merrier, I say!
Later, the Ugly One turned up, as did Deaf Nigel with whom we communicate (quite well actually) in a combination of lip-reading, symbolic gestures and facial expressions.
We told Deaf Nigel that we were going to go and pick up some pizza on the way home at which he gave me a shocked look, stared for a moment at my stomach and puffed out his cheeks.
I can't think what he was trying to say. Probably something to do with high winds or world-record ballooning attempts maybe.
The UO and I managed to get the last Tube and rushed into Mr Pumperninks and ordered a large deep-pan special (with extra anchovies) and a Rambo (chili chicken and fresh chilies) before they closed.
Then we tottered home with our pizzas and put the world to rights.

Saturday 11 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.'

Now that I have my weekly travel card I can travel hither and thither and yon, so I hithered and thithered up to a remaindered bookshop in Paddington that I know of. Unfortunately they have decided to close at 2pm on Saturdays.
Nil Points to them then!
They had a very nice life-size human skeleton - like they used to have in TV Doctor's surgeries - on a stand in the window, clutching a book.
'It's a shame it's not for sale,' I thought, thinking for a moment that it was merely a prop to help sell Whitney Houston biographies. Imagine my surprise when I saw a sign with the price of the skeleton on it. Imagine also my shock on seeing that it was about £500.
Damn!
They do, however, do a life-size skull on its own, with a detachable cranium and a little metal catch to keep it closed, making it perfect for keeping nick-nacks, trinkets and broccoli in. That was only £52.00 and would be a lovely Christmas present for me if any rich people reading this should be thinking of such a thing.

Sunday 12 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.'

Despite the fact that the snow has gone it is still colder than a dead BeeGee.
We stayed in, kept warm and took the opportunity to catch up with Dallas. Jock Ewing, who has been in South America attempting to market tartan pants to the natives, was on his way home to the annual Ewing barbecue when his helicopter was shot out of the sky by the Fashion Police.
Miss Ellie made a noise like the man in the McCain's Rosti ad when the dog steals his steak.
It looks like it's turning out to be a week of Death, since we've had another helping of 'Midsomer Murders' on Friday, and last night and tonight was 'Messiah 2', three hours of serial killer mayhem with Ken Stott and Art Malik, and from what I'm told there's loads more Death to come from other directions in other shows.

Monday 13 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night.'

I was talking with my mate Tom this evening who had earlier sent me an e-mail telling me that he'd gone to see 'The Two Towers' and had turned round in the queue only to discover ex-celebrity Adam Ricketts standing behind him.
Thankfully Tom recognised him. I think I would have suspected the bony-ribbed git of being The Angel of Death.
Surely some of the blame for his ex-celebrity status and his failure to sustain either an acting or musical career is his name. This is compounded by the fact that he has always looked as if he does indeed have rickets. The rest of the blame, sadly, lies with the lack of any discernible talent, other than the dubiously enviable ability to grin for Britain.
I asked Tom if he was tempted to snap him like a twig. Sadly he wasn't, and didn't.
'He's more rounded in real life' said Tom, in a uncharacteristically charitable and diplomatic moment. I hope that he meant that Adam had been at the chips, rather than shoplifting in a cushion shop.
Wierdly enough, the Ugly One reported that he'd got onto a Tube at Notting Hill today and was standing next to the Hobbit from The Two Towers who used to be in 'Hetty Wainthrop Investigates'. Yes. Him. The one with the wonky chin.
I had to cut my chat with Tom short as a vital episode of 'Coronation Street' was about to start. For once, thankfully, the storyline hasn't been leaked to the point where nothing is a surprise.
Evil Richard, who is in debt up to his manic scary eyes, broke into Ashley and Maxine's house where poor old Emily was babysitting and bashed her on the head with a crowbar. Unfortunately he was interrupted by Maxine coming home early, so she got a taste of the crowbar too.
Emily's alive, which has scuppered Richard's plans to sell her house and cash in, but Maxine is gone and is no doubt this minute rehearsing her part as a desperate relative in Holby City.
Later, we tuned in to the revamped, repackaged 'Crossroads'. Hoorah!
It looks very much like some serial killer has been busy there too, since most of last year's cast are gone. In all honesty I can't say they'll be missed. We have to presume that Nicola is still in a coma after having been thrown down the stairs by the man from Mike Baldwin's knicker-factory. She can stay there.
Anyway, the new owner, without so much as a by-your-leave, ups and murders his mistress and leaves her on the hotel carpet for Jane Asher to deal with. I expect she'll bake her into a cake or something.
If I am murdered tomorrow, you can't say I wasn't warned.

Tuesday 14 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.'

I am torn between buying 'V - The original Miniseries' plus 'War of The Worlds' (The Fifties Film) which I can get for £19.99 for the two, or 'When Worlds Collide', the fab fifties film in which the Earth is destroyed and only a few can be saved if a ship is built to take the survivors to a new world. That's £15.99.
Oooh... I'm on the horns of a dilemma with a long-felt want, 'torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool' as Shakespeare once said.
The Ugly One had a whim to go out tonight so I had a very pleasant evening alone, drinking coffee and eating Marks & Spencer 'Hickory Steak with Pasta' and listening to the music of obscure Klingon composers.
I have not yet been murdered.

Wednesday 15 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."

I am not happy with the Ugly One. Last night he came home drunk, fell down the stairs and squashed my Statue of Liberty Penguin. So, in keeping with the angry parent who exposed his rotten children to the world on the net last week, I am naming and shaming the Ugly One as a public nuisance.
I told him he had to cook me chicken burgers tonight to placate my wrath, which he duly did.
I wasn't totally wrathful. I did buy him some Cadburys Crème Eggs.
The News this morning is mainly concerned with the debate as to whether the Queen should wear trousers or not, but this paled into total insignificance this evening (for people other than me who don't find the Royal family totally insignificant to begin with) when I stopped, open-mouthed, my burger poised halfway to my mouth, as it was announced that Matthew 'Stars in Their Eyes' Kelly has been arrested for child abuse!
I don't know what's going on with celebrities these days. Jonathan King, Gary Glitter, John Leslie, Pete Townshend (although that case seems very much up in the air at the moment), Michael Barrymore (who admittedly has not been formally charged with anything, but could be potentially justifiably charged with being truly bizarre) and now Matthew, carted off in a Black Mariah from the stage door of his panto.
It's like Life imitating Crossroads.
So far, I'm very happy with this new Crossroads, although the Argos 'assemble-him-yourself' Standard Gay Chef will have to go. Shughie McPhee had more life in him. Hell! Maurice Gibb has more life in him!
The new owner of Crossroads, Max Samson, whom we discover is the brother of Evil Vic, Evil Jake's father (despite the fact that one is English and the other American and they have different surnames), and therefore technically Scott's great-uncle, has murdered his mistress and sensibly decided to bury her right outside the front door of the Hotel in the Crossroads Daffodil Patch of Death.
Spookily, six months ago Scott looked like an eleven-year old Paul Daniels' love-child and now he's about five years older and three feet taller. His mother, Tracy the alcoholic beautician, looks just the same.

Thursday 16 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.'

A huge parcel arrived for us today. It turned out to be a Christmas present from Mr Soprano (Bless his little tinsel socks) and was a cuddly grumpy looking Santa Claus who says 'Merry F$$$ing Christmas' when you squeeze his arse.
I know someone else who does that.
The Ugly One got a pair of Red satin boxer shorts with some mistletoe sewn on just over the crotch.
I'm very disappointed with the new Basil Brush (the puppet on TV, that is, not a bristly sexual device that arrived in the box). Actually, it's the old Basil Brush in a new format; updated and dumbed-down. The old Basil Brush had a nice assistant called something along the lines of 'Mr Derek' or 'Mr Roy' and at the end of every show they had an ongoing story that Mr Derek or Mr Roy would read out and then they'd both sing a song about the episode in question.
Now Basil lives with a dysfunctional multi-cultural family, most of whom are disabled, but only by the fact that they couldn't act their way out of a paper bag.
The script is dismal and Basil no longer makes naughty jokes, which is a bit of shame.
Get a grip, BBC! We're not idiots... although, judging by the popularity of 'Fame Academy', maybe we are.

Friday 17 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.'

I had another wander up to The Elephant's Graveyard which proved eventful since a man was forcefully expelled by Security after he pulled his todger out and began conducting the music with it.
I can't see the harm. It was certainly more entertaining than most of the Cabaret they have in there, and given a choice between watching an old man conducting Abba remixes with his knob, and Gay Karaoke, I think I'll plump for the penis baton every time.
I've always thought of Gay Karaoke as being somewhere between Dante's Fifth and Sixth Circle of Hell, a kind of secret level of torment I always find myself wandering into by mistake, and usually out again just as quickly. Whenever it happens, there is always that sneaky suspicion in the back of my mind that God does exist after all, and I've died, and it's payback time.
As far as I know I didn't die, you'll be glad to hear, (though there is always the possibility that I am existing in some kind of Philip K Dick-style afterlife) and was later picked up by a nice big black bloke, which revived my faith in human nature.
The UO, staying over with a friend elsewhere, was giving said friend a piggy back and dropped him, at which the friend hit his head on the pavement, started bleeding profusely and had to be taken to Casualty.
That'll learn him!

Saturday 18 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.'

I went to Tescos to get hotdogs for dinner. They had no tomato ketchup! Get a grip, Tescos! We watched 'The Haunting' starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Liam Zeta-Neeson which was, well, awful. It's not often that a modern horror film makes us laugh out loud but this one really hit the spot. One wonders why they bothered to remake what wasn't a particularly good film to begin with.
The best thing about it was Hill House itself. If it weren't for the ghosts I'd be as happy living there as a Pig in Shipton.

Sunday 19 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.'

Today I bought new socks. That was probably the highlight of my day.
The woman in Crossroads who plays young Jimmy Samson's gold-digging wife is Emma Noble, daughter-in-law of ex-premier John Major. She's crap of course. Somewhat similar to Vince, the gay chef, she comes over as if she's been assembled from an IKEA 'Eastenders' Character' flatpack.
She's now been disassembled though, and swapped for a black-ash effect bookcase, so hopefully we've seen the last of her.
I predict - based on a sneaky suspicion on the part of the Ugly One who has a PhD in Soap Plot Strategy - that Betty (who used to be Madge from Neighbours) will turn out to be Jane Asher's mother.
I can see why they recruited Jimmy onto the show. Last week, aghast at the 'Tarrar and thanks for all the fish' letter that John Major's daughter-in-law had left him (in joined up writing too), he leapt out of his bed wearing only a pair of skimpy briefs concealing something I can only describe as huge and menacing.
Hoorah!

Monday 20 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free cashpoint.'

The 'Emergency of The Day' today was one suspected fire at Oxford Circus... and one at Pimlico, in second place. The prize though, for London Underground announcements goes to the gentleman at Kings Cross last week who gravely announced that 'London Underground apologises for the delay. This is due to late running.'
The Ugly One ventured out this evening to the Elephant's Graveyard and reported back that Monday nights is now dedicated to (shudder) Gay Karaoke.
I sent a prayer of thanks to Argos, Great God of Catalogue Shopping, that I decided to stay in and alphabeticise my pornography collection.
I chatted to my mate Glyn from Llan Francisco, about whom I am very concerned. Apparently my (totally justified, I feel) remarks last week about Adric from Doctor Who upset him greatly.
'How could you?' he said. 'He was my first love.'
I think this must be a similar condition to that from which Dave Glover, the bass-player from Slade, must be suffering, since allegedly he's planning to marry Rosemary West. If anyone knows of any support groups that can help people like Glyn and Dave, please get in touch with the Hairybloke Socialist Republic. We are determined to save Glyn from himself, and indeed Dave (from himself that is, not save Glyn from Dave), although Dave's case is obviously not quite so serious.

Tuesday 21 January 2003

Similes from actual GCSE essays:
'The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium. '

The 'Emergency of The Day' today was an unspecified suspected emergency at Oxford Circus.
There's been a lot of talk about vests of late on the Bear's Mailing List. As the BML is predominantly American they are not called vests in the discussions. Americans, I find, can be annoyingly awkward in this respect. What they call a vest is, predictably, something quite different. I'm not sure what the generic term for a vest actually is over there, but in some parts of the US they are called 'wife-beaters'. In New Jersey, so Mr Soprano tell me, they are known as Guinea-T's, Guinea being a derogatory term for Italians, implying that vests are, in effect, what Italians use for T-shirts.
Some purists have written in to tell the world that the correct term is 'singlet'.
I'm not that concerned as to what they are called. I'm rather more curious as to why they exist at all. What the hell is the point of a vest? They were compulsory in Wales when I was growing up. Going out without a vest on was a crime of such seriousness that even hardened Welsh gangsters trembled at the consequences of allowing their shirts to come into contact with bare nipples.
I've been watching Huw Edwards in his sexy new ads for his sexy new Ten O'Clock news and I'm sure that even there I can detect the tell tale white straps stretched over his manly shoulders underneath his shirt.
I expect he thought his Mam might be watching.

Wednesday 22January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools.'

Macmillan Publishing are bringing out a picture book for children called 'Hello Sailor', the touching story of lonely lighthouse keeper Matt, who is constantly watching the sea, awaiting the return of his 'friend', Sailor. Matt's waspish friends tell him that Sailor is not coming back, but Matt has faith, and that night Sailor returns. He spends the night with Matt in his lighthouse, and the next day they sail off together, into the sunset.
Awww!!! Bless!!! I never had that sort of erotic material when I was a child. I had to make do with ogling men in vests in the John England Catalogue.
I'd better put my order in now.
It was a quiet enough evening. I tried out some new Australian coffee I bought from Sainsburys which, to be perfectly honest, tasted no different from the bog standard coffee I usually get from Safeway. Then, The Ugly One and I, having nothing better to do, shaved each other's heads while we watched 'Coronation Street'.
No one in the Street has yet pointed out that the new Irish chef in 'Roy's Rolls' bears an uncanny resemblance to that bloke from Boyzone who was locked up with Vanessa Feltz for a week a year or so back.
Emily is remarkably fit and spry considering that she had her wig parted by a crowbar last week. However, Evil Richard's guilt is playing on him and causing him to adopt the acting style of Todd Slaughter. It's only a matter of time before he grows a twirly moustache and is whispering 'Meet me at the Boathouse at Eight,' into Norris's ear.
What is more frightening is that Norris might just turn up. He's got that look about him.
Later, to banish the thought of Evil Richard and Norris in a boathouse together, we were pleasantly surprised by several gratuitous close-up shots of Jason Turner's bare arse in 'Footballers Wives'.
Hoorah!

Thursday 23 January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.'

Just when I thought the world could get no more image-obsessed and tasteless, I see a man on the Tube wearing woolly Nike mittens.
How sad is that? It's pretty sad.
I realise that since this whole circus began, I haven't really mentioned the war, or the potential war, or 'The Madness of King George Bush' or whatever we will eventually end up calling it. It's like we're arranging a war, and right now, we're still in the middle of sorting out the guest-list and the seating arrangements.
We watched Part One of Stephen Poliakoff's 'The Lost Prince' last week, which, quite apart from being a damning portrait of British Aristocracy and attitudes at the beginning of the Twentieth Century, is a brilliant examination of politics and diplomacy of the time.
Prince John, the son of George V and Queen Mary, was an epileptic, and so was shut away from the public and banned from Royal functions. Poliakoff tells the story of this hidden prince, but also, through his eyes, looks at the political figures and events that shaped the world at the time.
The First World War was another affair that, to begin with, seemed ludicrously formal with letters going back and forth between three cousins; George V, Tsar Nikolai and Kaiser Bill.
'We cannot enter into a war at the present moment,' The King's advisor had earlier told the young George VI. 'Do you know why?'
'Because all the Generals are on holiday,' he replied, which turned out to be the right answer, wierdly enough, although as it turned out, things are never as simple as that.
Now we have this War, this new War, which Bush has somehow tied in with his war on Al Qaida, and a lot of hot air about 'weapons of mass destruction'.
Pakistan and North Korea have well-publicised weapons of mass destruction (but tellingly, no oil) but we don't seem to be in any hurry to attack them, and Saddam Hussein, despite his being a murderous nutcase, is no friend of Al Qaida, and has in fact been known to have imprisoned Al Qaida terrorists himself since they object to his style of government, which is secular rather than Muslim.
It's all about the price of petrol, and George Bush's personal oil interests, but then, I think we all know that, don't we?
Tony Blaire knows that we all know that, but is pretending that he doesn't know that we know that he knows that we all know that.

Friday 24 January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.'

'A surprise suggestion from a mate or partner will set you off on a giggle-fest that will see you ending up in stitches. Let's hope they're not literal ones,' says my horoscope for today.
I've been waiting all morning and the Ugly One hasn't rung with his surprise suggestion yet.
He could suggest that I go down to Peacock's, popular British budget clothing store, and buy one of their T-shirts emblazoned with the words 'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be...', which I would, but unfortunately Peacocks have withdrawn them all, having decided that the shirts are, given current circumstances, in rather poor taste.
Exactly, Peacocks! That's what the public wants! Market them properly and they'll sell out in hours!
I'd buy one. No, I'd buy two, as I know The Wise Woman of Wigan would want one. She's got the accent for it, and she'd be proud!
It's a crime not to have them on the market. There's people wandering the streets with woolly Nike mittens on, for Christ's sake. What could be more offensive than that?
Never mind, I can be suitably cheered up by visiting Lytham St-Annes where there is an exhibition which revives my faith in human nature:-

'An exhibition of charred and mutilated teddy bears has triggered uproar among cuddly toy fans. The Deady Bears display features a series of teddies that have been dismembered, burnt and pierced with 6in nails. Artist Sam Shearon's creations have proved a real hit with visitors in Lytham St-Annes, Lancashire. But the owner of the nearby Toy and Teddy Bear Museum has called for a boycott.
Irena Thompson said: 'Teddy bear lovers, young and old, find it very disturbing.''

[The Metro: 24/1/03]

(I wish people would stop pinching my ideas. I remember the time when I only had to say the word 'kebab' to Tracy Emmins and she was on the phone to the Saatchis before I could gob in her bed.)
I was thinking that Dr Gunther Von Hagens should patent a home plastinating kit, and then we could plastinate the teddies, cut them into slices and hang them in a row like he does in his exhibition. We could call it 'Teddyworlds'.
Maybe I should write to him and suggest it before the Lytham St-Annes 'set' do it first and take all the credit.
Talking of dead things, I watched the Channel 4 breakfast programme RI:SE this morning, or at least some of it. I think I was the only one tuning in. Apparently four times as many viewers are over on the other channels watching 'Noddy' and 'The Bear in The Big Blue House', and who can blame them?
RI:SE's viewing figures are so low at the moment that officially they register as zero. Why should this be?
Well, they've gone for a revamp, since the original concept of three people chatting behind a desk with Judith Chalmers' son for three hours a day didn't appeal for some reason.
Now they have basically erected a Big Breakfast style set, kicked Judith Chalmers' son into the wilderness (which was a bit of a shame as he wasn't that bad) and brought in Iain Lee, who thought he was funny on the Eleven O'Clock show, and is maybe now beginning to learn how terrible a thing self-delusion can be.
It seems to be aimed at 'Yoof' and although Iain looks like a second-year whizz-head at Twiglet University, he seems to be rather out of touch with what 'Yoof' is all about... and he keeps saying 'unbelievable'.
So do I, but for completely different reasons.

Saturday 25 January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.'

My travels today took me to Hammersmith, home of The Lyric Theatre and some very weedy firefighters. I saw them sitting outside the other week when they were on strike. One of them shook a bucket of coins at me.
'Support Your Local Firefighters' he said.
'You look like you could do with it,' I said, chucking a pound in his bucket. 'Get yourself a packet of sausages'.
Actually, I didn't say that at all. I smiled wanly (as ya do) and went on my way, meditating on the prohibitions and restrictions on thin people in today's society, and wondering how I could increase them.
I bought the DVD of 'Spiderman' then set off for Tescos where I was suddenly reminded of the striking skeletal firemen by a woman in front of me in the queue who was buying forty lincolnshire sausages, two large bags of potatoes and ten tins of processed peas.
'I know what she's having for dinner for the next week,' I thought.
For the rest of the day I was plagued with strange portents and sightings.
On my way to the chip shop a man dressed as Michael Jackson (apart from the fact that this man had a face) danced toward me, singing 'Billie Jean'.
Later, I came out of the local shop and was confronted by a one-eyed chihuahua, tied by his lead to the vegetable rack, as if he were on special offer, or possibly a warning as to the consequences of vegetarianism. The chihuahua stared at me in a disturbing way, his little chihuahic ribs clearly visible.
Someone or something is obviously sending me messages to remind me of the striking firefighters for some reason. Or God is trying to tell me that I'm fat.
It can't be God. He has the whole of the Bible Belt to tell before he gets to me.

Sunday 26 January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.'

I was taken by a whim for a pint of Guinness and so mosied into Wetherspoons in The Bush of Shepherds where I could sit in the window, cradling my Guinness and ogling bus-drivers from a great height. Guinness is £1.69 a pint.
Hoorah!
Later, we caught up with events at the Crossroads Hotel where Madge from Neighbours and Maureen from Corry had a catfight in the staff kitchen and smashed a model of the Ark Royal made out of matchsticks by the man from 'Nuts in May'.
Beppe's wife from Eastenders wandered around the hotel looking like she's just been startled by someone doing some acting, while her mother, Jane Asher, is having nightmares, terrified by the thought that her husband might be sacked and sent back to do magic tricks on 'Jonathan Creek'.
Later still, Big Gay Al and I were discussing the relative merits of sexual fantasies based on Reality TV Courtroom Shows. I'm torn between Judge Judy's policeman sidekick, Bert, and Judge Curtis from Curtis Court.
I think Bert has the edge as he has the gun and the uniform, but Judge Curtis has a cute moustache, and is dressed in sinister black robes, whereas Bert's uniform, sexy though it is, is a kind of off-shite brown.
On the other hand, Judge Curtis loses points for having a weedy policeman assistant. If he was ever called into my fantasy to help administer justice, I don't think I would be amused. Conversely, Bert only has Judge Judy to call on for assistance and that doesn't bear thinking about.
Mmmm... It's a dilemma.
'Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool' as Wordsworth once wrote.

Monday 27 January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.'

This new job of mine has many perks. One of them is that once a day I am required to take some documents to another building, and from the front door of said building I can see right into the window of the Brixton Police Station Gym.
Hoorah!

Sent via the Wrigleys website.

Dear Wrigleys

I bought a packet of your Airwaves Spicy Cocktail chewing gum today and was most alarmed to discover that having removed the binding strip and the top section of the packet the name of the product was reduced to being 'Spicy Cock'.
I am not a prude. I work for the government, and although I like a joke as much as the next man, I'm a firm believer in there being a time and place for everything, and the time and place for spicy cock is not 9.30am in the Department of Transport. I cannot afford to have such a provocative item lying about on my desk. It may give the wrong impression to certain of my colleagues, all of whom are highly trained to seek out symptoms of degeneracy in their co-workers.
Also, I like to refresh my palate on the Tube train when returning home and feel much disinclined to put something labelled 'spicy cock' into my mouth in the full view of fellow commuters.
With this sort of offensive material on the market, is it any wonder that our celebrities are rogering schoolboys and drowning people in swimming pools?
I insist you take action.

Mr Soprano rang me tonight and we had a long chat about Life in General (as ya do) and the latest street lingo.
Apparently, now, if I like something I have to say 'Dem Shitz is Da Bomb' (plural) or 'Dat Shit is Da Bomb' if it is a singular precious thing. Unless, of course, it is actually a bomb, in which case saying 'dat shit is da bomb' would be a trifle superfluous, and one would end up looking silly.

Tuesday 28 January 2003

Similes from Actual GCSE Essays:
'It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.'

I am glad to announce that Lorraine Kelly, Breakfast TV presenter and Saint of the Gay Canon, has joined our anti-Celine Dion campaign and has spoken publicly about her horror of the Canadian Anti-Cher and her Tonsils of Mass Destruction.
'Oh no!' the normally chirpy Scots presenter shrieked, when told that the High Priestess of Evil Schmaltz was planning to visit Britain. 'Not her! I even run out of record shops when her records come on!'
Disturbingly, in some recent pictures I have seen of Celine, she seems to have adopted that look - pioneered by young mothers with prams and Tanya from 'Footballers Wives' - known as The Croydon Facelift, whereby the hair is pulled back and secured with such tightness that were the restraint to snap the resulting shockwave could stun innocent bystanders or even kill a small mammal.
She must be stopped!

Wednesday 29January 2003

Carapace (n) The speed by which Italian automobiles are measured.

I am trying to work out what I have done to upset Argos, Great God of Catalogue Shopping. I am certain I am being punished for some grave anti-Argos blasphemy since this week my journeys have been blighted by delays, hold-ups, cancellations and even the shut-down and evacuation of stations.
On Saturday a train derailed at Chancery Lane and the Central Line has since been closed. It might be weeks, even months - the BBC reported this morning - before it is open.
To make matters worse the firefighters are on strike again, and last night the Ugly One had one of his barmy turns and was barking like a dog in his sleep, between bouts of dreaming he was Brian Blessed playing Banquo's Ghost and wailing 'Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!' in a rub-a-dub Shakespeare styley.
Typically, he remembers nothing of it this morning.
Mayhap 'tis another portent, many of which have been sent to me of late!
Russell Crowe rang up to ask if he could borrow our Big George Grill, but we told him to piss off and not to speak to us again until he'd brought the slo-cooker back, and then we went back to watching 'Footballers Wives'.
No shots of Jason Turner's bare arse this week.
Boo!

Thursday 30 January 2003

Quidnunc (adj) The state of being completely without cash.

And today it is snowing evil snow.
We met the Ugly One's cousin on the Tube this morning. She's a bit worried about her son who's being called up to be sent to Iraq. He's only in the Territorials. I didn't think they sent them anywhere apart from out for chips. I told her not to worry, as he'd probably just be driving around delivering kebabs to hungry soldiers at the edge of the desert.
It is worrying though.
While travelling home a furious blizzard began and just as I got onto the platform at Kings Cross the sirens went off and we were all told to evacuate the station. Outside, the snow was falling (as snow is wont to do) and after waiting twenty minutes - all the time debating with myself whether a walk through a blizzard to a local pub might be worthwhile - we were allowed back in.
I jumped on the first train, and got off at Great Portland Street in order to get the next train down to the Bush of Shepherds, thinking that Great Portland Street (a station fairly obscure and unimportant) would never be subjected to unspecified emergencies.
Just as the train arrived, the sirens went off and we were asked to evacuate the station, so I leapt on fearlessly, heedless of the danger of random umbrella accidents.
I got home about 7.30 pm. Not at all amused, my legs blighted with random umbrella and holdall scars..
On the other hand, I thought philosophically (later on, when I'd calmed down after a pork pie, a gallon of coffee and a bag of Icelandic jelly babies), at least I am not being sent off to deliver kebabs in Iraq.
Talking of greasy meat, I still have had no reply from the Jeremy Spake website.

Friday 31 January 2003

Emigrate (n) Cockney expression denoting half a fireplace.

Snow is evil. It saps the heat from one's boots and engenders only misery. Discuss.
Tonight I saw some of 'American Idol 2' which featured as judges, Paula Abdul, Randy Jackson and Simon Cowell, whom American critics have dubbed 'Osimon Bin Laden' for his very un-American honesty when dealing with those whose ambition far outweighs their talent.
'That was just ghastly!' Simon said to one contestant.
'Thank you very much!' said the contestant, beaming like a fool.
I find myself in the odd and rather hypocritical position of actually having to defend Simon's comments in the majority of cases, however much I deplore and abhor the overall concept of the show. A good percentage of applicants suffer mightily from Craig David Disease, in that they feel completely justified in adopting a philosophy of 'Why use one note when twenty-nine will do perfectly well?'
Why do people do this, other than to cover their inability to hold a tune in a bucket?
The rest suffer, in the main, from being American, something that possibly only emigration could cure, and only then in exceptional cases.
One very camp contestant threw a hissy fit and ran out when his group was told to go home.
'I just don't get it!' he said, 'I'm a hundred times better than anyone else in that room.'
Mmmm!
The only contestant I had any time for at all was a generously proportioned black woman with a voice of such power and purity I am sure it could kill, given the right circumstances. She however, seems doubtful of her chances, mainly because of her size.
The truly sad thing about this whole sterile and amoral process is that she's probably right.
Following that I tuned into Stephen King's 'Silver Bullet' which, in keeping with any TV production that begins 'Stephen King's...', was truly awful. I think the concept of a man in a bad wolf suit (usually wearing trousers) roaring as he charges at people with his arms up in the air really has had its day.
Oi! King! No! Get a grip!

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