Saturday 1 February 2003
Biretta (n) A tiny tiny ballpoint pen, designed specifically
for Italian dwarves.
I can never resist a HMV sale. I went up to HMV today simply to buy the Batman
boxed set for the Ugly One to cheer him up - as he's a miserable bugger at
the best of times - only to find they have a plethora (yes, a plethora) of
DVDs in either a big bargain bin section or their Two for £20 section. I immediately
spotted 'V - the Final Battle', the culmination of the war between the humans
and the evil lizard people who came to Earth (or so it would seem) simply
in order to cook and eat the people of Wisconsin - and who could blame them?
I now needed a DVD to go with it so I could get both for £20.00. I was a little
pissed off to discover that there was a section labelled 'Two for £15.99'
in which they had the 1925 version of The Lost World. Once more I was on the
horns of a dilemma, torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool.
Then I saw 'Proteus' for £5.99, a nasty beastie shocker featuring Craig Fairbrass
(Evil Dan from Eastenders) fighting a monster on an oil-rig, as opposed to
Richard Fairbrass, who is the gay bald one from 'Right Said Fred'. If he made
a film on an oil-rig I daresay it would be a completely different kettle of
fish.
I ended up getting the 'V' with 'the Spy Who Shagged Me' and 'Proteus' and
the Batman films.
We were expecting the Wise Woman of Wigan over for dinner but as it turned
out she is trapped in East London by the perturbations of Fate... and the
London Underground.
So, the UO and I decided to drink a lot of vodka and watch 'Batman' followed
by 'Proteus'.
Five minutes into the movie, just as Craig Fairbrass showed his ugly mug and
started shouting in cockney, the film froze and refused to move on.
Defective DVDs, readers! They do exist! Be warned!
Sunday 2 February 2003
Indigenous(adj) Angry to the point of slapping a hamster.
So, I returned to HMV to exchange my copy of 'Proteus' for another, which
was duly completed. I then nipped into The Kings Arms on Poland Street for
a quiet bevy before returning home. I'm not a big fan of The Kings Arms. It's
either dead or so full of burly men that by the time you've got to the bar
it's time to go home. There was a man sitting in the corner whom I at first
suspected of being Jimmy Somerville, but then he stood up and turned out to
be about six foot two, so there was that theory out of their first floor window.
Suddenly, in mid-bevy, I noticed out of the corner of my beady eye a suspicious
looking impromptu stage set up near the door, which immediately started my
Welsh witch hairs a pricking.
'Karaoke!' I whispered fearfully to myself, and thanked the Great God Argos
for sending me this timely warning of impending doom.
I hurriedly finished my drink and escaped with my nerves intact.
Back home, 'Proteus' turned out to have exactly the same defect, only this
time, the disc stuttered and stammered for a few minutes before continuing.
'Let's watch it,' I told the Ugly One, 'and I'll return it again and swap
it for something else.'
Poor Craig Fairbrass. He does try, bless him.
To be fair to him, the script was terrible and the story made no sense. A
group of drug smugglers end up on an oil-rig after their boat (somehow) explodes,
and discover that it is the site of an illegal genetic-engineering lab. One
of the smugglers, luckily, knows everything about genetic engineering, and
explains it all to the others while Craig is shouting in cockney a lot and
running about with a gun.
A genetically-engineered shark called Charlie, it turns out, has absorbed
all the other people and can change into them at any time.... Oh... and Charlie
has a heroin habit.
Luckily, right at the end, the owner of the rig turns up unexpectedly, just
for a visit like, and only happens to have the detonation device for the self-destruct
mechanism in his briefcase, doesn't he? So that was handy, eh?
I suspect that the Richard Fairbrass option might have been a better bet after
all.
Monday 3 February 2003
Confetti (n) A form of imitation pasta
made from newsprint and food colourant.
So... Off I went to HMV to take 'Proteus' back, and find something suitable
with which to replace it. I toyed for a while with the idea of either 'Spiders
II', 'Octopus II' or 'Crocodile II', since we have 'Spiders I', 'Octopus I'
and 'Crocodile I' (grand hokum they are too, and without anyone having to
shout in cockney either).
'Hamlet'?
I was tempted, but then I thought... 'Nah!' and marched up to the counter
with the 1925 'Lost World' and 'The Cabinet of Dr Caligari'. (2 for £15.00.
Fab)
I then heard a familiar voice at the counter next to mine and turned my head
only to find myself staring straight at Dale Winton.
He winked at me and said 'Hello'. The cheeky monkey!
I nodded genially, and Dale returned to arguing with the check-out girl.
As it transpired, Dale had bought some CDs and on getting them home had discovered
that he already had them, and so was bringing them back to exchange. Unfortunately
he didn't keep his receipt.
The check-out girl told him she would have to check with the manager.
'Tell him it's me!' said Dale imperiously, 'It should be all right, what with
the amount of money I spend in here!'
Had I a handbag I might have waved it in front of me and said 'Ooooohhhhh!'
The check-out girl returned and said that the manager would allow it this
once, but in future it might be wise if Mr Winton hung onto his receipts.
Mr Winton was suitably chastened. I ran out with my DVDs before he could get
his winking gear cranked up again.
I got home only to discover that Phil Spector has been arrested for murder.
For a few brief seconds I thought this might mean he had been working on cover
versions with Celine Dion, but no. Allegedly he's shot some woman dead.
Then we watched the Martin Bashir / Michael Jackson interview. I thought my
day could not get any weirder. Jackson is truly insane. I suspect that he
really does believe that the only plastic surgery he has had was on his nose.
Sometimes I am very glad I am not rich. At the very least I would be forever
losing receipts and having hissy fits in HMV.
Sod that! I would pay someone else to have hissy fits in HMV.
Tuesday 28 January 2003
Nantucket (n) A Victorian mechanism employed to restrain an old lady
in a chair.
There's an ad on the Tube for Lockets at the moment; those nasty minty things
that are presumably meant to clear your sinuses faster than Winona Ryder could
clear a Benetton shelf.
The ad shows five youngish respectable-looking people standing around in an
office looking cheerful and chatting. A trompe-loeil effect post-it note is
superimposed on the poster which reads 'it might be a good idea if we re-decorate
his office with pictures of naked men.'
At the bottom of the poster is a picture of a packet of Lockets and the words
'Think twice before you call in sick.'
I'm a bit disturbed by this. Had the advert suggested they decorate his office
with naked women, it would have the same effect, i.e. one is put in the place
of the absent worker and would become paranoid about returning to work to
find the workplace looking completely unprofessional. By suggesting 'naked
men' however, the meaning is completely changed. This would imply to others
that the (supposedly but not necessarily heterosexual) boss/colleague was
presumably gay (or at least would be designed to awaken a paranoia within
straight men of being labelled as gay) and that this would be something to
be ashamed of, as is evinced by the wording of the baseline of the poster.
It also presupposes that none of his colleagues are gay, and as there's a
good chance that one of them might be (the man at the front looks well suspect)
this seems hardly realistic.
I'm not really happy about anyone attempting to reinforce the attitude that
to suggest that someone is gay is offensive. It's naïve to pretend that the
attitude doesn't exist, but this sort of prejudice really doesn't need to
be endorsed by badly thought out advertising campaigns.
Eeeeh. I'm vexed now.
Let's boycott Lockets!
I shall remain cool about this and e-mail them and let them know I am boycotting
them.
Then I shall go round and piss through their letter-box.
Wednesday 5 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a restaurant in Zambia: "Open seven days a week and weekends."
I called into Marks and Spencer on the way home and discovered that I am indeed
the Antichrist, for my receipt stated quite plainly '6 items. £6.66'
But then, I'm not as evil as Jermaine Jackson who, for reasons best known
to himself, has named his son 'Jermajesty'.
Popbitch.com have pointed out the obvious, i.e. if he turns out to be gay
he'll be known as 'Jermajesty The Queen.'
My journey from Kings Cross was very unpleasant this evening as the train
was more packed than I have ever experienced before. Being short makes it
worse, as I tend to end up with my face in someone's armpit whilst hanging
from the too-high handrail like some sort of Celtic monkey.
It's never a Vin Diesel lookey-likey's armpit either. That I could live with.
If it were the real Vin Diesel I would no doubt volunteer for face armpit
duty on a regular basis.
At least, if I am standing up I don't have to be on the look-out for fat women
pretending to be pregnant just to get a seat.
Thursday 6 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
On the grounds of a private school in South Africa: "No trespassing without
permission."
I must apologise to the assistant in the Brixton branch of WH Smith where
I'd gone to buy a TV & Satellite Weekly. The assistant was, as is rare for
Brixton, worthy of three woofs, maybe simultaneously in close harmony. As
he turned round to get a bag for me his colleague caught me staring at his
derriere with a lustful mien.
I was given a disapproving frown.
Nevertheless I still consider the man who was serving me to be in possession
of a very nice arse, and one of which I hope he is proud.
Just as my ardour seemed uncrushable, on the way home tonight it was crushed
into a carriage with several old and drunken Welshmen on their way back to
Cardiff.
'One thing I've noticed,' one of them said to me for no reason that I could
see. 'Everyone has heard of Tom Jones in London. He must be the most famous
Welshman ever.'
'Yes,' I said. 'And that Shirley Bassey's getting to be quite well-known here
too.'
He was suitably impressed.
I got home and The Ugly One, who'd taken the day off sick because, like me,
he's caught another dose of the Taliban flu, cooked us some nice tuna pasta
and we slumped in front of the TV, taking it in turns to groan meaningfully,
but not in a nice sexual way, unfortunately.
'Mariah Carey is popular with those who mistake noise for genuine emotion,'
said the narrator on a Channel Five documentary we were half-watching, in
the way that one does when one is actually thinking about chips or naked firemen.
I reported this to my mate Jerald in Oklahoma who is a committed Carey fan.
(The definition of the word 'committed' here I will leave to the judgement
of the individual reader).
Jerald wasn't amused, assuming that I had made up the quote.
Not me. I'd have been far less kind than that.
Friday 7 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
On a window of a Nigerian shop: "Why go elsewhere to be cheated when you can
come here?."
Do I have an eating disorder, or am I just a pig? Discuss.
I was tempted by the thought of watching 'American Idol 2' tonight, but then
I thought 'Bugger it, why should I? They never come round to watch me.'
I watched Peter Kay's 'Phoenix Nights' on DVD instead which boasts some nice
extras, including a deleted scene of a man reading a poem about an oxo cube
which was actually quite good.
Talking of poetry I have begun a major work, which is an epic poem delineating
the life and career of Jeremy Spake. I may well serialise it on this very
site, as well as sending it to the Jeremy Spake website verse by verse, until
they finally deign to reply to my e-mails.
I would like your opinions on this.
Congratulations are due to my mate Tom from Chester who discovered today that
he has entered Bear Puberty. New and verdant fur growth has appeared on Tom's
upper left arm and will no doubt now spread across his back and onto the other
arm.
Hoorah!
Every time a Bear enters second puberty, an angel gets its wings. However,
it's also true, or so The Wise Woman of Wigan tells me, that every time a
man has his back waxed, a pixie dies of rickets... so think on!
Saturday 8 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
On a poster in Ghana: "Are you an adult who cannot read? If so, we can help."
I am getting very short-tempered with people who will not get out of my way.
Consequently I am beginning to have some sympathy with the sort of folk who
run into supermarkets with machine-guns and mow down everyone in the cold
meats section.
Why do people feel it is a sensible thing to park their supermarket trolley
(take note, women of Hammersmith) in such a fashion that it blocks my access
to carrots and parsnips while they disappear off into another aisle to look
for sausages?
I was so incensed I filled her trolley with extra onions and a pound of pak-choi.
It's not just supermarkets though. Everywhere I go, people seem to want to
drift aimlessly in front of me and... dither!
I'm sure there are people on Death Row who only wanted to get past some women
with prams who were taking up the whole pavement to have a chat.
Come the revolution, the papoose will be compulsory in order to prevent needless
violence and Death..
The Ugly One - Bless him - trotted off to Shepherds Bush and brought back
a KFC megabucket, and we watched a double-bill of Austin Powers movies.
Hoorah!
Sunday 9 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a hotel in Mozambique: "Visitors are expected to complain at the office
between the hours of 9.00 am and 11.00am daily."
Rap is just bad poetry for people who can't sing: Discuss.
As has become usual in the Hairybloke Household, Sunday is a day for getting
up late and enjoying the benefits of not being Christians, which are many
and varied. We don't have to go to church for one thing, and we don't have
to worry about ending up in a Heaven that's full of righteous people saying
'I told you so.'
That would be just awful.
So, we did the UnChristian thing and caught up with 'Crossroads' where Kate
O'Mara has been blackmailed into selling half of her stables to the creepy-looking
magician from Jonathan Creek. Young Scott, who is still coming to terms with
growing three feet higher in six months, called Jane Asher 'an old witch',
presumably because she hasn't baked one cake since she arrived in the hotel.
As for sinister Joe, the sinister blonde biker, he's been a busy bugger. He
arrives at the hotel on his motorbike, and within a week has acquired the
job of handyman, eavesdropped on Jane Asher in the confessional, been fired,
reinstated, taken a chambermaid to see Linda Robson in prison (no doubt doing
a long stretch for crimes against comedy), helped deliver a baby, and has
set up a complete photographic darkroom in his staff quarters, which are frankly,
huge! Even Rik Waller would rattle around in staff quarters of such vastness.
Then we discover that he has a dying father, locked away in some secret cupboard
(no doubt located somewhere within Joe's staff quarters) with a drip and a
pillow. The creepy-looking magician from Jonathan Creek has ruined the dying
father's life (and presumably given him cancer via an evil card-trick) so
Joe is planning to wreak revenge through the medium of photography.
I'm agog!
Monday 10 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
On a river in the Democratic Republic of Congo: "Take note: When this sign
is submerged, the river is impassable."
As I headed to the Tube after work I was approached by two people who wanted
money, and one man whom I suspected of wanting money. At the last moment however,
he turned away from me, pulled out his old feller and began merrily watering
a tree while smiling at me benignly.
I have succumbed to the terrible lure of Amazon.co.uk and have ordered several
books off'tinternet. As is to be expected, they are science fiction novels,
except for one which is a detailed treatise of the development of SF from
the Victorian Age to date.
This internet shopping is hellishly addictive, and I will have to soon stop
before I spend the rent and the money I have saved for my weekend in Brighton.
Of course, rich readers could, if they so chose, visit amazon.co.uk, find
my wishlist and buy the books for me.
I live in the hope that one or two millionaires read my diary secretly and
I'm sure they would think much better of themselves if they contributed to
bettering the life of someone worse off than themselves.
Well.. It's worth a try.
I watched 'The Cabinet of Dr Caligari' this evening which is a lot better
than I remembered it. The Germans are always very good at slightly disturbing
stuff.
I wonder why that should be.
Tuesday 11 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a Zimbabwean restaurant: "Customers who find our waitresses rude ought
to see the manager."
I gave up my seat to a real pregnant woman today, not someone fat just pretending.
Maybe Argos will now forgive me my sins and stop closing Kings Cross Station
just as I get there.
My gripe today is with people being romantic on the Tube. There was a couple
this morning pressed far too close to me and telling each other things like
'I wuv you' and 'I wuv you too...' in stupid voices.
The last thing I want on a Tuesday morning is raving heterosexuals shoving
their orientation down my throat.
Oi! Heterosexuals! Get a room!
Wednesday 12 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
A sign seen on a hand dryer in a Lesotho public toilet: "Risk of electric
shock - Do not activate with wet hands."
Those nefarious underground people closed Kings Cross station again tonight
but neglected to tell me until I was past Euston on the Victoria Line. Consequently,
once more, quite against my will, I was taken to Highbury & Islington where
I decided to get out and have a calming bevy at local hostelry, 'The Famous
Cock'.
There was no indication within as to whom the famous cock might have belonged,
and not even a framed photograph of the cock in question as veracity of its
famousness. It will have to remain one of Arthur C Clarke's Great Mysteries.
I returned to the Underground where I was told via tannoy messages that:-
a) Kings Cross was now open
b) Kings Cross was still closed
Nevertheless I boarded a Southbound train and arrived at (Thank you Argos!)
an open Kings Cross where I discovered severe delays occurring to the Hammersmith
service.
I waited a half-hour and... Hoorah! A Hammersmith train came along!
Sadly, we got as far as Edgware Road and...stopped.
'I do apologise,' said the driver over his tannoy,' but I have just been told
that this train is terminating here. To be honest, I see no reason for this.
I was expecting to be driving you all down to Hammersmith, and I'm sure that
you'd all rather I did that too, but my controller has other ideas.'
'Bastard controller!' shouted I and the rest of the passengers.
That did no good. The BC made us all get off and sent the empty train back
into the city, just out of spite.
Ten minutes later, a Circle Line train arrived and... stopped.
'This is a Circle Line train' said the driver, 'but I have been told that
there is a Hammersmith train on platform 2. (Platform 2 being up a flight
of stairs, over a bridge and down another flight of stairs).
The passengers on the Platform 2 Hammersmith train were under the impression
that they were on an eastbound Circle Line train, so we told them all about
the Bastard Controller.
'Bastard Controller!' they shouted and stomped off the train with murder in
their eyes.
I got home about 8.45 pm, and as some sort of consolation (sent I'd like to
think by the Great God Argos, but, more realistically, Amazon.co.uk), I found
a parcel. It was my first book delivery!
Hoorah!
I tuned in to the news hoping to find an item about a lynched controller at
Edgware Road Station, but no such luck.
Thursday 13 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a Botswana jewellery shop: "Ears pierced while you wait."
My mate Glyn from Llan Francisco has sent me details of acts appearing at
a Swansea Music Hall in 1889:-
Mr Dan Leeson - Big Boot Expert, Negro Comedian and pedestal dancer
Mr Ralph Terry - The Man with the Mysterious Fingers
Little Flossie - The Marvellous American Child burlesque actress, dancer and
instrumentalist
Miss Lottie Lonsdale - Serio-Comic Vocalist and Dancer
Mr D W Watson - The One-Armed Cornet Soloist, Song and Dance artist and Great
Clog Dancer
and...
Captain Pike`s Performing Fish
"Literally and actually a fish out of water, appearing on the stage before
the footlights, and going through an extraordinary performance, proceeding
and stopping at the word of command"
I'm sure I've encountered Mr Ralph Terry somewhere, or at least one of his
descendants.
Since I'm setting off for Brighton tomorrow the Ugly One and I decided to
have our Valentine's Day today and went for some nosh in the 'Eat As Much
As You Like' Chinese Restaurant before going to see 'Daredevil'
I was dubious about this film, since I'm not a huge fan of Ben Affleck, but
his presence was more than made up for by Colin Farrell as Bullseye. Woof
Woof and Thrice Woof!
The idea of a blind superhero is a novel one. He does things with his white
stick that would make your eyes water.
The finale to the film was awesome, since Daredevil had to battle with Kingpin,
who took his shirt off to reveal that his secret weapon - something which
would no doubt strike fear into the hearts of most superheroes - was a white
vest and braces!
Vest Power, readers! Never underestimate its awesome potential.
Friday 14 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
On one of the buildings of a Sierra Leone hospital: "Mental Health Prevention
Centre."
So... Off I headed to the depths of Brighton with my Have-It-Away-Day-Super-Saver-return
clutched in my hot little hand. My room at the hotel is so small that they
had to position the wardrobe sideways so that the door would open without
crashing into the bed.
There is a picture on my wall of a beach scene with some huts and what looks
like a couple of trees. I feel sure it is upside down. I tried craning my
neck and bending over to see what it looked like upside down before finally
standing on the bed and taking the thing down altogether.
It's such an impressionistic bit of crap that it looks more or less the same
either way up, but on balance it looks far better turned 180 degrees to the
way it was.
So, I took the back off, turned it around and hung it back on the wall.
It looks more pleasing and intriguing now.
Why is it that these hotels give you three sachets of coffee and three of
tea, but only three little tubs of UHT milk?
I discovered that they are having an XXL night tonight in 'The Pool' opposite
the pier, so I got my gladrags on and went off to The Bulldog for an apres-club
snifter of the amber juices.
Oh dear!
It was shag-tag night, presided over by a drag-queen called Dolly in her 'Booth
of Lerve'. I had a number stuck on my jacket by a devil-horned man in red
hotpants but no one sent me a message. Bastards!
I was however, stalked by a couple of magicians who insisted I 'take a card,
any card' which led to one of the longest card-tricks in history.
'What do you think?' asked the magician.
'The trick was well-done, but you need to work on your presentation,' I said.
'Well I'm not David Blaine you know,' he said, looking a little hurt. 'Hang
on, I'll do another one for you,' but as he turned away I made like the Magician's
Assistant and vanished.
XXL, I regret to say, was very disappointing. There was just a dance-floor
and a bar, and no dark places to lurk and pounce on unsuspecting hairy folk.
There were also far too many thin people in evidence. Take note, XXL. In future,
customers should be weighed at the door and those found wanting turned away
with a complimentary guide to local chip shops.
I met a nice tattooed man from Worthing but I suspect I bored him with talk
of the Martians destroying his home town in 'The War of The Worlds'. He just
stared at me in a glazed fashion and was no doubt thinking of pies. It wasn't
until much later that I realised that the Martians actually destroyed Woking,
and presumably left Worthing unmolested. Boo!
I did however find someone else who was kind enough to offer to take me up
the Hove passage, which brightened my mood somewhat.
Hoorah!
Saturday 15 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a maternity ward of a clinic in Tanzania: "No children allowed!"
My hotel breakfast (I got extra toast!) took the edge off my hangover, and
I made my way into the town to do some shopping.
I found a Cash-Converter's just round the corner and was almost tempted to
buy a second-hand guitar, particularly in view of the fact that Amazon have
a copy of Bert Weedon's 'Play In A Day' for about a fiver. I have always wanted
to play the guitar, but the fact that I have no knowledge of reading music
has always dissuaded me.
I will put the idea on the back burner and consult with one or two of my musical
friends who will no doubt be diplomatic and tell me to stick to artwork and
rumpy-pumpy, which are two things I do on a semi-regular basis with no major
complaints from the public.
I bought a foot-high hand-carved wooden cobra for £20.00 and then found a
second-hand bookshop with shelves and shelves and shelves of vintage spacey
nonsense. I was very pleased to note that the Doctor Who novels were kept
in a separate area, far away from the quality stuff. These Brighton booksellers
certainly know what they are doing.
Take note Waterstones!
I came out of there with a bag full of paperbacks and wandered back in the
sunshine to the hotel where I fell asleep.
I awoke, showered, dressed and headed for the chip shop, after which I called
in at 'The Schwarz Club' which is a dark dingy downstairs venue specially
set up for those disappointed by XXL.
For a while I was stalked by a Fred Elliot lookey likey in a rugby shirt.
(I fervently hope it wasn't actually Fred Elliot as I'd like to have bought
him a drink if so) and then I met a very nice bloke called Steve in an England
top. We had a couple of budweisers and I invited him back to my tiny garret
to hammer out an Anglo-Welsh agreement. As it turned out, he was staying in
a hotel directly across the road, and was sharing a double room with a mate
of his. We hoped that the mate had copped off with a local yokel so that we
could have the double bed, but no such luck, so we made do with spending the
night in my single bed, which was well... difficult, since he's a big lad.
I let him sleep next to the wall, as I was afraid he would fall out of bed
and get jammed against the wardrobe.
Sunday 16 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a cemetery in Uganda: "Persons are prohibited from picking flowers from
any but their own graves."
I chucked Steve out before the hotel manager discovered that I'd brought a
gentleman caller back and went for my breakfast, feeling a little delicate.
The nice man doing the breakfasts told me he'd been on a blind date the night
before and gushed to me (while I waited for my Full English) for quite a while
about his dilemma as to whether to text him or not, a decision which had been
taken out of his hands when he switched on his phone and found that the date
had already texted him.
It was enough to put me off me sausage.
There was an upside to this however as he was so happy I got double toast
again.
I am very glad that I stole the extra UHT milk cartons which had been left
out with some towels and tea and coffee for the room next door. I was able
to fuel myself with coffee to staid me through the journey home.
I met up with Steve and we went for a walk on the pier where they were playing
Leonard Cohen in an effort to get people into a holiday mood, after which
we went for a coffee in a beachfront café. Since the night before I had been
looking at him in an odd way as he reminded me of someone and I couldn't work
out who.
'I know who you remind me of now,' I said suddenly, which made him jump and
spill his coffee.
'Who?' he asked.
'Arty Bucco!' I said.
'Who the f*** is Arty Bucco?'
'He's from The Sopranos,' I said, 'He's the cute Italian who runs the restaurant.'
But Steve's eyes had started to glaze in the manner of one who does not watch
The Sopranos, and I suspect he had drifted off and begun to think about pies.
I got home and presented the Ugly One with the foot high wooden cobra. It
looks great on the shelf above the fish-tank.
Monday 17 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a Malawi hotel: "It is forbidden to steal towels please. If you are not
a person to do such a thing, please don't read this notice."
Congestion Charging started today. I'm tired of people banging on about it.
'It's attempting to deny me my right to drive a car!'
Get over it! Get a bus!
Tuesday 18 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
A sign posted in an Algerian tourist camping park: "It is strictly forbidden
on our camping site that people of different sex, for instance a man and woman,
live together in one tent unless they are married to each other for that purpose."
I saw a book in the window of a Brixton bookshop today called 'How to Save
Your Children From The Evil One.'
I don't want your children anyway, so writing the book was a bit of a waste
of time, wasn't it? I have been dreaming about books lately, I presume because
of my Amazon orders which have been arriving promptly.
One book order gave me a voucher entitling me to a free book from a website,
but on accessing it I discovered that the selection was a little scant. One
of them was a manual on Golf (shudder) and another was a Wine Guide from 1997,
but the most attractive and surreal option was 'Discriminating Relationships'
by none other than Judge Judy (Yes! Her off the telly).
Strangely, there was not one Danielle Steele novel, which seems to be an obligatory
feature of remaindered book outlets, or indeed 'Gloria's Book of Sleep' or
'Linda Goodman's Road Signs'.
Wednesday 19 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a Namibian nightclub: "Ladies are not allowed to have children in the bar."
I was appalled to discover that the man who knocked the head from the Thatcher
statue with the help of a Slazenger cricket bat and a metal bar was given
a three months jail sentence.
That seems a little harsh for what was after all an act of public service
and one which should have been applauded by Socialists and Art Lovers alike,
since it was simultaneously a valid protest against a hated symbol of a dark
period of British History and an attack on what was, one has to admit, a very
naff bit of sculpture indeed.
Someone - it wasn't me, but it might well have been - e-mailed the BBC Breakfast
News to express the feelings of many of us.
'He should have been given a Knighthood,' the e-mailer wrote. 'That woman
destroyed our country.'
Hear hear!
Release the Thatcher One!
Thursday 20 February 2003
Public Signs found in Africa:
In a photo studio in Chitungwiza (Zimbabwe): "Photos taken while you wait"
On my way home I saw one of our local foxes, standing in a garden in our street.
He looked at me in a curious fashion before loping off down the road. I have
decided that as I don't see the fox that often I will only order a book from
the internet every time I see one. This will hopefully curb my spending and
stop the house filling up too quickly with spacey nonsense.
We had Fish and chips tonight, some of the pleasure of which was ruined by
the news that the Spice Girls might be reforming.
Unsurprisingly, this sent a chill of terror through my heart, and I wondered
whether the sighting of the fox might have been a portent of the evil and
horror to come.
Friday 21 February 2003
It's been oddly and peculiarly sunny lately, which I find suspicious.
Tonight, we watched 'Eight-legged Freaks' which I bought on DVD earlier in
the week. I have a penchant for spider films, despite the fact that spiders
scare me shitless. Somewhere we have 'Tarantula' which features Clint Eastwood
in his first role as a white-coated scientist in the Arizona desert, battling
the evil of a giant mutated beastie. 'Spiders' is in our collection, and I
suspect we have 'Arachnophobia' somewhere.
I'm tempted by an offer on Amazon of a double bill of Vincent Price's 'The
Fly' and 'Return of The Fly' with 'The Brain from Planet Arous' and another
monster flick the name of which escapes me for the moment... Mmmmmm...
I'll have to go fox-hunting.
Saturday 22 February 2003
The Ugly One, in a fit of gastronomic genius, made a big beef pie tonight
which was so successful he is threatening to make a chicken one on Sunday.
He knows that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, despite the
fact that Lily Savage maintains that the way to a man's heart is straight
through the ribs with a titanium steak knife.
The pie was lovely. We sat down with our viddles and attempted to get up to
date with Crossroads.
Tracy Botox-Boothe, the alcoholic beautician, has developed an unlikely crush
on chubby Dave, husband of the terrifying Oona. I have to point out at this
juncture that I am not suggesting that Dave is unattractive since I have received
several e-mails extolling the virtues of his portly charms. He just strikes
me as not the sort of man to whom Tracy would be attracted. Having said that,
she was flirting with Vince the stringy gay chef the other week which leads
one to suspect that any biped with a discernible pulse might be fair game.
Beppe's wife from Eastenders was wandering around the hotel looking for a
plotline when she spotted Kate the Manageress going into a hotel room with
evil Max. Not a good move as the last woman to do that ended up buried under
the statue outside the front entrance.
Beppe's wife of course told Jane Asher which resulted in a lot of al-fresco
slapping punching and a Dynasty style catfight in the fountain.
Meanwhile, Madge from neighbours went a bit weird, kidnapped a baby and started
calling him Keith, which is one the cruellest things one can ever do to a
child.
The gay chef's boyfriend turns out to be Tim Brooke-Taylor.
Goody goody yum yum. Who'd have thought that?
Sunday 23 February 2003
I popped out to the mucky cinema today and met two lookey-likeys. One was
the spitting image of Peter Barlow from Corry while the other was not only
a lookalike, but a soundalike for the fat bloke from Westlife (not that he
sang or anything).
I got home to discover that the Conservatives are still squabbling and hissy-fitting
amongst themselves. I'll leave them to it. At least Jeffrey Archer's still
in jail.
Hoorah!
Monday 24 February 2003
My journey home went without a hitch, and I was rather surprised that the
trains weren't that busy. No doubt, like me, many people had left work early
in order to get home and prepare themselves for Coronation Street, two vital
episodes of which were showing tonight (as if any Coronation Street episode
is not vital!).
Evil Richard has been scuppered in his plans to murder his way through Weatherfield
since Gail, a wife so dopey she hasn't even spotted that her husband has been
staring bog-eyed into space when he thinks no-one is looking, finally twigged
that Richard was as mad as a Bolton duck.
'You're just Norman Bates with a briefcase!' she cried, her wizened and deformed
chin quivering with horror as Evil R confessed to whacking his last wife with
a shovel and burying her in the foundations of his block of posh flats.
'And you killed Maxine, tried to kill Emily and attempted to drive me Mam
mad and blow her up in her own pantry with her own gas!'
'Aye!' said Richard, his wicked starey eyes glinting like grease on a hot
Morrison's sausage, 'And I'd have got away with it too if it hadn't been for
those pesky kids.'
Tuesday 25 February 2003
There were contrasts in the news today as the papers were full of pictures
of Evil Richard from Corry to which 17 million people tuned last night to
see him exposed as both a serial killer and a worse actor than William Shatner.
And then there is Saint Matthew of Kelly who was been exonerated of all shame,
blame, crime and whatever, and can now return to Stars In their Eyes without
a stain on his glittery waistcoat.
Hoorah!
