Tuesday 2 December 2003
Hoorah! My DVD order has been processed and the 'Bride of The Gorilla' is
winging her way across the channel as we speak... or as you read, or by the
time you do she may well have arrived. Time is a very strange thing. By the
time anyone reads this they will be reliving my past in their future and I
may well be tucked up on the sofa with a bag of jelly babies watching Raymond
Burr transform into a simian horror.
How spooky is that? .
THE TWO TOWERS (continued)
SCENE 22: OSGILIATH INTERIOR: SOLDIERS OF GONDOR CAN BE SEEN THROUGH A DAMAGED
WINDOW STAINED WITH BLACK RIDER GUANO, MILLING ABOUT & MUTTERING . C/U BOROMIR,
LOOKING PENSIVE: PAN OUT. ENTER BOROMIR'S DAD.
BOROMIR: Awright our Dad! Eeeeh, it's parky! ... I say, it's right parky!
BOROMIR'S DAD: Aye! You're not wrong!
BOROMIR: I'm not. Appen as not it's the weather.
BOROMIR'S DAD: Aye! Appen you're right, our Boromir! But I'll not beat about
the bobbin bush! I want thee to get to Rivendell quick sharpish. There's some
soft southern pint-sized shitehawks turned up wit' Ring o't power, and by
rights it should be ours, by 'eck as like it should.
BOROMIR: Nay, our Dad?
BOROMIR'S DAD: Aye! Our Boromir, so think on! You'd best get your Sunday-best
elf-kicking clogs out and get up there before they start using it to make
an art nouveau bed range!
BOROMIR: Eeeeh! Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs! Who'd have thought
that, eh?
Wednesday 3 December 2003
The oddest thing this week that someone has typed into Google to find my website
is 'Egyptian Mutant X-Men' which I feel quietly proud about. Try it and see.
It also works with 'Nurse Gladys Emmanuel Breasts' but I'm not as proud about
that.
I have got into the habit of listening to BBC 7 and Radio 4, though not obviously
at the same time. I have discovered that when there is something a bit naff
on BBC 7 (they do an inordinate amount of radio crime dramas. I have to say
I'm an aficionado of TV crime dramas, but the radio ones tend not to capture
my interest, although I am fascinated by the sound effects in the adventures
of Glasgow's famous P Division who seem to catch criminals with the novel
aid of a lot of noise) there is often something rather good on Radio 4.
Conversely, when Radio 4 drags a bit (I can't stick The Archers or those interminable
serious plays about misunderstood yet racially aware single fathers who talk
to their washing machines in order to metaphorically wash away their unconscious
guilt) there's often something really good on BBC7. I think they designed
it that way.
Unfortunately, afternoons can be a terrible time as Radio 4 will inevitably
have a four hour classic novel dramatisation with Martin Jarvis in it while
BBC 7 has 'The Big Toe Radio Show' for children of... well, of the Nineteen-Sixties
I imagine. If I were still a child I'd write a stiff letter to the BBC complaining
about such patronising drivel.
I have to point out though that so far there has been not a sniff of Jeremy
Spake on either channel!
Hoorah!
Thursday 4 December 2003
I received a letter of complaint today which read 'The disabled parking sign
from outside my house has gone. Is it you or the kids what's had it away?'
I do not yet know who has had it away, but I know it's not me. Not in the
last couple of days anyway.
Talking of meat-eating, the news today is much concerned with the real life
German Hannibal Lektor who - as a starter - cooked and ate his own penis in
the company of a friend, before employing the friend in the role of main course.
Those crazy Germans. You've got to love 'em.
In a tribute to the wonders of Teutonic cannibalism, the Ugly One cooked up
a chilli this evening.
Friday 5 December 2003
The chilli took its revenge this morning. Later I popped into the mucky cinema
and then picked up a Chinese takeaway on the way home. I foolishly chose to
have Roast Duck with Chilli and Ginger.
Saturday 6 December 2003
The chilli once more took its revenge. Once I'd prised myself away from the
toilet-seat I spent most of the afternoon trying to dye my goatee red again
in order that I should look lovely for our 'works do' which was an Abba night
at the Oval Banqueting Suite. (The suite isn't oval. It's part of the Oval
cricket ground) in the company of four of my female workmates. I wore my leather
troos, my biker's jacket and a pair of American sunglasses and looked somewhat
like a Hobbit terminator.
The table was scattered with little silver stars so we wet them and stuck
them on our faces.
The band. 'Sooper Troopers', were, as one might expect at the Oval Banqueting
Suite, competent while being neither naff nor major star material.
My friend Hester - who was bedizened in sequins, hot pants, and my borrowed
feather boa - was then discovered drunk and incapable on the floor of the
ladies loo and had to be taken home.
Apparently, later on in the evening, I did a dance routine with a feather-boa
to Frank Sinatra's 'New York, New York'
What am I like?
So... I got the night bus home, and was confused by the strange looks I was
getting from fellow passengers until - back in the safety of my own bathroom
- I discovered that my face was still covered with little silver stars.
Not cool at all.
Wednesday 10 December 2003
I might keep my red beard. I got chatted up in Tescos by a nice young man
who installs audio-video thingummys... or something. He invited me to go for
a coffee in a dimly lit Hammersmith bistro but I was laden with shopping.
We did however swap phone numbers and he texted me later to arrange a meeting.
I suspect he's read my diary and is after my DVD copy of 'Attack of The Giant
Leeches' or maybe he's just after my body.
Stranger things have happened.
We had our office Xmas dinner today which is always an interesting experience,
particularly if one acquires the knack of winding people up and letting them
go. On this occasion I didn't have to, as one of my colleagues - completely
unprompted - after a few glasses of wine, grabbed one of the Heads of Department
and launched into a devastating verbal deconstruction of one of our managers.
I couldn't have done better myself.
I bought her another drink for being such a star grass.
Saturday 13 December 2003
I am feeling snotty and miserable. Nevertheless I ventured out into the world
to do some comfort shopping and buy a present for the Ugly One.
Why do people think that Tube passengers welcome the experience of accordion-playing
while they are travelling?
Maybe they actually get more money from the people who pay them to shut up
and move to another train.
This is the very thing that makes one want to go out and purchase firearms.
I suspect that America must be full of pre-pubescent accordionists. Why else
would they be so keen to hang on to their rifles?
Sunday 14 December 2003
My Sunday afternoon radio entertainment was rudely interrupted by a call from
the Ugly One (on his way back from the local shop) telling me to turn BBC
News 24 on. Imagine my surprise when I was confronted by the sight of a beardy
Saddam Hussein having his tonsils swabbed by a burly soldier. They'd found
him in an underground cell in Iraq and did immediate DNA tests to ensure that
he wasn't one of several looky-likeys who are touring the Middle East opening
supermarkets and performing tribute dictator acts.
Later, whilst semi-dozing in front of the TV I was brought to full erotic
awareness by the sight of Coronation Street's ginger and menacing Tommy Harris
lounging about on a sofa with his shirt off and the top button of his jeans
undone.
Woof Woof and thrice Woof! Why anyone would want to pursue the ghastly and
skeletal Adam Ricketts when a half-naked Tommy is on the prowl is one of Arthur
C Clarke's Great Mysteries, but some people do. I feel a support group of
some sort should be formed to help these misguided souls back on to the true
path of lust.
The evening continued with 'Solaris' in which we got some gratuitous shots
of George Clooney's naked boogina (pronounce boo-jyna), which livened the
movie up somewhat. The novel - by Polish writer Stanislaw Lem - is a classic,
which I heartily recommend to those who appreciate that sort of thing. However,
I'm sure the makers of this film must have read a different book because it's
not the one I know.
Given the option, I'd rather have seen another half-hour of Tommy Harris wandering
about with his hairy belly on show.
Thursday 18 December 2003
The Ugly One took me off to see 'The Return of The King' this evening, so
beforehand I bought him a burger and a bottle of Budvar in a new Italian Restaurant
called 'Anywhere'. The burger was good. The beer was good. 'Job's a good 'un',
as they say.
As was to be expected, 'Return of The King' exceeded all expectations and
I cried like a baby at the end, mainly because I was certain Frodo wouldn't
have gone off on that Elf boat if Sam hadn't married that slapper Rosie Cotton.
It was obvious he was gagging for a Hobbit shagging and Frodo gave him every
opportunity. Some people just never take the hint.
It's a tragedy!
Friday 19 December 2003
My DVDs have arrived. Well, some of them.
Bride of The Gorilla hasn't arrived, and I'm vexed.
