Friday, December 31

The 20 That Boated My Rock 2004

In the words of the great Edwyn Collins (who he you ask? Only the debonair godfather of the band that tops far too many polls as this year's best - Franz Ferdinand) it's time to stop "shilly-shallying" and get this lot down.

So here goes - in a not very particular order:

01: The World of Blogs

Laters I may namecheck some of my favourites, but for now a salute to the whole damn world, and not least to Blogspot for enabling us all to yarble on and on and on and on . . .

02: The Boston Red Sox, World Series Champions!

Fuck the Olympics - bunch of drug-addled freaks (not that baseball is exactly clean, but it's not quite so fucking pious as the world of Athletics, which appears not to notice that half the women in it resemble Popeye), and Arsenal's unbeaten season (mediocre 'Premier' league), THIS was the sporting achievment of the year.

And within the team, my personal hero was Johnny Damon, nay, Johnny of Nazareth (in the Bronx). And as he famously said, "I put on weight off-season the right way: drinking beer." Aside from his talent, and his top season stats, and his one bat annihilation of the damn Yankees in Game 7 of the ALCS, his sheer cojones, in the current cultural climate of the US, in looking like a drug-addled hippie makes him my Male Personality of the Year.

And so to the female . . .

03: Britney Spears

Let's cut this balls about her being a chav. Ignore such fools, for they know not what they spout about.

This year, in the phrase I learned from the late, great George Costanza, she "stuck" it to America - big time. Indeed, she stuck it to the world. And yet she still released Toxic - my single of the year. Is that string motif Indian (Bollywood) or Arabic? You tell me. I thought it was the latter, and a further two fingers to everybody in embracing some muslim musical stylie, in our intersting times.

Yep: Britney is my Woman of the Year. Now bend over, baby, one more time . . .

04: Peep Show

Yes, Little Britain is very good, but THIS IS THE ONE, my friends, and Series Two saw new heights. Super Hans! Super Hans!

I fully expect it to clean up at the Comedy Awards of 2005 . . . Who am I kidding? Me! It already has in my own mind, though I know that the cretinesque world of show out there never shall learn.

05: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Is it me or was it a duff year for movies? Still, this shone out, despite the fact that I have limited time for either of the two principals, Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet. Nor, for that matter, am I a great fan of director Charlie Kaufman's previous convoluted efforts eg Being John Malkovitch.

It took me two viewings to nail each and every moment of what was going on, but a class film announces itself on first sight, even if you do occasionally wonder What the Fuck?

A wanky side of me wants to pronounce that this film, along with Lost in Translation, represents a new sort of cinema: Cinema Blanco ie a cold, dispassionate cinema, the cinema of Uncertainty. Yeah: post 9/11 balls.

Anyway, whereas Lost . . . left me cold (much as I appreciated the appearance of the Jesus and Mary Chain on a soundtrack), and wondering how racist it was, Eternal . . . had me smiling away at what the director was doing.

At the same time, I must add that the film I've watched and rewatched most this year via DVD has been The Royal Tenenbaums, which was one of my faves of last year, along with City of God and Y Tu Mama Tambien. Aah, the pre-blog years . . .

(Incidentally, something I read this year which amazed me was that the great film critic Pauline Kael only ever saw any film ONCE - and on that one viewing she nailed it for posterity, time and time again. If true, it's odd - and remarkable, and a testament to her perception. If I recall, in the article I read it was as if she went to each movie 'for a fuck' - and some were more memorable than others.)

06: The New San Francisco Folk Scene

Okay, so it's my lazy way of banding together such musical luminaries as Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom and Vetiver - but as they've all appeared on each other's records this year, and a compilation or two, and - I belive - all hang out in SF, then it's somewhat forgivable.

Fabulous records by fabulous talents. And fresh, compared to the blah blah of much else around.

07: The Libertines

Probably my most-played (oh, let's use some Saul Bellow: my most loud-played) album this year - well, definitely since August. A mess, but a glorious one that, at times, scales, seemingly effortlessly, heights others spend six months in the studio flailing at, before splitting asunder.

Sadly, it appears that the Libertines have sped all too rapidly to the latter.

But there's still hope of joys to come. With For Lovers, and, at the death, Killamangiro, Pete Doherty has also carried two of the year's best singles. And let's not forget Don't Look back into the Sun, which was not even on the album.

He's a mess by all accounts, but he's also a fantastic talent - by any reckoning. And the link is to a feature on him in today's Guardian. Reading it, you will wonder how many more features on him there may be. If he were straight, he'd be my Man of the Year - if he were straight.

08: Aha Shake Heartbreak by the Kings of Leon

As good a second album as there has ever been, period. You know better? Tell me. It's about time their lyrics started to be appreciated too - they're great. Trust me: you can't be cooler than motoring to this album.

09: Morrissey @ Royal Festival Hall

One of my two fave gigs of this year - and a timely reminder of what *STAR* quality is. Enough said.

10: Franz Ferdinand and Fiery Furnaces in Concert

And here's gig #2. I saw this tour down in Brighton on a Monday night in the early spring, and it was a great gig, the Furnaces doing their weirdo prog Bluberry Boat thing, and the headliners doing what they do. I'm not as enamoured of them as the rest of the western world seems to be, but they were great live that night.

11: Arrested Development

The TV show, not the moribund band. One more reminder to thick critics that Americans are more than capable of handling irony - and all the other comic forms - thank you very much. You would think that Seinfeld would have ended this nonsense a decade ago, but idiot wind is always in the air.

Well, I could easily prattle on, but suffice to say that there are many, many things I would like to do with Maeby (Alia Shawkat) - when she's of age, naturally; and it's a joy to see the Larry Saunders Show's Hey Now Hank Kingsley (Jeffrey Tambor) back on British screens.

12: The Shield

Well, I know: US peeps may have seen Series 3 last year, but it was here this, so it's in. Man, it rocks. And apparently, Glenn Close is to play the dominatrix head of precinct in the next series! Oh people: reasons for living, reaasons for living . . . even if your life is shit - hang in there!

I should also give a nod to the under-rated Boomtown, though I'm afraid that is relief pitching to the Mighty Shield.

13: Blackpool

By some distance the best drama series that Britain has produced since the unimpeachable Our Friends in the North - and yes, that's high fucking praise, and it even overrides my default piss-taking re anything produced north of Hampstead Heath.

Arise David Morrissey: what a fantastic character actor! And the writing . . . well, take this sample line: Ripley Holden (Morrissey) to policeman: "I'd tell you to kiss my arse, if I didn't think you'd enjoy it."

Add on the admittedly not new idea of interpolated songs, sung by the actors (see Dennis Potter) but hey! the songs they sang along to: The Smiths were there, man.

14: I Am Not An Animal

The animated gem of the year, disregarding the Simpsons because, well, because they're always so damn good.

This series was slightly patchy, but when it was good it was very, very good. Sample line: "To London, and let me at the cocaine baguettes!"

15: Tube Gossip

Not a blog site, but a web site that had me in hysterics week after week, because I think that every entry is true!

Go down BOAT DRINKS and the link is there: you won't regret it.

16: The Sopranos

Again, like The Shield, this may have run in the Us late last year, but we got the Steve Buscemi scenario this year. It is simply imperious (though I have read some recent raves about The Wire, another HBO job, set among drug dealers in Baltimore - and boy, it does sound good: BBC or Channel 4, get it the fuck over here NOW!).

17: Love Is Hell by Ryan Adams (with a little help from me)

Boy, do I get some stick for sticking up for this guy! And he doesn't help, by throwing out somgs aand albums like Ford trucks. So this double-album behemoth had to be tamed ie trimmed by me, to one killer 16-track CD.

Sure, there's an element of pastiche (at times more than an element) and you can roll off the influences (Dylan, Lennon, The Smiths, Lloyd Cole, Jackson Browne - hell, the whole goddamn singer-songwriter canon), but the songs are there.

18: Chronicles by Bob Dylan

Aah, if you only wouldn't clap so hard. It's not perfect ie it's not quite as shit-hot wonderful as some eg the New York Times would have you believe, but at times he soars - in a snortingly funny deadpan manner, if you see what I'm getting at (if you've read it).

19: Little Britain

Well, I wasn't sure at the get-go that there would be a slot, but there is. Patchy, patchy, patchy, but when it's good . . .

Oh, and back in May (see entries), I walked around the Lower East Side with an Andy "Yeah I Know" T on, and no local fucker had the slighest clue what it was all about. I guess that, like the success of The Office, by next May they will.

20: Collected Stories by Vladimir Nabokov

And finally, a ringer. But a desrved one, as, artistically, it pisses on the rest. The stories themselves are 70 years old; this collation itself is a decade old, but they were new to me, and they've soared over all else I've read this year.

To think this guy was in his twenties when he inked these limpid gems. I'm astounded. Boy, he does beat you up with his talent!

There is another personal reason for engineering this particular entry: by the spring, I expect to be an expat in Berlin, where the great man wrote and based most if not all of these short stories, along with novels such as Despair.

The alert may have spotted that my previous entry bears evidence of a little preliminary swotting re German slang. Well, one must oblige and pick up the idiom; also, I want to be aware of when I'm being called "der wixer"!

Needless to say, I'm very much looking forward to some prime moesen saft (Calling cards most welcome).

The shift to Berlin, though a mere thumbs space along the longitude line of a study room globe, and less than a typical cuticle in lattitude, may entail a change of blog title etc. But between now and then, while I may well be hither and thither, arse aching with the grief that accompanies any move, rest assured: the pure yarbles shall keep on a-coming . . .

Happy New Year everybody!

As I finish, the Thames is twinkling in the moonlight, and 'we' (none of your business! Anyway, it's 'we' as in Psycho!) are off out to see a few million blown on fireworks.

Here's to a Pete Doherty of a night . . .

Link

posted by DD @ 19:43  4 comments

Year of the Goat-Fuckers

Sadly, for the second year in four, it's been the year of the goat-fuckers* - and, tsunamis aside, I don't see the tide changing in the forseeable. Still, let's hold out some hope for things to work out according to Daniel Pipes: "Militant Islam is the problem; moderate Islam is the solution." I, of course, would insist on changing his the to an a. But I agree, reluctantly, that his way is Plan A, and that there is no easy way to solve what, to paraphrase Philip Roth, could be termed the great fundamentalist berserk.

So, to nature's berserk: the tsunami. Terrible carnage and all that, blah blah - but what I'm really interested in is the dialectic it has caused concerning our dear old friend the man upstairs, often addressed as "god". See the link, and then here and here, if you please.

I must crack this one out: possibly, just possibly, given the predictably high number of children who have died because of the tsunami, the hand of Chaim Rumbowski is wagging the dog. (Oh, Google away on Rumbowski, but be ready to hold your nose and wipe your eyes.)

But let's - for one horrible moment - consider that god the dog always has his paws on our globe. So: why did he do it? Why does he do it? Again and again and again and again? I'd love to hear a Creationist explanation for this: in the meantime, I'll proffer one; I'll proffer some reasons he may have had for not 'stopping it':

just as the Aids scourge has hit Africa to take care of the uncivilised barbarian hordes, and will shortly be decimating old Communist Russia, so the Asian Pacific tsunami has taken care of thousands of (potential, but the odds are some real) terrorists (ie muslims), the useless, bleating poor (hindus, buddhists, whatever), and western hippy back-packing dope-smoking sex-touring child-fucking non-churchgoing riff-raff (unsurprisingly, there is a delicate German phrase for such types: der Bumsbombers, who tended to return home in sore need of der tripper-clipper). I mean, frolicking on a beach when you should be devoutly honouring the birth of the lord . . . whaddya expect?

Y'know, sometimes you gotta chop a tree so it can grow. Yeah, I know: I'm probably quoting from the good book there.

Indeed, good ol' Dubya may reflect that the man in overall charge has taken care of more islamic fundamentalists in one concerted swoosh than he has so far during his three years' worth of "war on terror". In other words, it's time to step it up, Georgie boy: Big Daddy wants ACTION!

And talking of action, it's time for me to avert my eyes temporarily from the News Gravy dominating the world's media, and sling down the 20 or so things that worked for me this year, before I start slinging down some serious liquor.

* Not that I agree with the late Theo van Gogh on everything - not at all. My, he makes the Bristol Lisper seem a very tame viper! But before we Brits glibly denounce the hostile Dutch reaction - "those fucking Moroccans" and so on - let's remember what we're like. WE have torched aflame German cars and bullied foreign students after England have lost a mere penalty shoot-out. So are we going to turn the other cheek after a major mainland terrorist atrocity? Are we fuck.

Link

posted by DD @ 17:00  4 comments

Friday, December 24

Corpse Revivers

O yes. Very necessary.

By the way, wehat's so extraordinary about Johnny Vegas' nine hour bender? I've been doing this every other day for two weeks now! And I've not got a Moby Dick stomach supporting my constitution. But I am a professional.

Tally ho!

And, if I must, Happy Festivus!

Link

posted by DD @ 16:30  4 comments

Wednesday, December 22

The Weeping Brigade

After mentioning Colette, a woman who showed considerable balls throughout her life, and wrote without false tears, tough to the core fiction, today brings another of the Clare Short crew of weeping women, part of the hard left weeping brigade - this time, it's an Iraqi arguing that women were better off under Saddam the Mad.

The usual dirty bombs are thrown in - eg the alleged 100,000 dead since April 2003 - with no modifiers, just tears of outrage. Apparently even the missionaries are looting Iraq. Really? All of them? All of them? No? Well, qualify what you say then: it's called responsible journalism. As practiced by some, a few . . .

I can accept as true the report that Iraqi women are generally scared to go out right now, particularly at night, but these rough times will pass (and again, the fear afflicting the rights of women does not mean ALL Iraqis are being "denied the basic right of walking safely in their streets").

Once more, my rebuttal is simply along the lines of imagining what would have happened to Iraq under the Rolling Thunder of the Hussein mob. And once more, I offer the telling figure that is pretty much fact jacked by now, even in UN circles: 300,000 murdered under Saddam.

It's a plus that Iraq, as a secular dictatorship, did afford women more rights than most if not all arab and/or muslim states; it's a secular tradition of emancipation and freedom that the soon-to-be-elected Iraqi government can build on.

There's no doubting that it's a major fuck-off for living Iraqis that the democritisation of their country is going to take at least five years - and were I there now I may well be feeling miffed too; but future generations shall be free. Free and prosperous, and the envy of much of the arab world, though, it has to be said, they'll be hated by the muslim fascist fundamentalists.

Yeah: welcome to our world.

But the reason I react to such articles by the weeping brigade (Short, Ali, Cook, Moore, Klein - and let's not forget the old mucker Cunt Galloway) is that they are pointless.

Pointless. Arguing about whether we should have overthrown Saddam may as well be left in a historical moratorium for twenty years: then we may see clearer. Of course, I think it was right to do, and that the future will prove so, but right now there are matters at hand. You may wish we weren't starting from here, as it were, but here we are.

So. What exactly does this woman want to happen: the liberating forces to leave right now? Hmmm. Welcome to your civil war, baby. Now that's a scenario that's really gonna benefit Iraqi women . . .

Pointless. It's all pointless, weepy, often politically vindictive guff, from the politically moribund weeping brigade. Still, if we had nothing and no one by which to compare, how could we be sure that we're not idiots?

There I am: self-defeated. They do have a point in existing after all.

Link

posted by DD @ 10:35  3 comments

Colette the Pendulum

Mousing around the archives of the London Review of Books I came upon this old (2000) review of an autobiography of Colette, titled Secrets of the Flesh, though it could as well be titled Something for Everyone.

(Ah, the stuff I wish I'd known in my youth! So that's what a young girl's thinking about . . . ie exactly what I'm thinking about. Some of them, anyway. Now I recognise the types.)

Actually, I once had a lover whose favourite writer was Colette; pretty good news for the bedroom - yes; but, as the review points out, Colette also had Nazi sympathies . . . and in our relationship that side took a while longer to reveal itself, but reveal itself it did. It always does, doesn't it? In that respect it's the love that must speak its name.

Also, en passant, I note that the life trajectory of the Bristol Lisper is panning out along similar lines to the French femme fatale, though, as I'm sure we all agree, there's a fucking huge talent moat between them (and a score or two of kilograms to boot).

Link

posted by DD @ 05:44  4 comments

Tuesday, December 21

Bye, Bye, Tom Wolfe

This muscular dissection of Tom Wolfe's latest draught-muffler, I Am an Idiot!, is a little seasonal hoot for all.

Seems like it's time to stick a fork in his ass and turn him over, 'cause he's done.

Old Wolfie? Flashy dresser, flabby writer. Moreover, in reading this appreciation of the literary critic Irving Howe, it came upon me that the man in the white suit is essentially our era's Theodore Dreiser.

And that won't come off down the dry cleaner's.


Link

posted by DD @ 23:53  4 comments

Simply Following the Herd

So, after all, everyone's in my tree. High or low.

The link piece in the Times about the world's favourite sites and stories sees me ticking the same boxes as just about everybody else out there: Boing Boing as a top site; the death of Sir John Peel as top story and the Hitch's annihilation of Fahrenheit 911 as top article.

Other sites mentioned include several US political pundit ones - but as I look down afar on American politics as a freak dumb show (from Wacky Races to the Wizard of Oz - pick an unreal landscape and it all fits, I promise you. Yeah, as if you didn't know that already) I pay little heed to their haggles over the minutiae of what so and so really said, did, or who they wanked over.*

Blah blah.

Must be brief - after all, it's drinking hours - so just to pass on that Pete Doherty** is on this evening's Newsnight. Which reminds me that I've yet to post my blatherings on the good and evil of 2004. Laters . . . a little laters.

* By the way, the answer is YOU!

** And for those thousands of perpetually pissed-off Babyshambles fans, awaiting another no-show, here's a tip: Don't Go Along.

Plan A must be to get the Libertines back together. And giving him more crack money is NOT gonna get that done, my friends. As it is, the royalties from the second album will probably kill him, which is why I chanted "download it, download it - ILLEGALLY!" prior to its release.

Please. For the greater good, for the greater good . . .

I've been privileged to see how extraordinary the Libertines can be on stage; I want to feel that euphoria again. And boy, is their second album chockablock with songs crying out to be sung along to; the atmosphere would be akin to that of a Smiths gig in 1986 - and you can't get better than that round here.

Link

posted by DD @ 13:26  4 comments

Wednesday, December 15

Coming Soon - A List of Yarbles

Coming in a day or so, the 20 favourite things that Boated My Rock in 04, and, should my recent mood sustain, the 20 cultural amoebas my world could do without.

My recent mood? Maybe a dose of SAD, maybe this, maybe that, but to phrase some Sir Nick of Cave, So Slowly Goes the Night.

posted by DD @ 19:22  5 comments

Adios, Pedro

Adios, Saint Pedro, adios.

I always thought he would make the Lion Judas move to the Yankees, so the switch to the Mets is a little bemusing, but money swears and, furthermore, I think it was time for Pedro to move on.

At Boston, the job is done. The World Series is in the bag.

But Pedro's arm is on the wane, and it's time for the Red Sox to get a fresher one. As for Pedro? Well, as Conan O'Brien had him saying, "It's time for me to get out of professional baseball - that's why I'm joining the Mets."

But thanks, Pedro, for some fantastic memories: the pitching duels with Judas Clemens; so many heart attack moments versus the damn Yankees; and, above all, for decking that old Humpty Dumpty Don Zimmer - still, still, my favourite non-baseball baseball moment, if you see or, indeed, care what I mean.

Plus: he's gone to a ball club which hates the Yankees almost as much as we do - if I may be so bold as to use that 'we' now.

By the by my New York friends, how are things blowing over in your trophy-arid Steroidsville?

I'm guessing that it's cold - and deathly silent, though friends of the shrivelling Jason Giambi have let slip that Vegas rates the Yankees as odds-on to come up short (read: lack of bottle - as in nerve, not juice!) yet again next autumn . . . Oh baby, I'd start applying The Cream now!

Nonetheless, I'm sure that Johnny of Nazareth wishes you all a merry little xmas, especially you stout denizens of the short right field porch at Yankee stadium.

Link

posted by DD @ 10:39  5 comments

Live from the U-Bend of Death

Can't resist pitching up this article on the dead bodies that wash up along the Thames, particularly as I live along the 'hot spot' - the U-bend that horseshoes the Isle of Dogs.

So, cowardly suicides: you wanna get the job done? Well, flip along to, say, Westminster Bridge and pop yourself over: you'll be dead in two minutes. At this time of year the freezing temperatures of the water will instantly paralyse you, and then the glorious tidal vortex will take care of the journey to eternal rest.

And don't forget to check those delightful xmas TV schedules - I'm sure that this weekend the River Police are live and direct, as they fish out the seared flesh of messrs David Blunkett (with his best friend, his dog - alas, taking his secrets to the grave) and Kerry McFadden (advance warning: high risk of blockage to the sewerage system).

Oh how I love this time of year, laying in bed and switching off the humdrum world, dreaming my sweet little dreams . . .

STOP PRESS: Blind Boy Blunkett - guilty as a wheezing pikey. Let's all sing along now . . .

Link

posted by DD @ 10:04  4 comments

Tuesday, December 14

Magic Mushrooms

2004 - the Third Summer of Love?

Didn't feel like that to me.

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned my brief experiences of the little devils before - to wit: taking them (I now feel confident I know what it's like to walk on the moon) and trawling the countryside for them (even though ANY activity outside the metropolitan sprawl is de facto DEATH, poking around for suitable mushrooms is right up there in the canon of dullness - as dull as Anne Tyler's prose).

But of course, they should be legally available in the local supermarket, along with all of nature's other wonderful crops, and graded by degrees of potency - like cheeses.

Anyway, before getting shit-faced this Friday, I think I may indulge in some for lunch, trusting that some tinker type at Spitalfield's Market (or thereabouts) will be able to oblige.

Link

posted by DD @ 13:14  4 comments

Sunday, December 12

Bob Geldof: File Under Cunt

Nah - no link; the Irish cunt doesn't merit one.

Pissed as I am in the dying of the night, hearing that maggot exhorting proles to buy Band Aid 20 again (on TotP2 or whatever the fuck it's called*) is too much. Too fucking much, my friends.

Hey, wankface: some things have changed out there. They don't want "Xmas" - they're turning muslim, and fundamentalist shits to boot; they don't want rice - those cunts want guns.

(By the by, any janjaweed that gets anywhere near that Travis arsehole will get sponsorship from me for LIFE if he takes him out. Hey: as terrible a deal as it sounds, it's one less ignorant fuckwit celeb to deal with.)

As all should know by now, I fucking hate religion of any stripe, BUT there's a small bigoted part of me that feels the Aids epidemic and other crises in sub-Saharan Africa are acts of the little man; likewise the forthcoming (okay, give it a decade) catastrophes in old Russia.

So Let It Be, Let It Be!

I'm only riling ya: what's needed is another imperial invasion - this time with some morals. Now that is riling ya!

It's always worth repeating that at the time of the original Band Aid classic, wailing above the heads of those fly-infested faces (aka 'News Gravy') were a phalanx of million pound fighter jets doing a spot of home decorating for the Ethiopian government. O yes, o yes: a fact fucking jacked higher than Midge Ure's 1980s hairline. And a fact deliberately avoided by Michael Buerck of the 'dispassionate', 'impartial' BBC - and as I've said before on this site, Buerck must be the most aptly named reporter of all time.

So: they can call that (wrongly), but not call fundamentalist muslims a bunch of cunts.

Well I can. And I shall continue to do so, until they're evaporated.

Switching attack, in surmising that 600,000 sales = £600K raised, that could have been done by inching 10K from the ripe accounts of each of the sorry participants - and the rest of us would have been spared all ways round. Yes, it's a glib point; but you shut me down on it. (And hey: imagine what could be raised if they all forswore off the gak for a month.)

Don't forget this now. Because he'll be back (in 2014, appealing to us to help relieve the mess he's multiplying this time). Don't forget:

Bob Geldof? File Under Cunt.

* Also on the moribund show, an outing for Pete Doherty and Babyshambles . . . shambolic, what else? of course, but compared to the rest of the filth on offer, quite simply spellbounding. It's called Star Quality, and it cannot be manufactured. Given that this (Saturday) night's TV has seen a pathetic "find a star" duopoly of misery (I avoided both, watching Magnolia one more time) Doherty remains the genuine hypnotic article, even with badly dyed hair!

Babyshambles were like an under-rehearsed Smiths - and, it must be said, his/their Killamangiro has considerably more spunk than Moz's latest offering, I Have Forgiven Jesus. Dido beats are Dido beats are Dido beats, people.

Why is pop music so shit right now? Discuss.

posted by DD @ 04:07  5 comments

Saturday, December 11

George Galloway: File Under Cunt

I don't have the time or energy to piss on this guy's tartan bonfire, so I'll let Johann Hari do the job.

Personally, I think Galloway's a crook and a fascist. And more fool you if you were one of the peasants on the idiotic anti-war marches of last year.

If I were you, Id have a lie down and contemplate what type of scenarios would have been played out had the Hussein clan been left to rule in their barbarous way - and good luck dreaming up a single scenario where they could have been peacefully overthrown, or one where Iraq avoided being decimated by civil wars, or one where there was no concomitant overt intervention from the Saudis and Iran and others.

The truth is: SHIT IS AS SHIT DOES - Super Hans, Peep Show.

Link

posted by DD @ 14:04  4 comments

Muhammed Was a Diddler

Infidels Unite!

The world is ours!

Well . . . it is, baby.

Anyway, it's good to see another guy telling it like it is - step forward Matthew Parris, a man inordinately fond of cottage pie, as all true Englishmen are.

And - what ho! - the old crank Charles Moore asks if Muhammed was a diddler for taking a nine year-old wife.

YES.

Actually, Moore is all-too-predictably lenient on the old fraud (god-botherer that he is); then again, he is scribing for the Telegraph and has to watch what he says.

Ah, the bliss of the blog: where you can call a shit a shit.

Link

posted by DD @ 11:41  4 comments

Wednesday, December 8

I Knew It

O yes, baby, this is so obviously true.

Link

posted by DD @ 11:29  5 comments

Monday, December 6

Boogaloo

Provided that I can stand up, I'll be emptying the load of R&R bollocks that constitutes way too much of my mind at the weekly quiz up at the Boogaloo bar in Highgate, tomorrow night.

Coupled with the predicted joy of watching Arsenal fuck it up (as per) in Europe, it should be a jolly jolls of an evening.

I may even pop along in the late afternoon to pay my respects to old Unkle Karl, prior to indulging in the obvious opium of the people - booze, booze my friends!

Booze, then curtains . . .

Link

posted by DD @ 17:58  4 comments

Saturday, December 4

"The Secret Ingredient Is Crime"

Oh Super Hans, Super Hans - you are my hero.

Yes: Peep Show. What a fucking fantastic episode last night, my friends. I trust those arseholes at BAFTA reward this comic wonder.

Still ill: stll pissed. The only way to be: turn up the boosters!

Anyways, I'm always keen to lay into Ms Burchill aka the Bristol Lisper, but she's a must read because occasionally she delivers - and then some. Amputee Sex, if you please - and you know you do.

Also in today's Times is this skunk at our very good friends the muslim fundamentalists.

I could waffle on about that subject, but I'm sinking the red wine, and about to watch grown men rugger each other about. And then it's high time I watched Taxi Driver again. And then the death of bed.

Enjoy yours like I'm enjoying mine.

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posted by DD @ 14:54  3 comments

Friday, December 3

"I'll Suck for Crack"

Well . . .

I've been ill, and I'm still ill. But fabulous.

Just doing this small neat one to say a BOAT DRINKS bye bye to Sarah's So Boring blah blah, as I've only just conned to the fact that her music taste is retarded - in the English sense, my dear.

No matter. She's still squiring loads of emo-mulled minds.

Hmmm. Good Charlotte? I think not. Life really is too short. You know how it is: "On a river the colour of lead, immerse the baby's head . . . " Well, they're not there, are they? - or even in the vicinity. They're musical peasants.

So I am struggling through - with series two of Peep Show (hence the header!): if you're not watching - and rewatching - then you don't belong on my planet and you have clearly come here by mistake. So fuck off!

Otherwise I have resorted to whisky to cure my ills (I should always have obeyed Frank Sinatra, who insisted that whisky cures everything) and a lot of wanking . . . about.

I've watched Fargo, yaaaaaah. And the Seinfeld DVD - "My whole life is a lie!"

And I'm threshing my sad loins to the new Kings of Leon (oh my sore arse it shakes so, unto oblivion); the Libertines - of course; some Ryan Adams, the late Elliott Smith's last record (unfinished; disappointing), Vetiver, and Devendra B - the hirsute epitome of Californian cool. And some Donovan. Atlantis! Respect, baby.

Still, be warned: "If you come round this ledge, you'll wish you'd never been born."

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posted by DD @ 14:52  5 comments