tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76732552012-02-08T09:33:49.974Z"Paedophiles have more genes in common with crabs than they do with you or me. Now that is scientific fact. There's no actual evidence for it, but it is a fact." - Cretinous Capital Wadio DJ Dr Fox DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.comBlogger2761100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107709866188670282005-02-06T16:58:00.000Z2005-02-06T17:11:06.186Z

I've always maintained that under normal circs, in social circles, I've never met a copper I didn't like; but this proposed crackdown on the Crack is so wrong-headed: it's either going to go the way of farce (a police speciality, given their record) or righteous indignation at the intrusion on privacy, and most likely both. And why stop at Coke dealers and users? I feel a trawl through the

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107708958252316732005-02-06T16:55:00.000Z2005-02-06T16:55:58.253Z

Enjoy.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107598495826954862005-02-05T09:58:00.000Z2005-02-05T10:14:55.826Z

The UN is corrupt? Nah! Say it ain't so, Joe. Oh you betcha. It's a glib, trite point - but then I'm in a glib, trite mood about a glib, trite organisation - but one easy way to get some action on sorting out the shithole that is the African continent would be to move the UN there. Of course, certain sectors of Manhattan's economy would need compensating eg the grand-a-night hookers, but I

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107521836821469612005-02-04T13:49:00.000Z2005-02-04T12:57:16.820Z

The man has always owed me a pint, and Up the Creek was and probably still is a great club for comedy (though pretty iffy afterwards - same records played for the last ten years, just about); but he was a great laugh too. It's a cliché but Malcolm Hardee was a real character. This is in today's Guardian: Comedian Malcolm Hardee, who has died aged 55, was a familiar figure on Britain's

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107462660183628132005-02-03T20:29:00.000Z2005-02-03T20:31:00.183Z

The lesson of the Beagle 2 debacle? Never ever trust a man with mutton chops.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107436498265641602005-02-03T13:58:00.000Z2005-02-03T20:28:41.803Z

Being the Continuing Story of Bungalow Pete Doherty . . . There's more, and there'll be yet more to come . . . and with this newly-announced "crackdown" on social, dinner party Coke-taking (madness; unworkable; an unnecessary political own goal) there is one OBVIOUS poster boy just waiting to be strung up, pour encourager les autres. What goes around comes around. I'm not going to reiterate old

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107349367990477662005-02-02T13:28:00.000Z2005-02-03T12:58:35.966Z

Part of me is now starting to find the ongoing saga we can call the Death of Pete Doherty quite funny, especially when we get blubber like the stuff that's been filling the Mirror and other red tops of late. They won't be happy until he's gone.* Personally, I find the lazy comparisons with Kurt Cobain pretty odious - for the Libertines have written far better songs than Nirvana churned out, and

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107434450116760752005-02-02T11:26:00.000Z2005-02-03T12:54:48.263Z

"Choke, choke, choke go the Arsenal Choke, choke, choke go the Arsenal When the game gets tough All their Froggies get the huff Choke, choke, choke go the Arsenal" - attrib. Anon. A refrain from the Penguin Book of Modern Folk-Songs of England (Compiled by Townshend & Orr) I should have known that those perennial chokers, the cojones-libre merchants of Highbury & Islington would let me down,

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107282869999755762005-02-01T18:35:00.000Z2005-02-03T12:26:05.780Z

There's a lot of it about, apparently* - but not round here. Such symptoms as were (and I confess to some back when I wore a schoool blazer) vanished along with my cluster of zits. So, all is bliss in Strictsville . . . Hah. Today I had to clean some of my mother's shit up off the carpet. Cue Seven Ages of Man. Of course, were I Sean Penn, I could wallow in my nostalgie de la boue. In

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107089126910673582005-01-30T13:35:00.000Z2005-02-01T18:39:56.780Z

So, in heeding my own mantra, let's get back to the great, the good and the damn fine - starting with the return to our screens of Chris Morris, in a new series called Nathan Barley. For me, his best work probably always will be Blue Jam - the radio series, containing the apogee of his work, the fantastic monolougues - which were too long for TV, although one of them - which I self-title Rothko

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107083354852744252005-01-30T10:50:00.000Z2005-01-30T11:09:14.853Z

Just a little more bile to add on to yesterday's diatribe: here's Michael Ignatieff on the shallow fools on the Left who seem too timid to condemn the al-Zarqawi's of this world . . . you can, it seems, say and do what you like ie tell Democracy to Fuck Off - and terrorise those that attempt to exercise their rights in its name so long as you're anti-American. I've had it with the lot of them,

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1107005986430685182005-01-29T10:19:00.001Z2005-01-29T20:46:11.423Z

I thought it was simply another case of bank tellers daring to cross the Talent Moat* but no, it's because they're a bunch of fucking Christians. And the 'bunch' factor is important. For some reason, I find it easier to deal with - reluctantly all the same - an individual's religious calling eg Sir Nick of Cave, Bob Bobness and L Cohen, but the sweep of a band eg U2 has me reeling with

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106996092619467542005-01-29T10:19:00.000Z2005-01-29T10:54:52.620Z

Apolly polly loggies for disturbing yer metaphorical morning wank, but I've just realised that this old ginger turd is still trousering sums for his old worlde opinions. Yes, we're talking Robin Cook aka the Garden Gnome - and Iraq. Read if you must his yarbles on "post-election sttrategy" ie We Must Get Out, which he's pretty much argued for from Day Two of the military practice session his

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106825743493480042005-01-27T11:28:00.000Z2005-01-27T14:23:29.703Z

I can only react to this news like Barney Gumble - even though I am - o yes I am! - maintaining my course set fair of staying off the wagon throughout January. With that, the album keeping me sane above all others is From a Basement on a Hill by Sir Elliott Smith; while I've been reading bits and bobs of How to Be Alone by Jonathan Franzen, alongside my daily portions of Nabokov. Watched the

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106826209980781802005-01-26T23:35:00.000Z2005-01-27T11:47:23.520Z

"Phoney Clash mania has bitten the dust": just getting this line down, and it's © ® here! So when used, you'll be hearing from my devilish left hand. And some BREAKING NEWS: Radiohead, having already poured scorn on the tired old full-length album concept, have announced that henceforth their recordings should be filed under "Observations". Meanwhile, Thomas Yorke is reportedly in Outer

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106654700655949882005-01-25T11:27:00.000Z2005-01-25T12:05:00.656Z

My man David Aaronovitch casually rips apart the latest darkly-cloaked racism from Michael Howard - simply by looking at the numbers. Take it from me: even down here in Strictsville (an area which, if you believed the local press and local people, is being 'overrun with foreign muck') Johnny Foreigner in any shape or form (even Black British!) is thin on the old terra. And it was the same story

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106560975531585482005-01-24T09:39:00.000Z2005-01-24T10:02:55.530Z

Here's a piece on Britain's jazz scene - a pitiful scene for the last thirty years. Then again, if you go with the theory (and I do) underlying Ken Burns' Story of Jazz docs, the music died around 1975 anyway, with the five-year sabbatical taken by Miles Davis.* Actually, I'd argue (poker style) that Bitches Brew is the last important jazz record - important in its effect as the bullet Hitler

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106396462907230572005-01-22T13:18:00.000Z2005-01-22T12:21:02.906Z

We are surrounded by swine! There's only one rule to apply: allowing for exceptional cases, if you're an adult, IT'S ALWAYS YOUR OWN FUCKING FAULT. Deal with it.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106321439228550472005-01-21T15:06:00.000Z2005-01-21T15:30:39.230Z

Here's a Telegraph piece on some of my favourite film directors of late (my faves being the two Andersons, really) - the anti-Hollywood Hollywood set, if you will. Watching Magnolia yet again the other night, I've started clocking the various filmic references - for instance the Cruise/Robards deathbed scene is lifted from Last Tango in Paris, while the final shot - the close-up smile - tributes

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106304931503723192005-01-21T10:54:00.000Z2005-01-21T10:55:31.503Z

Confirmation - not that I needed any - that London is indeed the Secular Capital of the World. Glory be!

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1106222426416821702005-01-20T11:52:00.000Z2005-01-20T12:31:02.316Z

Because nothing else is really happening in the world right now - unless you're even the least bit excited by presidential inaugurations. The scenario: Stevie Wonder is playing a gig in Tokyo. He's just finished playing his Seventies classic Sir Duke. The crowd is still going wild when a young Japanese man at the front says, "Stevie Wonder, you play a jazz chord, you play a jazz chord!" So

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105956331425407982005-01-17T09:42:00.000Z2005-01-17T10:43:13.076Z

This report on the way songs are profiled these days is no surprise, not even news; but as it's whacked out today I thought I'd remark on these clusters of boredom attempting to infiltrate our lives - and why I'm tuning out. I've spent the past week leaving London, and am temporarily ensconced in Strictsville, somewhere in the deepest south of England, before I'm free to embark on some proper

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105537472458253552005-01-12T13:31:00.000Z2005-01-12T13:45:33.673Z

A frankly dull lot of new words/phrases . . . Red/Blue/Purple states - who cares? That said, I do like pajamahadeen. Back here I have it on very good authority that girls have been known to break down in tears if, in the course of a night out, not one guy has come up to them and said, "Bitty?" That's Little Britain for you.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105531055378418152005-01-12T11:30:00.000Z2005-01-12T11:57:35.376Z

Shock. Horror. Truth is, old Joe Schmoe was sacked for looking like a cunt. Come on: ginger, bearded, John Lennon glasses, and a fucking flannel on his bonce. For the record, I too once worked - briefly - at Waterstone's. What I learned was that shifting books was like selling shampoo, except that, while being paid the same as a checkout assistant at, say, Superdrug, because it's books you're

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105496526365002182005-01-12T01:36:00.000Z2005-01-12T02:22:06.366Z

There's no link this time. Blame it on the booze. Getting pissed tonight with my brother, we fell into a general argument over movies, and who was responsible for making whom watch what. (Fucking hell, that reads like some of Dylan Thomas' pissy alliteration.) Well, my dears, the bottled god's gone flat. Anyway, we had a free and frank over certain movies, and top of the pile of the overrated

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105452304025701442005-01-11T13:30:00.000Z2005-01-11T14:05:04.026Z

I'm worried. Very worried. For this is the second time this month that I've sort of tallied along in agreement with Mark Steyn aka Mr Beard. But he's right, and Decca "off my baps on Czech Cake" Aitkenhead is wrong: responsibility for the homophobia of some Jamaicans lies solely with the Jamaican individuals concerned. None of this legacy of slavery yarbles; if you've got dumb-ass opinions it's

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105439500722596602005-01-11T10:03:00.000Z2005-01-11T10:31:40.723Z

That'll be yer Terry Jones - ersatz comedian, who to my knowledge hasn't written a joke for twenty-five years. (Then again, I suppose you can have a laugh at him attempting to be earnest every other week or so in the media.) Also present today is the Crown Prince Oleaginous himself, George Monbiot. Just look at that face! Well, today he pins some valid points re the successful economic model of

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105269758503445072005-01-09T11:21:00.000Z2005-01-09T11:22:38.503Z

Oh, that this would come to pass.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105196846283775962005-01-08T14:48:00.000Z2005-01-09T13:18:38.583Z

Let's face it: you'd have to have been having your coconut repasts on a drifting raft somewhere off the coast of Banda Aceh for several years now to have no idea about Big Brother (and all it's little sisters), of which we Brits have another Celebrity* version. No, I'm not watching. I never do watch this stuff, properly, darlings: the part of me that recoils in dismay at the "Look at me! I'm on

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105189878159988062005-01-08T13:05:00.000Z2005-01-08T14:03:53.446Z

Today there's a couple of pieces on the General Election (coming our way this year, by all accounts) that attempt to factor in the (strange) death of New Labour. Both are bogus. The link is to one by Neal Lawson (who he?) that describes New Labour as "the party of the living dead": "it functions but not for the purpose it was intended". Well, to me Tony Blair's govts have done pretty much what

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105125490482796032005-01-07T19:10:00.000Z2005-01-08T23:00:21.263Z

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck; cunt, cunt, cunting fuck; Jesus fucking H Christ!; cunt, cunt, cunt: Jerry Springer - the Opera is on BBC 2 tomorrow, despite the typical complaints - blind, in advance - of the god-botherers sects. Well I can't wait. Can't fucking wait. I'll be tuning in all right, just to stick it to my mortal enemies, the sandal wearers. Fucking cunts. Enjoy, my gloriously diabolical

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105116927747361102005-01-07T16:15:00.000Z2005-01-07T19:09:23.423Z

Unaccustomed and uncomfortable as I am in nodding continuous asssent to a Daily Telegraph editorial, I agree totally with this dismissal of the Blair-Brown 'Marshall Plan'. It's the Curse of John Lennon. Or, more precisely, the curse of pure yarbles that is the lyric to Imagine, a song that, aside from the almost as execrable She's Leaving Home, stands alone on the podium of pompous old twittery

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105047138426729992005-01-06T21:12:00.000Z2005-01-06T21:37:07.016Z

Before I get back to my own magnificent world - ce soir, the film rocking my boat is the immortal Once Upon a Time in the West, indeedy - I feel it would be remiss if I did not give my reaction to watching the first few minutes of this evening's News Gravy - an hour-long trawl through the tsunami by the BBC. It began with the reporter Jeremy Bowen entering, for once sans chest hair on display,

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105027453698190702005-01-06T15:50:00.000Z2005-01-06T21:35:01.680Z

Just noted via Slate that BBC America is now showing Kitchen Nightmares, wherein the soi-disant king of swearing Gordon Ramsay sticks it to various arseholes in the restaurant business here in the UK. We saw this show, in all its fucking glory, last year. In reality, I've mentioned this just to slip in how more than one female friend of mine has a deep-seated desire for some home cooking from

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105025114314242442005-01-06T15:12:00.000Z2005-01-06T15:25:14.313Z

As we all know, every major disaster brings its own fashion craze eg army fatigues post-9/11, and diet book: following 9/11, Mohammed Atta's anti-Atkins, anti-Westerner hip-pocket-sized tome Get Fit for Heaven (on a strict potoato diet) was a runaway bestseller; now, following the South-East Asian Tsunami spectacular, we have the promise of The Coconut Diet, set to storm the coming spring's

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1105018067265266392005-01-06T13:31:00.000Z2005-01-06T15:04:24.353Z

Frankly it seems rather pointless to stick it to one of yesterday's men, a forgotten figure, a jew in the wilderness; but bullshit is bullshit and he's still trousering a considerable amount of spondulicks for emptying his sack, so . . . peruse the latest guff from Mr Sidney Blumenthal (most exalted role: relief fluffer for Bill Clinton during the blow-job years). And shit, I know that I should

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1104839117539999832005-01-04T11:12:00.000Z2005-01-04T11:49:48.276Z

I can't stand Mark Steyn and George Monbiot, so sticking it to both while they stick it to each other's kind over the Asian tsunami is too much jolly, and too easy, to pass up on. If you can take seriously someone who watches the Vicar of Dibley (Monbiot) then I pity you. By the way, he has proposed that we have a govt of the world, with one person, one vote ie the world shall be run by Chinks.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1104679803117183422005-01-02T15:28:00.000Z2005-01-02T15:30:03.116Z

To get back to what really matters to me in this old world, I'm gonna get me some of this guy: George Plimpton.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1104673549979485312005-01-02T13:03:00.000Z2005-01-07T22:15:10.946Z

The EC has declared there shall be three minutes of silence for those obliterated by the Asian tsunami. Oh do please fuck off. Why three? Why only three? I suggest a week of silence - at least. A week-long moratorium on yarbles. A week off the News Gravy. Still, I must allow myself a couple of brief slugs (though in truth said gravy is dribbling down my chin as I type). Firstly, call me an

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1104522664379598682004-12-31T19:43:00.000Z2005-01-02T16:12:36.070Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1104512624747524972004-12-31T17:00:00.000Z2005-01-04T10:29:12.130Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103906142474271572004-12-24T16:30:00.000Z2004-12-24T16:35:42.473Z

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!

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103714842095815172004-12-22T10:35:00.000Z2004-12-22T11:27:22.096Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103695830450621142004-12-22T05:44:00.000Z2004-12-22T06:10:30.450Z

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.)

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103673349374742132004-12-21T23:53:00.000Z2004-12-22T16:50:34.296Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103637599321615122004-12-21T13:26:00.000Z2004-12-21T23:43:48.350Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103138901351117162004-12-15T19:22:00.000Z2004-12-15T19:28:21.350Z

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.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103109441765857672004-12-15T10:39:00.000Z2004-12-15T11:49:45.226Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103106148168961882004-12-15T10:04:00.000Z2004-12-15T18:39:46.773Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1103033714593204222004-12-14T13:14:00.000Z2004-12-14T14:15:14.593Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102826555690134612004-12-12T04:07:00.000Z2004-12-15T19:03:07.226Z

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 -

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102774502937527132004-12-11T14:04:00.000Z2004-12-12T04:06:51.483Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102773868362238552004-12-11T11:41:00.000Z2004-12-14T19:30:17.546Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102505420896662602004-12-08T11:29:00.000Z2004-12-08T11:30:20.896Z

O yes, baby, this is so obviously true.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102357222315295322004-12-06T17:58:00.000Z2004-12-06T18:22:39.433Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102172570734679232004-12-04T14:54:00.000Z2004-12-15T10:25:11.306Z

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

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1102086988353065622004-12-03T14:52:00.000Z2004-12-04T14:52:18.673Z

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: "

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1101205919972900582004-11-23T10:20:00.000Z2004-11-23T10:32:41.673Z

Sometimes, when I'm feeling like a piece of shit, someone has to suffer my wrath - and this morning I mooched upon this character. Yeah - sometimes too, the very idea of New York makes me sick. But I am right, aren't I? A place like Nobu is Arsehole Centrale. There are plenty of such holes and such arses in London, but this guy really is a piece of work. Sorry, I'm wiped. DVD > bed > Wank Wall

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1101126336681804982004-11-22T13:03:00.000Z2004-11-23T10:39:34.400Z

Because I am still shattered from the weekend, refusing to re-enter the so-called normal world, this bunch of shit from Viz that was emailed to me shall have to suffice for now. Normal yarbles resumed on Tuesday - or mebbes Wednesday. Until then pray for me as my body is a sad shack: my dogs are pupped; my heart feels like it's drilling for acid; and my stomach is mincing at the prospect of any

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100849285949731602004-11-19T06:15:00.000Z2004-12-05T13:23:59.666Z

Life is short and so is the Friday Fuck It. Today's ten: Is Like a Rolling Stone the Greatest Rock & Roll Song of All Time? YES. But some of the others listed . . . Imagine? Pure yarbles. Is Dave Eggers an overrated oily cunt? Read the top link. Oh, don't bother: the answer is YES. Is Ireland the best place in the world to live? NO. It's the land of men beaten with the ugly stick, who still

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100614182338134872004-11-16T13:02:00.000Z2004-11-24T11:35:09.770Z

No, not chocolate (although Mars bars, Mars bars . . .), but those old dependables, Sex and Death, or, to flip them over into French, Big Death and Little Death - the mixing of which can lead you here. File her under pure yarbles. The link is to some very odd thoughts about the orgasm. For the record, I go with that line of Woody Allen's in Manhattan, where his dinner date (if I remember

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100525337190182082004-11-15T10:33:00.000Z2004-11-19T06:10:39.980Z

. . . Or maybe I should come clean and institutionalize this spot to be known henceforth as The Monday Whine (and, come to think of it, I already have its bastard twin in place: The Friday Fuck It). Unfortunately, a good friend of mine - a very good friend, even though he lives up in the benighted north of England - has already been donned with the monicker Oscar Grouch, otherwise I would lay

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100270316685116842004-11-12T14:36:00.000Z2004-11-12T14:38:36.686Z

What can I say? I'm with them almost all the way - but please, nix the tattoes.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100244396575473942004-11-12T06:21:00.000Z2004-11-14T12:52:39.503Z

Glory be to the cocaine-addled Recommissioning Editor at Channel 4, because tonight the glorious Peep Show returns to our screens (and the first series is currently running on BBC America. Discerning Yankees, I envy you your virginity - re this show). Ah, stay those trumpets a while. The link. Hmmm. Well, that's to a review of the new Bridget Jones movie. No, I've not lost my fucking mind. Bear

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100182747977770792004-11-11T13:18:00.000Z2004-11-13T18:29:50.860Z

Anyone who's been round my way before knows near enough where I stand on most of the key issues - the war against Jihadism etc. And for the most part my views align with those of the Hitch. Here he is again, nailing the Mirror itself for its 50 Million Dumb Americans (or some such charge) headline of last week, a piss-poor response to the re-election of Bush . . . and how it symptomises the

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100014864756829972004-11-09T13:14:00.000Z2004-11-18T22:45:56.176Z

Following on somewhat from the brief observation I made earlier today about the Thatcherite cultural shift of the 1980s, this is David Starkey lamenting the decline of academic standards (lamentably obvious), bashing Tony Blair for destroying the old Labour Party (and your point is, Sir?), and snarking at the Scots (England's Canadians, and it's as equally tiresome a quibble as the one across the

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1100004083835248482004-11-09T11:42:00.000Z2004-11-09T13:09:40.096Z

"Seems like every time you turn around There's another hard-luck story that you're gonna hear And there's really nothing anyone can say . . . " - from Black Diamond Bay, by Bob Dylan Judging by the way the investigation's going, it appears increasingly likely that Saturday's rail crash - killing at least seven people - was caused by a guy who had decided to commit suicide, by parking his car on

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099737379305320902004-11-06T10:28:00.000Z2004-11-09T10:41:27.970Z

Given the So What? events of this week, and the fact that my gut is full of Wifebeaters, and the fact that there's a cat playing the piano inside my head, I'll let the guys at Jigsaw Lounge tell it like it is, with their infamous maps of The World According to America. ADDENDUM: I trust that anyone who's read some of my previous posts is aware that I am not your tick the box anti-American

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099735071442757752004-11-05T11:21:00.000Z2004-11-08T22:51:56.036Z

For a change, a quickie: watched Touching the Void the other night. It's fanfuckingtastic. There's a Channel 4 link at the top, and there's this, and then this, and then these two bickerers (if you so wish, you could google reviews and other schmutter all day). Favourite moment: when Joe has really lost it - visions, delirium, despair, the usual . . . and Brown Girl in the Ring is torturing

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099597093788608732004-11-04T17:52:00.000Z2004-11-08T11:52:29.420Z

Sleeking in sideways, the link is to a piece by Robert Hughes, as he metaphorically waggles his delightfully imperious walking stick around MoMA: its history, its future, its current legacy - with the usual stab at Andy Warhol. (On a tangent, here is an excerpt from a book about Willem de Kooning, and his impact on the artistic life - read nightlife - of New York in the late 1950s, the

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099563413127378682004-11-04T10:53:00.000Z2004-11-04T11:25:04.406Z

On the whole I must admit that I avoid the weighty matters of Science* and Technology: though I do indeed truffle through Wired.com from time to time, and pay some attention to bits and pieces that float up to the top of the surface of the spam-infested ocean of infotainment, I find a little goes a very long way. You know, all too soon I get that nauseous feeling that chills us guys (as in dicks

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099578145076166442004-11-04T09:43:00.000Z2004-11-05T02:35:45.173Z

Quickly: apropos of my jibe posted late last night, check this out. Okay. Already swamped with post-election guff (from the) left, right and centre, I feel a bit of a jerk for spunking up my own thoughts . . . but we all know how bad it is for us if we deny an outlet for our own desires, our own needs, our own juices . . . so here's My Two Cents, as the legendary Kent Brockman would introduce it

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099529341353109562004-11-03T23:25:00.000Z2004-11-04T10:05:07.823Z

I note that the projected (?) election result for Clark County, Ohio, is pretty much how the US as a whole has voted: 50.96% for Bush, 48.56% for Kerry. Given that Ohio, as expected, was the key marginal state, I expect the Guardian to be given props for achieving a complete own goal in its campaign to get British people to write to Ohioans requesting that they vote for Kerry. As the Hitch put

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099387495496326702004-11-02T13:24:00.000Z2004-11-02T22:49:50.376Z

Wakey wakey ye voters lying (-in) heavy with dread. According to this piece of research, you need to get out and vote early doors, when your brain is functioning at its best. The ideal time? Between 11am and noon. Yeah: High Noon, brothers and sisters. Then, come the dusk, you should exercise: punish your body for the shitty feelings you have harboured - for months now - about this election.

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099323543660662302004-11-01T15:10:00.000Z2004-11-01T15:39:03.660Z

What may be some final jousting on the US election - before, as I've said before, Recount Wednesday (running throughout the month). The top link is a snapshot of feelings in Washington, while here the living legend that is Tom Wolfe plugs his new novel - and lashes out at East Coast amorality and its lazy, unthinking, unprotesting support for Kerry; meanwhile over here Bill Bryson plugs himself

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099312877655980762004-11-01T11:43:00.000Z2004-11-01T12:41:17.656Z

It appears that in their manifest desire to analyse the spunk out of everything, the Japanese have noodled themselves the ultimate chat-up line. The literal English translation of this priceless nectar is: This time next year, let's be laughing together. No. It's not going to work, is it? Not here, and not there. Not anywhere. Not anymore. Let's face it: it's wetter than a Christmas single. And

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099303075003592902004-11-01T09:21:00.000Z2004-11-02T10:00:32.443Z

So, Sunday was a dick around day . . . now back to the real grime. The link is to an extract from Jon Ronson's new book The Men Who Stare At Goats, about the murky netherworld of PsyOps within the US military. There's also a three-part series on Channel 4, beginning next week. That should be some jolly-jols viewing. Horrorshows like the recent events at Abu Ghraib reflect the one major problem

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099255340240831812004-10-31T19:01:00.000Z2004-10-31T22:14:52.530Z

Fucking Halloween. I have just been rudely jolted from my dreams (a late afternoon siesta; an essential forty winks) by what I can only assume were some chav trash Trick or Treaters - some rats off the local sink estate. And sometimes, when you're caught unawares . . . Cue a flux of panic in case it were a proper unsolicited and unwanted visitor (it wouldn't be the first Sunday that a

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099304998253739002004-10-31T15:14:00.000Z2004-11-01T10:31:23.066Z

Judging by this review of a newly-expanded edition of Gustav Mahler's letters to his philandering, skittish wife Alma they shall take their place among the great collections of lovelorn correspondence, alongside those involving Vincent Van Gogh and F Scott Fitzgerald (merely mentioning the two collections I have read). I find it hard not to ruminate on how old Charles and Diana fitted the doomed

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099226728964940422004-10-31T11:52:00.000Z2004-10-31T12:45:28.963Z

Returning home from an errand to the Royal Academy yesterday, I had no option but to hear this little term of endearment cooed (repeatedly) by a boy chav to his girl chav on the Jubilee Line - southbound: "You're my skimpy chicken." One for Tube Gossip (see link or Boat Drinks). Actually, she wasn't skimpy, though her skin was akin to that of an uncooked chicken. To think that within the decade

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099212773415825862004-10-31T09:13:00.000Z2004-11-04T11:34:41.586Z

I guess they're going and have gone the rounds but what the fuck: here's a selection of jokes from this year's Edinburgh Fringe - a veritable comedy wonderland . . . The dodo died. Then Dodi died, Di died and Dando died . . . Dido must be shitting herself. - Colin & Fergus My parents are from Glasgow, which means they're incredibly hard, but I was never smacked as a child . . . well maybe one

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099141335863787142004-10-30T11:45:00.000+01:002004-11-08T04:27:19.480Z

It was only on reading the Douglas Wolk tribute to John Peel (see October 26 for link) that I realised Greg Shaw had also passed away - and on the same day. I guess that, along with Lenny Kaye, Shaw can be called the Great Curator of Garage Rock (Kaye with his Nuggets series, Shaw with his Pebbles ones). There's an obit from the Guardian in the link, and an obit from the SF Chronicle here. So

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098018078275553552004-10-29T22:01:00.000+01:002004-11-02T11:38:19.496Z

While I've been on planet Delirium (where the President is Sr Manny Ramirez and the veep goes by the name of Papi) there's been some sort of joke election going on . . . and the link is to a recent article about why one of our expat women is going, with some relutance, for Dubya. Meanwhile here is evidence that lots and lots of people don't find the election any fun at all - and comedy rule #1

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1099335405003187322004-10-29T13:47:00.000+01:002004-11-08T18:56:09.846Z

Well. I still feel elated after Wednesday night: I, a fly-by-night supporter compared to the diehards of Red Sox Nation. They must feel like they're walking round with a head full of magic mushrooms . . . yeah, some Big Pappies, baby. Well. First of all I have to eat a whole lot of grateful humble for when I clanged the bells of doom right here, after the calamity of that Saturday night. And

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098995335759742722004-10-28T21:16:00.000+01:002004-11-02T12:38:30.066Z

Hey everybody. Hey! Everybody! BOSTON RED SOX WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS 2004 The Dirt Dogs. The Idiots. The Cowboys. Whatever. They got the job done. I've had a very tired and emotional last 24 or so hours, but I'll leave off the full morality tale until tomorrow. For now, of all the pieces I've read, an observation that struck me was this one from Bob Ryan in today's Boston Globe: It took

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098880532896793922004-10-27T13:00:00.000+01:002004-11-04T00:17:01.300Z

I had blithely ignored the brouhaha over the campaign, initiated by the Guardian, to have British people writing to the residents of Ohio, begging them not to vote for Bush next month. So I've only just read through the reaction from the US (see link). Easy tigers! Silly idea that it was - and doubtless there'll be a reciprocal campaign during our next General Election (though no matter, for

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098810875871539262004-10-26T15:00:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:40:34.526Z

I was going to launch the assault I've been trailing on a book I chortled my way through last Saturday, but the news of John Peel's sudden death puts that back a day or so. There's a slew of tributes here, and links to other bits and pieces about his life and work. The truth is, if you love rock and roll and have even a modicum of moxie (and thus a few thousand songs on your shelves, in your

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098713737908425722004-10-25T14:28:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:41:12.070Z

Most of the few (the happy few!) who read this will know by now my lack of regard for rural folk - and, as I've mentioned before, the feeling is mutual: mutual, and irrevocable. So, much as I take delight in doing the necessary deed myself, it's always good to see somebody else pissing on their chips . . . and the link is to to the novelist John Lanchester doing just that - though he does so

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098567001257013752004-10-23T22:22:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:42:09.646Z

Yes: step forward anglophile and so-so writer Bill Bryson, who reflects on the "serene" appeal of baseball compared to the brutishness of American football, and - as a lifelong Red Sox fan - what this particular World Series means to him. On a related tip, here is a piece by Gordon Burn on the use of sports in the American novel, from Ring lardner's short stories to the behemoth that is Don

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098406007244027182004-10-21T23:48:00.000+01:002004-10-22T01:46:47.243+01:00

I mentioned as a little slider during my Red Sox eulogy below that I had a political epiphany, of sorts, during last night's coronary-lite clincher. Osmosis has taken a while, but after watching bits of the debates (as much as I could stomach) and a couple of the campaign ads (from watching baseball play-off games via MLB TV) it hit me: I've seen these jokers - Bush and Kerry, not that you were

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098387971945871722004-10-21T19:28:00.000+01:002004-11-02T10:47:49.650Z

Sorry. Who was I to expect the Greatest Comeback of All Time!?! Where do I begin? Johnny Damon, baby. Johnny fucking Damon - all the way! Or shall I say Johnny Nazareth, as I hear he's affectionately known in the Bronx. Well, Jesus went 3 for 6 last night, you bozos. I trust all you denizens of the Bronx zoo choked on your choc-fat bambino bars. En passant, whatever happened to Wok-face

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098359501184357302004-10-21T13:01:00.000+01:002004-11-10T11:51:49.400Z

Before I move on to the SERIOUS news, this burp of bullshit had me rocking my (celebratory) Irish coffee. Just what the world needs: a re-recording of Do They Know It's Christmas? with Chris Martin playing the part of "the young Bono". And you think I just chisel away at those two at random, don't you? No. I tell you, I tell you: there is method in my madness. BUT do they ever know when to

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098313616703256872004-10-20T22:08:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:46:35.600Z

Wow! And it's here we go with Game 7. GAME 7, baby! Doncha love it? The link is to the usual Boston Globe stuff, and here's two pre-game primers: here and here. I could rant on about how shoddy, shabby and unsporting the Yankees were last night (the conveniently blind Matsui, the sulking hothead that is A-Rod, and the steroid (ab)using "What? Me cheat?" Sheffield to name three), but I'll let

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098303484485219622004-10-20T19:44:00.000+01:002004-11-02T11:44:23.423Z

Actually, this would normally be an addendum to the previous piece, but I didn't want to taint the memory of one man who undoubtedly did some good with the pathetic bleatings of a cunting arsehole. The link is to a pretty rounded appreciation in The Spectator; and, if you care to, Private Eye currently has a section devoted to Paul Foot's efforts. The dour, sour remarks aattributed to Jeremy

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098297352673272862004-10-20T18:21:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:48:24.053Z

I've sat and kept shtum, given that there's a grieving family involved - and let's not forget, a wilful act of murder by despicable people; but yes, it's been hard keeping shtum when Mr Paul Bigley has been anything but. His ignorance - yes, ignorance, of what's going on and what needs to be done in and around Iraq has been painful to read and listen to, culminating in his call last weekend for

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098223329606459742004-10-19T21:58:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:49:24.816Z

The title to the link reads "Good news for Chavs: they may be cool people soon." Well, not on my watch. There are pieces covering the same story - the history of neologisms - here and here; the latter sees the author of the tome behind it all - Larpers and Shroomers: the Language Report - predicting the demise of the metrosexual and the return of the retrosexual. Wonderful women of the world,

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098188584086464132004-10-19T13:44:00.000+01:002004-11-02T12:41:20.076Z

I loved it the moment I saw it. For those few left wondering, there's lots of pics here and here, and especially, here. And the link (above and below, everybody; always, always arsehole and beak) is to a paean by Jonathan Jones (more pieces by him via BOAT DRINKS). Yeah, I agree with him on this "wonderful inflation shimmying out of the earth" - and, as he puts it: this is the most satisfying

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098183561049405842004-10-19T10:41:00.000+01:002004-11-02T12:13:08.086Z

Something has been bugging me for a few years now and it's this: what exactly is a flaming pie? Yeah, as used by our peer of the realm, Thumbs Aloft Macca, for a recent album title.* And, given that I think flaming pie = hairy pussy, that's a choice and cheeky phrase for the country's unofficial poet laureate to be using, is it not? (Continuing the - ahem - theme, spies tell me that his next

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098176792335514612004-10-19T09:38:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:51:46.720Z

So it's 3-2. The dream lives on. Papi! Papi! Papi! It's hard not to go all sing-song. I feel like a yo-yo. Before I go back to bed, it must be said that the Red Sox are impossible . . . truly "idiots". Some of the ball played by us during this series has been awful, with last night's Exhibit A Johnny D's attempted bunt. Johnny!?! What the fuck? Thank fuck last night's voyage down the crazy

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7673255.post-1098077929363226652004-10-18T06:30:00.000+01:002004-10-31T15:52:24.893Z

Enfuckingfin the big guy - Papi - has delivered - and we live to fight another day. Probably another shambles tonight (9pm GMT); right now, bed beckons. I just hope St Pedro has kept well away from the Wank Wall, cause he's gonna need all the juice he can finesse out of his courting fingers. Me? Well . . . my hands are free (it's my nails that are sore). And, in case you hadn't guessed already

DDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18003745773645030791noreply@blogger.com0