Hypocritical Oaf

Politics and religion are best avoided when talking to monkeys

2007-10-22T19:04:00.000+02:00

"The deputy mayor of the Indian capital Delhi has died a day after being attacked by a horde of wild monkeys." According to the BBC.

It's like they say, if you pay peanuts, you'll get hounded to your death by angry monkeys.

Oktoberfest

2007-09-22T18:28:00.000+02:00

I was in Munich this week so I popped in at Oktoberfest. Imagine Benny Hill had been commissioned to make a promotional video for Germany and was heavily influenced by the Mardi Gras acid sequence in Easy Rider.

Sadly, I had a flight to catch.

Lonely Hearts of Scotland

2007-09-16T19:37:00.000+02:00

Extracts from the lonely hearts pages of a Scottish publication:

Grossly overweight Buckie turf-cutter, 42 years old and 23 stone,Gemini, seeks nimble s@xpot, preferably South American, for tango sessions, candlelit dinners and humid nights of screaming passion. Must have own car and be willing to travel.
Box 09/08

Aberdeen man, 50, in desperate need of a ride. Anything considered.
Box06/03

Heavy drinker, 35, Glasgow area, seeks gorgeous s@x addict interested in pints, fags, Celtic football club and starting scraps on Sauchiehall Street at three in the morning.
Box 73/82.

Bitter, disillusioned Dundonian lately rejected by longtime fiancée seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing still exists in this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches.
Box 3/41

Ginger-haired Paisley troublemaker, gets slit-eyed and shirty after a few scoops, seeks attractive, wealthy lady for bail purposes, maybe more.
Box 84/87

Artistic Edinburgh woman, 53, petite, loves rainy walks on the beach,writing poetry, unusual sea-shells and interesting brown rice dishes, seeks mystic dreamer for companionship, back rubs and more as we bounce along like little tumbling clouds on life's beautiful crazy journey.
Strong stomach essential
Box 12/32

Chartered accountant, 42, seeks female for marriage. Duties will include cooking, light cleaning and accompanying me to office social functions. References required. No timewasters.
Box 23/45

Bad-tempered, foul-mouthed old b@stard living in a damp cottage in the arse end of Orkney seeks attractive 21-year old blonde lady with big chest.
Box 40/27

Devil-worshiper, Stirling area, seeks like-minded lady for wining and dining, good conversation, dancing, romantic walks and slaughtering dogs in cemeteries at midnight under the flinty light of a pale moon.
Box 52/07

Attractive brunette, Maryhill area, winner of Miss Wrangler competition at Framptons Nightclub, Maryhill, in September 1978, seeks nostalgic man who's not afraid to cry, for long nights spent comfort-drinking and listening to old Abba records. Please, Please!
Box 30/41

Govan man, 27, medium build, brown hair, blue eyes, seeks alibi for the night of February 27 between 8pm and 11.30pm
Box 42/30

Pavarotti is kaput

2007-09-06T18:57:00.000+02:00

This is how the news was announced to me by a Spanish friend this morning. It was awkward to be told a sad thing in a way which made me laugh. Kaput!

I have a colleague whose resting physical state at room temperature is "frenzy". She told me the other day about a death in the company. As she told me, her eyes were wild with astonishment and her hair twitched with the weight of an undropped bombshell. The gist of the conversation is reproduced below (some details have been changed to protect the dead).

Frenzied Colleague: You know Bob Dead, works in accounts in North America?

Bob Hughes: I know the name

FC: Young guy, not yet 40?

BH: Erm, yeah?

FC: he goes into hospital one day - and guess what? He never comes out! Died! Dead! Young guy just drops dead!

BH [smirking inappropriately]: wow, er, that's awful.

And it is awful. But the delivery was priceless, which made me feel like a sicko for wanting to laugh.

The fat man has sung.

Sports news

2007-08-26T18:31:00.000+02:00

"I felt Gay coming on my shoulder and that's when I panicked. It slowed me down."

Well you would, wouldn't you?

Sports news

The Quiet American Fratboy

2007-08-25T18:41:00.000+02:00

CIA operatives have allegedly inserted "Wahhhhh!" into the Wikipedia entry on President Ahmadinejad. Full story here.

In defence of the United States.

Am I the only one to be disappointed that CIA psy-ops don't seem to have moved on from writing "douchebag" on Todd's football locker?

CIA operatives wind down during a recent conference, "Creating a complex, adaptive intelligence community in the post-9/11 actuality."

Hat tip: thanks to Daveboy for reminding me to post this story.

The terror threat

2007-08-22T18:23:00.000+02:00

"A 12-year-old boy was charged with assault and taken before the courts - for throwing a cocktail sausage.

Full story here.

I'm with the police on this one. This week it's sausages, next week it'll be cheese and pineapple cubes.

There's a firm body of evidence to suggest that people who start with finger foods soon escalate to starters, then main courses. Before you know it, the young oik will be marching about hurling ham shanks at an unsuspecting public. Slippery slope, mark my words.

In other news this week, Italian police have uncovered an arms cache, allegedly belonging to a group of right-wing militant chefs, in a bakery near Milan. A spokesperson for the police said they had found a "number of cream-based missiles" and at least one delivery mechanism.

Cream-based missiles

What hermits do

2007-08-15T17:45:00.001+02:00

This is my mate. He's a hermit. This video is a rare glimpse into what hermits get up to when they're alone - which is most of the time.

Cats and the afterlife

2007-07-26T17:45:00.000+02:00

There's a cat in America which lives in an old people's home and can predict when people are going to die.

That is surely an unpopular party trick. "Look! Look! He's doing it again! Oh boy, poor old Herb ...I give him two hours, do I have any advances on two hours?"

The cat's called Oscar. I'd have called him "Dark Prince of the Afterlife" or "Shit Head".

The icy paws of death

Woman rips off testicle: "I am in no way a violent person"

2007-06-14T10:43:00.000+02:00

I'd always put ripping off testicles at the top end of boisterousness. I suppose it's a grey area.

Baldness and other perils

2007-06-13T18:58:00.000+02:00

I found a list of unusual deaths on Wikipedia. It's a jungle out there.

458 BC: The Greek playwright Aeschylus was killed when an eagle dropped a live tortoise on him, mistaking his bald head for a stone.
1671: François Vatel, chef to Louis XIV, committed suicide because his seafood order was late and he couldn't stand the shame of a postponed meal. His body was discovered by an aide, sent to tell him of the arrival of the fish.
2006: Mariesa Weber, a 5'3" Florida woman, fell behind a 6' tall bookcase in her family's home and suffocated. She was not discovered for 11 days; her family thought she had been kidnapped.

Ritalin is not the only answer

2007-06-07T12:10:00.001+02:00

Eggs!

2007-05-31T15:19:00.000+02:00

This guy is impressive. He's been getting a lot of flack in his comments for not having a life blah blah. I think this comment pretty much hits the nail on the head:

"Why do all you people insist he gets a girlfriend? You guys make it sound like all women are there for is the entertainment of men. Maybe he doesn't even like women, maybe he's gay. You don't know this kind of stuff, you don't know the guy so don't judge him because one of his hobbies is to make egg art."

Targetted marketing

2007-05-21T19:23:00.000+02:00

A parcel arrives from a salesman. The parcel is addressed for the attention of one Robert Hughes (me).

I open the parcel and inside there is a personalised letter for me:

Hello Richard,

....

A glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners. Matthew 11:19

2007-05-11T06:56:00.000+02:00

Not so Jonathan Hansen, a Mormon, a tort lawyer and a patriot (probably, I'm guessing).

Mr Hansen, no friend of tax collectors, feels that paying tax violates his religious beliefs. "I don't believe in it, I don't like it, I think it is Satanic," he blasts. Reading this made me nostalgic for long evenings in the family home when we'd gather round the television and my father would hit the booze.

A different Jonathan Hansen, this one a doctor, a fourth-generation Christian and a moustache-wearer, is president and founder of World Ministries International. You should contact them if you are interested in learning more about any of the following issues:

Abortion
Biblical Evidences
Education
Eschatology
European Union
Euthanasia
Evolution
Immorality
Islam
Middle East Showdown
One World Government
Pedophilia
Religion
Sodomy
United Nations

I suppose he thinks he's hard

2007-04-20T10:19:00.000+02:00

"Born in 1855 as William Grenfell, [Lord] Desborough was a cricket and soccer star at Harrow, where he set a school mile record that stood for sixty-one years. At Oxford he was president of athletics and the boat club and rowed number four in the famous 1877 boat race, the only one to end in a dead heat.

He was punting champion of Great Britain three years in succession, sculled from Oxford to Putney, 105 miles, in a day; stroked an eight across the English Channel; and fenced for Britain in the 1906 Olympics at the age of fifty, winning a silver medal.

He climbed extensively in the Alps, including three successful assaults on the Matterhorn, by three different routes; went big-game hunting in India and shooting in the Rocky Mountains. In one season's stalking in Scotland, he bagged a hundred stags, and during three weeks' fishing in Florida caught a hundred tarpon.

He twice swam Niagara falls, the second time in heavy hail and snow. As the Daily Telegraph's war correspondent in the Sudan in 1888, he once confronted the dervishes alone, armed only with an umbrella." - By The Sword, Richard Cohen

I have more respect for a man who lived through school called Randy Bumgardner.

The sublime work of Mr H.Hutton

2007-04-09T10:15:00.000+02:00

Harry Hutton at Chase Me Ladies is in rude health:

"OPEN LETTER TO PRESIDENT AHMAJINADAD
Just got back from Vegas, baby, what a riot. We were all like frickin wasted at the pool throwing back 40s for breakfast. The place was off the hook with smoking chicks, but there was this like convention in town with like these dicks in suits and shit."

See the full post here

Secrets of the Iberian Tiger

2007-03-23T16:02:00.000+01:00

Men at work.

Privately held Hooters

2007-03-21T13:45:00.000+01:00

Back in 2005, I reported a ham-fisted innuendo from Sky, here.

Today, I am in the happy position of being able to report this obra maestra from Reuters:

"Privately held Hooters said it planned to open 17 restaurants in Colombia, Dubai, Guam, New Zealand and India in the next two years."

Click here for the full article.

Heaven in the sky

2007-03-19T10:42:00.000+01:00

A woman who died in economy class on a BA flight from London to Delhi was upgraded to first class.

From BA's website: "Your demi-cabin is your sanctuary in the sky. A discreetly serviced and smartly equipped haven of calm where your well-being is catered for."

Bank: fair disclosure

2007-03-16T11:12:00.000+01:00

In the interests of fairness and, if I'm honest, with a dash of peevish glee, I told Bankinter I was making some of our interactions public.

Here is what I wrote:

Hi, this isn't a complaint as such. But I want you to know that I have decided to make public some of the more farcical interactions I have with you. If you are at all interested in improving your customer service, you might take a look. Past history suggests you have more important things on your mind. http://hypocriticaloaf.blogspot.com/

Bankinter is a bank that knows what is important. Me. They think about giving me what I need: security, agility and innovation. Here is their reply:

Dear Costumer,

In reply to your e-mail, we would like to thank you for your communication.

We are always at your disposal at our web site
https://www.ebankinter.com/www/en-es/cgi/ebk+home or at our Telephone Banking Service 901 135 135 (within Spain) or 00 34 91 657 88 01 (from abroad). We are available from 09:00 to 18:00 hours from Monday through Saturday.

Yours sincerely,

Bankinter

A letter arrives from my bank

2007-03-13T18:31:00.000+01:00

Dear client,

It's not enough to just be it, you have to appear to be it.

That's why at Bankinter we have decided to renew ourselves from the outside. To better communicate what we are inside: a bank which thinks about what we must think about, about you. A bank which thinks about giving you what you need: innovation, agility and security.

...and so it goes on.

Attached to the letter is an orange card. It is my "key card" and contains the security codes I need to perform operations on the internet and over the phone. I hadn't ordered a new card.

The security codes are different and it is bright orange. My old card was grey.

I phone them.

Bankinter good afternoon! How can I help you?

BH: Oh good afternoon. My name is Bob Hughes and I have just received a new key card.

Yes Mr Hughes!

BH: I didn't order a new card.

No Mr Hughes!

BH: Should I cancel my old card?

Your new card is exactly the same as your old card. Just a different colour!

BH: No it isn't.

Yes it is, Mr Hughes! Exactly the same.

BH: The numbers are different.

No Mr Hughes, have you checked the reference number?

BH: Yes.

And they are the same?

BH: No.

What is the number of the new card you have there Mr Hughes?

BH: XXXXXXXXX

That card is not for you Mr Hughes! Please destroy it!

BH: But it was addressed to me

But it is not for you! Please destroy it!

BH: And my old card?

You can keep that, Mr Hughes. It is still valid.

.../ends

My relationship with my bank has reached farce. I have decided to start making some of this public. Not necessarily because I have an axe to grind, but because it is good material.

The abstract logic of push-ups

2007-03-05T22:50:00.000+01:00

"British soldiers have chests as broad as horses. ...Every morning they hook their feet over the bumper of their jeep, put their hands on the ground and push themselves up and down on their hands two hundred times without stopping. I don't know why."

A local describes British forces in Afghanistan, from The Places in Between by Rory Stewart.

Experts

2007-02-22T11:36:00.000+01:00

New Zealand fishermen have landed a colossal squid weighing nearly half a tonne. An expert says the calamaris would be like tractor tyres.

A calamari expert.

"That big thing you guys spent loads of money on. Not the London Eye."

2007-02-21T18:28:00.000+01:00

This is how a Kenyan woman has just described the Milliennium Dome to me. An easy target, I know, but this is the first time I've heard anyone outside the UK talk about it unprompted.

It's the biggest dome in the world, apparently. Spain is fond of "biggest" or "oldest" claims. We have the biggest hotel in Europe and the oldest restaurant in the world in Madrid. The hotel is a horrid communist-style block on a motorway but the restaurant is nice.

It all sounds a bit like the world's biggest ball of string to me.

Prince Philip worshipped as a God

2007-02-20T11:01:00.000+01:00

With spear-throwing natives - as with women - there is a kernel of truth in the old adage, "treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen."

New camera!

2007-01-24T14:04:00.000+01:00

I got a new toy yesterday. This wee beastie.

Everyone in the office is fascinated by the 10 mega pixels it has, the optical image stabilising, the 6x zoom, the easy-to-access white balance control ...etc.

All except one smartarse. I gave up a few moments of my time in the kitchen to explain the basics to him and was just at the point of summarising the accessories I might buy in the future when he revealed his ugly subtext.

"You can buy an accessory lens to make the wide end wider or a telephoto fitting to make it..."

"...more Freudian?"

I punched him in the chops.

Barbershop nihilism

2007-01-20T15:39:00.001+01:00

I visited the oldest barber shop in Madrid this morning. It had been some time since my last visit and my hair was unkempt.

Previously, Rafael had been forthcoming in his prescription: "You need to get rid of all this," he had counseled, kneading my shaggy mane with a splayed claw, "...you've got thick, really thick, hair at the back and on the sides, and since you're bald on top it makes your head look deformed."

This time I was spared: today was not a day to waste on the fripperies of my deformities; Rafael had weightier matters on his mind. "Plastic surgery, silicon, face lifts, it's all lies. Artificial breasts aren't my thing, I like my women all natural."

In the mirror, an old man solemnly agreed. His face was like oak and his hair was the colour of dye.

"Money. If you've got money you're the smartest, best-looking, funniest man in the world."

Rafael fell silent for a moment as he trimmed the hair off the tops of my ears. Then his discourse continued, "but really, there are only two things that matter in this world: life..." The snipping stopped as Rafael lifted his gaze to look me straight in the eye through the mirror.

I heard a croak behind me: the oldest patron of the oldest barbershop in Madrid was finishing Rafael's sentence, "...and death."

Lily Munster dead

2007-01-11T17:41:00.000+01:00

Lily Munster's dead.

I didn't realise she - or rather Yvonna de Carlo - played Moses' wife in The Ten Commandments.

My favorite bit in that film is when Moses returns from Mount Sinai, where he has seen the burning bush and spoken to God for the first time (with hindsight a pretty fundamental turning point in the history of the Israelites, Judaism and the subsequent 4,000 years of civilisation). Sephora, played by Yvonna de Carlo, falls to her husband's knees and says: "Moses, your hair!"

My thoughts go out to Grandpa, Eddie and Herman at this difficult time for them.

"Moses, your hair!"

"I shit on the 105th kilometre of your horns"

2006-09-11T05:46:00.000+02:00

Well, it´s been a while. A long while. Laziness got the better of me and I let the blog lie fallow.

This, though, moved me to post. An ETA (Basque separatist terrorists) man, receiving his sentence from the other side of a glass screen (I assume bullet-proof) last Thursday let off an extraodinary volley of abuse. Among threats to shoot, stab and employ miscellaneous other methods to shove the sentencing judge of his mortal coil, the beefy, shaven-headed convicted terrorist shouted, "Me cago en kilómetro 105 de tus cuernos."

The literal translation - I shit on the 105th kilometre of your horns - demands further interpretation.

Poner los cuernos (to put on the horns) means to have an affair or be otherwise unfaithful in the amorous sense. Someone who has long horns is, in this sense, someone whose partner is having many affairs. The suggestion above, therefore, is that the judge´s wife is sleeping around a lot. Not only that, but the fellow recently consigned to many years in prison shits on the whole sorry lot.

Teenage pregnancy

2006-05-13T17:48:00.000+02:00

Just been an interesting discussion on an internet forum I go to about teenage pregnancy rates and why england has the highest in western europe. I found this table with birth/pregnancy/abortion data for 15-19 yo girls from lots of countries.

A few related thoughts from having lived in Spain for 4 yrs:

1) There is a much smaller gap between the generations in Spain. Older people act younger - at one festival I got chatting to a group 50 and 60 year-olds still out on the town at 5 in the morning. Younger people don't necessarily act any older but they don't have the same contempt for older people. Stop to ask a group of surly and socially-awkward-looking teenagers for directions and they will answer in a bright, friendly and helpful way in Spain much more often than I found they would in England. I don't know if this is a cause or an effect of Spaniards living with their parents for much longer than is typical in England. It may mean that parents have more influence over the excesses of their children.

2) Booze. After 4 years I still haven't identified categorically the difference between the spanish and the british approach to booze. Spaniards seem better able to hold their drink. They can stay up all night drinking spirits by the gallon but still rarely seem to get blind, unconsciously and uncontrollably drunk in the same way that the british do. One thing is that british go out with the express intention of getting drunk. The british refer to their social lives in terms of getting drunk. (We're out on the piss. What did you do Saturday? Got leathered. etc) The spanish refer to their social lives in terms of having fun (la marcha).

3) Attitudes to sex. The spanish are quite an earthy bunch and tend not to be shy away from topics which would make an englishman blush. A friend aking a park attendant for the nearest toilet was told, "Depends, do you need to shit or to piss? If you need to piss, this place is full of trees. For a shit you'd need to go to the other side of the boating lake where there's a public toilet." Prostitution is much, much more visible in Spain. Madrid is next to a large park which is hopping with near-naked prostitutes cat-calling to the steady stream of cars driving up and down the strip. What is especially odd about this is that, during the afternoon the traffic is a mix of solitary men, taxis and families and old people out to take the air. Joggers and cyclists often run up and down the strip too, fending off interest. All over Madrid "club" or "whyskeria" signs flash in neon. These are brothels. There are 4 within spitting distance of my office (as an aside, the area is called "neighbourhood of the conception" and all the streets are names after virgins "de guadeloupe", "de africa" etc). Today's El País, the socially conscious national daily paper, carries three full pages of adverts for call girls, brothels and massage parlours. Some are job offers.

Overheard at the deli counter

2006-03-15T13:37:00.000+01:00

"Anything else madam? Milk-bread? Eggs?"
"You've already asked me that."
"Yeah but, y'know, just in case..."
"..."
"...truth is I've got that brain disease, y'know that...oh what's it called, y'know, German fella..."
"...?"
"Oh fuck it I can't remember."

Slobodan Milosevic's last words

2006-03-13T16:14:00.000+01:00

Slobodan Milosevic is still capable of controversy even after his recent death. The alleged war criminal and courtroom curmudgeon's last words, "I never did trust those 'erbs", have pitched the Indignant Irish Nationalists of O'Serbia into a fierce war of words with the People's Democratic Party for the Eradication of Spices.

"He was killed by the spices!" bellowed Rdancic Klvdic of the People's Democratic Party for the Eradication of Spices.

"He has stuck oor loyalty up his double-crossing ring, so he has" hollered a spittle-flecked Klvdic O'Rdancic, spokesperson for the Indignant Irish Nationalists of O'Serbia.

Germans and toilets

2006-03-12T12:53:00.000+01:00

"When your arse makes the noise, your heart feels good."

Bavarian proverb
Told to me in a toilet in a Berlin bar at 6 in the morning.

In the interest of political discussion

2006-03-04T14:55:00.000+01:00

John Prescott should be PM. Remember when the lout punched an oaf? That brought politics to the people.

Condom-tax policy is as racy as Gordon Brown gets. Could someone poke me with a stick when he does one of the following?

1) shoots a lawyer,
2) punches a farmer
3) has some clown set fire to the seat of his trousers, screeches like a chimp, runs about in a blind panic and puts the flames out by bouncing on his arse. This happened to a friend and I laughed like a drain.

Mick Hucknall: pop genius or twat?

2006-03-04T13:07:00.000+01:00

Click on this unbiased link and judge for yourself: T.W.A.T.

Lawyers: hunt them with dogs?

2006-02-17T16:28:00.000+01:00

Harry Hutton's really got his teeth into this Cheney hullabaloo.

But I see a deeper story. I find myself wondering, what is the most humane way to cull the lawyer population? For cull them, we must.

I'm not convinced that shot-guns are the right tool - as the veep has demonstrated. However much you recognise the need to control the population, no right-thinking human being can look upon one of God's creatures, once so magnificent in its pin-striped plumage, squirming, writhing, yelping like a pup, shaking buckshot from it's snout.

I am told, by a greater-tweeded lawyer (no less), that hunting with dogs is a more humane approach. At least that way the poor mite gets torn limb from limb in a matter of seconds.

Or, now that we've taken a step down the road to sport, perhaps we should allow these proud beasts one last hour of glory. Perhaps we should put them in a ring and have them taunted by a fairy in buttock-hugging, gold-lamé trousers. That would be the Spanish, and to my mind the best, approach.

The mysterious case of the black sock

2006-02-13T16:45:00.000+01:00

A most odd thing happened this weekend past. My doorbell cruelly chirruped at Saturday's hangover. Answering the door I was confronted by Esperanza - an old lady in her eighties who lives across the stairs - and Pilar - an "inqusitive" neighbour from downstairs. They asked if I'd lost a black sock. No, not so far as I'm aware, said I. I must confess I haven't checked recently but I'm fairly sure I have the full set. Why do ask?

Well, last night Pilar heard a terrible crash and a bang at about 2am and Esperanza woke this morning to find her purse missing, footprints on the windowsill and a black, gentleman's sock on the floor of her living room!

It seems someone climbed the stairs to the third floor, took to the window, stepped onto Esperanza's window ledge, climbed in, robbed her purse and left a sock.

The odd thing is, during my first encounter with Pilar, the downstairs neighbour, she offered me a single black sock as a settling in present.

There's more to this than meets the eye.

UPDATE: unloading a white wash at the weekend - a white wash which I personally loaded, item by item - I found single, black sock. I shiver tickled my spine. Like a coward, I hung it up to dry inside the house. This will come back to haunt me.

Cut and thrust in a gastro-pub in London

2005-12-27T11:26:00.000+01:00

"Two halves of Star please."
"You from The Cock?"
"Yeah" smiles
"Chef there aint'cha?"
"Yeah"
"Wanna leave?"
"Why?"
"We sacked our chef last night..."

Welcome to England, have a nice day (II)

2005-12-23T22:52:00.000+01:00

Tall guy; big, wide, tall guy. Stack of snow-white hair. Belly lunges precariously over his trousers. Shambolic English academic. Looks like his pieces - head, arms, hair - were tossed in the shed and, over time, rusted together in a more-or-less human shape. Stands stock-still. Rummages in a shoulder bag (fabric, stuffed full of papers, may contain a laptop).

As I pass he mutters, sotto voce, "Gis' a kiss darlin'"

Hampstead Heath

Welcome to England, have a nice day (I)

2005-12-23T22:46:00.000+01:00

Large, white rooms. Wide, long, low ceilings. The wide width and long length intimidate the human occupant. He suffers a creepy, creeping feeling. Not noticeable at first. The subject is crushed by the low ceiling. Without knowing, he is at his most vulnerable.

The low hum of machinery. An shrill warning siren. Old people ferried by a buggy: the kind you'd find in the lair of a down-on-his-luck Bond villain. Driver: glum, overweight, older than his mid-fifties deserve. Beard: muddy white. Eyes: disfigured by glasses. A Santa hat clings to his skull like a popped balloon.

Gatwick Airport

Blind fury

2005-12-17T22:26:00.000+01:00

At Madrid airport, boarding calls are not announced over the PA system; instead passengers must check the information screens regulalarly. Roughly every ten minutes, this policy is announced over the PA system. There are fewer furious blind people than might be expected.

Bush, Blair declare war on explosions

2005-12-13T18:36:00.000+01:00

Following the explosion which rocked Luton early Sunday morning George W. Bush and Tony W Blair have openly declared war on explosions, the "scourge of the modern age" as one commentator put it.

Mr Blair took the opportunity of a pre-arranged speech to the Scarborough Women's Institute to emphasise the solid stance of America and Britain in the war against explosionists.

"We are bound together as never before. And this coming together provides us with unprecedented opportunity but also makes us uniquely vulnerable," he said to a packed audience.

"And the threat comes because in another part of our globe there is shadow and darkness, where not all the world is free, where many millions suffer under brutal bangs, and where a fanatical strain of religious explosionism has arisen. We have to tackle this at every level."

In a bold speech to Congress earlier today, Mr Bush declared, "America and our friends and allies join with all those who want peace and security in the world, and we stand together to win the war against explosions. Our war on explosions begins with Luton, but it does not end there. It will not end until every explosion-doer has been found, stopped and defeated."

The Pentagon today began distributing Top Trumps cards of the world's biggest explosions to help win the hearts and minds of the man on the street in the new campaign. An interactive list of the biggest explosions in the world compiled by our team of keen-as-mustard, eighteen-year-old experts in the proliferation of world explosionism can be found here.

As Jesus is my butcher

2005-12-12T23:36:00.000+01:00

1 - a young man at the counter

"No not that bit, can you cut it from another piece?"
Jesus: "What are you talking about?"
"That bit's too fatty, can you find me a piece with less fat"
Jesus: "The fat's good for you."
"I don't want it"
Jesus: "...gives it flavour"
"Just cut it from another piece."
Jesus: Sighs

2 - a mother shops for her family

"Whoah, stop there,"
Jesus: "What?"
"Stop there, that's fine."
Jesus: "What?"
"That's fine, we'll never eat all that"
Jesus: "You will"
"We won't"
Jesus: "You will"
[warning tone] "Jesus..."
Jesus[shakes head]: "O-kay"

These were two conversations overheard at my butcher's, who is called Jesus. This is not so odd in Spain (in fact, I once met a man called Jesus Maria El Salvador - "the saviour" - who'd been born on 25 December).

The vegetable shop round the corner is called Hermanos Polla, which means "Cock Brothers". It's one thing to be called Mr Cock: quite another to go into business with your brother and use the family name.

Saddam: hanging's too good for him

2005-12-07T11:08:00.000+01:00

What a blighter! Fancy turning up to court without a tie! They're better off without a slob like that. No wonder he won't show his face today; embarrassed no doubt.

Probably the kind of yahoo that would light a cigar before coffee.

Romantic gift

2005-12-06T22:49:00.000+01:00

Not sure what to give that special lady in your life?

Buy her a false eye and when you give it to her say, "In case someone steals the diamonds in your eye and...like...y'know...you wouldn't be able to see so...er...I got yer...geddit?"

Putty in your hands, my brothers.

Best goes West

2005-11-25T14:29:00.000+01:00

So George Best has finally karked it. The Best death of all time?

I can't help seeing it as ironic that Georgie's last hours came just as England's drinkers were granted a few more
hours in the pub.

Alanis Morisette, if you're reading this blog, THAT's irony. All that stuff in that naked song of yours missed the mark.

In the interests of transparency, I should declare an interest. George Best looked like my Dad.

Rioting in France - what did I tell you?

2005-11-17T23:05:00.000+01:00

What did I say? Hmmm? All that bally-hoo over how the Americans can´t organise themselves out of a flooded bayou and how it wouldn´t happen in Europe because we´re different and whaddaya know? A couple of weeks later all of France is up in flames.

And before any smart arse pipes up with "ah but that´s different, that´s the French, they´ve never won anything," well it wasn´t so very long ago that northern England was aflame with racial rioting and only just over 25 years ago Spain was a dictatorship.

So it does happen here. Less of the gloating please.

I refer the assembled self-righteous to my previous blog: click.

...and anyone who points out that maybe, just maybe, this post is a little self-righteous, I point you to the title of this blog.

I´m living the brand.

I cannae change the laws of physics captain

2005-11-17T22:41:00.000+01:00

Poor old Scotty. He wanted his ashes spread across the final frontier but the spaceship's knackered.

Fix the warp nacelles and get warp 3 in less than three minutes or they´d all be dead! Alas, the energiser was bypassed like a christmas tree. In life, as in death, he couldnae change the laws of physics.

security guards and foreign exchange

2005-10-13T22:18:00.000+02:00

I've made good friends with the security guard at work. He's a nice fellow, looks like Steven Segal's dad. He collects coins and has a thing for pound coins so whenever I go back to the UK I bring him one. Anyway, one morning we were discussing the pros and cons of sporting a leek on your coin of the realm and he explained how expensive they are:

"They're not cheap you know."

"Really?"

"Oh no, I mean how much is a pound in euros?"

"About 1.50, give or take"

"Well, there you go you see. I paid 2.50 for this one."

I let out an impressed whistle.

This is surely China's century

2005-10-13T21:03:00.000+02:00

When the International Olympic Committee makes synchronised yogic flying an official sport, China will be ready and waiting.

That the same can't be said of our once-Great Britain speaks volumes.

Kindly old gent pooh-poohs world-domination rumours

2005-10-10T10:20:00.000+02:00

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4290944.stm

Not the leader of a shadowy organistion that rules the world

Katrina cause: lesbians, jazz or Japanese?

2005-10-01T13:44:00.000+02:00

Pat Roberts was meanly misquoted by Hollywood Dateline as blaming Hurricane Katrina on famous lesbian, Ellen Degeneres. link to slanderous, degenerate commies

That would be silly. The punishment for lesbianism is earthquakes, as every good Christian should know. And Hurricane Katrina was all about sinful jazz music.
link to grovelling apology from slanderous, degenerate commies

I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly.

He's angry with the jazz, not the lesbians.

Pat Robertson reveals controversial plans to wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.

Rug-munchers! Suffer thy shame.

Scientists think talk of Godly vengeance for jazz is bunkum. According to one clear-thinking and rational egg-head, Katrina was caused by Japanese gangsters annoyed by Hiroshima and hoping to clean up on the futures markets. Click here to know the truth about Katrina.

...and more from the world of science:

"Patrick Leman of Royal Holloway, a college of the University of London, has presented the results of his research into conspiracy theories to the annual meeting of the British Psychological Society, which was held last week in Bournemouth. He thinks the reason people believe in conspiracy theories is that humans have an innate tendency to try to link major events with major causes.

To test this idea Dr Leman presented 64 students with clippings of articles that looked as though they had been taken from a newspaper. In fact, the articles had been made up. They were about the president of a fictional country, and they came in four versions, of which each student saw but one. In the first version, the president was shot and killed. In the second, he was shot but survived. In the third, the shot missed, but he died shortly afterwards from an unrelated cause. In the fourth, the shot missed and he lived. The students were asked to rate the likely truth of six statements on the subject of whether the assassin was a gunman acting alone, or whether there was a conspiracy at work. They were also asked to rate the accuracy of the “facts” in the article.

...Dr Leman found that if the fictional president “died” after the shooting, readers were much more likely to believe that the gunman was part of a conspiracy. This was true even though the other facts in the story were unchanged, and even if the death was due to an unrelated cause, such as a heart attack. This curious observation is the basis of Dr Leman's hypothesis that there is some underlying process in human psychology that assumes that the bigger the effect is, the bigger the cause must have been."

Taken from: http://www.economist.com/displaystory.cfm?story_id=1648616

Healthy living

2005-09-27T19:09:00.000+02:00

The white room stretches six metres in front of me, two metres wide, three metres tall; a corridor to nowhere, a white-tiled cul-de-sac. A dull chrome bar clings with menace to the far wall. I am sent to it, told to face it. I want to steady myself on the bar but am afraid to show my fear. The white walls, the dimensions of the room, my near-nakedness, all threaten me. From behind a white counter, by the entrance, a water cannon is turned on my back. I flinch under the cold spray which starts at my feet and rises to my back, growing harder and warmer. Turn round. I am facing my aggressor. Nothing to hold on to. My arms hang awkwardly. Our eyes don’t meet. She blasts my body disinterestedly. It is a job to her, dull, functional, workaday.

"It’s good for the circulation."

I have mixed feelings about the imminent massage.

Beating the Bush

2005-09-22T18:05:00.000+02:00

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the President his daily briefing, and concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed in an accident"

"Oh No", the President exclaims. "That's terrible".

His staff sit there, stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President slumps, head in hands. Finally the President looks up and asks...

"How many is a Brazillion?"

Norway not boring!

2005-09-13T16:41:00.000+02:00

Norway's prime minister today proved to a shocked international audience that his country is not nearly as boring as everbody thought, by resigning with his government.

"Sje peebol ov de worrld dink we de borink but we naat. I haf sjoan dis dooday," mushed the outgoing premier.

"Ssssss...harrumph...mine's a gin and tonic...ssss...zzzzz," said Britain's Foreign Secretary in a statement issued by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office responding to the news.

Special

2005-09-12T11:09:00.000+02:00

An apology to the hordes of readers out there who may be missing my irregular posts.

I will be more erratic than usual for the next couple of weeks because I've moved flat and don't yet have broadband. I ordered it at the weekend and was offered a special price, which made me feel special.

"Ooooh," I asked coquettishly, "and how much is this special price?"
"39.95 a month."
"oooh...oh. That's the same special price as usual. Which is to say, it's not special. And by extension, neither am I."
"It is special,"
"No, it isn't."
"...and so are you. Would you like ADSL?"
"You're all the same you, you, you UTILITY companies. All charming with your fine words and special prices but at the end of it all you're just after one thing."
"You get a free router."
"Hmmmm...ok then, but this is the last time..."
"It's wireless."
"Well, you'd better think about throwing some wires in, hadn't you? Hmmm?"
"..."
"For free."
"...it'll be with you in 20 days."

Disaster strikes!

2005-09-12T10:26:00.000+02:00

Booze and the oldest democracy

2005-09-03T19:24:00.000+02:00

Harry Hutton wonders whether you're four times more likely to get punched in the chops in England today than 10 years ago.

Now there's a grand hoo-har over relaxing licensing laws to distribute chop-punching activity more evenly through the night and give the vomit on your porch less time to dry before morning.

It's maybe a good time to point out that your average Briton chinned 9.2 litres of pure alcohol in 2002 (link, info on page 2). Pretty impressive. Booze is surely one of the pillars upon which the oldest democracy stands.

On of the arguments for relaxing licensing laws is to encourage a more "continental European" drinking culture. The hope is that pallid yobs who like to follow seven pints of cheap lager with a fight and a kebab, will become tanned sophisticates sipping wine and strolling through the boulevards. I fear this is wishful thinking. Take a second look at this: link, info on page 2. In 2002, Britain boozed less than Luxembourg, Hungary, Ireland, Czech Republic, Germany, France, Portugal and Spain.

I was carousing in Spain last night and it is certainly possible to get staggeringly drunk over a long period of time in this fine land. But Spaniards aren't nearly so terrifying when drunk.

The British drink more recklessley, take more drugs and steal more road cones than any other country in Europe; always have done, always will. A stroll through the Victoria and Albert museum is like strolling through a British student's bedroom on Saturday morning, full of the spoils of past excesses.

"...and the priceless treasure on your right turned up in Lord Elgin's possession while the British Ambassador to Constantinople was on the outside of six pints of lager and a bottle of Metaxa. It is a sorry loss for history that Elgin couldn't remember the exact provenance of the vase but reckoned he must have swiped it from somewhere between the Good Times Taverna, where he fell into the arms of a syphilitic maiden, and his offices, the steps of which he woke up on at six in the morning having lost his keys. Elgin later attributed an otherwise inexplicable bruise on his shin to the same night out."

there's just a thin layer between us and total ratshit

2005-09-02T20:34:00.000+02:00

I have had the overwhelming feeling today that if all this New Orleans carry-on happened in my home town, or in any of the cities i've lived in, the spiral into lawless mob-rule would be more or less the same.

I'm pretty comfortable in my western middle class cocoon watching disasters on telly, reading about famines in the paper, feeling bad for a minute before worrying that I'm nearly thirty and my most valuable possession is a pair of shoes (which need fixing, incidentally).

But if I was corraled into a stadium with no food, no water and pounding heat after having all my possessions washed away (ok, that's one benefit of the aforementioned) by a biblical deluge, I reckon I'd get pretty shirty too. Fuck it, I'd be pissing-on-my-socks terrified. I'm an utter and devoted coward. A mean fucker with knives wants my underpants and my broken shoes?

"Why certainly, good sir, and may I say, your one eye lends you a dashing mystery. I don't care what others say."

Put a gun in my hand and I'd undoubtedly shoot Mean Fucker instead of giving up my broken shoes and pissed-on socks. Not having much of a clue about guns, I'd probably shoot him in the ear, at a stroke justifying and increasing the tempo of the ensuing beating. Nope, I wouldn't come out of such an ordeal smelling of roses.

If there is any good to come out of this, and surely good comes out of everything, just as bad does, it is that we can no longer presume that bad things, disorganisation and collapsing societies only happen in far away countries we visit. ("Ya, such a great experience, man. The people are so real.")

We're all humans and disaster, whether it is war, famine, flood or other stuff, can happen however civilised you think you are. Some of the dumb fuckers moaning about how Africa should be left to sort out its own problems would do well to remember that.

Sorry for the serious post. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Whoever names hurricanes should be well-versed in popular culture

2005-09-01T22:06:00.000+02:00

In 1998 Hurricane Bonnie struck North Carolina. I was confident Hurricane Clyde was just around the corner. Two vicious Hurricanes named after two vicious bank-robbers. Can't say fairer than that, now.

Alas, the next awesome demonstration of nature's might was Hurricane Cyril, or Clive, or Chris or some other unmighty name.

I shrugged, disappointed. If I was at the business end of nature's kosh I probably wouldn't want the world to be smiling wryly at a well-chosen name while I'm watching my house swoop over the horizon with a cow.

But maybe not so much thought goes into the names after all. I've had "Walking on Sunshine"* stuck in my head for three days now.

*by Katrina and the Waves

Euphemism and cultural relevance

2005-09-01T20:14:00.000+02:00

"The [flying of planes into tall buildings is] understood by both Arabs and non-Arabs... even by Chinese."

Osama bin Laden demonstrating that even crazies in caves use "Chinese" as short-hand for "you won't understand them and they won't understand you".

(link: later conversation turns to football (albeit with a flying-planes-into-buildings twist))

When I was 14, I wondered how my Dad's painter and decorator friend was big-house-with-swimming-pool-in-leafy-part-of-London-rich.

Me: How comes your mate Painter Decorator's got such a big house with a swimming pool?

Hughes the Elder: ...well...err...well...he's done work for Arabs y'know.

Me: ...

I now know that "done work for Arabs" is a Hughes-the-Elder short-hand for "married money".

I wonder who the Chinese think is unintelligible and Arabs think is rich? And do they both use "Greek" as short-hand for "buggery"?

Madness: you've either got it, or you haven't

2005-08-29T23:20:00.000+02:00

There is a good-natured-looking crazy fella in Venezuela, according to a chap called Hutton (link here).

He's not got a patch on Carlotta the Mad, wife of an Emperor of Mexico. She was firmly in your full-baked category of nut jobs: spent days talking to a life-sized doll dressed in imperial robes and when her house caught fire, leaned out of the window (ok, sensible) shouting, "That is forbidden! That is forbidden!" at the flames (mad).

Nuns as batty as thought

2005-08-29T17:08:00.000+02:00

A batty nun.

I am a menace

2005-08-29T12:57:00.000+02:00

Weeks ago, in thrall to an “efficiency”, I bought a return ticket from Paris to Somewhere in Rural France to see Hughes the Elder. Leaving the house to catch the plane for Paris, I left the tickets on my bedside table. Arriving in Paris Gare de Lyon, I bought a second ticket to Somewhere in Rural France. Buying a return ticket would assure me of having a ticket for the return leg. I bought a single.

I surfed the internet (a fantastic device, they say it will be a big thing) and e-bought the e-return. I will pick it up at the station when I go home. After a lovely week of fine wine, strong cheese and odd dreams, Hughes the Elder drives me to Gare du Somewhere in Rural France.

There’s a diversion and we park a few minutes’ walk from the station. The diversion is a red herring which steals valuable moments. We arrive. I collect my ticket. Do I have my reservation number? Of course not. We argue. I don’t speak French and Hughes the Elder’s hearing is poor. I buy another ticket (this is the third I have bought for the same journey). I miss the train. I panic. We think. I get annoyed. I buy a ticket from a station 200 kms away.

We must drive quickly. Allez-vites, allez-vites. We are in the car. We are lost. We are found. We are going the wrong way. We are going the right way. We are where we started. We’ve lost half an hour. We must go quickly. We need a pee. We stop, pee and continue. My spirits have lifted. I am no longer angry. The gods smile on us. The journey is fast, the conversation engaging. We bond. We arrive. Will we find the station?

We do, miraculously quickly. I have my ticket. We joke about missing the train. The train is late. It arrives. I say my goodbyes and headbutt a girl walking in the opposite direction. My eyes water; she is bruised and affronted.

The train door won’t open. I try another. Hughes the Elder worries. No problem at all! I laugh and wave affably. My eyes are streaming and my nose throbs. I board the train and find a seat.

Two and a half hours later, I arrive in Paris. An hour to cross town and I arrive at Paris Orly airport with time to spare. I drop my mp3 player down a toilet.

Nuns not as batty as thought

2005-08-22T18:36:00.000+02:00

Vindication at last for generations of nuns ridiculed into silence for their unscientific and, during the 70s at least, downright unpatriotic belief that looking at lewd pictures makes a boy go blind.

Champion

2005-08-19T17:26:00.000+02:00

Although the idea of a Brand Champion, Company Values Champion or Quality Champion makes me want to vomit into my shoes, "Champion", alone, unqualified and unspecified, would make an excellent job title.

"Hi, Bob Hughes, Champion, pleased to meet you."

"So what are you a champion of, Bob?"

"Oh, you know, stuff."

whut up sugar-girl?

2005-08-16T22:37:00.000+02:00

Dang pimp done stole my moves

Well grow me a mullet and call me Max!

2005-08-15T23:58:00.000+02:00

Two perspectives on oil running out.

According to the sobre analysis of this rational, every-day Joe who is most certainly not a nut job, fruitcake, swivel-eyed loony or crackpot of any sort, civilisation as we know it will come to an end. Soon.

Not a loony

But according to a crack team of responsible, grey-suited, disinterested analysts who have never visited La-La Land, it´s all fine, nothing to worry about, blue skies, stick another SUV on the barbie. These folks are most certainly not gouging leeches or spittle-flecked madmen. Neither are they senile.

Never visited La-La Land

Who to believe?

Easy come, easy go

2005-08-11T21:10:00.000+02:00

The president of Thai Airways, Kanok Abhiradee, must have been cock-a-hoop when he heard, on August 5th, that he had been awarded the 2005 World Airline Leadership Award by SkyTrax Research, which conducts surveys among airline passengers. According to the company's website, the awards are "the most recognised and respected mark of quality approval for the airline and airport industries".

(scroll to bottom left)

Mr Abhiradee had only five days to celebrate before his boss suspended him for "a crisis of huge losses" as reported by the FT. Life at the top certainly is topsy-turvy.

Perhaps, though, the answer lies in a closer look at SkyTrax's website.

Scroll down the page and, below the black and blue image of last year's excellence awards plaque, there is a link to click on. The link is called, "Award Plague". Pity next year's winner.

Political correctness gone mad

2005-08-10T16:34:00.000+02:00

First our right to shoot burglars went the way of the dinosaurs. Now those guilt-ridden middle class hand-wringers are after our right to have a pop at mindless maniacs hurtling about the skies in helicopters, interrupting lord knows how many afternoon naps.

This have-a-go hero has been arrested! Probably a war veteran. I've no doubt the acned youths dressed up as policemen desrved a cuff round the ear with a saucepan.

Now tell me it's not a slippery slope.

Innuendo and the law of diminishing returns

2005-08-01T15:26:00.000+02:00

Don't get me wrong, I'm as fond as the next man of easing a well-judged innuendo into a natural opening, but surely Sky has brought the art into disrepute with this blunderbuss offering.

stroke here if you are aroused,

18th earl of Pembroke in dancing dwarf romp...possibly.

2005-08-01T11:56:00.000+02:00

He's tall, he's handsome, he's worth a mountain of money, he's not a complete twat. But I bet he nevers gets black-bearded midgets dancing for him. Not without paying for them, which he probably does, in his cellar. The seedy lowlife.

I was an object of desire

2005-07-31T13:58:00.000+02:00

I went out on the razzle-dazzle with a few charming folk on Friday night. We found an excellent little bar where I entertained the locals with some spectacular dancing - the better for my being drunk.

Without any preamble, I was nose-to-nose with a black-bearded, short man who was beaming brightly and thrashing like a cat chewing through a power cable. I understood him to be dancing.

The evening had been going well and I was in high spirits so I danced with our new friend. After a while I broke off and went to the toilet. Coming back, I saw black-beard standing with my group and I presumed he was pestering the ladies among the group. I cast shame aside and danced with the hot-blooded latin lothario to give the girls a break. He returned my chivalry by kissing me on the neck.

It was only then that I realised I had been the object of his amor. When I clarified my hetero status, he exclaimed "I see! I saw! I have seen!" and then went over to a friend of mine and shouted "I see! I saw! I have seen!" before walking off, a little embarrassed.

Apparently everyone else knew all along that this guy´s intentions towards me were not honorable. I think I need to get my gaydar recalibrated.

The Mighty Elephant

2005-07-24T13:23:00.000+02:00

A mighty elephant is stomping through the jungle one day, in a foul mood, when a tiny armadillo waddles into his path.

"WHAT HAVE WE HERE?" bellows the elephant. "MR.ARMADILLO, YOU ARE VERY SMALL AREN´T YOU?"

"We´ll I´ve been ill," replies Mr Armadillo.

Washington, for the love of Big Animals

2005-07-18T23:09:00.000+02:00

...and in other news this week, a Seattle man has died after having sex with a horse.

Click here and scroll to bottom story

A couple of points which raised an eyebrow:

1) He died of a perforated colon, which gives a surprising answer to the question, who was on top?
2) The horse was uninjured, thankfully
3) Sex with large animals is not illegal in Washington State, but pair up with only a wee beastie to make the beast-with-two-backs and you're going down.
4) So lovers of large animals should head to Washington State.

And it's goodnight from him.

Access to the netherworld just got easier!

2005-07-18T19:39:00.000+02:00

In Newquay, in Cornwall, UK, just behind the bus station there is a care home for the elderly, called Roundabout Nursing Home. So named? Because it’s on a roundabout.

This is the same logic that leads you to number your children, which at least betrays an admirable lack of parental gooeyness. But naming an elderly care home after a non-descript roundabout is lack of imagination to the point of callousness.

They might as well name it after the graveyard next door (really): St John’s final rest, access to the netherworld just got easier! Even industrial estates are more imaginatively named. “It’s very practical” Yes, but it seems more heartless than plastic bedding. Poor devils.

Berserk we did go, verily.

2005-07-16T22:11:00.000+02:00

On Thursday I paid good money (twenty-five euros, no less) to watch an elderly man roam about a stage wearing nothing but a pair of 1970s trainers and a nappy. That man was one of The Presidents. In fact, I thought he was George Clinton until another fully grown man ambled on stage in jeans and a striped polo shirt with coloured strips of paper decorating his hair. He didn't need to do an awful lot for the crowd to go berserk. And berserk we did go, verily. Bananas, barking, cock-a-hoop.

It was a spectacular concert.

In a quiet moment I mused on which outfits the chap in the nappy had dismissed earlier that evening. Jeans and t-shirt? Nah. Gold lame catsuit? I'm too old for that kind of caper. Fuck it, it's a warm night and I'm approaching incontinence, I'll wear the nappy.

I also wondered at the coincidence that way back in the 1970s this crazy loon call himself George Clinton and started a band called The Presidents and the past three US presidents have been George, Clinton and another George. Weird, no?

Please pray for this man...

2005-07-10T17:19:00.000+02:00

The publicist for RnB chap, Omarion, issued a statement on Thursday, July 7, asking fans to pray for him because he had been in London when terrorists exploded four bombs in the city. According to Shana Gilmore, his publicist, "He wasn't hurt or anything, but just the fact that he was there and all that."

CLICK

Except that, according to Omarion, he has nothing to do with Shana Gilmore, or the company she works for.

STROKE

...and according to Shana Gilmore she has nothing to do with Omarion

RUB

which is all a bit fishy.

I felt very far from my friends and sister today

2005-07-08T00:19:00.000+02:00

When terrorists bombed Madrid last year, I felt very close to my friends and folks back home in London. A lot of them called, texted, emailed to see if I was OK. Today, in diametrically opposite circumstances, I felt far away. I didn't hear from my sister until after lunchtime and my imagination had already begun to swoop and dive. I flickered between two websites and the radio news for most of the morning, trying to pick up information.

Later, I found myself wishing I had been there. That my friends had been through this weird day and I hadn't. It was a weird and selfish reaction but not one I'm ashamed of. Then, having spoken to and emailed a couple of them, I got the feeling that maybe it was more weird for me than for them. Maybe you take it in your stride when something shocking happens in your city - unless you are directly involved. I remember that about the Madrid bombings too - it really didn't affect me much on the day, other than to make me worry that I might be laid off. That was a selfish reaction that I am ashamed of.

Loathing Subsides...for the moment at least

2005-07-06T15:33:00.000+02:00

I seethe for 10 minutes a day at the open thievery and despicable gouging of fear that is the insurance industry.

That was until I found this article about an insurance company which has offered triathletes insurance against a close encounter with the Loch Ness monster: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/4651679.stm .

So bare is their face, so disarming their chutzpah, I have set aside my daily roil and instead doff my cap to their temerity.

Tomorrow I will hate them again.

Ode to Goonhavern

2005-07-05T23:35:00.000+02:00

Down at the very tip of Cornwall,
far from London´s madding crowds,
there lies a sleepy sanctuary,
Goonhavern. A haven for Goons.

Far from the feck and the list,
of modern life,
fat bees waddle in the breeze,
and clay woodland fauna gather in gardens.

Garden gnomes become loyal friends,
suspicious shrubs cause a rumpus,
and Goons while away lazy afternoons,
swivelling their eyes and giggling.

Here the Goons have nothing to fear,
For they are in their haven.

Chess

2005-07-05T22:37:00.000+02:00

At a chess convention in a posh hotel, the upper echelons of the chess community are enjoying welcome drinks and reliving past victories. The hotel manager stalks in, shouting, "Get out! Get out of my hotel! Everyone of you! Clear off and never darken my door again!"

"Why?"

"I'm not having chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

Butcher´s Handle

2005-07-05T22:20:00.000+02:00

There is a butcher´s shop in northern Madrid called "La Matanza", which means "The Killing".

As in, "Can I get you anything from The Killing while I´m in the area?"

tell him to stick his verisimilitude up the eye of his arse

2005-06-29T11:00:00.000+02:00

More on Spanish swearing. This gem was uttered by my oh-so-dainty Spanish (female) friend.

Gotta love 'em.

For any budding Spanish speakers, this is:

"Dile que se meta su verosimilitud por el ojo del culo."

It's the level of detail which impresses me most.

Chutzpah

2005-06-14T23:49:00.000+02:00

Donald Rumsfeld was ranting the other day that China has been increasing its military spending without an immediate military threat. According to the righteous old bore, China has risen to the number three spot in military spending.

That takes quite some face, given that Rumbo´s very own defence budget not only takes the number one spot, but is eighteen times that of China (or 7.5 times if you take US figures).

I shit in the milk!

2005-06-11T20:04:00.000+02:00

¨The weather, the food and the swearing,¨ these are the things that a Spanish friend of mine missed during a year in the UK. In fucking Glasgow of all places. Swearing was up there at number fucking three.

Contrary to popular fucking suspicion, Anglo-Saxon swearing is fucked. Not half as good as our Latin, Indian or African cousins.

The title of this post is a direct translation from the Spanish, me cago en la leche. Fuck knows what it means; it is, like much of Spanish swearing, a fairly flexible phrase used in good, bad and indifferent situations. The English equivalent would almost certainly be fucking hell!

Then there is me cago en la hostia (I shit on the body of christ) for which the English equivalent would almost certainly be fucking hell!

Swearing is a much greater part of the Spanish culture. A quiet and unassuming Company Legal Secretary I know, is fond of asking which party has taken their trousers down and been fucked in the arse, when checking the progress of his staff´s negotiations.

In the delicatessen the other day, I spotted a can of green beans with the brand name: judias cojonudas (bollockingly good beans).

Un piso de puta madre (a flat of the whore´s mother) is a very desirable place to live. Fucking nice flat would be a reasonable translation. What got to my foul-mouthed and homesick friend the most was the lack of variety "everything in england is fuck, whereas in Spain we have joder (fuck) but we have so many more ways to swear." She went on to list me cago en tus
muertos (I shit on your dead family), qué te den por culo (I hope they fuck you up the arse)...

Anglo-saxon filth is fucking prosaic by comparison.

Wanted - web designer, must be fresh from fight

2005-06-08T23:09:00.000+02:00

I was offered 2 tickets for the price of one to a Bonnie Tyler concert today. This has nothing to do with the waning stardom of one of rock and roll's most appealing artists. It has everything to do with how much one of rock and roll's most appealing artists values me as a fan and, no doubt, friend. I'm probably one of her most appealing fans.

Alas, I have other plans.

But I did take the opportunity to look at Miss Tyler's website (www.bonnietyler.com) and, I must admit, I thought one of rock and roll's most appealing artists could have done better.

So any budding designers of bonnie websites out there should get in touch and do their bit for soft rock.

It seems Miss Tyler is big in Germany. This is right and proper. Her brave offer of a signed sports-bra to Mr Gorbachev in return for calling it a day on the global domination front has gone egregiously unsung in my view.

Just like that beef-wit, Reagan, to lap up all the credit.

killers born naturally

2005-06-05T01:14:00.000+02:00

I am something of an Economist addict. I love the writing, which is always clear, interesting and to the point. Anyway, that's beside the point. This post is about murder.

Last week's Economist contained news that psychopaths are born and not made. Actually, it contained news that psychopaths MAY be born, as opposed to nurtured. Well, strictly speaking, there's still hope for them even then, so long as they aren't dragged through childhood by bastards. That is "bastard" in the common usage of the word - the illegitimacy of their parents was not mentioned.

I can see how Tony Blair cocked up that dossier so badly. It's not easy writing arresting prose when everything has to be true.

Deep throat fingered!

2005-06-05T00:51:00.000+02:00

fnrr, fnrrr.

Ok so I'm late with the news and the gag is at least as old as the nickname but...wait a minute...is it possible to make a double entendre about an already double-entendred nickname? And what are the odds on that being the subject of a research grant proposal?

My very doobling of the entendre probably reveals something uncomfortable about my inner desires.

Perhaps, deep in the shadowy cloisters of my id, I fantasise about stolen trysts in a secluded garage, furtively arranged by drawing a clock-face on a daily newspaper.

Oooooooh yes, that's it....blowing a whistle....while two men in dark suits bungle a burglary.

Mmmmh, and a hard-drinking, grumpy old chap brooding in the background, whitewashing an already-white-but-forever-stained house (sweet irony!)...ooo-ooh yeeeeah.

Wha??? Where am I??

Shit, I've drooled.

Literature and life

2005-05-24T11:07:00.000+02:00

"Literature is mostly about having sex and not much about having children. Life is the other way round." David Lodge

A time long ago...

2005-05-22T23:15:00.000+02:00

when George Lucas could knock up a decent flick. I saw Star Wars 3 at the weekend and was disappointed. Points I didn't like>

1) Dialogue. Quite the worst i've heard since Before Sunset, which had the excuse of not having a script. Example>
"Why do you look so beautiful?"
"It's because I love you"
"No, it's because I love you."

Or, on hearing that the love of his life is dead, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!" which was surprising only in its predictability and total hamnation.

2) Acting. Anakin Skywalker is apparently played by a tranquilised high school footballer. It was as convincing a rendition of the internal struggle between good and evil as you might expect from George of the Jungle on Mogadon.

Ewen MacGregor produced some appalling ham. All tally-ho and chocks away.

Lord Sith was never really convincing until he became deformed. Until that point he was too reminiscent of the kindly old gent who plays God in the Time Bandits. And he sounded like he was reading his lines for only the second or third time.

Put simply, Natalie Portman was about the best actor there. Which gives you some idea of the woodenness of the others.

3) Lord Grievous. Quite a good character ruined by an appalling name. Might was well call him Mr Bad Guy. Note to George, "Doctor Evil" was a piss-take.

4) The moment when Obi-Wan finds out that Anakin has gone to the Dark Side. Let's not forget, this is not just the turning point for this film but it is the set-up for the next three films. It is despatched with as much dramatic tension as checking a gas meter.

Nevertheless, and in the spirit of fair-mindedness, it was not all bad. Bits I liked...

1) The set designers were the clear, far-and-away winners of the film. The city-scapes were especially good. As always, in Star Wars the ships were fantastic.

2) The story coming full circle and Darth Vader getting put back together. Very cool.

3) The fight between Obi-Wan and Anakin. Probably not a coincidence that this was the darkest and most gruesome part of the film.

So there you have it. A disappointment. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is surely the last decent film George has done.

Earning your daily bread

2005-05-22T18:47:00.000+02:00

"It's just another form of idolatry, a dog licking the rod that beats it: work." Q, Luther Blisset.

I am inclined to agree; it's been driving me round the bend recently. It was with mixed feelings, then, that I read an article about Somalia's Minister for Tourism. Enticing people to spend their two weeks of hard-earned leisure time in a country which shot to international fame for the death of American soldiers is an unenviably hard task... but on the upside he receives no emails and civil war is a water-tight excuse for failing to drum up much tourism.

'“I'm sure tourists would leave Somalia alive and I'm hopeful they wouldn't be kidnapped,” he says. “At least, we would try to make sure they were not kidnapped, although it can happen.”' The Economist, March 4th, 2004

stories or things?

2005-04-30T07:58:00.000+02:00

is it better to live a life of experience or things? if experience is your bag then I recommend trying to make those experiences sober ones. Having lived most of my twenties in the pursuit of experience at the express expense of anything useful to show for it, I'm starting to believe that those boring swine who spend their lives accumulating wealth and/or things are the smart ones after all. Where they have houses and heated towel rails, I have a hazy memory of running round a stranger's garden screaming like a loon in the early hours of sunday morning.

But what about "enriching" experiences? I chose to live abroad to expand my horizons (quide liderrally!). A few years on and not only can I speak another language but I enter ex-pat banter fearlessly. My friends back home are rich, powerful and own houses.

I am by no means about to head home. I like it where I am. But I don't think I'm a better person for it. Just different I suppose.

It's all very clever making a film without a script

2005-04-29T05:06:00.000+02:00

...but you get the impresion its more rewarding for those involved than for the poor bastards who have to watch it. Before Sunset is the worst load of drivel I've ever seen. Male writer of romantic bestsellers meets female NGO-worker who apparently manages to help the developing world despite showing only basic biological intelligence (eyes follow moving object, demonstrates flinch response to loud noise etc). Quote: Female "I read my diary of nine years ago and was amazed. It was like I was the same person." Male heroically resists temptation to point out how jaw-droppingly stupid that sounds (he later reveals himself to be equally free of activity upstairs). It wasn't a total waste, though. I'll admit it was hilariously bad: I was surpised, after ten mintues, to find that it wasn't satire.

(I nicked this post from an email I wrote to someone because I'm trying to kickstart this blog. So not plagiarism but lazy, certainly.)

A slow start

2005-04-27T22:03:00.000+02:00

On a corporate training course I was advised to "under-promise but over-deliver". This is invaluable advice which I have applied rigorously to all corners of my life.

This blog will be dull and shit.