Another election comment.
Last night I was listening to the radio (Radio 4, naturally. Can't be doing with all the loudness on the other stations.) The reporter was looking at how other nations were covering the UK election. The Europeans were, unsurprisingly, relatively interested. After all, a change of government in Britain could result in changes in the European project.
Admittedly, these changes would probably consist of a bunch of men in grey suits lining up along the white cliffs of Dover, making faces and saying "Ya boo, sucks to you" to the continent across the water. Not a dramatic change then.
The reporter turned to the American press and remarked on the limited coverage (certainly compared to the wall-to-wall US election coverage that the British people were subjected to last year.) He sounded a little petulent about the whole thing and commented "Basically, we're interested in them much more than they are in us"
He said this like it was a bad thing.
Idiot.
America is like one of those bulls that the Spanish take such joy in tormenting. Its a huge creature; capable of inflicting immense damage on those that piss it off and blessed with a tiny brain. Of COURSE you want to know what its up to. And the last thing you want to do is attract its attention. So I'm good with the lack of coverage. It means George Bush hasn't noticed all that oil under the North Sea yet...
Friday, April 29, 2005
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Tone, Mike and Chuck
"Hello, is that Mr. Single?"
"Uh huh"
"Oh, hello there - this is, your Liberal Democrat candidate. I was just calling to find out how you're planning vote next week"
"With a pen and a ballot paper, the usual way"
"Oh - haha - very good, sir. Will you be voting for us?"
"Well, I was going to up until about 5 seconds ago"
"Oh why's that sir?"
"Because some idiot from your party cold-called me at home at 9 o'clock asking me to vote for them"
"Ah"
"Ah indeed. Goodbye."
Of course, I'd had calls or doorstepping from all the main parties. The faintly hunted "rabbit-in-the-headlights-of-a-truck" look of the Labour candidate was the most entertaining. The poor chap, in my part of England I gather there are plans to use such people in place of a fox since foxhunting has now been made illegal. I expect he wakes at night in a cold sweat shouting "The bugles! The bugles!"
I always find politicians faintly disturbing. I don't know why one would want to get involved in one of the major political parties to that level; always having to toe the party line would, I think, get tiring after a while. Perhaps thats why so many of them are so physically unappealing; all that hypocrisy gradually changing them from normal people into bizarre Golum-like mutants. I can imagine Tony Blair sitting alone in the cabinet office:
"But we like George Bush... he's our friend..."
"No he's not. He hates us! He makes us tell lies about the precioussss!"
"Oh the precious, we lovesss the precious, we know the precioussss is somewhere under the sand..."
"We only know that because George sold it to the nasty arab-man. George hates us, he does. The arab-man hatessss us. Everyone hates ussss!"
"But Rupert Murdoch and his pet fox likes ussss..."
...they really are the living embodiment of everything one's mother told us about pulling faces. In this case its "Keep telling lies, and one day the wind will change and you'll end up looking like Tony Blair"
Seriously though, if you've got the right to vote in the UK next week, please do so. Voting is like making love to a beautiful woman - if you don't do it enough, one day you won't be able to do it at all... although you'll probably feel a little dirty a few days afterwards, and downright suicidal 6 months later when the beautiful woman in question turns out to have once been called Kevin and worked as a welder in the shipyard before the Operation.
And having stretched that metaphor beyond its breaking point, I'll sign off. I have to buy a sofa.
"Uh huh"
"Oh, hello there - this is
"With a pen and a ballot paper, the usual way"
"Oh - haha - very good, sir. Will you be voting for us?"
"Well, I was going to up until about 5 seconds ago"
"Oh why's that sir?"
"Because some idiot from your party cold-called me at home at 9 o'clock asking me to vote for them"
"Ah"
"Ah indeed. Goodbye."
Of course, I'd had calls or doorstepping from all the main parties. The faintly hunted "rabbit-in-the-headlights-of-a-truck" look of the Labour candidate was the most entertaining. The poor chap, in my part of England I gather there are plans to use such people in place of a fox since foxhunting has now been made illegal. I expect he wakes at night in a cold sweat shouting "The bugles! The bugles!"
I always find politicians faintly disturbing. I don't know why one would want to get involved in one of the major political parties to that level; always having to toe the party line would, I think, get tiring after a while. Perhaps thats why so many of them are so physically unappealing; all that hypocrisy gradually changing them from normal people into bizarre Golum-like mutants. I can imagine Tony Blair sitting alone in the cabinet office:
"But we like George Bush... he's our friend..."
"No he's not. He hates us! He makes us tell lies about the precioussss!"
"Oh the precious, we lovesss the precious, we know the precioussss is somewhere under the sand..."
"We only know that because George sold it to the nasty arab-man. George hates us, he does. The arab-man hatessss us. Everyone hates ussss!"
"But Rupert Murdoch and his pet fox likes ussss..."
...they really are the living embodiment of everything one's mother told us about pulling faces. In this case its "Keep telling lies, and one day the wind will change and you'll end up looking like Tony Blair"
Seriously though, if you've got the right to vote in the UK next week, please do so. Voting is like making love to a beautiful woman - if you don't do it enough, one day you won't be able to do it at all... although you'll probably feel a little dirty a few days afterwards, and downright suicidal 6 months later when the beautiful woman in question turns out to have once been called Kevin and worked as a welder in the shipyard before the Operation.
And having stretched that metaphor beyond its breaking point, I'll sign off. I have to buy a sofa.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
A Breach Of Etiquette
Judging by the sound of the bar, Arsenal were beating Tottenham thus depriving Chelsea of the trophy for which their billionaire Russian sponsor is thirsting.
I wasn't too interested. I was answering a call of nature while a beautiful girl sat in the bar, sipping her diet coke and guarding my beer with, if not her life, then at least her handbag.
As I stood, staring intently and silently at the wall in the way that guys do I became aware of another presence in the room. A chap was standing by the sink, trying to use his mobile phone (AS A PHONE - get your minds out of the gutter.) I was naturally shocked. This broke all the rules of bathroom etiquette.
But worse was to come...
The chap (who I recognised as the landlord of another pub in the town) was clearly a little inebriated and weaved to towards me.
He (waving a business card and slurring slightly): "Can you read this number?"
Me (with aplomb): "Sure -"
He: "Fuggit. Fucking phones. This isn't working. Tell you what. You dial, I'll hold... I'll hold..."
(I waited while he finished belching, terrified to imagine what it was he was planning to hold)
"...the business card."
And so it was that I found myself standing at a urinal, dialling a number on someone elses phone with one hand while they held a business card in front of my face and wondering when the Bathroom Inquisition would burst in on us.
Yes, the number worked. Yes, I have never washed my hands so thoroughly.
I wasn't too interested. I was answering a call of nature while a beautiful girl sat in the bar, sipping her diet coke and guarding my beer with, if not her life, then at least her handbag.
As I stood, staring intently and silently at the wall in the way that guys do I became aware of another presence in the room. A chap was standing by the sink, trying to use his mobile phone (AS A PHONE - get your minds out of the gutter.) I was naturally shocked. This broke all the rules of bathroom etiquette.
But worse was to come...
The chap (who I recognised as the landlord of another pub in the town) was clearly a little inebriated and weaved to towards me.
He (waving a business card and slurring slightly): "Can you read this number?"
Me (with aplomb): "Sure -
He: "Fuggit. Fucking phones. This isn't working. Tell you what. You dial, I'll hold... I'll hold..."
(I waited while he finished belching, terrified to imagine what it was he was planning to hold)
"...the business card."
And so it was that I found myself standing at a urinal, dialling a number on someone elses phone with one hand while they held a business card in front of my face and wondering when the Bathroom Inquisition would burst in on us.
Yes, the number worked. Yes, I have never washed my hands so thoroughly.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Paul And The Giant Pea
I can be a real bastard sometimes. Two examples spring to mind:
I used to work with a chap. Lets call him Paul. Paul was a slight fellow, the remains of hair that was probably lustrous in his youth clung to his skull in the stubble of acceptance seen on the head of many a sensible balding man. Unlike those who attempt to comb their ear-hair over their shiny scalps in order to fight the inevitabilty of time. Elton John, of course, is in a league of his own in this regard. Lord knows where the thing perched on his head has come from.
And of course, there is the whole Mark Knopfler thing; a guitarist who singlehanded rescued a generation from regarding headbands as a fashion accessory by using one to hold the wispy bit of fluff masquerading as hair over his dome (so amusing did my schoolfriends and I find this, that we constructed an entire comic strip in the manner of Viz entitled: "The Adventures Of Baldie Knopfler")
But I digress.
Paul - short skinny guy with no hair - also wore glasses. And then, one day, he changed to contacts. He sat proudly at his computer, peering at his screen through the soft plastic of contact lenses rather than the thick glass of his spectacles. I happened to be passing and commented: "Paul, there's something different about you... No glasses!"
Paul visibly puffed himself up in pride.
I continued thoughtfully: "Hmmm... you know - your head looks just like a pea" - my brain idling while my mouth raced on.
Even now, nearly ten years on, I still feel the guilt. Particularly since I gather he never wore contacts again.
Why am I confessing this? Because I'm really worried First-Born might have inherited the Bastard Gene. We were walking through town and she noticed a truck with a notice on the back warning drivers of a 'wide load' (I've never understood this - if you're close enough to read the sign, presumably you can also guage the dimensions of the cargo yourself) - she muttered "If Mum keeps eating my easter eggs, she's going to need one of those for her bottom" before collapsing into giggles at the use of the word 'bottom'
(and the other example? An observation about a friend's girlfriend who'd come to a party: "Its so nice that x felt able to bring his mother along..." - but thats a whole other story of guilt)
I used to work with a chap. Lets call him Paul. Paul was a slight fellow, the remains of hair that was probably lustrous in his youth clung to his skull in the stubble of acceptance seen on the head of many a sensible balding man. Unlike those who attempt to comb their ear-hair over their shiny scalps in order to fight the inevitabilty of time. Elton John, of course, is in a league of his own in this regard. Lord knows where the thing perched on his head has come from.
And of course, there is the whole Mark Knopfler thing; a guitarist who singlehanded rescued a generation from regarding headbands as a fashion accessory by using one to hold the wispy bit of fluff masquerading as hair over his dome (so amusing did my schoolfriends and I find this, that we constructed an entire comic strip in the manner of Viz entitled: "The Adventures Of Baldie Knopfler")
But I digress.
Paul - short skinny guy with no hair - also wore glasses. And then, one day, he changed to contacts. He sat proudly at his computer, peering at his screen through the soft plastic of contact lenses rather than the thick glass of his spectacles. I happened to be passing and commented: "Paul, there's something different about you... No glasses!"
Paul visibly puffed himself up in pride.
I continued thoughtfully: "Hmmm... you know - your head looks just like a pea" - my brain idling while my mouth raced on.
Even now, nearly ten years on, I still feel the guilt. Particularly since I gather he never wore contacts again.
Why am I confessing this? Because I'm really worried First-Born might have inherited the Bastard Gene. We were walking through town and she noticed a truck with a notice on the back warning drivers of a 'wide load' (I've never understood this - if you're close enough to read the sign, presumably you can also guage the dimensions of the cargo yourself) - she muttered "If Mum keeps eating my easter eggs, she's going to need one of those for her bottom" before collapsing into giggles at the use of the word 'bottom'
(and the other example? An observation about a friend's girlfriend who'd come to a party: "Its so nice that x felt able to bring his mother along..." - but thats a whole other story of guilt)
Friday, April 22, 2005
Oh Yes I Did
"You're lying"
"I'm not"
"Yes you are. You never told me that."
"I did"
("He did" said First-Born, looking up from her homework which she had left until the last minute as usual. Thats my girl.)
I leaned forward, and said in a voice too low for the flapping ears of the child: "I really don't think we want to have a discussion about your track record regarding honesty in front of First-Born, do you?"
And the arguement? Over whether I'd told The Ex that First-Born wasn't coming to my cousin's wedding. It had escalated into a full-on adolescent "DID/DID NOT" finger pointing session; sometimes the veneer of amicability tends to fracture a little.
However, all this is useful material. A good friend, P, gave me a book last night of unfinished situation comedies. I began to read through it while I waited for the pint of water and aspirin to show progress in the battle again excessive alcohol and Belgian beer. Its a book that promises fame, fortune, or at least a bit of a challenge. And the comedy of my situation should certainly be good for a few pages of wibble.
"I'm not"
"Yes you are. You never told me that."
"I did"
("He did" said First-Born, looking up from her homework which she had left until the last minute as usual. Thats my girl.)
I leaned forward, and said in a voice too low for the flapping ears of the child: "I really don't think we want to have a discussion about your track record regarding honesty in front of First-Born, do you?"
And the arguement? Over whether I'd told The Ex that First-Born wasn't coming to my cousin's wedding. It had escalated into a full-on adolescent "DID/DID NOT" finger pointing session; sometimes the veneer of amicability tends to fracture a little.
However, all this is useful material. A good friend, P, gave me a book last night of unfinished situation comedies. I began to read through it while I waited for the pint of water and aspirin to show progress in the battle again excessive alcohol and Belgian beer. Its a book that promises fame, fortune, or at least a bit of a challenge. And the comedy of my situation should certainly be good for a few pages of wibble.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Surprise Surprise
There's an election coming up in the UK soon. I don't think anyone reading this journal is going to be surprised to see how I'm likely to vote:
You should vote: Liberal Democrat
Who should I vote for?
Your expected outcome:
Liberal DemocratYour actual outcome:
 Labour 4 | |
Conservative -39  | |
| Liberal Democrat 50 | |
| UK Independence Party -1 | |
| Green 34 |
You should vote: Liberal Democrat
The LibDems take a strong stand against tax cuts and a strong one in favour of public services: they would make long-term residential care for the elderly free across the UK, and scrap university tuition fees. They are in favour of a ban on smoking in public places, but would relax laws on cannabis. They propose to change vehicle taxation to be based on usage rather than ownership.
Take the test at Who Should You Vote For
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Nobody Expects The...
It was with some amusement that I heard that the head of the Inquisition has become the Pope. Doubtless he threatened his fellow cardinals with the terror of the comfy chair (apologies to Monty Python) until they, er, received divine guidance and gave him the job.
The scene: the office of a volunteer AIDS worker in Africa. The volunteer is delicately asking about the sexual history of a patient.
Worker: "So, do you know if you might have been put at risk?"
Patient: "Crikey, I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition..."
The door flies open, and in bursts Cardinals Fang, Biggles and Ratzinger, accompanied by the sound made when an organist dies on the keyboard.
Ratzinger: "AHA! Nobody expects the Vatican Inquisition! Our chief weapons are surprise, terror and electing a really old Pope since dead Popes make for great media coverage!" (aside) "Who said the church was out of touch, eh?"
Worker: "Wha? Who are you?"
Ratzinger: "We are the Vatican Inquisition! We are here because of this!"
(grabs a pamphlet advocating safe sexual practices from the table and waves it around. Biggles and Fang say "Oooo", camply.)
Ratzinger: "And these!"
(grabs a packet of condoms and holds it in the air triumphantly. Biggles and Fang say "Aaaah" even more camply. Biggles surreptiously slips a packet into his robe.)
Ratzinger: "These are an afront to the Church! Confess your guilt! Confess! Confess!"
Worker: "I don't know what the heck you're talking about. Get out of my office, I have a patient here!"
Ratzinger: "Won't confess, eh? Well, we in the Inquisition know how to extract the truth! Cardinal Biggles! Bring forth the Marigolds Of Divine Justice!"
Biggles (looking at his feet and shuffling nervously): "Forgot 'em. Left 'em in the sink with the washing up"
Ratzinger (eyes rolling): "Ok, then hand me... The Fluffy Slippers Of Theological Intervention!"
(Fang lifts his robe and removes his slippers. They are pink, and have smiley rabbit faces on the toes. Ratzinger proceeds to smite the worker with them.)
Worker: "Ow! Stoppit! Those things stink!"
Ratzinger: "Oh for Gods sake. This isn't working." (aside) "In the old days we'd at least have had a rack or something. Things'll change when I'm Pope, you know. Things'll change..." (back to worker) "I hope you've learnt your lesson!"
(with a flourish, he and his Cardinals leave the room. A minute later Fang returns to collect the slippers. He waves one at the worker in a vaguely threatening manner before departing, tripping up on his robe as he does so)
The scene: the office of a volunteer AIDS worker in Africa. The volunteer is delicately asking about the sexual history of a patient.
Worker: "So, do you know if you might have been put at risk?"
Patient: "Crikey, I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition..."
The door flies open, and in bursts Cardinals Fang, Biggles and Ratzinger, accompanied by the sound made when an organist dies on the keyboard.
Ratzinger: "AHA! Nobody expects the Vatican Inquisition! Our chief weapons are surprise, terror and electing a really old Pope since dead Popes make for great media coverage!" (aside) "Who said the church was out of touch, eh?"
Worker: "Wha? Who are you?"
Ratzinger: "We are the Vatican Inquisition! We are here because of this!"
(grabs a pamphlet advocating safe sexual practices from the table and waves it around. Biggles and Fang say "Oooo", camply.)
Ratzinger: "And these!"
(grabs a packet of condoms and holds it in the air triumphantly. Biggles and Fang say "Aaaah" even more camply. Biggles surreptiously slips a packet into his robe.)
Ratzinger: "These are an afront to the Church! Confess your guilt! Confess! Confess!"
Worker: "I don't know what the heck you're talking about. Get out of my office, I have a patient here!"
Ratzinger: "Won't confess, eh? Well, we in the Inquisition know how to extract the truth! Cardinal Biggles! Bring forth the Marigolds Of Divine Justice!"
Biggles (looking at his feet and shuffling nervously): "Forgot 'em. Left 'em in the sink with the washing up"
Ratzinger (eyes rolling): "Ok, then hand me... The Fluffy Slippers Of Theological Intervention!"
(Fang lifts his robe and removes his slippers. They are pink, and have smiley rabbit faces on the toes. Ratzinger proceeds to smite the worker with them.)
Worker: "Ow! Stoppit! Those things stink!"
Ratzinger: "Oh for Gods sake. This isn't working." (aside) "In the old days we'd at least have had a rack or something. Things'll change when I'm Pope, you know. Things'll change..." (back to worker) "I hope you've learnt your lesson!"
(with a flourish, he and his Cardinals leave the room. A minute later Fang returns to collect the slippers. He waves one at the worker in a vaguely threatening manner before departing, tripping up on his robe as he does so)
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