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 | My personal favourite tribute to a deceased celebrity was indubitably in the Yahoo! book of e-remembrance for darling of the people and scourge of the underworld Jill Dando. Some caring soul had written "What a shame. So soon after, it is so sad to lose another Diana lookalike".
Lovely. I'm sure her loved ones were, as they stood in the gallery at the trial, thinking to themselves, over and over, like some horrible mantra for the dead, "If only Jill had had a less flicky blonde bob! Then we would be largely indifferent to her decease".
People can be so insensitive. As such, a sugary bonbon for the first identifier of some callous soul bemoaning how much more complicated a Beatles reunion tour has suddenly become.
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| Thursday, November 29, 2001 |
| An amazing excursion through dazzling computer animation and computer-aided graphics. A colorful display of goth art. A bunch of delightful and bright kids displaying great talent and skills. Ingenious planning and outstanding attention to detail rivaling commercial nuclear power production (and I spent 14 years as a nuke). Several points of wisdom, integrity and honor skillfully placed. And all to present evil as good.
As you mgiht have guessed, the Christian Childcare Alert Program is a bit ambivalent about Harry Potter and (Insert stone here). Fortunately, if you are still confused as to the implications of fun-loving Harry on your immortal soul, here are 12 handy hints to keep you away from the Ziggy-faced witch-boy.
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| Wednesday, November 28, 2001 |
| Good gravy....I have actually never realised that people do actually say "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" without irony. Then again, I tend to try to forget that bigoted hatemongers like this fuck sandwich on lard are out there as well. This is a truly horrible site - you are warned - whose sole virtue is to make any act of copulation potentially leading to the increase of evangelists on this Earth wildly undesirable.
The vagina has an acidic environment which hinders bacterial and viral growth.
Hmmm.....nice. I'm feeling more heterosexual already.
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| Wash my cat.
Wash my cat.
You deaf or something? Wash my cat.
Wash my motherfucking cat.
Hey Paul?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now, you fucking stupid bastard.
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| Tuesday, November 27, 2001 |
| I overheard on the radio this morning an expert opining that Iraq's reserves of weapons for chemical warfare had probaby been reduced by about 95%.
Unfortunately, that's not a very useful metric. What is one twentieth of a biological arsenal? Enough to kill the people of Droitwich? Dulwich? Desford?
It was so easy, back in the days when the US and USSR had the capacity to destroy the world seven times over. Fractions of atrocities are a bugger to deal with.
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| Well, this message was certainly important enough to send to my email address ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY times:
Free Teen XXX site
More abusive contents than any other site
Real Teens.
Cumshots, hardcore, nude beauty, teens and beast
http://(removed for obvious reasons)
Explore your wildest fantasies!
Nice. Although there is something oddly innocent-sounding about "nude beauty". It sounds like a 1950s muscle pictorial magazine. Unlike "Beast".
What Hank McCoy is doing mixed up in this business I don't know.
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| Monday, November 26, 2001 |
| Words of wisdom:
It's funny, I've talked to quite a few people in the past year about those
days when you wake up, or sink into, feeling down like you haven't in ages -
like you did at school, basically, in my case at least. On the one hand you
can think "thank god I don't feel like that all the time anymore" - the
scary thing though is when you think "God, what if I fall back into this and
it takes me another five years to get out?"
Feeling better, definitely. Although I do wish that once, just once, I could attend a meeting of a group of people without being convinced I was behaving like some sort of retarded idiot cousin.
Feeling better.
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| Is it possible, do you think, to burn out your joy circuitry?
I was at Ben and Anna's wedding. Which was a beautiful thing. I don't think I've had a soppy grin on my face for that long in my entire life. They are quite the most perfect couple, so much so as to induce Princess Bride flashbacks.
Anyway, things get a little fuzzy after the happy couple departed for suite and sweetness. There appears to be a burn in my suit, which is also inexplicably spattered with icing sugar. At least, I hope it's icing sugar.
I also have a vague sense of doom, as I usually have in these situations, based on the suspicion that I have probably mortally offended at least one person and convinced everyone else present that I am a hapless buffoon to be shunned at all costs. Memory will return over the days and weeks to come, at which point I may have to leave the country.
As you might imagine, I was pretty messy on Sunday, with low serotonin levels not helped much by the discovery that my computer was utterly fucked. Bwah.
But now, after a Sunday of loafing and inactivity, I woke today so completely disheartened by the idea that there was a day to be in. Why isn't there a there for people who can't take being here?
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| Friday, November 23, 2001 |
| Apparently, John Maynard Keynes believed that the highest expression of capitalism would be bananas at breakfast for everybody.
What an incredibly twatty aspiration. I mean, how do you even come up with an aspiration like that? Bananas at breakfast? Are you on crack, Maynard Keynes, you insane fucker?
Then again, it turns out that he was utterly obsessed by bananas, as are all Keynesian economists, so it makes a bit more sense.
A bit.
"Bananas at Breakfast" is also the title of an entirely unnecessary piece of Roswell High fan fiction. Whether this was written in innocence of or as a cheeky wink to the Keynesian maxim, I neither know nor care. Neither should you.
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| Scary things to start the day.
Sweary Buffy keyboard. Wierdly compelling. Use headphones. Or let it all hang out and serenade your boss with the soothing sounds of "zebra bastard zebra zebra zebra fucker". Hmmmm....nice.
And, from Kevan, the opportunity to make a skeleton look like it's fucking. Rhythmically, slowly, frenetically....your choice. Make your skeleton fuck.
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| Meg gets more entrants onto her comments boxes than some people get hits in a week. Which can lead to some top-quality cross-purpose rampages. Of which this is a favourite. I too have recently been craving the taste of Imbruglia. Which could be awkward, as she dated one friend of mine and is now hopelessly in love with my flatmate, who unfortunately is never in to return her calls.
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| Wednesday, November 21, 2001 |
| It's not all that often you get to call Vaughan ignorant, which means, as much as anything else, that you should enjoy it while you can.
Football. First up, of course, "do I not like x" means "I do not like x, not "I really do like x. Bit of an obvious one, but there we go.
Second up, his feelings on the proposed PFA strike action are wildly ill-informed. The players are not striking for more money to be "shovelled into the high interest accounts of Premier League footballers ". They are being balloted by their union on whether to take strike action in support of that union's claim for a particular percentage of television revenue received by the Football Association in exchange for the rights to display images of the PFA's members, over and above the subs that each player pays to their union.
Moneys received by the PFA are used in particular to provide pensions for lower-paid workers in a profession where the average retirement age is 35, and in providing financial assistance for players who missed out on the big pay packets, for example Tommy Smith, who played in the 70s and has subsequently required extensive surgery to retain mobility.
There's a story, told in a fascinating set of transcripts of Pat Nevin (of the NME, Chelsea, Everton, Tranmere Rovers, Motherwell and Scotland) on the psychiatrist's couch, of Charlie Nicholas of Arsenal being buttonholed outside a nightclub in the early eighties by a supporter who claimed that his performances were so poor on the pitch that he, the supporter, was confident that he could do anything Nicholas could.
"You can't do this," replied "Champagne Charlie", producing a fifty-pound note and tearing it into pieces before dropping it on the ground. Typical charmless overpaid football boor. Except that once the fan had departed he picked up the bits and taped them back together. Huge wages even at the very highest level in British football are a comparatively recent phenomenon.
The players who do earn tens of thousands of pounds a week will never need the PFA to support them financially. They will never need the PFA to provide them with legal assistance, or careers advice when a bad tackle ends their career at 25. And yet they are prepared to risk the wrath of their managers and paymasters - and thus financial penalties - in order to support the right of the PFA to have the resources it feels are necessary to take care of players without the big wages.
On the bright side, this unfortunate misapprehension of the structure of labour relations does provide a handy basis for the question of the day. Are you a male member of the middle classes who hates football? If so, is this because of or unconnected to the fact that you were tormented mercilessly for being shit at it in school? Tell me.
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| Or, to put it another way, not only has my consumption of Making Out novels reached an near-psychotic level (Book 9 and counting), but I am now organising an underground railroad for the damn things. As it is finished, each book is transported to a second location where it will be covertly enjoyed by speical interest groups, then ultimately passed over to Oxford for study. The things are like gold dust, I tell you.
Deprived for the moment of "Nina Shapes Up", I have been compelled to return to "From Barbie to Mortal Kombat" (ed. Cassell and Jenkins), a series of articles and interviews of the relationship of women and computer games. Interesting stuff, although it's rather depressing to realise that "Barbie Fashion Designer", the first big-selling game for girls, was also to my knowledge the last big-selling game for girls. Is the idea of computer gaming tailored to young women fundamentally flawed, or are people just not doing it right? Try Gamegirlz.com to see what they think, or these two articles on gendered approaches to gaming. Jenkins' own postscript, written after Purple Moon Games failed to fulfil its early promise, is an interesting read, also.
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| Back again, and hopefully I'll be able to stay reasonably rooted in London for the next couple of weeks, before disappearing off to New England in a "oh, I'm just disappearing off to New England" sort of a way. Very cosmopolitan. Unfortunately, I doubt I will have a chance to squeeze in a trip to Chatham Island.
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| Thursday, November 15, 2001 |
| So, what do we learn from holidays?
We learn that Brighton is a very dangerous place to go. Yes, seaside. Yes, great British holiday. Yes, B&Bs with seafront views and artery-choking breakfasts. Also yes, the most dangerous shops on Earth. I kid you not.
We learn that good old-fashioned entertainment in novel form is not always to be sneered at. And that Nina won't tell. Incidentally, we also learn that another Nina entirely has now disappeared to Warwick to further her education, and feel a little melancholy at losing touch with friends.
We learn that Ladytron fucking rock, although, seeing them live, we are surprised to note that one of them, best referred to as "the one on the right", looks disconcertingly like an ex-partner.
We learn that sleeping patterns are our enemy.
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