| Thursday, November 27, 2003 |
 | I've just finished decorating,
It was very irritating.
And I know they're going to come around tonight,
And I know they're going to say to me tonight,
"It makes the room look bigger."
"It makes the room look bigger."
So let's forget about the open-topped bus ride,
Standing tall on the town hall balcony.
It's about as likely as hen's teeth.
It's about as likely as hen's teeth.
And as the light gets dimmer,
I watch the chance get slimmer.
But I'm putting up a hook to hang my hopes upon.
there's a fellow coming round to stick the gas back on.
And if truth be told now the plumber's gone,
it makes the room look bigger.
I'm drawn towards the souvenir stalls,
I twirl around the key fob rack.
Well, it's all right for Nicholas and for Neil,
Yeah, well, how do you think that makes me feel?
And all the while I can see
I'm on the CCTV
Elderly lady at the bus stop
Thinks I'm going to eat her
And so to reassur her,
I ask her for the time.
And the sense of relief at my friendly tone
Reveals itself in her karmic moan.
You can wait twenty minutes and nothing comes along
And then all of a sudden three thugs rob your pension
Oh, there's generally one at twenty-five past
They come swinging round that corner,
They think they're Benny Goodman
But I'm putting up a hook to hang my hopes upon.
there's a fellow coming round to stick the gas back on.
And if truth be told now the plumber's gone,
it makes the room look bigger.
Oh, tiptoe,
to the front row,
Of the Korn show,
With a submachinegun.
Once again, indie rock saves my life.
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| Ouch. One of my calves has pinged. Never try to run in Grensons. Always remember to change back into trainers before leaving the office.
Pondering, possibly in the wake of potential access of free time and maybe getting some sleep ever...what do I want?
Funny thing - I'm intellectually aware that, by current standards at least, my family used to be less than well off. But I never really noticed. I didn't get things I want, but then I accepted that children can't get everything they want. Schopenhauer for tinies. Looking back on it, what I did get is utterly terrifying - great mountains of plastic and metal, computers, forests of paper...it's enough to make you wake up screaming, thinking of your parents trying to balance the books with this rapacious midget in the corner, and resolve never to breed. And now, what do I want? First up, I want to buy everything, but that calms down after a bit, although not before I sold my beloved Visor Deluxe out for the Microsoft shilling. I suck. I got overexcited. I feel bad. But after that? And after that? And after that?
It's odd. All I really want to do is start to write again. Well, that and be fabulous. Just totally fabulous. But I'm not sure where I would even start...
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| Tuesday, November 25, 2003 |
| I don't know about this. I feel I should point out that I am not a child murderer, nor do I have any familiarity with child murder beyond quite liking the Auteurs. However.
As I understand it, the current case does not contest that the children were in the house when they died. Nor does it contest that the accused then took them to a ditch, cut off their clothes and set fire to their bodies. Or that he then attempted to destroy those clothes . What exactly is missing from this picture? Alien attack? It seems that the whole thing is pretty much over bar the shouting, and I'm not sure I understand the continuing fascination with the details. One would imagine that with such limited variety in the possible conviction options we could just leave the court to get on with it.
Of course, I'm not sure one can get on with it. it's the same problem with the Jackson case. How exactly do you find 12 people who have not been in some way swayed by the media? Good luck..
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| So, the good news is that England are now champions of the word. At everything. Officially.
No, seriously. The triumph of the Northern Hemisphere at Rugby Union is playing like the Return of the King. The Daily Telegraph (on sale every day, as is the newspaper) is predictably among the guilty. It's nice, certainly. I found the final rather involving, which given that rugby is in essence a game of catch taken extremely seriously is not bad going at all.
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| Monday, November 17, 2003 |
| And, true to expectations, the week was a bit hellish - I think my abiding memory will be standing in the lobby of a hotel at 3:30AM, having just walked over from the office, standing there at reception. Nobody there. Music and sounds of movement from the room behind the door. No flaming bell. Polite coughs. Calls of "excuse me". Ultimately having to call the hotel to get them to call reception to tell the guy that somebody wanted to check in. When I told him I wanted an alarm call for 7, he (perfectly reasonably) pointed out that I was barely going to be there. If it had been left to me, I would have spent £20 on a sleeping bag and bedded down in the office, but I guess you can't do that if you have a proper job hem hem.
Still, the weekend was lovely; I got to Brighton in time for the second half of the Tiger Lilies at the Komedia. Lots of songs from the new album, apparently (very Jacques Brel), and very funny; rather as Tindersticks might have turned out if they had been chipmunks with a love of music-hall.
Oh, and finally got to see Final Destination, which I have meant to watch for ages but have always been held back by the suspicion that it would be a big pile of shit. It was. However, I did like the conceit that, rather than a big nasty (barring the exposition mortician, who was bug and scary), the teens met their ends as a result of a series of simple or complex interrelations of leverage, conductivity, chemistry and so on.
This forces us to only one conclusion. Death is MacGyver. If only he could be induced to indulge his predilection for overcomplex deaths involving everyday household goods more often; then we could see an end to gun crime, although deaths from bicycles swerving to avoid cars, causing a pedestrian to drop the heavy bag they were carrying onto the loose plank of a fruit stall, that catapulting an orange upwards and in to the gutter of a roof, blocking the outflow hole, making the gutter fill up with water, the added weight causing the gutter to detach itself from the wall and plummet to the floor, impaling a luckless teenager on the way down crime would no doubt increase.
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| Sunday, November 09, 2003 |
| Well, gosh. I'm a stranger in my own blog these days. It's been a while, hasn't it? Alas, I feel that I can no longer add to my blog at work, since for the first time in my life I appear to have a proper job (i.e. one with suits and an IT department and *everything*), so it's down to whether I get home early enough/sober enough to add anything of worth.
Besides that, it very nearly shut my brain down the last time I sat before this entry page and found myself agreeing with Nicholas Anelka. You can see how that might damage a man. Specifically, Anelka's refusal to go on a clay pigeon shooting expedition with the rest of the Man City squad, on the grounds apparently that he disagrees with the use of guns for any purpose. Given that the same day this was reported saw a six-year-old shot in Liverpool, you can see his position.
Ah well. Last Friday was Halloween, of course, which had originally meant a trip to Whitby, until the collective realisation was made that long hikes across to moors to be surrounded by goths might not be the best way to spend a braw bricht bonny nicht. So, instead to the Victoria and Albert, which was celebrating the Gothic exhibition, which was putting on a mini-whitby. Lots of goths, a DJ from (the presumably largely empty) Slimelight and a "night of record" which involved terribly well-meaning questionnaires. Top fun.
More fun from D., whose growing obsession with the fact that you can go and see things for free in London if you are organised enough (and by God he's organised - he's already pressuring me to make a decision about whether I'll be at his for New Year's) saw us watching the Now Show being recorded.
Funny thing about the Now Show - it's great fun to watch being recorded, far more in fact than listening to it. Punt and Dennis, although not actually funny, are terribly endearing - they're very likeable, even though they have built an entire career essentially on one having the head of a lego man and being able to make it go red very easily, and the other looking as if he wants to be somewhere else. His role finally became clear - he makes the gestures to show people that the sketch has finished and we should all applaud. Marcus Brigstocke remains a lovely and a funny, however - regrettably, the funny bits of his monologue will probably have been snipped from the final edit.
Hey ho, Meanwhile, I find myself home late, preparing for an overnighter. Work is a funny thing. Theoretically, I'm doing this in order to exchange my labour for goods and services, so that those times when I do not work will be more comfortable and enjoyable. Except that, to be honest, I could do without the money, thanks. After all, nobody else is even charging extra for their time - it's only the absence of holidays, sick leave, medical insurance, pension and all the other things the middle classes are meant to get that puts me in a position to sling in an invoice. So, why am I doing it? No doubt partly for the cameraderie, the striving against impossible odds. Partly out of a sense of altruism. But mainly, I suspect, because I already feel like I would somehow be letting the side down if I didn't. I commit way too early.
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| Monday, November 03, 2003 |
| This means that no child who does not want to play games is going to be induced to show any enthusiasm for it by external consideration, as the only profit to be had from games is the having of games. It is the Media Studies of the schoolyard. On the obverse, children who want to play games will do so whether or not a charity case in a tracksuit asks them to, and are likely to resent, for example, being told to play rugby rather than a proper sport.
Personal fulfilment, morality, personal fuflilment - it's my only goal, on the UpsideClown.
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