Speak To Me

I will SELF-HARM if I hear anyone gobbing on about Innovative Solutions ever, ever, ever again!

Catalyst: A radio interview this morning with a Hammersmith councillor discussing his borough's spiffing wheeze to open post offices in churches and libraries as counter to Royal Mail branch closures. These aren't his words per se, but you get the 'MBA-babble' point..

"This proposal is an innovative solution to a complex and challenging paradigm shift in our societal organisational structure. We've assembled a core team of key members to brainstorm strategies, scenario-plan, think outside the box and examine what will stick. Clearly there are synergies here that are win-win going forward and optimally leverage community assets while achieving significant economies of scale." Blah, blah, blah..

It's time we removed idiotic mid-Atlantic corporate double-talk from everyday life. It's bad enough having to live with the meaningless twaddle at work five days a week..

Plain English everyone, please.

I only want bandwidth from my broadband provider.

Idiot Wind

Stupid Celeb #1

Sharon Stone, bad Chinese karma and the utter f**k-witted arrogance of the C-list Hollywood liberal in need of a PR hit.

Poor cow lost the Dior fragrance contract as a consequence of stating that the 70,000 killed in the recent earthquake was karmic pay-back for China's treatment of Tibet..

The sheer bloody arrogance of the woman and the sheer bloody naivety of her statement!

Of course, no animals are ever harmed in the manufacture of cosmetics right? So while la legs-akimbo-slapper's bank balance takes a hit, her precious, bollock-headed karma is intact.

Durr..

Stupid Quazi-Celebs #2

Bloody hell, bank holidays just keep getting worse. A Monday when decent God-fearing folk set about making Arks, the rest of us retreated indoors with the heating on high and waited-out the deluge in front of the goggle. And what do we get for our sins? WAGs on The Weakest Link.

What a great idea, gather a load of self-obsessed cretins and ask them simple questions -- about something other than themselves, shoes, handbags and football players.

A modern variation on a visit to the asylum as the 18th century equivalent to a day at Alton Towers. Let's laugh at the loonies 21st century stylee..

Genius.

Ha. And Danielle Lloyd won!!

An example of this tremendously entertaining hogwash:

Q. Anne Robinson: What is the childhood game in which boys and girls dress up as hospital staff called? Doctors and what?

A: Charley Uchea (who??): Oh, oh my God.... Doctors and Wives!

Can this scourge of preening subhumans be exterminated in the interests of generations to come? It doesn't have to be humane, for fish I sense are more cognizant than this batch of plastic bimbos.

If not, then at the very least, can they be rounded-up and exacted to lab experiments? There must be something deeply intriguing to medical science for surely the missing link is there for all to see week-in, week-out in the pages of Heat, Grazia et al..

Love Is A Losing Game

OK. Chelsea lost. You don't score, you don't win.

All the agonising over JT sending Van der Sar the wrong way, but slipping and hoofing the ball high and right -- right to the outside edge of the post -- is past. I promise.

Well, nearly..

I'm still angry at Drogba for getting pointlessly sent off and not being available for penalty duty and Anekla's pathetically poor effort. (The odds are long on either of them being in the squad in August).

All-in-all, I've been feeling rather forlorn about the whole thing for the last four or five days. After all, it was far more painful than the previously famous English penalty farces of Pierce and Southgate. This time it was one lion on my shirt -- and one lion is far more precious (to me) than three.

But time is a healer and with nearly a week passed I'm getting over it (I am petri). Also the powers that be have moved quickly to rebuild. Grant is out -- no silverware, second in the Champions League, second in the Premiership and second in the Carling Cup -- doesn't cut it these days on the Fulham Road. A bit harsh I feel, but that's life with the oligarchs. And reportage in recent days of speculation and scramble for a replacement have at least wiped the sports pages of weasels in red jerseys.

Personally, I'm encouraged by revelations of a warming in Russian/Portuguese relations with news of The Special One's role as 'off-line' counsellor to team owner and key players in recent weeks. And the fact of Roman gifting the George Clooney of footie a rare Ferrari -- a snip at £2million -- isn't exactly indication of utter hatred and an intractable difference of opinion.

But reports are that Jose is near to signing with Internazionale. Don't do it!

So if he does, the list of contenders is enticing. Didier Deschamps, Frank Rijkaard, Luiz Felipe Scolari and erm, Sven-Goran Eriksson.

Scratch the Swede from the above list and bring in Gianfranco Zola as understudy and the season's disappointing under-performance (it's all relative ;-) might seem a success after all.

Carefree

Been A Long Time..

Now work, football and influenza madness have passed, as the honourable guvn'r used to say..

"I'll be back"

All Or Nothing (or Something..Maybe)

Two heroic performances at Stamford Bridge leave us equal on points at the top of the Premiership (behind on goal difference with two games to play) and in the Champion's League Final on 21 May.

A Carling Cup defeat to Tottingham and the FA Cup semi loss to Barnsley are distant memories, and given the current situation, meaningless piffles.

I knawed my way through the nails on my left hand as we beat ManUre on Saturday, and I chiselled away at nearly all on my right hand during last night's CL victory over Liverpool. I've saved a right thumbnail for Monday afternoon's away game at Newcastle and plan a programme of accelerated regrowth for a fortnight's time..

What now? Is an historic double in the offing? Can ManUre drop a point in the last two remaining Premiership games (West Ham and Wigan -- home and away respectively) and can we win both games? Moreover, if we both win both, can we narrow the GD by scoring >18 goals in two games -- on Tyneside and home to Bolton?

Tantalising..

And, given our owner's heritage, surely the CL final in Moscow gives Chelski a home advantage ;-)

I just love the brattish whinging of Fergie. Oh, and Rafa -- who let the Drogs Out? You did, dickhead.

Avram -- you're clearly a winner and certainly have more gravitas in your left earlobe than your 'Big 4' peers. My apologies for doubting.

Of course, we could only win one, or then again, we could win nothing. Either way, a -- literally -- nail biting spectacular and magnificent close to the season.

Carefree

Butthead

It's bad enough that a generation of be-thonged women parade brazenly around sporting the 'whale tail' effect over the top of their jeans.

But why is it that today's male yoof insist upon wearing their trews halfway down their arse as well?

In a parallel universe, M&S boxers must have pinnacled as the fashionista's ultimate accessory to warrent such ubiquitous public airings.

London (Still) Calling

All that stuff about houses, space in the country, fresh air and no crime -- well it's nice in theory, but we've decided that we can't drag ourselves away from London ..just yet.

There's just too much uncertainly in the money markets at the moment and why would we put ourselves under unnecessary professional and financial pressure? A move 90 miles from the city does present logistical challenges, threats and compromises. It's just not worth it.

Right now, we're comfortably ahead. We're professionally and financially secure and we have a lovely home with more than enough room for two adults and a medium-sized dog. Guest do have to bunk-up on a pull-out in the rear living room, but that's no real hardship for one or two nights..

Oh, and I know that I whine on about the incessant grime and fairly frequent crime, but we do have an awful lot of good things in old Stokie too.

For the time being -- at least -- we're staying put.

..And so the story, erm, stalls

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Watch out road users of England. P passed her driving test last week -- first time on both theory and practical no less!

And as of today she's insured to drive the Land Rover.

..So expect carnage on the streets of north London.

Ems and I are taking the bus ;-)

Up The Hill Backwards

It ain't easy, this technology thing. What should be simple, is in reality, akin to a great big nasty squabble of Machiavellian proportions.

I'm trying to move 50Gb of material from iTunes on an old iMac running OSX Panther to an HP g-wizz PC tablet thingie running Vista. The extremely sophisticated method of transfer is a 2Gb memory stick. It's kinda like filling a bath from a sink using a shot glass ..with a hole in the bottom.

Now I know Jobs and Gates don't speak. I fully expect Mac to PC and PC to Mac to be a holy war. Problem is, I do expect Jobs to talk to Jobs. Apple to Apple should be warm and very cosy.

Ain't necessarily so.

I'm moving the material -- only ALL of my music -- to the PC because my 14 month-old iPod up and died. And unfortunately, its £150 replacement doesn't like Panther so won't synch with the old gal. The nasty little silver critter, however, does get on with Vista.

So to rectify, I've spent a further £80 on the snazzy new Leopard OS upgrade. but that won't load to the old Mac. This is apparently a common problem (blue screen), but fixes gleaned from online forums really aren't easy ..actually, they're bloody unfathomable.

Seems the uppity little shit of an current gen iPod is a snob and won't talk to any Apple OS older than Tiger, but as mentioned, it will cosy-up to new Windows.

And the rub is that I don't even want to continue running the crappy Mac. I want it retired and then destroyed. But it houses the last four years of downloads and burns -- some legal, some otherwise -- and took a considerable time to compile and catalogue.

Oh, and I don't consider burns an infringement of DRM as I paid the record companies a small fortune for the CDs in the first place, so feel perfectly within my rights to change the format of what's mine.

Thank God I hadn't yet begun the even lengthier process of ripping from my 1,000+ vinyl collection!

Country House -- This Time, For Real

After months and months thinking and talking about moving -- and running down quite a few dead-ends -- our departure from Gotham is (hopefully) imminent.

With no additional mortgage burden, we're swapping this


..for this

If the stars are favourably aligned, we're hoping to move mid- end-May.

..And so the story (really) begins

Country House, Redux

We're in the throes of negotiating the purchase of a lovely house in an Oxfordshire village. Yay, we're actually doing something about the move instead of just tittering on about it incessantly and spending every free hour pouring over Internet house porn..

Given this, a brief misunderstanding this morning between me and P sent me off looking at the BBC's morning TV schedule.

I emailed P to inform her of a brief exchange of views with the selling agent.

She replied with the message "on TV today".

!!!

Because the house we're after has recently been photographed by the BBC for consideration for one of its myriad homes and interiors shows, I thought she meant it had been featured on today's edition of Moving To Somewhere In The Country, Home Makeover Of The Year, Pigsty To Palace or whatever..

And because I feared that a glossy BBC treatment of the place would weaken our negotiating position -- i.e., that the sellers would reject offers and demand heaps more money -- I scurried off to the listings to check.

Anyway, no crisis. P was referring to one of her clients being on the TV news, not the house.

Phew.

I am however, a bit gutted at having missed today's scintilating To Buy Or Not To Buy. From the today's listing:

The property series which gives couples a chance to try before they buy. Presenters Sarah and Simon help a couple from Cambridge find a house with a garden big enough for a donkey.

..Beats mowing the lawn, I guess.

(iP)e(o)ple That (D)ied

Scratch the previous post. The flickers of life are false. The iPod passed away on Friday. It's dead and there's no resuscitation.

We'll have a private family burial in the garden on Saturday -- by which time I'm hopeful it's replacement will have arrived. Moreover, I hope the new one lasts a wee bit longer than deadboy..

I do take back my criticisim of The Genius Bar though. A very nice medico tried hard, but in vain, to repair the beast today. ..And I didn't have to wait long either.

"Teddy sniffing glue he was 12 years old,
Fell from the roof on East two-nine.
Cathy was 11 when she pulled the plug
On 26 reds and a bottle of wine.
Bobby got leukemia, 14 years old --
He looked like 65 when he died,
He was a friend of mine."

Pretty Hate Machine

It'll be an Apple -- that's for sure.

Fourteen months into ownership of an 80Gb 'Classic', the pretty little white and silver music box has died.

It's an ex-iPod with a severely knackered hard drive. All it wants is to be 'restored', but it's circuits are fried and no-can-do.

Of course, this also means that the 12 month warrantee has ended now too. Doh!

The Apple Store on Regent Street has a great technical support facility where you can book online for personal time in-store with an expert fix-it dude. Steveo's bricks and mortar outlets brand this facility 'Genius Bar'. Personally, I think that's a tad ambitious and it would be better christened something more realistic like 'Waiting and Waiting and Waiting Bar'.

Online the experience is great. You book your 'window' just like Ocado -- today, 12:30. But in practice, like all things Apple, it's utter pants. With my name 8th in the queue and 50 minutes past my appointment, I gave up are returned to the office.

If the intention is to upsell loads of other non-essential peripherals to the terminally bored and pissed-off -- it failed.

Of course, I am now a bit adrift without my beloved iPod, so have re-booked for a new drive to be installed at 10:10 tomorrow (only a few minutes after opening) in the hope that there won't be a backlog of other, less deserving, customers ahead of me.

Of course, if the damn things weren't so buggy in the first place..

Grrr.

Licensed To Ill

Just when I'd become accustomed to my TV licence only funding about two hours of worthwhile entertainment a week -- currently, Ashes To Ashes and The Last Enemy (my fondness for Hotel Babylon is an aberration, I admit) -- the Beeb throws up something very special.

OK, the annual appearance of a new Poliakoff or two notwithstanding, quality drama output from the luvvies at Television Centre and White City can be very scarce indeed. Sorry guys, Lark Rise To Candleford just doesn’t count. Outfitting the cast in Edwardian costume and bolloxing around in a pastoral idyll doesn't make a drama and it certainly doesn't equate to quality. It's a period soap and not very good either. Move along..

But last night's White Girl was something else altogether. Part of the BBC's controversial 'White Season' and influenced, it seemed to me anyway, by gritty English dramatists a la Loach and Leigh, it examines the co-existence of white Christian and Asian Muslim working class in Bradford and how the 11 year-old Leah found balance, order and meaning in Islam in contrast to her negligent, destructive quasi-single parent white family.

Enough plot examination. If you saw it, you'll have a view. If not, then I urge you to catch it again on your TV provider's replay service or the BBC's wonderful iPlayer.

A welcome antidote to the standard 24 hours of meaningless crapola like Holby and In It To Win It.

Milk And Alcohol

I have absolutely nothing at all to gripe about. The rain only arrived overnight and no-one's dug up any major roads between home and the office over the weekend -- so all's (kinda) well. ..Although Saturday's simple kitchen tiling job did result in a whole lot of additional plastering and a week-long delay.

So for the sheer bloody hell of it and as demonstration of my more chilled and relaxed outlook, here's a picture of drunken panda cubs. Well, they could just be glugging milk, but I like to think there a wee nip of bamboo hooch in there too. Cute, though however way you cut it.

..Now off to Google for cocaine-addicted badgers and passive aggressive weasels.

No Entry

Having toured Abney Park Cemetery with Ems yesterday afternoon, P and I fancied a small post-walkies libation.

Due to its 'no dogs allowed' policy, we had to eschew The Rose & Crown on Church Street in favour of The Lion. And in complete contrast, not only to its neighbour, but every other pub in N16 it would seem, The Lion has the most enlightened and reasonable policy going. It operates an 'all dogs welcome, children not' policy -- which suits we three just fine. Even the exceptional Shakey lets the feral neighbourhood brats run wild until they're banished at 8pm.

The Lion's simple guiding principal is that pubs are for adults and kindergartens are for children. Moreover, that a man and his 'best friend' (wives too, of course), should be able to enjoy a pint or two together in peace and without prejudice.

The Lion also has a nice and secure rear garden for its poochie patrons to wander and sniff. Indeed, so welcoming is it to its canine clientele, the pub garden's bushes are well stocked with dead squirrels as a hearty snack for those inquisitive enough to find them. Well, Ems found one yesterday and ate the whole thing in a matter of minutes..

P had a nice glass of the house red.

I had a nice cold Belgian lager.

And dog had a mangy old squirrel.

Everyone's a winner. Brilliant.

Addendum: As I'm rather inconsistent, the sentiments expressed here of course, don't apply to my nephew Charlie and niece Maddie who are very welcome to join me down the pub at any time ;-)

Dog Soldier

OK, one more. Eeks..

Beefheart SleeveFace

Stop. NOW.

Costello SleeveFace

PIL SleeveFace

I Predict A Diet

The problem with these little beauties is that if there are a lot of them in the office, then I snack all day, miss a proper lunch and feel nauseous by mid-afternoon.

Nutritionally balanced diet? No.

An 8,000 calorie day? Yes.

Eeks! The KKK took my waistline away
..Kalorific Krispy Kreme, that is..

Reasons To Be Cheerful, Parts 23

My three loyal readers, fearing for my wellbeing, are no doubt seeking court orders to have me temporarily sectioned. They may feel alarm at my mental state (persecution complexes abound) and fear that I will, á la Lindsay, Britney and Amy, self-combust. Such is the gloomy tone of recent posts.

Worry not. This humble Web2.0 outpost is not some cry for help, but a diary of sorts and outlet to vent. To be honest, I just like the discipline of writing.. I know it's boring, but I operate here within cast-iron editorial rules which limit the scope for comment and observation. Musing on wife, work or the weather, for example, are strictly forbidden. But incessant grumbling about everything is, I admit, D---U---L---L.

So, today, Matthew, I shall be cheery.

It's Friday. It's sunny and quite warm. I took the bus today and really, really enjoyed it. Yes, really. Life is good, and for the next 24 hours at least, I have my health. Oops sorry -- that was sarcastic, snide and unnecessary.

So here's a random list of things which I must not take for granted and remember to give thanks for..

• This forthcoming day of rude health
• American Democrats for making international news interesting and diverting the world's attention from the fact that John McCain will be the most powerful man on the planet this time next year ;-)
• The imminent return of Messrs. Terry, Lampard, Drogba, Essien, Mikel, Kalou and erm, Shevchenko ..Eeks, that's a whole team of internationals. How are we still in winning form fielding the Chelsea Ladies Under 16s? ;-)))
• The early arrival of Spring. Daffodils, crocuses, bunny wabbits and lamb chops..
• Free London newspapers -- Metro, London Lite, The Londonpaper, City AM. All utter bilge, but gratis
• Grand Designs. We love Kevin and even considered building our own home last night ..for 1 minute, 22 seconds before thinking better of it
• In Vino, Veritas. Banal, but we liiiike
• Impatience. It's an oft overlooked virtue
• Dad's Army and Father Ted. Chuckle brothers
• Bendy buses. I've made my peace with the 73
• Greenhouse gases. Mild winters and soggy summers. I'm going bio-fuel
• Felt tipped pens. Smells like victory
• Fuzzy felt. Thowback
• Velvet collars
• Lemonade and ice cream -- in the same glass
• Job. I still have one while my (soon-to-be-ex-)colleagues don't/won't. In-line with inflation pay review and a flat bonus. Grr. But then I DO have a job. Rats, just mentioned one of the sanctioned Ws. "You're fired!" Ed.
• Food beinning with T -- tagine, tortellini, tomato, toast
• iPod on shuffle. Who's next..?
• The facility to dream
• Aspiration
• Humility
• Oh, and P, Ems, family and friends, of course..
• The possibility of being healthy right through the weekend

Totally random, but forever..
Carefree

Complete Control, 1984

..Or I'm A Libertarian, Get Me Out Of Here!

The dumb dumb local council apparatchiks of our stinking corner of London have become all-powerful and omnipresent. I guess at heart, all politicians and their lackeys have -- to a greater or lesser extent -- God complexes. It's a heady power trip, baby.

But this unbearable.

Hackney (sodding) Council has now officially assumed Complete Control over every aspect of my life.

I'm woken each morning by its clumsy street cleaners, who while noisy, fail to actually remove any litter.

My street and all those around it are constantly filthy because recycling and refuse collection isn't properly coordinated. Pick-up on our road is Thursday, immediately south and to the right, on Mondays, opposite us on Wednesdays and to the North, on Fridays. Ipso facto, the whole neighbourhood is in a perpetual state of accumulative rubbish. Indeed, many of the flat dwellers simply don't have room for all the recycling paraphernalia, so their stuff constantly lives on the pavement. And what of my neighbour's penchant for discarding TVs, computers, fridges, furniture, carpet and the like by just leaving it on the street..?

I'm penalised twice in the same week for parking my car outside my own home due to arbitrary parking suspensions, even when there is no evidence of planned or in-progress works -- or even a public notice to inform me of said suspension. And the ticketing is completely sneaky and cynical as it's done at 11pm at night when 1) everyone's in bed and 2) no work will be done anyway and therefore no obstruction.

I cannot properly walk the dog (or myself), even though there are numerous parks and green spaces, because everything's locked-up from 4pm to 9am. I know, I know -- it's for my own safety but then I do have a hefty MagLite (for the express purposes of illuminating the gloom, of course). But great working hours guys. Haringey's parks are open all year 'round -- well, Finsbury Park is -- why not ours?

We cannot extend our house as the council's spineless conservation geeks want to maintain the uniquely urban beauty of our streetscape -- comprised as it is of 1970s utilitarian social housing (directly opposite, a young offender's halfway house which for most, represents only a brief period of liberty between stretches in Pentonville and Brixton); long-closed burned-out shop fronts of graffitied corrugated iron facades; and a three-year-old hole in the ground (previously a dodgy pub of murder and then arson) slowly emerging as a six-storey modern cast iron development. We cannot build a mansard as our three lone Victorians are considered a full and 'unblemished' terrace and the council is -- without public notice -- re-drawing its previously published policy. Unblemished! It's the most godawful bollox of a streetscape. Cold War-era cities of the (nee)Eastern Block have more integrity and appeal.

I try to be a good boy (really I do) and I pay handsomely each month for this shite.

Resistance is futile.

I O-B-E-Y

"This is Joe Public speaking.
I'm controlled in the body, controlled in the mind.

Total c-o-n control -- that means you!"

London's Brilliant Parade

As my three loyal readers will know, old Gotham really does wind me up. It's criminally expensive. It's criminally dangerous (another fatally stabbed teenager a quarter of a mile from home over the weekend, with tally of dead hoodies in N16 at three in as many months). It's criminally congested, overpopulated, dirty, unfriendly, decrepit and dangerous.

By contrast, I know the grass, while in abundant evidence, won't be figuratively greener out in the Shires. I know the country won't be perfect, with a choice of only one village pub and no Thai, Turkish, Indian, Bangladeshi, Kurdish, Vietnamese, Kosher, Carribean, Cantonese, French, Italian, Tapas... deliveries within a 100 miles -- but it will be quieter, cleaner, cheaper and generally more amenable than Londinium.

However, every now and then wonderful things do happen in the stinking metropolis.

Just this morning, quite unannounced, a ceremonial troop of The Queen's Royal Hussars clopped down Lisson Grove from their Regent's Park barracks en route to some kind of offical engagement. In many ways, quite a bizarre thing -- 40 horseback soliders in ceremonial dress with swords and cannon parading through city traffic. But then again, in the nation's capital, it's almost as commonal-garden as a tube strike or mugging.

Odd..

NB: The title of this post, like many of mine, is the title of a song -- this, from Elvis Costello's 1993 album Brutal Youth. And Elvis, like us shortly, followed Roddy Frame's advice on his 1990's Stray album to "Get Out of London"..

SCP v2.3

Another in my random series of Stupid Corporate Branding (SCB).

Today, spied on a Barts ambulance in Islington..

"Bringing Excellence To Life"

Kak

Heaven Knows I'm (Really) Miserable Now

Just had confirmation that Morrissey will NOT reschedule the three cancelled-due-to-illness dates at The Roundhouse.

"The artiste and promoters tried strenuously to reschedule the three shows but it proved impossible. We would like to extend our apologies to all of Morrissey’s loyal fans over this unavoidable situation."

Artiste..?

Kak cubed

Strange Town

Ever feel that you're living in an episode of The Twilight Zone where things are just a tiny bit out of kilter?

Recent incidences of minor oddities.

• A cab driver without an A to Z and unable to program his sat-nav. Kind-of a chocolate tea pot
• A singer without a voice. Surely you'd know at the sound-check if not before?
• Spied at local café last Tuesday -- woman breast-feeding child in exact line of sight to café's blackboard menu making lunch selection awkward and killing appetite. Yuk
• Spied everywhere in N16 -- feral brats running wild in pubs. It doesn't happen round the corner in N1 where pubs are for adults, not day-care surrogates..
• Phantom-like fortnightly appearance of sacks of butchered bones on the Green. Christmas for the dog, but surely contrary to accepted FSA codes of practice in butchery -- i.e., illegal?!
• A council (Hackney) so whacked with Green Everything that it actively encourages its citizens to maintain woefully untidy streets with recycling bins and refuse bags strewn asunder
• Indeed, a whole national, regional and local political system so whacked with Green Everything, that education and crime are distant priorities behind worm farms, composting and bloody bicycling
• Chocolate tea pot -- no, really. For Easter eating, not brewing I'll wager -- unless you're a north London cabbie
• Urban foxes -- not sickly country cousins, but big, brash and bushy. Brazen
• The appearance of No Smoking signs inside the office. Smoking has always been banned at work and outside it since 1 July 2007. Why the extra reminder now?
• Cashly Cole -- there really is no point to the evil little gooner. 'Rested' on Saturday. Return him quickly to the Arse under warrantee
• Spied in the park on Sunday morning -- a woman, a leash and a ferret. Weird walkies..

Heaven knows I'm Miserable Now..

..Or when the presence of two of the UK's leading comedians and the country's pre-eminent television 'personality' just isn't enough.

"Steven Patrick Morrissey is unwell!"

So quoth arguably the funniest man in England.

"But that's OK, as David Walliams is going to entertain you instead".

And he weren't joking, neither.

On any other night the presence of Russell Brand, one half of Little Britain and Jonathan Ross on the same stage would be near sublime. But not last Friday. Last Friday, I was at the new, revamped Roundhouse in Chalk Farm to witness one night of a short, intimate north London residency by the fêted ex-Smith.

With limited space, tickets had sold-out instantly and to, it would seem, only the truly devout. I can't recall a pre-gig atmosphere so loaded with anticipation. Maybe, Joe Strummer's return from 'the wilderness' at The Astoria in '99 tops it, but only just.. Anyway, you can gauge the relative importance of these things by the (dis)proportion of celebs to humble punters milling around the bar. And by Friday’s turn-out in NW1 The Ivy, The Groucho, Annabel’s et al were in for a lean night.

At about 8:30pm it all seemed to be going so well.

OK, between them, my cab driver and his sat-nav couldn't seem to find their way across three postcodes and I had to complete the journey from home to venue via the northern line. But I made it there in plenty of time.

Easy through the ticket line, easy into the main space and easy to the bar. Easy to Red Stripe and easy then to good vantage point. All going swimmingly.

I missed the support (on purpose) and when I'd settled into my spot at 8:45pm, the pre-show entertainment was stock footage of '50s and '60s pop culture icons like James Dean and Brigitte Bardot. All so very Morrissey.

Bang on cue, 9:00pm, and the films end, stage light dim and The Man and his band take the stage.

A-D-U-L-A-T-I-O-N

Mozz opens with the Smiths' Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want This Time; then The Last of the International Playboys; then a couple of new songs. Then nothing. No Morrissey. No band. No nothing. Then ten minutes pass and messrs. Brand, Ross and Walliams appear with the terminal news. Moz ain't well.

I'd have preferred to be told a bit sooner, but ho hum. Shuffle out, hail a black cab (someone who ought to know where he's going) and track back Stokie-ward in time to catch the floppy-haired dandy's pre-recorded chat show.

Musically, this year really isn't starting very well. The date I chose from Carbon/Silicon's six weeks of consecutive Fridays residence at Ladbroke Grove was cancelled and now Mozza's lost his voice. Fingers crossed that C/S can make it third-time lucky for me on the 22nd and that the return to The Roundhouse doesn't conflict with anything very important and already diarised, like a foreign trip or a wedding..

Anyway, gig or no gig, the intense pre-concert back-catalogue run-through has ensured that Mo has been a firm fixture on That Tune In My Head –- all in all, a distinct improvement on crappy daytime TV theme tunes of a week ago.

It Must Be Love..

A few more observations on the brilliance of the TomTom..

• It figures out the route and is typically very accurate
• It estimates journey times and ETA -- again, quite accurately
• It gives me a long-range view of the journey -- how many miles to the next exit etc.
• It warns me when I'm approaching speed cameras -- about every 500 yards in London
• It tells me when I'm driving over the speed limit
• It provides a wide-angle view of the surrounding area -- lakes, countryside, intersections, and so on..
• It is negotiating a peace settlement in the Middle East, eradicating worldwide hunger and reversing global warming ..well, probably

It is, quite literally, the most wonderful thing in the world!

Spend, Spend, Spend

No Drogba, no Shevchenko, no Kalou. Can't really trust Pizzaro as lone striker. Mmmm, what's a little ol' Siberian oligarch (and his YTS manager) to do?

..Let's have an Anelka.

He may have been a Gooner once, but I'll forgive hime that -- we've still got Cashley after all :-(

Nicky-boy's been all over -- Bolton (of course, for about 3 minutes), Liverpool, Man City, Real Madrid and Fenerbahce -- and at 28 still has a few good years left. Oh, and he's scored 11 goals in 22 games.

Hey, if he can keep that up, £15m is well worth the four or five weeks we really need him.

Welcome Nic.

OK, now for Micah Richards, David Villa, Daniel Alves, Modric ...and don't forget Ronaldinho!

Carefree

Arrested Development

This Christmas was a lurch backward some 30 years. But unlike the fictional DI Sam Taylor, my return to the 1970s was one of choice. Moreover, making such a nostalgic trip to childhood had a high likelihood of let-down and disappointment. After all, what one recalls fondly of three decades past at the age of nine or ten, is unlikely to hold in (near;-)middle age.

This year I asked Santa and sundries for a series of Dan Dare comic books, all accurate reprints from the original plates used in the strip's initial run in the 1950s Eagle comic book.

**See detail below on Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future.

Far from disappointed, I've been very happily surprised, not only by the quality of the graphics, but of the sheer imagination in the storylines. And given that the strips were produced in the post-war austerity of 50s Britain, their ethics are decidedly enlightened.

Set in the near future 1990s, earth is a place of universal equality and hunger has been eliminated. In these stories, earth's threats lie somewhere in outer space (the Solar System) -- notably the Mighty Mekon of Mekonta hailing from the north of Venus. While somewhat 'whitebread' and patriarchal (our hero is terribly British, stiff upper lip and all), there's a strong female lead character too, Dr. Jocelyn Peabody, chief scientist, no less, a character of pluck and resource and far from simpering love interest. Ethnicities (green) are covered by a good Treen or Venetian, Sondar, who turned against the wicked Mekon.

Another graphical blast from the past which might have proven more troublesome ethically was the gift of a compendium of 12 of the best Commando comic strips.

All set in WWs 1 and 2, these stories are of brave Tommies overcoming the pesky Hun. All "Achtung!", "Gott in Himmel!", "Donner und Blitzen!" Well, on the face of it anyway... Actually, all the stories -- exceptionally inked btw -- are more about personal decency, honour and goodness than sticking it to Fritz. Battles (land, sea and air) against the Germans are merely a foil for characters to undertake personal journeys of test and discovery, a latter-day Gawain or Launcelot if you like.

OK, "Die! Englischer schweinhund", is extreme and bang out of order today, but again, like Dan, these strips were written in the 1960s, a very different time.

Once past the occasional post-war lapse of reason, and these too are damn fine -- nay meaninful -- entertainments.

**Dan Dare is a classic British science fiction comic hero, created by illustrator Frank Hampson for the Eagle comic story Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future in 1950.

Although the stories were set in the late 1990s, the dialogue and manner in which all the characters interact is reminiscent of British war films of the 1950s (it has been described as "Biggles in Space" or the British equivalent of Buck Rogers). Dan Dare was distinguished by its long, complex story lines (sometimes lasting for over a year), snappy dialogue and meticulously illustrated comic-strip artwork by Hampson and other artists.

Dan Dare first appeared on the cover of the first issue of the weekly comic strip magazine Eagle, on 14 April 1950. There were two large colour pages of this story per issue. The artwork was of a very high quality, being the product of a team of artists working in a studio system. This included scale models of spaceships, and models posing in costume as points of reference for the artists.

Attention was paid to scientific plausibility, with the science fiction luminary Arthur C. Clarke acting as a science and plot adviser to the first strip. The stories were set mostly on planets of the solar system, which were presumed to have extraterrestrial life and alien inhabitants, as was common in science fiction of the era before the space probes of the 1960s proved that the most likely worlds were really lifeless. The first story, for example, begins with Dan Dare as pilot of the first successful flight to Venus.

Dan Dare (full name Colonel Daniel McGregor Dare) was chief pilot of the Interplanet Space Fleet, stated as having been born in Manchester, England in the year 1967. Although not a super-hero, he would sometimes pull off exceptional feats of piloting, and often proved to be extraordinarily lucky. He excelled at hand-to-hand combat using jiu jitsu, but he would most often find non-violent solutions to his predicaments. He was bound by a strong sense of honour to the extent that he never lied, and would rather die than break his word.

TomTom Club

Eeks December has been a busy month. Anyway, enough of that as it's all work and rather dull..

2007 rounded-out just as it does every year with frantic car-filling and hours and hours on the nation's motorway system tracking from one family gathering to another and back again.

This year though Santa, my erstwhile navigator on such journeys, decided to resign her duties and instead buy me a TomTom satellite navigator.

Woo ho. It's love at first instruction. Straight outta the box, the little beautie works a treat. OK, it did tell me a few wrong 'uns in North London, but soon corrected itself. The real test was its effortless negotiation of the hell that is Milton Keynes' system of roundabouts. All done with aplomb. No shouting or swearing from me and plain sailing, so to speak, all the way there and home again.

OK, it is a little bossy, but firmness is what's required.

Strangely my ex-navigator began to show signs of jealously of the disembodied female 'BBC English' voice of direction -- and with map in hand began proposing alternative routes home. How very old meedja if a little quaint.

No chance, love. You had your chance and now I trust the brilliant little device to get us calmly and accurately from A to B and indeed, anywhere else through a figurative alphabet of destinations.

Where Are You Special One?

At home doing end-of-year appraisals and battling PeopleSoft. Tres dull.

My list of topics to blog remains just a list. From the week's news, as yet unformed rants comprise:

• Dangerous dogs -- 42% rise is dog attacks in London
• Labour Party funding -- Dirty, dirty, dirty
• Bungs in football -- Harry R is innocent; Harman for England
• Clissold Leisure Centre -- 15 years late, costing Hackney tax payers £47m
• Sudan teacher and teddy bears -- Them fuzzy-wuzzies don't like it up 'em

Ho hum, I have at least mangaged to break a record in Labels..

So in place of the usual sound and fury signifying nowt, an amusing bon mot from Popbitch.

Brian Barwick sees an old lady in the street struggling with heavy shopping.
"Can you manage love?" he asks.
"It's OK", she says, "I don't want the job, thanks".

Snaggletooth

Crank it up to 11 and give me another Red Bull mum..

Choon

Of Weddings, Feasts And Football

We had our 'Cilla moment' this weekend at the wedding of Jo and Paul -- who met each other at our hitching last year.

The event was held at the chi-chi Grove golf and spa hotel, just outside glamorous Watford -- which has tried hard to combine the old-world with contemporary bling. It only sort-of works. It's opulent, a bit quirky with a rather contrived 'farmyard' / country theme -- think P-Diddy meets Babe. Perspex boxes and console tables containing hundreds of butterflies, feathers, farmyard animal cuddly toys and rubber ducks. It self-consciously terms its style "groovy grand".

..Mmmm. Art for art's sake or just plain odd?

And our pre-wedding lunch was most unusual too. The Glasshouse restaurant is what the funky kids at The Grove term "an international Theatre of Cooking" (pretentious, moi?), where chefs prepare British, Asian and Mediterranean dishes, all served buffet-style.

And as we all know, buffet-style really means 'all you can eat' which in turn translates to big fat greedy pigs.

A tad hungry, I happily obliged..

I gobbled the most incongruous selection of foods ever. In sequence of ingestion, I had, in the space of an hour and a half, the following..

Black and green olives, black beans, pickled cauliflower, fig, potato salad, sardines, Spanish torte, green chilli peppers stuffed with cream cheese, parma ham, artichokes, tomatoes with melted cheese, figs, sweet garlic, sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, roast pork, Yorkshire pudding, wild berry cheese cake (2 portions), panacotta and to finish -- crackling. All washed down with a lovely crisp Verdicchio.

Thankfully, there wasn't time for cheese.

A thoroughtly weird repast, but strangely satisfying. I'm uncertain as to our fitness for attending a wedding though. A long nap would have been nearer the mark. Suffice it to say, I wasn't able to fully appreciate the lovely dinner a few hours later.

Anyway, as mentioned, The Grove is quite a fancy operation -- just the kind of place for premiership footballers to unwind on off-weekends like this. So we didn't bat an eye at David James lunching a few tables away. But when Steven Gerrard was spied in the lobby, I began to wonder..

Durr. Of course, the whole of the England squad is staying at The Grove ahead of Wednesday's make-or-break Euro2008 qualifier against Croatia at Wembley.

I'm not sure how Jo and Paul felt about sharing their special day with the boys, or indeed, if they minded coach Steve McLaren and his family barging through the middle of their reception drinks.

Personally, I'm a wee bit disappointed not to have seen Messrs. Terry, Lampard, Cole (A and J), Wright-Philips or Bridge..

Carefree

I'm A Nobody, Get Me On Telly!

Marc Bannerman, Anna Ryder Richardson, Lynne Franks, Janice Dickinson, Rodney Marsh and John Burton Race are all 'competing' in the new "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!".

Thing is, if I have heard of them, I've heard nothing of them for years. But most of them, I really have never heard of.

Who are these people, what is their talent and where do they come from?

It's the same for the stupid BBC dancing thing. Who on earth are Alesha Dixon, Brian Capron, Dominic Littlewood, Gethin Jones, Kate Garraway or Matt Di Angelo?

There seems to be an active and lucrative job of being vaguely known, but not doing, achieving or being good at anything at all.

Abi Titmuss and Rebecca Loos are famous for what? Well, shagging married or distasteful men as far as I can tell. Callum Best is known for being a distasteful man and shagging the aforementioned hussies -- I'm guessing..

Switch channels and ditto. I've never heard of Carole Malone, Cleo Rocos, Danielle Lloyd, Ian "H" Watkins, Jackie Budden, Jo O'Meara..

In these few lines there are a lot of names of D/E-list 'celebs' on quasi-reality TV programmes. Don't get me wrong, I don't read the red tops or Heat. (I've been Googling …and wish I hadn't). I do however, spend an awful lot of time pouring over the Guardian Guide looking for something worth watching.

It makes the annual event of a Stephen Poliakoff drama worth the wait. And like buses, you wait a year and all of a sudden six turn-up at once..

What I (Don't) Want For Christmas

Everyone's gone mad for Apple iPhones. They did in the US over the summer of course, but then that's America -- a country that redefines our more sober interpretations of the word 'mad'.

Today, British loonies are sleeping outside the Apple Store on Regent's Street so they can be first to own the damn thing.

Humbug. I've had Apple gear before and it's utter pants. I can't imagine the iPhone is any different.

For a start, Apple's are notoriously buggy. While lovely to behold, my iMacs have habitually seized and fallen-over. My iPod periodically freezes too -- though to be fair, the 80G 'Classic' is far better than the 20G version three it replaced last year.

The iPhone is supposed to be this magical device that for the first time combines phone, Web, camera and media in one stylish and easy-to-use package.

Sure -- it looks good. But then it's an Apple. As noted, Apples do look lovely, but invariably disappoint.

Let's review the evidence.

The iPhone is quite expensive at £220. It's locked to only the O2 network in the UK and T-Mobile in Germany. It's 2G not 3G, therefore fails in delivering one of its critical USPs -- a true mobile Web experience. It's limited to Apple's obsolete iChat IM. The camera is a measly 2 megapixels. And it only carries 8G of memory with no provision for memory cards, so fails as a meaningful media device.

I think this knitted iPhone is just as pretty, likely more reliable and probably with better functionality.

Nope. This year my Christmas list is sorted and includes quite a lot of 'technology' -- Robert's retro DAB, Tom Tom and X-Box360. But this frippary won't be added. Not until it's cheaper, unlocked, significantly enhanced and like the iMac and iPod/iTunes, is compatible with Windows and other more widely used platforms. Which it inevitably will. So one day. Version 2, 3 or 4..

Streeetcccch

Lovely abstracting of the Dumpling.

It Gets Worse

So to win back a modicum of good karma I bought loads of sweets from M&S for the 'Trick or Treat' kiddies of old Stokie. Free of artificial colours and flavours, they are eminently suitable for the neighbourhood's little Jocastas, Octavias and Tarquins. (It's sooo Observer 'round our way, dharling).

Problem is -- I'm eating them all. Mmmm, Fizzy Fish and Percy Pigs.

I have no guilt, but I am feeling very full and a bit sick.

I have abjured all responsibility and am little more than a wanton vessel.

Ha. I am the Lord of Misrule!

Running with The Devil

See, I was right. The portents are far from good. Indeed, they're downright diabolical.

Again, this morning there were six magpies in the park.

Great, I think, more of that gold. Show me the money. Show me the money.

But wait. Think about it.

CFC scored six goals on Saturday**. Six magpies yesterday and six again today…

And what day is it today?

Halloween.

Three sixes. 6 6 6. The number of the beast. Beelzebub himself. Satan. Lucifer. The Devil.

Cripes. See what comes of being greedy?

And thinking about it again, that fox (symbolic of me?) yesterday was *encircled* by the sextet of monochrome birds.

We really are doomed.

Paranoid, moi?

**Man City didn't score any goals on Saturday, so there's no 'against' to add and therefore the 666 symmetry remains intact.

Superstitious Mind(less)

My superstitious mind is prone to the disastrous. I see dead people**. Well I don't really, but I do tend to see the worst in the proverbial tea leaves. If things are going well, I just know that catastrophy is near.

"We're doomed; doomed I say."

But today, I think my fortunes have taken a more positive turn. Out with 'madam' this morning I spied magpies. Not the usually sorrowful one or the occasional but deceitful two. No today, six. And all surrounding a mature male fox -- which must double the potency of this most agreeable portent. (The handsome creature to the right is there because P endearingly calls me 'fox').

Six magpies -- that's gold baby!

And only a few hours ago en route to work P agreed to increase my pocket money -- so it's already working.

I'm off now to blow the lot on lottery tickets and scratch cards and ponder the Aston Martin's spec.


**With the dark nights upon us and All Hallows Eve nearing, if the seasonal story in last week's Hackney Gazette is anything to go by, then maybe I soon will ..see dead people, that is. The site of Butterfield Green where we do our bi-daily wanderings was until the 1980s residential housing. It is reported that 69 Spencer Grove was a most haunted place indeed. And while the troubled abode is no longer there, surely there must be some shadow of its presence among the brambles and bushes...

The haunting of 69 Spencer Grove, Stoke Newington, started in September 1967 and involved a mixture of poltergeist phenomena and the appearance of phantoms. Raps and strange noises were heard and furnishings damaged. A disturbing apparition of a woman in white with dark socket-like eyes which emerged from a wardrobe was seen by several members of the household. A series of fires also broke out in the property and the family concerned fled the house. Subsequently 69 Spencer Grove was demolished.

Six of the Best

Sorry Chooch. I'm nicking Sun headlines as well.

Anyway, he may look like Uncle Fester (no, not Didier), but with Henk ten Cate's evident impact at Cobham, Avram Grant has done the impossible -- destroying a (hiterto) in-form Man City 6 - 0.

It works for the arse. Hey, Wenger's no oil painting, but he too puts the 'pretty' on the pitch.

Boring, boring.. :-)

Carefree

Only Words

Words have meaning. Together they have metre. They can be ambiguous, posessed of wonder and meaning beyond their defined purpose. Sometimes they just look strange. And some sound very odd indeed. Verbs, adverbs, nouns.. I just like these.

Coagulation, Teutonic, Conqueror, Protagonist, Globule, Cyrillic, Bellicose, Labourious, Quizzical, Augment, Cipher, Galvanise, Lorem Ipsum, Oncology, Augur, Codify, Necessarily, Cubical, Posthumous, Arduous, Corrosion, Pseudonym, Railing, Tarmac, Believe. Protocol, Arable, Grimoire, Compass, Pavement, Clack, Desolate, Ovis, Corrugated, Puddle, Bulletpoint, Putty, Suit, Refrain, Desist, Blossom, Cistern, Protagonist, Blame, Dough, Blizzard, Optimist, Vague, Intestate, Granite, Articulate, Riddle

Yes, I'm a bit bored today.

Missed Me.. By 24 Hours

A creature of habit, I keep a fairly regular schedule. I wake at the same time each morning; ditto leave the house; ditto leave the office at the end of the day, etc. Each day, orderly the same, while content varies.

I prefer to be home rather than out, so do little work- or friend-related socializing during the week.

Part of the routine is the same 10 minute walk from the office to car each evening, usually departing desk at about 5:00 p.m.

But a little over week ago, as luck would have it, I hosted a weeknight work dinner and so the routine was disrupted.

Thank Christ! I walk past this location (corner of Harewood Avenue and Rossmore Road NW1) every day at this time.

No Lily, it doesn't lie. This (shit)ty does just what it says on the tin.

SCB v2.2

CDL "Integrated Fulfillment Services".

???

A courier firm.

Petri

At a family breakfast yesterday morning, The Observer’s Coolbrands Supplement was the focus of much discussion.

To some amusement, bafflement and bit of (honest) embarrassment, P and I found that we own / use / consume 15 of the 20 top [ehem, cool] brands.

The automotive bling notwithstanding, we really must be most shallow –- a Posh & Becks of old Stokie -- as it were..

And anyway, we don’t want a Ferrari. We’re quite happy with our hulking great Land Rover TVM ;-)

Addendum: On second thoughts, many of the below are rather proletarian -- Google, eBay, Amazon.. So maybe we're not so hideously status-obsessed afterall.

The list from 1 to 20

Aston Martin
iPod
YouTube
Bang & Olufsen
Google
Playstation
Apple
Agent Provocateur
Nintendo
Virgin Atlantic
Ferrari
Ducati
eBay
Rolex
Tate Modern
Prada
Lamborghini
Green & Black’s
iTunes
Amazon

Blog-Stretch

When a blog page takes a while to load, stetches and distorts.

An improvement, I think..

(Fat)man

Zoiks!

The 'Caped Crusader' has been eating too many Gotham Burgers.

Time for mum to prepare a few BatSalads..



And as the theme tune went, "Dinner, dinner. Dinner, dinner. Dinner, dinner.. Batman."

No Shit Sherlock #2

Welsh newsreader, BBC 1, 22:00 Tuesday, 2 October: "Tories accuse Brown of electioneering."

Catalyst for Tory criticism: PM Gordon Brown announcing, on photoshoot tour of Iraq during Tory Party Conference, the withdrawal of 1,000 British troops from Basra by year's end.

Catalyst for withdrawal: War bad in general. This particular war very bad. Snap November election in the offing given strong 11 point lead in polls and withdrawal can only improve that position.

So to the, ehem, snot-Greens: I suppose all those conference proposals of this week -- to increase the inheritance tax threshold and lower stamp duty -- are in no way an attempt to curry favour with middle England and claw-back some poll positioning ahead of that impending snap..?

While I accept that politicians are slimy, self-interested, self-aggrandising back-stabbers, I do expect somewhat less sophomoric journalism from the BBC.

Stupid Corporate Branding (SCB) v2.1

And another spied this morning..

A nice dark blue van run by the firm Calligan zips about the capital delivering …"Business Water".

That'll be somewhat more serious and commerically-minded H2O than the stuff from the tap or supermarket then?

As this is likely to become a series, as a good and true corporate citizen, I've decided to establish an acronym -- SCB and will append numeric iterations à la software and now (dire) films starring Bruce Willis. Te he

Dinosaur Jnr.

So along with 10 million or so others, I logged my details online for the 'Led Zeppelin Lottery'. I waited patiently for three weeks until the magic 1st October for notification *only if successful*. Ho hum, while 20,000 lucky so-and-sos got their stairways to heaven yesterday, I got nought.

As consolation, I've instead forked-out £75 for one of the Sex Pistols' Never Mind The Bollocks 30 year anniversary gigs at the Brixton Academy instead.

That's, of course, as long as the broker of 'hard to find tickets' who I've already paid doesn't, in reality, find my tickets too hard to find. All three gigs did sell-out in 15 minutes, afterall. (Not an unlimited supply)

And while I'm quite tempted to give said broker the required £480 to go find me an entry to Zep (likely, in through the outdoor ;-), I'd rather 'get burned', with the best of punky intentions, for £75 instead of nearly £480 for a Zofo no-show or worse, a whopping £555:zip for both.

No fun.

Stupid Corporate Branding Goes Nationwide

Driving through London each morning (naughty me ;-) provides for much opportunity to absorb all manner of corporate branding. There are billboards and hoardings and buses and taxis all brightly adorned with consumer advertising -- for cinema movies, DVD releases, albums, home stores, clothing, financial services, lifestyle magazines et al.

Also, I'm long used to sharing the road (shame) with the ubiquitous "white van man" -- the hazardous road warriors of Britain's small traders. These too announce themselves on their vehicles, but with more low-fi, descriptive 'branding': witness, Honest Bob's Plumbing, Catford, tel: obviously a mobile, email: bobplum@hottail.com.

But increasingly, the good-old, reliable (i.e., no regard for the rules of the road; other road users or pedestrians; their indicators; traffic lights; box junctions; lanes; speed limits etc.) British white van men and women seem to be aping the corporate branding philosophies of larger business service firms. Regardless of their field -- carpenter, bricklayer, electrician, waste disposal.. -- our nation's artisans are all busy devising nonsensical company positioning.

I should know about the sometimes idiotic branding of service firms. I work in business services and my two previous employers, for instance, have carried "Helping Business Thrive on Technology Change" and "Many Minds, Singular Results" as their respective tag lines. While not very elegant, the first kinda says what the company does. NB: It has now since 'rebranded' to the possibly even more insipid "Making Leaders Successful Every Day". The second is a wee bit more obtuse, but dutifully indicates a service mentality. My current employer too has something equally natty yet inscrutable as its tag -- a play on ingenuity, cleverness, value... (Sorry, no names, no pack drill)

But today, I find that I must have awoken to a parallel universe. The capital's white van folk seem to have swapped The Sun or The Mirror for The Economist and Harvard Business Review as their periodicals of choice. Their new brand identities are now homogenous lumps of hackneyed business-esque techno-babble -- 'full of M.B.A. but signifying nothing'.

Two instances today caused me to pull the car over, reach for pen and paper and make notes so as not to forget.

The first van owned by the company, Geze, has positioning awash with the florid meaningless adjectives of a Palo Alto software firm -- 'solutions', 'integrated' and 'systems', and its tag -- "Opening Doors To Innovation". What does Geze do? Furniture design, architecture, advertising? No, it's a glazier. That's the people who fit windows. Mmmm..

The second, JPS Group, offers its customers the intriguing promise of "Infinite Possibilities". And the good people at JPS, what is their business, pray? Systems integration, management consultancy, venture capital? Nope, it's, ehem, office supplies. That's paper clips and stickie notes to you and me. So how infinite are the possibilities for making bouncy balls from elastic bands? Do tell JPS..

Good grief.

Come back all you honest Bills, Bobs and Brians. Your driving is still atrocious, but we expect that of you and at least we know who you are.

Parp

This morning I found a large jar of Greek Gitgantes beans in the kitchen and thought they might make a tastey snack to dip into from time to time at work.

Problem is that I've just eaten the lot for lunch in one sitting.

Eeks. Strong liklihood of windy afternoon.

Slartibartfast.

Correspondence, After A Fashion

From: ManUreGit
Sent: 20 September 2007 13:58
To: Viking; Arse (Dubai); CFC (London)
Subject: I'm so happy
_______________________________

The Premiership has lost a poisonous, graceless little sh!t.

Oh happy day.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From: Viking
Sent: 20 September 2007 14:23
To: MauReGit
Cc: Arse (Dubai); CFC (London)
Subject: Re: I'm so happy
_______________________________


Ohh yeah - because Ferguson is such a positive shining light

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From: Arse (Dubai)
Sent: 23 September 2007 20:14
To: MauReGit; Viking; CFC (London)
Subject: Re: I'm so happy
_______________________________

Lost gooner blather –- something about Fabregas and cheeky smiles ;-)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From: CFC (London)
Sent: 24 September 2007 09:02
To: Arse (Dubai); Viking; ManUreGit
Subject: RE: I'm so happy
_______________________________

Happy's not the word. Ecstatic more like!

At best, we'll melt into lower-table mediocrity.

But the likely scenario is: RomanAb will sell the club in three week's time after a few more draws and buy Harrods or something equally exotic but more predictable than a bunch of back-stabbing, illiterate prima donnas.

Ken Bates will return triumphantly from dismantling Leeds and install Dennis Wise as player manager. Kerry Dixon will be recalled from deep, deep, deep retirement to lead an under 16s squad of Surrey chavs all elevated to 1st team duties due to the rats-sinking-ship-clamour of departures akin to a Northern Rock run.. Ditto the new-blues -- ehem, fans -- who'll return their favour to ManUre, scarrse gits and Arse.

Mike Dean will have a bizarre gardening accident which amounts to his regained hair growth, but that his spindly arms and legs will miraculously fall off (shame).

CFC will be finish in the toilet behind Derby and Spurs and go down.

I'll be able to get a season ticket and there'll be plenty of room in the shed.

Bring on the Championship.

Still love the chels ;-)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Compare & Contrast

Total Sweetie
Good natured, friendly, affectionate, cute, unstintingly loyal, albeit quite greedy, occasionally noisey and smelly


Complete Shit
Aggressive, vicious, deranged, pointless, ugly, mad, unpredictable, untrainable, unlovable, unspeakable and in-need-of-extinction


See post below

Ban These Bloody Monsters

..Oh, they are banned. Then enforce the sodding ban.

Explanation --

On the day that Jackie Simpson was acquitted of manslaughter for allowing her chav son's pit bull to maul her 5-year-old granddaughter, Ellie Lawrencon, to death, Ems and I too had the misfortune to encounter first-hand one of these vicious, unnecessary beasts.

Minding our own business at 06:30 on our usual early morning stroll (me) / ablutions (her), Ems was attacked by a young pit-bull-type in the park near our home.

The monster was off its lead (illegal), unmuzzled (illegal) and in the company of a teenage chav (female, nearly (and should be classed as illegal)) who had absolutely no control over her unpredictable weapon.

It just tore into to Ems harassing, growling and nipping at her. Ems is a bit dim and tends to cower in these situations, bowing to the greater aggression of the other dog, instead of more sensibly fleeing. [Actually, thinking about it, being rag-doll compliant is probalby the better method of survival in this circumstance]. While she did initially bark to tell the other to bugger off, quickly, her barks turned to helpless yelps of intimidation and then pain.

With her creature's jaws clamped around Ems' back and sides, the foul peasant was next to useless and just kept apologising (innit) instead of actually trying to exert some authority over her shit or grabbing hold of the bloody thing to drag it off.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age but was probably only a matter of minutes, I extricated the bastard's jaws from my pet's rear. Luckily, we were only slightly bruised (me and Ems), shaken (her, literally), but no blood was drawn (either of us) and all's well.

But do Stoke Newington's police, the Met, the British government or its judicial system acknowledge the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991? Anyone at Stokie's Safer Neighbourood Team ever going to call me back for this 'non emergency'?

Hell no!

These monsters aren't pets or companions. They're weapons and like guns and knives must be banished from our streets or only posessed in the face of severe penalty (chav owner) and destruction (fucking disgusting animal).

Mad Cows..?

Hackney Dwellers #1

You have two cows
They are both stolen
You order your milk from Waitrose
It is expensive but organic

Hackney Dwellers #2

You have a cow
You see another cow
Both have benefits
Both are lovely...
You know that you can only have one cow
You spend ages working out the pros and cons of each cow...
You wonder whether the mooing of the second cow will be soothing, or sound unfamiliar
The first cow has a very different moo...
You wonder whether the smell of the second cow might bother you
You remind yourself that the first cow doesn't smell all that good sometimes...
You query whether, in practice, you would be able to milk the second cow - it is much bigger than the first cow...
You arrange a viewing to see the second cow
You consider (against all your better instincts and principles), instructing Foxtons to sell the first cow
You know it would be worth it, but also that it will be expensive and stressful

Country House

OK, we've had builders and gardeners all over the place this, ehem, summer. There was a good reason -- the old place hadn't been sorted since Victoria was on the throne.

The upheaval was nasty, but ultimately worth it. Now we have a great place that will serve as a lovely home for a good while until we *need* more space..

But we have always planned on moving out of London in two or three years.

Anyway, with work done and artisans paid in full, it's only reasonable to have a few agents over to review and appraise..

Eeks! North London valuations are bonkers at 28% increase year-on-year.


And as fate would have it, the details of this beautie -- of comparable price and 30 minutes from King's Cross -- arrived randomly by email last week.

Forget the mid-term plan. The green-ward move may be very very near indeed.

..And so the the story begins.

The Worst Route Planner In The World..?

I only want to get from north London to Richmond Upon Thames..

The Build -- Before And After

Not exactly sequential, but you get the drift.
..Suffice it to say, we're rather pleased.

The Indignity Of It

"I want to lick my foot and I feel like a prat.."

This Charming Man

Interviewer: Have you ever faked an orgasm?

Lemmy: No, but I have faked foreplay once or twice.

Pot, Kettle, Black

No not poor old Conrad. He's gonna get his in clink and isn't the only corporate nasty on my shit list today.

BA's chief executive Willie Walsh has today joined the throng criticising Heathrow Airport for handling some 68 million passengers a year when it is only designed to manage 45 million.

"It has gone well beyond the point at which we can expect our customers to put up with the standards," Walsh said of the venerable terminus.

He joins a number of other high-profile and vocal hypocrites having a pop at lovely LHR..

London's Mayor Ken Livingstone and Sir Thomas Harris, vice chairman of Standard Chartered Capital Markets have also damned the world's busiest international airport this week for being too busy.

In his *not unusual for him* irrational outburst, Ken said that Heathrow "shames" the city. Ehem, trips to Venezuela, buddies with the monster Chavez, concentration camp guard quips.. Ken, you really are an arse, aren't you..?

But back to you Willie boy.

Hey, Wills -- tell me all about your concern for the welfare of those customers of yours. Didn't you just get dropped in it by Branson for fixing long-haul prices as revenge for all your dirty tricks? That nasty American Department of Justice just fined you £270 million for hiking fuel surcharges over a one and a half year period (August 2004 to January 2006) from £5 to £60!

[Note: Sneaky wriggle-out by the complicit snitches at Virgin.]

Mmmm. Your indignation is righteous indeed.

Now that's the kind of customer concern I'm after from an airline.

No Shit Sherlock

This, from the BBC Web site yesterday. Insightful reportage of the coroner's report..

Thames Headless Body Was Student

The headless body of a woman found floating in a bag in the River Thames was a Chinese student.

...A post-mortem examination concluded the cause of death as neck injuries caused by a sharp instrument.

As I say, no Sh....

Bela, Is That You Girl?

So there I was, Saturday night past midnight in the living room rapt reading that final book about the boy wizard. P had long-since departed for bed, and while I was dog tired, I kept cajoling myself with, "just one more chapter.."

And as I was still up, the house was unlocked, the garden lights on and the back door ajar. Nothing to worry about. It's a quiet neigbourhood, nice to have a flow-through of air and I'd surely hear anything untoward.

Anyway, at about 12:30 out of corner of my right eye I notice beady eyes, pointy ears and snout and sandy brown fur.

I naturally thought it was our friends Lana and Jon's dog Bela who we're very used to having to stay when they're away. It didn't immediately occur to me that it was slightly odd for Bela to show-up at our place unannounced at such an hour. Lana and Jon do have a set of our doorkeys and have been known to -- and are most welcome to -- stop-by at all hours.


Maybe due to a combination of fatigue at the late hour and under the book's grip, I didn't pay any more attention to our visitor, apart from noticing that Bela had lost weight. Hey, Bela's lost some weight -- good for her -- I thought and returned to The Deathly Hallows.

A few moments more and it dawned on me that clearly an albeit slim-sized Bela hadn't just decided to break-out of De Beauvoir and pitch-up a quarter of a mile away from home in the dead of night to raid Emmie's food bowl (which is never, ever anything but empty anyway).

I removed my glasses, rubbed my eyes and realised that the pointy ears and snout weren't Bela's at all, but instead belonged to a juvenile city fox.

Now Stokie's full of these wiley critters living large on an abundance of scraps, discarded take-aways and streets lined with bin bags.

It's been a long time since I railed against Hackney Council -- but rest assured, refuse collection is still abysmal.

Only three weeks ago -- maybe this chap or an equally inquisitive relative -- padded emulsion paint left outside by the builders across our brand new decking.

Unlike their country cousins, it's widely known that city foxes really are very bold, but I've never heard of one actually venturing with such aplomb into someone's house and just making itself at home.

"Hey, creature. Out" I yelled. Ems and Bela both *tend to* respond to my orders, but this fox just regarded me with mild curiosity and continued about his sniffing. "Hey, creature. Shoo. Shoo," quoth I again and all to nought.

At this point P ventured down to investigate the commotion -- well, to tell me off for waking her with this unnecessary racket. And unlike me she thought our visitor delightfully cute crouched as he was by this time under a living room chair. But acknowledging in heart-of-hearts that a fox is the wrong kind of house pet, we worked together to lure him from hiding and out the door. Though snaring the fellow wasn't easy and all the displaced building junk in the house just made for excellent cover.

Eventually, between us we managed to coax Mr Todd out of his lair, downstairs and back out into the garden.

I'm just pleased that Emmie wasn't home -- as a Springer chasing a fox through an up-market Steptoe's Yard of a house strewn with furniture, boxes, timber, rough cuts of plywood, bathroom fittings, dust and numerous power tools would have been utter mayhem. Moreover, I really wouldn't have relished the job of extricating a young bleeding fox from Emm's teeth and having to clean-up and dispose of said vermin either at that or any hour.

Bela, you might be a bit of a madam and prone to yapping at passers-by, but you're welcome anytime.

And Mr. Fox -- with the building work nearly finished and Emmie returning home, from Thursday onward, please Beware Of The Dog.