Ancient legend has it that somewhere deep beneath Independent Towers, some 53 steps below the wine cellar, guarded by rabid dogs, you will find a vault.
And in this vault, so the legend goes, there are just the few remaining articles tucked safely away under dust. Articles with which to grab us by the bollocks, stare deep into our eyes and scare the crap out of us. Hand picked for those days when the war just doesn’t cut it any longer, when disease fails to arrive and when Global warming seems just a little bit tepid.
Sadly, the key was misplaced long ago. Blindfolded, the dart takes aim at the map.
‘Switzerland: Europe’s heart of darkness?’. Right, well thanks for that, now I know.
The Guardian is so desperate for this week to end. On the edge, we expect them to break at any moment. Throw enough mud in enough faces and surely some will stick; surely…
‘Foot and mouth reports blame drains at ‘shabby’ lab site’. Not the builders then, as someone may have suggested earlier in the week. Nor the cows, or the passing circus, the local tramp or the Polish.
No, this time the Guardian if confident. ‘Was probably spread by leaking drains’, ‘it’s now pretty clear’ that the outbreak started at the lab.
Cold hard facts are hard to dispute
‘Where’s the sex?’
My sentiments exactly Grandpa, my sentiments exactly.
‘Should the old lady do more to ease this crisis?’ Actually, I’d rather she didn’t if it’s all the same to you.
Times Head Boy is far too busy today. World Cup Rugger, hurrah!. What TVs were made for.
‘We should all cherish Ann Widdecombe’ (Independent). No Terrence Blacker, we shouldn’t.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Friday 7 September 2007
Thursday 6 September 2007
06.09.07
We begin this morning, with the sad news that, whilst perhaps inevitable, still manages to extinguish just a little more hope from the world.
Yes, it has now been confirmed that the B52 bomber sent to fly across America has failed to drop its nuclear arsenal. We heave a heavy sigh………..
The revolution has not materialised.
What’s that you say? No foiled military coup to see here. No radical attempt to right a worldly wrong.
What do you mean it was a mistake? They’re nuclear warheads not head lice; can’t really carry them around unawares now can you.
‘As many as 6 nuclear warheads. Each with a destructive potential almost 10 times that of the Hiroshima bomb, were mistakenly flown across the US’ (Guardian)
Oh, it seems you can.
Of course everyone’s received a severe telling off as expected and ‘US air combat command has suspended all similar operations until September 14’.
What exactly happens on September 14 is still unclear.
It’s difficult to look any further a field than human error as the cause. Mistakes were made, checks missed. End of blame trail.
Apart from Head Boy of course who, never shy to point the finger, has started to wink and nudge a little bit in the general direction of another suspect. All the while whistling the Dam Busters tune.
‘A B52 bomber was mistakenly armed’, ‘the B52 took off’, ‘if the B52 had crashed’…….
‘The B52 was evasive in interrogation’, ‘the B52 has links to a number of terrorist networks’, ‘The B52 is from a broken family, has a god complex, wants to be infamous.’
That’s it Head Boy, say what you really think.
‘Popcorn addicts risk lethal lung condition’. Quick, urges the Independent, phone all your popcorn addict friends to warn them.
The Russian Bears are back, but fear not; Grandpa is up and out of bed. Yes he’s still in his slippers but don’t let that fool you. No time for complicated diction today folks,
‘Tornados scrambled to intercept Russian jets’.
Ever wondered how to stop an asteroid? I know I have. If only……….
‘How to stop an asteroid’. By Grandpa Telegraph.
Almost as if he’s reading my mind.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Yes, it has now been confirmed that the B52 bomber sent to fly across America has failed to drop its nuclear arsenal. We heave a heavy sigh………..
The revolution has not materialised.
What’s that you say? No foiled military coup to see here. No radical attempt to right a worldly wrong.
What do you mean it was a mistake? They’re nuclear warheads not head lice; can’t really carry them around unawares now can you.
‘As many as 6 nuclear warheads. Each with a destructive potential almost 10 times that of the Hiroshima bomb, were mistakenly flown across the US’ (Guardian)
Oh, it seems you can.
Of course everyone’s received a severe telling off as expected and ‘US air combat command has suspended all similar operations until September 14’.
What exactly happens on September 14 is still unclear.
It’s difficult to look any further a field than human error as the cause. Mistakes were made, checks missed. End of blame trail.
Apart from Head Boy of course who, never shy to point the finger, has started to wink and nudge a little bit in the general direction of another suspect. All the while whistling the Dam Busters tune.
‘A B52 bomber was mistakenly armed’, ‘the B52 took off’, ‘if the B52 had crashed’…….
‘The B52 was evasive in interrogation’, ‘the B52 has links to a number of terrorist networks’, ‘The B52 is from a broken family, has a god complex, wants to be infamous.’
That’s it Head Boy, say what you really think.
‘Popcorn addicts risk lethal lung condition’. Quick, urges the Independent, phone all your popcorn addict friends to warn them.
The Russian Bears are back, but fear not; Grandpa is up and out of bed. Yes he’s still in his slippers but don’t let that fool you. No time for complicated diction today folks,
‘Tornados scrambled to intercept Russian jets’.
Ever wondered how to stop an asteroid? I know I have. If only……….
‘How to stop an asteroid’. By Grandpa Telegraph.
Almost as if he’s reading my mind.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Wednesday 5 September 2007
05.09.07
We all knew it was coming, we’ve all seen the original and we all wept just a little bit. So it should come as no surprise to find the inevitable spin-off hotfooting its way towards a cinema near you.
‘Basra: The soldiers’ tales’ (Independent Productions) premieres later today. Critics are calling it a masterpiece, a triumph. It’s got it all; fear, loss, relief, heartbreak, animal cruelty………….
“I remember once a group of Bulldogs came under fire. I dived under one of them and there were rockets and mortars landing everywhere”. Says the only soldier in the world small enough to obtain sufficient cover from a dog. Or perhaps they’re giant bulldogs, genetically enhanced for warfare. Yes that’s much more likely.
Genetically enhanced, warrior bulldogs. Now that would be worth seeing.
(Yes, Bulldog in a term for an armoured vehicle. No animals were harmed during the making of this movie)
Also out this week we have the return of Chinese super spy ‘Titan Rain’.
The Guardian seems jumpy, maybe even a little nervous. Dressed immaculately as always in bright summer colours they smile. Cannot help but return the compliment, and damn it we feel better for seeing them. Yet beneath lies the fear and skittish ways of a newspaper on the edge. Desperately clawing at the newsreel for that one killer punch. Pilled up to the eyeballs, headlines descend into chaos.
‘Foot and mouth linked to builders’. That’s made up isn’t it; you’ve gone a bit ‘Daily Mail’ there haven’t you. Within two lines, the article has admitted the ‘exact cause is unlikely to be established’.
‘Please don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. There’s so much more to me, you’ll see’.
An intervention is planned for next week.
Oh and Mattel have gone off in a sulk, recalling 800,000 more Barbies (Times). Apparently no one would talk to him after last week’s ‘Ken’s got Lead’ incident. If he can’t play with them, neither can anyone else.
‘Yeti footprint photos go under the hammer’ reports Grandpa. As the world first conclusive evidence of the snowman’s existence goes on sale. ‘Yeti’, ‘footprint’, ‘photos’; no room for mistruths there then. Apparently any resemblance to a size 12 walking boot is purely coincidental.
Headline of the Day?
‘Hospital bans crocs’. About time too.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
‘Basra: The soldiers’ tales’ (Independent Productions) premieres later today. Critics are calling it a masterpiece, a triumph. It’s got it all; fear, loss, relief, heartbreak, animal cruelty………….
“I remember once a group of Bulldogs came under fire. I dived under one of them and there were rockets and mortars landing everywhere”. Says the only soldier in the world small enough to obtain sufficient cover from a dog. Or perhaps they’re giant bulldogs, genetically enhanced for warfare. Yes that’s much more likely.
Genetically enhanced, warrior bulldogs. Now that would be worth seeing.
(Yes, Bulldog in a term for an armoured vehicle. No animals were harmed during the making of this movie)
Also out this week we have the return of Chinese super spy ‘Titan Rain’.
The Guardian seems jumpy, maybe even a little nervous. Dressed immaculately as always in bright summer colours they smile. Cannot help but return the compliment, and damn it we feel better for seeing them. Yet beneath lies the fear and skittish ways of a newspaper on the edge. Desperately clawing at the newsreel for that one killer punch. Pilled up to the eyeballs, headlines descend into chaos.
‘Foot and mouth linked to builders’. That’s made up isn’t it; you’ve gone a bit ‘Daily Mail’ there haven’t you. Within two lines, the article has admitted the ‘exact cause is unlikely to be established’.
‘Please don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. There’s so much more to me, you’ll see’.
An intervention is planned for next week.
Oh and Mattel have gone off in a sulk, recalling 800,000 more Barbies (Times). Apparently no one would talk to him after last week’s ‘Ken’s got Lead’ incident. If he can’t play with them, neither can anyone else.
‘Yeti footprint photos go under the hammer’ reports Grandpa. As the world first conclusive evidence of the snowman’s existence goes on sale. ‘Yeti’, ‘footprint’, ‘photos’; no room for mistruths there then. Apparently any resemblance to a size 12 walking boot is purely coincidental.
Headline of the Day?
‘Hospital bans crocs’. About time too.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Tuesday 4 September 2007
04.09.07
As David falls Goliath we cheer, we all cheer as the once great, unruly oppressor falls undignified at the feet of the little man, our little man. Little David, we are so proud, behind you all the way. Your motive and fear have captured our spirit so much so that even as this fearsome giant falls directly onto our homes, we cheer, we still cheer.
So what if our homes broken, we’ll build new ones. So what if our lives have been hindered, it matters not for tomorrow is another day. This day we see your cause as a just one and so will back you to the hilt.
That is what we do you see, for we are Londoners
Derek (for that is surely his name), is leading the London Underground network in protest. No longer shall they work under this iron fist, beaten, drained and desperate, they rise up, make a stand and clap great Goliath slap bang between the eyes. He will fall upon our livelihoods and we shall ask for nothing more than a worthy cause to hide behind. Go on Derek, stick it to the man!
‘What do we want?’ Assurances that no jobs will be cut or pensions lost at any time in the future. ‘When do we want it? Now!
Steady on there little man, that’s a bit vague. ‘At any time in the future’? You cant really demand that sort of thing, but then again what do we know, I bet conditions down in the pit are bloody terrible, cant even begin to imagine. We still believe in you Derek, if its lifetime assurance you want then you bloody well go and get it, London is right behind you.
“Both the mayor and the direct employers have given trade unions clear written assurances that meet all their concerns; namely that there will be no job cuts ……and no loss of pensions now at any time in the future” (Guardian)
Right so that’s all your demands met. Goliath it seems is a realist named Ken. Can we have our tube back now please?
3 days of Tube strike for no apparent reason. You may have got 2500 workers to whimper into a tissue Derek, but just you wait and see what a real ‘angry mob’ looks like.
If ever a party looked destined to bleed, it seems the conservatives might just edge it. Lost in a world of unknowns, poor little Tory Dave just doesn’t know where to turn. Forehead on a broom handle he’s just been spun 50 times. And now he’s forgotten the new rules (published this morning). Commons tactics seem to have buggered off out the window a long time ago. “Tory MPs sign up to PM’s ‘new politics” (Independent). Whilst no expert on the finer displays, surely a red bumper sticker is perhaps one compromise too far.
Fear not Tory Dave, tomorrow is yet another day and with it a new set of rules by which to play. Surely this dizzying red whirlwind will move on soon, leaving your thoughts to clear and regain their muster.
Maybe tomorrow.
Grandpa’s sat up in bed eating his Cheerios, shaking with fear. Curtains drawn, quilt tucked in tight, he has barely managed one sleepy moment, his dreams too full of fear. ‘The Chinese army is invading London. On September 13,’ so confident they name the date. Terracotta Grandpa, models. Please get dressed; the paper is lost without you. The dog barks a gunshot; Grandpa’s breakfast jumps to the floor.
Ever wondered what the Times Head Boy would call the school gardener once his affections had been repelled?
‘Unprincipled ruffian’ snorts Head Boy, lapels firmly gripped, nose proud with purpose. Some cover story regarding the Nazis and an Argentinean submarine, but we don’t really want to read that now do we? No.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
So what if our homes broken, we’ll build new ones. So what if our lives have been hindered, it matters not for tomorrow is another day. This day we see your cause as a just one and so will back you to the hilt.
That is what we do you see, for we are Londoners
Derek (for that is surely his name), is leading the London Underground network in protest. No longer shall they work under this iron fist, beaten, drained and desperate, they rise up, make a stand and clap great Goliath slap bang between the eyes. He will fall upon our livelihoods and we shall ask for nothing more than a worthy cause to hide behind. Go on Derek, stick it to the man!
‘What do we want?’ Assurances that no jobs will be cut or pensions lost at any time in the future. ‘When do we want it? Now!
Steady on there little man, that’s a bit vague. ‘At any time in the future’? You cant really demand that sort of thing, but then again what do we know, I bet conditions down in the pit are bloody terrible, cant even begin to imagine. We still believe in you Derek, if its lifetime assurance you want then you bloody well go and get it, London is right behind you.
“Both the mayor and the direct employers have given trade unions clear written assurances that meet all their concerns; namely that there will be no job cuts ……and no loss of pensions now at any time in the future” (Guardian)
Right so that’s all your demands met. Goliath it seems is a realist named Ken. Can we have our tube back now please?
3 days of Tube strike for no apparent reason. You may have got 2500 workers to whimper into a tissue Derek, but just you wait and see what a real ‘angry mob’ looks like.
If ever a party looked destined to bleed, it seems the conservatives might just edge it. Lost in a world of unknowns, poor little Tory Dave just doesn’t know where to turn. Forehead on a broom handle he’s just been spun 50 times. And now he’s forgotten the new rules (published this morning). Commons tactics seem to have buggered off out the window a long time ago. “Tory MPs sign up to PM’s ‘new politics” (Independent). Whilst no expert on the finer displays, surely a red bumper sticker is perhaps one compromise too far.
Fear not Tory Dave, tomorrow is yet another day and with it a new set of rules by which to play. Surely this dizzying red whirlwind will move on soon, leaving your thoughts to clear and regain their muster.
Maybe tomorrow.
Grandpa’s sat up in bed eating his Cheerios, shaking with fear. Curtains drawn, quilt tucked in tight, he has barely managed one sleepy moment, his dreams too full of fear. ‘The Chinese army is invading London. On September 13,’ so confident they name the date. Terracotta Grandpa, models. Please get dressed; the paper is lost without you. The dog barks a gunshot; Grandpa’s breakfast jumps to the floor.
Ever wondered what the Times Head Boy would call the school gardener once his affections had been repelled?
‘Unprincipled ruffian’ snorts Head Boy, lapels firmly gripped, nose proud with purpose. Some cover story regarding the Nazis and an Argentinean submarine, but we don’t really want to read that now do we? No.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Monday 3 September 2007
03.09.07
Why does the cat always bring the half dead sparrow to your feet? Flapping, lifeless, bleeding from new holes. Conjures up that little bit of bile from bowl to mouth doesn’t it. Puss peers towards you, so proud of their gift, expectant of reward. An invitation into the house to sit by the fire. ‘My, what a catch I’ve caught this time, it can’t fail to impress, admittedly last weeks dismembered toad was perhaps a bit over the top but I’m onto a winner with this claret covered feather. Snuggling up in owners lap in no time’ Tabby purrs under his breath.
But we just don’t want these mangled remains, oh no we don’t little tabby cat. The bird was fine in the first place, flying high, graceful. No concern of ours yet no doubt fulfills its purpose, whatever that may be.
This mess on our doormat; this bloody heap. Neither grace nor purpose. A wing, a beak, all parts are present but it’s such a mess little tabby, such a bloody mess. What’s more, it’s now on our doorstep and now we have to worry about it. We shake our heads and curse. Not angry, just disappointed. Tigger spies a door mouse.
And so ‘Blue Blood Dave’ has vowed to match Labour spending plans (Guardian). On the doormat in front of me is a bloody mess. Match? Match? Since when is that a strong enough argument to get in the house? You bring me what fundamentally amounts to the same amount but in an untried, unfamiliar structure and I’m supposed to be happy. Where is the bird that flies higher, faster? No little tabby cat, Rover stays inside tonight.
And what do we get from Labour? ‘Brown announces plans to revamp politics’. Revamp politics! Now that’s what I’m bloody talking about. Forget all this ‘we’ll be just as good as the other guy’. Not even ‘we’ll be better than the other guy’. Oh no no dear voter, apparently it’s perfectly reasonable to inform everyone that we’ll be playing a new game from now on. Always the perfect prefect, the Times Head Boy wanted this story and by golly it got it. New rules, new regulations. Until next week when they need to shout something else from the rooftop. Isn’t it exciting, you never know what the hells going on? I’m sure it’ll settle down soon, I’m sure they’ve got a plan for a bit of stability, are able to just run a country. I mean just how much more reinvention can we take? Wham! There goes Basra. Bam! Take care Tony. Crash! There goes the monarchy, oops! Sorry that’s next week
Poor little tabby cat, shut inside whilst all the fireworks are going off. Just for tonight, tomorrow is another day.
It seems someone has taken a cheeky swipe at Head Boy and they didn’t like it one bit. Not content with announcing a change for democracy, the Times, itching from its weekend constraints, has decided it’s about time to change the way the world looks. ‘Times atlas shows how world is changing’. Chest puffed out, Head Boy parades around the room.
Would someone please just stroke their ego a little bit before they take a crack at the legitimacy of religion.
4 years we’ve been in Basra, 4 long years. ‘What was achieved?’ Asks the Independent, who today takes the award for ‘please ask someone else’ question. If, 4 years ago, our goal was to sit in a palace and fight with those we sought to aid, finally sneaking out on tiptoes, swearing blind that ‘we’re not going nowhere guv’ each time someone asked. Then yes, job done. Pat on the back for one and all.
Grandpa had a long weekend. What with the hefty roast dinner and the grandkids circling his feet, he’s feeling tired, out for the count; hasn’t stirred at all yet today. Rest easy Grandpa, come back firing on all cylinders tomorrow.
Someone should probably just go in and check on him, you know, just in case.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3
But we just don’t want these mangled remains, oh no we don’t little tabby cat. The bird was fine in the first place, flying high, graceful. No concern of ours yet no doubt fulfills its purpose, whatever that may be.
This mess on our doormat; this bloody heap. Neither grace nor purpose. A wing, a beak, all parts are present but it’s such a mess little tabby, such a bloody mess. What’s more, it’s now on our doorstep and now we have to worry about it. We shake our heads and curse. Not angry, just disappointed. Tigger spies a door mouse.
And so ‘Blue Blood Dave’ has vowed to match Labour spending plans (Guardian). On the doormat in front of me is a bloody mess. Match? Match? Since when is that a strong enough argument to get in the house? You bring me what fundamentally amounts to the same amount but in an untried, unfamiliar structure and I’m supposed to be happy. Where is the bird that flies higher, faster? No little tabby cat, Rover stays inside tonight.
And what do we get from Labour? ‘Brown announces plans to revamp politics’. Revamp politics! Now that’s what I’m bloody talking about. Forget all this ‘we’ll be just as good as the other guy’. Not even ‘we’ll be better than the other guy’. Oh no no dear voter, apparently it’s perfectly reasonable to inform everyone that we’ll be playing a new game from now on. Always the perfect prefect, the Times Head Boy wanted this story and by golly it got it. New rules, new regulations. Until next week when they need to shout something else from the rooftop. Isn’t it exciting, you never know what the hells going on? I’m sure it’ll settle down soon, I’m sure they’ve got a plan for a bit of stability, are able to just run a country. I mean just how much more reinvention can we take? Wham! There goes Basra. Bam! Take care Tony. Crash! There goes the monarchy, oops! Sorry that’s next week
Poor little tabby cat, shut inside whilst all the fireworks are going off. Just for tonight, tomorrow is another day.
It seems someone has taken a cheeky swipe at Head Boy and they didn’t like it one bit. Not content with announcing a change for democracy, the Times, itching from its weekend constraints, has decided it’s about time to change the way the world looks. ‘Times atlas shows how world is changing’. Chest puffed out, Head Boy parades around the room.
Would someone please just stroke their ego a little bit before they take a crack at the legitimacy of religion.
4 years we’ve been in Basra, 4 long years. ‘What was achieved?’ Asks the Independent, who today takes the award for ‘please ask someone else’ question. If, 4 years ago, our goal was to sit in a palace and fight with those we sought to aid, finally sneaking out on tiptoes, swearing blind that ‘we’re not going nowhere guv’ each time someone asked. Then yes, job done. Pat on the back for one and all.
Grandpa had a long weekend. What with the hefty roast dinner and the grandkids circling his feet, he’s feeling tired, out for the count; hasn’t stirred at all yet today. Rest easy Grandpa, come back firing on all cylinders tomorrow.
Someone should probably just go in and check on him, you know, just in case.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3
Friday 24 August 2007
None The Wiser, Never Will Be
Should we begin to question God’s motives for a ‘Perfect World’ when you take into account the pitfalls we encounter on a regular basis?
Whilst I am happy to accept that there are things within our universe that I will never be able to understand; time travel, astrophysics, Gary Neville at right back, etc. Surely, does it not make divine sense to grant us the ability to comprehend those things that affect us directly?
I do not ask for a level of knowledge to enter mindless quizzes, nor do I request entry into MENSA, but perhaps maybe, just maybe I might be graced with the appropriate number of brain cells to muddle through life without the confused facial expression that I almost permanently seem to maintain; a small favour to ask surely?
Consider our inability to understand the opposite sex.
Why would the ultimate force in the universe make it all but impossible to grasp an opposing view on life, especially when it provides one of the main stumbling blocks to relationships/children/the survival of mankind?
God therefore is a Muppet.
We can strive all our lives to successfully decode our counterparts thought processes, yet try as we might, we always seem to fall short of complete comprehension.
Yes these verses are laced with humour and yes this is one of the many questions where the writer is struck with an inability to answer. And yes the writer is male so he can only relate to a male point of view. Apologies, the late edition will almost certainly include a female rationale.
I have digressed into mindless sarcasm. But please won’t someone write a text concise and accessible enough for a simpleton such as myself, to grasp the workings of a female mind.
Man would certainly benefit, God should take note; when the saviour returns for a second visit won’t he please bring with him such a text.
I pray before I sleep.
Whilst I am happy to accept that there are things within our universe that I will never be able to understand; time travel, astrophysics, Gary Neville at right back, etc. Surely, does it not make divine sense to grant us the ability to comprehend those things that affect us directly?
I do not ask for a level of knowledge to enter mindless quizzes, nor do I request entry into MENSA, but perhaps maybe, just maybe I might be graced with the appropriate number of brain cells to muddle through life without the confused facial expression that I almost permanently seem to maintain; a small favour to ask surely?
Consider our inability to understand the opposite sex.
Why would the ultimate force in the universe make it all but impossible to grasp an opposing view on life, especially when it provides one of the main stumbling blocks to relationships/children/the survival of mankind?
God therefore is a Muppet.
We can strive all our lives to successfully decode our counterparts thought processes, yet try as we might, we always seem to fall short of complete comprehension.
Yes these verses are laced with humour and yes this is one of the many questions where the writer is struck with an inability to answer. And yes the writer is male so he can only relate to a male point of view. Apologies, the late edition will almost certainly include a female rationale.
I have digressed into mindless sarcasm. But please won’t someone write a text concise and accessible enough for a simpleton such as myself, to grasp the workings of a female mind.
Man would certainly benefit, God should take note; when the saviour returns for a second visit won’t he please bring with him such a text.
I pray before I sleep.
24.08.07
Grandpa Telegraph feels unloved. Last night he spilt hot milk down his front and ate a few too many Cashew nuts. Awaking this morning after a terrible night’s sleep he finds himself in quite a sad, bloated state. ‘Am I still pretty?’ he asks his mirror. ‘Do the girls continue to love my uptight ways?’ With a dejected grumble he shuffles back towards the comfort of his floral patterned quilt.
Well hang on a bloody minute Grandpa! It seems those busy little ants you call Journalists might just know a trick or two about the motivational compliment……
‘Still sexy at seventy’. Oh yes you are Grandpa; and they’ve got data to prove it. So you haven’t changed your style since the 50’s, so the logo font slightly resembles a Swastika and maybe you mumble your lines just a little bit. None of that matters for according to a researcher who has apparently collected far too much information, you lot are still at it two or three times a month. Don’t you feel better for hearing that? I know we all do.
‘Hurrah for the sexy, silver surfers!’ shouts Grandpa, throwing his quilt across the room and leeping to his feet.
In a desperate attempt to halt Briton’s impending withdrawal from Iraq, the US Air force has decided to drop a bomb directly onto one of our regiments in what the Times describes as ‘the worst friendly-fire incident in recent years’. Not possibly the expected plea for continued support but in a week where Gorgeous George decided to try and win back support for the war with references to Vietnam, I guess anything is possible.
Vietnam.
He compared it to Vietnam.
Continuing to ask the big questions, the Times does us all a favour, answering the one that’s been on our minds all week. ‘What’s wrong with coconuts?’
I don’t know Andrew Anthony, but why don’t you tell us.
‘For the first time, Britons’ personal debt exceeds Britain’s GDP’. I want to understand what the Independent are so worried about I really do. And to be honest, I almost get it. For want of a couple of experts to break it down just a little, but sadly they’re all busy presenting for the BBC. Global warming, I get that; I can share in your worry when you shoot me in the chest with that sort of front page. Or some nasty dictator who needs to be halted; we haven’t had one of them for a while have we.
The Guardian looks as pretty as ever.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Well hang on a bloody minute Grandpa! It seems those busy little ants you call Journalists might just know a trick or two about the motivational compliment……
‘Still sexy at seventy’. Oh yes you are Grandpa; and they’ve got data to prove it. So you haven’t changed your style since the 50’s, so the logo font slightly resembles a Swastika and maybe you mumble your lines just a little bit. None of that matters for according to a researcher who has apparently collected far too much information, you lot are still at it two or three times a month. Don’t you feel better for hearing that? I know we all do.
‘Hurrah for the sexy, silver surfers!’ shouts Grandpa, throwing his quilt across the room and leeping to his feet.
In a desperate attempt to halt Briton’s impending withdrawal from Iraq, the US Air force has decided to drop a bomb directly onto one of our regiments in what the Times describes as ‘the worst friendly-fire incident in recent years’. Not possibly the expected plea for continued support but in a week where Gorgeous George decided to try and win back support for the war with references to Vietnam, I guess anything is possible.
Vietnam.
He compared it to Vietnam.
Continuing to ask the big questions, the Times does us all a favour, answering the one that’s been on our minds all week. ‘What’s wrong with coconuts?’
I don’t know Andrew Anthony, but why don’t you tell us.
‘For the first time, Britons’ personal debt exceeds Britain’s GDP’. I want to understand what the Independent are so worried about I really do. And to be honest, I almost get it. For want of a couple of experts to break it down just a little, but sadly they’re all busy presenting for the BBC. Global warming, I get that; I can share in your worry when you shoot me in the chest with that sort of front page. Or some nasty dictator who needs to be halted; we haven’t had one of them for a while have we.
The Guardian looks as pretty as ever.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Thursday 23 August 2007
23.08.07
Gorgeous George W. Bush has sought to highlight the positive nature that is developing in the war on Iraq.
A sensible route to take, try to encourage public enthusiasm, keep moral up, an act I’m sure we would all consider if we were in his position. The reason of course we aren’t in his position, the reason we aren’t in control of one of the most powerful ‘organisations’ in the world, is that we mere mortals just aren’t anywhere near clever enough. We just don’t see all the angles. But embarressing uncle George Bush can, oh yes!
You see, where we might perceive certain decisions to be mad or foolhardy, the man they call Bush sees potential. How else could you explain the following?
He’s compared the current state in Iraq to ‘the bloodshed and chaos that followed the US pullout from Vietnam’. (Guardian)
Vietnam.
He’s compared it to Vietnam.
Sleeping happily through the night Beavis/Butthead (delete as applicable) also smiles safe in the knowledge that his opposition the ‘Defeatocrats’ have finally understood their new nickname. For another 6 months anyway.
Butthead, he’s definitely Butthead.
Today’s award for ‘The Headline Most Likely To Be Used In A Doctor Who Script’ goes to the Independent with ‘Iraq: The vanishing coalition’. Yes, they were the only entrant, but you can’t deny their effort nonetheless.
‘Are devil girls really on the rampage?’ If Joan Smith is smoking something, then I for one would like to try some. Devil girls Joan? Really?
David Cameron’s Laurel and Hardy impression seems to be coming along just fine these days. After an early hiccup where it seemed he might be erring towards the ‘strong’ ‘leadership’ type, we rest easy, happy to see him jump from one fine mess to another. ‘Tories’ hospital campaign in disarray’ reports the Times. How exactly the Tory party has managed to offend every hospital in the land is far beside the point. How they make the leap to assaulting the elderly then possibly pregnant women is a far more exciting a prospect. Watch this space people, watch this space.
He’s compared it to Vietnam. Seriously.
And finally after yesterday’ shambles of an effort, Grandpa Telegraph comes back with a bang. 'Let’s get the excitement back' says Grandpa's little helper, 'let’s show the youngsters that we can still cut it'. Yeah! says Grandpa, eyes boggling at the possibility. All we need is the explosive story that everyone else has missed................
‘Terror in a balloon’!!!!!!!!! screams the headline. Awakening a sleepy Tubby from his slumber.
Well done Grandpa, well done.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
A sensible route to take, try to encourage public enthusiasm, keep moral up, an act I’m sure we would all consider if we were in his position. The reason of course we aren’t in his position, the reason we aren’t in control of one of the most powerful ‘organisations’ in the world, is that we mere mortals just aren’t anywhere near clever enough. We just don’t see all the angles. But embarressing uncle George Bush can, oh yes!
You see, where we might perceive certain decisions to be mad or foolhardy, the man they call Bush sees potential. How else could you explain the following?
He’s compared the current state in Iraq to ‘the bloodshed and chaos that followed the US pullout from Vietnam’. (Guardian)
Vietnam.
He’s compared it to Vietnam.
Sleeping happily through the night Beavis/Butthead (delete as applicable) also smiles safe in the knowledge that his opposition the ‘Defeatocrats’ have finally understood their new nickname. For another 6 months anyway.
Butthead, he’s definitely Butthead.
Today’s award for ‘The Headline Most Likely To Be Used In A Doctor Who Script’ goes to the Independent with ‘Iraq: The vanishing coalition’. Yes, they were the only entrant, but you can’t deny their effort nonetheless.
‘Are devil girls really on the rampage?’ If Joan Smith is smoking something, then I for one would like to try some. Devil girls Joan? Really?
David Cameron’s Laurel and Hardy impression seems to be coming along just fine these days. After an early hiccup where it seemed he might be erring towards the ‘strong’ ‘leadership’ type, we rest easy, happy to see him jump from one fine mess to another. ‘Tories’ hospital campaign in disarray’ reports the Times. How exactly the Tory party has managed to offend every hospital in the land is far beside the point. How they make the leap to assaulting the elderly then possibly pregnant women is a far more exciting a prospect. Watch this space people, watch this space.
He’s compared it to Vietnam. Seriously.
And finally after yesterday’ shambles of an effort, Grandpa Telegraph comes back with a bang. 'Let’s get the excitement back' says Grandpa's little helper, 'let’s show the youngsters that we can still cut it'. Yeah! says Grandpa, eyes boggling at the possibility. All we need is the explosive story that everyone else has missed................
‘Terror in a balloon’!!!!!!!!! screams the headline. Awakening a sleepy Tubby from his slumber.
Well done Grandpa, well done.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Wednesday 22 August 2007
22.08.07
Whoever decided to send the Russians a pirate copy of ‘Rocky Balboa’ for Christmas needs to be slapped around the face with numerous dead fish.
Rule one in world domination; never ever remind an 80’s superpower full of muscle and ignorance, trained in the snow, tough as old boots with little between the ears but good for fighting and wailing like a wounded walrus, that they possibly, possibly might have another shot at the title.
Impossible odds I hear you say, the world’s moved on, new fresh faced champions who don’t even remember dear old Rocky. Just a movie at the end of the day, not real, bit of a fairytale.
So why then are we now seeing pictures of Putin with his shirt off? Why then is Russia, as the guardian puts it ‘resuming long-range missions by strategic bomber aircraft’? RAF ‘Tornados were scrambled to warn of Russian Bear aircraft’.
Shoo, shoo, shoo little bear cub.
Just don’t play them the White Album backwards. Got consequences written all over it.
The Independent has decided to put Bertrand Des Pallieres across their knee today to highlight the growing problem in this country of ignorant rich people. Evil Pallieres, when told that his £80,000 Maserati was in the pound awaiting collection said ‘he was “too busy” setting up new businesses to fetch his car’. Proceeding to wait 3 months; the bare faced cheek.
And Mark Steel wants to talk about football or conflict, which ever way you choose to look at it
“Women love me” says humble Nanu Ram Jogi, the oldest father in the world at just 90. “Yeah, I was just really inspired by that Rocky Balboa film last year, so I just want to show I can still hack it physically, you know?” he almost certainly never said in the Times.
Grandpa Telegraph has been smoking the wrong pipe again and as a result has nothing remotely interesting to say. Drugs are bad kids, very very bad.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Rule one in world domination; never ever remind an 80’s superpower full of muscle and ignorance, trained in the snow, tough as old boots with little between the ears but good for fighting and wailing like a wounded walrus, that they possibly, possibly might have another shot at the title.
Impossible odds I hear you say, the world’s moved on, new fresh faced champions who don’t even remember dear old Rocky. Just a movie at the end of the day, not real, bit of a fairytale.
So why then are we now seeing pictures of Putin with his shirt off? Why then is Russia, as the guardian puts it ‘resuming long-range missions by strategic bomber aircraft’? RAF ‘Tornados were scrambled to warn of Russian Bear aircraft’.
Shoo, shoo, shoo little bear cub.
Just don’t play them the White Album backwards. Got consequences written all over it.
The Independent has decided to put Bertrand Des Pallieres across their knee today to highlight the growing problem in this country of ignorant rich people. Evil Pallieres, when told that his £80,000 Maserati was in the pound awaiting collection said ‘he was “too busy” setting up new businesses to fetch his car’. Proceeding to wait 3 months; the bare faced cheek.
And Mark Steel wants to talk about football or conflict, which ever way you choose to look at it
“Women love me” says humble Nanu Ram Jogi, the oldest father in the world at just 90. “Yeah, I was just really inspired by that Rocky Balboa film last year, so I just want to show I can still hack it physically, you know?” he almost certainly never said in the Times.
Grandpa Telegraph has been smoking the wrong pipe again and as a result has nothing remotely interesting to say. Drugs are bad kids, very very bad.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3.
Tuesday 21 August 2007
The Ruler & The Contender
Have we reached a major ideological turning point? Where traditional ideas of what it means to be politically left or right wing have all but collapsed
No longer can I see a clear defining political image, representing an ideal to which I choose to show strong support and enlist. Yet the process has not failed, neither has any strive for the greater good been lost. I believe not in one party, the rights of left nor the lefts of right, the process and the process alone has my vote.
Voices separated by only distinct colouring, challenging an altogether common belief into thrashing any pitfalls from the direction we take. This process that develops with a rapidity matched only by the humanity that created it. We choose as one to freshen our lead, we choose as one to allow role reversal, to allow a process which in its nature of Ruler and Contender, enables each party an attempt to strive forward and time to reassess its position within a very ‘modern’ dilemma, all on the same rhythmic beat as the changing world in which we live.
There is no doubt that our leaders falter, the process is far from perfect and there will always be significant restructuring required, but as long as such development remains a possibility there will always be hope.
Conservative, Labour/Democratic, Republican. If the leadership is achieving all I expect and at least some of what I hope, then would it not be a sensible move to always vote for them again? If change is required then change will have my favour. I have no party nor do have a strong desire to be associated with one, I hope that perhaps someday soon my political fuse will be lit, but in the mean time I can live safe in the knowledge that the process itself continues to serve its purpose.
No longer can I see a clear defining political image, representing an ideal to which I choose to show strong support and enlist. Yet the process has not failed, neither has any strive for the greater good been lost. I believe not in one party, the rights of left nor the lefts of right, the process and the process alone has my vote.
Voices separated by only distinct colouring, challenging an altogether common belief into thrashing any pitfalls from the direction we take. This process that develops with a rapidity matched only by the humanity that created it. We choose as one to freshen our lead, we choose as one to allow role reversal, to allow a process which in its nature of Ruler and Contender, enables each party an attempt to strive forward and time to reassess its position within a very ‘modern’ dilemma, all on the same rhythmic beat as the changing world in which we live.
There is no doubt that our leaders falter, the process is far from perfect and there will always be significant restructuring required, but as long as such development remains a possibility there will always be hope.
Conservative, Labour/Democratic, Republican. If the leadership is achieving all I expect and at least some of what I hope, then would it not be a sensible move to always vote for them again? If change is required then change will have my favour. I have no party nor do have a strong desire to be associated with one, I hope that perhaps someday soon my political fuse will be lit, but in the mean time I can live safe in the knowledge that the process itself continues to serve its purpose.
21.08.07
Tim Tim Tim. It seems this midnight fumble we’ve called a love affair is finally coming to an end.
Our little lame duck has finally given up trying to fly, the weight upon his shoulders too heavy a burden. “The first human being called Tim to achieve anything at all” says the guardian in polite applause for the man that made semi-finals day at Wimbledon the closest thing to an orgasm that most British women will get.
All together now: ‘Go Tiger Tim Tiger Pump Fist!’
“Cartoons labelled food villains” screams the Guardian in an attempt to out Daily Mail the Daily Mail. Children everywhere tucking into their breakfast cereal in front of the ‘Cheese Demon’ and the ‘Asparagus Mangler’.
Frightening.
Serious Report time as apparently the longer it takes for you to get to hospital, the less likely you are to get better. Which I’m sure you’ll agree is a turn up for the books. Unless of course you’re David Cameron who according to the Times, is all over this little issue, promising a “bare-knuckle fight’ in response. Which is nice.
Like a student on assignment day, the Times deem it completely reasonable to start ‘copy and pasting’ articles from yesterday’s Telegraph as Mexico receives a warning of stormy times ahead. “Rare category 5” stormy at that.
The Independent, as bemused as the rest of us report on David Cameron’s plea to the nation, urging Britons to face up to their fears as ‘anarchy’ hits the UK. Now I can’t speak for an entire nation, but having just popped outside I can safely report no signs of anarchy just yet. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have just trotted by though, but I doubt it’s related.
Grandpa Telegraph takes it a step further with a new Tory response to the outbreak of violence, asking families along with their values to take to the street in an attempt to quell this rising storm. Crack teams of four roaming the streets looking to teach crime a lesson with a family dinner and a game of Scrabble; The A-Team it is not.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some Breasts on page 3.
Our little lame duck has finally given up trying to fly, the weight upon his shoulders too heavy a burden. “The first human being called Tim to achieve anything at all” says the guardian in polite applause for the man that made semi-finals day at Wimbledon the closest thing to an orgasm that most British women will get.
All together now: ‘Go Tiger Tim Tiger Pump Fist!’
“Cartoons labelled food villains” screams the Guardian in an attempt to out Daily Mail the Daily Mail. Children everywhere tucking into their breakfast cereal in front of the ‘Cheese Demon’ and the ‘Asparagus Mangler’.
Frightening.
Serious Report time as apparently the longer it takes for you to get to hospital, the less likely you are to get better. Which I’m sure you’ll agree is a turn up for the books. Unless of course you’re David Cameron who according to the Times, is all over this little issue, promising a “bare-knuckle fight’ in response. Which is nice.
Like a student on assignment day, the Times deem it completely reasonable to start ‘copy and pasting’ articles from yesterday’s Telegraph as Mexico receives a warning of stormy times ahead. “Rare category 5” stormy at that.
The Independent, as bemused as the rest of us report on David Cameron’s plea to the nation, urging Britons to face up to their fears as ‘anarchy’ hits the UK. Now I can’t speak for an entire nation, but having just popped outside I can safely report no signs of anarchy just yet. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have just trotted by though, but I doubt it’s related.
Grandpa Telegraph takes it a step further with a new Tory response to the outbreak of violence, asking families along with their values to take to the street in an attempt to quell this rising storm. Crack teams of four roaming the streets looking to teach crime a lesson with a family dinner and a game of Scrabble; The A-Team it is not.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some Breasts on page 3.
Monday 20 August 2007
20.08.07
Aaah Monday bloody Monday. Try and raise a smile, even a grin. Impossible isn’t it; one of the unwritten rules that govern our week. Just ask Naomi Campbell whose managed to get her knickers in a terrible twist about something, ever so upset bless her. Obviously voicing the feelings of a nation I’m sure, finger right on the public pulse that one.
The Times is all about the warnings today, “Britons told to stay away as hurricane hits Jamaica”. What we Brits have done to incur the wrath of Windy Dean remains unclear though he’s made his demands clear so I happily follow suit. The curious among us must wonder the consequences though, or maybe that’s just me. The Times do know best though don’t they so probably best to steer clear.
Bold Lipstick and a pretty skirt do not a paper make says the Guardian, who’ve decided to slap us round the face with bare facts today. “Offshore winds of 145 mph reach land”. Don’t be fooled as I was, into thinking that once ‘offshore winds’ strike land they become just normal ‘wind’ 145mph or otherwise. No no no dear reader, ‘offshore wind’ it seems is a far different beast.
Not sure if it’s totally fair to punish the locals for big Deano’s mess however, who’ve been grounded for 48hrs by a government imposed curfew. Yes they are sorry and no they won’t do it again.
Today’s Telegraph filled its ‘big-word’ quota by page two. One step ahead of everyone else, Grandpa now worries for Mexico as Windy Dean enters the ‘Extremely Dangerous’ category.
And god bless Maradona whose decided to put the record straight over the whole ‘Hand of God’ affair on ‘The Never-ending President’ Chavez’s weekly chat show. “Laughing, Maradona recounted how he urged his Argentina teammates to celebrate with him so the referee would not realise what had happened.”
I still blame Peter Reid.
‘Independent Issue of the Day’ time now as reports flood in that apparently, the war in Iraq is a bad idea. Who’d have thought? An interview with Shia cleric Muqtada al-Sadr makes for a surprisingly comforting read.
“The British have realised that this is not a war they should be fighting or one they can win”
“Senior British military commanders [who] have come to view the mission of UK forces in Iraq as finished”.
Oh and Dom Joly has joined Facebook.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3
The Times is all about the warnings today, “Britons told to stay away as hurricane hits Jamaica”. What we Brits have done to incur the wrath of Windy Dean remains unclear though he’s made his demands clear so I happily follow suit. The curious among us must wonder the consequences though, or maybe that’s just me. The Times do know best though don’t they so probably best to steer clear.
Bold Lipstick and a pretty skirt do not a paper make says the Guardian, who’ve decided to slap us round the face with bare facts today. “Offshore winds of 145 mph reach land”. Don’t be fooled as I was, into thinking that once ‘offshore winds’ strike land they become just normal ‘wind’ 145mph or otherwise. No no no dear reader, ‘offshore wind’ it seems is a far different beast.
Not sure if it’s totally fair to punish the locals for big Deano’s mess however, who’ve been grounded for 48hrs by a government imposed curfew. Yes they are sorry and no they won’t do it again.
Today’s Telegraph filled its ‘big-word’ quota by page two. One step ahead of everyone else, Grandpa now worries for Mexico as Windy Dean enters the ‘Extremely Dangerous’ category.
And god bless Maradona whose decided to put the record straight over the whole ‘Hand of God’ affair on ‘The Never-ending President’ Chavez’s weekly chat show. “Laughing, Maradona recounted how he urged his Argentina teammates to celebrate with him so the referee would not realise what had happened.”
I still blame Peter Reid.
‘Independent Issue of the Day’ time now as reports flood in that apparently, the war in Iraq is a bad idea. Who’d have thought? An interview with Shia cleric Muqtada al-Sadr makes for a surprisingly comforting read.
“The British have realised that this is not a war they should be fighting or one they can win”
“Senior British military commanders [who] have come to view the mission of UK forces in Iraq as finished”.
Oh and Dom Joly has joined Facebook.
The Daily Mail is worried about Immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3
Friday 17 August 2007
Mr Empire & His Clumsy Fat Fingers
Is it possible that maybe, just maybe Great Britain is completely responsible for the continuing Israel-Palestine conflict.
Oh crikey, what have I just said?
I am definitely going to be in trouble now, no real way of putting a positive spin on this is there. Like telling your folks you’ve inherited the weaknesses. Fuck it lets not stop there; let’s blame Korea for something whilst we’re at it, eating dogs. When is that ever right?
Mum, if this is my last message before I’m tapped in the back of the head by spies who never loved me; well then sorry, I was the one who dropped the cupboard on the cat and you’re right, I only ever phoned you for money. Oh and tell George he can have my guitar……….
Israel, Britain, Palestine. Yes right so, is it possible that maybe, just maybe a British Empire, rapid in it’s decline and in the last throws of real influence might try desperately to justify its continuing position as self appointed father-figure to a new world?
If you’re going to wade in and demand respect from an emerging populous, it really isn’t a particularly good idea to start making grossly exaggerated promises that you will never be able to keep.
‘Oh blimey, look at all these poor homeless Jews, they’re in a terrible state bless them. Searching desperately for a place to call home.
I know, have this bit of land here. Why, because we the ever powerful empire say so that’s why. Just ignore all these local people, they’ll move on when we tell them’
And so, implementing and to a certain extent, ordering the creation of an Israeli state in order to solve one of the worlds many problems. Nothing to do with the financial implications of remaining tied to such a prosperous trade route.
‘Look at us flex our muscles. Commanding the world’s nations once more. We speak, they listen. Look how terrific we are. Look how the world needs us to head this table. You see, I told you we still had purpose.’
‘But Mr Empire, this little bit of land contains numerous religious relics and encompasses the only major trade route to the East. Surely the locals will be far from happy with us taking it?’
‘Don’t worry about it, just sign these papers and promise to maintain this special little bond we’ve now developed. Lovely. OK, take care, we’re off now, any trouble just give us a shout. Oh and we’ll probably start sending a few more boats through the canal.’
But the locals weren’t happy. The locals weren’t happy at all.
And now, realising that perhaps they’d bitten off just a little more than they could chew, the once great empire backtracks fiercely. Leaving in its wake the beginnings of a festering conflict which has deteriorated into what we see today. A weakened, vulnerable yet highly volatile Israeli state, left to fight off the hostile influence and desire that continues to surround them.
So now what will the US and her reckless posse (The Global Police in all their glory) do as they find themselves in a similar situation? Yearning to right all of the world’s wrongs in one fail swoop, basking in the grateful thanks of all Earth’s people.
Perhaps slightly under prepared for the long-term ramifications of grossly overextended promises. What price on a hasty retreat from Iraq?
Nicely done lads, nicely done.
Oh crikey, what have I just said?
I am definitely going to be in trouble now, no real way of putting a positive spin on this is there. Like telling your folks you’ve inherited the weaknesses. Fuck it lets not stop there; let’s blame Korea for something whilst we’re at it, eating dogs. When is that ever right?
Mum, if this is my last message before I’m tapped in the back of the head by spies who never loved me; well then sorry, I was the one who dropped the cupboard on the cat and you’re right, I only ever phoned you for money. Oh and tell George he can have my guitar……….
Israel, Britain, Palestine. Yes right so, is it possible that maybe, just maybe a British Empire, rapid in it’s decline and in the last throws of real influence might try desperately to justify its continuing position as self appointed father-figure to a new world?
If you’re going to wade in and demand respect from an emerging populous, it really isn’t a particularly good idea to start making grossly exaggerated promises that you will never be able to keep.
‘Oh blimey, look at all these poor homeless Jews, they’re in a terrible state bless them. Searching desperately for a place to call home.
I know, have this bit of land here. Why, because we the ever powerful empire say so that’s why. Just ignore all these local people, they’ll move on when we tell them’
And so, implementing and to a certain extent, ordering the creation of an Israeli state in order to solve one of the worlds many problems. Nothing to do with the financial implications of remaining tied to such a prosperous trade route.
‘Look at us flex our muscles. Commanding the world’s nations once more. We speak, they listen. Look how terrific we are. Look how the world needs us to head this table. You see, I told you we still had purpose.’
‘But Mr Empire, this little bit of land contains numerous religious relics and encompasses the only major trade route to the East. Surely the locals will be far from happy with us taking it?’
‘Don’t worry about it, just sign these papers and promise to maintain this special little bond we’ve now developed. Lovely. OK, take care, we’re off now, any trouble just give us a shout. Oh and we’ll probably start sending a few more boats through the canal.’
But the locals weren’t happy. The locals weren’t happy at all.
And now, realising that perhaps they’d bitten off just a little more than they could chew, the once great empire backtracks fiercely. Leaving in its wake the beginnings of a festering conflict which has deteriorated into what we see today. A weakened, vulnerable yet highly volatile Israeli state, left to fight off the hostile influence and desire that continues to surround them.
So now what will the US and her reckless posse (The Global Police in all their glory) do as they find themselves in a similar situation? Yearning to right all of the world’s wrongs in one fail swoop, basking in the grateful thanks of all Earth’s people.
Perhaps slightly under prepared for the long-term ramifications of grossly overextended promises. What price on a hasty retreat from Iraq?
Nicely done lads, nicely done.
The Death Of The DJ & Me
I'm being killed by music at the moment, not just hopeful enthusiasm any more. Now there's a case for shear, gormless silence. Dumbstruck, waiting for the sound to end, so life can kick start again. I can't pretend to know their secret. Far beyond my capabilities to suggest any real common value that this current crop, seem to maintain. Other than the unqualified angst that so obviously clouds there thought.
Unqualified angst. An impression of bravado coupled with its own infeasibility. That, quite possibly is where all the love comes from; you want to believe in their star status for your sake and theirs, yet in reality there's the slight nag, suggesting a vulnerability on a level with your own at best. The honesty can't help but stab you. Surely not music for the masses, with such unrelenting punishment, yet to the masses it plays.
My reliance on musical influence can at last be justified.
What more to say? It's always been my religion (name another which adapts so fluidly as the world and its opinions change), leading me to an altering state of mind, good and bad. Yet only now do I feel that we've both reached a level of depth and maturity not present for far too long.
Arcade Fire, TV on the Radio, Kings of Leon, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Archie Bronson and his Outfit.
You all win, you have my fullest attention.
So hurrah for this new invasion on the senses, but I cant help but think that suggesting this resurrection of musical integrity goes some way to opposing a cultural (specifically musical) ideal which I truly believe and wish to impose on you as reader/prisoner of this little think piece (and it is a think piece).
I struggle to identify with a thought process which attributes quality and worth to only that which is 'in fashion' (I'm struggling to put it any other way). Perhaps my main gripe is the general inability of a large percentage of the population to explore and find the substance or worth which they so desperately crave, in what can only be described as a catalogue of creative influence available to anyone who actually chooses to look. Instead there is a conscious effort, to be led by a movement so bafflingly bland, so highly influenced by consumerism and corporate wealth that at times, one struggles to separate modern culture from McDonald's manifesto.
How does that work? When did what is cool become only that which is advertised the most? And why is that the case. Have we all been brainwashed into believing that sheep have the right idea. Especially when you consider the limited integrity of this commercialised Shepherd.
The pop charts are cool, right? DJ Cock and MC Dickhead's lyrics mean something yeah?
No.
But they wear baggy clothes and swear on TV, surely that's got to mean something?
No.
So what are you saying? 20p's been shot 50 times; you don't think he deserves his success, deserves a second chance to tell us all how many bitches he's gonna bang?
No, go away
But what about that Irish Boy band? Their harmonies are just magical
I'm getting a headache.
So there's exceptional music and there's absolute drivel being produced all the time, the first step in my plan for world domination relies on our increased attempts to appreciate music for music's sake. Can't we just ignore celebrity exposure as a variable and take the quality of the music as a reasonable gauge for deserved applause? This is just the start of it, being able to rationally judge modern music; the bigger question is perhaps, why modern music should be any more influential than movements of the past.
Isn't it time to propose a more open minded, accessible way of thinking, more of a personal, discovery and an appreciation of only 'that which is good'.
Now that's a thought that's gonna fester.
Unqualified angst. An impression of bravado coupled with its own infeasibility. That, quite possibly is where all the love comes from; you want to believe in their star status for your sake and theirs, yet in reality there's the slight nag, suggesting a vulnerability on a level with your own at best. The honesty can't help but stab you. Surely not music for the masses, with such unrelenting punishment, yet to the masses it plays.
My reliance on musical influence can at last be justified.
What more to say? It's always been my religion (name another which adapts so fluidly as the world and its opinions change), leading me to an altering state of mind, good and bad. Yet only now do I feel that we've both reached a level of depth and maturity not present for far too long.
Arcade Fire, TV on the Radio, Kings of Leon, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Archie Bronson and his Outfit.
You all win, you have my fullest attention.
So hurrah for this new invasion on the senses, but I cant help but think that suggesting this resurrection of musical integrity goes some way to opposing a cultural (specifically musical) ideal which I truly believe and wish to impose on you as reader/prisoner of this little think piece (and it is a think piece).
I struggle to identify with a thought process which attributes quality and worth to only that which is 'in fashion' (I'm struggling to put it any other way). Perhaps my main gripe is the general inability of a large percentage of the population to explore and find the substance or worth which they so desperately crave, in what can only be described as a catalogue of creative influence available to anyone who actually chooses to look. Instead there is a conscious effort, to be led by a movement so bafflingly bland, so highly influenced by consumerism and corporate wealth that at times, one struggles to separate modern culture from McDonald's manifesto.
How does that work? When did what is cool become only that which is advertised the most? And why is that the case. Have we all been brainwashed into believing that sheep have the right idea. Especially when you consider the limited integrity of this commercialised Shepherd.
The pop charts are cool, right? DJ Cock and MC Dickhead's lyrics mean something yeah?
No.
But they wear baggy clothes and swear on TV, surely that's got to mean something?
No.
So what are you saying? 20p's been shot 50 times; you don't think he deserves his success, deserves a second chance to tell us all how many bitches he's gonna bang?
No, go away
But what about that Irish Boy band? Their harmonies are just magical
I'm getting a headache.
So there's exceptional music and there's absolute drivel being produced all the time, the first step in my plan for world domination relies on our increased attempts to appreciate music for music's sake. Can't we just ignore celebrity exposure as a variable and take the quality of the music as a reasonable gauge for deserved applause? This is just the start of it, being able to rationally judge modern music; the bigger question is perhaps, why modern music should be any more influential than movements of the past.
Isn't it time to propose a more open minded, accessible way of thinking, more of a personal, discovery and an appreciation of only 'that which is good'.
Now that's a thought that's gonna fester.
Thursday 16 August 2007
The String & The Bowling Ball
I'm almost certainly sure that at some point during my lifetime I will discover time travel. It must all have started during my childhood. 'Future Me' must have popped in, planting the seeds of curiosity. I never actually met me; we were never introduced, but it happened, he was there. I mean I never actually met the tooth fairy but there's no doubt she was real. Real enough to punish me for my low quality molars, the tight-fisted wench.
Friends returning from their nocturnal expliots having exchanged tooth for silver and what do I get? Polo's, fucking Polo's. Elephants are rolling about in the isles laughing at the bum deal dealt me. Now whilst no ivory, my pearly whites deserved better. Fucking bitch!
Time Travel. Yes. Right, so 'Future Me' and me in a room.
"Hello", we most certainly would have said. "Now don't worry about the ins and outs of it at the mo, but just for future reference make sure you've always got a long length of string and a bowling ball handy; otherwise we'll never be able to crack this 'Time Continuing Alter State' thingy. But, but that's neither here nor there, not to worry, just remember STRING and BOWLING BALL............. Oh and you might want to consider learning Mandarin".
'Future Me' would have been interupted at this point by the freight train which always made a pass about now. Grabbing hold of the house and shaking us every fucking evening. I hated that train.
"Wow, this is crazy. Shit on a stick if I havent just cracked it! Right, Tally Hoo must dash, things to do people to eat. Take care....... i really have always been beautiful".
[an apparent side effect of time travel being the emergence of wankerish diction]
And that would have been that; the seed is sewn. Life existing only to discover that which im already aware of. All the while, humoring parents more than happy to cater for my apparent obsession with the Megabowl. I really fucking hated Megabowl.
So anyway, thanks for that. Adding yet another unwanten hinderance to my every waking thought. And why a fucking bowling ball? I hate that ball. School, university, work, dates; everyone making quite the reasonable assumption that any man so obsessed with a 10lb bowling ball must surely a) Display some sort of natural talent. I didnt. And b) Be everso slightly mad. That one is open to debate.
"Yeah, accident when I was 13, terrible; fingers all smashed up. Can't make the shape anymore"......... "Yeah, yeah heartbroken, really fucking gutted you know? Was that my chance? My opportunity to shine? And now we'll never know; all because of some crazy milkman with an attitude"
"Ball's just a reminder really, of the good times. Gets me through you know............?"
"Yeah sorry, i'll have a Double Cheeseburger".
Oh the shame! It's too much.
And how excactly does this whole 'Time Bundle' come together? It's a bowling ball and it's some string. And that's it. In what possible manner can they ever combine to form a reasonable theory, relative or otherwise?
Future Me is laughing quite a lot. Future Me is a cunt
Friends returning from their nocturnal expliots having exchanged tooth for silver and what do I get? Polo's, fucking Polo's. Elephants are rolling about in the isles laughing at the bum deal dealt me. Now whilst no ivory, my pearly whites deserved better. Fucking bitch!
Time Travel. Yes. Right, so 'Future Me' and me in a room.
"Hello", we most certainly would have said. "Now don't worry about the ins and outs of it at the mo, but just for future reference make sure you've always got a long length of string and a bowling ball handy; otherwise we'll never be able to crack this 'Time Continuing Alter State' thingy. But, but that's neither here nor there, not to worry, just remember STRING and BOWLING BALL............. Oh and you might want to consider learning Mandarin".
'Future Me' would have been interupted at this point by the freight train which always made a pass about now. Grabbing hold of the house and shaking us every fucking evening. I hated that train.
"Wow, this is crazy. Shit on a stick if I havent just cracked it! Right, Tally Hoo must dash, things to do people to eat. Take care....... i really have always been beautiful".
[an apparent side effect of time travel being the emergence of wankerish diction]
And that would have been that; the seed is sewn. Life existing only to discover that which im already aware of. All the while, humoring parents more than happy to cater for my apparent obsession with the Megabowl. I really fucking hated Megabowl.
So anyway, thanks for that. Adding yet another unwanten hinderance to my every waking thought. And why a fucking bowling ball? I hate that ball. School, university, work, dates; everyone making quite the reasonable assumption that any man so obsessed with a 10lb bowling ball must surely a) Display some sort of natural talent. I didnt. And b) Be everso slightly mad. That one is open to debate.
"Yeah, accident when I was 13, terrible; fingers all smashed up. Can't make the shape anymore"......... "Yeah, yeah heartbroken, really fucking gutted you know? Was that my chance? My opportunity to shine? And now we'll never know; all because of some crazy milkman with an attitude"
"Ball's just a reminder really, of the good times. Gets me through you know............?"
"Yeah sorry, i'll have a Double Cheeseburger".
Oh the shame! It's too much.
And how excactly does this whole 'Time Bundle' come together? It's a bowling ball and it's some string. And that's it. In what possible manner can they ever combine to form a reasonable theory, relative or otherwise?
Future Me is laughing quite a lot. Future Me is a cunt
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