Friday, March 26, 2010

Poem In Praise Of France

It's about time I recorded some poems for this blog, isn't it?

What this means, of course, is that at some point over the coming months, I'll have to write some.

In the mean time, here's one from the archives. The mid-90s as I recall. Some of the references are a little out of date, but fortunately this ditty doesn't evidence the same arthritic creak as Carlo Ancelotti's recent tactics for Chelsea FC.

More? Less? Not Bothered?

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Whirlochre: Poltergeist-To-Be

I’ve decided to train as a poltergeist.

Technically, I know I can’t make it as a pro until till I’m dead, which may be some time off yet on account of my stupendous bowel health, but the way I see it, if doctors are prepared to spend seven years acquiring the skills to heal the sick, I figure I can wait twice as long for the privilege of flouncing around wrapped in a diaphanous aura scaring the pants off the gullible and shrieky.

Problem is, not a single university in the world runs the kind of course I need. Granted, there’s a whole bunch of academic lookeelikees — Clinical Pathology, Cynical Egyptology, and Whinnying for Horse Whisperers & Bovine Lexicography (Joint Hons) — but quite frankly, unless I can be guaranteed a space under the table with the best the afterlife has to offer, I’m simply not interested. It would be like settling for raspberry ice cream in a top Italian gelato parlour because they’d run out of Stracciatella (and I realise this analogy doesn’t work if you love raspberry ice cream as much as you hate Stracciatella, but my first idea involved dancing girls and motor bikes and may have ended up excluding everyone, so I switched).

Likely, I shall have to go looking in the back pages of magazines like The Spectator, Phantom Ankle Tickler Monthly, and Espionage For Twats. Truth be told, I’ve already done a little research while pretending not to be looking at Hello! in W.H. Smith. Somewhere in East Acton (if the PO Box number is to be trusted), there’s a woman by the name of Dolores Rambrage who claims to specialise in “spectral apprenticeships”, though I’m still in two minds about requesting details as both of her adverts (in PATM — and, oddly, GQ) feature pictures of scantily clad women in stockings. And £2.50 per minute seems a lot to charge for a phone call given that BT have just slashed their rates. Or was it Virgin? And was it rates? I’ve been so out of the loop this week I wouldn’t be surprised if Richard Branson has been sliced to pieces by some psycho with a quintuple blade Wilkinson Sword razor while I’ve wibbled aimlessly twixt breakfast cereal and Horlicks like some sensorily redundant numbknob. But that’s another story.

While I wait for the right opening, I shall practice bending spoons like Uri Geller. It’s a far cry from flinging furniture around, I know, but everyone has to start somewhere...

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Equinox Tale Soooooooop

According to my research, here in the UK we were visited by the phantom bunnies of the Spring Equinox at precisely 5.32pm this evening.

I’d planned to sneak out into the wilderness and celebrate with a bottle of lager and a Mars Bar, there to be enchanted by the spectacle of gambolling lambs and all manner of emergent abundance — but sadly, it was shitting it down.

So instead, I cleaned out the bath and spent a quarter of an hour looking for a sock presumed missing in the wash. Then Geoff spewed half a tin of Tuna n Chicken mush up under the fridge, the kettle sprang a leak, and I discovered the huge bag of salted potato sticks I’d been saving up as a weekend treat had been opened, eaten, and disposed of three whole days ago by other members of the family (shameless and “on the list”).

But I mustn’t grumble.

Harry Hill is on in 20 minutes.

Then I’m hanging myself in the attic.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Should I Tattoo EXPRESSIVE On My Face?

Here is the label from the so-called “Builders Bucket” (no apostrophe, note) I paired up with yesterday in an ill-fated attempt to drain my outdoor wormery of a winter’s worth of foul-smelling Überponk.

My question to you is this.

In what way is this particular bucket handier than any of the other similar bowls with handles mankind has been using for centuries, probably before the invention of the wheel and possibly before the abuse of the mule?

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Rug Test

This is a Rug Test.

It's like the Test Card — only it's a rug.

Back soon, but meanwhile — why not re-investigate this old favourite?

Update c/o the comments. Go there first or this will be utterly meaningless.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Mark Linkous RIP

Elvis and Jackson, I could handle. But not this one.

It's a sunny, sunny Sunday morning, but I can't quite see it.

I hate it when people who there should be more of take their own lives. Kind of makes me think I'm on the wrong side...

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Help! I Need An Editor!

As I continue to linger in my self-inflicted hiatus bunker limbo, here's a photo from my Christmas archives proving I'm not the only one unable to summon a certain snappy succinctness when it's needed...

Personally, I'd have gone with


Anyhow, back soon with further tales of bear wrestling and designs for contraptions to make the moon appear more gibbous.

No, waitaminute, that's
the other blog...

Tuesday, March 2, 2010