At the risk of being a complete Blog-bore, I find little at this juncture of pressing concern, about which to work up a lather, so to speak. So, rather than chunter aimlessly on, I thought a few random observations and general stupidity would do nicely, whilst I await my next brain tsunami.
It would be remiss I suppose, not to mention what an absolutely shit summer it has been thus far, here in the neo-Arctic wastes of Scotland. Seriously, I write this little featurette on the longest day (Midsummer) watching the rain cavort from the ever blackening skies, thinking 'this global warming thing...what a crock.' We've certainly upset someone along life's merry way, to be lumbered with this relentless precipitation. I hear a whisper that the 1958 Scottish Tennis Open Final has been postponed for another year, after what meteorologists are insisting is merely a 53 year heavy shower, which will give way to a sunny interval, possibly in time for a late decision on play in 2012. Typically, it was the only occasion in a glittering tennis career, that Aussie fave Rod Laver, made it to Scotland and given that he'll be 73 next year and that the other finalist is now sadly dead, he may well be awarded the title, with his opponent 'in absentia'...bet the weather's better there too.
Shitey weather is not something that our Greek Euro-cousins will have to contend with at this time. Ah the heady days of the Drachma and Ouzo pissing out your pores. It must seem a long way off now, as they've run up a bigger tab than Amy Winehouse at an 'all you can drink for free' night, at Temptations Bar, next to the Betty Ford Clinic. I've clocked up a few miles keeping up to date with the Doomsday scenarios relating to Greek debt and whist I think it inappropriate to delve too deeply in this Blogette, using my years of financial experience, I think in brief, it could be summed up in two words...total fucking shambles...yes Einstein, that's three, showing just how easy it is to get your sums all fucked up. Listen, those Greek protestors should worry. At least they can bask in the luxury of a superb tan, whilst they eat the bark off trees, because it's 600 Euros for a pint of taramasalata (I was going to say, on the rocks, but that could seem a little insensitive, given the parlous state of their economy)...
Anyhoo, European Monetary Union amongst a whole bunch of disparate nations was a basket case from the off. Not 20/20 hindsight folks, just common sense. None of us actually likes each other, with the possible exception of a just about bearable two week annual vacation and then its back to xenophobe central...and that's just Glasgow and Edinburgh.
and finally Cyril, I heard a piece on radio today that made me choke a little on my Kung Fu Panda Crunchers cereal (I am very 'cereal hip'). Burmese pro-Democracy heroine, Aung San Suu Kyi has announced that during her 15 year detention by the Burmese authorities, listening to Dave Lee Travis on the World Service, 'made her world so much more complete'. I can't make my mind up if she's...
a. just insane after years in the virtual chokey,
b. ready for another wee therapy spell 'away from things', or
c. the biggest piss-taker since David Icke during his 'Son of the Godhead/Turquoise Twat' phase.
Whatever the explanation for Ms Kyi's fondness for the Hairy Arseho...sorry, Cornflake, that detention must have been some scary experience, for that beardy todger to be the sanity saviour...and I thought I had problems.
Now, Charlie Sheen and David Icke in a sitcom..that's the kind of detention experience I want...
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Friday, 17 June 2011
Politics. Or the inability to imitate life...
I find myself (reluctantly) returning to the political stage, after hearing an interview this week on the 'Today' programme on Radio4. Oh yes, I listen to Radio4. Quite an admission and although I am seeking help, the pills haven't kicked in just yet.
Michael Gove is the current government oik, running the Education Dept. He also has a face made for punching and a matching supercilious attitude, borne no doubt, of his Calvinistic Aberdonian adoptive upbringing and scholarship won English studies in his Oxford Alma mater. He was actually born in Edinburgh, so he really has in fairness, had very little good fortune from the earliest of times. I can somehow picture Gove the Younger, in full bespectacled mode, bullied remorselessly, for being...well, a git. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any way condoning or in favour of such actions, but I'll make an exception in his case. With his little head poised perilously over the lavatory, awaiting the inevitable flush, muttering dark oaths about returning to the education system in adulthood and 'sorting' things...
Well, Uncle 'call me Dave' seems to have found it within himself to have faith in this weasel...well his wealth is estimated at around £1million...so he's ripe for a cabinet post in this 'we're all in it together' governmental hierarchy. Even prior to this great elevation, he seems to have had rather a chequered little political career thus far, never a million miles away from rubbing someone up the wrong way...sadly never an axe murderer, but there's time yet. In keeping with many of his counterparts, he's been partial to the odd dalliance with his expenses and when all is said and done, nothing I have seen or heard, will convince me that this little nonentity of a gnome should be doing anything that might be considered important to the UK populous.
Anyhoo, in this interview, he was asked a pretty straightforward yes or no question regarding an accounting blunder in his department, with £300 extra per pupil being allocated in some academies. Cue the smooth talking glove puppet, turning into a babbling, tittering little prick, because he had been found out and couldn't bring himself to admit the thing that all of us little people ask of these out of step/out of touch politicians...yes, the truth! I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or jump on a plane to Londonshire and toe-end Gove straight up the passage.
You see, friends, Romans, Countrymen, Gove is just a microcosm of the many reasons that swathes of people throughout this pox-ridden island, despise politics and the system that allows wankers like him to preach their gospel to us, to show us how to improve things and by definition, ourselves and yet when they are given the opportunity to admit to that one human frailty we all possess - the ability to make a mistake - they choose to wriggle and squirm (or simply lie) their way out of it, thus attaining instant credibility expiry and full unencumbered membership of the 'unfit for purpose' club.
As someone once said, 'if voting changed anything, it'd probably be made illegal'...
Michael Gove is the current government oik, running the Education Dept. He also has a face made for punching and a matching supercilious attitude, borne no doubt, of his Calvinistic Aberdonian adoptive upbringing and scholarship won English studies in his Oxford Alma mater. He was actually born in Edinburgh, so he really has in fairness, had very little good fortune from the earliest of times. I can somehow picture Gove the Younger, in full bespectacled mode, bullied remorselessly, for being...well, a git. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any way condoning or in favour of such actions, but I'll make an exception in his case. With his little head poised perilously over the lavatory, awaiting the inevitable flush, muttering dark oaths about returning to the education system in adulthood and 'sorting' things...
Well, Uncle 'call me Dave' seems to have found it within himself to have faith in this weasel...well his wealth is estimated at around £1million...so he's ripe for a cabinet post in this 'we're all in it together' governmental hierarchy. Even prior to this great elevation, he seems to have had rather a chequered little political career thus far, never a million miles away from rubbing someone up the wrong way...sadly never an axe murderer, but there's time yet. In keeping with many of his counterparts, he's been partial to the odd dalliance with his expenses and when all is said and done, nothing I have seen or heard, will convince me that this little nonentity of a gnome should be doing anything that might be considered important to the UK populous.
Anyhoo, in this interview, he was asked a pretty straightforward yes or no question regarding an accounting blunder in his department, with £300 extra per pupil being allocated in some academies. Cue the smooth talking glove puppet, turning into a babbling, tittering little prick, because he had been found out and couldn't bring himself to admit the thing that all of us little people ask of these out of step/out of touch politicians...yes, the truth! I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or jump on a plane to Londonshire and toe-end Gove straight up the passage.
You see, friends, Romans, Countrymen, Gove is just a microcosm of the many reasons that swathes of people throughout this pox-ridden island, despise politics and the system that allows wankers like him to preach their gospel to us, to show us how to improve things and by definition, ourselves and yet when they are given the opportunity to admit to that one human frailty we all possess - the ability to make a mistake - they choose to wriggle and squirm (or simply lie) their way out of it, thus attaining instant credibility expiry and full unencumbered membership of the 'unfit for purpose' club.
As someone once said, 'if voting changed anything, it'd probably be made illegal'...
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Pecking order...
Just when you thought this arsehole country could not possibly get any more insane, news reaches the docile masses that Asil Nadir, the Polly Peck fugitive, is to receive legal aid, to fight fraud charges stemming from the collapse of his empire (or house of cards as it should better be described) 20 years ago. Now I read somewhere that 'providing the case is in the interests of justice', legal aid is granted regardless of financial status. Oh bravo, that's alright then. I had this foolish notion that all court cases were held in the interests of justice, but something got lost in the translation.
Mr Turkish Delight bought PP in the 70's. It was a textile company, which he expanded into fruit distribution and packaging and subsequently, consumer electronics. Don't know 'bout you, but whenever I think of textiles and clothing, pomegranates and hi-fi's just slipstream into my subconscious...
Well, whatever old Anusol was up to, as soon as the fruit hit the fan, he took an extended vacation (17 years) to the Turkish bit of Northern Cyprus where, as good fortune and immaculate timing should have it, he'd squirreled away about £200 million in the two years before Polly shuffled off its' mortal perch in 1990. Presumably a premonition...just to keep the 'p' consonantal aliteration going you understand. Further, this convenient neck of the woods has no extradition treaty with the UK, from which fact, the term 'royal shafting' presumably emanates.
Now Mr NoScruples may indeed be innocent of all charges, just as the River Clyde is host to shoals of barracuda, but fuck me, legal aid?!? The 70 year old shacks up in a £20,000 a week flat, gets an (Armani) electronic tag lashed to his ankle, has to turn up at Plod Central once a week in a limo and then shuffles off home to his 27 year old wife (who like Paul Daniel's wife, surely wasn't in it for the money) for a deluxe spam fritter supper from the local chipper, washed down with a splash of Chateau Lafite Rothschild from a cracked pint mug. Enough punishment already.
Look, this sonofabitch played politics back in TurkeyCyprusville thru his media outlets, which left him with a tax bill for $6million. Whilst the various factions fight it out over his duplicitous affiliations, he picks up another multi-million contract to run an airport in Northern Cyprus.
So what do we surmise from this bundle of facts or fiction...
#Having watched Midnight Express years ago, I think Asil caught a rerun on Movies4Men, coming to the conclusion that he should cut his losses(sic) and come back to the old country, rather than get pumped by an outsized Turkish prison warder in an Istanbul chokey. Ok, having soap on a rope doesn't guarantee your safety in a UK hotel...sorry, prison, but(t) the likelihood of your being 'a friend of the sausage' is proportionately reduced.
# Asil was not intending to apply for legal aid, or so we were told in 2003. Apparently his friends were going to help him. This has indeed proved to be the case, though we were never told that his friends were in fact the UK Government, who lay down the obviously completely fucked up rules in the first place.
#This country once again proves itself to be a safe haven and soft touch on another crooked 'businessman', who left investors owed over £1billion and the life savings and pensions of thousands of innocent individuals wiped, whilst feathering his own nest, which presumably still holds a sizeable egg. This septuagenarian snake, slithers back into the United Kindadum and we pick up the tab to see him get a fair trial.
It's an equitable life, Henry...
Mr Turkish Delight bought PP in the 70's. It was a textile company, which he expanded into fruit distribution and packaging and subsequently, consumer electronics. Don't know 'bout you, but whenever I think of textiles and clothing, pomegranates and hi-fi's just slipstream into my subconscious...
Well, whatever old Anusol was up to, as soon as the fruit hit the fan, he took an extended vacation (17 years) to the Turkish bit of Northern Cyprus where, as good fortune and immaculate timing should have it, he'd squirreled away about £200 million in the two years before Polly shuffled off its' mortal perch in 1990. Presumably a premonition...just to keep the 'p' consonantal aliteration going you understand. Further, this convenient neck of the woods has no extradition treaty with the UK, from which fact, the term 'royal shafting' presumably emanates.
Now Mr NoScruples may indeed be innocent of all charges, just as the River Clyde is host to shoals of barracuda, but fuck me, legal aid?!? The 70 year old shacks up in a £20,000 a week flat, gets an (Armani) electronic tag lashed to his ankle, has to turn up at Plod Central once a week in a limo and then shuffles off home to his 27 year old wife (who like Paul Daniel's wife, surely wasn't in it for the money) for a deluxe spam fritter supper from the local chipper, washed down with a splash of Chateau Lafite Rothschild from a cracked pint mug. Enough punishment already.
Look, this sonofabitch played politics back in TurkeyCyprusville thru his media outlets, which left him with a tax bill for $6million. Whilst the various factions fight it out over his duplicitous affiliations, he picks up another multi-million contract to run an airport in Northern Cyprus.
So what do we surmise from this bundle of facts or fiction...
#Having watched Midnight Express years ago, I think Asil caught a rerun on Movies4Men, coming to the conclusion that he should cut his losses(sic) and come back to the old country, rather than get pumped by an outsized Turkish prison warder in an Istanbul chokey. Ok, having soap on a rope doesn't guarantee your safety in a UK hotel...sorry, prison, but(t) the likelihood of your being 'a friend of the sausage' is proportionately reduced.
# Asil was not intending to apply for legal aid, or so we were told in 2003. Apparently his friends were going to help him. This has indeed proved to be the case, though we were never told that his friends were in fact the UK Government, who lay down the obviously completely fucked up rules in the first place.
#This country once again proves itself to be a safe haven and soft touch on another crooked 'businessman', who left investors owed over £1billion and the life savings and pensions of thousands of innocent individuals wiped, whilst feathering his own nest, which presumably still holds a sizeable egg. This septuagenarian snake, slithers back into the United Kindadum and we pick up the tab to see him get a fair trial.
It's an equitable life, Henry...
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Line(han) of least resistance...
Ok, I loved Father Ted (not in the biblical sense, you understand). The creator of the series, Graham Linehan was interviewed on Radio4 this morning, regarding his new stage production of the Ealing Studios classic, The Ladykillers...and boy, was he just a tad tetchy.I've seen this guy on one or two telly things and have to say, I didn't warm to him at all. He may well be a fantastic bloke and obviously a tremendous comedy writer, but he just seemed like a git.
The gist of the radio interview, was why had he chosen to revisit a total classic film, for a stage version. Was there essentially any point, since it could scarcely be bettered and was very much a metaphor of its' time. Linehan stuttered and stumbled his way through 'exploring characters in greater depth' and 'things that make sense in a current setting' and then proceeded to go into a fairly extraordinary huff. His response smacked of, 'who the hell are you, to question my motives or aims in undertaking this project' and accused the interviewer of setting up an adversarial interview with someone whose views opposed his. How dare someone else have a contrary opinion to a British Comedy Awards winner!!
Anyhoo, the point of challenging Linehan and his ilk, was simply to suggest that instead of plagiarising cinema, he/they should toddle off and write some brand new stuff for theatre. I agree. It totally smacks of lassitude and a shortcut to a few bucks.
Listen chums, if you haven't seen The Ladykillers, invest in a DVD copy instantly. It's a stunning piece of 50's Ealing genius. Gently, but wickedly funny and with an unforgettable Alec Guinness performance.
Oh and 'na,na,na-na,na' to you Mr Linehan...
The gist of the radio interview, was why had he chosen to revisit a total classic film, for a stage version. Was there essentially any point, since it could scarcely be bettered and was very much a metaphor of its' time. Linehan stuttered and stumbled his way through 'exploring characters in greater depth' and 'things that make sense in a current setting' and then proceeded to go into a fairly extraordinary huff. His response smacked of, 'who the hell are you, to question my motives or aims in undertaking this project' and accused the interviewer of setting up an adversarial interview with someone whose views opposed his. How dare someone else have a contrary opinion to a British Comedy Awards winner!!
Anyhoo, the point of challenging Linehan and his ilk, was simply to suggest that instead of plagiarising cinema, he/they should toddle off and write some brand new stuff for theatre. I agree. It totally smacks of lassitude and a shortcut to a few bucks.
Listen chums, if you haven't seen The Ladykillers, invest in a DVD copy instantly. It's a stunning piece of 50's Ealing genius. Gently, but wickedly funny and with an unforgettable Alec Guinness performance.
Oh and 'na,na,na-na,na' to you Mr Linehan...
Monday, 6 June 2011
Curse of the acronyms...
flippin 'eck...I was really quite worried there for a moment. A strange, seldom seen phenomenon called sunshine, visited us fleetingly in the last few days, temporarily removing my 'rantability'. I'd heard some urban mythology about this sun 'thing' and its'ability to promote feelings of inner serenity, so it is with more than a modicum of relief that I can announce the return of our normal atmospheric state or 'shit weather', to use the time honoured colloquialism and with The Beast of Motorhead lending a suitable background vibe, my natural venom for all things annoying, has returned. Hoorah! (I really should have got this Blog thang going in winter, during the normalcy of unremitting gloom and despondency).
Had a bit of a 'debate' (euphemism for small fight) with the other half, one night during last week, so getting up and going to work with each other was the standout highlight of the following day. I've never known the feeling one gets from removing a pick axe from ones head, but I was probably closer than would be considered, comfortable. Anyhoo, in the true spirit of reconciliation (or, we're stuck here with each other, so we might as well get on with it) we set about the business of our small but perfectly formed restaurant. I only mention this little cameo, to help anyone reading this, who does not work directly with the public, understand that we Restauranteurs are only human and our little lives can be just as meaningful or pathetic, as the customers who grace our establishments. The fact that we choose to make a living serving the public, does not mean we are somehow estranged from the 'norms' of human behavioral frailties. What i'm trying to say (badly) is, on this particular week, I was a bad boy...
I am a temperamental sod, prone to more than the odd outburst. Not overtly rude to everyone, just people with troglodyte tendencies and matching manners, at which point I must bring to your attention, news of a disturbing organization, growing in number, who are devoid of any normal civilities, ignorant of all those around them and prone to leave a trail of devastation and destruction in their wake.They are known under the acronism 'MTF'..yes, I refer to the Mother and Toddler Fascisti. The MTF consists of...
#Mothers inflicted with selective deafness,
#Prams modelled on the armoured tank division of the North African World War 2 offensive, wheeled into restaurants during busy lunches to cause the kind of jam associated with the M25 at teatime,
#brats who spend most of their day, plonked in front of CeeBeebies, before being wheeled out and ignored in the restaurant, whilst mummy chats about the poor quality of clothes pegs, to other mummy,
#mumsies who leave the table space looking like a shithole ( cos ickl Timmy was 'expressing himself' ) and expecting the lowly-paid scumsuckers to clear up after their fat, lazy keesters...there, I said it,
#etc, etc...
Now there are certain establishments that choose to specifically cater to the MTF. They employ endless lines of spotty youths who work for two groats a day and all the Monosodium Glutamate they can suck through a straw, safe in the knowledge that they are too shit-scared to create any kind of fuss over the ensuing chimpanzee tea parties, for fear that Tarquin tells Mummy-fascist, Mummy-fascist complains to Manager, who in turn craps his pants in fear over the likely bad publicity on Trip Advisor and veiled threat that Mummy-fascist will tell all her followers, who will similarly boycott said establishment. These hell-holes are however, an entirely good thing, as they keep the MTF ringfenced and well away from the remainder of those individuals who simply want to enjoy lunch in a convivial atmosphere and behave like a fully fuctioning adult.
Well, anyhoo, to cut a long one short, I made 'bad attitude faces' at a couple of these goons in our wee hacienda and after clearing up their personal Hiroshima, they reported their disdane to my other half and left, vowing not to return and would recommend other MTFs to do likewise...fuckin result!! It's a latter day Basil Fawlty 'well, we don't want that riff-raff in here anyway, Sybil' victory for the Restauranteur and high time someone let these wipes know that their slovenly manner and 'we bring our fuck-off prams/breast feed/let ickl Britney bawl and scream because it's the modern way' (choose any one) fascist behaviour, is not appreciated by either customers or staff.
So then, anyone for a quiet lunch...
Had a bit of a 'debate' (euphemism for small fight) with the other half, one night during last week, so getting up and going to work with each other was the standout highlight of the following day. I've never known the feeling one gets from removing a pick axe from ones head, but I was probably closer than would be considered, comfortable. Anyhoo, in the true spirit of reconciliation (or, we're stuck here with each other, so we might as well get on with it) we set about the business of our small but perfectly formed restaurant. I only mention this little cameo, to help anyone reading this, who does not work directly with the public, understand that we Restauranteurs are only human and our little lives can be just as meaningful or pathetic, as the customers who grace our establishments. The fact that we choose to make a living serving the public, does not mean we are somehow estranged from the 'norms' of human behavioral frailties. What i'm trying to say (badly) is, on this particular week, I was a bad boy...
I am a temperamental sod, prone to more than the odd outburst. Not overtly rude to everyone, just people with troglodyte tendencies and matching manners, at which point I must bring to your attention, news of a disturbing organization, growing in number, who are devoid of any normal civilities, ignorant of all those around them and prone to leave a trail of devastation and destruction in their wake.They are known under the acronism 'MTF'..yes, I refer to the Mother and Toddler Fascisti. The MTF consists of...
#Mothers inflicted with selective deafness,
#Prams modelled on the armoured tank division of the North African World War 2 offensive, wheeled into restaurants during busy lunches to cause the kind of jam associated with the M25 at teatime,
#brats who spend most of their day, plonked in front of CeeBeebies, before being wheeled out and ignored in the restaurant, whilst mummy chats about the poor quality of clothes pegs, to other mummy,
#mumsies who leave the table space looking like a shithole ( cos ickl Timmy was 'expressing himself' ) and expecting the lowly-paid scumsuckers to clear up after their fat, lazy keesters...there, I said it,
#etc, etc...
Now there are certain establishments that choose to specifically cater to the MTF. They employ endless lines of spotty youths who work for two groats a day and all the Monosodium Glutamate they can suck through a straw, safe in the knowledge that they are too shit-scared to create any kind of fuss over the ensuing chimpanzee tea parties, for fear that Tarquin tells Mummy-fascist, Mummy-fascist complains to Manager, who in turn craps his pants in fear over the likely bad publicity on Trip Advisor and veiled threat that Mummy-fascist will tell all her followers, who will similarly boycott said establishment. These hell-holes are however, an entirely good thing, as they keep the MTF ringfenced and well away from the remainder of those individuals who simply want to enjoy lunch in a convivial atmosphere and behave like a fully fuctioning adult.
Well, anyhoo, to cut a long one short, I made 'bad attitude faces' at a couple of these goons in our wee hacienda and after clearing up their personal Hiroshima, they reported their disdane to my other half and left, vowing not to return and would recommend other MTFs to do likewise...fuckin result!! It's a latter day Basil Fawlty 'well, we don't want that riff-raff in here anyway, Sybil' victory for the Restauranteur and high time someone let these wipes know that their slovenly manner and 'we bring our fuck-off prams/breast feed/let ickl Britney bawl and scream because it's the modern way' (choose any one) fascist behaviour, is not appreciated by either customers or staff.
So then, anyone for a quiet lunch...
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