Thursday, July 29, 2004

There's No Business...

There's loads of Serious Stuff I should be worrying and/or writing about, but I'm working on the basis that as Parliament's in recess at the moment (which means that the disgusting unscrupulous toadies we sarcastically refer to as Our Elected Representatives have all slimed off, leaving little silvery trails, to their Tuscan villas for a month) so obviously the Serious Stuff isn't as Serious as I thought.

So I'd rather talk about the death threats received by the appalling Catherine Zeta Jones. I must say that I felt the threat to murder and dismember the little Welsh minx was a bit harsh; I've been quite irritated by La Zeta in the past, but I've never once felt moved to commit horrible violence upon her person, nor indeed have I wished that someone else would do it, except maybe once or twice. I've always felt that marriage to little wrinkled old Michael Douglas was punishment enough, and, let's face it it must have been scary for the poor girl.

"I've never in my life had anything or had anyone say anything to me so satanic," said Zeta Jones, 35, ably demonstrating why they won't let her write her own lines. Douglas commented, "She was hysterical... she was fainting. She could not get any air. She showed all the signs of having a nervous breakdown." Mike was taking it seriously, obviously having forgotten that CZJ went into a similar mental and emotional crisis over a set of wedding photos not long ago.

Ah, showbiz, that wacky world where a bottle of wine arriving at the wrong temperature can result in a year-long lawsuit and two months recuperating in an expensive clinic.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

The Best of Irish Lonely Hearts

(Yes, I know it's cheating, but I haven't had time to do anything on here for weeks and someone just sent me this. Anyway, made me laugh.)

>Grossly overweight Louth turfcutter, 42 years old and 23 stone, Gemini,
>seeks nimble sexpot, preferably South American, for tango sessions,
>candlelit dinners and humid nights of screaming passion. Must have own
>car and be willing to travel.
>Following a sad recent loss, teetotal Tipperary man, 53, seeks
>replacement mammy. Must like biscuits and answer to the name Minnie.
>Thurles area.
>Wexford man, 50, in desperate need of a ride. Anything considered.
>Heavy drinker, 35, Cork area, seeks gorgeous sex addict interested in
>pints, fags, Glasgow Celtic football club and starting scraps on
>Patrick Street at three in the morning.
>Bitter, disillusioned Kerryman lately rejected by long-time fiancée
>seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing still exists in
>this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches.
>Ginger-haired Galwegian trouble-maker, gets slit-eyed and shirty after
>a few scoops, seeks attractive, wealthy lady for bail purposes, maybe
>Artistic Clare woman, 53, petite, loves rainy walks on the beach,
>writing poetry, unusual sea-shells and interesting brown rice dishes,
>seeks mystic dreamer for companionship, back rubs and more as we bounce
>along like little tumbling clouds on life's beautiful crazy journey.
>Strong stomach essential.
>Chartered accountant, 42, seeks female for marriage. Duties will
>include cooking, light cleaning and accompanying me to office social
>functions. References required. No timewasters.
>Bad-tempered, foul-mouthed old bastard living in a damp cottage in the
>arse end of Roscommon seeks attractive 21 year old blonde lady with big
>Devil-worshiper, Offaly area, seeks like minded lady for wining and
>dining, good conversation, dancing, romantic walks and slaughtering
>cats in cemeteries at midnight under the flinty light of a pale moon.
>Attractive brunette, Macroom area, winner of Miss Wrangler competition
>at Jolenes Nightclub, Macroom, in September 1978, seeks nostalgic man
>who's not afraid to cry for long nights spent comfort drinking and
>listening to old Abba records. Please, Please!
>Limerick man, 27, medium build, brown hair, blue eyes, seeks alibi for
>the night of February 27 between 8pm and 11.30pm.
>Optimistic Mayo man 35, seeks blonde 20 year old double-jointed
>supermodel who owns her own brewery and has an open-minded twin sister.
>Belfast man, 30ish, beer gut and grim breath, desperately seeks
>companion. Must like Billy Ray Cyrus, Telecoms equipment, Tarmac and
>won't mind rogering me with my 12 inch strap on whilst wearing cowboy
>boots and humming Bryan Adams hits. No time wasters.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

The Hunger

Although we're now officially married, the big party and religious blessing is still to come in August, so on Saturday Soo and I went to See A Man About The Rings. It was a very civilised outing - Roger's (the goldsmith) workshop is in a converted stable block in Nutfield village. We sat on a comfy sofa and chatted languidly about gold and diamonds and D-shaped profiles. Quite an education, actually; we now know that diamonds are coded in quality from D to Z, where D has to be viewed through a welder's mask to avoid temporary blindness and Z looks like the sediment at the bottom of a wine bottle. Roger told us that A-, B-, and C-quality diamonds don't exist, but I don't believe him. I think it's just that they're so expensive that ordinary people can't afford to even talk about them.

He then unfolded little paper packets and showed us some seriously nice rocks. Soo, who I thought had vowed to eschew all material wealth in favour of personal spiritual development, was seized by The Hunger. "I want them. Overpower him and bring them to me." she hissed, doing a pretty fair impression of Gollum, though with much nicer hair.

When the red glow had faded from Soo's eyes we discussed designs and decided on rings with five diamonds on each (one for each of our communal children). We're now waiting for Roger to give us an estimate - Soo's determined that the rings have to cost more than the toilets we're hiring for August 7th (which seems fair), but if there are too many zeros we may have to revert to plan B - Redhill Market (I still don't know how they can do those big diamonds for ten quid, even if they are stolen.)

And finally, overheard recently:
Q: "How do you tell if pearls are genuine?"
A: "The old ladies don't struggle so much if they're fake.")

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Word For The Day

Angoraphobia n an abnormal intense and irrational fear of fluffiness

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

(I'm the one with the unconvincing little beard) Posted by Hello


So, what did you do at the weekend, Davy? Oh, the usual. Had a few beers. Played a bit of guitar. Got married. Yay!

Friday, July 02, 2004


There are a few things I have to change. I'm not happy with this "comments" set-up. I'm not happy that I can't figure out how to add links to other sites on my header. And I'm not happy with that crappy counter thing. All of this will have to be sorted out, and with my level of competence being as low as that of a person who's not very competent, it'll all probably go disturbingly wrong. So if I disappear, don't just walk away and forget me, damn you. For I shall return.


And another thing about Norfolk. Cromer. If ever a town deserved the title "God's Waiting Room" this is it. The streets are crammed with more old people than you thought existed outside Florida, and at the speed they move those streets stay crammed for a long time, believe me. It's eerily quiet, (because the poor old souls don't have the energy to talk and walk at the same time), except when the ambulances race by, woo-woos going. (What's the urgency, for fuck's sake? It's old age that's toppling 'em. Tell me what good getting them to hospital in a hurry's going to do.)

At first you quite enjoy it. I was around forty-five the first (and last) time I went to Cromer, and looking around me I felt young, energetic and vital. If I'd been with the right person I might even have felt a bit sexy (Rolls eyes and snorfles.) After an hour of trying to negotiate my way through streets packed tight with Zimmers and redolent with a miasma of wee, I started to see My Future staring me in the face. (Staring up into my face, 'cos those old people are really small.) All I could do was go back to my hotel, think of age, illness and death, and listen to those sirens wail.

Then I had a couple of beers and felt just fine. Thankfully I've never been over-troubled by sensitivity.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Ah-ooo! Hippos in Norfolk.

There was an item on the news this morning about, believe it or not, hippos in a gravel-pit in Norfolk. Not right now of course, but apparently around 750000 years ago ice-age Norfolk was home to these big buggers, twice the size of today's hippos. Which is one big fucking hippo. The scientist being interviewed said the technique used to determine the age of the bones they'd found was "Palaeo-Magnetic Dating", which gave me a brief Larsonesque vision of little fur-clad blokes with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a big club in the other, but I'm determined not to take that one any further. He also said that the bones hadn't moved very far after the hippos' death, which didn't really surprise me. I shouldn't think they were exactly light on their feet when they were alive; they're hardly likely to have done much scampering about when deceased. (Okay, I know he was probably thinking about tectonic plates wiggling about or some other kind of scientist stuff.)

Norfolk has always struck me as a weird kind of place. There seems to be something about England's flat bits (Norfolk, Lincolnshire, the Cambridgeshire Fens) that produces people who could move to rural Kentucky and blend in pretty seamlessly apart from the odd "Uhhhhhh, you guys talk real funny." comment. Maybe they're genetically predisposed to agoraphobia, and the fact that you can stand on a phonebook and see the whole county drives them nuts.

The last time I was there I had what politicians call "a frank exchange of views" with someone who not only believed that shooting burglars was fine as long as you remembered to feed the bodies to the pigs, but that the Saudis have the right idea, and it it "isn't brutal any more because they don't actually chop the hands off now, they just cut the tendons" so that they have these things flopping around like gloves hanging from a child's coatsleeves. I shut up after a while. I just had this feeling that I wouldn't have been the first visitor whose fancy ideas had caused him to end up inside a sausage.