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Thursday, November 27, 2003

Is it just me... #3:

I'm struggling for something witty to write, so is digging up an old theme really the way to go? Have I not thought of my long-suffering readers? Can their demanding nature be met with regurgitated tat? Ah well, life's a commercialised piece of plastic shit. And anyway if I described my first flatulation of the day, using only words that started with'b', it would still read better than 99% of the bunkum on this here big ol' internet of ours.
So, not even half-arsed here goes, life's big questions:

Why is phonetic not spelt with an 'f'?

Is there a hyphen in nit picking?

Why is there only one Monopolies and Mergers Commission?

What would happen if you put a humidifier and a dehumidifier in the same room and had them on at the same time?

What if there were no hypothetical questions?


Actually, I know the answer to the last question, without hypothetical questions I would have to put more effort into this bit of blog!

Stav.

Sunday, November 23, 2003

How similar are the voices of Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong? I was left asking this question after the latest in a long line of Kazaa failures. No wonder big record companies seem no longer arsed about downloaded music, the chances of actually getting what you want are about as slim as a Mel and Kim comeback tour.

Finally the Rugby World Cup is over. I can get back to sleeping on Saturday mornings again. Well done to England (that does actually hurt a bit), they deserved it, they were professional, efficient and organised. I hope the Wilko-mania doesn't spoil it because there were many great performances throughout the team. The media have shown that England is still a soccer-country no matter how hard the likes of ITV and the Sun have tried. The tenuous 1966 reminders by lazy journos and the back page build up in the Sun on Friday included just the 12 references to David Beckham.

Jim Rosenthal's cut-out-and-keep guide to the different codes of football:
Association Football ['footy', 'soccer'] has a round ball, eleven men a side and FIFA has 204 member nations; while Rugby Union ['rugger' in England, 'life' in Wales, 'embarrassment' in Scotland] has an oval ball, fifteen men a side and the IRB has 12 full member countries; Rugby League ['Rugby' in Northern England and Eastern Australia, 'what?' everywhere else] has a rounder oval ball, thirteen men a side, and is hardly worth bothering about unless you have a whippet or a surfboard.

Wales may have departed at the quarter-final stage, but Stav's Scarlet Dragons look odds-on to win the company fantasy rugby competition. I hope I do because I've already spent the £57 prize money on beer and pies! Just like the Welsh team.

Me and our kid were driven to the pub on Friday by the most racist taxi driver in bigotdom. I'm not an easily offended person as right-wing taxi driver's are usually too clichéd to be taken seriously, neither am I black or Jewish, but I couldn't wait to get out of the cab. It struck me that the racists of yesteryear complained about 'them' coming over here taking 'our' jobs, today's racist is fuelled by Political Correctness. This fellow's main gripe was that there were no longer Golly Wogs on Robertson's jam! Unbelievable. I never claim to be 'PC' because I think it can do more harm than good, and is merely a white middle-class linguistic and etiquette driven culture, the result of a collective imperialist guilt. To me it is about brushing racism under the carpet, rather than find solutions to the real issues. By labelling the man who refers to the 'Paki-shop' as the racist, the real enemy goes undetected. This country has to take a hard look at where it's going with this, because there are many people like our taxi driver who will be talked round by the far-right who are growing in towns like ours in the North and the Midlands (Burnley, Stoke, Bradford, Calderdale, Sandwell, Blackburn etc). Incedentally the deputy leader of the BNP, Adrian Marsden, is a former taxi-driver.

Right, that's the world sorted, now for me dinner!

Stav.

Saturday, November 08, 2003

All Surface - No Feeling

I have been busy tarting up this here weblog, as you can see (unless you are unfortunately blind - I'm working on the braille version currently). Also those nice little piccies BDM has got don't make themselves you know.

I have lived through the first week of my new fast-paced executive lifestyle, and I think I'm on a cushy number. I don't have much more work to do, will have loads more money, and I am sitting next to the new junior, Jennifer (18, blonde, clever and funny - Dave G would be in love within 2 minutes, and would have written her a poem after 10). Rather impressively my first action as Assistant Manager was to give myself Monday afternoons off, and I'm planning more such 'perks' to come.

My only spleen to vent is aimed this week at fireworks. Yeah, they're pretty blah blah impressive rubarb rubarb, but I'm sick of them this year. The normally opulent and affluent estate of Arleston (errrm?) sounds like bastard Beirut (who said 'instead of just looking like it'?). On my calendar it says it was Guy Fawke's Night a few days ago, I'll repeat that for the less literate of our pyromaniac neighbours, it was Guy Fawke's Night a few days ago. It's not Guy Fawke's frigging month is it?

But probably the worst thing about fireworks and this time of the year is the oblivious double standards of local news programs. Top story will involve Sue Beardsmore telling us about some Brummie toddler losing half their face thanks to a temperamental Jumping Flame Rocket and an over-zealous Uncle. How awful. A few minutes later Nick Owen will introduce some pictures of a lovely big display from outside Walsall. How pretty. Then that bloke who always does stories that involve pubs will do a story about a bonfire in a pub garden in deepest Warwickshire. How quaintly rustic. Finally Shefali will tell us what a mild clear night it will be and instruct us to get into the garden to set off some flashy-flashy-wizz-bangs. At this point Nick Owen will crack a 'joke', and Suzanne Verdy will raise her spoilt-girl eyes to the ceiling in an act of pure pantomine chagrin.

Anyway I'm off to feed, photoshop and listen to Spiritualized. I might set fire to Tesco's later.

Stav.