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.