"What it is" is a particular favourite phrase of mine. I would consider it to be the second half of "It is........what it is". Said perhaps with a casual take it, or shove it your arse attitude, which I find appealing. Sarcastic yes but fitting when used in collaboration with my lovable yet irascible, spleen spewer, Dylan Moran.
His vague and rambling demeanor on stage hides a razor-shave, cut-throat wit.
His quotes: On Berlusconi: "He's so crooked, he sleeps on a spiral staircase. And when he smiles, he gives an Angel gonorrhea" are a but a mere morsel of his excellent stand-up at the Apollo Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue last night. His vitriolic expostulations on society are simply wonderful. "Man is the only species that the planet is still trying to reject" rings true and some wonderful theories on finding yourself on camera, alone in the back of the a taxi, possibly juggling excrement, are memorable. And if you can pause there for one minute and allow yourself that graphic image upload, it jolly well should be memorable.
Pity I'm too old now to recall further but it's never as funny when somebody tells you a second-hand tale. Besides, my timing is shite and I haven't had a drink yet.
Like the man himself said, on youth, when a member of the audience said he was 19; he's plucked nostril hairs older than that!
And sadly so have I
]]>Whilst idly chatting with BDA (dirty bitch 
) I have thought of a possible use for my redundant knitting skills.
Does the panel think that these colourful bobble strips would make effective speedo modesty panels?
A sort of modesty curtain that pins infront of those tight nylon speedos. No debate is too big nor too small for consideration.
Yes, some people may think I have too much time on my hands and I shan't disagree.....
]]>Well do ya?
Not content with scaling mountains and bursting with testosterone, I've been nurturing a secret addiction for all of three weeks.
Namely:
Knitting!!!!!!!!!!
Not just any old knitting you understand.
Pom Pom knitting.
I just can't stop. So I figured I can keep on knitting scarves until they hug or feed (delete whichever is NOT applicable) the world. That is the sort of wanky thing Michael Jackson would have uttered if he was still with us.
And this is gonna be bigger than........, well,........... Michael Jackson's moon walking and look where that landed him.
Don't stop til you get enough...........
]]>
I went up Ben Nevis!!!
And being a sucker for punishment or maybe I was trying to prove a point, I went up Ben More a couple of days later. Both mountains are over 1,000 metres high. Ben Nevis, Britain's highest mountain, is emphasised by the fact that it begins its rise from sea-level on the shores of Loch Linnhe, to tower 4,406ft (1,344m) above the town of Fort William.
Yes that's about right. I could feel all 4 thousand feet plus in my thighs the next day. So a trip to Edinburgh, and a visit to Harvey Nicholls was an absolute must the following day. I sort of felt like Homer Simpson when he falls from a cliff making those "oohs and aahs" as his poor, yellow, cartoon body hits every jutting rock before reaching the bottom.
Still......it was a protest climb.
A protest against senior senility.
Cheers!
]]>That BMW presumptively post strangers' gobs around blogs is a "fucking liberty" (a la Catherine Tate's foul-mouthed gran).
It looks like a happy scrap book. And since I gave up pasting into a scrap book before I was 11 years old I'm not happy. Does driving a BMW make the sunshine and instantaneously give you a large brood of extended family members? If that's the message they subliminally wish to convey, believe me, those pop-up, nuisance, family members will all be begging lifts from a car that can never be serviced efficiently because the manufacturers don't understand it.
"Joy is not BMW" believe me.
"Happiness is a warm gun!"
]]>Apparently this is used to describe a sore neck as a result of headbanging at a heavy metal concert. Well I'm sorry but this cannot be true.
Surely it's a direct consequence of a head banging against a headboard during drunken copulation.
Alternatively a gang-bang sleep over?
Isn't it?
]]>A racist slur is news but, further down the pecking order Bekey or should that be Beaky? And Bruce? Go and play some golf with Tarby or Joan! And never wear a pvc, padded, sleeveless waistcoat in my presence, on my TV ever again.
Meantime the rest of the nation was getting the lowdown on Samantha's M&S frock at the Manchester Tory party conference. No, not that fuck-me Samantha from Sex and the City but Dave's other half.
So what has happened to Sharon Suicidal Shoesmith? Clearly her resolve failed her there as she presses her case AGAIN for unfair dismissal. Sharon love, your salary at Harringey Council as head of Children's Services should automatically put you in the firing line when things go so tragically and drastically wrong for a vulnerable child. It's called accountability.
And Gary Makinnon in the news this week? I fail to see how he can be extradited when we could never extradite IRA terrorists from America.
But Anton du Beke is still dancing and Brucie is still telling us he's dancing....so I'll sleep easy tonight.
]]>It's Saturday, Just.
I need to kick back and ..................I'm trying to browbeat somebody tuneless into...
Satan's seventh bride
]]>Not the cold shoulder.
The coughing and sneezing variety that makes your nose run, your eyes water and your throat hot and irritable and forever throat-rumble-clearing
I never get colds. Because I very rarely mix with humanoids. Are friends electric? Well you'd better ask Gary Numan.
But I have one now and I would really like to punch in the face the person responsible for this snot fest. He is an arrogant bastard. He lives abroad and drives a porsche with an electric sunroof. That fact that his porsche has an electric sunroof is enough reason to want to punch his face in. That and the fact that he talks like Marcel Wave and not in a clever Kenny Everett way either. I mean he really talks like Marcel Wave. The sort that would own and wear le smoking jacket and not ironically, whilst constantly waving an empty cigarette holder. Underlining vacuous comments in quilted, maroon velvet. Does it sound like anybody you know?
If so, don't admit to it. I'm saying nothing...................for now!
]]>Well not anymore.
I'm in love with this woman and I heard her first on Radio 2. Wudd-ya-believe-it on the Ken Bruce slot????????
Well would ya?
I feel the need to share it. "The very least I can do" with a voice like a rasping, velvet-lined, shag in the dark!!!!!!!!!!
No, I'm too excited to figure that one out either.
]]>9pm
BBC1...........
And for one hour at 9pm every night for the rest of this week.
Last year's programme was excellent with the young Ben Wishaw accused of murder after giving a lift to a young girl in his Father's taxi. All was not as it appeared.
Peter Moffat is the writer and this time it's Maxine Peake aka Veronica, part of the Kev and Veronica double act from Shameless. It's her turn to face the criminal justice system.
Not since Paul Abbott nor Jimmy Mcgovern has there been anything so compelling to watch on TV.
Right I've got an hour to spare. So I'll go make a pest of myself elsewhere by shouting out all the wrong answers to Universally Challenged!
Jezzer Paxman looks irritated already.
]]>However their ambiguous title prompted this little vignette last week at the Pensioners' Tuesday Bingo Night.
First Old Lady Pensioner: Have you got a cup of tea love?
Second Old Lady Pensioner: Eh? No. I can't find my cardie.
FOLP: Tea? Biscuit?
SOLP: I like to go before I come out but Don likes his frig biscuits!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At which point I'm sure we all lost the will to live.
Pensioners do the funniest things.
]]>It comprises:
Eggs - well you can't make an omelette without breaking them.
Smoked haddock - flaked, not stirred and not the dyed variety.
Shaved parmesan - clean the ladyshave first. Human hair in food can be litigious
A hollandaise drizzle.
Fresh rocket.
Whilst I can say that I have never tasted anything so divine since discovering malt vinegar goes with steaming, hot, chips, it's correct name is Omelette Arnold Bennett.
It's omelette, Juzz, but not as we know it!
]]>Yes I should know better
Yes I know it won a British Comedy award like a year ago..............
But I love this programme. Perfect for anyone with a zap-it-all boredom threshold and an honest and wholesome addiction to bad language and offensive material. Think of it as a slightly younger version of Peep Show with four arseholes instead of just the two. The dialogue is slick, sharp and intelligent and the acting is remarkable. Friday nights on repeat may never be boring again. I went to bed with tum-tum ache after laughing my tweety-pie bedsocks off! All that and Jools too. Was it me or was his programme last Friday a rather diluted rolla-cola affair musically?
Norks-a-lordy, it's Sunday already. I'm posting about Friday's telly. I really must try harder.
]]>Well I found out today when I crouched down and heard a discreet ripping sound. I stuck my hand round the back of my denim-clad derriere and discovered a large frayed hole. Arse peepy jeans!
Now these denims are my Diesel favourites. The ones that when I put them on I still think I look like a rock chick. Well okay then an ageing rock chick. More raddled Keif Richard than Kate Rock. These denims may be distressed but I'm distraught. I hate jean shopping. It's too scary. You always pick a size you think will fit and it's always too tight. Jean shopping is in the same terrifying league as swimsuit shopping. Both leave you feeling drained, depressed, distressed and oh for fucks sake!
So I'm going down the hippy-trippy, Crosby Stills Nash and Young route. I'm going to buy a smiley patch for them.
Better known these days as an EMOTICON!
Peace Man! (LAUGH OUT LOUD)
]]>Whilst, probably, the big music news is the release of the new Muse album (I love the bombast that is Muse) last night for me was the culmination of a dream come true when I went to see Ray at the Albert Hall. To me Ray's music is a fusion of accoustic, folk/blues. I had read that he has been compared to Van Morrison but I think that's a lazy, throw-away stance to illustrate Ray's music.
Ray is Ray. He appeared on stage without introduction, without ego, without affectation and proceeded. His smoked and plaintive vocals, simple stage set and band a testament to true musical talent.
For this gig I'm glad I had very little to drink so that I can remember the songs he selected from his three albums. My particular favourite was a song I posted this year called "Winter Birds" and listening to that live last night sent ripples of heightened, bitter-sweet, emotion right through me. Yes, music makes me cry sometimes but that's not a bad thing.
As somebody bellowed out last night: "Ray, you the man!"
La Montagne is french for the mountain and Ray is a man-mountain of musical talent in anybody's language.
]]>Which got me to thinking, who would be the sort of person with a smelly washing machine. Undoutedly they would be male.
Chris Moyles - his smells of de-feet
Gordon Ramsey - his stinks of sweaty arrogance.
Peter Mandelson - his smells of deceit
David Hasselhoff - his smells of night-riding and musty baywatch speedos.
Silvio Berlusconi - his defintely smells of rubber (as in used condoms)
Old men in general - theirs smell of mouldy fig rolls and soft-boiled egg stains.
And the solution?
Soap and water. Failing that there is always the launderette.
Does anyone still go to the launderette?
]]>£1.90!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For LARGE CHIPS.
Is that legal? And that was for your basic effort.
No curry sauce
No chocolate sprinkles
No chopped parsley with a slice of lemon.
You did get a shot of vinegar but was it malt vinegar or battery acid?
I would phone the police and make a formal complaint but by the time they came around to take a statement the chips would be cold. Naturally I couldn't eat them as I would assume they would be needed as daylight-robbery evidence.
What next?
]]>Twitter ye not or you will end up plucked and fucked
Tweet at your peril.
Whilst Tweety really is still all cute and yellow, this is the picture in his bird attic as any Oscar Wilde will tell you. The Picture of Dorian Gray.
]]>You know those days when you just feel "blurrgh". A little bit mimsy in the borogroves. Well after watching 30 minutes of Vic and Bob I feel all zesty again. Like a plump, polished lemon ready to squirt life in the eye.
The entire show is just one big lucky bag of idiotic frivolity. And fuck knows we all need a dip in that lucky bag after the doom mongering news of the day.
I would love to hurl a wheelbarrow full of shoes at a cardboard celebrity.
Play the drums in a baby-gro
Sing songs in the style of a nightclub singer
Vic and Bob get older but don't ever grow up! Now that's proper Peter Pan syndrome.
]]>So Spotted Dick is no longer to be called "Spotted Dick". Apparently the name of this pudding makes people nudge and snigger. What should it be known as now?
Fly-blown Richard?
Then there is Jam Roly-Poly. That will be the next pudding for the politically correct axe.
Coq-au-vin? I have never been tempted to eat a cock in a van. The feathers get everywhere.
Uranus is now to be known as Urrectum. Anus has pornographic connotations. Rectum is purely medicinal. That will definitely put to bed any Ministry of Silly Sniggers.
And as for Angina? That will be struck of as a medical condition altogether.
]]>Why?
Because this society we live in shirks moral responsibility and discipline. I read with disgust the acts committed on two children by two children, yet uneducated adults and educated adults simply do not admit that the book stops with them. Until we understand that we are responsible for our actions to a greater or lesser extent then sadly these appalling crimes by children will continue. The biological mother of the two boys perpetrating these crimes cries out through the letterbox "it's nowt to do with me!" Really? Were these children cloned? Found behind a strawbery patch? The Father a vicious drunk, forced the children to watch sadistic horror movies. Social Services failed (again) and the Police failed. The problem as I see it is that the ultimate responsibility lies with the parents.
The Parents.
If we in turn agree that the parents were probably abused as children and so-on and so-forth we are perpetuating the reluctance to act, and condoning a system that at best is half-hearted and ineffective. And with the help or lack thereof, Social Services, the Police, the Local Authority, Neighours, and Headteachers go round in circles each pointing the finger and hoping somebody else will take on the responsibility.
A succession of governments have eroded parental responsibilities also. How can a drug addled mother afford to have 7 children? A nanny state is how. A benefits system is how. Providing housing for pregnant young teenagers is how.
But ultimately that drug addled, feckless waster pro-created, with a little help from a vicious drunk. The book stops there. They should be held responsible.
I make no excuses for my old-fashioned opinions. I am heartily sick of the lack of accountability in this country of ours.
]]>With all this bloody talk about fishfingers, eggs and chips and all round hearty and warming nursery grub on blogs today I'm starving. Anyone rash enough to leave a cake outside deserves a good kick up the arse. In Tom and Jerry the proverbial pie was always left on the window sill and look what happened to that.
You have been warned.
]]>UGGS
AC/DC might howl back in black.
Amy Winehouse might whine back to black
Arnie Scharz...whatever might warn I'll be back
Thin Lizzy may tell you the boys are back (in town)
But Uggs never really went away
Even on a summer's day.
Uggs are more popular than the loyalist of black labradors. They don't fart when discarded in your bedroom either. And are the ultimate accompaniment for the early morning visit to the lavatory.
I did not forsake you oh my darlings!
]]>Brian is an art critique. You don't say. I was always under the misapprehension that he was a plasticine snail from the Magic Roundabout but then what do I know about art. Not a lot but then neither does Mr Sewell.
In a statement, Mr Sewell the 71 year old guilded guff merchant said, yesterday that "Liverpool does not produce anything of "great cultural consequence" and said the city's appointment as Capital of Culture was "a laugh".
He said: "The advantage of making Liverpool the city of culture - there's a laugh! - was at least you knew were you where getting the train to."
Back in the real world Mr Sewell I somehow think you wont be catching a train there anytime soon. Or indeed if you did, you won't need a return ticket.
I'll phone for an ambulance now shall I?
Oh and Mr Sewell (rhymes with Liverpool) as an artistic, cultural, interpretation, I wouldn't let you paint the outside of my house!
]]>Well which is worse: Wearing speedos at Alton Towers whilst riding the Thunder Pocket?
Or
Raising your arms at Thorpe Park whilst riding the Laxative Express.
Apparently both these harm/less/ful activities have been banned. The speedos at Alton Towers and the arm raising at Thorpe Park. I consider both distasteful but I'm still not sure which is worse. A straining speedo on the Thunder Pocket or a putrid pit on the Laxative Express.
Very recently in Primark a Catey Swunt swanned past leaving behind a stream of turbulent body odour so bad a soap abiding citizen could be traumatised.
Then again speedos desecrate the moral fibre of the nylon nation with a fit so snug you really don't want to know the religion of the wearer....
]]>I'm out for a fuck!
Or should that be "duck"?
]]>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEOmdQ-4t_M
Dedicated to Rubychoo
]]>IT'S JUST THERE.
Patient and constant.
My blog friends have truly enriched my life for the better.
In the words of Dame Edna "Possums, I love you all"
Will somebody please stop poking that gladioli up my jack
]]>