Nurofen

For months now there've been loads of Christmas adverts, but a recent addition of a traditional seasonal advertiser has sneaked in, and although on the surface it might not appear so, it is as Christmas an advert as Kerry Katona cracking a sub-cracker level joke about frozen birds.

The beauty of the Nurofen advert (for I think it is they) is that it is trying to advertise against what its biggest selling point is. In their advert they have a man sawing logs, with infra-red showing the pain he is feeling in his arm. Significant red areas demonstrate that a woman is experience burning agony in her lower back as she lifts heavy bags into the back of her saloon car. The solution is to take Nurofen. Job done.

Thing is, the significant jump in sales of painkillers has nothing to do with the fact that we are carrying more shopping or, er, chopping more wood (I think this was the most seasonal thing that the advertisers could come up with that men might do that would cause them pain.)

Ha, good try. The reason we buy a load Nurofen, ibroprofen, paracetamol, asprin, Anadin and Alka Seltzer, put them in a blender with half a pint of egg nog and knock it back in one is because we are hungover. We are hurting due to our own lack of self-control. We are experiencing the kind of head-splitting pain that can only result from 4 parts excessive alcohol, 2 parts over eating and 3 parts excruciating half-memory involving one of your shoes, a kebab, the neighbour's letterbox and the cry "Now to put the turkey in the oven".

I know it. You know it. Even educated fleas know it. And some of them aren't even that smart. But Nurofen continue this charade. And who can blame them? They are a serious, grown-up painkiller. They don't want to admit their principle users are the weak of will, the sunken-eyed indulgist, the sod-headed office oaf. And we don't want to admit it either. Everyone is happy.

Jack Shen 2

You know sometimes there is something really important that you want to do and you think to yourself "I must do that" but the only times you think of doing it are when you are not in an appropriate place to do it? Sure you do. Like downloading Cliff Richard's "Devil Woman" or checking the oil in your car or releasing those hostages you took back in the late 80s. Well that's what keeps happening to me with our friend Jack Chan.

About a year ago I stumbled upon a troubled man, Mr Jack Chen. Remind yourself here. I kept meaning to find out how he's getting on, but was never at my computer. Until this evening.

For those of you who can't be bothered to click the above link, Jack was dumped by his girlfriend. Like for many people, this was hard for Jack to take. Unlike many people, Jack decided to document his pain and anger through a blog containing his attempts to win back his sweetheart via the tried and trusted methods of epic, rambling poetry and posting pictures of month old tear-soaked tissues.

Like anyone who has a heart, I found this Hi-larious and couldn't wait to see how the old boy was getting on. But wait, the old link no longer worked! Nooooooo!

However, I didn't spend 5 years surfing the web for nothing (or perhaps I did). After a few well aimed searches, I found him again. Hoorah! Click here, post-haste.

The year started off hard on Jack - his valentine gift of two dolls modelled on him and his ex-squeeze appear to have remained in their box. Then came the classic posting "My Best Friend Is Alcohol..." followed by the reminiscing on the "Love Book", written by their personalised pens. As Jack says "Why would u close the Chapter of our "Love Book" with sure bad ending??? The person that get hurt the most is ME!!! Cruel that i would described U!!!" Touching.

Following a couple of new poems (I think "The Unforgiven Love" is perhaps his masterpiece) and some rather withering remarks on his ex's new boyfriend ("The Loser"), there is light at the end of the tunnel. Jack has a new girlfriend. Hooray!

But hold on there young mustang. I feel there is reason to be cautious. Firstly, Jack's introductory posting on this new lady starts with how long in years, months and days it is since he broke up with his old one. Secondly he constructs of 100 reasons why he loves his new girl (but stops at 58.5). This is worrying enough, and closer inspection does nothing to allay my fears. For example:

12. I fall for u cause u r a real dumbo!
32. I fall for u cause u r a little piglet.
33. I fall for u cause u look real dumb at times.
41. I fall for u cause i have met someone that will disturb me.

Now it's been a while since I've been courting, but I'm pretty sure none of these phrases would impress the farier. To test this I am going to try them out on Mrs P - results to follow shortly!

The Worst Book I've Ever Read

Hooray! I've just completed the worst book I've ever read: The Fourth K by Mario Puzo. This incredible book has THE worst plot ever. Allow me to outline it for you:

* The President's daughter is kidnapped
* The Pope is shot dead
* The President's daughter is shot dead
* The President (who is a Kennedy relation) responds by bombing an entire city to ashes in some small Middle Eastern state. Totally and utterly destroys it. But don't worry, it was leafleted 24 hours earlier, so the only losers were the fat cat American investors. Hoorah!
* Two wizz kid scientists blow up a nuclear bomb in the middle of New York. Kennedy's assistant lets them do it so that Kennedy can win a second term
* 50 pages are spent on the President's new girlfriend
* 75 pages are spent on a mormon who is a bit wierd and good at shooting cardboard cutouts
* Some people have some sex
* Kennedy wins a second term. He is the most liberal President ever
* Kennedy proposes to set up labour camps in Alaska with the plan of forcing the inmates and the next few generations of their family to stay up there
* Kennedy passes an 99.9% perfect lie detector about the nuclear bomb, which he knew about
* Kennedy gets shot dead by the mormon

I don't really have much more to say about it then that. I don't think I have to. Awful.

Sheeba

"The trouble with women", stated BBC Breakfast host Bill Turnbull on Friday, "Is that they don't like the bish - bash - bosh, and nor do they appreciate the touchy feely."

I literally choked on my Cornflakes. In the history of morning television, has an interview ever been started with a greater sentence? I very much doubt it. And he got away without getting smacked around the head by the stern one with short-spiky hair. Superb.

Anyway, after I had recovered, the weather came on with the annoying Scottish woman who I am sure spends an inordinate amount of time on Northern Scotland. "Heavy and prolonged showers in the Hebrides, Aberdeen and as far south as the Grampians." What, really? Rain? In Scotland? Better hold that story on the alleged bear faeces found in an area with a load of trees, cos Carol is gonna rock your world apart.

(To be fair if you have ever watched a weather forecast with someone from the South West, they usually think that every weather report purposely avoids their area. I have honestly thought that the East Devon weather report that is sometimes featured on Westcountry Live spends too long on Honiton.)

To save myself talking at the screen (which I think Mrs P finds equally humourous and worrying), I flipped over to GMTV, which happened to have gone to advert break. The advert showing was for the cat food Sheeba and this reminded me of a blog I was to do a while back.

The tagline is as old as advertising itself. Since it's first usage by Vikings to sell their package tours of the UK, memorable slogans have stuck in the brain and have become synonymous with its product. Who can forget such classics as "BUPA's Gonna Kick Your !£$%!@# Head In", "I Bet He Drinks Diamond White", and Emigrate Australia's "Because Sometimes 'Sorry' is the Hardest Word".

Sadly, the great art of the adline has become tarnished by the rent-a-quote line. Little beknown to the majority of the buying public, there is a small office just outside of Shrewsbury that takes old lines, recycles them and resells them at a cut-price to companies too crap to come up with their own ideas. These lines often have little, if anything, to do with the product. Equally, these lines are absolutely forgettable, thus making highlighting the worst offenders very difficult.

However, Friday morn I did catch one and through an abstract form of mind-mapping have managed to commit it to memory. The product, Sheeba cat food. The line, "Share the Experience".

What does that mean? In what way can you share the experience of a cat digesting jellied chunks of miscellaneous animal parts without giving yourself serious bad breath? If the resulting six hours of gut-rot is what your cat experiences, then chances are that you ain't going to be buying it again. And if anyone tries to suggest it is meant on an "emotional" level, I will personally see to it that they are subjected to watching my new DVD out for Christmas "Love Actually - A Rant in Twelve Parts", including the bonus three hours of cider-induced freestyling tour-de-force "Live at the General Redvers".

So here's an alternative for you Sheeba. "Sheeba - Putting the Cat into Cat Food." Now that would be memorable.

Veinte Anos

With Mrs P getting her way with the T.V. I've decided to do a long overdue posting (I wanted to watch old people sing Radiohead songs, she's watching fat people walk - I think we know who wears the cultural trousers in this house). If truth be told inspiration has been low - the E&E has become obsessed with the sale of the airport and hunting and although I've got a couple of things on adverts, I've decided to start this week with a summing up of the last two months in all things Gary.

(Update on the fat people walking 500 miles television programme: some of them are "having trouble pitching tents". Yep - I've heard obesity'll do that.)

Well this blog has got a lot sharper. For me anyway, cos I got me some new spectacles. My old ones, after significant general abuse, finally exploded when I got punched in the face at work by an unprovoked, disgruntled employee. Well, when I say "disgruntled employee", I mean "spring loaded monitor stand". And when I say unprovoked, I might have pressed the release mechanism when it was less than 30cm (that's quarter of a large pace to our imperial measuring American friends) away from the old visage.

Don't worry, I wasn't hurt, just stunned and damn glad I was alone. The result was a new pair of glasses that, while letting me see things properly, do give me a 2-lunchtime-pint feeling all through the day. I'm sure I'll get used to them.

(Update on fat walking: Helen has already turned over and is now watching a dog programme. Well it's either that, or one of the fat people has been forced to wear a muzzle.)

Other than that I've been mostly drawing naked people, visiting friends with babies and doing DIY. I visited my parents where I came up with what I thought a reasonably amusing joke on a topical, er, topic (it involved an acrimonious marriage split, submitted complaints and my comment that "she won't have a leg to stand on"), which actually got booed by Mrs P and Mrs P the Elder. Now I know how Chris Morris felt after Brasseye. Maybe one day my comedy will be seen not just for its controversy but also for its insight, cutting wit and subtleness.

Not a lot else has happened. I have done a lot of shopping, buying contenders for my album of the year (I think I might have got enough eligible CDs for a top 10 now), plus loads of CDs that aren't (Fleetwood Mac are this year's ELO). Sadly the most interesting thing that happened I don't feel would be appropriate to write about on here, but if you want to know, when you see me ask me about God, Bono and Crediton Wetherspoons.

LotR Chess Collection

Apologies if this blog is slightly sticky and has a strong odour of orange. I innocently had a bottle of Orangina and, being a stickler for following instructions and serving suggestions, I gave it a solid shaking. Perhaps unsurprisingly to everyone but me, when I unscrewed the top it fizzed and foamed all over the place. Grrr – damn those Spanish pranksters.

On the subject of serving suggestions given on the side of jars, a current favourite is on my mum’s jar of horseradish sauce. The picture is of a large pool of horseradish sauce on which is sat floating three raw horseradishes. Underneath in small black writing is “Serving Suggestion”. Mmmm – raw horseradishes served in 6 jars worth of their own sauce. That’s good eating.

Anyway, I seem to have gotten over my own excitement at my return to infrequent blogging that gripped me in my last posting and wanted to have a quick look at an advert.

It seems that at a few points in the year – January, sometimes late spring and always September – there comes a new dearth of ringbindered magazines available from your local newsagent. These offer things like the complete Matthew Broderick film collection (1st issue £2.99 – subsequent issues £27.99), build your own Sherman tank, or the complete works of Shakespeare. Issue 1 includes an actual model of the dog that so memorably played Dog from Two Gentlemen of Verona in Geilgud’s classic 1969 production at the Old Vic.

Perhaps the best from an advertising point of view is the Lord of the Rings chess-set collection that is going to set you back somewhere in the region of £470 if you stick it through to the bitter. Now the advert states that, and I quote,"At last the final great battle from the Lord of the Rings trilogy can be brought vividly to life”.

Two things. Having read the book and then seen the film, I think that Peter Jackson did a pretty good job at bringing the battle to “life”, albeit in celluloid format. In fact, I would go as far as saying that it could only perhaps be brought more to life if the hordes of Mordor surged over the hills from Tiverton and had pitched battle in Crediton’s own park whilst I watched from my balcony.

The second thing is, if the battle hadn’t already been brought to life, I don’t think chess is really the most vivid method of re-enacting great battles. I love the game, I do, but it is hardly a simulation of war. In fact, if it were I playing Mrs P, the re-enactment would go more along the lines of me conservatively playing with my Saruman whilst feigning interest in Mrs P’s Ents before grabbing her hobbits in a typical queening 1-2. And as far as I can remember that ain’t how Tolkein wrote it.

While I’m on the subject of LotR’s, can I take a moment to remember my favourite moment of that film? Thanks. Now I seem to be the only person to find it wildly amusing, but when I saw it in the Odeon, the bit before the interval fell when the riders of Rohan are lining up to go to war or whatever. One of the soldiers is that beardy king’s daughter, disguised as a man. Except she is in full make-up. And has a hobbit stuffed up her chain-mail. Now I don’t know what the army is like in Middle Earth, but I think that in the Queen’s Own, the other soldiers might be slightly intrigued that one of their “male” counterparts has a large bear gut and appears to be wearing Maybellene Shepard’s Delight lipstick. I laughed to myself through the interval and most of the second half. I still chuckle about it now. A case of barely concealed cross dressing worthy of Shakespeare.

Sky Potatoes

Hmm. How does this thing work again? Right, I think I've got it...

...Hello! Indeed I am back from an August off. Last week was spent in Edinburgh, enjoying some of the comedy and theatre the Fringe festival has to offer. Highlights included winning tickets to see a comedian signed by Josef Stalin and Richard Herring reminding me of the international playground sign language for gay love.

It was a trip darkened by the fact that we flew up. I had justified this to myself by allowing myself to take flights between different footballing nations. However, after viewing the majority of Hearts's performance against AEK Athens in a Scottish pub, I realised that trying to argue Scotland as a footballing nation was a lot harder than just going out and planting a tree.

Sadly my MP3 player was mysteriously wiped during the flight. Now the question is was it wiped by the electro-magnetic scanners, or was the Man scared by the subversive recordings of ELO? I think we know the answer to that question.

There is so much more I want to say (my brain is going through a bit of silly season at the moment) but I think I shall leave it there for the moment. Now go ring the bells, GP is back.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

Returning from a camping holiday I see that the E&E letters page has been taken over with some story about girls graffitiiiing. There have been loads of letters. Maybe even loads and loads.

However, among these letters (which, invariably, are achingly obvious calls to “string ‘em up”) there remains a triplet of correspondence worthy of a brief posting.

We start with John Watts, who you may remember as one of the “bible as literal truth” group. Following his confused ramblings about whales and polar bears, a number of Exeter’s more literate writers joined forces to mock him. Today he returns to retort and riposte his philosophical foes. Sadly for John his reply remains within the same class of persuasive argument as that purported by 4-year olds, the permanently stoned and Daily Sport editorials.

It puzzles me that people can't believe in the 'virgin birth' when they can believe in cloning.

Says John. The problem here is that John seems be working to a different lexicon, one in which the word fact is slightly antonymic.

Life after death was proven by Jesus, who died on the cross, which is fact, and came back to life two days later, which is also fact.

This kind of reminds me of my A-Level Further Maths paper where I had to prove an equation of Euler or somesuch. Not having a clue, I hoped that by stringing together my falsified scribblings with words such as “hence”, “therefore” and “QED”, they would somehow be misconstrued as being right. They weren’t.

However, what do I know? In 2000 years a religion may have started worshipping the Sheep God Dolly, the members of which will write to a local rag claiming that she did once exist, whilst being roundly ridiculed by a smart-arse blogger.

Talking of sheep, my nemesis Colin Richey has been writing in again.

GAY PEOPLE SHOULD STOP THEIR BLEATING

I neither defend the rights of gays or "straight" people when I say I am getting fed up with the homosexual community continually bleating on about how they are discriminated against.

No matter how many times I read the sentence, I don’t get it. But that aside, Colin confuses me more by his use of the word straight in quotations. He does it again a couple of paragraphs later:

I firmly believe that organisations that run churches or owners of hotels and restaurants or B &Bs etc, have a perfect right to bar anyone from their premises be they gay or so called "straight" people.

Who are these “so-called straight people”? People identified by Colin as being a bit fruity? Or those who aren’t perhaps secure in their own sexuality and suppress it by writing ignorant and hateful letters to the Echo?

Finally, a ray of hope for the current problems in the Middle East. Sadly, none of our major politicians are likely to take heed of the sage advice delivered by John Phelps.

I believe the best solution to bring peace to the Middle East would be to relocate the Jewish population of Israel to one or more of the relatively sparsely inhabited southern states in the USA.

Finally some level-headed thinking on the world’s toughest problem. Take 5 million people and stick them in Alabama. Yee ha! And as John points out,

Logistically the transportation of four to five million Jews to the USA should not present an insurmountable problem.

If we can put a cloned sheep on the moon, surely we can move an entire population 4000 miles? All we need is a another roadmap and a big boat. Now where did I put Noah’s number?

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

I fear that none of these counter-arguments will satisfy your correspondent or any others who prefer to put their faith in a fantasy

So states Denis Hayes in another episode of Bashing Bible Bashing, the E&E's regular theological discussion series. But which side is Denis batting for? Why the "take-the-Bible-literally" group of course! Those evolutionist fools are living in a damned fantasy world of scientific proof and theories built on collected evidence.

The counter-arguments were to do with incest being alright in the beginning (apparently the Garden of Eden was just outside of Tiverton) and the difference between knowing a girl and knowing a girl. All tres persuasive as our French cousins may not say.

Luckily Denis isn't alone for by his side he has John Watts, who raises the points that no doubt strike fear and self-doubt into the heart of Richard Dawkins.

Well, by the time the pond had dried up, the fish would have had difficulty growing legs. And how is a polar bear supposed to have changed backwards into a whale.

Yeah - right on. How did the polar bear change back into a whale? Answer me that Jonathan Miller. And here are some of the other questions John wants answered that he didn't have room in his letter for:

* If men didn't live at the same time as the dinosaurs, how can we explain the Flinstones and the Volvic adverts?
* Why haven't we evolved some real cool powers like flying and x-ray eyes and shit?
* Who can fit your windows, make them more secure, keep out the rain, no need to paint again?

As John sayz:

Why is no one asking these questions and many similar ones and why can evolutionists give no answers?

Oh wait: I know. Because they are the demented scribblings of a man whose brain has been washed and spun at 1600 rpm. Go on, get outta here.

The Goth Man Cometh

Last week I discovred my favorite quiz show contestant...ever. On Eggheads a member of the challenger team was called "The Goth". That was his name. I know this because Dermot had to refer to him as The Goth, or Goth. He even tried Mr Goth. He also had it on his name tag.

This guy was obviously Goth, belied not only by his presumably self-inflicted name, but due to his blood red shirt with black braces and impossibly deep voice. He used his voice to great effect, delivering single syllable answers that were invariably wrong.

The Unnatural

There's one episode of Frasier that I particularly like. It involves Frederick, Frasier's son, visiting his dad. After becoming embroiled in a softball game, Frasier fears that his son will discover that his dad isn't the perfect, infalliable man that young sons belive their father to be.

It always sticks in my mind because an early memory of mine is the time I realised that my dad hadn't played for Manchester United. I can remember flicking through a United history book honestly expecting to see his name there. It seems ridiculous now, but I guess it's an important stage that everyone has to go through as they get to grips with the fact that perhaps they aren't at the centre of everything.

Last sunday (no, not the last one, the one before that) Helen did her Run for Life. And she did very well too, taking just over 33mins. I stood at the finishing line, waiting as the minutes ticked by. In front of me stood a ... portly young chap of maybe 7. Behind him stood his equivilantly portly father and his mate.

After 15 minutes had ticked by the young fellow turned to his dad and said "You would have easily finished this in 15 minutes, wouldn't you dad."

His dad's mate let out a loud, humoured "Pah!". The boy's father looked uncomfortable, for he had seen the look in his son's eye: the final look of total and utter innocent respect. His father tried to be tactful. "Well, maybe 25."

The boy was crushed. You could see in it his face as his chin hit the floor. He aged in those moments, took on a wiseness and learnt a valuable life lesson: big men don't run 3 minute kilometres.

The Daily Mail

If I ever had to blog every day on one item and one item only, I think I would choose the Daily Mail. The Mail on Sunday, what with it's Hastings and Hitchens columns, could keep me chuckling along nicely for a few days. Sadly, it would no doubt lead to an overload of my liberal sensibilities, which would erupt in some kind of yellow-bellied freak out.

But newspapers ain't part of my beat (apart from the E&E letters page, of course). However, when they do adverts, they're playing away at ElYokel Fields, and I'm going to net me some easy scores.

The Daily Mail advert in question was a bit of a collector's item. To my knowledge it only appeared last Friday for one day only. It was advertising the DM's Saturday offer of a free "Learn French" cd. It did this by demonstrating how it's wide readership might enjoy the CD. Most of them are pretty boring - but three stuck out as being, well a bit wierd.

One featured a couple where the man asks his wife to let him read their paper, in French obviously. The woman's reply was not, as might be expected "La seule raison que nous restons est ensemble de soutenir le mensonge suburbain qui est la sainteté du mariage. Maintenant la pisse au loin et me laissent apprécient la seule chose que les trois cellules de cerveau que j'ai laissées après 40 ans de boire des quantités copieuses de genièvre peuvent me permettre de comprendre"*, but "Ah non, silly man!" in the kind of accent only heard in Allo Allo!

A more disturbing snippet viewed a teenage boy lying in bed with his arms suspisiously under the covers. Enter his mother to tear the bed sheets away. "Ah-ha!", she cries, "I've caught you, you little wa..it a minute, you're only listening to the free Daily Mail cd. I love you son."

All of the snippets are in "French" with English subtitles. The final scene puts a little humerous twist on this. A woman goes into a newsagent and says to the shopkeeper "The Daily Mail, si vous plait." The newsagent replies "Sorry?", which is subtitled as "Pardon?". Ha ha, see what they did there?

Problem is no-one can surely be that thick that they can't understand the French for please. And anyway, if she really were ordering it as a fluent French speaking English person, she would have shouted “THE. DAY-LEE. MAIL. SI. VU. PLAY" before tipping her coins out onto the counter to let the shopkeeper to take whatever he decides is the right amount.


* I have no idea if this is right - I suspect not. Putting it back through Babelfish is quite amusing.

Gary's World. Of. Football.

The football has finished - I don't know if you noticed. Everyone has been talking about Zidane and his headbutt on the Italian defender. However, as I can now reveal, the attack was not unprecendented, as shown in this previously unseen picture from France's earlier group game against South Korea.

Gary's World. Of. Football

So Argentina are out. Their mistakes were many: changing the way they were playing after taking the lead and baffling substitutions being the most Sven like. However one error stood out so much even Mark Bright may have picked up on it.

Penalty shootouts are hard enough at the best of times (please, please, please don't let us end up in another one). But you are really making it difficult for yourselves by letting blubbing rowing pip squeek Gary Herbert take one.





Note: I was gooing to do this with a young Quentin Wilson, but all of Quentin's pictures feature his trademark smuggedy smugness and failed to capture to anguish of the poor Argentinian, thus:

Gary's World. Of. Football.

Hello! It’s been a while, but hey, there’s a world cup on so I only have an hour an evening to do everything that isn’t spherically related.

Tonight I just want to raise a couple of comments about my viewing of the proceedings so far. I’ve found myself so emerged in all things World Cup that I’ve been listening to Talksport on my way home from work because 5Live’s coverage contains too much unrelated football news. Talksport have perhaps the worst correspondents, headed by the guy who can’t stop saying the word literally.

Quotes: “The people in the stands are literally frying.” “I am talking to a big group of people that literally contains at least one person from every country in the world”. “The Ukrainians were literally murdered in their game against Spain.”

Other things. I’m really liking Martin O’Neill on the BBC’s coverage. Not only is he by far the most interesting pundit they have, his impression of Woody Allen that he’s been doing throughout the tournament improves by the day. Sadly the rest of the beeb’s commentary still annoys me (Motson, Lawrenson – Please just Shut Up. And don’t get me started on Mark Bright. I honestly believe a blindfolded Mrs P could provide more insightful comment.) – so much so I might admit that I’m the person who watches ITV when they both show the final. Or perhaps I’ll keep that to myself.

A Canadian on't Rocks

I’ve discovered a new drink: Ginger ale and Whiskey. Yes it is good, they are a fine compliment. (For those of you collecting facts about my life: it was the first drink I ever served from behind a bar).

It is Friday and I am enjoying that Friday feeling, defined as knowing that one has worked hard and one is going to enjoy the prospect of two free days. (And boy am I going to enjoy them. Cricket in Exmouth tomorrow with a flagon or deuce of cider followed by a trad. sunday lunch with a favourite cousin. (If any of my 4 cousins read this, I love you all equally, apart from those that I like slightly more, and you know who you are).

Woah, stop. This is starting to sound slightly Tiverton Local Blog.

What I came here tonight to do was to point you in the direction of my good wife’s Run for Life sponsorship form, found thus. Cancer has taken people from my life and from those of my friends and my family. In days where I could receive thirty odd thousand pounds to research some manufacturing crap, I don’t think the odd fiver towards a truly good cause would be misplaced. And she is really training, cos I’ve been chasing her round Crediton and she really does run. If you feel it is appropriate, please support her.

Gary's World. Of. Football.

Music fades

Welcome to my World. Of. Football. Like the major TV networks I have adopted a theme tune for my World Cup football coverage: I hope you like it. I know that some people doubted whether an oompah version of A Beautiful Day (Thigh Slapping Remix) would work, but I think you'll agree it's a significant improvement on the original. Is thigh slapping and Oopmah German? Or am I thinking of Austria?

(Aside. DK - Did I dream it, or did you say that Kasabian are covering Heroes for ITV? Ye Gods.)

Anywho, to the job in hand. Obviously apart from the Rooney/Walcott stories, everyone is asking: Is the meaty footballs on the Pizza Hut Football Supreme the most crass attempt to crowbar a reference to the soccerball tournament into a product advert? Well it's a good question, and I would say, "So far, yes. Yes it is."

I mean, they're frickin' meatballs. Their only relation to football is that they're round. And even then they're a gristly, lumpy kind of round. If truth be told, their closest relationship to the synthetic leather of the World cup ball is that they both have the same nutritional value.

But the tourney has not yet begun, so hold on there young mule. Do not yet decree Pizza Hut (if it is them - their name escapes me) as the worst offender. You can be sure that others will come and try their best. And Syi2 will be there for each and every one.

On a similar note, can someone please tell me why oh why oh why I am going to find myself in the Welsh hills for the first weekend of the World Cup? How in all that is good and wholesome did I end up arranging that? What, quite frankly, was I thinking?

If you do know, please tell me, cos I sure as hell don't.

The Great Names of America No. 1.

RANDY

Certain words have different meanings here and in the States. Common examples would include Pavement, Fanny Pack and Freedom (Ooh, hark at me with the cutting political comedy). Amongst scholars of the name, none is more interesting, nor amusing, than Randy. “Hi,” an American may say on entering a British 1970’s sitcom, “I’m Randy.”. Cue much mirth and farcical hi-jinx.

The origins of the name Randy are much disputed. Mr Colin Gem, author of the Pocket Baby Name Book, contests that the name is the shortened version of Randolph, or maybe Randall. However Harry C. Pigmere, author of “Randy: Name of the Gods” and presenter of the PBS series of the same name, strongly refutes this:

“There can be little doubt that the name Randy is derived from the Nordic name Wrandii. Wrandii was the least known of the Skyn family of Scandinavian gods worshipped briefly by the Vikings during the invasion of Eastern Britain and Ireland. Following the invasion many of the Norse gods were cutback to make a more streamlined set, of whom Wrandii Skyn’s brother Thor was obviously the most famous.”

It is likely that the Viking’s penchant for pillaging and debauchery, spurred on by the great horn-bearing god Wrandii resulted in the name not finding much popularity amongst the indigenous population. However the American, who hadn’t been invented yet, was impervious to the connotations that the name carried. Thus Randy has become one of the Great American Names.

Randy: A True American



This is the great Randy Sugarman, a true American Randy. Randy runs his own business and once employed a good friend who was lucky enough to meet him. Sadly Randy chose not to work in the confectionary business, but rather chose the exciting world of Accountancy and Litigation. He may or may not be available for after dinner talks.





Randy: An American Parsons



This is Randy Parsons, General Manager of the radio station JoyFM. Some things you may not know about Randy include:

• His most favouritist book of the Bible is Hebrews. (A bit of a no brainer really)


• He once had a job collecting bills in the ER at a hospital. (Someone may have once said to him, “This is costing me an arm and a leg”, but Randy wasn’t available to confirm this.)


• He enjoys shooting God’s creatures with his rifle.


• He owns two moustaches, one of which he wears only on Sundays and for photo opportunities.

Lookalike

Sir,

SYi2 Blog

Private Eye Letter

I note a distinct similarity between a Private Eye letter and my blog posting of two weeks previous. Are they perhaps related? I think we should be told.

ElYokel,
SYi2.

The Great Names of America

A trip home over the weekend provoked me into acting upon a new blog series that I have been considering for a while. But before that can I just get something off my chest.

My name is Gary and I watched Eurovision.

Furthermore, I enjoyed it. Any competition that produces the lyrical gems “the arockalypse”, “bring thyn rock and roll” and “when the rockening comes” is a fine competition indeed. And let’s face it, they’re the best lyrics produced by a metal group for at least 10, if not 20, eternities. Supplemented with a crazy dancing guy who looked like one of Mrs P’s uncles, some German C&W plus a not insignificant amount of Belgian beer, ‘twas a fine evening, and no doubt I’ll do it all again next year.

Anyway, The Great Names of America was inspired by the childhood memory of a girl in the village named Charlotte Ring. Her father was Roger. This is still my favourite name combo ever, but not what I’ll be focussing on in The Great Names of America. This will be a celebration of the true classic names of the good ol’ USA that are most probably not used by anyone there anymore, but which will give me an excuse to post pictures of men with big moustaches.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

Many thanks to Catherine for giving the heads-up on this letter. Ew. I’ll never use “heads-up” again. I blame the two days of management speak that I’ve sat through as part of my induction to my new job.

(An Aside. Most David Brent like quote: From the HR manager – “If you speak to engineers, many of them will say how much they love their pumps or equipment and how they want to see them perform perfectly. Well that is how I feel about you guys. I love our company’s best resource – our employees – and I see it as my job to make sure that you work like well tended machinery.”)

Tonight’s letter somehow slipped under my radar. It’s most probably because it focuses on the Princesshay development. In the early days I liked this topic (I even wrote a couple of times myself) because it involved the total destruction of a really ugly bit of town. It was great reading as people tried to attack the knocking down of a big lump of concrete, which at its very best looked like a level off of Tony Hawk’s Skatin’ kidz game.

However, the issue started to bore me and now I rarely make it past the title. Which is a shame, because this bad boy is a beauty, linking wonderfully to one of my favourite early blogs. (Is it not the done thing bigging up you own blogs? Well it’s all relative anyway.)

COUNCIL HAS RUINED CATHEDRAL GREEN

Exeter City Council has ruined Cathedral Green. Stand in the southern corner, by South Street, and you will see one of the most famous views in England desecrated by the new Princesshay development.

Princesshay now hovers over the ancient Cathedral Close - the most ancient section in the northern corner - like a hawk hovering over a bowling green.

Our heritage has been destroyed.

Francis Huddy

Exeter


Now I was all ready to ridicule the letter and point out that I had trouble picking out Exeter Cathedral from a cathedral round on University Challenge once and I’ve been visiting the city for over 20 years, thus how could it possibly be one of the most famous sights in the whole of Freaking England. However, first I went down to South St. and had a look at the cathedral and was horrified. Look at what they’ve done – Oh! think of the heritage.



"Wait a minute", you might be thinking, "That reminds me of something. God dammit, what is it?".

The rarely-seen Giant Redtailed Hawk visiting a recreational sports area frequented by older people, perchance?



I thought so.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

I thought I'd run a bath for Mrs P before I sat down to write this post (I'm nice like that) but I find that my hands are stinking of her bubble bath, some of which has found its way into my mouth. Pah. Pah.

Ahem, now where was I. That's right, a letter from the E&E. Now what I like about the E&E letters page is the 4 or 5 right wing resident loons who take the typical bug bears of the little Englander and add their own twisted logic that forces you to consider the sanity of their author. Take this entry from Tony Parsons (no relation):

WHAT IS THE POINT OF SPEED CAMERAS?

12:00 - 12 May 2006

We are now heavily taxed in all ways yet the Government is continually saying we have insufficient funds to improve the NHS, pay medical staff and invest in transport. So it invests in speed cameras and makes a few million pounds. There is no doubt in my mind that speed cameras are installed to make money.

Thus the letter starts off as a standard attack on speed cameras. Boring. But this is Tony Parsons (no relation) and he's going to delve deeper into the subject in the only way that a E&E letter writer can.

We are a country of people who fear death. The police say they are saving lives by installing speed cameras and this makes most people happy.

But why do the police want to save lives when the Government is no longer able to pay our pensions?

Tony Parsons (no relation)

Haymans Close, Cullompton

Let's have a bit of analysis here: Tony Parsons (no relation)appears to have identified an anomaly that he feels supports his assertion that cameras are only around to make money.

People don't like dying. The police recognise this and say "We are installing cameras to save lives." But this doesn't add up, not for Tony Parsons (no relation) anyway. That's because in his world the police, puppets of the government, have no interest in saving lives. If truth be told, they would be a lot happier if more of us would die, thus solving one of their governmental master's big problems: pensions. Maybe they'd even get a bit more money themselves to spend on a new siren sound - how about the theme from the A-Team done by Crazy Frog. How cool would that be, they're thinking. Therefore the police don't want to save lives, not really. They're only saying it as a front for the real reason: to make money.

Q.E.D.

Doe, a deer. A female deer.

Right, Hi. Slightly drunk, which apparently isn’t a good time to blog, but here goes.

…. Sorry, I was stuck in the tractor beam draw that is quiz television.

Right, watch Newsnight Review. Concentrate. Blog.

So tonight I was watching The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, which is a fine film. As opposed to the second film of my Oscar 5-ology of best film nominations, Brokeback Mountain, which was astonishingly average. Heath Il-ledger-ble, as I will forever call call him, and thus copyright, resulted in Helen and I rewatching the final scene of the film 6 times to try and work out what he says at the end. If you know, please tell me, because the closest I got to a translation was “Ah, Mo Mo. A Rebel”. Which didn’t make sense.

Um, other things that happened to me this week was another interaction with one of my neighbours. Last week it was the one who does surprise nude modelling. This week was the guy who stores dead animals under our house.

Not to bore you with the details, Helen and I ended up in a dark passageway, wearing our dressing gowns, with the inhabitant of Flat 2. It was 11:15 PM. After discussing some pressing issues, our neighbour said “Do you want a rabbit?”

“No thanks”, I replied.

“Veggies, are you?”

“Um, no.”

“I’ll skin it for you.”

“Um. No thanks – I don’t know what I’d do with it.”

It was slightly surreal. Later in the same conversation he added, “I’m surprised I didn’t disturb you earlier because I had to drag a roe deer up through the passageway.”

He may not of disturbed us earlier, but we are sufficiently disturbed now.

Drawing the Nude

Mrs P. has always been a bit of an artist and recently she signed up with Sandford Catherine (as opposed to Cambridge Catherine or London Katherine) on a life-drawing course. Unfortunately for Catherine she was unable to make this week’s class. Luckily for me this meant that I could have a go at the old drawing.

You may or may not know that, when I get chance, I like to do a bit of drawing (I did pottery as a GCSE. Hey, stop laughing.). I’m not great at it, but it is something that I get quite a bit of pleasure from. Thus the opportunity to partake in some proper art-like stuff was one that I was happy to take.

Now life-drawing involves the drawing of the nude. Hmm. Week one of the class featured a 60 year old man. So for my week you might expect a change – a young lady, perchance? Yep. But as an artist, or at least someone who steps in at the last minute when a friend can’t make it, I wasn’t at all bothered by this.

What did slightly bother me, and I guess is a slight risk you run when you draw nudes in a smallish community, is that I actually knew the young lady in question.

And not just know of her.

The nude model was my neighbour. My neighbour of 18-months who I have seen often, yet spoken to about five times. Including nodded hellos. So not even knowing her name until 2 minutes previously, I was drawing my female neighbour 100% naked.

But far from being uncomfortable, it meant that Helen and I got to chat to her in the breaks, (whilst she was wearing a gown and socks). She was really nice and interesting, and the only thing that we felt embarrassed about was that we hadn’t spoken in the one and a half years previous.

Gary's World. Of. Football.

You ain't going to believe this, but it's true.

Saturday afternoon I was in London and, more precisely, Earl's Court. Looking at the bits and pieces of dead people in the Bodies exhibition. I'm not going to review it or anything (didn't like it), but one bit involved the foot.

Labelled was the metatarsal. I began to think about old Dave and his breaking of the aforementioned bone. Then I began to consider how unfortunate it would be if the boy Rooney was to break his. Honest.

Now I'm a sciencey kind of guy and it seems obvious to me that this strong thought made the relatively short trip to Stamford Bridge and thus rendered a key part of the right punter of Mr Wayne fractured. What can I say, I apologise to the nation. Next time I'll nip such thoughts in the bud. Or perhaps start wearing a hat. At least he'll have some time to get writing Volume 1 of his memoirs.

And while I'm thinking about the bodies exhibition, I think I'll relay one of the comments that someone had wrote in the guest book type thing at the end:

"This was real GANGSTER. Now I no how babies are made lol."

At Least they were from a northern culture

Jim Evans wrote recently about dog wardens hiding in bushes in Exeter. Today he writes again with a very sinister development, and proof, if more were needed, that we in Exeter live in some kind of totalitarian police state.


CITY SEEMS TO BE GOING TO THE DOGS

12:00 - 26 April 2006
It made my blood boil to read about the mess, filth and damage caused by travellers, yobs, graffiti artists, muggers etc in recent editions of the Echo. On the morning of January 25, it was cold and windy. I was walking my 17-year-old dog Cindy up Trews Weir Reach Road. On the right hand side is a 12ft long grass bank with a 10ft wall and a bush at the bottom.

I passed a dirty white van half-way up, which was parked with two blokes sitting inside.

My old dog toddled down the bank to urinate.

When she came back, I put her on the lead and crossed Topsham Road.

After a few minutes, one of these chaps from the van said that he was a dog warden and my dog had defecated at the bottom of the bank. I said: "Are you sure?" He said: "Oh yes, I have done a temperature test and it was 86F."

So I went back to investigate and found a little mess on the grass. I bagged it and asked: "Are you happy now?" He said, with a smile: "No, I am not. I am going to give you a ticket and it's going to cost you £50 and I want your name and address.

"If you do not pay within 14 days, you will have to appear in court. The Civic Centre will deal with you."

I did protest but after several typed letters and phone calls, council officials insisted I must pay for my crime or go to court.

No wonder Exeter is in a mess - it's going to the dogs!

Jim Evans

Of course, I'm outraged by the conduct of this dog warden. The temperature of the turd should have been given in the metric Celsius, not the archaic Farenheit.

Gary's World. Of. Football.

My love of football has waned over the past years, but with the World Cup on the horizon, I’ve gotta admit that I’m more than a little excited. Yayy! World Cup!!!

Ahem.

Thus I have decided to turn my commentationing to the World. Of. Football. And what a day to start, with it looking like England having chosen their new manager.



A lot of people are disappointed that England have not gone for a homegrown manager, but I think that when you have the opportunity to get a guy with the credentials that this man has, it’s too good to miss.

Now admittedly I am not so knowledgeable about his recent achievements (apparently he’s worked in Brazil and Portugal), but his work in the 70s on the French Connection is more than enough to convince me that he has the attitude and passion that has been woefully absent from Sven’s current tenure. I also thought that the Royal Tenenbaums demonstrated the vast experience and maturity that he can bring to the modern game.



So welcome Senor Gene Scolari, I, for one, welcome you.


I don't care if anyone else has said this before - I spotted it ages ago, well before you did.

This is what happens when I watch Oscar winning movies

OK so I'm watching Oscar winning movie Crash at the moment and to tell you the truth I'm not liking it. Me and Oscar movies generally don't get on very well (I didn't like, among others, Gladiator, Shakespeare in Love, Braveheart, and I didn't have to see Chicago to hate it, obviously), but I really had high hopes for this one. However, in my opinion, it's a bit of a stinker. Script, awful. Story, laid down with a spade. Acting...

...Stop. This isn't a film review.

No. Recently I bought a new car so I could get to my new job. It seemed important. Whilst watching the film Crash I decided to read the manual for my car (I found it that bad). The manual advises you how to save fuel. One of their tips is to carry around less weight. For every 220lb, the car uses 1.75gallons more every 1000 miles. This got me thinking. What if everyone lost half a stone? How much fuel could we, as a slimmer, healthier nation save?

Well, after a few oh-so predictable "plot" twists in't the movie, I reckoned that the UK could save over half a million gallons of fuel (556818 gallons to be exact) per million car users, per year. Just think how much fuel the Americans could save. More car users, more weight to shed.

I think that's enough. Have I Got News For You has started. This is why I'll never watch Titanic.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

Ridiculously funny this posting ain’t, but tonight’s E&E letter page has brought a triplet of humorous correspondence, one of which I would go as far to say is a bit of a classic in the making.

But let’s start with TA Griffin, or TAG, as I like to call him. Now TAG is renowned by E&E readers as being the most prolific of all writers. Not only is he relentless in his output, but he also tries to be as controversial as possible. However, in the past month, things haven’t been the same. TAG’s son Bobby, or Bill or Ben or something, ran away from the SAS because he didn’t agree with the Iraq thing. Thus TAG’s letters have been of the anti-war twist. This just hasn’t suited TAG: you can tell that he doesn’t like being on the side of the brown-cord-wearing, flower-in-the-hair types. Thankfully tonight the real TAG has stood up with a vitriolic attack on one of the greatest evils of the high street…Oxfam.

Apparently it is a non-profit organisation [but] why else do they do it? Getting first choice for the first books [and] Oh yes, to send the money to the poor in Africa.

Good to have him back.

A second little piece from M Golby.

Are There New Cycling Laws?

I see Charlie of BBC’s Casualty advises his son to ride his bike on the pavement. Is this now official and for all age groups?

Come to that, what about lights after dark? I think Exeter pedestrians should be told.

You wot? I’m not sure if this ironic or sarcastic or something, but I am not getting it. I haven’t seen Casualty for a while, but I thought it was a hospital drama rather than a Green Cross code information service.

But in my opinion this final offering is a bit of joined up thinking in a true E&E stylee.

A Family Fortunes question: name some of the problems facing the UK youth.

Survey says: Junk food. That’s got to be up there. Unplanned pregnancy. Yep. White bread, not so sure, but maybe in at no. 6.

But how to control these rampant problems. Sandy Wilson may have just hit on something:

Why don’t we just ban white bread, why do we need it?

An alternative would be to put the active ingredient of the contraceptive pill in white bread and maybe other junk food so that unplanned pregnancies don’t happen.

Now Sandy obviously has something against white bread and the people that eat it (the attack on junk food is obviously just to win over the waverers) so by putting the pill into it she can hopefully wipe-out the white-bread eating generations. You saw it here first.

The Man Worketh

A real quick post to say "Hi" and that today I started my new job, which seem to go quite nicely and I think I'm going to enjoy. However, my brain is steadily drained over the working day so if it's ok with you I'm going to take it easy for the next couple of evenings with the blogging. Unless I find something ridiculously good to blog about. Or not, as the case may well be.

Strongbow

Before this became the Exeter E&E letter review page, apparently I reviewed adverts, hence the lame name of this blog. Problem is, as discussed on my recent trip to West Sussex to visit a friend, adverts have been really poor recently. Not in a so bad they’re good kinda way, but in a totally forgettable kind of way. However, and worryingly, they still work.

How do I know this? Because I have fallen foul of one innocuous looking drinks company’s campaign.

This company, we’ll call them Strongbow, have been running shorts where something annoying is on a wooden surface and has two of their trademark arrows shot into it. Their choice of objects is too predictable – a mobile phone and a Heat-like celebrity magazine. Could they be more 2001? If I was in charge, I would have had the arrows fire into the head of the bloke off the confused.com advert, or maybe Nicky Campbell. Thud Thud, take that annoying shouty bloke. Hoo-wee.

However, this advert has directly influenced my drinking habit. It didn’t cause me to drink rank cider. I began doing that again last year with the delectable Old Rosie tipple (or rant-juice as I like to call it) being a particularly potent favourite. No, the ad got to me with the final shot of a pint of cider with what looks like ice cubes in it.

“How ridiculous,” I declared to Mrs P when I first noticed this. “Who on earth drinks cider with ice in it?” my ranting beginning to freestyle, “I’ll tell you who: the la-di-das and don’t-you-know types of West Sussex, that’s who.” (Surprisingly I didn’t see anyone drinking cider n ice on my recent trip, but I knew they were there.)

Thus I thought I had dismissed it. Oh, but how wrong I was. This evening I sat down to enjoy a bottle of local cider. “Serve chilled” its label suggested. But my bottle had been warming on the shelf since Christmas. How could I get it to the required temperature quick? Surely I couldn’t, could I?

Yes I could, damn it. And I’m not proud either. But I will say I did enjoy it. So thankyou Mr Strongbow, you can add me to your list of advertising sheep. Albeit one that doesn’t buy your product.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

The beauty of the Exeter Express & Echo letters page is that it has its regulars who you begin to build up a mental image of. There's the bored and lonely regular TA Griffin, the bored and lonely rambling LT Sargent, the bored and lonely fox-hunting crew, and the bored and lonely new breed of right-wing, anti-PC crew of Tony Parsons et al., led by the bored and lonely Colin Richey, all sat at home home with nothing better to do than write to a local newspaper (not like the busy and popular blogger who writes about them). Colin is perhaps the baddest of the bad - he delivered the line that led to the titling of this section of my blog - so you always know that when he writes, you're going to get some good old fashioned complaing about PC gone mad, bringing back the death penalty or the deportation of everyone who can't sing the National Anthem backwards.

Today Colin attacks the BBC, a nemesis of his, which nicely fits in with a PC gone mad template. Apparently the Beeb are remaking Robin Hood or something and aren't including Friar Tuck. Personally I don't see why they feel the need to bother to remake the show anyway, what with the definitive telling of the tale recently released on DVD, but hey. Colin's main thrust is that Tuck should be included so that we can laugh at him. And, as he adds,

Come on, BBC, grow up. Don't muck about with history.

Robin Hood as historical fact? Are you sure? And does it matter? It's hardly a hollywood movie of how they won everything ever, is it?

Sometimes you have to wonder the sense of perspective of the Echo letter writer. I mean, there are worst things going on in the world than a TV channel not including a fat monk. And boy, it used to be a lot worst before the war, as Jim Evans writes:

The wives struggled on one low wage with a large family, no handouts, holiday outings, school meals or new clothes, etc. There were four in one old bed and five in the other bedroom and no central heating, only a couple of thick blankets. If one of the kids was ill, the doctor charged mam a shilling.

"And when we got home from working a 25 hour day down t'mine, our dad would murder us in cold blood with his bare hands" and so on. We don't know how lucky we are, so why don't we say "good morning" to each other, asks Jim.

I walk a lot with my dogs and very few respond when I say "good morning".

The only ones who speak are the traffic wardens and dog wardens I notice hiding behind bushes, etc - dishing out tickets.

Dog wardens hiding behind bushes etc. in the park? And what are the traffic wardens doing there with them? Could this be more of Exeter's seedy sexual underbelly that has started to emerge onto the pages of the E&E?

Lust for Exercise

Phew, things got a bit serious there yesterday, but somethings just need to be said me thinks. It is intersting to see that since the letter was published the E&E hasn't had anyomre homophobic correspondence...

Anyway, this blog is not about serious issues and the like. Therefore today I present a whole load of silliness to redress the balance. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the award-winning short film* "Lust for Exercise", presented by Proud Mustang Productions. Find it here.



A few points:

1. Apologies to Iggy Pop.
2. Apologies to the unwitting star to who I implied that I wouldn't put this on the web. However, what I really meant to say was I would't put it on the web until I could be bothered to/found a way to.

* 2005 Dorlina Film Awards. Short films starring a Parsons (winner)

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

I’ve had a lot of fun with the homophobic correspondence that has graced the Exeter Express & Echo over the past fortnight. But behind all of the bible-beating and God-talk lies the fact that a lot of what has been written is deeply offensive. Whether morals skewed by ancient religious writings or opinions clouded by a bigoted and insular life in overwhelmingly straight white communities, it is sad and disturbing that people not only hold these views, but also feel it necessary to write to a local rag about it. This only serves to promote the impression that a person’s sexuality should be something to be ashamed of and hidden, demonised and disparaged.

Of course, for each idiot who writes there are several who reply cleverly and humouredly, holding up the original correspondent for the fool that he or she is. I haven’t drawn attention to these letters (hey, I’ve got to get my blogs from somewhere), but perhaps to draw a line under the issue (the letters aren’t really saying anything new), I’d like to put up one letter to the E&E over the weekend that I hope will read by Claude, Tony and LT and perhaps make them question why they feel the need to judge and discriminate those whose lives and the way they lead them makes no impingement on their own in any way.


THE BEST THING TO DO IS IGNORE US


It's now 8.03pm. I've got better things to be doing. I should be down the pub. Instead I have sat here for the past hour reading through the last days' Points of view letters. I have been impressed by the fervour felt by both sides of the gay versus anti-gay argument. I have - apparently - variously distressed, angered and disappointed people. Worries me that. It really does.

I want to be a Christian and admire those who are, but I can't reconcile my differences. At least I'm honest.

How lucky those are who can feel the comfort of an all-encompassing faith.

As I pored over what has been written, writing a defence where I thought one was needed, I realised I just can't bear to do this again now. Being a 'right-on' person, I should place this letter in upmost importance. But I can't. Right now, I'm worn down. I'm tired of parrying semantics and rhetorical questions. I've had a hard day's work. I'm miserable.

So I leave you with this personal statement: Ignore me and my partner. Leave us to our repellent lifestyles. We suffer enough.

In public we have become masters of the unseen delicate touch that conveys our long-lasting love.

We walk on the beach at night so you'll never have to balk at the sight of us holding hands. We feel the gaze of eyes upon us as we go for a meal together and become the 'couple of poofters in the corner'.

At some hotels we remain unable to get a double bed.

When we shop I stumble over my words as I remember to call my partner Carl instead of Tweeky or Honeybun.

My kid sister comes home crying 'cos she's got a poofter for a brother. Took an entire week to get her to admit that.

As my partner and I swap over the driving seat each day to go to work, you would have to have amazing eyesight to catch the kiss as we brush past each other. You have no idea how it burns me when I see my boyfriend upset and I can't hug him and tell him it'll be okay - because we are in a public place, because YOU will see. So ignore us.

I'm off down to the pub, where you are. You can be assured we will behave.

Paris Stamp

Hartley Road, Exmouth

Goodbye To All That...

So this is really it. This morning I received the contract for my new job, plus pension plans, discounted gym memberships and the like. I start the day after Easter Monday. I’m not sure if I’m taking it as seriously as I should, but I think it is true that I’m looking forward to having a proper job. How long this will last, I’m not sure, but the spread betters are predicting between 4 and 12 hours. Oh well…

After 7 and ½ years at the Uni. of Exeter the time for change has come. Maybe I’ll return one day. There is one main thing that I’m going to miss – I’ll give you one guess.

Times up. And I’m afraid to say that you’re wrong. If you said “He’ll be missing the flexible working hours,” then you’re not too far away – although you ain’t getting no prizes. That’s because the thing I’m going to miss most is…Bargain Hunt.

That’s right, a weekly fix of 45 minutes of antique auctioning is the main thing that I’m concerned about losing most. No longer will I be able to take the odd day to work at home and enjoy BH over my cheese, ham and Branstons sandwiches. I don’t know why I like the programme so much – there’s no logic to it damn it – but, yes, it’s a tradition that will be hard to part with.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

And still the argument rolls on... and I'm lovin' it!

After missing Tony Parsons's earlier letter on the subject, I'm glad to see that he has submitted another so we can enjoy his well-thought out arguments.

THESE ACTS ARE NOT THE NORM

Not only are some Echo readers supporting homosexuals but they are running down the Bible. To be homosexual is one thing but to bring it out into the open and broadcast the fact is creating in the minds of our children that these relationships are the norm.

Are we a religious country or merely a shower of heathens?

Tony Parsons

(by post)

This letter manages to tick a number of boxes that should be found in any letter based religious argument:
- Use of the word Heathens: Check. (Even better, a "Shower of heathens". A new one on me.)
- delusion that the UK is supposed to be some kind of Christian theocracy: Check.
- A "Won't somebody think of the children?!?!" cry: Check.

A second excerpt from Mr M Lewis of Tiverton, who elsewhere also claims the minds of our children are being warped by all of these gays parading themselves around and shouting "OOoh, ducky", or whatever these people have in their mind about how a homosexual acts.

This abominable practice can lead to diseases such as ... inflammation of the rectum.

*Snigger* Now there is a line I never thought I'd see on the pages of the E&E.

Best Named Lib Dem Peer of the Week

This week my favorite Liberal Democrat peer's name is... Lord Razzell.

Points of View

Why oh why oh why were channel 4 and ITV both showing the same freaking programme yesterday afternoon? Paul O'Grady repeats on one, a new show on the other. Surely this is a new low for British TV.

And another thing: how do Matalan get away with copying other people's adverts? Last year they did the Tesco idea of having red price discs on the screen that the models covered up, threw into swimming pools or stuffed into the mouth of Lenin (advert highlight of last year). Identical. Now they have copied the M&S idea of having four models having an inordinately good time in clothes they would not wear to do the gardening in (although I doubt they garden). It's such blatant plagiarism that it would make an a-level student blush.

That is all.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

So there I was, proclaiming the letters of the anti-homosexual pro-Christian E&E correspondent to be dead, when three of them spring at me unexpected on yesterday's letter page. It was like a scene from a 90s thriller where you think the bad guy's dead, what with the two axes, three shotgun wounds and steam-iron applied to his face and all, before he jumps out at you from the bath water. Boo.

Anywho, to be honest, two of the letters are less attacks on the "homosexual lifestyle", but rather defending the bible against the amusing bashing that it's been given by numerous letter writers. As Pam Cousins sayz:

Quoting lifted verses to make points only displays to me ignorance and misuse of the text.

Or, don't quote the bad bits of the Bible, they're not meant to be taken literally, just quote the nice stuff.

Likewise, D Hayes, jumps to the Good Book's defence, with some beautiful lines, such as:

God can look after Himself and does not need me to defend Him or the Bible.

Yep, with all those locusts and frog storms at his finger tips, the big guy should have little problem sorting out a few heathens in Exeter. However, Hayes has to stick his oar in, if just a little bit...

I will merely say that an atheist cannot properly understand the truth and power of God's word because it is spiritually discerned.

The Bible is not an academic textbook and no amount of analysis or intellectual scrutiny will provide entrance to its eternal truths.

Other things that I have noticed that are best discerned spiritually are live TV poker, late night Hammer horrors and Arena nightclub, although the latter needs maybe too much spirit than is technically healthy (cue bad flashbacks...).

I can see what started as a bit of good ol' fashion homosexual discrimination could turn into a theological battle on the pages of the E&E - should be good.

Finally, and best of all, is a letter that starts by stating its support for Tweedy's anti-gay original. It then moves into quoting directly from an encyclopedia some "facts" about the history and "science" behind homosexuality (excuse the overt usage of quotation marks). This rambles on for 6 paragraphs, with no clear idea whether they're meant to support the author's sympathy for Claude or what.

If you make it through these, you are rewarded with two fine paragraphs:

We should all have compassion for homosexuals and other sexual deviants and society should help them, if possible, to behave normally.

But why are some people obsessed with sex? The world and life in general hold such a wealth of interesting and health-giving activities that we can, if we have the strength of character and will, break free from sexual bondage.

No point in commenting on helping sexual deviants behave normally - words escape. But what a great finishing line - is the author talking literally or what? Is it a cry for help from someone embroiled in Exeter's dark sexual underbelly? Who could come up with such a teasing closer to a letter that manages to bury its point under a column of unrelated drivel?

That's right - LT Sargent! Yay! After settling the argument on Cornish names or whatever, he's brought his irrelevant style to the anti-homosexual party. That has got to be a good thing.

Gimmicks

If there are two things I like, then they are 1) music and 2) lists. Therefore, I have added a nice little list that tracks what I've been listening to on my computer over the past week or so. Last week was pretty slow, and if anything dodgy appears it is because Helen was playing it at home.

If like me you have some strange and unnecessary desire to list, arrange and grade aspects of your life, then you could do worst than visiting last.fm.

****____UPDATE____****
Mrs P would like to say that she has never knowingly played anything dodgy, and that it is me who has the growing collection of Eagles and Country cds. Apologies for any confusion caused.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

Well the homosexuality pen wars look like they are coming to an end on the pages of the Express and Echo. Eventually the sheer weight of indignant and well-thought out letters crushed the odd anti-gay correspondence into the ground. Hoorah! Perhaps the most interesting of the last "outraged Christian" letters was from a Tony Parsons (surely not him???), who wrote an amusingly ridiculous letter. Sadly it only appeared in the print edition and not on the web, which is a shame. However, it looks like the issue has been laid to rest, with the smoking ban now taking over.

I do have one letter to present, taken from the non-more-local Crediton Courier. Margaret Tucker writes, (and I paraphrase as accurately as my memory allows):

On a recent trip to Spain I purchased a lovely pair of sandals. However, I was dismayed on returning home to find that one was a European size 39, whilst the other was a size 37. Obviously I have no hope of returning them, so I was wondering if there is anyone who they might fit. If you are interested, please call...

In UK terms, that means Margaret is looking for someone who has one foot at size 6, with the other at size 4. Now I know physical oddities are not unknown in the villages and parishes of the Crediton district, but surely this is a bit of a long shot.

Food Play

'Tis rare for me to post links to photo collections, but I thought these were P.D.C., so would put them up.

What's in the Box?

"The measure of a man is not in what he does, but in what is on his iPod". Well I haven't got an iPod, but I do have a PC that has a load of music on it. I have no idea what there is, or indeed how some of it got there. However, following on from other blogs (here and here), I shall open the Pandora's box that is it's music folder and present the first ten songs it plays. No tracks shall be skipped or emitted for the saving of face, and if I know how they got there I won't try to blame it on "I was copying it for my mum".

Here goes...

* Tiny Dancer - Elton John

Oh dear, what a start. I actually borrowed this off of my mum. Damn my honesty. Fact is, I like early Elton John. There I said it. Um, this is my favorite of his early stuff, mainly due to the great singalong by the band in "Almost Famous". Brilliant.

* Killing An Arab - The Cure

Well here's a topical song written 25-odd years ago. I'm a big fan of the Cure, without actually owning much more than a Best-Of - I like the mixture of their deep and dark stuff with the ad-friendly tunes. Great.

* We Live NE of Compton - Liars

Well this is about as rock and noisy as I get. Enjoyable, but it's not an area of music I feel necessary to explore further. However, saying that, I might check out their new album.

* Motown Junk - Manic Street Preachers

This is a suprise. Hearing this now reminds me of a particularly brutal discussion I had about them with a friend as an undergrad. I must have mellowed against them since then, cos this ain't so bad.

* Naked Eye - The Who

A bonus track from their superb 70s rock album "Whos Next". As an off-cut, this is actually pretty damn good. I used to wish that I grew up in the 70s, until I realised that I would have been too old for Transformers.

* I've Grown Accustomed to his Face - Doris Day

Ahem. Um, this is from an album of movie songs that forms a soundtrack to romantic meals that Mrs P. and I sometimes enjoy together. Please don't throw up. I might give up this honesty thing - it's killing me.

* Gouge Away - The Pixies

I think that to fully appreciate the Pixies, everyone should play them after a pre 50's show tune. It's a great way to enjoy them.

* After Hours - The Bluetones

I was the perfect age to be a Britpop fan (defined as anyone born in October 1979) and I did indeed indulge in it for a while, This song - I think - comes from one of the albums that the 'Tones had to sell themselves from a suitcase. Pretty poor, if truth be told.

* Felicity - James Kirk

James Kirk was in the Scottish group Orange Juice with Edwyn Collins. When they split, he became a chiropdist for 18 years, before recording his first solo album a couple of years ago. I really like it - yes, it's inoffensive, not particularly ground-breaking and maybe even a bit Ken Bruce, but that's a good thing in my books.

* Corrina, Corrina - Bob Dylan

Well I guess it was inevitable that old Bob would show up on this list - my computer is full of him. The great thing is that the more you get into him, the more you find that you can first tolerate and then come to adore the stuff that puts other people off (his voice, his dodgy harp playing, his long songs, his dubious Christian period. OK, I'm not far yet). A nice way to finish this little exercise.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture

Welcome to the Express and Echo Letters Page review, as this blog is becoming.

Letter writing in the Echo is much like a slightly damped swinging pendulum, to use a boring engineering analogy. The initial force is a dumbass, misinformed letter, such as Claude's homophobic example. We then see a deluge of letters comdemning Claude as the idiot he is. This is followed by the backlash backlash of letters supporting the original, which in turn are backlashed against. This continues until the friction of general boredom with the subject means the letters dry up and the pendulum rests till it is once again swung a few months later.

Now with Claude's letter, I was afraid that he would be on his own. However, thankfully another fundamentalist has crawled out of the probverbial woodwork to post this letter of support for Claude. Hoorah!


GAY WARNING A CHRISTIAN DUTY

I thought Claude Treeby's letter, Homosexuality is condemned, Points of view, March 14, would set him up for a storm of abuse, and so it has proved. It is a very strange thing that while smokers, drinkers and the overweight can be subject to the sharpest of criticism, it appears that no one is to be permitted to utter any critical word concerning the homosexual lifestyle.

I speak as one who had a very dear cousin who died from an Aids-related disease at the age of 48.

Christians need to remember that homosexuality is not the only sin in the world, nor is it the worst sin; but nevertheless, the Bible describes it as a sin. It is therefore the duty of those who think of themselves as Christians not only to abstain from homosexuality but to warn others of its consequences.

So good for you, Mr Treeby, you have more support than you think. To warn people against a destructive lifestyle is not an act of hatred but an act of love.

Stephen Owen

Broadmead, Woodbury

(by email)

Of course, the problem with the analogy to smokers, drinkers and overweight people is that there is no equivilant of patches, Kestrel lager or weight-watchers to help the homosexual to give up. Damn, if members of the same sex weren't so flipping addictive - listen to Steve and Claude, kids, just say no.


Now anyone who made it all the way through LT Sargent's epic ramble last week, may have been concerned at a blaring mistake that the letter contained. But fear not, because LT returns to clear up any misunderstanding.


CONFUSION OVER NAME'S SPELLING

12:00 - 20 March 2006
In my letter about the Maddern surname, Points of view March 15, Mardon was printed as a variant form. This was either my error or a misprint. It should have been Madron, as in G Pawley White's A Handbook of Cornish Surnames. Madron, or St Madron, is a parish and village, one and a half miles north-west from Penzance.

L T Sargent

Cowick Hill, Exeter

(by post)


LT, I love your style and total lack of appreciation for what is worth writing to a local newspaper about. Sir, I salute you.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture II

So there I was, all ready with my screwdriver and hammer waiting for my kitchen when I get a phone call telling me it won't be here until tomorrow. Ho hum. Anyhow, it does mean that I do have a little time to compose another blog posting.

You wait for ages for a really good (i.e. bad) letter to come onto the pages of the E&E, and then 2 come along at once. I just love this bad boy from L T Sargent. If you're going to write a boring letter to the Echo, you might as well do it properly. Here it is in its entirity. Warning, try not to read it all in one go, save you may fall into a coma of boredom. I have done it, but I am trained in the reading of rambling letters.


A NAME FROM ACROSS TAMAR

12:00 - 15 March 2006
Names have always interested me and therefore Kerra Maddern's report, Echo March 6, of headmaster Steve Maddern's temporary move from West Exe Technology College to St James School got my attention. I remembered that a Thomas Maddern from St Just, a village in the toe of Cornwall, was a compositor on The Cornish Times newspaper at Liskeard when I was a junior reporter on that paper before I joined the Royal Navy in the Second World War.

Tommy, as we called him, was a neat, quiet man of average size, who was always intent on his work. yet polite and friendly. I can still see him in the mind's eye as he selected types (letters and other characters) from the type cases (sloping racks) and placed them in line in his hand-held composing stick, which was about the size of a mobile telephone. We never dreamed of such things!

The Cornish Times was mainly set on three linotype machines, but the display advertisements and jobbing work were hand-set by about 10 compositors.

But to return to the Madderns, I quote from G Pawley White's A Handbook of Cornish Surnames (1972): "Maddern, Mardon. From parish name Madron. Mostly found within 10 miles of that parish today."

By strange coincidence, I met a lady on March 7 during a paper and book foray and she said her aunt who lived in St Just was named Maddern. I turned to speak to another person and forgot to ask the lady if my compositor friend of nearly 70 years ago may have been one of their St Just ancestors. Anyone surnamed Maddern must have a Cornish ancestor, I think.

Are Kerra Maddern and Steve Maddern Cornish or of Cornish descent and are they related to each other?

Like my late father and several previous generations of our family, I was born in Looe.

We were all proud of our native Cornwall, which the English invaded and plundered. But like many thousands of our fellow Cornishmen and women we have had to find work and build homes across the Tamar and the oceans. The Cornish and the English generally get on well together and the latter seem to love Cornwall.

L T Sargent

Cowick Hill, Exeter


A beautiful exponent of the absolutely irrelevent, of-no-interest-to-anyone-ever, what's-the-point-oh-there-isn't-one letter. It just reminds me of Abe Simpson going on one of his rambles in the Simpsons. Superb.

At Least They Were From A Northern Culture I

Crikey, the Exeter Express & Echo's letters page has been dull over the past few weeks. Two topics have been holding sway, both of which are hard to get excited about: building of houses on a rugby pitch and the closure of libraries. Oh, and £10 parking permits, which apparently will result in the end of Exeter.

However, a couple of chinks of light have emerged in the last couple of days. Firstly, our MP Mr Ben Bradshaw, has decided to join in civil partnership with his long-term boyfriend. Cue some letters from outraged Christians quoting passages from the bible that decree Ben should be stoned etc. Actually there has only been one so far, but I'm hoping we might get some more. The sole correspondent so far states:

HOMOSEXUALITY IS CONDEMNED

14 March 2006

As a committed Christian, I was amazed to read once again how a person in a prominent position will be getting married to a person of the same sex in what is known as a 'civil partnership'. Now it is Exeter MP Ben Bradshaw who is going to marry senior BBC producer Neal Dalgleish, Echo, March 8.

Dr Adrian Rogers quite rightly described homosexuality as "sterile, disease-ridden and God forsaken".

My own concern stems from what the Holy Bible says about homosexuality and lesbian activities.

In the epistle to the Romans, it says: "God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones, in the same way men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lusts for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion".

The Bible also says in Leviticus: "Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable."

These are just two examples of God's condemnation of homosexuality and its consequences.

Claude Treeby
Burnthouse Lane
Exeter

I love letters from Christians who take the Bible as a literal representation of God's word, because you can only assume they agree with passages such as my favorite from Deuteronomy 25:

11 When men strive together one with another, and the wife of the one draweth near for to deliver her husband out of the hand of him that smiteth him, and putteth forth her hand, and taketh him by the secrets: 12 Then thou shalt cut off her hand, thine eye shall not pity her.

Which means if two blokes are having a fight and the girlfriend of the one that is losing grabs the other guy by the short and curlies, then you must chop off her hand. Amen. Actually Deutronomy has a lot to say about men's tackle - such as if you don't have any, or have general bruising, then you ain't allowed to worship t'Lord. But hey, I ain't gonna go bible bashing. Suffice to say that homophobia supported by ancient fables is still alive and well on the pages of the E&E.

Dagnammit, not another personal post

First let me apologise that a lot of my recent posts have taken on a personal journal kind of tinge. I'm hoping that this will be temporary until I stop having so much other stuff to think about. My head is basically spinning at the moment, what with getting a new job (the consequences of which are just about beginning to sink in, but I am genuinely excited about becoming a 9-5 drone. I'm expecting that this will last for about 4 hours and then I will wonder why on earth I ever left the comfort of academia), fitting a new kitchen (again, which I am enjoying, although my hands are suffering what with the general irritant compounds found in a lot of the DIY products. However, rumours that Helen has made me use moisturiser on them are totally unfounded and you can't prove anything), and the finishing of my PhD, which I'm not enjoying very much. Wow, that was a long sentence.

Thankfully, I've got a few things that are keeping me sane(-ish) at the moment. Firstly I'm reading "Money" by Martin Amis, which I am really enjoying. Not everyone's cup of tea, no doubt, but it reminds me of one of my favorite books and seems really fresh considering that it is rooted in the early '80s.

Secondly, I've had a really good run of movie rentals recently, from City of God through the Royal Tenenbaums and Amelie, to Rushmore. Sadly, my free dvd rental has run out, so it maybe a return to not watching films for long periods of time.

However, bestest of all is the Mystic Mustang discovery I have made! And there's more on the way! Although I was going to save this until I'd transferred the 8-track original to MP3, I'm going to let you know that the next track is called "(Why do I fall for) Dysfunctional Androids". It's a beauty. Or not, depending on your opinion on badly sung songs about robot love, and the problems thereof.

Freshly Discovered Old Stuff

The other day I mentioned that I had made an exciting discovery whilst sorting through some old boxes. Within one box, marked "Mystic Mustang Stuff", I found a plethora of music memrobilia relating to a little known late 70s band called "The Mystic Mustangs". I have no idea how this box came into my possession, but I feel it is my duty as a lover of music to share its content with you.

Contained within a shoebox was a load of 8-track cartridges, which I have taken the liberty of transferring to MP3 so that I can host them here. The first is called "Cryptic Zoom Tomb (Demo 5a)" and is dated 1978. Listen to it here or maybe here. The quality is reasonable, although the vocal does seem to drown at some points, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.

In a separate folder is a lyric sheet for the song, which I'll post soon, and a brief synopsis of the track in a notebook labelled "Liner Notes for Greatest Hits", which seems to have been a bit premature, as there is no evidence that the song, nor the group, ever made it to an album release.

Please let me know if you can get it to play, even if you can't bear to sit through the whole track.

So tired, tired of waiting

OK, so I heard about my job... and they want me back for another interview. Hmmm, I think it'd be easier to get a place on the Supreme Court.

A Triplet of Excuses

With every sporadic post, there comes a triplet of excuses as to why I've been gone so long. And this post ain't going to be no different.

1) Friday I had a job interview. It went OK, if not quite long at 1hr 45 minutes. Phew. And I got to discuss Exeter City's plight in some length. Oh, I find out later today if I got the job. I keep forgetting that that was why I did the interview...not sure why.

2) I have gone DIY crazy. Fires - fitted. Cement - mixed. Kitchen - destroyed. My weekends have become dominated by power tools, large hammers and paint rollers. Eek, job interviews and DIY. Anyone would think I was getting older.

3) This is the bit I am really excited about. I recently discovered a dusty box full of the early demos by a little known act and have been transferring them to MP3 so that I can share them with you. I was going to get the first one up today, but technicalities have dictated otherwise. Later this week, and that's a promise.