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.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
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.
...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.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
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?
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?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, July 17, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
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.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
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:
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:
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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.
(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.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
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.
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.
…. 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.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 01, 2006
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."
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."
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