Well, I'm back.
*Been to Borneo for 12 days, which was amazing. Five different places that we stayed in were fantastic. We got nicely sunburned, released four turtles into the sea, saw the orangutans, bartered with street traders in Kuala Lumpur, chowed down with Iban tribesmen, and ate the equivalent of a Chinese takeaway every day. Fabulous.
If you wish to see photos of it go to my facebook page, find Emma Smith, and take a look at her photo albums. There's one of me with cancer-invoking red skin, which you might laugh at.
*Prediction for this weekend: Pacquiao on points.
*Annoyance for last weekend: I'm just watching Chelsea-Barca and have been told that the unbelievable fight between Carl Froch and Jermain Taylor will be shown this weekend. Again. The third time ITV have shown it. This is called shutting the stable door after the horse has been knocked out with 14 seconds to go.
This fight was not on live on any network, despite Froch's sensational scrap with Jean Pascal in December. Ridiculous.
*Despite pre-match predictions the office didn't fall apart while I was away, although it still feels strange how few people are there. It's changing again next week, just as we'd got used to it. And it's still a wonderful job.
*If I was asked to sum up Coventry's season in three words I would chose Same as ever. For the last eight years inbetween seasons, no matter whether it's Iain Dowie or Gordon Strachan or Peter Reid (shudder) or Gary Mac, I have always thought that the team needs massive alteration, with the retention of some stars (including this season Keiron Westwood and Dan Fox, both of whom scrambled into the PFA Championship team of the year.). And every year we sell the stars, shuffle the side and make a pig's ear of it. Please Chris, sort it out. Saturday's defeat to Watford was abject.
*Talking of football - we have a unique fundraiser coming up in July - will tell all next time...
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Monday, 30 March 2009
Hy-porn-crites
CLICK HERE FOR HARD CORE BONING.
How many of you followed the practical advice above? I'm watching a programme discussing the volume of porn available on the internet, shops, and my bedroom, and also the media has been flooded with the story of Jacqui Smith's husband ordering two blue movies - raw meat 3, no less - and then the tax payer being charged for it.
I think it's hilarious how hypocritical people are being.
First off, ignore the whole taxpayer thing. I'm pretty sure it's an honest mistake. And why the hell didn't he just go on the internet. Maybe he didn't know the sites, and if so: http://www.redtube.com/, http://www.xvideos.com/, http://www.tube8.com/ should help.
What I'm interested in is some of the media reaction from people who should no better. Her husband has been deemed as having a "porn habit." If two films constitutes a habit, I am in real trouble. BIG, neurotic, problematic, psychotic trouble. Two films is a breakfast, not a habit. And I know most blokes are the same, and many women.
But no, this poor sod, who was alone one night with an itch he just couldn't scratch without watching a cockumentary, is being villifed - willified, if you will - because of it. His, and Smith's mistake, was including it on a list which the Sunday Express got hold of with a firm grasp and still haven't pumped dry.
The first porn movie I ever saw was called "Heavenly Desires" and featured legendary blonde actress Seka, who had a spectacular physique. I can't really remember the plot other than the fact that she dies, becomes a ghost and shags some people - despite the fact that there were certain scenes which had become grainy through constant watching to the point where I could judge to the nearest millionth of a second where the first scratchy line would appear, and which part of the genitals would be obscured first as the shredded tape rasped through the desperate spools of the JVC machine to my left.
I loved it and watched it for years. And then thought, "no I've had enough", and recorded the fight between Lennox Lewis and Phil Jackson from Atlantic City in 1994 over the top of it. From a single fist to fisticuffs in one go. And guess what? I regretted it straight away.
Nowadays I barely ever watch porn/watch porn sometimes/watch it incessantly (note to self - delete as appropriate if you can be bothered). But whether watch it or not I know one thing - I won't think any worse of people who do.
How many of you followed the practical advice above? I'm watching a programme discussing the volume of porn available on the internet, shops, and my bedroom, and also the media has been flooded with the story of Jacqui Smith's husband ordering two blue movies - raw meat 3, no less - and then the tax payer being charged for it.
I think it's hilarious how hypocritical people are being.
First off, ignore the whole taxpayer thing. I'm pretty sure it's an honest mistake. And why the hell didn't he just go on the internet. Maybe he didn't know the sites, and if so: http://www.redtube.com/, http://www.xvideos.com/, http://www.tube8.com/ should help.
What I'm interested in is some of the media reaction from people who should no better. Her husband has been deemed as having a "porn habit." If two films constitutes a habit, I am in real trouble. BIG, neurotic, problematic, psychotic trouble. Two films is a breakfast, not a habit. And I know most blokes are the same, and many women.
But no, this poor sod, who was alone one night with an itch he just couldn't scratch without watching a cockumentary, is being villifed - willified, if you will - because of it. His, and Smith's mistake, was including it on a list which the Sunday Express got hold of with a firm grasp and still haven't pumped dry.
The first porn movie I ever saw was called "Heavenly Desires" and featured legendary blonde actress Seka, who had a spectacular physique. I can't really remember the plot other than the fact that she dies, becomes a ghost and shags some people - despite the fact that there were certain scenes which had become grainy through constant watching to the point where I could judge to the nearest millionth of a second where the first scratchy line would appear, and which part of the genitals would be obscured first as the shredded tape rasped through the desperate spools of the JVC machine to my left.
I loved it and watched it for years. And then thought, "no I've had enough", and recorded the fight between Lennox Lewis and Phil Jackson from Atlantic City in 1994 over the top of it. From a single fist to fisticuffs in one go. And guess what? I regretted it straight away.
Nowadays I barely ever watch porn/watch porn sometimes/watch it incessantly (note to self - delete as appropriate if you can be bothered). But whether watch it or not I know one thing - I won't think any worse of people who do.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Football - a matter of life and death? Hardly
My Father died on Monday.
I had been leaving the Coventry - Chelsea FA Cup quarter final and about to get on a bus into town when I realised I had a message on my phone. I listened to it. Sadie said ring me urgently. I did, and she said she would call me back. She did.
She had had to call me back because she was in a hospital. My Father had collapsed at a lecture in Lincoln and had been rushed to the County Hospital where he was in intensive care with a bleed to the brain. It wasn't good.
I put the phone down and just told Emma that we needed to go to Lincoln, a 75 mile journey. Emma, her uncle and his friend looked at me quizzically, and really I had no idea what I was saying. The enormity certainly wasn't entering my brain yet.
We got, eventually, to my car. M69, M1, A46, and we would be in Lincoln. The journey was gloomy and terminal as the thoughts rattled around. Would he live? If so, would he be damaged? Where were the rest of our relatives? Would he survive until I got there? Although I knew very little about what had happened and was really just floating along in the car with a painful lump in my throat inwardly I knew the answer to these questions.
The weather was bleak, the sky greying. My brother were outside when I arrived. I cried for the second time. David told me that he was under sedation and this would be taken off the next morning - if he didn't wake then, he never would.
We went in, through a security door were you had to ask to be let in. We would have to do this again probably 20 times in the next 24 hours. No other occasion would hurt me like this one.
Dad was on the bed, eyes closed but looking directly towards the curtain entrance. A huge tube was snaking from his mouth and two other smaller pipes crept from his nose. He was wearing a grotty yellow smock. Machines beeped and pulsed behind him. I cried again, a sickening, straining crying.
A nurse told me something or other about him having life-threatening injuries, which were inoperable as they were clustered deep into his brain where it meets the spinal cord.
This was not a surprise. She said that if he did come out of the medically induced coma - and this was no more likely than not - it was not likely that he would come out in an "appropriate fashion". That meant brain damage.
So we sat, and watched. He didn't move at all. Nurses came periodically to inject, and wipe, and swab, always addressing him by name before performing an action. Quite sweet.
Em and I were tired so we tried to imbibe as much caffeine as possible. The tea was fairly hideous but temporarily soothed a desperate pain, that of a swollen throat and a heart that knew, in its core, that my Father was going to die.
I didn't eat.
The nurses turned the lights off in the ICU as nightfall came. Other people were lying there. Another younger man was the only one like my dad who wasn't moving at all. Others breathed in a troubled fashion through oxygen masks, or slept. Dad didn't move. The nurses periodically asked us to leave so they could perform that action for him, rotating him, cleaning him, checking the padded machines conected to his legs were working and he wasn't suffering circulation problems in his inanimate, useless legs.
Who knows what was in that mind? Was it a mind? I circled the bed countless times, trying awkwardly to avoid the wires. Surely he could hear us. He knew our anxiety, and would react. Surely this figure, this 55-year-old lump of flesh and bone and sinew, was not how my Father would finish his life. Surely it was a matter of time before the 1/2 cup of blood which had leaked into his mind and was straining it to bursting point, would do the decent thing and evaporate or leak away. Surely.
I learned what the figures on the machines were. Blood pressure. Heart rate. Co2 output. Pulse.
At 10pm we went to rest in a Siberian room, on a sagging bed. My eyes evacuated a crumpled contact lens. I got six hours sleep, a whirl of thoughts on disability and my dad's reaction to it; selfish, guilty worries on the effect on our upcoming holiday to Borneo; financial worries; prayers for my stepmother and brother and sisters. I got up at 5.45am.
We went back and Gail and her sister Marlene were already there. There had been no change overnight. The sedative would be taken off in three hours. More tea. More cappucino. But no more hope.
The sedative was taken off. Within five minutes dad's blood pressure had rocketed, his throat gagging as blood surged around the body at an unsustainable rate, his head screaming crimson, until the sedative was replenished. I was not there and am eternally grateful.
The consultant arrived at 1oam, starting at the other end of the room, slowly gliding round the ICU and examining the other patients. I listened and learned nothing. Dad's blood pressure had crept up again after dropping off.
We were told to go out while he was examined, and sat in the front foyer.
We came back an hour later, perplexed. Maybe a new angle on his situation had been revealed. Maybe the blood had gone. Maybe there was hope.
The consultant called us into the relatives' room. A tiny room where terrible words would swirl and haunt.
They were to turn the sedative off, and one of three things would happen. His blood pressure might rocket to the ultimate, causing heart failure and death within minutes. Or somehow his body would stabilise and his blood pressure would lower again, and his heart would beat and he would breathe for a brief period as the ventilators were removed, until the part of his brain that was damaged - which controlled breathing - ceased to function. This could be brief. The third opetion was that he might breathe indefinitely until he died of an infection to the lungs, or even hunger. All three options - the only three possible - would lead to the death of my father.
Gail's crying will live with me forever. Emma cried. I just sat still. I asked why it had happened. We will never know the true answer. A weak artery from birth. An abnormal vein. Who knows.
I went back, and the same vacant shell was there. However where there was hope 21 hours before, now there was only despair. The same figure. The same beeps, the same bed, but with a human facing extinction.
I kissed him. Touched him. Touched his psoriasis, one of the things I would never normally go near but one of the things that made him him. I whispered in his ear small wisdoms which are not for this blog. And then Em and I left, and I turned and looked at him for the last time.
We left soon after and drove home, leaving Gail to be with him in the dying embers of his life.
He died at 4am on Monday morning.
The funeral is next Thursday at Gedney Church.
It was a weekend that will never be repeated, thankfully. How can you go from a weekend where you're going to kick the arse of a Premier League team of twats to sitting in a fruitless vigil at the bedside of your dying Dad? It still doesn't seem possible that someone who rescued me through my teenage years, and helped me through University, and always saw the best in me in those times, can never be there to see my children, or marriage, or career flourish.
Whether this blog is a catharsis or not, I don't know. It is not comedy. It is opinion, and thought, and reflection, and is a window into a hell that I hoped would come in 20 or 30 or even 40 years' time.
The odds of a tragedy such as this are incalculable and rest assured it will not happen to you. I hope to God
I had been leaving the Coventry - Chelsea FA Cup quarter final and about to get on a bus into town when I realised I had a message on my phone. I listened to it. Sadie said ring me urgently. I did, and she said she would call me back. She did.
She had had to call me back because she was in a hospital. My Father had collapsed at a lecture in Lincoln and had been rushed to the County Hospital where he was in intensive care with a bleed to the brain. It wasn't good.
I put the phone down and just told Emma that we needed to go to Lincoln, a 75 mile journey. Emma, her uncle and his friend looked at me quizzically, and really I had no idea what I was saying. The enormity certainly wasn't entering my brain yet.
We got, eventually, to my car. M69, M1, A46, and we would be in Lincoln. The journey was gloomy and terminal as the thoughts rattled around. Would he live? If so, would he be damaged? Where were the rest of our relatives? Would he survive until I got there? Although I knew very little about what had happened and was really just floating along in the car with a painful lump in my throat inwardly I knew the answer to these questions.
The weather was bleak, the sky greying. My brother were outside when I arrived. I cried for the second time. David told me that he was under sedation and this would be taken off the next morning - if he didn't wake then, he never would.
We went in, through a security door were you had to ask to be let in. We would have to do this again probably 20 times in the next 24 hours. No other occasion would hurt me like this one.
Dad was on the bed, eyes closed but looking directly towards the curtain entrance. A huge tube was snaking from his mouth and two other smaller pipes crept from his nose. He was wearing a grotty yellow smock. Machines beeped and pulsed behind him. I cried again, a sickening, straining crying.
A nurse told me something or other about him having life-threatening injuries, which were inoperable as they were clustered deep into his brain where it meets the spinal cord.
This was not a surprise. She said that if he did come out of the medically induced coma - and this was no more likely than not - it was not likely that he would come out in an "appropriate fashion". That meant brain damage.
So we sat, and watched. He didn't move at all. Nurses came periodically to inject, and wipe, and swab, always addressing him by name before performing an action. Quite sweet.
Em and I were tired so we tried to imbibe as much caffeine as possible. The tea was fairly hideous but temporarily soothed a desperate pain, that of a swollen throat and a heart that knew, in its core, that my Father was going to die.
I didn't eat.
The nurses turned the lights off in the ICU as nightfall came. Other people were lying there. Another younger man was the only one like my dad who wasn't moving at all. Others breathed in a troubled fashion through oxygen masks, or slept. Dad didn't move. The nurses periodically asked us to leave so they could perform that action for him, rotating him, cleaning him, checking the padded machines conected to his legs were working and he wasn't suffering circulation problems in his inanimate, useless legs.
Who knows what was in that mind? Was it a mind? I circled the bed countless times, trying awkwardly to avoid the wires. Surely he could hear us. He knew our anxiety, and would react. Surely this figure, this 55-year-old lump of flesh and bone and sinew, was not how my Father would finish his life. Surely it was a matter of time before the 1/2 cup of blood which had leaked into his mind and was straining it to bursting point, would do the decent thing and evaporate or leak away. Surely.
I learned what the figures on the machines were. Blood pressure. Heart rate. Co2 output. Pulse.
At 10pm we went to rest in a Siberian room, on a sagging bed. My eyes evacuated a crumpled contact lens. I got six hours sleep, a whirl of thoughts on disability and my dad's reaction to it; selfish, guilty worries on the effect on our upcoming holiday to Borneo; financial worries; prayers for my stepmother and brother and sisters. I got up at 5.45am.
We went back and Gail and her sister Marlene were already there. There had been no change overnight. The sedative would be taken off in three hours. More tea. More cappucino. But no more hope.
The sedative was taken off. Within five minutes dad's blood pressure had rocketed, his throat gagging as blood surged around the body at an unsustainable rate, his head screaming crimson, until the sedative was replenished. I was not there and am eternally grateful.
The consultant arrived at 1oam, starting at the other end of the room, slowly gliding round the ICU and examining the other patients. I listened and learned nothing. Dad's blood pressure had crept up again after dropping off.
We were told to go out while he was examined, and sat in the front foyer.
We came back an hour later, perplexed. Maybe a new angle on his situation had been revealed. Maybe the blood had gone. Maybe there was hope.
The consultant called us into the relatives' room. A tiny room where terrible words would swirl and haunt.
They were to turn the sedative off, and one of three things would happen. His blood pressure might rocket to the ultimate, causing heart failure and death within minutes. Or somehow his body would stabilise and his blood pressure would lower again, and his heart would beat and he would breathe for a brief period as the ventilators were removed, until the part of his brain that was damaged - which controlled breathing - ceased to function. This could be brief. The third opetion was that he might breathe indefinitely until he died of an infection to the lungs, or even hunger. All three options - the only three possible - would lead to the death of my father.
Gail's crying will live with me forever. Emma cried. I just sat still. I asked why it had happened. We will never know the true answer. A weak artery from birth. An abnormal vein. Who knows.
I went back, and the same vacant shell was there. However where there was hope 21 hours before, now there was only despair. The same figure. The same beeps, the same bed, but with a human facing extinction.
I kissed him. Touched him. Touched his psoriasis, one of the things I would never normally go near but one of the things that made him him. I whispered in his ear small wisdoms which are not for this blog. And then Em and I left, and I turned and looked at him for the last time.
We left soon after and drove home, leaving Gail to be with him in the dying embers of his life.
He died at 4am on Monday morning.
The funeral is next Thursday at Gedney Church.
It was a weekend that will never be repeated, thankfully. How can you go from a weekend where you're going to kick the arse of a Premier League team of twats to sitting in a fruitless vigil at the bedside of your dying Dad? It still doesn't seem possible that someone who rescued me through my teenage years, and helped me through University, and always saw the best in me in those times, can never be there to see my children, or marriage, or career flourish.
Whether this blog is a catharsis or not, I don't know. It is not comedy. It is opinion, and thought, and reflection, and is a window into a hell that I hoped would come in 20 or 30 or even 40 years' time.
The odds of a tragedy such as this are incalculable and rest assured it will not happen to you. I hope to God
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Why Facebook is losing face
Have to say - the initial humorous magic of Facebook has gone. Some people's status updates are so annoying it's untrue. Some are very clever and funny, others are as funny as eating poo-flavoured glass.
There's the odd bright spot. Interesting videos from people, intelligent comment, and the boxing debates me and one of my old schoolmates Tony have are amongst them.
And the funny, quirky things, like "John needs". If you haven't done it, go to Google, type your name + needs, and see what ridiculous things come up.
For the record, mine include: John needs father, Don John needs charisma, John needs badly to impress, John needs a map of Thailand, Terrington St John needs help in effort for new village hall, Elton John needs a helipad at the O2, and John needs to be visible on every issue a la Obama. That's one needy guy.
But some status updates are really boring. I particularly hate this type (all names are made up by the way; when I say made-up I mean I don't have friends with those names. They are real names. If I was going for made up names I would have said something like Banzagrew or Trenevere. I digress...) of message:
Jamie cannot BELIEVE what he has done. Trevor is SO excited about tomorrow. Darren has just discovered something. Enid is in a dilemma...etc etc etc
If it/that is so good/exciting/erotic/flamboyant then just say it! Don't try and expect people to ask you what it is and start a boring and ultimately flaccid conversation.
Because when you do this you tend to find the most mundane answers.
I would love to find out that Jamie has eaten his own weight in Haribo sweets and can make people diabetic just by breathing on them.
And Trevor is excited about going jet ski-ing with Jessica Alba along the Welland on the back of two giant Kraken
And Darren has discovered that his Dad, brother and dog are all one and the same.
And Enid's dilemma is which of the slowly festering corpses of the Cheeky Girls she should remove from meathooks in her garage first.
But I'm always disappointed.
I could go on and mention the annoyance of repetitive messages, obsession with partners, and repetitive messages, but I won't.
Of course, the irony of this is that I'm going to post a link to it on Facebook. Which makes me a hypocrite. Never mind, I'll be too busy flying to Thailand from my impressive helipad in London to care.
*Had a bloke in court yesterday called Tarzan. Genuinely. In for motoring offences. He was given a vine. Ho ho.
*Hope there are some Blackburn fans reading this. I should point out for non-football fans that my beloved Sky Blues beat Rovers last night, despite them being in the league above us. We now play Chelsea in the next round of the FA Cup. Bring it on.
*Just a quick message about David Cameron. The Tory leader lost his young son Ivan this morning. Ivan fought illness virtually from birth and because of this his father put in many hours of charity work for various causes and became a patron for several of them. As someone who lost their brother when he was young - a brother who also suffered from illness - my heart is with Cameron and family now.
There's the odd bright spot. Interesting videos from people, intelligent comment, and the boxing debates me and one of my old schoolmates Tony have are amongst them.
And the funny, quirky things, like "John needs". If you haven't done it, go to Google, type your name + needs, and see what ridiculous things come up.
For the record, mine include: John needs father, Don John needs charisma, John needs badly to impress, John needs a map of Thailand, Terrington St John needs help in effort for new village hall, Elton John needs a helipad at the O2, and John needs to be visible on every issue a la Obama. That's one needy guy.
But some status updates are really boring. I particularly hate this type (all names are made up by the way; when I say made-up I mean I don't have friends with those names. They are real names. If I was going for made up names I would have said something like Banzagrew or Trenevere. I digress...) of message:
Jamie cannot BELIEVE what he has done. Trevor is SO excited about tomorrow. Darren has just discovered something. Enid is in a dilemma...etc etc etc
If it/that is so good/exciting/erotic/flamboyant then just say it! Don't try and expect people to ask you what it is and start a boring and ultimately flaccid conversation.
Because when you do this you tend to find the most mundane answers.
I would love to find out that Jamie has eaten his own weight in Haribo sweets and can make people diabetic just by breathing on them.
And Trevor is excited about going jet ski-ing with Jessica Alba along the Welland on the back of two giant Kraken
And Darren has discovered that his Dad, brother and dog are all one and the same.
And Enid's dilemma is which of the slowly festering corpses of the Cheeky Girls she should remove from meathooks in her garage first.
But I'm always disappointed.
I could go on and mention the annoyance of repetitive messages, obsession with partners, and repetitive messages, but I won't.
Of course, the irony of this is that I'm going to post a link to it on Facebook. Which makes me a hypocrite. Never mind, I'll be too busy flying to Thailand from my impressive helipad in London to care.
*Had a bloke in court yesterday called Tarzan. Genuinely. In for motoring offences. He was given a vine. Ho ho.
*Hope there are some Blackburn fans reading this. I should point out for non-football fans that my beloved Sky Blues beat Rovers last night, despite them being in the league above us. We now play Chelsea in the next round of the FA Cup. Bring it on.
*Just a quick message about David Cameron. The Tory leader lost his young son Ivan this morning. Ivan fought illness virtually from birth and because of this his father put in many hours of charity work for various causes and became a patron for several of them. As someone who lost their brother when he was young - a brother who also suffered from illness - my heart is with Cameron and family now.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Paris Hilton in winter
Sorry it took so long to put another post on, but I've been having some problems with disabled cookies, whatever that means.
Not that I've done bugger all in the intervening weeks. We had a house inspection, which we passed. Few minor quibbles - Bit of mildew on the shower, rat faeces in the toaster, immigrants in the lounge, all the usual crap. I become really anal when I clean up the house. I vacuum the floor 15 times, I wipe the dado rails, sponge the radiators. I don't think I'm homosexual, but there are sometimes echoes of it.
What else... been to court four times. A comedy foot fetish story can be found here:
http://www.spaldingtoday.co.uk/news/Foot-fetish-man-admits-harassment.4977597.jp.
Several other good drink drive stories. Read the paper for God's sake.
Currently watching Paris Hilton's British Best Friend. I recommend everyone watch it. 12 or 14 absolutely soulless people competing to be Paris' best friend. All taking part in games and challenges, all of them actors, models, PR assistant, a screamingly gay office assistant.
It is sickening, revolting, ghastly television. I love Paris Hilton, who is what she is - a very pretty talentless person who has been given everything, including warmth and a heart. These plebians
don't even have that.
One of them actually had the job title Model/blogger. Model/blogger! Blogging isn't a job. It's where sad, warped people bleed their corrupted minds onto a computer screen for equally warped people top digest (present company excepted, of course). I would love to do this as a job, but would be arrested within hours. I can see it now; even as my index finger relaxes on the enter key for the last line of an expose of the crack cocaine and goat-buggering exploits of Spalding's celebrities, a team of SWAT soldiers gun down the door, slap me in handcuffs, and drag me off to the South Holland version of Guantanamo Bay. I'm too coarse, too troubled, too silly, to do this as a job.
On the other side is ten years younger: the challenge. A woman aged 29, whose "appearance age" is 42, will compete against a 52-year old (appearance age 62) to see who can be made to look younger. One will have surgery, the other will have new make-up, and a third -a 30 year old journalist who looks 379 when he watches brainshite like this - will let rabid lemurs nibble on his eyelids before he watches it again.
Let me know if you agree x
Not that I've done bugger all in the intervening weeks. We had a house inspection, which we passed. Few minor quibbles - Bit of mildew on the shower, rat faeces in the toaster, immigrants in the lounge, all the usual crap. I become really anal when I clean up the house. I vacuum the floor 15 times, I wipe the dado rails, sponge the radiators. I don't think I'm homosexual, but there are sometimes echoes of it.
What else... been to court four times. A comedy foot fetish story can be found here:
http://www.spaldingtoday.co.uk/news/Foot-fetish-man-admits-harassment.4977597.jp.
Several other good drink drive stories. Read the paper for God's sake.
Currently watching Paris Hilton's British Best Friend. I recommend everyone watch it. 12 or 14 absolutely soulless people competing to be Paris' best friend. All taking part in games and challenges, all of them actors, models, PR assistant, a screamingly gay office assistant.
It is sickening, revolting, ghastly television. I love Paris Hilton, who is what she is - a very pretty talentless person who has been given everything, including warmth and a heart. These plebians
don't even have that.
One of them actually had the job title Model/blogger. Model/blogger! Blogging isn't a job. It's where sad, warped people bleed their corrupted minds onto a computer screen for equally warped people top digest (present company excepted, of course). I would love to do this as a job, but would be arrested within hours. I can see it now; even as my index finger relaxes on the enter key for the last line of an expose of the crack cocaine and goat-buggering exploits of Spalding's celebrities, a team of SWAT soldiers gun down the door, slap me in handcuffs, and drag me off to the South Holland version of Guantanamo Bay. I'm too coarse, too troubled, too silly, to do this as a job.
On the other side is ten years younger: the challenge. A woman aged 29, whose "appearance age" is 42, will compete against a 52-year old (appearance age 62) to see who can be made to look younger. One will have surgery, the other will have new make-up, and a third -a 30 year old journalist who looks 379 when he watches brainshite like this - will let rabid lemurs nibble on his eyelids before he watches it again.
Let me know if you agree x
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
OK Computer
IBM have unveiled a new supercomputer which is capable of 20 quadrillion computations per second, but still apparently crashes halfway through Redtube videos:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2009/feb/03/fastest-supercomputer-ibm-sequoia
Also the word "petaflop" sounds a little but twee to me. For a machine of this magnitude it should be a word like "titancrax" or "midoplange".
http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2009/feb/03/fastest-supercomputer-ibm-sequoia
Also the word "petaflop" sounds a little but twee to me. For a machine of this magnitude it should be a word like "titancrax" or "midoplange".
Monday, 2 February 2009
Wankee Doodle Dandy
I'm tempted to say this was the only physical activity of the whole evening knowing how flimsy and boring Grid Iron is:
http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/02022009/58/nfl-porn-ruins-super-bowl-coverage.html
http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/02022009/58/nfl-porn-ruins-super-bowl-coverage.html
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