I’m still not properly connected yet, but I have my eye on you, Hak. In the meantime:
and do check out Gloria’s latest.
I’m still not properly connected yet, but I have my eye on you, Hak. In the meantime:
and do check out Gloria’s latest.
Yeah, it looks like a marble, but there’s a whole other universe in there. But you can’t see it, right? ‘Cause it’s folded up into one of the other twelve dimensions, ‘kay? Blue, man. I’ve never seen anything so blue. Hey. Your hair is, like, moving and there’s no wind. One day, I’m not just going to be square, ‘kay? I’m going to be the Squarest of the Square. I’m going to be goddamn leader of the goddamn Conservative Party. Yeah. Blue.
Things really really will be quiet around here for the next few days because I am moving from Cambridge to Brighton this week. During this time there will be a period of complete Internet “cold turkey”. Pray for me.
See ya, Tabland. I’d like to say it’s been a blast, but I’d be lying.
Further to this post, it’s time for a shed update from the Telegraph:
The mystical covenant between men and sheds, an anchor of civilisation for centuries, appeared last week to be facing two dire threats to its existence; the advent of the £20,000 price tag, and an invasion by women.
Twenty grand for a rickety hut on a Dorset clifftop? Outstanding value, says Andrew Harvey, a local estate agent, and confirmation, if any was needed, of the dizzying spread of shed chic. Built in the 1960s, the down-on-its-luck structure, 8ft by 6ft, and in manifest need of repair, is believed to have set a price record for a no-frills, allotment variety British shed.
“It might seem a lot of money but it’s in a nice setting, and someone will definitely buy it,” predicts the author Gareth Jones, 27, whose stylish new book, Shedmen, forms part of the modern shedscape’s burgeoning literature. The “someone”, moreover, is highly likely to be a woman.
A recent survey found that 40 per cent of women considered their sheds to be an important private space compared with only 38 per cent of men. “Women these days are spending much more time in sheds,” says Jones, “and I suppose not everyone’s happy about it.”
Also, Chris “Virtual Stoa” Brooke pointed out to me on the phone the other day that he recently attended the shed-warming party of his movie-geek brother Michael.
Today is Saddam Hussein’s 666th day in captivity. As a mark of my respect for the legal head of the sovereign state of Iraq, currently imprisoned by the quislings of the Imperialists’ puppet regime, I am ‘Blogging this in my underpants.
Congratulations to my sister who, in the early hours of this morning, had a boy, Samuel, to go with her almost exactly three-year-old girl, Maisie.
(This is typical of Clare’s bombproof organisational skills.) Congrats to my brother-in-law too who is a top dad.
Get well soon to my mum, who, annoyingly, went into hospital this week and is still there under observation, but I hope will be out soon to give her new grandson a hug.
Scott Ritter is on BBC Radio Bloke right now. His opening argument is that Bush Snr was wrong because he was obsessed with removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime above all else. And that he was wrong because he stopped the first Iraq war before regime change. Now he is comparing Bush Jnr and Blair to Nazi war criminals and the invasion of Iraq by the coalition to that by Germany of Denmark in WWII. He’s shouting. I think I can hear some scuffling in the background.
I am starting a new category on PooterGeek: “Mad As A House”. This will be for the looniest reality-denying tales of British property market craziness I read online. Here’s my first example.
You know those “money surgery” type articles they have in the weekend broadsheets where some thirtysomething media drone living in London on £28K pa asks a panel of financial advisers how she can take a year out from doing the photocopying for a design consultancy in Wardour Street to “find herself” in Ulan Bator, clear her £20 000 credit card bill, buy a house, and retire at the age of fifty? (Then they all stroke their jaws in an effort to hold back their hysterical laughter before suggesting that Bridget might start by cashing in the £25 she has saved as Premium Bonds to offset some of her unsecured debt and putting aside some money for when she comes into work one day to find her colour-coded Pentels have been swept into a black bin bag and she has to go running back to mummy and daddy in Reigate.) Well, this week’s Independent has an absolute doozy:
Case notes
Fauzia Begum, 18, receptionist
Personal: Currently taking a year out before starting at King’s College London next year. Working as a receptionist to increase savings.
Savings: £3,000 in cash ISA.
Debts: Annual student loan of £6,170. Receiving a grant of £2,700 and a King’s bursary of £1,350.
Mortgage: She is hoping to purchase a property in the near future, either for her own occupation or on a buy-to-let basis.
La la la la la.
Meanwhile, in Manhattan, “real estate” prices fall 13 percent in one quarter.
[Thanks to the Motley Fool’s “Property Markets and Trends” discussion board, which is getting more interesting by the month.]
[And, before the emails and comments start, I’d just like apologise to anyone reading this who really does work for a design consultancy in Wardour Street and has parents living in Reigate. I just make this shit up, okay?]
Jackie would like people to check out this appeal over at Science Blog.
“Yes-erh, well-erh, I’m erhfraid we in Englanddd feerhl that-erh Austrierh arerh not yet-erh ready to be admitteddd to full-erh memberrrship of therh Worlddd Cup-erh Finalss. I’ddd alsso like to take thisss opp-erh-tunity to say ‘Heh‘.
“By therh way, I very much lik-erh what you herhf done with yerh hair, young lady. Woulddd you be ffree ferh drinksss laterh? Affterwardss I will do therh washing-erhp of therh glassess.”
I’m not returning to normal ‘Blogging just yet, but those of you who still buy the rag might be interested to know that today, opposite the Graun‘s editorial “The blogging generation”, there’s a letter from my dad displaying geopolitical and musical insight of the calibre that keeps people all over the World coming back to PooterGeek daily:
How could EU entry be denied to a country that has qualified for the Eurovision Song Contest for the past 30 years?
Greg Counsell
Tamworth, Staffs
Publication of this missive is only Stage One of the Counsell family plot to obtain EU membership for Israel.
People are emailing me to say that PooterGeek is flickering in and out of life at the moment, both the front page and the RSS feed. I could invent some gibberish explanation for this weirdness, but I really don’t know the reason for the current strange behaviour of the Pooter-server(s) and I haven’t the time to find out the truth. It’s lucky I’m not writing anything of any substance here at the moment—not that I ever do. This is just to let you know that I know.
Normal service will be resumed in a few days. Here’s a joke adapted from the Motley Fool. Talk amongst yourselves.
A cabbie in London picks up a leggy nun. The cab driver can’t stop staring in the mirror.
He says, “I have a question to ask, but I dont want to offend you”.
“My son, you cannot offend me. When you have been a nun as long as I have, you get a chance to see and hear just about everything. I’m sure that there’s nothing you could say or ask that I would find offensive.”
“Well, I’ve always had a fantasy to have a nun kiss me.”
“Lets see what we can do about that. Are you Catholic?”
“I am, Sister.”
“Are you single?”
“Of course, Sister.”
“Very well,” the nun says. “Stop near that alley over there.”
The cabbie does exactly that and they disappear into the shadows. The nun fulfils the taxi-driver’s dreams with a kiss so expert and arousing that he wishes it would never stop.
Once they are back on the road, however, his face falls and a guilty look settles on it.
“My dear child,” says the nun, “Why do you look so unhappy?”
“Forgive me,” answers the cab driver, “but I lied just to live out my fantasy. I’m married and I’m Jewish.”
The nun reassures him: “Be at peace, young man. All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.
For example, my name is Julian and I’m going to a Halloween party.”
During the 80s, despite my father’s tribal loyalties lying further north, the Counsells had family membership of Leicestershire County Cricket Club. We would take a picnic and sit next to the sight screens. My mum fell in love with David Gower because he batted like a young god and his hair, curly and flashed with grey, resembled mine as a little boy. Yes, before the photo shown on this page was taken I did have grey streaks in my hair—my mother insists they were blond. (I also suffered from the occasional acute attack of vitiligo. You’re a liar, Michael Jackson!)
Despite my liking for cricket, my affection for LCCC, and my interest in politics, Norm’s post linking Marx’s 11 theses on Feuerbach to an all-time cricketing XI, and Chris Dillow’s responding with the suggestion that the XI he referenced should have been Leicestershire players are easily the saddest two pieces of ‘Blogging I have ever read, even including Chris Lightfoot’s account of his dealings with Deutsche Bahn UK in booking a pair of train tickets to Stockholm. The last elicited a comment beginning:
“I’ve never bought rail tickets from DB (at least not since 1995), but I’m surprised they are so incompetent given that they have the best European timetable website (rivalled in my view only by the Austrian Federal Railway’s version).”
However, these are typical of the sort of stuff I find myself reading when I have an urgent deadline to meet. They also show why, as stand-up Jenny Eclair has long argued, all men should have a garden shed—where they can keep their model trains, their old Wisdens, their porn, and (these days) their Wi-Fi connected notebook PC.
You might have guessed from the thinness of posting here that I am busy at the moment, but the Anonymous Economist recommends this (non-free) editorial from the New York Times. I extract the first five and last three paragraphs:
IF you believed Tom DeLay then, you no doubt believe now that the deposed House majority leader is only on “temporary” leave from his powerful perch in Washington and that he’ll soon bounce back, laughing all the way, from a partisan witch hunt that unjustly requires his brief discomfort in a Texas courtroom.
Those who still live in the reality-based community, however, may sense they’re watching the beginning of the end of something big. It’s not just Mr. DeLay, a k a the Hammer, who is on life support, but a Washington establishment whose infatuation with power and money has contaminated nearly every limb of government and turned off a public that by two to one finds the country on the wrong track.
But don’t take my word for it. And don’t listen to the canned talking points of the Democrats, who are still so busy trying to explain why they were for the war in Iraq before they were against it that it’s hard to trust their logic on anything else. Listen instead to Andrew Ferguson, of the conservative Rupert Murdoch magazine, The Weekly Standard. As far back as last December in a cover article on the sleazy lobbyist Jack Abramoff, Mr. Ferguson was already declaring “the end of the Republican Revolution.”
He painted the big picture of the Abramoff ethos in vibrant strokes: the ill-gotten Indian gambling moolah snaking through the bank accounts of a network of DeLay cronies and former aides; the “fact-finding” Congressional golfing trips to further the cause of sweatshop garment factories in the Marianas islands; the bogus “think tank” in Rehoboth Beach, Del., where the two scholars in residence were a yoga instructor and a lifeguard (albeit a “lifeguard of the year”). Certain names kept recurring in Mr. Ferguson’s epic narrative, most prominently Ralph Reed and Grover Norquist, Republican money-changers who are as tightly tied to President Bush and Karl Rove as they are to Mr. Abramoff and Mr. DeLay, if not more so.
The bottom line, Mr. Ferguson wrote, was a culture antithetical to everything conservatives had stood for in the Gingrich revolution of 1994. Slaying a corrupt, bloated Democratic establishment was out, gluttony for the G.O.P. and its fat cats was in. Mr. Abramoff and his gang embodied the very enemy the “Contract With America” Congress had supposedly come to Washington to smite: ” ‘Beltway Bandits,’ profiteers who manipulate the power of big government on behalf of well-heeled people who pay them tons of money to do so.” Those tons of Republican money were deposited in the favors bank of K Street, where, as The Washington Post reported this year, the number of lobbyists has more than doubled (to some 35,000) since the Bush era began in 2000. Conservatives who once aspired to cut government “down to the size where we can drown it in the bathtub” – as a famous Norquist maxim had it – merely outsourced government instead to the highest bidder.
…
This is the culture that has given us the government we have. It’s a government that has spent more of the taxpayers’ money than any since L.B.J.’s (as calculated by the Cato Institute, a libertarian research institution), even as it rewards its benefactors with tax breaks and corporate pork. It’s a government so used to lying that Mr. DeLay could say with a straight face that the cost of Katrina relief could not be offset by budget cuts because there was no governmental fat left to cut. It’s the government that fostered the wholesale loss of American lives in both Iraq and on the Gulf Coast by putting cronyism above patriotism.
The courts can punish crooks, but they can’t reform democracy from the ground up, and the voters can’t get into the game until 2006. Meanwhile, on the Republican side, the key players both in the White House and in the leadership of both houses of Congress are either under investigation or joined at the hip to Messrs Rove, DeLay, Abramoff, Reed or Norquist. They seem to be hoping that some magical event – a sudden outbreak of peace and democracy in Iraq, the capture of Osama bin Laden, a hurricane affording better presidential photo ops than Rita – will turn things around. Dream on.
The one notable anomaly is John McCain, who retains a genuine hunger for reform, a rage at the corruption around him and the compelling motive of his presidential ambitions to push him forward; it’s his Indian Affairs Committee, after all, that exposed the hideous Abramoff cesspool to public view last year. The Democrats, bereft of leadership and ideas (though not of their own Beltway bandits), also harbor a number of would-be presidents, but they are busier positioning themselves politically than they are articulating actual positions that might indicate what a new governmental order would look like. While the Republican revolution is dead, it says everything about the power vacuum left in its wake that Geena Davis’s fictional commander in chief has more traction, as measured in Nielsen ratings and press, than any of the real-life contenders for that job in D.C.
One of my correspondents—quite possibly someone in Canada—has a dose of I-Worm/Mytob.HL. Please could you do something about it because I’m getting bored of the infected spam your machine is sending me. Thank you.
Just think of all the coke you could buy with that kind of money.
Meanwhile, Leasey does her best to keep me from making potentially embarrassing fashion errors. From next month, however, I will be living in Brighton and, if Manolo’s Shoe Blog is anything to go by, preventing me from buying into the Spring 2006 menswear season will be her biggest challenge yet.
They aren’t celebrities, but their clothes are as fugly as anything you’ll see on a red carpet in Hollywood.
[via The Motley Fool]
Further to the THES‘s collection of historical dramas that academics most fear Hollywood making, you must, must watch the trailer for the upcoming Casanova. My favourite bit? Addressing Jeremy Irons (who might as well be twisting a waxed moustache and stroking a Persian cat), Sienna Miller delivers a line that Basil Exposition himself would have choked on:
“And what is the Pope’s most feared inquisitor doing in Venice?”
CLANGGGGG!
Michael Brooke takes Enid Blyton’s testimony.
The title of this ‘Blog post at Elder of Ziyon says it all.
Following on from the satisfyingly successful “Embarrassed And Mystified“, PooterGeek now invites you to come up with two more celebrities’ names. To comment on this thread you must cite someone in the public eye you consider to be talentless, crooked, annoying or otherwise undeserving of the admiration they get, but you can’t help liking; and someone who inexplicably keeps getting away with it, where “it” can be anything from being comprehensively useless to stealing money from sick children and spending it flying around the Middle East, dining with murderous thieves—just as an example, unrelated to anything which follows, obviously.
To start the game I offer my two candidates: Jamie Oliver—verduratingly high-earning multimedia success and ubiquitous, mockney geezah youf that he is, I have to concede that he quite probably has a heart of gold, the bastard:
And, to bagsy him before everyone else does (and to avoid legal problems with the comments), please someone tell me when the World will see through the obnoxious George Galloway—and finally acknowledge how limited his debating skills are, of course:
As before, non-libellous bitching is welcome.
UPDATE: I have been asked by a traumatised PooterGeeker, a Ms Trellis of Upside-Down Land, to shroud Gorgeous George’s loveliness in such a way to protect his modesty. Happy to oblige.
Ten products routinely used in ways which expressly contradict their accompanying instructions or break English law:
I’m just back from Brighton where I had nothing to do with the Labour Party conference, but after some genuinely interesting and productive meetings (I didn’t say that often when I had a proper job), I had drinks and dinner with some delightful ‘Bloggers. Skuds has a report and a photo—the latter taken just as I was peering at the front of his fancy new digital [spits] camera, about to ask him why it wasn’t working. Really flattering that one. Thanks.
(In case you guys were wondering, yes, I got caught in that amazing tropical—and I don’t use the word loosely—downpour as I ran to Brighton station to find that my last train had gone.)
I’ve just seen a disturbing thing over at Norm’s place. Alan Johnson, a prominent figure in Labour Friends of Iraq, has answered some bonkers fundamentalist’s denunciation of the electric guitar with a selection of guitar moments. There are about twenty-five more or less famous guitarists named in his post. Of those, the half-Irish, half-Brazilian Phil Lynott is the only one who might possibly fail the paper bag test (after a long time under a sunbed).
Anyone who knows me will be well aware that I am not the sort of person who celebrates Black History Month or tries to claim that Jesus Christ was “a person of colour”, but this isn’t a list of great moments in golf he’s presented us with here. I mean, a list of great guitarists with [excuse me for the PC] no African-Americans?! Imagine a list of twenty-five great violinists with no Jews. To give you some idea of what a pathetic display of post-punk, white-boy, NME-reader cluelessness I am talking about here, this is a list of guitarists—I say again Foghorn Leghorn style—this is a list of guitarists which starts with Noel fucking Gallagher and does not even mention Jimi Hendrix.
You’re a nice and principled bloke, Alan, but I’m not going to be raiding your CD collection any time soon.
Hot Wheels emailed me yesterday, asking if I had been getting enough sleep lately because she had seen a couple of typos in recent PooterGeek posts. It is true that I’ve been sleeping erratically—bloody Autumn—but it’s also true that Hot Wheels has been critically reading The Boy’s thesis for weeks. She is probably at the stage where she can now see typos in DNA sequences.
Anyway, telling me PooterGeek is getting glitchy without telling me where it’s getting glitchy is not helpful, young lady. And as for you, little Leasey, you are obviously losing your edge if Helena is out-proofing you. Sharpen up!
You may now return to your duties. Good day.
You don’t have to be an Aston Villa supporter—or even a football fan (not that the two things are necessarily related)—to appreciate the miserable poetry of this eBay item description. It’s of a Villa away shirt dating from about a year after I could last reliably name all the members of the first team.
Look at Europe’s light pollution. As a poster on The Motley Fool points out, the London-to-Preston stretch of Britain appears to have a higher density of electrified living than anywhere in the continent but the Ruhr/Benelux region.
Try to be witty about that one, PooterGeekers.
When I’m browsing the Web, I usually do so with an alternative browser, boasting pop-up blockers, referer spoofers, and ad filters. (I also wear an all-body condom and a bullet-proof vest.) This is faster, but looks—to other, less obsessive, people—strange. There’s no visual spam. Where most people see animated games inviting them to “SQUISH THE SPIDER TO WIN A MAC” and find that every broadsheet article they read is bordered by an invitation to take a test drive in the new Passat, I see blank spaces, chequered with rectangular grey boxes. It’s like watching a commercial TV programme from a videotape and skipping over the commercials.
At the weekend, I was looking at the Vatican Website (don’t ask—there might be a post here later about what else I found there) and Iwas shocked to see the top half-inch banner of some of the main pages disappear into a grid of grey and white. Are things so bad for the One True Church that it has to offer vistors to its Holy Webserver a chance to “CLICK ON OUR LADY AND WIN AN IPOD”? Perhaps it’s a link to the Vatican eBay shop where you can buy “The Pope Is Dope” T-shirts? Sadly no. Loooking at the page on an unblocked Windows box it turns out that every page is headed by the slogan “Year of the Eucharist”. The promotion is nearly over now—it ends this October—but you’ve got to admit that twelve-month special offers are a bit tacky for the “original and best” purveyors of Christianity.
Anyway, sitting in front of an unfiltered browser it was inevitable that one of the newly revealed Web ads I’d see next would be one for an online dating site. These usually depict an off-duty supermodel type as likely to sign up for Match.com as (s)he is to live in a trailer. That used to be the way anyway. Now? Well, girls, can you tell me what this is about?
Call me a heterosexual male unqualified to comment, but I’m guessing he isn’t setting any of my readers’ pants on fire, regardless of their sex or orientation. At least it’s possible to see from the photo why he’s “single, too”. If that’s what the competition’s like then maybe I should sign up.
Recent Comments