I take myself off to work and indeed bring myself back home again solely through the use of those bowed and gnarled twig-like devices of mine called legs. This means that, as I walk past an infants' school every day, I pass the same parents walking their kiddies to the school gates. For logistical reasons that are too dull to explain I walk on the opposite side of the road to most of these parents and kidz, but some do pass me on "my" side of the road.
When eyes meet and seeing as how we see each other every day I usually manage a smile and nod of the head, but I make it a rule to NEVER say "Good Morning". This is not because I am a misanthropic curmudgeon, well not completely anyway. No, it's because once you start giving verbal acknowledgements it becomes an expected daily ritualistic event until one day one of you will inevitably make the gauche mistake of forgetting the mumbled greeting, probably the day when one is under a hangover fug, or has had a row with the missus/hubby/dog. By saying nothing and merely nodding and smiling this faux pas can be avoided.
This morning one of my regulars smiled and said the dreaded "Good Morning" to me as we passed each other, me maneuvering round her three knee-high sproglites. I nodded and smiled, but said nowt in reply....
...
A brief interlude of sprot...God, aren't Spain (the footy team not the country) boring with their oh-so-perfect "taki-chicken-tikka" or whatever their dull dull dull passing chess is called? It got to the point last night where after manfully fighting coma for 90 minutes I gave in to the veil of sleep. Even if Germany win tonight, I'll want them to beat the Spaniards in the final...did I really say that? FORZA AZZURRI !!!
...
One of my friends was bigging up the latest waxing from Linkin Park on Farcebook the other day, and as I had her down as a lover of R&B (modern definition) and all that implies I was intrigued. I always thought Linkin Park were a sort of cartoon punky rock band. Listening, very briefly it has to be said, to the new album Living Things proved how very very wrong I am in my pre-conceived imaginings.of this band. I am vaguely right about my friend's tastes though.
...
And now for some grammar pedantry!
You will soon notice something about these paragraphs. The letters I write in my day job are prosaic affairs detailing clients' tax liabilities or appealing against draconian HMRC dictats and so have to be written in business speak. This is one step above the truly execrable management speak that I am sure we have all suffered in our working environments at some point and involves what boils down to an introduction an explanation and a conclusion.
These tablets of awesomeness are written with minimal punctuation as you may have already worked out from the preceding paragraph. When you read these things your noggin automatically punctuates for you as both Jack Kerouac and I have found, not that Kerouac ever wrote a letter to the IRS! As a result I sometimes find it difficult when spewing forth allegedly creative writing to punctuate fully, and this includes almost no use of semi-colons which, as has now been pointed out to me, can be quite useful. I remain convinced that use of semi colons is in fact addictive; a dash serves equal purpose. There you go - two related clauses that independently make sense....should I have used a colon instead of a dash back there?
28 Jun 2012
23 Jun 2012
Sieve-like and fuckwitted
I've just read Phill's blog. Read the first part here. After reading that I thought "Phill you are a cock - what on Earth have you agreed to do with t'wife on the very night Ingurland get to win on penalties in the quarter final of Euro 2012 against the Eyetallians?"
I go get B, I say "Read this - what has the idiot gone and done? Now we won't be able to shout at the TV together". B reads it, looks at me and says "It's not the quiz, is it?" The penny didn't so much drop as become a thing with the weight and density of a neutron star as it plummeted through the Earth's crust with a grim and terminal velocity.
The only thing I can say in my defence is that although going to The Adelaide pub quiz on a Sunday was briefly discussed last week, and I do now recall saying I was up for it, actual dates were not mentioned and nothing was definitely decided. Mrs P obviously thinks otherwise! I will be in the doghouse when I tell them I'm not going...ho-hum.
Phill and me are idiots who have memories that are indeed sieve-like and fuckwitted. Who are you again?....
....
Had a rather nice curry last night in the Imperial Raj on Kettering Road. A chicken thing with loads of fenugreek. This morning I discover that an excess of the pungent green herb does not particularly agree with me. Oh well, it was scrummy at the time.
...
Perambulation exclamation #356:
Walking to work the other week it was really tipping it down, so I togged up for the occasion with waterproof jacket and umbrella. About ten yards in front of me were two young teen schoolgirls. Both had hoodies over their uniforms, and being hoodies as the name suggest, had hoods. Neither had their hoods up, both looked like they were an inch from drowning in the open air. I don't understand kids, someone please explain.
I go get B, I say "Read this - what has the idiot gone and done? Now we won't be able to shout at the TV together". B reads it, looks at me and says "It's not the quiz, is it?" The penny didn't so much drop as become a thing with the weight and density of a neutron star as it plummeted through the Earth's crust with a grim and terminal velocity.
The only thing I can say in my defence is that although going to The Adelaide pub quiz on a Sunday was briefly discussed last week, and I do now recall saying I was up for it, actual dates were not mentioned and nothing was definitely decided. Mrs P obviously thinks otherwise! I will be in the doghouse when I tell them I'm not going...ho-hum.
Phill and me are idiots who have memories that are indeed sieve-like and fuckwitted. Who are you again?....
....
Had a rather nice curry last night in the Imperial Raj on Kettering Road. A chicken thing with loads of fenugreek. This morning I discover that an excess of the pungent green herb does not particularly agree with me. Oh well, it was scrummy at the time.
...
Perambulation exclamation #356:
Walking to work the other week it was really tipping it down, so I togged up for the occasion with waterproof jacket and umbrella. About ten yards in front of me were two young teen schoolgirls. Both had hoodies over their uniforms, and being hoodies as the name suggest, had hoods. Neither had their hoods up, both looked like they were an inch from drowning in the open air. I don't understand kids, someone please explain.
4 Jun 2012
Living Underwater
For the past six days my right ear has been completely blocked with wax the consistency and colour of year-old axle grease. This has led to a feeling of strange detachment, as if half of me is living underwater. It has also meant that I can't listen to music as one channel is "missing" and I've discovered that the hi-fi in the office does not possess a mono button. I find life without music bloody unbearable to be frank, and, to cap it all tonight I was supposed to be going to see Gavin Harrison & O5Ric with Stickmen. That will not mean much to some of you, but this curious amalgam of modern prog stalwarts feature many excursions into King Crimson territory in their sets, most having passed through the ranks of the prog behemoths at some point or other. Bugger.
A course of warm olive oil (not the cooking variety I hasten to add) dripped into the glutinous lughole twice daily, stoppered with cotton wool, until the wax plug shifts is what I have been advised into, and so far enough dark brown ooze has been expunged to fill a clown's pocket. That may be a slight exaggeration, but exactly what is the point of all this stuff, that's what I want to know? Despite this waning of the load I'm still 90% deaf in the offending head flap and still pissed off, socialising an impossibility unless everyone else is on my left hand side.
...
Liz must have been freezing her tits off yesterday, and she and her 703 year-old hubby stood up for the entire four hours of the boat parade. Good on the old bird I say, and anyone who begrudges a bit of cheer in these stringent times must be made of wood.
...
If you were living in the UK and the right age in 1976 or 1977 you'd also have to be hewn directly from a tree not to have been swept up by the zeitgeist of the time that was the coming of punk, as the splendid documentary Punk Britannia the other night proved. Death to ELP!
...
Roy Hodgson has successfully lowered expectations for Ingurland in the soon come Euro 2012 footy fest to such an extent that they are now well below the event horizon. Hodgson has done this by picking all the English players from the team that came 8th in the Premier League. A cunning plan indeed.
Saturday's yawn-inducing friendly against Belgium saw a completely anonymous Ingurland grind out a 1-0 win, thanks largely to the efforts of Alex Oktober-Fest or whatever his name is, the only player on the pitch who looked like he was actually proud to be playing for his country. So that nadir of imbecility Andy Townsend gives the Man of the Match to...Steven Gerrard.
...
Eh, you'll have to speak up. AH SAID YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP...
A course of warm olive oil (not the cooking variety I hasten to add) dripped into the glutinous lughole twice daily, stoppered with cotton wool, until the wax plug shifts is what I have been advised into, and so far enough dark brown ooze has been expunged to fill a clown's pocket. That may be a slight exaggeration, but exactly what is the point of all this stuff, that's what I want to know? Despite this waning of the load I'm still 90% deaf in the offending head flap and still pissed off, socialising an impossibility unless everyone else is on my left hand side.
...
Liz must have been freezing her tits off yesterday, and she and her 703 year-old hubby stood up for the entire four hours of the boat parade. Good on the old bird I say, and anyone who begrudges a bit of cheer in these stringent times must be made of wood.
...
If you were living in the UK and the right age in 1976 or 1977 you'd also have to be hewn directly from a tree not to have been swept up by the zeitgeist of the time that was the coming of punk, as the splendid documentary Punk Britannia the other night proved. Death to ELP!
...
Roy Hodgson has successfully lowered expectations for Ingurland in the soon come Euro 2012 footy fest to such an extent that they are now well below the event horizon. Hodgson has done this by picking all the English players from the team that came 8th in the Premier League. A cunning plan indeed.
Saturday's yawn-inducing friendly against Belgium saw a completely anonymous Ingurland grind out a 1-0 win, thanks largely to the efforts of Alex Oktober-Fest or whatever his name is, the only player on the pitch who looked like he was actually proud to be playing for his country. So that nadir of imbecility Andy Townsend gives the Man of the Match to...Steven Gerrard.
...
Eh, you'll have to speak up. AH SAID YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)