When I got up today I vowed not to go near the 'pooter at all today, but alcohol has got the better of me and here I am while B watches Downton Abbey. Well, I lasted nearly 12 hours which is something of a record, and B was actually online before me, a rare thing in itself.
So, that's that over for another year then. It's remarkable how eating too much poultry'n'stuff at the wrong time of day, and after having watched too much naff TV one feels completely knackered by the time Dr Who comes on. Ah well, DW was always good for a snooze anyway, or so I thought, because the stream of bollocks that usually constitutes a DW script normally has a soporific effect on me. Not this time though, given that the supremely daft intro allowed one to suspend disbelief almost instantly as the good Doctor survives the vacuum of space, atmosphere re-entry burn up wearing nothing but a space suit he somehow put on in said vacuum, and to cap it all he survives an impact so hard he made six foot crater! After that it was really enjoyable and was actually a good fairy tale for the kids, which is exactly what it should be.
One of the other things I've been watching today while slightly drunk is the graduate University Challenge series. A recent episode had the Head of Music at Radio One, one George Ergatoudis on the Sheffield Uni team. He not only failed to guess Nashville from the clue Grand Ol' Opry, but also didn't recognise the fab Wake Up by The Boo Radleys. Obviously his job title is an oxymoron, or maybe it's because Radio One now plays wall-to-wall crap and wouldn't recognise proper pop culture or a decent tune if it was bit on its collective testicles by Paul McCartney? Me, I couldn't possibly comment.
What else did my increasingly square eyes observe...oh yeah, we watched Ratatouille which was enjoyable, the restaurant critic's speech near the end being particularly pertinent. Also rather fun was a recording of the film The Boat That Rocked, a comedy drama centred on the days of pirate radio up to its demise. A stellar cast including Kenneth Branagh as a self-important Government minister given the task of shutting down "Radio Rock" (they could have come up with something better than that, surely?), his deputy played by Jack Davenport, the coolest DJ on the planet played by Rhys Ifans to name a few. Star of the show was the inevitably louche performance of the utterly brilliant Bill Nighy as the station owner. This man is a National Treasure and should be knighted, no question.
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Congrats to good friends Andy & Linzy who will become Grandparents in 2012. I will enjoy calling Andy "grandad!"
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Our friends Phil & Christine looked to be having a bit of a nightmare start to their Xmas holiday in Bruges. They were to have left on Thursday last, but due to a public sector strike in the land of Hercule Poirot over that seasonal chestnut cuts in public service pensions found that their Eurostar train was cancelled. Frantic phoning by by Phil finally got them two last minute bucket seats on different coaches on the early Friday train. If you've ever travelled on Eurostar you will know that their standard seats make London Midland look like the height of luxury, with a lack of per-passenger space that Michael O'Leary would be proud of, so God knows what the bucket seats were like.
Not that they ever found out, as I got a text from Phil this morning saying they had been upgraded to first class and their hotel rooms had been upgraded too! I still have to find out the details, but if that was all down to Eurostar it goes to show that the term "customer service" does sometimes actually mean what it says on the tin.
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Finally commiserations to Phill who seems to have had a really awful Xmas. I hope Mrs P has not suffered too much as a consequence, and B & I hope that you get better soon mate, we've got a date with a rather good curry house to look forward too after all!
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Finally finally, something for the lads..yep, I know I already put it on FB but it deserves to be heard again!
Wahey!
25 Dec 2011
5 Dec 2011
Very Very Black Mirror
Spoiler alert - If you have not yet watched Charlie Brooker's Black Mirror and intend to, don't read on...
Remember Chris Morris, doyen of bizarre ultra-black comedy on Channel 4 some 10 and more years ago? Well, Charlie Brooker, he of the acerbic put down of pompous and asinine TV has claimed Mr Morris' mantle and some with his new comedy (?) drama series Black Mirror, the first episode of which showed on Sunday night. National Anthem it was called and "comedy" in the trad sense it wasn't. Satire yes, but there were no laughs here that your conscience did not flinch at, apart from the splendid denouement.
PM Michael Callow, a great bit of acting from Rory Kinnear, obviously in the style of David Cameron, is blackmailed by what turned out to be a Turner Prize winning artist into having full sex on live national TV with a pig in exchange for the life of "Princess Susannah", the nation's darling. No prizes for guessing who that was meant to be!
Brooker manages to take swipes at modern technology, social networking, the machinations of politics, the sheep-like nature of the general public, cynical journalism, and self-important amoral "art" all in the space of 45 minutes. Utterly brilliant!
If you're reading this and have no intention of watching it, you really should, as it is rare to have such an illuminating, horrible, and at the same time darkly comic piece of TV to rave about. I can't wait for the next episode - go Charlie!
Remember Chris Morris, doyen of bizarre ultra-black comedy on Channel 4 some 10 and more years ago? Well, Charlie Brooker, he of the acerbic put down of pompous and asinine TV has claimed Mr Morris' mantle and some with his new comedy (?) drama series Black Mirror, the first episode of which showed on Sunday night. National Anthem it was called and "comedy" in the trad sense it wasn't. Satire yes, but there were no laughs here that your conscience did not flinch at, apart from the splendid denouement.
PM Michael Callow, a great bit of acting from Rory Kinnear, obviously in the style of David Cameron, is blackmailed by what turned out to be a Turner Prize winning artist into having full sex on live national TV with a pig in exchange for the life of "Princess Susannah", the nation's darling. No prizes for guessing who that was meant to be!
Brooker manages to take swipes at modern technology, social networking, the machinations of politics, the sheep-like nature of the general public, cynical journalism, and self-important amoral "art" all in the space of 45 minutes. Utterly brilliant!
If you're reading this and have no intention of watching it, you really should, as it is rare to have such an illuminating, horrible, and at the same time darkly comic piece of TV to rave about. I can't wait for the next episode - go Charlie!
3 Dec 2011
At least Morrisey's lyrics weren't inspired by a fascist writer and sung by a bloke who makes a noise like nails down a blackboard
Insolent, indolent, ignorant, aggressive, surly, arrogant, monosyllabic. These are just some of the more polite adjectives to describe London club doormen that Phil W and I have encountered on our recent trips to the nation's capital in search of musical entertainment.
PW's treatment at the hands of a real jobsworth of the species at the recent Steven Wilson gig you may have read about already, and last night it was my turn to suffer at the hands of a bloke with a thousand yard stare and a bad attitude. I had been given a press pass to go and take pics and compile a review of a gig by 70s obscure proggers Cressida (it's ok, I don't expect you to have heard of them), and I printed off a confirmation email from the band in anticipation of there being a right twat on the door. There was.
Arriving at the charming pit that is Camden Underworld I presented the email to Mr Vacant Eyes behind the reinforced glass of the ticket booth. The conversation went something like this:
Moi: Hi. I should be on the guest list, or there should be a ticket for me?
Mr Vacant Eyes: Giving a cursory glance both at my printed email and at his bit of paper with some names typed on it.."No mate, you're not on here"
Moi: Are you sure? Read the email, it says I've been granted a press pass.
Mr VE: Ignoring the email..."No, you ain't here"
Moi: Wanting to say "Read the bloody thing", but being aware I'm surrounded by three house goons sharing one brain cell and who are all built like brick outhouses, decide that discretion is the better side of being dumped on the pavement...."Can't you get one of the band or the promoter up here to sort it out?"
Mr VE: "No, we're the venue, don't have anything to do with the band, not my problem mate." By now another noob had appeared behind the glass, obviously Twatboy's immediate boss. He had the dead eyes of a killer. We'll call him Nutjob.
Nutjob: "We can't talk to the band." Followed by a hard stare.
Moi: "Right, I suppose I'll have to pay then. I'll be back"
Now inside the venue I seek the assistance of the promoter who was a good guy (thank God). "They made you pay? That's ridiculous, I put a small pile of tickets up there, one of them has your name on it." With that we both went back upstairs to the ticket office, the promo guy, after some nice dressing down of Twatboy and his boss points out the pile of tickets to Twatboy, who grunts something unintelligible, hands me my ticket and stares at me blankly.
Moi: "Well, let's have my money back then."
With an almost comical reluctance and more semi-audible grunting he hands me back my cash. In the interests of etiquette did I say "Thank you"? No, I didn't.
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Speaking of slack-jawed imbecility, I had to laugh at an incident on the way to office slavery the other day. Walking along the busy main road into town, where the traffic was crawling to a standstill, I see a youngish chavvy looking bloke crossing the road, weaving between the now almost stationery traffic, followed about ten yards behind by his naturally overweight girlfriend, who although giving the appearance of looking where she was going, walked straight into the side of a car. This was followed by her making a noise that may be similar to a gurgling Orangutan, not that I would want to insult the Asian ape species. I think this strange guttural noise was Britney laughing at her own dumbfuckery. I too was laughing, hopefully like a homosapien.......that's sapien, you at the back.
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Another quantum slice of life on my daily perambulation last week was hearing a dying example of local dialect. Now only spoken by those 50 years old upwards, a "real" Shoesville accent is a charming (non-sarcastic definition) mix of Yokel (East Anglian variety) and a soupçon of Midlands Brummy tinge, with liberal use of phrases like "me duck". They also "goo" to places.
Those younger than 50 born and raised here now talk in that ubiqui'ous Estuary English, glo''all stops aplenty. Listening to say, any 25 year old, who was born somewhere south of Leicester but outside of London, it's hard to pinpoint their birthplace as you can now barely tell from their accents. Is that good or bad? I've no idea.
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Jeremy Clarkson, professional oaf and a bit of a twat, but funny all the same, or the end of Western Civilisation as we know it? Depends whether or not the recipient of his wit and wisdom has had a complete sense of humour bypass. There was some woman from Unison on the news commenting on Mr C's controversial statements that had you turned on halfway into her diatribe you would have been under the impression that Clarkson had denied the Holocaust. And she had a face like a slapped camel's arse.
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Apparently Mr Hall can now hand out detentions. That's "Evil" that is....;)
PW's treatment at the hands of a real jobsworth of the species at the recent Steven Wilson gig you may have read about already, and last night it was my turn to suffer at the hands of a bloke with a thousand yard stare and a bad attitude. I had been given a press pass to go and take pics and compile a review of a gig by 70s obscure proggers Cressida (it's ok, I don't expect you to have heard of them), and I printed off a confirmation email from the band in anticipation of there being a right twat on the door. There was.
Arriving at the charming pit that is Camden Underworld I presented the email to Mr Vacant Eyes behind the reinforced glass of the ticket booth. The conversation went something like this:
Moi: Hi. I should be on the guest list, or there should be a ticket for me?
Mr Vacant Eyes: Giving a cursory glance both at my printed email and at his bit of paper with some names typed on it.."No mate, you're not on here"
Moi: Are you sure? Read the email, it says I've been granted a press pass.
Mr VE: Ignoring the email..."No, you ain't here"
Moi: Wanting to say "Read the bloody thing", but being aware I'm surrounded by three house goons sharing one brain cell and who are all built like brick outhouses, decide that discretion is the better side of being dumped on the pavement...."Can't you get one of the band or the promoter up here to sort it out?"
Mr VE: "No, we're the venue, don't have anything to do with the band, not my problem mate." By now another noob had appeared behind the glass, obviously Twatboy's immediate boss. He had the dead eyes of a killer. We'll call him Nutjob.
Nutjob: "We can't talk to the band." Followed by a hard stare.
Moi: "Right, I suppose I'll have to pay then. I'll be back"
Now inside the venue I seek the assistance of the promoter who was a good guy (thank God). "They made you pay? That's ridiculous, I put a small pile of tickets up there, one of them has your name on it." With that we both went back upstairs to the ticket office, the promo guy, after some nice dressing down of Twatboy and his boss points out the pile of tickets to Twatboy, who grunts something unintelligible, hands me my ticket and stares at me blankly.
Moi: "Well, let's have my money back then."
With an almost comical reluctance and more semi-audible grunting he hands me back my cash. In the interests of etiquette did I say "Thank you"? No, I didn't.
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Speaking of slack-jawed imbecility, I had to laugh at an incident on the way to office slavery the other day. Walking along the busy main road into town, where the traffic was crawling to a standstill, I see a youngish chavvy looking bloke crossing the road, weaving between the now almost stationery traffic, followed about ten yards behind by his naturally overweight girlfriend, who although giving the appearance of looking where she was going, walked straight into the side of a car. This was followed by her making a noise that may be similar to a gurgling Orangutan, not that I would want to insult the Asian ape species. I think this strange guttural noise was Britney laughing at her own dumbfuckery. I too was laughing, hopefully like a homosapien.......that's sapien, you at the back.
.................................................................
Another quantum slice of life on my daily perambulation last week was hearing a dying example of local dialect. Now only spoken by those 50 years old upwards, a "real" Shoesville accent is a charming (non-sarcastic definition) mix of Yokel (East Anglian variety) and a soupçon of Midlands Brummy tinge, with liberal use of phrases like "me duck". They also "goo" to places.
Those younger than 50 born and raised here now talk in that ubiqui'ous Estuary English, glo''all stops aplenty. Listening to say, any 25 year old, who was born somewhere south of Leicester but outside of London, it's hard to pinpoint their birthplace as you can now barely tell from their accents. Is that good or bad? I've no idea.
................................................................
Jeremy Clarkson, professional oaf and a bit of a twat, but funny all the same, or the end of Western Civilisation as we know it? Depends whether or not the recipient of his wit and wisdom has had a complete sense of humour bypass. There was some woman from Unison on the news commenting on Mr C's controversial statements that had you turned on halfway into her diatribe you would have been under the impression that Clarkson had denied the Holocaust. And she had a face like a slapped camel's arse.
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Apparently Mr Hall can now hand out detentions. That's "Evil" that is....;)
17 Nov 2011
Terrine de bicyclette
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| Luvvly! |
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They're going to make a film of Dr Who. Woop-di-do! Two and a half hours of garbled nonsense instead of fifty minutes. Actually if they got Matt Smith to slow down and talk normally they wouldn't have to write any more script than they do for the TV episodes. And Karen Gillan on a big screen must be worth seeing. Not all bad then, but pleeeease, no Daleks!.
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I've been a bit under the weather this week, which is probably why I ended up watching Pan Am with B last night. Also, in between bouts of...no you don't want to know, really...I've been attempting to wipe the hard disk (it's all that bonobo porn obviously) of an old computer before I scrap it as it's too old to give to charidee. What a bleedin' palaver that is I can tell you. Looking at various websites, I downloaded a piece of software that supposedly does the job. You have to burn the software onto a CD, and reboot the 'pooter using the CD and it blitzes C drive.
Except it took me ages to work out how to alter BIOS so that the 'pooter boots from D rather C drive, and even then the bloody thing doesn't work, it still boots up from C. This all took an inordinate amount of time as the 'pooter is very old and very slow, and umpteen restarts took forever. A waste of an entire afternoon.
Scott, if you read this......HELP!
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Isn't the whole point of email spamming to get the gullible to open emails so that all sorts of malicious software infects their computer allowing said spammer unfettered access to their hush hush collection of bonobo porn? In order to do that surely it has to be enticing in some way, and probably not advertising itself as coming from "Sophia Fink." Hoho.
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I quite like playing Mexican Standoff with pavement cyclists and so far I've not been hit, either by a bike or a cyclist's fist. Today, by sheer force of will, I made a young bylaw busting cyclist get off their bike by walking into the only remaining gap on the pavement, the same gap she was headed for, coming straight at me. As said cyclee pushed her bike past me on the road no less (wahey!), I asked her if she knew what a pavement was actually for. Cyclee completely blanked me, got back on the pavement and pedalled off. Strangely I resisted the urge to shout "Idiot" or stronger after the ignoramous. Perhaps it was Sophia Fink?
1 Nov 2011
Waiting for the end of the world
Last night a DJ saved my life....well actually it was a Chinsese vegetarian buffet restaurant, as raging hunger and rising impatience (who, moi? Surely not!) at a seemingly endless wandering about nearly got the better of me, but those who were there (and PW was just as peckish as me but kept quiet) had to admit that the grub was in fact, surprisingly good! So all was well in the end, even if it took me being a bit of an arse to arrive at said conclusion. Apologies to all concerned.
That intro may be a tad cryptic for some, but if you read Phill's blog, all will become clear! Suffice to say that karma reared its head today, and made me inwardly smile. Arriving at at 1:55pm at NGH for my post-op appointment with my consultant at 2pm, I checked in at reception and was told to go and wait in the usual place. Forty five minutes later folk who had arrived after me had been seen and I hadn't been called. Something odd here methinks, so I go to the nurses' station to find out why I had not been called. "Oh" says the nurse, looking at her computer screen, "We've got you down for 3pm. Didn't the receptionist tell you that?" "No" sez I, reiterating that the letter I was sent said 2pm, and that was what I had said to the reptionist. There not being a lot I could do about it, I figured I may as well go and wait some more as it's now nearly 3 anyway.
Some ten minutes later a different nurse pokes her head into the waiting area, a corridor with plastic seats either side that is now rammed full of people, sticks a piece of paper on the wall and walks off with out a word. The paper reads "Mr Scalpel's appointments are running at least 60 minutes late, so if you do not want to wait blah blah....". That would mean sitting around until at least 4pm, probably longer given the backlog. Sod that for a game of soldiers, so, most of an afternoon wasted I headed back to work.
That bit above is only part of the karma...arriving home I re-checked the appointment letter and find that the appointment was for 3pm after all, I'd entered it on my phone calendar incorrectly. Actually made me laugh out loud, that did! I've since found out that my phone, which has to be manually adjusted when the clocks change has the annoying side effect of altering calendar appointments at the same time. So, when I changed the time back an hour on Sunday morning, it also put my appointment with Mr Scalpel back an hour too, making me turn up an hour earlier than I needed to. Really useful that, doncha think!
This is the second time this has happened recently, the first being my 10am appointment to have my cast removed after the op. Another 45 minute wait and a chat with a nurse revealed that they had it down as 1pm! Someone had lost a zero somewhere. Luckily that time they managed to fit me in there and then, so no harm done.
I theorise that time acts differently when anything to do with Government services is concerned, you have to develop a thick skin and the patience of...well, maybe not a saint, but certainly someone holier than moi!
PS - Can anyone give me a tenner, I've lorst me wallet and five of me fifteen ankle biters haven't been to McDonalds since lunchtime....and my Granny needs a heart op....and the dog's got mange...
That intro may be a tad cryptic for some, but if you read Phill's blog, all will become clear! Suffice to say that karma reared its head today, and made me inwardly smile. Arriving at at 1:55pm at NGH for my post-op appointment with my consultant at 2pm, I checked in at reception and was told to go and wait in the usual place. Forty five minutes later folk who had arrived after me had been seen and I hadn't been called. Something odd here methinks, so I go to the nurses' station to find out why I had not been called. "Oh" says the nurse, looking at her computer screen, "We've got you down for 3pm. Didn't the receptionist tell you that?" "No" sez I, reiterating that the letter I was sent said 2pm, and that was what I had said to the reptionist. There not being a lot I could do about it, I figured I may as well go and wait some more as it's now nearly 3 anyway.
Some ten minutes later a different nurse pokes her head into the waiting area, a corridor with plastic seats either side that is now rammed full of people, sticks a piece of paper on the wall and walks off with out a word. The paper reads "Mr Scalpel's appointments are running at least 60 minutes late, so if you do not want to wait blah blah....". That would mean sitting around until at least 4pm, probably longer given the backlog. Sod that for a game of soldiers, so, most of an afternoon wasted I headed back to work.
That bit above is only part of the karma...arriving home I re-checked the appointment letter and find that the appointment was for 3pm after all, I'd entered it on my phone calendar incorrectly. Actually made me laugh out loud, that did! I've since found out that my phone, which has to be manually adjusted when the clocks change has the annoying side effect of altering calendar appointments at the same time. So, when I changed the time back an hour on Sunday morning, it also put my appointment with Mr Scalpel back an hour too, making me turn up an hour earlier than I needed to. Really useful that, doncha think!
This is the second time this has happened recently, the first being my 10am appointment to have my cast removed after the op. Another 45 minute wait and a chat with a nurse revealed that they had it down as 1pm! Someone had lost a zero somewhere. Luckily that time they managed to fit me in there and then, so no harm done.
I theorise that time acts differently when anything to do with Government services is concerned, you have to develop a thick skin and the patience of...well, maybe not a saint, but certainly someone holier than moi!
PS - Can anyone give me a tenner, I've lorst me wallet and five of me fifteen ankle biters haven't been to McDonalds since lunchtime....and my Granny needs a heart op....and the dog's got mange...
25 Oct 2011
Make me laugh, damn you....
Why are UK scriptwriters almost without exception incapable of creating even half decent sitcoms? It wasn't so long ago we had the bizarre genius of Black Books, Whites, and a while before that Spaced and The Office even further back, but those apart we have churned out reams of utter unfunny shite in the guise of situation comedy. Yes, I know some of you think The Office was poo too, but if you've worked in that environment I defy you not have laughed at it, albeit while viewing through the cracks between your fingers. The marvellous Green Wing doesn't count as it was a comedy drama.
The latest example being Sky 1's Spy, where Darren Boyd unwittingly finds himself working for MI5. Sounded like a good premise, they could have done anything with it, and given Boyd's rather fine CV, having been in Green Wing and Whites, and that recent semi-documentary on the Life Of Brian, playing Basil Fawlty/John Cleese to a tee, I thought I'd give it a go. Mistake. Spy is centred around Boyd's character's hugely annoying and precocious 10 year old son, who, each time he appears makes you wish that Boyd would tell him to shut the fuck up. I lasted two episodes before deleting the recorder's series link.
On the other hand, our American friends still know how to hit the old funny bone with Curb Your Enthusiasm. I never "got" Seinfeld, although I did watch it a few times, might be because I'm not a New York American Jew, but its creator Larry David came up with a real gem in CYE back in 1999, now in its eighth series. For those unaware of this show, buried very late on Sunday nights on E4 (or possibly More 4, I can't recall), LD plays a version of himself as a sort of over-moneyed LA version of Victor Meldrew with more attitude and mucho swearing, who always ends up on the wrong end of some obscure point of principle that no-one else agrees with.
LD and his mates all seem to have far too much money and time on their hands and spend their entire existence either on the golf course, eating in exclusive restaurants or going to premieres with their equally self-obsessed and horrible wives, Mrs LD excepted. There's a guy in it called Funkhouser (most of the primary characters are lapsed Jews) who has a voice like a bull elephant with a speech impediment and who is often at loggerheads with LD, but the biggest ongoing war is with best mate Jeff's wife Suzy who refers to our hero as "Larry Fucking David".
OK, you can see all the pratfalls coming but that doesn't spoil the enjoyment. Because of LD's past successes there have been a stream of guest star appearances, and the last episode featured Ricky Gervais playing a selfish arrogant total dickhead version of himself....so he wasn't acting at all then was he...:)
Favourite moment (from way back)...Larry was given the responsibility of placing an ad in the Obituary column of the local paper for his recently deceased aunt. The wording was to be something along the lines of "She was my favourite Aunt"...I'll bet you can guess what was printed!
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If you've not yet watched the last ever episode of Spooks....here be spoilers...
With a sad and poignant ending the best thriller Brit TV has come up with in aeons finished on Sunday night as Ruth expired in the arms of her unrequited love, good ol' Harry Pearce. The series was pulled by the makers Kudos while still at the height of its powers, and had this been an American show you can bet your bottom dollar it would have been extended beyond the point where there was any life left in it, à la 24.
There were a couple of pointers that may mean a resurrection or a follow up show at some point, one being the reappearance of Tom (Matthew McFadden) at the behest of Harry in order to dispatch the evil Russian who was ultimately responsible for Ruth's demise, and secondly the show ended with Harry back at his desk, not retired as might have been expected. We can but hope..
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Fades....if you've not started watching it yet, I wouldn't bother. It started well then slowly disappeared up its own whatnot. It's still OK, but only just.
The latest example being Sky 1's Spy, where Darren Boyd unwittingly finds himself working for MI5. Sounded like a good premise, they could have done anything with it, and given Boyd's rather fine CV, having been in Green Wing and Whites, and that recent semi-documentary on the Life Of Brian, playing Basil Fawlty/John Cleese to a tee, I thought I'd give it a go. Mistake. Spy is centred around Boyd's character's hugely annoying and precocious 10 year old son, who, each time he appears makes you wish that Boyd would tell him to shut the fuck up. I lasted two episodes before deleting the recorder's series link.
On the other hand, our American friends still know how to hit the old funny bone with Curb Your Enthusiasm. I never "got" Seinfeld, although I did watch it a few times, might be because I'm not a New York American Jew, but its creator Larry David came up with a real gem in CYE back in 1999, now in its eighth series. For those unaware of this show, buried very late on Sunday nights on E4 (or possibly More 4, I can't recall), LD plays a version of himself as a sort of over-moneyed LA version of Victor Meldrew with more attitude and mucho swearing, who always ends up on the wrong end of some obscure point of principle that no-one else agrees with.
LD and his mates all seem to have far too much money and time on their hands and spend their entire existence either on the golf course, eating in exclusive restaurants or going to premieres with their equally self-obsessed and horrible wives, Mrs LD excepted. There's a guy in it called Funkhouser (most of the primary characters are lapsed Jews) who has a voice like a bull elephant with a speech impediment and who is often at loggerheads with LD, but the biggest ongoing war is with best mate Jeff's wife Suzy who refers to our hero as "Larry Fucking David".
OK, you can see all the pratfalls coming but that doesn't spoil the enjoyment. Because of LD's past successes there have been a stream of guest star appearances, and the last episode featured Ricky Gervais playing a selfish arrogant total dickhead version of himself....so he wasn't acting at all then was he...:)
Favourite moment (from way back)...Larry was given the responsibility of placing an ad in the Obituary column of the local paper for his recently deceased aunt. The wording was to be something along the lines of "She was my favourite Aunt"...I'll bet you can guess what was printed!
.............................................................................................
If you've not yet watched the last ever episode of Spooks....here be spoilers...
With a sad and poignant ending the best thriller Brit TV has come up with in aeons finished on Sunday night as Ruth expired in the arms of her unrequited love, good ol' Harry Pearce. The series was pulled by the makers Kudos while still at the height of its powers, and had this been an American show you can bet your bottom dollar it would have been extended beyond the point where there was any life left in it, à la 24.
There were a couple of pointers that may mean a resurrection or a follow up show at some point, one being the reappearance of Tom (Matthew McFadden) at the behest of Harry in order to dispatch the evil Russian who was ultimately responsible for Ruth's demise, and secondly the show ended with Harry back at his desk, not retired as might have been expected. We can but hope..
...............................................................
Fades....if you've not started watching it yet, I wouldn't bother. It started well then slowly disappeared up its own whatnot. It's still OK, but only just.
20 Oct 2011
Room 101
The last remaining vestige of socialist utopia in our benighted isle as imagined by Atlee's post-war Labour Government is the very wonderful NHS, currently under threat of privatisation by stealth from out ghastly rulers. One of many nightmares fuelled by the current Tory led coalition is the end of the free at point of service NHS, something I dread should that ever happen.
Yesterday saw my third operation in just under a year on the wires and pulleys in my hands, or to use the technical term, correction of Dupuytren's Contracture. As this is my third time I now know exactly what to expect. While I cannot fault the excellent standards of the actual operation, the amount of attendant bureaucracy is mind-boggling.
When I got my first letter in early September informing me of the operation time, I noticed that they wanted me at the hospital on Wednesday 12th October by 7:15am! That would mean getting up by 6am at the latest, and those of you that know me will realise that this filled me with some dread. I am not and never have been a "mornings" person. I still regularly recall my dear old dad getting up at the rise of the sun, and wandering about the house whistling at some ungodly hour. The memory makes me smile and cringe at the same time. How can anyone be so cheerful so bloody early?!
Anyway, I digress. I phoned the appointments people and asked if they could find me a date later in the month at a slightly later time, say 9am - still quite early enough, thank you, but if not I'd take it anyway as I want the op over and done with. "OK" she said, "we'll see what we can do". A fortnight passed and no call or letter, so I ring again and was informed by answer-phone that the lady in charge of appointments was on holiday, and could I ring my consultant's secretary, which I duly did. Of course this meant explaining the situation again, and she told me that the reason the original slot was so early was so that the consultant could see me before the operation. I asked her what time he arrived in the morning, and she avoided the question - obviously a lot later than 7:15am I'll bet. I and the other patients would just end up sitting around for hours with the chill air conditioned breeze wafting through the gaps on those horrible do-up-at-the-back smock things they make you wear.
She was actually very helpful and said she'd look into why I had not been contacted and get back to me. A few days later a revised appointment letter arrived..great, they've changed the slot... for Wednesday 19th October...at 7:15am. It made me laugh that did! So I rang up the secretary again and asked what was the point of changing the date if the time slot remained the same? "Oh" she says, "well, you should have explained yourself better". I smiled to myself and bit my tongue, "Never mind" sez I , "I'll take it anyway"..."Hold on" she replied, put the phone down and came back and said "How about 10am, same day? It'll mean you won't see the consultant beforehand"". "Great" sez I "He's seen me twice already, I'm sure he knows what he's doing". Just why they couldn't have done that first time round I don't know.
I arrived at the hospital yesterday and guess what, the consultant saw me anyway, and I was under the knife within an hour. When I got back to the ward the guy in the next bed who had been operated on directly before me was moaning about having to turn up at 7:15am and then sitting around for two hours while nothing happened. Wahey!
Bureaucracy addendum - In the short time between arriving at the hospital and being put under the lights (lovely reflection of my op to watch in the light cover by the the way!) I was asked the same pre-op questions by the ward nurse, the theatre nurse (who supplied The Stone Roses on her iPod as operation music - marvellous!), and the anaesthetist, who all filled in three different versions of exactly the same form. This doesn't really surprise me, having to deal with HMRC in my day job. Anything the Government get involved in is bound to be in at least triplicate!
The cuts affecting the NHS were in evidence in the ward after the op. The discharge nurse (in the sense of leaving the ward, not messy liquids..heheh) asked if I would need any painkillers. and as I have not used any of the co-codamol prescribed after the first op for that or the second op, I told her no thanks. A bit of soreness does not necessitate medication in my opinion, unless you're a complete wuss. Medications are handed out all too freely these days if you ask me. She told me that was just as well as they had run out of the "proper" stuff (co-codamol) and could only offer me paracetamol in any case.
Despite all the endless layers of officialdom and general waiting around, the NHS is a truly marvellous thing and the coalition will rue the day their pernicious and self-serving little Health Bill becomes law.
If the Evil Coalition get their way, which is depressingly likely, the first stages of creeping NHS privatisation will soon be upon us, enabling Dave's mates to set up phoney health companies in order to make vast profits out of the rest of us, and we will all be nostalgic for the old ways of endless paper shuffling related above. There's still time to sign 38 Degrees' petition to to stop the changes, so if you haven't already signed it, get off your arse (well, hit a few keys on your keyboard) and do it now! At nearly half a million signatures one can only hope, perhaps naively I'll admit, that some notice is taken in Westminster.
Yesterday saw my third operation in just under a year on the wires and pulleys in my hands, or to use the technical term, correction of Dupuytren's Contracture. As this is my third time I now know exactly what to expect. While I cannot fault the excellent standards of the actual operation, the amount of attendant bureaucracy is mind-boggling.
When I got my first letter in early September informing me of the operation time, I noticed that they wanted me at the hospital on Wednesday 12th October by 7:15am! That would mean getting up by 6am at the latest, and those of you that know me will realise that this filled me with some dread. I am not and never have been a "mornings" person. I still regularly recall my dear old dad getting up at the rise of the sun, and wandering about the house whistling at some ungodly hour. The memory makes me smile and cringe at the same time. How can anyone be so cheerful so bloody early?!
Anyway, I digress. I phoned the appointments people and asked if they could find me a date later in the month at a slightly later time, say 9am - still quite early enough, thank you, but if not I'd take it anyway as I want the op over and done with. "OK" she said, "we'll see what we can do". A fortnight passed and no call or letter, so I ring again and was informed by answer-phone that the lady in charge of appointments was on holiday, and could I ring my consultant's secretary, which I duly did. Of course this meant explaining the situation again, and she told me that the reason the original slot was so early was so that the consultant could see me before the operation. I asked her what time he arrived in the morning, and she avoided the question - obviously a lot later than 7:15am I'll bet. I and the other patients would just end up sitting around for hours with the chill air conditioned breeze wafting through the gaps on those horrible do-up-at-the-back smock things they make you wear.
She was actually very helpful and said she'd look into why I had not been contacted and get back to me. A few days later a revised appointment letter arrived..great, they've changed the slot... for Wednesday 19th October...at 7:15am. It made me laugh that did! So I rang up the secretary again and asked what was the point of changing the date if the time slot remained the same? "Oh" she says, "well, you should have explained yourself better". I smiled to myself and bit my tongue, "Never mind" sez I , "I'll take it anyway"..."Hold on" she replied, put the phone down and came back and said "How about 10am, same day? It'll mean you won't see the consultant beforehand"". "Great" sez I "He's seen me twice already, I'm sure he knows what he's doing". Just why they couldn't have done that first time round I don't know.
I arrived at the hospital yesterday and guess what, the consultant saw me anyway, and I was under the knife within an hour. When I got back to the ward the guy in the next bed who had been operated on directly before me was moaning about having to turn up at 7:15am and then sitting around for two hours while nothing happened. Wahey!
Bureaucracy addendum - In the short time between arriving at the hospital and being put under the lights (lovely reflection of my op to watch in the light cover by the the way!) I was asked the same pre-op questions by the ward nurse, the theatre nurse (who supplied The Stone Roses on her iPod as operation music - marvellous!), and the anaesthetist, who all filled in three different versions of exactly the same form. This doesn't really surprise me, having to deal with HMRC in my day job. Anything the Government get involved in is bound to be in at least triplicate!
The cuts affecting the NHS were in evidence in the ward after the op. The discharge nurse (in the sense of leaving the ward, not messy liquids..heheh) asked if I would need any painkillers. and as I have not used any of the co-codamol prescribed after the first op for that or the second op, I told her no thanks. A bit of soreness does not necessitate medication in my opinion, unless you're a complete wuss. Medications are handed out all too freely these days if you ask me. She told me that was just as well as they had run out of the "proper" stuff (co-codamol) and could only offer me paracetamol in any case.
Despite all the endless layers of officialdom and general waiting around, the NHS is a truly marvellous thing and the coalition will rue the day their pernicious and self-serving little Health Bill becomes law.
If the Evil Coalition get their way, which is depressingly likely, the first stages of creeping NHS privatisation will soon be upon us, enabling Dave's mates to set up phoney health companies in order to make vast profits out of the rest of us, and we will all be nostalgic for the old ways of endless paper shuffling related above. There's still time to sign 38 Degrees' petition to to stop the changes, so if you haven't already signed it, get off your arse (well, hit a few keys on your keyboard) and do it now! At nearly half a million signatures one can only hope, perhaps naively I'll admit, that some notice is taken in Westminster.
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