Saturday, April 28, 2007

Rovers Kung-Foo Fighting

Always nice to see a bit of fighting. And there was a bit of fighting . The Rovers are playing Swindon at FOOTBALL ( a sport ) and there is a lot of random chanting and traffic stopping posturing. That’s there Saturday and even if I had just spelt ‘their’ properly, I still wouldn’t quite understand the logic of smashing windows in your own city to show how much you love its football team. That’s because I’m missing the deep under-current of football allegiance that only Bristol Rovers fans understand.

Anyway, my team, the mighty SAINTS, maybe being bought by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen. Will it happen? Maybe. Am I excited The answer to that question has so little consequence to the planet Earth I can’t answer it. That the big bang all those billions of years ago has created a moment of such insignificance is startling.

You might have realised I’ve not really made any point. That’s not why I’m here.

On a completely different kind of thing, I was just looking at the BBC News website and found the most British thing I have ever seen in my life. The Kent Earthquake 'In Pictures' had this Gem:

I could ask why two people have sat themselves down on plastic chairs facing downwards on a one-way street. I could ask why a girl has joined them holding a cuddly toy with rediculously long and out of proportion legs. I could also question how the BBC think this conveys any sense of an earthquake. I could ask these questions, but there's noone really to ask them too.

Monday, April 23, 2007


'Obviously, the mental image of me, sat in the back of a Merc looking smug as I’m carted off to film in Soho annoys even me.'

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Every town has someone lying in the middle of the road

Sometimes two people decide they want to fight on the traffic island of Gloucester road. I don’t know how often these skirmishes occur as I’ve only witnessed one at this location. I’m thirty years old. So probably once every thirty years then.

It really wasn’t much of a scrap to be honest. There was sporadic shouting at first. Then seconds of crappy silence with the swagger of each limited by the space available between the two dark funnels of uncaring traffic. There was a lack of focus, two lost figures in the middle of a road with anger but nothing to say to each other. Must be time for violence.

Except there wasn’t really going to be a fight as such. I know I said there was but I didn’t think you’d read this far. Isn’t there something more constructive you could be doing with your time like painting a fence or letting yourself down?

It was a push. A simple fluid movement of the arms from the stronger man as his temper folded up his face into a dirty far-right leaflet. The other man had no answer, his balance lost, his face gave away his hopeless position before his shadow met his the rest of his body. A blue Corsa was going to be where the fallen man was and quickly had to change its plans with a swerve and an unnecessary blow of the horn.

“Fuck you George” said the standing man. If I was to give a mark out of ten to the competence with which George scrambled to his feet it would be a low four, but he was upright. Unsteady, but upright. He tried to say something back. Anything to diffuse his own anger, frustration and humiliation. His confused first sound was cut short by his opponent who made it clear that any hostility, whether physical or verbal, would be met with an uncompromising response.

My walking reached level with the confrontation just as George accepted his position. He turned away and walked on the pavement in front of me, his every step a stamp on the face of the Earth. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a Toffee Crisp wrapper and at that moment his whole body decided that it was now or never. That however pathetic it was, he needed to lash out. And if George was in no position or state to assert physical dominance over a human-being; if all he had to focus his rage on was an orange coloured chocolate wrapper, than that was the compromise that he had to accept.

George screwed up the paper, his eyes turned upwards. “Wanker!” he shouted and he threw that paper down as hard as he could.

The breeze caught the wrapper long before it got near the pavement. George watched silently, as it blew upwards into the sky.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Stars and Bollocks

I’m not one for witchcraft and magic. I mean, I’ll read Harry Potter if I’m drunk enough but I wont go around casting spells on my mortal enemies – I just haven’t got the energy.

I can understand why people believe in God, Jesus and Princess Diana but I’ve never really understood why anyone gives even a second of their time to Astrology. I know it’s a well worn path slagging this stuff off and I should be turning my attention to more obscure and difficult things to criticise like biros or toothpaste, but frankly I’m lazy and know very little about pens or mouth-hygiene.

One of the most irritating aspects of the whole Astrology thing is the way certain people lump you into categories based on your star-sign. ‘Oh you’re a Cancer, that explains it.’ Yes because I was born sometime between June 20th and July 21st, I happen to have just acted in that exact way. I complained about being short-changed in Woolworths or shouted at a cat. That’s because I’m Cancer. If I’d have been born in February I would have been happy to lose a tenner to a failing shopping-chain or would have tried to reason with a pussy.

Let’s say for a moment that there is some distant truth in the whole Astrology concept. Let’s say the position of distant stars in relation to our own earth does have some affect on whether I’m going to be lucky in love this weekend. Well in that case, why don’t the people who read their horoscopes look to see if they were written by an eminent scientist, a mathematician or at least someone with a big fucking telescope. Why do believers in Astrology trust their life-plans to a page near the back of the Daily Mail or Mystic Meg.

If planet earth was going to be hit by an Asteroid Armourgeddon style, would we get Russell Grant to design and build a space rocket to go and intercept it Or would we maybe turn to NASA? Actually strike that. I think I would put Russell Grant in a rocket and fire it at an asteroid.

Thursday, April 05, 2007


There’s nothing like a meeting at work. Not of course the high-powered, full energy ones that people on the television go to, but the slow meandering blame-games, with the same points repeated until we die. Everybody disagrees, noone changes their argument, yet still a plan of action is agreed. One which is forgotten as soon as the chair is pushed back and the attendants raise to their feet.

The middle of the meeting. Slap bang in that difficult baldly structured middle-act. Everyone’s made their points. And before they make exactly the same ones again, there’s a moment of tired silence punctuated with exploding sighs and beard stroking. That’s when my mind will leave. When it takes its twenty minute holiday in a place called Somewhere Else.

Who would win a fight between Jane Seymour and Phillip Schofield? Why is that newspaper called The Mirror. Is it because reflections are some how socialist? Maybe they're just less fascist than that giant ball of fire we orbit. Could there be any other reason for a chicken to want to cross a road other than to get to the other side. How aware would a chicken be that it was actually crossing something identifiable as a road.

That leaf on that tree. Has anybody in the entire universe ever stared specifically at that leaf. Am I first and only person to do so. Nobody would miss that leaf if it wasn’t there. But then again nobody would miss any of the other leaves if they weren’t there. But then if a considerable amount of the leaves weren’t there, they would ruin the look of the tree. So I guess that leaf should hold steady, make a stand.

“Look” I say, and everyone turns to me waiting for me to repeat what I said at the beginning of the meeting. But I can’t remember exactly what it was. I’m pretty sure Jane Seymour could take Schofield.