tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-211701902024-03-19T08:06:17.782+00:00Oblong SconeContains mild perilOblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-21194213254162719932024-02-16T22:16:00.004+00:002024-02-16T22:51:09.553+00:00What lies with dinner.<p>Crushed potatoes.</p><p>Not mashed, crushed. </p><p>Not softer spuds.</p><p>Brittle not mushed. </p><p>Hail though potato</p><p>Oh friend of mine. </p><p>Without you I’m so lost. </p><p>So Carb me like I need you to. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-269866471488534392023-05-06T23:14:00.001+01:002023-05-06T23:14:42.062+01:00Coronation<p> And so we come to the end of a day. A momentous day. Almost more than momentous. Almost a day that can't be described using the English language, or in fact any language that has words. Because words are out of their depth today. Words are embarrassing themselves. Words have massive holes in their pants. We should all stop talking, writing etc. The very act of communication has been shown up for the fraud that it is. Consciousness itself, guilty of being wholly unprepared by the solemnity, the pageantry, the commitment to service, we have been a witness to. </p><p>The sword held single-handedly by an empress MP Mordaunt, wrapped in a wizards cloak. The sword put down and picked-up again and then put down and then passed across and then paid for and then picked up again. I don't know where the sword's gone? We should find the sword. </p><p>No more "Queen's Consort". Now just "Queen", like the band. Prince Harry was there, placed carefully behind the hat of Princess Anne. And Andrew was there, which was significantly less momentous. </p><p>God Save the King. </p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-39838282293704167182023-04-14T13:06:00.000+01:002023-04-14T13:06:09.569+01:00Breakfast<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No sausages left.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">All gone.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Taken while my eye was off the ball.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sausages consumed by structured souls </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">who attend breakfast buffets "on time".</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Those Prompt Sausage munchers know</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The early bird catches the piggy worm.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Held teasingly in the beaks of accountants.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Whilst I am left with bacon.</p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-72601962312143436912022-10-12T22:28:00.005+01:002022-10-15T20:27:41.443+01:00Meaninglessnessnessness<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqiwCpjjIU0UVSFJ6H_SRwp1QA95I1ble5isAnlADqqJ6phKn7aB-YWndvUFs0Zf9Kvhpwn3aZnHlg7J5f_CEYyaXZ66UiGJL0j7-FL-AMi4mdZ78LWTIb2LTZJF8HRiqn8h1uzXjkVM7oWT8CKGVFJBElm1kXbtwVsOlxvj9Fn-0o5MfTA/s606/mike-oldfield-moonlight-shadow.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="606" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqiwCpjjIU0UVSFJ6H_SRwp1QA95I1ble5isAnlADqqJ6phKn7aB-YWndvUFs0Zf9Kvhpwn3aZnHlg7J5f_CEYyaXZ66UiGJL0j7-FL-AMi4mdZ78LWTIb2LTZJF8HRiqn8h1uzXjkVM7oWT8CKGVFJBElm1kXbtwVsOlxvj9Fn-0o5MfTA/s320/mike-oldfield-moonlight-shadow.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />You’ll have to excuse me. I’m experiencing a moment of extreme clarity. I have seen deeper into something than perhaps could be expected of even the most serious man. I have interpreted past the sum of parts and find myself staring into the cold hard centre of a middle distance. What a distance that is. <p></p><p>And just look at the sea, isn’t it big. Bigger than our sulking imagination can handle. Even bigger than a bus. A big bus - multiple decks with each level representing some layer of consciousness or something equally equal. Layers of a cake with each one a levels on a bus. A maximum of two levels to stop the boss toppling and thus upending the cake as it navigates twists is the never ending road that will eventually come to an end.</p><p>To think just twenty minutes earlier I was buying jacket potatoes from the Coop, and now here I am, wind blowing through my long hair (I don’t have any hair), standing rigid and reflective on the edge of a cliff on the Dorset coast, realising that existence is bigger than the triviality of my everyday activities. </p><p>A wave hits a rock, spray disseminates uproariously in slow motion. A temporary increase in the in volume of the background music. Something classical in a particular key. </p><p>I’m so past the point of caring about any things that are the actual thing that they are. I will no longer deal in such antiquities. Moonlight Shadow starts and I turn around to stride confidently towards you as everything fades into an unforgettable deep black. </p><p>This is how I spend my time now that Neighbours has finished. </p><div><br /></div>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-10779891602888164872022-10-06T22:30:00.009+01:002022-10-06T22:44:07.704+01:00Password Expired<p>My password was about to expire. I've been told this by a personal computer in no uncertain terms. It has been made more than clear to me - more than clear to me - that I am expected to choose a new one. </p><p>I thought about what it should be. It had to be memorable, have a mix of capital and lower-case letters, with maybe the odd numeric thrown in. It had to say something about me. Something positive, yet something no-one else would consider about my character if they looked at me hidden underneath this thick thick jumper. It had to have a beginning middle and an end, a driving narrative, a startling beginning and a devastating twist at the end repeated again and again in an infinite line of be-straggled asterisks. </p><p>Any missed detail, how ever slight, would leave me open to a savage and violent attack. My account hacked, my Spotify T’Pau Hidden Gems playlist published on social-media, printed on posters, displayed on billboards, read out on American talkshows. </p><p>I clicked to change. First I must type the old password, the useless empty passages and cod-philosophy. The mis-guided attempts at humour when everyone else just wanted to have their moments of grief. I victoriously thrusted my index finger down to “Enter” with firmness and finality, knowing I will never have to type, to think, to inhabit such feelings again.</p><p>And now the new password:</p><p>“Maybe I was wrong….” I started.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-57182539250378107632022-10-05T22:51:00.003+01:002022-10-05T22:56:15.814+01:00Coincidence?<p>“Fancy meeting you here”</p><p>We’re both doing the same dull thing at the same dull time, because it’s the most likely dull thing for us to do. There’s no coincidence, just a lack of imagination. A dark empty void in which all we pretend autonomy. Listen to the beeps of the self-service checkout. Listen as they never, ever stop. </p><p>Coincidences are mundane common sense dressed-up in a raised eyebrow. A cheap and broken distraction from the stupid rain that stops you going for a walk at lunchtime. </p><p>"Dog," in the lost language Mbabaram, is "dog." This is a supposed coincidence, except what else could you call a dog? “Le Chien”, “el perro”, “Der Hund” are some of the other names you could call a dog if you spoke other languages in an evening class, but none of them really say “dog” as well as “dog”. To me, it’s more remarkable that anyone calls dogs anything other than “dogs”. </p><p>So if coincidences aren't going to get any better than this, let's rest our voice inflections and play Yahtzee instead. </p><p><br /></p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-84056606492119010382021-11-20T20:19:00.006+00:002021-11-26T14:51:56.549+00:00The Dark, Cold Heart of Coffee<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLa7BkYasv24iLE6a2vxzRWzmh46AJ5nIR5o3XPafgQyyWKGtAuHCGS9rdd8Fq0meal6a6MzBH4pYj72_SMVbsS31iNBC8htNhEFHCrLn9pouleHh99sQ_SYwxwrNer1GzBM0u/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLa7BkYasv24iLE6a2vxzRWzmh46AJ5nIR5o3XPafgQyyWKGtAuHCGS9rdd8Fq0meal6a6MzBH4pYj72_SMVbsS31iNBC8htNhEFHCrLn9pouleHh99sQ_SYwxwrNer1GzBM0u/" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>I have limited knowledge of coffee. It's a liquid form of coffee cake and is very popular with people. I am vaguely aware of the different types available because of my interest and commitment to popular culture. There's Latte for example, as well as double-latte, cappuccino, double cappuccino, cappuccino and egg, Expresso, Expresso and egg, Americano coffee double-bubble with egg. Basically, there are a shit-load of different coffees.</p><p>A couple of years ago I came to the conclusion that I was missing out and walked into my local coffee shop to try and get involved. I didn’t really know what I was doing, so I simply asked the lawyer behind the counter for, “a coffee”. </p><p>“So you want a cappuccino?” she replied. I shook my head and at that point knew this wasn't going to be straight-forward. </p><p>I never did get a coffee. I felt, that both me and my potential server tried our best, but we just couldn’t make it happen. There were moments when it was close, when she even went to take a cup from the pile behind her, but just as it looked like it was going to happen, another misunderstanding acted as a reset. After 10 minutes of discussion, and with the queue of people behind me growing to over 70, it was time to cut my losses. </p><p>“I’ll just have a tea?”</p><p>She shouted at a colleague who was de-cupping a table, “Jake, Do we have a teapot?”</p><p>“You don’t need a tea-pot to make tea?”</p><p>“How do I do it?”</p><p>“It’s in that folder behind you.”</p><p>“Ok…..There’s hundreds of pages in here, where’s the tea?”</p><p>"At the back."</p><p>"Which section?"</p><p>“Miscellaneous Drinks”</p><p>I held up my hand, “It doesn’t matter.” </p><p>A sad story, but that’s fine, it’s a coffee shop. I'm a clown performing in their arena. It was arrogant of me to think I could just walk into a coffee shop and order a coffee without going on some kind of course first..</p><p>But fuck-off out of bakeries, seriously. Every time I go to buy a pasty there’s some caffiene-dribbler ordering a double-misty-latte. I wouldn’t mind, because as you’ve probably gathered I’m completely rational and patient, but the process is as long as it is ridiculous:</p><p>A perfectly friendly baker will transform before your eyes from a puffy white-hatted cuddler into a fiery-eyed Stepmaster. They'll address a machine bigger than a horse and start to carry out a series of ridiculous actions. They will grab a random implement, stuff some “coffee” in the end of it, and then start whacking said random implement against the machine in the manner of someone who’s got their coffee stuck in their random implement by mistake. There's a frothng liquid that is produced very carefully before being quickly discarded. Finally, after a series of incredibly long and inconsequential random actions, a cup of some kind of coffee is produced. Unfortunately, because of the delay, all the baked goods have become stale and are thrown away. That's why now, most bakeries, only sell coffee and no longer sell baked-goods.</p><p>And it’s not just coffee shops, pubs, bakeries, museums, and swanneries where coffee is now served. According to the Office for National Statistics there are more coffee shops in the UK than there are houses, yet people now want to order their pretentious beverages in every other building that exists. It seems like the owners of every other building are only too happy to get involved in this pantomime. </p><p>I’m old enough to remember what it was like before coffee, and whilst I don’t think we will ever get back to drinking tea and eating biscuits, it would be nice to be able to get onto a bus without the being 30 minutes late to your destination because the two hipsters in front ordered Frappuccinos from the driver. And that's with the correct change. </p><p><br /></p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-89142572383839100842021-11-19T21:40:00.005+00:002021-11-19T21:40:29.102+00:00 Isn’t it getting dark early? It wasn’t like this last year. <p><br /></p><p> Isn’t it getting dark early? It wasn’t like this last year. </p><p>That’s why the badgers are not getting out of the way of traffic. Too dark. Too dark this year for badgers to sidestep Nissans. </p><p>That’s why petrol’s so expensive. Last year it was cheap. So cheap I bathed in it. Cooked my ham in it. Had extra lying around…just in case. </p><p>It’s why there’s no crisps. There were crisps in the sunshine. Lazy crisps, salt’n’Lineker crisps, crisps you could use as Lego. Not anymore. I don’t know anyone who can get their hands on crisps anymore. </p><p>It’s too dark to play football. Those that struggle on can’t find the goals. 0-0, 0-0, 0-0, then maybe a 1-0. But nobody can be totally sure it really went in. Too dark for that. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-31204333308612309502017-03-28T22:35:00.000+01:002017-03-28T22:35:13.089+01:00Selfie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Self-deprecation and I post the selfie with the comment:</div>
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"I look old..ha ha."</div>
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It's been 15 minutes and no one has left a comment telling me I don't look old. It's lucky this is not what I'm after. This is not why I posted this. </div>
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I took that picture of myself looking like the kind of person who would have no reason or interest in taking a picture of myself. In that picture I look like someone who would never care what they look like, whilst at the same time, and by pure coincidence, look like someone who spends hours worrying what they look like. </div>
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I may look old, but not as fucking old as the majority of people my age. </div>
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Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-1274063034372178552017-01-07T22:14:00.000+00:002017-01-08T10:50:41.736+00:00The Weymouth Oblong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
An American fridge the colour of an old swan will stand solidly within the tiny waves of Weymouth Bay. Once it has been there for a couple of weeks it will disappear overnight.<br />
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Someone will write a letter to the Echo about it going - not out of concern - but as another opportunity to reference their disdain for the lasers.<br />
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Dear Dorset Evening Echo,<br />
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I notice there has been a great deal of discussion about the American fridge that appeared without explanation in Weymouth Bay, and its subsequent disappearance. For the record, I strongly take exception to certain people's insinuations that it was damaged or removed by paddlers. I can assure you as a paddler myself, we have no interest or capability of getting that far out, even in tennis shorts.<br />
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I cannot say that I am particularly bothered about its "removal", but I do at least give the fridge some credit for actually having physically existed, unlike certain multi-coloured lasers beams I could mention. Why the council continues to bombard a precious natural resource like the sea with what I consider, weapons, is beyond my comprehension.<br />
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Yours sincerely<br />
<br />
Sebastian Binary<br />
Name and address supplied.<br />
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Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-20285948273077881612014-11-20T15:00:00.000+00:002014-11-20T22:33:31.378+00:00Modern Computing and Chris Packham's Lounge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br>
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Before the internet
came along, it was generally accepted that the only people who would use computers in their leisure time would be "enthusiasts". But with the dawn of computers
doing interesting things like sending smileys, showing pictures of naked people (I remember having to look at wire-frame naked people back in the eighties, you had to use your imagination, it wasn't all done for you)
and breaking news stories about cats, technology is no longer just the preserve
of the ginger bearded. People who watch operas even have a twiddle. But these non-techy
people wriggling their manicured<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>toes in
the pond of technology still seem to intuitively understand one important technological
principle: computers are binary. </div>
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Trip Advisor
demonstrates this well. As of 20/11/2014, not one single review, all of which
use a scale of 1-5 stars to indicate your assessment of a service, has
been assigned a score other than five or one stars. Every
hotel and restaurant in the world is either embarrassingly perfect or
embarrassingly embarrassing. People are either cock thrustingly enamoured with
their pork chop or upset to the point where they push their plate aside, cut
off their own penis and demand the chef cook it medium-rare as a replacement. <br>
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It's not just Trip
Advisor that is blighted with this all or nothingness, the Daily Mail website
article comments section has equal binary spiting. Except in the Daily Mail you
only normally get one side of the argument and that side will invariably be the
one that supports the supposition that, "everything is shit and it's<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>foreign people's fault and if you don't think that you're part of the PC brigade". Brigades are very bad things to Daily Mail readers. It would though, take
just one brave commenter to destroy the whole binary philosophy of
micro-computing. Type, "I can see both sides of this story," hit
"send" and we would have the next technological leap! Balanced
computing. <br>
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This can't happen of
course. Computing and that that sails on it are, and always will be, inherently
binary. Anybody stupid enough post a comment suggesting that both sides of an argument
could have merit would be castigated: <br>
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<strong>SteveFromLeeds
- 1 hour ago</strong><br>
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Maybe
there's merit on both sides of the argument?<br>
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<strong>EnglandIsNotEnglishExPat
- 1 hour ago</strong><br>
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How can
there be two sides to something? Only scitzo's think about two different things
at once. Does SteveFromLeeds have kids, does the council know he's a scitzo?<br>
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<strong>NonPCWhiteGuy
- 1 hour ago</strong></div>
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I notice
with interest that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SteveFromLeeds (if
that is his real name), makes no mention of whether he's black, Asian or
Chinese?. <br>
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<span style="color: black;">The question of whether artificial intelligence could ever fully replace human intelligence is often talked about. Maybe this will happen not by computers thinking with nuance and consideration, but by humans continuing along the path of being definitely sure about everything, no matter how little they know about it. The average person has no more idea about whether there is too much immigration in the UK than what the colour of Chris Packham's living room walls are. In fact, if somebody asked me what the colour of Chris Packham's living room walls were, I would either tell them, "I don't know" or break into Chris Packham's house, I wouldn't just get angry and type in, "off-white". </span></div>
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Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-37116811455059030852014-01-12T22:24:00.002+00:002014-01-12T22:24:56.037+00:00In a flap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes you need a flapjack. There is no metaphor here, because if there is one thing that cannot be used figuratively it is a flapjack. I'm not reporting something here, I am telling you that this is the way it must be. If you need to make an overarching point via the medium of analogy use football matches or a paperclip factory, or Belgium, leave the crazy fudged up oats alone.<br />
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Sometimes you need a flapjack. It was such a day today. The centre of Bristol has jettisoned its Chandos sandwich shop, has thrown the woman with the Salted Monks by the Watershed into mythological memories. You are a man surrounded only by pretzels. Only by pretzels. People really want to sell you pretzels. They carry plates of pretzels around offering you free sample after free sample after free sample. The world has produced too many pretzels and the pretzel foot soldiers are hungry for battle. In a few years they will be tired and disillusioned as happens in every war, but for now they only want your blood, they want it sucked out of you so they can force pretzel into its space. You will be a spongy pretzel filled doll, empty of your previous passion. Don't let them make YOU pay for their over enthusiastic knot-shaped dough baking. <br />
<br />
I'm not saying I couldn't find a flapjack, that I couldn't have walked in to any newsagents and picked out some plastic covered dry shadow of flapjack. But we both know, me and you, that that can never be enough. That it can never feed that hunger without humiliating itself. It's Emmerdale not Coronation Street, it's Chevy Chase being filmed in the shadows of Apocalypse Now 2. I stand in the centre of Broadmead a camera sweeping around me as I turn violently searching for the smallest hint of quality flapjack aroma. The street preacher who has never had a whole sentence consumed by anyone ensures us that, ",HE will take away your sin," and I know now what I must do. I must leave this place and walk for 23 minutes to Cotham Hill, because the pretzels haven't got that far yet. </div>
Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-11556709016375147032013-04-29T23:43:00.004+01:002013-05-04T23:26:54.760+01:00Post Office <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I join a line. I’m a position. I’m
near the back or I’m almost there. At one point I’m in the middle and I become
absolutely nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There’s a shout: “Turn”. We all jump 180 degrees to face in
the opposite direction. Those that were at the front have to start all over
again and those that are now at the front are experiencing something happening
far too quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“Counter number 5 please”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">She asks me if she can help. It seems too little too late,
but I don’t tell her that. In fact I fake enthusiasm while she hands me form
after form after form. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I’ll come back later with them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-84158510697318852212013-04-29T23:18:00.004+01:002013-04-29T23:18:48.596+01:00My dinner doesn't understand me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Many people have eaten pork. Some famous, some not so
famous. It’s the non-famous pork eaters that are perhaps the most interesting.
They don’t have the distractions of fame and fortune. Thus, eating pork becomes
something akin to becoming married to a person or catching a train on your own
for the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Potatoes are always there of course. Lurking in the
background with a flask of coffee and a copy of Metro. They’re content to play
second fiddle to Mr Pork today, with the full knowledge that long after everyone
has become tired with that attention seeking pig-death, they’ll be still being
invited to the plate night after night to look after the children and produce “art”
on an iPad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">To finish off there’s the green beans. Let’s all pretend we’re
happy they’re there. Let’s in fact pay them extra attention: talk to them about
their job. Discuss how motorways should be wider and longer and altogether more
satisfying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-38044486964938692992012-11-05T13:56:00.001+00:002012-11-05T16:22:55.632+00:00Egg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There's no particular point to it. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="color: purple;">No point, just expect it to be there don’t you</span>.</span><br />
<br />
You expect it?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">And it’s a disappointment if it’s not. </span><br />
<br />
What every time you see a bald person you’re disappointed that they have no hair?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">I am. </span><br />
<br />
But what happens if it’s the same person you see again and again, are you disappointed each time?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">I am. </span><br />
<br />
So if you meet someone, and they have no hair on a Wednesday, and you see them again on the Thursday, you are again disappointed on the Thursday?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">I am.</span><br />
<br />
Surely your expectation at the second meeting is that they would continue to have no hair and because of that logic it can’t be a disappointment?<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: purple;">It can be.</span><br />
<br />
How?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">It’s hard to explain things to people who aren't born to listen. </span><br />
<br />
Are they supposed to buy a wig before they see you the second time?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">If they want. It’s their head.</span> <br />
<br />
I think the act of buying a wig is disappointing.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">Well, it’s a matter of self-respect. </span><br />
<br />
Wearing a rig demonstrates self-respect.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">Wig not rig.</span><br />
<br />
That's what I said and you know it. You think wearing a wig demonstrates self-respect?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">It shows you realise there’s a problem.</span><br />
<br />
I don’t think it is a problem. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">Well you wouldn’t would you. What with what you get up to.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-183590561121858462012-08-14T16:16:00.003+01:002012-08-14T16:22:49.081+01:00A Closing Ceremony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The stadium lights shimmer against the ornate curved edges of a national treasure’s bosom. She stands proudly in front of the fake London Eye and rests lightly against her lectern. <br />
<br />
Hugh Edwards steadies his eager Welshness and whispers with hushed authority into his commentator’s microphone: “Katie Price”. <br />
<br />
“The author”, Trevor Nelson adds as if we need introduction. <br />
<br />
“Bambie’s hair extensions were beginning to need attention…” <br />
<br />
Price has started. Her authoritive reading casting an audience of 80,000 spellbound. She reads on for five minutes from <em>Angel Uncovered</em> – her third and my favourite of her novels. The camera pans slowly around the excited crowd, many of whom mouth along the familiar prose as Katie reads. <br />
<br />
Controversially she chooses to next read an extract from her new novel <em>Literally Naked Ambition</em>. A decision that draws Hugh Edwards to admit he is a little surprised.<br />
<br />
But whilst some of the crowd would have rather have heard more from the classic material, the goodwill won by the greatest athletes on this planet, papers over any tiny little cracks. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-81733611128380468802012-05-04T12:55:00.000+01:002012-05-04T12:57:26.418+01:00If I was in politics, it would be different...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Only 24% of people voted in the Bristol local elections. I wasn’t one of them. Unfortunately I was at work; and when I wasn’t at work I was at the gym; and when I wasn’t at the gym I was watching Neighbours; and when I wasn’t watching Neighbours I was wondering if I would still be the same person if my parents had called me Tarquin. <br />
<br />
So you see, unlike other people, I really had no opportunity to vote. It’s not that democracy is unimportant to me, it’s just that being called Tarquin would be very odd. <br />
<br />
It doesn’t really matter though. Because my failure to engage in even the most minimum way with politics is all the politicians' fault. Because they’re all money-grabbing, corrupt, Tory, socialist, weak, lying, damaging, “don’t understand what it’s like for the man in the street”, side-parting obseesed, sleazy, slimy, createnous, grimy, right-wing, left-wing, centreist, bentiest, slantiest, wrongiest. <br />
<br />
This is the complete polar opposite to me - who is none of these things. <br />
<br />
I will sit down and watch the football this weekend. I will take no responsibility for the country I live in – and why should I? It’s all the politicians' fault. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-24354479920255076962010-12-14T23:45:00.006+00:002010-12-20T16:26:59.879+00:00Loss<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MFTYp8QOYgC1L0n0RGEYo9EN7v1d9F4P-Wvs2MG4wewxjGnQ748U36fDuZnEYwVg-7ijcRy8Vp1YN_2bRV8wTEeG9oTg7Vx9y2ARPwp3fey2CTpuvNQaqTD9-qKf9twEj10K/s1600/master.somerfield.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MFTYp8QOYgC1L0n0RGEYo9EN7v1d9F4P-Wvs2MG4wewxjGnQ748U36fDuZnEYwVg-7ijcRy8Vp1YN_2bRV8wTEeG9oTg7Vx9y2ARPwp3fey2CTpuvNQaqTD9-qKf9twEj10K/s200/master.somerfield.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551012762881897490" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2IiRDtGyHhfOFxLdpwgLOOk6M0c78qyTaN5qRClyt1bBmZNo0_0RZrf-uh6rlIxvPaTaGl-f37e4qftUxoUmw96JPjDFhHbm3KJa8XBBCRINA1YysNpWor1nYm_46Lv8RtZv/s1600/master.somerfield.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2IiRDtGyHhfOFxLdpwgLOOk6M0c78qyTaN5qRClyt1bBmZNo0_0RZrf-uh6rlIxvPaTaGl-f37e4qftUxoUmw96JPjDFhHbm3KJa8XBBCRINA1YysNpWor1nYm_46Lv8RtZv/s1600/master.somerfield.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; ">We miss you Sommerfield and all your silly shelves full of all those things, that anywhere else, would never have been able to sit next to each other. Baked beans striking up conversations with Sellotape; cheese crying on the shoulder of Cif after falling out with an obscure Sandra Bullock DVD. It's been three months, and your tears are black ice.</span></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Co-op has replaced you and it tries its best: It wears slightly eccentric jumpers and watches films by Mike Leigh. But the flowers in its hair are from a local garage and it sells olives boringly. It will tell you about how it's put bits of blue cheese in with them, but the olives hate this imposter. They want you back Sommerfield. We all do. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">We're sorry about everything we've ever said.</p>Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-41331443765756430232010-09-26T22:09:00.012+01:002010-10-01T01:02:45.684+01:00Merry Christmas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht462wHBSqOVByoVD9i-fcoB71Ct1rVrfM45cpfhVDITpvD7-UFW0TdXDdNkWS988ngEcOH8PcfjSlnXqh5aZwE4j7cPBhuAm7gTUJ6SYGT8RPTvs7v4wahN_PlFH327USckN0/s1600/Christmas.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 201px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521333725517398850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht462wHBSqOVByoVD9i-fcoB71Ct1rVrfM45cpfhVDITpvD7-UFW0TdXDdNkWS988ngEcOH8PcfjSlnXqh5aZwE4j7cPBhuAm7gTUJ6SYGT8RPTvs7v4wahN_PlFH327USckN0/s320/Christmas.jpg" /></a><b>High-five Jesus – the Gallaries shopping centre in Bristol now has a shop completely dedicated to your birthday.</b> You can buy all sorts in there, as long as what you want to buy is sparkly and aggresively soul-destroying. You might want to accelerate your second coming Christ - get in there and change all that shiny shit into something more worthy. Something that'll make us reflect on the virgin birth and 'love' and why the sea looks so angry these days.<br /><br />But I'm going to take the next exit off this lazy cynicism motorway. For one of my favourite hobbies (listed on my CV) is to listen to people become exasperated by the premature appearance of Christmas related high-jinx. A great place for this is just outside this new Christmas shop.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Re-dic-you-lous,”</span> says the woman with eyes lost behind Dierdre Barlow's spare pair of 'sexy time' glasses; she throws her the palm of her hand downwards in reflex disgust.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“It's just so unnecessary,”</span> her friend replies, more measured, more calm; a sadness and sense loss of the times when the signs of Christmas were limited to the Queen's fifteen minute speech and September was a month dedicated to deciciding whether it was cold enough to turn the heating on.<br /><br />The only thing that can rile the middle-classes more is Easter Eggs in February. You would have to microwave Fern Britton's gastric or band to illicit more disgust than selling Easter Eggs in February.<br /><br />And so it will continue until December, when the cries of <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">'not yet, it's too early'</span> will subside and solemn serious looking elderly men with confused hair and bibles, will pick up the baton with their bemoaning of the loss of the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">'true meaning of Christmas'</span>. Unforgivable when we've had since September to think about it.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-17988023066799872962010-09-13T21:50:00.003+01:002010-09-13T22:00:46.432+01:00Bags under the eyes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrB34Fvdt_eQHaYtydVakR9Zr-vKKiwkeqxiQReAyFDWQMoAT2Aim8uV6q_iPw4I5IS_GTkkSdpw6W8oFYISWeQblVS67AkqYM1zS-cuf6cJNjDeKgh6BkzMuyyriChxYi9a_o/s1600/bag.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrB34Fvdt_eQHaYtydVakR9Zr-vKKiwkeqxiQReAyFDWQMoAT2Aim8uV6q_iPw4I5IS_GTkkSdpw6W8oFYISWeQblVS67AkqYM1zS-cuf6cJNjDeKgh6BkzMuyyriChxYi9a_o/s320/bag.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516503977450392450" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">I had nothing to offer the world today. These days happen about once every couple of months. However much I try to muster enthusiasm, intelligence or even just effort, it doesn't come. I sit at my desk, tapping 'page-up', 'page down' – hoping one of them will bring me back into the game, but the hours throw themselves away. Nothing is really getting done.</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Do you want a bag?”</span> the girl in Sommerfield asked. I didn't know. I had bought a carton of orange, chicken breasts and two tubes(?) of shower gel. I could of balanced it all without a bag and done my part to save the worldy thing that we live on, on the other hand...<br /><br />I realised I didn't have it within me to make a decision and that it had now been a good few seconds since she'd asked the question. My only option was to just choose one of the two words 'yes' or 'no'. I could spin a coin – but that would be so damningly odd I'd probably have to move flat and grow a beard. I get ginger facial hair so that wasn't an option. I decided to say the word that was the shortest and hope for the best. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"No,"</span> I said rather too loudly. She pulled back a bag I hadn't noticed she was preparing. Shit, I am such an ungrateful bastard.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Yes – actually yes,"</span> I quickly improvised, <span style="font-style:italic;">"I have got two bottles of shower gel."</span> This justification has just been confirmed as the most unnecessary since records of justifications people make in supermarkets began. She handed the bag over to me with a hesitancy and precision of a woman who was being held up by an armed bag robber. I stuffed my goods in there, looked around cautiously, and got the fuck out of there. <br /><br />I'm home and safe now and there's football is on the television. I can't remember the name of the commentator – he's the one who shouts a single word very loudly every time someone has an attempt at goal. "HEADER", "JONES!" and less impressively: "OOOOOH!" Dwight Yorke is the co-commentator. I'm not sure whether he's actually seen a football match before. He might say that about me and bags.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-90949930752919521372010-09-12T19:11:00.005+01:002010-09-12T21:45:16.307+01:00New term.It will soon be time to start the next module on my OU course. I'm doing an English Literature degree backwards. The harder courses such as 'Twentieth Century Literature' looked more interesting than 'Approaching Literature' and thus I did the more interesting ones first. Trouble is 'Twentieth Century Literature' kind of assumed you'd done 'Approaching Literature' first and thus was a little ridiculously difficult. This is yet another disadvantage to not being what people call 'sensible'. 'Sensible' can be 'washing up as you go along' or parking your car in the garage. I don't have a garage, and washing-up as I go along makes me cry tears that were meant for standing on a cliff-edge staring into the middle-distance. <br /><br />Anyway this new module is the one you're supposed to do first. 'The Arts Past and Present' is its name, or TAPAP as I confidently predict people will become irritated with me saying. It looks to involve reading lots and lots a massive text books. I guess I should get started, but to be fair to me, I have Sky Sports - so that isn't possible right now. Rupert fucking Murdoch.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-59155345138712372942010-09-12T17:55:00.002+01:002010-09-12T21:53:58.528+01:00Couple on the next table<span style="font-weight:bold;">The woman on the next table is angry about stuff. All stuff. Everything that constitutes stuff has anger aimed at it from this woman. Her husband, also in his sixties, rests back into his chair content to tiredly utter well worn mumbles of agreement. <br /></span><br />The subject of the day is benefits. Her running through of categories of people that 'shouldn't get a penny' quickly disqualifies anyone who's not white, middle-class and over sixty. <br /><br />“They've all got tattoos of course,” she takes a second to let her whore of an observation parade itself proudly around the pub draping itself all over men with beards and hate, “how can they afford tattoos if they don't have a job?”<br /><br />“We're paying for 'em,” her husband says .<br /><br />“We're paying for 'em,” she says before moving onto fingers, “and they've all got nice nails.” The tone in her voice is now so incredulous, I want to record it; make it a lasting exhibit of 'incredulous'; play it back to anyone who asks me what 'incredulous' is. I don't – that would have been an 'odd' apparently. Stupid social conventions stopping me from recording people's conversations in pubs. Go away conventions, leave me alone. I want to be free of you, dig a hole in a field and live in it. <br /><br />Now she moves on to immigration. “You can't blame people for voting BNP,” she concludes, her husband coughs uncomfortably. Her argument boils down to that though the BNP are 'of course abhorrent', another more mainstream party should adopt all of their policies. <br /><br />But she hasn't said 'political correctness gone mad yet.' What a disappointing odious bitch she is. At least play the game woman. My bigotry bingo card is incomplete and your lazy racism is not covering all the bases it should.<br /><br />'Come on, we've got to get back,' her husband says, drinking the last mouthful of beer in a way that is some how self-congratulatory. They've got stuff to do. Probably watch Britain's Got Talent or chase Asians in their people carrier.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-22152292179517518102010-08-16T17:15:00.003+01:002010-08-16T17:43:06.662+01:00CENSORSHIP!The television programme <span style="font-style:italic;">Question of Sport Uncensored</span>, indicates that someone at some time was sat down watching the standard version of <span style="font-style:italic;">Question of Sport</span> and thought to themselves, <span style="font-style:italic;">‘this programme is censored.’</span> Either that or the BBC 1 controllers had half an hour of television to fill and decided the best way to fill it was to have Ally McCoist repeatedly say ‘fuck’. I sincerely hope it’s for the first reason. I love the idea, of the real naked truth of Question of Sport being exposed; the lie that Ally McCoist doesn’t say ‘fuck’ finally demolished so that we now live in a post-innocence-of-Ally McCoist’s potty-mouth-world. What a world: I want to die here and have my ashes thrown over the lush valleys of coarse innuendo aimed at Sue Barker.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-21469066452438052082010-07-19T00:02:00.005+01:002010-07-28T20:18:22.922+01:00Kylie Sandwich<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP-pTso8ftNrY_JpBXJqdUyt-A05RRuHwGsWy3_Tju8322BT1LywqSy2Zr0dnJ6Mns5jhW6S2l4Eoh8V4LqSKD0EKYihKccssfTFFBZ7IHXQcBYK6iDcdDbRO5Kt2vusTQnX0/s1600/rod_stewart.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP-pTso8ftNrY_JpBXJqdUyt-A05RRuHwGsWy3_Tju8322BT1LywqSy2Zr0dnJ6Mns5jhW6S2l4Eoh8V4LqSKD0EKYihKccssfTFFBZ7IHXQcBYK6iDcdDbRO5Kt2vusTQnX0/s320/rod_stewart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495386641344247858" /></a>Kylie's on the television singing live. She's not miming. We know this because the first thing she does is shout out, 'Hello, how you all doing?'. If she was miming she couldn't have done this. Now she's slightly changing the words of the song to reference the host of the chat show. If she was miming she couldn't have done this. Kylie isn't miming. SHE IS NOT FUCKING MIMING!<br /><br />The thing with buying takeaway sandwiches is. you're going to buy them from the place that serve the nicest ones, no matter how rude the staff are. I know that with this sandwich purchase insight, I've just changed the way you think about buying sandwiches. You don't have to thank me - in fact you can't. You're powerless; just someone reading words on a screen. How did it come to this? I mean really. This is humiliating - for God sake go out for a walk or read a book or something.<br /><br />Anyway, normally the rude bloke in the sandwich shop doesn't bother me. His supercilious tone and grimace at every word I utter are just shallow pot-holes along the road to my baguette bounty. It seems to be harder for him anyway: having to lower himself, as someone who prepares and sells sandwiches, to sell sandwiches to someone who doesn't sell and prepare sandwiches. Incidentally, I've got no idea what 'supercilious' actually means. It just seemed right to use it there. I'm hoping it means something like 'superior', but if it means 'eight-legged' or 'floatation device' then I apologise. But I am doing this live - there is no miming in my writing of blogs. Incidentally, how you all doing? <br /><br />Then the bloke in front of me with ALL of the 2008 tour dates for Rod Stewart's 2008 Australia/New Zealand tour on the back of his t-shirt picked up his sandwich, stepped backwards and crushed my toes with his heel. He apologised, I told him it wasn't a problem. It was a problem, it hurt my toes. Sandwich man looked at me with his, 'and what exactly are you doing here?' stare. I felt the anger that builds through pain, burning my insides. I concentrated every single available resource of my soul not to tell this man to go do something unnatural with a wholemeal baton. I composed myself. <br /><br />'Can I have a crayfish baguette please?' I said, almost like a man who hadn't just been stepped on by a fat Rod Stewart fan. In fact I could almost have been one of those casual sandwich purchasers, one who would quite like a crayfish baguette, but if it didn't happen – well there'd be no big drama – just one of those things. <br /><br />But sandwich man was having none of it. A little flick of his hair, then his body froze. His facial expression moved from boredom to unrestrained contempt. <br /><br />'Do you mean Crayfish on a bed of rocket?' he said, unnecessarily capitalising the 'c' in 'crayfish'.<br /><br />There are about twelve different baguettes available. The total number of those that have crayfish in them is one. This man's ignoring of basic set theory was without question deliberate. The man who can't let 2008 go may have crushed my toes, but this man was thumping my face with his reluctance to serve me lunch. <br /><br />I'd like to tell you how I made an amusing and cutting retort, how I found out where he lived and set fire to his dog – but I didn't. I just said 'yes.' But I didn't say 'please', and I still got the baguette. That's the Weymouth in me.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21170190.post-64986142435737129302010-05-28T09:54:00.007+01:002010-06-03T11:45:53.222+01:00A week in Derby<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeR5iCh0AMDW7hVrGBscrUGuZ_XoD_0QD6NkHC7ZpqaaCDPCsNbGaP4j6bejyGpDtDCY9KNHEcj54UBQ8wMnh_720SeXuUr482JH9pwmWjcyERAnEAs-3c38KOTGEDJOTt2hnZ/s1600/holiday+inn.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeR5iCh0AMDW7hVrGBscrUGuZ_XoD_0QD6NkHC7ZpqaaCDPCsNbGaP4j6bejyGpDtDCY9KNHEcj54UBQ8wMnh_720SeXuUr482JH9pwmWjcyERAnEAs-3c38KOTGEDJOTt2hnZ/s320/holiday+inn.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476243294178020402" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">I sit in the hotel bar drinking my pint of Stella, a beer punched in the face until it agreed to chill-out at a more moderate and conscientious 4% alcohol. My last night in the Holiday Inn Express in Pride Park, Derby. In a sense, it’s the end of a very short era; an era of four days. My era’s too small to be an era. How inadequate it is.</span><br /><br />I do not mind my own company, but sitting in your hotel room has a loneliness that overwhelms, that empties your entire vision and replaces it with a colour that failed the audition to become beige. And that’s why I sit in the hotel lounge, with my newspaper amongst tables peppered with the tired, who are all having ‘just one more’. The television keeps us warm. <br /><br />The television has dedicated itself to ITV. It’s just finished showing us a programme that had everybody guessing; trying to work it out. What was the concept? All it was (I promise you I’m not deliberately concealing nuance or deliberately deconstructing it in an attempt to piss-take), was celebrities on boats. Richard Madeley and a few others on boats against no time limit, with no challenge or danger, on boats. There weren’t even waves.<br /><br />That really was it, nothing more, nothing less. I say ‘nothing less’, the only way of having something less would be to have a camera fixed on an empty boat for an hour, or maybe me on a boat. A whole programme with me on a boat; I like it. It would be called ‘Me on a Boat’ and I would do the first series for not much money, before demanding fifty-grand an episode for the second series in which I would be on a better boat. Then I’d write a book about boats. I say write, I’d get it ghost-written, for I know less about boats than I know about you.<br /><br />‘Did you write the book?’<br /><br />‘Well…’ I’d stutter, unsure whether to lie. A smug grin would begin to build upon Jeremy Paxman’s spongy face.<br /><br />‘It was ghost-written wasn’t it?’<br /><br />‘Yes! But by a fucking ghost, Paxo; a real fucking ghost.’ And I’d have proof: a picture of me stood next to some woman who was murdered in a Yorkshire bakery in the eighteenth century and Paxman would disappear from shot, shaking and crying underneath his desk. They’d cut to an advert break, even though this is BBC 2, and the first advert would be for a sequel to my book, ‘Me on a Boat’ called ‘Even More of Me on a Boat’, which would be exactly the same but with 'out-takes' consisting of wrongly spelt adjectives. <br /><br />So, that’s been my week in Derby.Oblonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04442129963134475850noreply@blogger.com1