Friday 29 October 2010

The song remains the same . . .

I'm always interested in asking people "What was the first single you ever bought?" . . . The answers I've received in the past vary from the revelatory to the downright embarrassing! And then I thought: shouldn't it be mandatory that, at funeral services, the music should include the deceased's first single? This could prove reasonably appropriate under the circumstances . . . I've a friend in Bath whose first single was 'Touch Me' by Page Three 'stunna', Samantha Fox . . . well OK, but an open coffin would be an idea here . . . (no offence, Frank!).
   Consider this: someone in their teens in at the end of the present decade dies in the future, and cremation has been decided upon - and it just so happens that the song in question is 'Fire' by Kasabian . . .
isn't it great when a plan comes together??

Wednesday 20 October 2010

Dinner Parties

I'm sure many of us have been asked the following question: "If you could invite six people, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would you choose?" (The most obvious smart-arsed answer would be 'living' - well, dead people tend to lack certain social skills . . .) . . . however, one of my guests would be Lee Harvey Oswald, for the sole reason that I'd be able to ask him the question "So, do you remember what you were doing on the day President Kennedy was shot . . .?" . . . I just think this might clear up a few issues, that's all . . .

Wednesday 13 October 2010

With Christmas in mind . . .

Having worked during the 1980s for a Swindon company dealing with advertising agencies, I can appreciate the purpose of their trade, to coin a phrase, "the power of advertising" . . . so, here we are, in the middle of October and the commercial TV stations have inevitably started their insidious broadcasts of various retailers' seasonal adverts . . . but there are none more annoying than the major furniture retailers (who shall remain nameless - although that remains pretty obvious) . . .
   "Order Now In Time For Xmas!" - for f**k's sake, WHY? So, you've got your lovely new sofa ensconced in your lounge on Christmas morning - and one of the kids smears most of the contents of a selection box over it, because they're so excited that they can't shit! But it's begrudgingly cleaned up, in the spirit of the season . . . come Boxing Day, among your visitors is the relative of a friend who spills a drink . . . and so on, and so on: in the words of that Greg Lake song "The Christmas we get we deserve" - well, as inanimate as the sofa may be (unless it's on castors . . .), it's blameless . . . and the people who fall for this do get what they deserve . . . and, furthermore, why do WH Smith insist on still using Ruby Wax for voiceovers . . .?

Wednesday 6 October 2010

Recycle often!

You'd think by now we'd have come to terms after years of recycling (kudos to the Germans on this one, they led the way some years ago - a far more people-friendly form of participating in the fate of the planet than instigating two World Wars!) that the planet is effectively screwed anyway . . .
   However, I do my bit like everyone else . . . every other Tuesday evening, the recycling bin gets religiously put out on to the pavement, waiting to be emptied in accordance with the council's policies the following morning. . .
   When this evening I went to bring the (empty?) bins in, one solitary wine bottle had not been collected: the screw-top had inadvertently been left on . . . silly of me, very remiss, I admit: but I surely can't be any more of a fuckwit than the person at the council who decides that such a bottle cannot be collected for recycling . . . it's enough to make me want to pay my council tax late (which I do
anyway)!

Monday 27 September 2010

On the road . . .

. . . yet nothing to do with my raucous exploits with West Wilts' top light entertainment & pop combo: it's this - personalised number plates on cars . . .
   I've never really understood the need for these - are they a token of the owner's supposed wealth, or just something completely empty? I very often see a BMW driving around the area with plates that read D1JDE - looks like 'dude' (geddit?) - although when I see the person behind the wheel, perhaps he should get new plates that read C1JNT . . . or is that a little harsh?
  So, today at lunchtime, I'm strolling down Stallard Street, on my way to the TIC to do my usual Monday afternoon voluntary bit, when this vehicle passes by: a two-door saloon (didn't get the make) with the following plate: T4 PUS . . . why in God's name would anyone choose that? I've been chewing this over throughout the day . . . now, the driver was a middle-aged female, possibly named, let's say, Pamela Smith - OK, so that takes care of the 'P' and the 'S': can anyone think of a female Christian name that begins with 'U'? OK, maybe Una!!
  The point is this - so your personalised number plate says something about you . . . but a little more thought should have gone into this: after all, why would you choose letters that bring to mind acne . . .?
 

Friday 27 August 2010

Neighbours

Apparently, the 6000th episode of the Australian soap has just been shown on TV "Down Under": 5Live this morning asked listeners for their favourite moment . . . here's mine, although it's a little tentative.
   When I was living in Swindon in the '90s, my girlfriend, with whom I was living at the time, asked me to record that day's episode . . . we had cable TV (is that still around?): so,  I set the VCR with the correct time, but sadly the wrong channel . . . never understood why, that evening, she was less than keen to watch 30 minutes of news . . . in German. God, she was gorgeous . . . wonder what happened to her?
   As we're on the subject of TV, while writing this "Relocation, Relocation" is on in the background . . . those two are so f***ing smarmy, it beggars belief . . . and if that tart uses the term 'crash-pad' once more . . .

Thursday 26 August 2010

Road Safety

My kitchen window looks out onto a world which is mostly composed of the junction of Newtown and Gloucester Road . . . it could be any junction in any town in the country . . . but from my viewpoint I swear I see more assholes than any proctologist might throughout their entire career . . . surely that text that you're trying to send can't be that important, my love . . . and well done to you, sir, for managing to squeeze through that gap - pretty topical, as if you carry on like that, you'll end up being fed through a tube . . . and it'll be no more than you deserve!
   A friend of mine told me yesterday that she was, quite rightly, crossing Wingfield Road at a green light, but this apparently meant bugger all to the motorist who went through the light, narrowly missing her . . . I might be pontificating here, but I also stand guilty of not observing courtesy to other road users - or do I? It's just that I do feel a little self-aware when walking on the cycle lanes . . . the cycle lanes which I've always understood were pavements! Cyclists of Trowbridge! If you haven't got the balls to use the roads, then for pity's sake walk!!

Monday 23 August 2010

Firstly . . .

. . . welcome one and all, to the place where I can vent my feelings on topics that either delight or rile me . . . these are many and varied, but will be tackled (probably through the medium of insane ranting) as and when occasion arises . . . I'll try to tailor my observations so no-one is offended (while various topics are being belittled), but, in the words of the Chuck Berry song, "You Never Can Tell" (if you're unfamiliar with this song, it's the one that John Travolta and Uma Thurman danced to in the scene from "Pulp Fiction") . . . I freely also admit that there'll be many a digression . . . and might I add that I'll attempt to be as lucid as possible . . . readers will not find the use of "text-speak" here . . .
   So, here's an observation from last Saturday, when West Wilts' top light entertainment & pop combo 'Gypsy' played at the Avon Sports Club in Bradford-on-Avon . . . parents really should put more thought into the appearance of girl toddlers aged around 12-18 months . . . admittedly. a very pretty party frock . . . but your daughter looks like a miniature Raoul Moat . . .