King Librarian not fond of bloggers

I was going to read the full article of this, but that first paragraph was enough to meet my intellectual needs.

Hello! We're cockneys!

The Londonist is looking good these days. Lots of posts, interesting topics and great instant repsonses ("there's snow on Oxford St!"). But why slag off Jamie Oliver? So obvious, no? So he's spent the past few years being an irritant with a supermarket advertising deal, but if you can still muster up the hatred then you must be pretty sour spirited. Going for the whole fat lipped mockney with a lisp routine is just lazy - we've heard it all before. Yes, the sainsbury's light hearted cockney geezer episodes can leave me paralysed with mindless rage. (Although at least they're not as bad as the bum-clenchingly embarrassing Asda ad courtesy of Mrs Osbourne (not since Doctor Who have I had to hide my head under a pillow with such regularity)). But since I haven't recently inspired someone to learn to cook, attempted to campaign for better food in schools, or helped any badly educated losers to find their way again, I think I'll sit this one out. And for a bloke who so obviously struggled at school to have worked so hard to make it in life (and none of this "his dad owned a restaurant" bollocks - he did all the shithole 5am bread making routines same as everyone) you'd have to be an embittered old curmudgeon to work up proper hatred for him.

Fired up about smoking

This made me laugh a lot. I don't care if people smoke but I don't understand why they think it's acceptable to smoke around people who don't. Sister 2 smokes and she's always done it outside even in her own home. So maybe I was just brought up thinking that's what everyone did. Anyway, I'm not going to rant and rage because I know that way misery guts lies, but Benzaemon hit the nail on the head with this:

"the smoker will usually say `do you mind if I smoke?` to which I always reply `I`d prefer if you waited untill after we`ve eaten` to which they will then say `tell you what...I`ll just breathe away from you` to which I reply `Great! Thanks for the utterly superficial offer`. I only reply that in my head though."

Great Tits as far as the binoculars can see

Bird watching continues apace in my fun-filled life. We put up some more bird feeders over the weekend and now there are: blue tits, pied wagtails, a woodpecker (although I can only hear it tapping and haven't spotted it yet), robins, sparrows and also Great Tits. Milway's already got some mileage out of the hilarious email I sent him telling him "there's some great tits on your nuts", but I'm taking the whole thing a step further in the next paragraph.

It started snowing while I was out putting a bowl of water on the shed for my new found bird friends. I walked back round to the front and heard a girl say "oh look (someone's name)! It's snowing!" I looked up across the road and there she was, leaning out of the window of her fourth floor flat, completely starkers. And rightly so - she had great tits.

Bloglines, Brooker and Banessa

Despite having a Bloglines sub for quite a while, I've remained unmoved by its charms until now. Suddenly the bulb fizzled into life above my head and now I can see the light. I've had a spate of frenzied subscribing to my latest regular reads, so if idle curiousity takes hold of you, I'd recommend checking out my favourite blogs - I have superlative taste in these matters.

One blog I can't find the feed for is Lady Muck, a blogger supreme, who writes a lot about TV and film and is generally amusing. I expect everyone knew all about her ages ago, as I always suspected. She either already has her own column in one of those titles she writes for, or she's quite rightly expecting an offer any day now. Maybe she could go for Charlie Brooker's Guide column. I read the Screen Burn book the other day and hooted snotfully in public places in uncontrollable, uncontainable delight throughout. Now, however, with the advent of a comedy show that's only so-so (I'm watching it more out of loyalty than anything else), I find his columns that bit harder to read.

And don't I just sound like one of those pompous, bitchy bloggers who take delight in slating people for the slightest thing. The fact is, I'd give a virtually redundant part of my anatomy (a little toe, say, or one of my kidneys) to write as well as him.

Anyway, on to more important matters. Vanesita will be returning home soon. Hopefully to relearn the accepted views on fluffy bunny wunnies and poor animals kept in cages (they're for oohing and cooing over in the wild and buying in waxed paper wrappings from the local ethical famer's market, Vanessa. Honestly, you've turned positively heathan.) When I say "return home" of course, I mean home to me in London, in a nice flat round the corner from mine. Not home to bloody Keighley, or Canada, or Japan or any other foreign clime. It's time for Mrs Village of the Wolf (which is the new surname she'll be taking soon. Whatever happened to the rampant feminist I fell in love with?) to come back to my loving arms so we can take London by storm together. Once she's back and settled, and her sexy, swarthy, salsa dancing mucho macho husband has been taught how to recognise when he's being chatted up by a man (he's going to be in for a shock when discovers that straight men in Britain don't know how to swivel their hips), I've got big plans for us. This time next year we'll be supreme beings. Or, at the very least, out on a Friday night.

Blinded by the tat

I found myself in London’s “up and coming” Balham the other day. Which, of course, means it’s a slumland with po-faced eating experiences. A prime example of this would be the newly arrived “Italeria” which offers the nauseating strapline: “Artistically Italian”. Makes me want to chew my own hand off and hurl the bloodied limb through their expansive windows.

Wandering along, I got sucked into one of those shops that specialises in selling crap. Novelty lights, Elvis mugs and plastic Hello Kitty wallets are all on offer within the cramped confines of the over-stocked store. I find these places alarmingly appealing. And judging by the countless other females all wandering zombie-like around the cases of tat, I’m not alone on this one. Maybe it’s the sheer volume of glossy plastic goodies, with images of Hollywood’s golden age and just the right number of Swarovski crystals littered about the place, that makes these trinkets seem like objets d’art. All together there, under the twinkling glow of complementary lighting, they look like items that could make your life that little bit more fulfilled. And when you buy them, they’re so beautifully wrapped in tissue paper and little baglet, that they feel mighty special.

Of course, once you get them home to view them in the cold light of day, the hazy, diamante-studded veil is lifted and you see your goods for what they are: cheap Chinese-made crap poorly masked with a painted Marilyn Monroe transfer.

What makes us hanker after these over-priced knicknacks just because they’ve got an ironic knitting pattern ironed onto the front of them? It’s as if the tinkling bell as you open the door administers an instant lobotomy, leaving you unable to have a rational response to instant bonsai kits, Betty Boop watches and heart-shaped frying pans. And just because those iconic film still birthday cards can’t be bought in Clintons, it doesn’t make them any less naff and irrelevant. And yet, armed with this knowledge, I still feel myself being slowly overcome by the Ayurvedic scented candles, fuzzy scatter cushions and pointless wood puzzles. I spend fortunes on gifts for people which, once wrapped, are revealed in all their worthless glory. Too many times I’ve only just resisted stooping to “accidentally” leaving the price tag on. But I’m getting better. I’m learning my lesson and becoming more immune to the fairy lit items laid before me.

I left with a game of “Spuddle” and a Yellow Submarine card. Which is an achievement of sorts. Small steps, eh, small steps.

Too good looking

I'm having serious blog envy at the moment. It strikes me that far too many people have far too much knowledge of weblogging software - far more than is strictly decent to my mind. I'm fairly geeky. Why don't I have an innate understanding of coding and css stylesheets and other html-style thingamyjizmos? Really, must you flaunt your pretty little blogs about the place with such flagrant disregard for those of us still using stylistically-challenged blogger templates? I feel like a second class citizen. I have spent a fair few hours staring balefully at various downloadable blogging platforms, only to discover that they require all kinds of knowledge that I have neither the time nor the inclination to acquire. You're all busy people, right? When are you finding out about this stuff? WHEN? Tell me. I'm doing something wrong here. Problem is, as soon as I try to read up about this stuff, I can feel the stress levels rising, and within minutes I'm edging dangerously close to a pulmonary embolism. Just sticking in Haloscan required a full 4 hour lie down to recuperate. If only someone could just drop the secrets of the dark arts directly into my brain. Then I too would have a cute little blog to show off to the world. Either that or I need to get me a geek friend.

Real Ale for Real Men

Such is the glamour of my life that I spent all afternoon at the Battersea Beer Festival, in what appeared to be a local town hall. Type of place you normally see school nativity plays performed. I went to the one in Olympia last year and it was fun - lots of boys and girls my age. This one was full of the usual CAMRA stereotypes. Beards aplenty - on the ladies as well as the gentlemen. Beer bellies, knitted jumpers, hygene issues and UKIP memberships galore. There really were some "characters" there. One old gentleman (looked like Captain Birdseye) fell and bloodied his face; a wobbling, greasy haired man appeared to be suffering from rickets; another, in yellow anorak wandered dementedly round and round; and a young man old enough to know better attempted to glide about the room, apparently believing himself to be a creature of the night. Foolishly, I dressed up for the event and felt not a little out of place (when you work at home any excursion into the outside world is an even in itself). Still, I got to drink nice beer all afternoon long and talk nonsense to friends - and it will be something to tell the grandchildren about as they nestle on my flabulous ale gut in 40 years' time. And the ladies' loos were beautifully clean. No one in them, you see.

Hello?

There was me thinking I just posted an update on this blog. Evidentally I didn't. Either that or Blogger is trying to play with my mind and make me think I've gone mad. Who knows where those little lost posts go. Maybe they're with the children in that Chris Rea song. With god in paradise. Having their feet rubbed.

Yes I am drunk, in case you're wondering.