Friday, February 25, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Hello! We're cockneys!
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Fired up about smoking
"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."
Monday, February 21, 2005
Great Tits as far as the binoculars can see
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.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Bloglines, Brooker and Banessa
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.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Blinded by the tat
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.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Too good looking
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Real Ale for Real Men
Yes I am drunk, in case you're wondering.