Saucers
...
Saturday, 14 May 2011
14.5.11 Mugs
'TMWSC Junior' was, whilst on holiday, making some tea for us all, late one morning. The self-catering apartment (within which we were all loafing about) was kitted out with four cups and saucers. Now, why anyone setting up apartments still thinks that cups are preferable to mugs is beyond me. The kettle boiled, and let off the familiar burning smell that prompted me momentarily to consider reporting it to Reception.
"These cups are pitiful. You hardly tilt the kettle and the cup's full!"
Junior was of course referring to the fact that the cups held no more than four mouthfuls (something he was soon able to prove with a quite straightforward demonstration). The saucers resided (still) in the cupboard, as they were pointless.
"I like the fact that the milk's called Sandra", he said. There was nothing to say in response to this; as brand names go, it was a peculiar choice.
"Right, how many sugars go in these thimbles?"
The cups sat on the worktop, awaiting sugar input, and I chipped in with a reply for two of the cups; "Two heaps".
This caused an exclamation of incredulity from Junior (and his fiancee) and cries of "How much?" and "What?" filled the room and terrace. It appeared to me that I'd somehow uttered something truly outrageous. In their eyes, my utterance was actually outrageous, what with the smallness of the cups suggesting a lower level of sugar would be more suitable.
I then suggested he put one spoonful in each cup and let us each top up the sugar to the desired level.
"No, there's no point in that. It's like when a waiter puts down a tall glass, pours an inch of drink into it and then puts the bottle down next to it. There's no point in that; the waiter might as well fill the glass, or just leave it empty and put both things down in front of you."
I completely agreed with his comment and logic, delivered without any swearing, although with a definite level of affront. The next manoeuvre was to take two cups out to the terrace (those requiring no sugar top-up).
"I can't hold these cups!"
The holes in the handles where fingers are supposed to go were of course only big enough for the forefinger, or for any digit owned by a four-year-old.
"What are you supposed to do?" asked Junior.
The answer of course . . . . . . . . Mugs.
...
"These cups are pitiful. You hardly tilt the kettle and the cup's full!"
Junior was of course referring to the fact that the cups held no more than four mouthfuls (something he was soon able to prove with a quite straightforward demonstration). The saucers resided (still) in the cupboard, as they were pointless.
"I like the fact that the milk's called Sandra", he said. There was nothing to say in response to this; as brand names go, it was a peculiar choice.
"Right, how many sugars go in these thimbles?"
The cups sat on the worktop, awaiting sugar input, and I chipped in with a reply for two of the cups; "Two heaps".
This caused an exclamation of incredulity from Junior (and his fiancee) and cries of "How much?" and "What?" filled the room and terrace. It appeared to me that I'd somehow uttered something truly outrageous. In their eyes, my utterance was actually outrageous, what with the smallness of the cups suggesting a lower level of sugar would be more suitable.
I then suggested he put one spoonful in each cup and let us each top up the sugar to the desired level.
"No, there's no point in that. It's like when a waiter puts down a tall glass, pours an inch of drink into it and then puts the bottle down next to it. There's no point in that; the waiter might as well fill the glass, or just leave it empty and put both things down in front of you."
I completely agreed with his comment and logic, delivered without any swearing, although with a definite level of affront. The next manoeuvre was to take two cups out to the terrace (those requiring no sugar top-up).
"I can't hold these cups!"
The holes in the handles where fingers are supposed to go were of course only big enough for the forefinger, or for any digit owned by a four-year-old.
"What are you supposed to do?" asked Junior.
The answer of course . . . . . . . . Mugs.
...
Monday, 9 May 2011
9.5.11 Enlightenment
In the restaurant last Friday night, we had the misfortune to stumble across a live act. A couple of old blokes were on a small stage at the far end, engaged in a karaoke session - so a bit like the Pet Shop Boys, then. I jest, of course; the music was a selection of oldies, such as "Sweet Caroline", "I Just Called To Say I Love You", and "Bye Bye Love". All were being completely murdered.
A guy who was sitting alone, just a couple of tables away, was tapping the table in time with the noise, and getting rather enthusiastic. The OTT clapping at the end of each song was becoming more nauseating than the singing. The keyboard player then took the lead while the supposed singer of the pair took a short break from "performing". Seconds later I exclaimed that the Clapper had left, but no, he'd stood up and joined the singer a few feet away. Obviously the old git was glad of the attention from the fan, who was no doubt demented and putting in a request for some diabolical tune.
Two nights earlier I'd described as a "Habitat curtain" an ice cream dessert which was layers of various shades of brown and cream, in a glass. The singer was not wearing a Habitat curtain, I announced, but was in fact wearing a Wilko shower curtain. His shirt was black, grey and white, in a weird block-type pattern.
Our guess regarding Clapper's request was proved correct, because Wilko proceeded to sing a peculiar song with great passion, reading from his karaoke screen. Clapper was going like them (the Clappers) and tapping profusely while getting quite animated. He then stood and was moved by a waiter to a table very much closer to the performers, where he started to clap in the style of "Manuel" (from Fawlty Towers) with a flourish which suggested he might suddenly turn a shade of Flamenco!!!
A couple of minutes later, four blokes joined Clapper at his new table. Then, he got up and sauntered over to another table, where he asked a woman of indeterminate age to dance. She accepted the invitation, and they were at it for a while, until the instrumental of "Tulips From Amsterdam" seemed to kill the mood, and they split. The barrel organ music rumbled on, to produce the direst dirge imaginable.
Hilarious!!! Five minutes later I was looking across the restaurant towards the stage, where the keyboard player was doing nothing and achieving even less. To the right and set back a bit, was a curtain which suddenly moved, opened with a wild flourish and a swishing noise that travelled easily to my ears, bypassing the other musical noise. Out stepped Wilko, from a cubicle (or it should really have been a shower, bearing in mind the shower-curtain shirt!). His flamboyance was met with no reaction from anyone, and who knows what he was up to.
"And I said to myself, what a wonderful world" was slurred by the keyboard player, who was having another go at singing. The outcome was similar to when I used to play my mum's 45rpm vinyl singles at 33rpm. "Red roses too" was more like an elongated "Tiramisu".
As they finished up, I wondered if the last track was from Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence. But it wasn't that; no, it was the clearest, purest dose of peace and quiet, and provided true enlightenment.
It was the sound of one hand clapping.
...
A guy who was sitting alone, just a couple of tables away, was tapping the table in time with the noise, and getting rather enthusiastic. The OTT clapping at the end of each song was becoming more nauseating than the singing. The keyboard player then took the lead while the supposed singer of the pair took a short break from "performing". Seconds later I exclaimed that the Clapper had left, but no, he'd stood up and joined the singer a few feet away. Obviously the old git was glad of the attention from the fan, who was no doubt demented and putting in a request for some diabolical tune.
Two nights earlier I'd described as a "Habitat curtain" an ice cream dessert which was layers of various shades of brown and cream, in a glass. The singer was not wearing a Habitat curtain, I announced, but was in fact wearing a Wilko shower curtain. His shirt was black, grey and white, in a weird block-type pattern.
Our guess regarding Clapper's request was proved correct, because Wilko proceeded to sing a peculiar song with great passion, reading from his karaoke screen. Clapper was going like them (the Clappers) and tapping profusely while getting quite animated. He then stood and was moved by a waiter to a table very much closer to the performers, where he started to clap in the style of "Manuel" (from Fawlty Towers) with a flourish which suggested he might suddenly turn a shade of Flamenco!!!
A couple of minutes later, four blokes joined Clapper at his new table. Then, he got up and sauntered over to another table, where he asked a woman of indeterminate age to dance. She accepted the invitation, and they were at it for a while, until the instrumental of "Tulips From Amsterdam" seemed to kill the mood, and they split. The barrel organ music rumbled on, to produce the direst dirge imaginable.
Hilarious!!! Five minutes later I was looking across the restaurant towards the stage, where the keyboard player was doing nothing and achieving even less. To the right and set back a bit, was a curtain which suddenly moved, opened with a wild flourish and a swishing noise that travelled easily to my ears, bypassing the other musical noise. Out stepped Wilko, from a cubicle (or it should really have been a shower, bearing in mind the shower-curtain shirt!). His flamboyance was met with no reaction from anyone, and who knows what he was up to.
"And I said to myself, what a wonderful world" was slurred by the keyboard player, who was having another go at singing. The outcome was similar to when I used to play my mum's 45rpm vinyl singles at 33rpm. "Red roses too" was more like an elongated "Tiramisu".
As they finished up, I wondered if the last track was from Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence. But it wasn't that; no, it was the clearest, purest dose of peace and quiet, and provided true enlightenment.
It was the sound of one hand clapping.
...
Thursday, 5 May 2011
5.5.11 Waterworld
It was a fairly brief visit, but I was able to experience the wondrous effects of water jets, and do so at the very reasonable rate of twenty nine pounds. I cannot say I am too fond of water generally. Yes, I do drink the stuff [in both its natural form and after it has found its way into a can of Carlsberg after being tweaked according to a Danish recipe and a fermenting process that involves hops] and I wash in it, but I only really have a swim when on holiday. My Waterworld experience was interesting, and in fact totally unexpected.
The first burst of water came from a tap which was obviously designed to dispense water in blasts; after fooling me for a few seconds by refusing to provide even a drip, it then released air and water with one almighty whoosh. Once in a blue moon, I go to the petrol station to get air and water for the car. Of the four natural elements, I find these two are the most appropriate for helping cars to perform properly, and I have never found much use for earth and fire - not that petrol stations bother with them anyway. Back to the point; water and air are dispensed separately - except at Waterworld.
My second experience was much a repeat of the first, but I was first lulled into a false sense of security and wellbeing. Although the water was either "off" or "on-at-full-blast", it seemed constant in its dual approach. But after less than two minutes, it dried up instantly. The supply held its metaphorical breath, and then sneezed like fuck (so to speak) blasting me with a shower of water.
Would I recommend Waterworld to others? No, not really. Instead, I'd prefer to warn others to avoid this so-called attraction, situated conveniently close to East Midlands Airport. So if you have any sense, then give it a miss; the details are -
Travelodge
Donnington Services
Junction 24, M1
The taps and showers have minds of their own.
...
The first burst of water came from a tap which was obviously designed to dispense water in blasts; after fooling me for a few seconds by refusing to provide even a drip, it then released air and water with one almighty whoosh. Once in a blue moon, I go to the petrol station to get air and water for the car. Of the four natural elements, I find these two are the most appropriate for helping cars to perform properly, and I have never found much use for earth and fire - not that petrol stations bother with them anyway. Back to the point; water and air are dispensed separately - except at Waterworld.
My second experience was much a repeat of the first, but I was first lulled into a false sense of security and wellbeing. Although the water was either "off" or "on-at-full-blast", it seemed constant in its dual approach. But after less than two minutes, it dried up instantly. The supply held its metaphorical breath, and then sneezed like fuck (so to speak) blasting me with a shower of water.
Would I recommend Waterworld to others? No, not really. Instead, I'd prefer to warn others to avoid this so-called attraction, situated conveniently close to East Midlands Airport. So if you have any sense, then give it a miss; the details are -
Travelodge
Donnington Services
Junction 24, M1
The taps and showers have minds of their own.
...
Monday, 2 May 2011
2.5.11 Football Referees
Whether the ball crosses the line or not is clearly of some importance, and it's disappointing when there's the occasional mistake made - though not really surprising. However, let's take a step back and consider how the modern game is played, and it highlights what a mess the game is in.
In the old days, the referee would for ninety minutes do his best to provide an impartial service to the players, making honest decisions on what circumstances presented themselves as he ran around the pitch. There existed a degree of sportsmanship amongst the players themselves, and whilst referees undoubtedly made mistakes (as do players all the time) he would generally enforce a decent standard of fair play for all - a level playing field, in fact. It is this last point regarding 'fair play' that needs expanding upon.
There is now no real concept of fair play, because it's all about 'what you can get away with'. Dress it up as 'gamesmanship' if you like, but it's still at the very best 'unsportsmanlike' and at its worst, plain 'cheating'. So, every week, hundreds of thousands of people go to watch a game, to cheer and to create hostility, as they watch two teams of cheats (and often cheating thugs) have it out with each other. Both teams are out to con the referee. They don't admit this, but there is no disputing it.
Now, there are of course many decent players, players who like to play fairly and honourably. The problem is that any squad will contain others who will pull a fast one at the drop of a hat. So, the team as a whole is tainted. The money at stake in football means that by fair means or foul, teams want (and need) to win. So, managers routinely bemoan their fates when they feel they have lost out to poor refereeing decisions, but seem only vaguely interested when it comes to properly acknowledging that their teams are occasionally lucky fuckers when, say, they were awarded a penalty erroneously.
"It evens itself out over the season" is utter bollocks. In that case, the ref might as well toss a coin rather than make any decisions. If it evens itself out, why get so het up then when one decision works against you?
Back to the main point; players con referees, moan at referees, intimidate referees and act like spoilt kids if they don't get their way. It is unsurprising, then, that refereeing decisions are examined in minute detail. If a ref gets most things right in a game, then "he had a good game" is bandied around, with nods of approval from the analysts'/pundits' bench - as if the result of any game comes in three parts [Liverpool 3, Wigan 3, Ref 2]. If the ref has a supposed poor game, it has come about for one of two reasons, or a mixture of the two:
1 - He seemed to forget all training he ever received, looked the other way at crucial points, had a bet on with Bet365 or somehow conned all the many assessors who over many years deemed his talents sufficiently good to mean refereeing at the top level. In summary, Dr Jekyll became Mr Hyde.
2 - The antics and conning and moaning and bickering and cheating and diving and simulating and gesticulating and rolling around of players served to assist the referee in not quite being able to determine the truth in all situations.
In general, the players deserve no more or less than the standards they themselves live up to. Until players and managers all acknowledge this, and agree that their teams [and businesses / PLCs] are corporately responsible for the mess that means a stroppy twat earning £100k per week can have a tantrum if a ref shows him a yellow card (for cheating) then we're all doomed. To introduce 'goal line technology', the favourite talking point of the weekend, would mean that one small aspect of the game is taken out of the realm of the referee, and put into an adjudication process. This is because we obviously cannot trust a referee because he's more of a scheming, cheating fucker than the players???? Okay, so the players need to know the truth, do they? In that case, there would simply be further calls for technology, because every penalty decision would soon be classed as important enough to warrant a hold-up of play, whilst replays were studied. So that's ball-over-the-line and penalty scenarios taken care of. What about violent conduct - you know, elbow in the face, Rooney style? That would have to warrant a reply. Then, the winning goal was offside and the linesman was unzipping his sleeping bag when the ball was kicked! Again, replay required. So, what's the point of having a referee then?
The conclusion has to be, then, that we introduce technology across the board, and ensure that the WHOLE game is properly managed, and that rules are properly enforced - as a machine or robot would operate. If that is the conclusion, then this would of course mean that every shirt-pull, hold, tug, kick, attempted kick, punch etc is necessarily assessed, along with the language used. So, telling the ref to "Fuck Off" would mean an instant red card [as per the rules] as would telling the ref he's a cheating fucker. "No way, no way, I never touched him" would mean an instant yellow card being show [as per the rules]. The modern players would never cope, games would be abandoned, and the 90 minutes of a game would stretch over about 135 with all the hold ups.
So, if the players want to shout at the ref, call him a cunt, dispute pretty much everything he does, appeal for everything as if lives depended on the outcome, and cheat, then they must be prepared to accept that the saviour of 'technology' will mean consequences for them. We will know not just whether a ball crosses a line, but that they dived to get a penalty, that the elbow never made contact, that they spat on an opponent's shirt, that they squeezed the odd testicle, that in the celebration, two of them used tongues, and that 2 players encroached into the penalty area at the last penalty on each of the seven times it was taken before on the eighth required attempt, it was hit over the bar by the tired player.
You see, there is no answer. Goal line technology is a minor element of an overall crisis in the modern game, created not by referees, but by the players themselves. There is little honour or decency left in the game, certainly at the top level. There is generally more as you look down the leagues, although everyone takes a lead from those at the top - so it's at the top that the rot has got to stop. When 4 players run up to the ref and shout at him, waving fingers, and disagreeing with the decision, the ref should put all four names in his book after four flashes of yellow. That ref would earn respect - temporarily. After the game, the managers would say the game was spoilt by the ref, and the establishment would turn its back on him. Referees apparently 'spoil' games quite often; players apparent never actually 'spoil' a game. Ha!
A fellow blogger recently highlighted the difficulty of deciding at what level of football goal line technology would apply, if introduced. There's more to football than the Premiership. Does everyone else playing the game deserve less? I would actually argue against the technology, and be in favour of better discipline and higher fines/penalties across the game - starting at the top. Let's get some standards back into football before it's too late - though it might already be an impossibility. The authorities are corrupt because the vested interests of so many individuals and of 'big business' are linked with the organising bodies.
In summary, the Premiership deserves every bit of controversy it gets, because 95% of all problems and issues are self-inflicted. Many players are, by and large, greedy overpaid people. Even the honourable are caught up in a no win situation, so have to conform, in the best interests of the team they play for. Did the ball cross the line? Who really cares, it evens itself out over a season, apparently. Heads I win, Tails you lose. And anyway, technology shows that on the first goal attempt where the ball hit the crossbar, the free kick should have been retaken anyway, because the wall was not 10 yards back, but 9 yards, 7 inches. "Those five inches denied my player the chance to allow the ball to dip and creep under the bar - that would have changed the rest of the game", I hear the manager say in a future post-match chat.
...
In the old days, the referee would for ninety minutes do his best to provide an impartial service to the players, making honest decisions on what circumstances presented themselves as he ran around the pitch. There existed a degree of sportsmanship amongst the players themselves, and whilst referees undoubtedly made mistakes (as do players all the time) he would generally enforce a decent standard of fair play for all - a level playing field, in fact. It is this last point regarding 'fair play' that needs expanding upon.
There is now no real concept of fair play, because it's all about 'what you can get away with'. Dress it up as 'gamesmanship' if you like, but it's still at the very best 'unsportsmanlike' and at its worst, plain 'cheating'. So, every week, hundreds of thousands of people go to watch a game, to cheer and to create hostility, as they watch two teams of cheats (and often cheating thugs) have it out with each other. Both teams are out to con the referee. They don't admit this, but there is no disputing it.
Now, there are of course many decent players, players who like to play fairly and honourably. The problem is that any squad will contain others who will pull a fast one at the drop of a hat. So, the team as a whole is tainted. The money at stake in football means that by fair means or foul, teams want (and need) to win. So, managers routinely bemoan their fates when they feel they have lost out to poor refereeing decisions, but seem only vaguely interested when it comes to properly acknowledging that their teams are occasionally lucky fuckers when, say, they were awarded a penalty erroneously.
"It evens itself out over the season" is utter bollocks. In that case, the ref might as well toss a coin rather than make any decisions. If it evens itself out, why get so het up then when one decision works against you?
Back to the main point; players con referees, moan at referees, intimidate referees and act like spoilt kids if they don't get their way. It is unsurprising, then, that refereeing decisions are examined in minute detail. If a ref gets most things right in a game, then "he had a good game" is bandied around, with nods of approval from the analysts'/pundits' bench - as if the result of any game comes in three parts [Liverpool 3, Wigan 3, Ref 2]. If the ref has a supposed poor game, it has come about for one of two reasons, or a mixture of the two:
1 - He seemed to forget all training he ever received, looked the other way at crucial points, had a bet on with Bet365 or somehow conned all the many assessors who over many years deemed his talents sufficiently good to mean refereeing at the top level. In summary, Dr Jekyll became Mr Hyde.
2 - The antics and conning and moaning and bickering and cheating and diving and simulating and gesticulating and rolling around of players served to assist the referee in not quite being able to determine the truth in all situations.
In general, the players deserve no more or less than the standards they themselves live up to. Until players and managers all acknowledge this, and agree that their teams [and businesses / PLCs] are corporately responsible for the mess that means a stroppy twat earning £100k per week can have a tantrum if a ref shows him a yellow card (for cheating) then we're all doomed. To introduce 'goal line technology', the favourite talking point of the weekend, would mean that one small aspect of the game is taken out of the realm of the referee, and put into an adjudication process. This is because we obviously cannot trust a referee because he's more of a scheming, cheating fucker than the players???? Okay, so the players need to know the truth, do they? In that case, there would simply be further calls for technology, because every penalty decision would soon be classed as important enough to warrant a hold-up of play, whilst replays were studied. So that's ball-over-the-line and penalty scenarios taken care of. What about violent conduct - you know, elbow in the face, Rooney style? That would have to warrant a reply. Then, the winning goal was offside and the linesman was unzipping his sleeping bag when the ball was kicked! Again, replay required. So, what's the point of having a referee then?
The conclusion has to be, then, that we introduce technology across the board, and ensure that the WHOLE game is properly managed, and that rules are properly enforced - as a machine or robot would operate. If that is the conclusion, then this would of course mean that every shirt-pull, hold, tug, kick, attempted kick, punch etc is necessarily assessed, along with the language used. So, telling the ref to "Fuck Off" would mean an instant red card [as per the rules] as would telling the ref he's a cheating fucker. "No way, no way, I never touched him" would mean an instant yellow card being show [as per the rules]. The modern players would never cope, games would be abandoned, and the 90 minutes of a game would stretch over about 135 with all the hold ups.
So, if the players want to shout at the ref, call him a cunt, dispute pretty much everything he does, appeal for everything as if lives depended on the outcome, and cheat, then they must be prepared to accept that the saviour of 'technology' will mean consequences for them. We will know not just whether a ball crosses a line, but that they dived to get a penalty, that the elbow never made contact, that they spat on an opponent's shirt, that they squeezed the odd testicle, that in the celebration, two of them used tongues, and that 2 players encroached into the penalty area at the last penalty on each of the seven times it was taken before on the eighth required attempt, it was hit over the bar by the tired player.
You see, there is no answer. Goal line technology is a minor element of an overall crisis in the modern game, created not by referees, but by the players themselves. There is little honour or decency left in the game, certainly at the top level. There is generally more as you look down the leagues, although everyone takes a lead from those at the top - so it's at the top that the rot has got to stop. When 4 players run up to the ref and shout at him, waving fingers, and disagreeing with the decision, the ref should put all four names in his book after four flashes of yellow. That ref would earn respect - temporarily. After the game, the managers would say the game was spoilt by the ref, and the establishment would turn its back on him. Referees apparently 'spoil' games quite often; players apparent never actually 'spoil' a game. Ha!
A fellow blogger recently highlighted the difficulty of deciding at what level of football goal line technology would apply, if introduced. There's more to football than the Premiership. Does everyone else playing the game deserve less? I would actually argue against the technology, and be in favour of better discipline and higher fines/penalties across the game - starting at the top. Let's get some standards back into football before it's too late - though it might already be an impossibility. The authorities are corrupt because the vested interests of so many individuals and of 'big business' are linked with the organising bodies.
In summary, the Premiership deserves every bit of controversy it gets, because 95% of all problems and issues are self-inflicted. Many players are, by and large, greedy overpaid people. Even the honourable are caught up in a no win situation, so have to conform, in the best interests of the team they play for. Did the ball cross the line? Who really cares, it evens itself out over a season, apparently. Heads I win, Tails you lose. And anyway, technology shows that on the first goal attempt where the ball hit the crossbar, the free kick should have been retaken anyway, because the wall was not 10 yards back, but 9 yards, 7 inches. "Those five inches denied my player the chance to allow the ball to dip and creep under the bar - that would have changed the rest of the game", I hear the manager say in a future post-match chat.
...
1.5.11 Pointless (No.11)
Sinitta
Get a life, please, luv . . . . . .
Can you please stop talking about Simon Cowell - apparently that's all you can do, but please take up a hobby or something, so you have a new focus. Looking good for your age is not reason enough for me to forgive your tiresome input.
...
Get a life, please, luv . . . . . .
Can you please stop talking about Simon Cowell - apparently that's all you can do, but please take up a hobby or something, so you have a new focus. Looking good for your age is not reason enough for me to forgive your tiresome input.
...
Sunday, 1 May 2011
1.5.11 Royal Wedding
Have you ever sidled up to a fish tank, perhaps in a public building or a company reception area, and spent a few minutes looking at the assortment of tropical fish moving around slowly, blissfully ignorant of the wider world. If you do so, there's a fair chance that within any tank holding more than a dozen fish, there are two which stand out from the rest. They will be a funny pair of misfits, often slightly larger than the rest, and typically rather odd looking. You will find yourself transfixed, and your eyes will be drawn to them. When you switch to try and take in the other fish around then, you'll find you cannot ignore the two oddities and somehow your eyes will have returned to the two special fish in a few seconds.
The Royal Wedding was quite entertaining, and most seem to agree that it was a great success. I must say that overall, it was indeed pretty good, as these things go. The greatest interest came from people watching, albeit via TV pictures rather than actual presence. Victoria Beckham's hat was a joke - like her hair extensions, come to that. And her shoes - well, I won't waste my time. People emerged from the Abbey on to the pavement, and this provided a source of mild amusement, as the slightly dazed guests (most of whom would have seen bugger all of the service) looked a bit lost. I saw an older woman [similar in looks to the one on Eastenders, who was Kat Slater's mum - try to avoid the programme, and have been successful for a long long time now] wearing what closely resembled a bog brush for a hat. A 'Top Shop' girl emerged, holding a mobile to her ear, after going cold turkey on the communications front for a couple of hours. And of course, the queen impersonated a lemon Bon-Bon, and from her expression, had sucked one for the service and cut the roof of her mouth - that, or Prince Harry had secretly switched her 2oz portion for sweet and sours.
Zara Phillips was able to pick up Al Jazeera via the satellite dish that masqueraded as her hat. However, a relative of hers went one better, and was able to pick up alien transmissions from the radar station that served as her own adornment - it cannot be called a hat, because it was more of an intergalactic symbol (or perhaps an updated squiggle for the artist formerly known as Prince). I refer of course to one of the two fish.
I wish Kate and William well (not that they'll give a hoot about that) and it was nice to have a day off work. They will lead privileged lives whatever the global economic conditions, and their images and goings-on will fill newspapers and magazines for ever. The shame, however, is that instead of having a bit of real interest in the monarchy, with William and Kate in the hot seats, we have to endure more dire, dusty tosh as the incumbent totters towards her last days. I say this with no animosity at all, and it can't be that long now anyway. No, the really painful prospect is the 'filling' between Liz & Phil, and the youngsters William & Kate. I refer of course to the pointless filling that will be Charles and Camilla. Their joint presence at the top of the tree will disappoint, annoy, test and tarnish any good feeling. We will have to endure more old-style pompous rubbish from the deranged Charlie, who will force us to have to put up with the hanger-on at his side, guffawing and nodding, and imitating the lunatic great aunt that you know is in your family somewhere, but thankfully hasn't shown up for twenty years.
So the Royal Wedding was generally well received, and we now all look forward to who knows what. In the meantime, let it not be said that TMWSC gave insufficient attention to the tropical fish. I felt I was looking at a fish tank while watching TV, when I saw two slightly over-sized, strange looking fish, slowly moving, and adopting perplexed/vacant expressions. One was a peculiar shape, pale blue, and slightly disproportionate. The other looked a bit manic, and I got a sense that there might be blood in the water. The bulging eyes suggested an alertness, but this was actually the complete opposite of reality, as tests have proven that between the gills, these creature have little but a buoyancy aid. The one that looked 'nude' in colour came with a strange growth on top; as mentioned already, it resembled a strange radar device, and it could have been a 'tag'. Whether Ben Fogle had set up a wildlife monitoring project in the area is something still to be verified.
Beatrice and Eugenie stole the show, and looked like they were auditioning to play strange new Roald Dahl characters. The ludicrous amounts of money spent by guests on dresses and hats was never more wasted than on this pair. I have previously labelled them 'Pointless' in this blog, and nothing has changed (nor will it, ever).
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The Royal Wedding was quite entertaining, and most seem to agree that it was a great success. I must say that overall, it was indeed pretty good, as these things go. The greatest interest came from people watching, albeit via TV pictures rather than actual presence. Victoria Beckham's hat was a joke - like her hair extensions, come to that. And her shoes - well, I won't waste my time. People emerged from the Abbey on to the pavement, and this provided a source of mild amusement, as the slightly dazed guests (most of whom would have seen bugger all of the service) looked a bit lost. I saw an older woman [similar in looks to the one on Eastenders, who was Kat Slater's mum - try to avoid the programme, and have been successful for a long long time now] wearing what closely resembled a bog brush for a hat. A 'Top Shop' girl emerged, holding a mobile to her ear, after going cold turkey on the communications front for a couple of hours. And of course, the queen impersonated a lemon Bon-Bon, and from her expression, had sucked one for the service and cut the roof of her mouth - that, or Prince Harry had secretly switched her 2oz portion for sweet and sours.
Zara Phillips was able to pick up Al Jazeera via the satellite dish that masqueraded as her hat. However, a relative of hers went one better, and was able to pick up alien transmissions from the radar station that served as her own adornment - it cannot be called a hat, because it was more of an intergalactic symbol (or perhaps an updated squiggle for the artist formerly known as Prince). I refer of course to one of the two fish.
I wish Kate and William well (not that they'll give a hoot about that) and it was nice to have a day off work. They will lead privileged lives whatever the global economic conditions, and their images and goings-on will fill newspapers and magazines for ever. The shame, however, is that instead of having a bit of real interest in the monarchy, with William and Kate in the hot seats, we have to endure more dire, dusty tosh as the incumbent totters towards her last days. I say this with no animosity at all, and it can't be that long now anyway. No, the really painful prospect is the 'filling' between Liz & Phil, and the youngsters William & Kate. I refer of course to the pointless filling that will be Charles and Camilla. Their joint presence at the top of the tree will disappoint, annoy, test and tarnish any good feeling. We will have to endure more old-style pompous rubbish from the deranged Charlie, who will force us to have to put up with the hanger-on at his side, guffawing and nodding, and imitating the lunatic great aunt that you know is in your family somewhere, but thankfully hasn't shown up for twenty years.
So the Royal Wedding was generally well received, and we now all look forward to who knows what. In the meantime, let it not be said that TMWSC gave insufficient attention to the tropical fish. I felt I was looking at a fish tank while watching TV, when I saw two slightly over-sized, strange looking fish, slowly moving, and adopting perplexed/vacant expressions. One was a peculiar shape, pale blue, and slightly disproportionate. The other looked a bit manic, and I got a sense that there might be blood in the water. The bulging eyes suggested an alertness, but this was actually the complete opposite of reality, as tests have proven that between the gills, these creature have little but a buoyancy aid. The one that looked 'nude' in colour came with a strange growth on top; as mentioned already, it resembled a strange radar device, and it could have been a 'tag'. Whether Ben Fogle had set up a wildlife monitoring project in the area is something still to be verified.
Beatrice and Eugenie stole the show, and looked like they were auditioning to play strange new Roald Dahl characters. The ludicrous amounts of money spent by guests on dresses and hats was never more wasted than on this pair. I have previously labelled them 'Pointless' in this blog, and nothing has changed (nor will it, ever).
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