// April 2008
Ah, rest in peace Humph.
Now there was a man whose comic delivery can only be described as impeccable.
Frankly I can’t imagine anyone else delivering lines like this, can you?
Samantha tells me she has to go now as she’s off to the country residence of her new gentleman friend, who has some interesting birds in the thicket. He keeps a young chicken, but Samantha says there are also wild breeds there, and she can’t wait to see his Woodcock, Pullet and Swallow.
The term is often bandied around too often, but I do think the words “National Treasure” apply in his case.
A nation mourns.
You would have thought, given the unthinkably unpleasant nature of the case of the murder of James Hughes and his mother – a tragic case which already beggars belief and we don’t know the half of it – that it would get some sensitive reporting by the UK press, wouldn’t you?
Apparently not if you are The Sun, however.
Their headline today reads “Murder of the Man Boy” which I think shows a staggering lack of intelligence on the part of whoever came up with it really. I was completely stunned when I saw it earlier.
The Sun really is staffed by dickheads isn’t it? It used to be the case that only Victoria Newton was Bizarre, now it seems to be the whole bally bunch of them.
Standing in WH Smith’s Queue of Eternity on Saturday (loading up with envelopes and Torchwood magazine – I’m still cut up about Tosh) the flatmate and I were stunned to realise that the Non Fiction section we were standing next to featured not one, not two, but seven true-life stories of child-abuse in the top ten.
I mean… seven! All of which had a picture of a child and a sort of handwriting-ey-esque font on the cover and titles like “Please Don’t Tell Mummy”, “Our Little Secret”, “A Broken Child” and so on.
So, please tell me, British book-buying public… what the hell is the matter with you? How much of other people’s misery do you feel the need to consume? Is this something you have to do to make your own lives seem better or are you just deeply morbidly inclined?
Thankfully Bill Bryson’s entertaining dissection of the life of Shakespeare was number one so I guess there’s hope yet, but honestly…
This happened within about three minutes walk of my house.
I have to say – condolences to the family of the woman concerned aside, because obviously it’s a ghastly thing to happen to anyone – that what I’m mainly stunned by is how long an accident involving one person can completely screw the transport infrastructure.
Even at 2300 hours traffic was unable to pass along Brixton High Street in one direction.
I shudder to think how bad it must have been to take that long to clear up.
Just a quick note to say thank you one and all who – despite my completely ignoring the fact and giving no hint whatsoever – managed to remember or deduce that I have now managed to hit the wrong side of 30 on Monday.
I wasn’t really marking it since it’s not exactly a milestone one (more of a millstone really) but your well-wishes and occasional insults were very touching!
Even the chorus of Happy Birthday and TARDIS cake presentation at the quiz yesterday managed to move me (as well as mortify me too).
That said, it’s amazing how many people wanted a piece of David Tennant.
I have for some time been a little concerned with the number of ladies (and strangely enough it is always ladies) on the 133 who, immediately upon sitting down, open up their capacious handbags – we’re talking Mary Poppins’ carpet bag here – and pull out a beautifully bound, but clearly well thumbed bible and begin to read it avidly on the daily commute.
I mean… admittedly it’s beautifully written (well, the King James Version is a perfect example of measured and carefully crafted English) but beyond Revelations, which is great blood-and-thunder type stuff, it’s not exactly a riveting read. So, instantly – and possibly a little unfairly – I assume they are religious nutjobs and begin wondering if I start thinking enough dirty thoughts about… oh, I dunno… Chace Crawford, then they might pick up on it and move quickly away.
But today I think my concern may be developing into an actual deep-rooted dislike of such ladies. Today, whilst I was idly enjoying the BWO singles collection “Pandemonium” – and very good it is too – some lady sat on the seat to my left and promptly pulled out what was undoubtedly a bible-shaped book. So I did my usual thing: I internally rolled my eyes (it’s a good trick) and ignored her.
It was only when I realised she was getting the occasional funny look from those around me that I noticed her arms flailing, book in hand and, as one track finished, became awfully aware that she was actually preaching – haltingly and repetitively – at us all.
Thankfully she was blotted out by a burst of “Give Me the Night” at this point but shortly afterwards she got up and started handing round leaflets – one of which I graciously declined – before going upstairs to do, presumably, exactly the same thing there.
I felt a little irked I must say. I don’t mind what religious people do – as long as it’s behind closed doors and they don’t hurt anyone – but she was breaking the first commandment of commuting: namely that you do not attempt to make even eye-contact let alone verbal or physical with any other passenger unless there happens to have been a major accident or a delay of longer than five minutes.
Someone should have words with her, I tell you. (But not me, obviously, I’m far too repressed and English.)