A rest.....
Yes folks, I decided that Christmas would be a time of peace and goodwill and that I would take a few days out to recharge the batteries. This is almost complete and normal service will be resumed shortly, after the New year festivities are completed. I'm not a big New Year fan because I've never really understood the reason for celebrating yet another ring added to my tree so to speak., but I go along to the party and despite my best efforts at cynicism I always have a good time and a few drinks. I never seem to get completely drunk though, but that may be more down the fear of the hangover being that much greater these days. So in brief, lots of prezzies, lovely food (dates and Xmas pudding apart), loads of rest, two footie matches at the home of football, with another on Tuesday, some decent golf and an all round pleasant break.
10 things I love about Christmas....
1.) The kids faces on Christmas morning - yep, that'd be the real wonder of Christmas when they open their presents, even an increasingly cynical Teenager still gets carried away with this
2.) Christmas Morning breakfast - chilled champagne, loud music from new DVD (Live Aid), empty house apart from me and GMD, as the Grand Master and Audrey take the off to see their aunts/unlces and cousins. 2 hours of brief respite before they all descend for dinner. Bliss.
3.) Prezzies - love 'em, yep I still love getting my prezzies even if I ordered most of them on Amazon. Time to be 8 again!
4.) The locals do at the pub - a local pub for local people. Every year the Governor does this big party for all of the locals/regulars. This year was the best with around 80 people all enjoying superb food,in a great pub with a fantastic atmosphere. Grand Master and Audrey attended this year, even though they're not strictly locals and were bowled over by the whole thing.
5.) Boxing Day - generally the most relaxing day of all. Made even better this year by the offer of a free pair of tickets from Mr and Mrs Chelsea to see the Mighty Blues roll through Aston Villa to stay top of the league. The Grand Master was duly impressed. The evening spent playing games with the kids and members of the extended family was so relaxing I could have (and almost did) fallen asleep where I sat.
6.) The post Christmas golf game - The Governors idea this in order to get people out of the house for a few hours after all the celebrations. Always held at my club and always a good laugh. This year I managed to get a pass out for the evening drink at the pub for which I duly drank way too much Guinness. Almost a perfect day.
7.) The kids films - truth is I love some of the films the kids get better than the "adult" ones. This year I have been subjected to Shrek 2 (fab), Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (superb and scary), Finding Nemo (cute but fun) and the magnificent School of Rock.
8.) No driving - yesterday going to golf was the first time I've driven since last Thursday at work. Did I miss it? Did I fuck......
9.) The decorations - I don't see the point of dressing the house up like it belongs on the strip in Las Vegas, but once the trauma of buying the new lights for the tree (at £65 for the long lasting LED ones) and replacing the old knackered garlands is out of the way, then there is no doubt that the house looks more cheerful and warm when they're on. It's always a sad day when the decorations come down. And this year our tree, delivered by our new Asian corner shop owner in the village has not dropped ONE single needle. Two weeks in and it looks as fresh as the day it arrived. I know where next years will be coming from.
10. Seeing all the family - I know I'm a grumpy old bastard who likes his time and space, but when they're here you get a real sense of belonging to something. My only direct living relatives are Skank and Dave the Unknown (kids aside) as both my parents have been dead for along time, in fact I've been alive longer without them than with them and so GMD's family are my family.....and thats nice.
Later, GrocerJack
Friday, December 31, 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Baaah humbug………
Ten things that make Christmas hell for me.
1.) The Works Christmas parties : Endless hours of boredom and pain watching dull corporate sad muppet people drink lager and alcopops excessively to the point of being barely conscious just because the booze is free, in an dark sticky nightclub with ear-splitting so called music booming away, vibrating the chest cavity to the point of causing the heart to explode, and meaning the only method of communication is via mouth to ear top of the voice yelling, followed by vigorous false head nodding or shaking, with attached faux smile or grimace. Usually capped off with a fight, plenty of street pizza work or someone’s partner swapping numbers with a workmate. Arse.
2.) The Christmas Night Party: I love the family and every year we have them over for Christmas dinner. 2 years ago we had 24 for dinner, a logistical nightmare in itself, but then followed up by a party. Where the hell did this idea come from? As a kid Christmas night was about playing the games you’d got, a couple of festive drinks, a bit of telly and a decent nights kip. Two years ago, we had the hi-fi, competing with the kids electronic games and the TV for GMD’s uncle. A cacophone of noise nightmare which caused my blood pressure to soar. I was minutes from becoming a knife wielding family killer. Last year it was a Karaoke machine – for 8 hours from after dinner until 1 in the morning. This year it’s hidden in the garage! Is having a nice peaceful Christmas night at this time of “peace and goodwill” too much to ask?
3.) Shopping – be it for presents, or just food and normal bits. This time of year everyone is out pushing, shoving, shouting and desperate to get to the checkout before you. The rule of law collapses within shops as people joust for position and shopkeepers rub their grubby hands together at the joy of this festive financial bonus. I avoid it like the plague and so every present, barring GMD’s have been sourced online.
4.) The cost - £447 our food bill came to. £447 I will never see again. I don’t usually spend that for one month any other time of year. Add that to the circa £700 spent on presents and you can understand why I feel like spending Christmas in a place where it means nothing. Like
5.) Christmas Tree Lights – Every year I spend two hours pulling bulbs out and replacing them in order to find which vindictive piece of shit bulb has decided to pack up and stop every other third one from working. That’s 100 bulbs in all. This year LittleSis helped me and we still didn’t get it to work. Cue another £65 spent on LED bulbs which apparently work forever (yeah right). I hope the makers of the normal ones go bankrupt, but I fear the trade they do in replacement bulbs means they are never likely to. Another ratified product from the Ministry of Crap Design
6.) Present building – by which I mean constructing the presents for the girls on Christmas Eve, having had a nice festive few pints down the local. In my life I have constructed bikes, Barbie castles, Barbie Horse and Carriages, Barbie Cars, rocking horses, sit-in train sets and all sorts of other child toy “self construct” horrors. I never have the right bits, the right plans or the right tools. Nothing ever fucking fits in the right bit, there are never any batteries, and at least one piece of vital plastic will snap at some point to be followed by me trying desperately to squeeze the last miniscule drop out of the withered up tube of superglue in order not to become “the bastard of Christmas”. And to top that I then have to force a mince pie down my throat, drink some fucking Sherry, and munch a carrot in order to convince the kids that Santa Bloody Claus has been.
7.) Dates – Why, why, why, why, why for fucks sake? Nobody ever eats these abominations at any other time of the year. Like eating camel shit – which is probably what they are.
8.) Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time – the worst ever Christmas record, even beating Sir Cliff’s torturous howling vomit inducing bollocks. Not only the worst Christmas record ever, but possibly the worst record ever…period. For this one act alone, McCartney should have his knighthood revoked, his credit alongside Lennon as a music writer expunged from all records forever, his bollocks removed and never allowed to write another thing again. How could Mark Chapman have got it so wrong?
9.) Corporate Christmas Cards – You know, the “corporate” ones that companies send out each year thanking me for the business. With their signatures printed via a computer. Godless, soulless, vacuous shite, utter shite.
10.) Christmas Pudding – Dear God. If you invented this today you’d be laughed at. Rich, stodgy, sticky and a bloody waste of Brandy. In fact give me a bowl of Ice-cream, some fruit salad and a glass of Brandy. And as for Brandy sauce…well is it just me or does it look like some perv has just come over the pudding? Yuck, yuck, fucking yuk.
Later, ScroogeJack
The Nativity according to Chav...........
There's this bird called Mary, yeah? She's a virgin (wossat then?). She ain't married or nuffink, but she's got this boyfriend, Joe, innit? He does joinery an' that. Mary lives wiv him in a council crib fing dahn Nazaref. One day Mary meets this bloke Gabriel. She's like, "Oo you lookin'at?"
Gabriel just goes: "You got one up the duff, you have".
Mary's totally gobsmacked. She gives it to him large. "Stop dissin' me, yeah? I ain't no Kappa-slapper. I ain't never been with no-one!
So Mary goes and sees her cousin Liz, who's 6 months gone herself. Liz is largin' it. She is filled with Christmas spirits. Bacardi breezers an' that. She's like, "I can proper feel me bay-bee in me tummy an' I am proper blessed. What with the extra benefits an' that. Anyway, there's the census, y'knaaa?"
Mary an' Joe ain't got no dosh so they 'ave to twock a donkey, an' go dahn Beflehem way on that. They get to this pub an' Mary is ready to have her bay-bee an' that. But there ain't no room in the inn, innit? So Mary an' Joe break an' enter into this garridge, only it's filled wiv animals Cahs an' sheep and that.
Then these three geezers turn up, lookin' proper bling. They are free wise geezers from the east end. Joe goes, "If yoo so wise, wotchoo doin' wiv this frankenwotsit an' myrrh? Why dincha just bring gold, Adidas n Burberry?
So anyway, they go dahn
Magic
Later, GrocerJack
Friday, December 17, 2004
The 12 Days of Chavmas
On the 12th day of Chavmas, my true love sent to me:
12 chavvers chavvin'
11 prammers prammin'
10 lads joy-ridin'
9 ladies drinkin'
8 midriffs showin'
7 scallies stealin'
6 teens-a-layin'
5 GOLD RINGS!
4 stolen phones
3 navel studs
2 tracksuit tops
.........and a pikey in burberry!!
Later, GrocerJack
On the 12th day of Chavmas, my true love sent to me:
12 chavvers chavvin'
11 prammers prammin'
10 lads joy-ridin'
9 ladies drinkin'
8 midriffs showin'
7 scallies stealin'
6 teens-a-layin'
5 GOLD RINGS!
4 stolen phones
3 navel studs
2 tracksuit tops
.........and a pikey in burberry!!
Later, GrocerJack
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Hounding..............................
Justice is done. The police (who have never been my most favourite of people at times) who shot this lunatic, who had held a" gun shaped lighter" to another mans head, are acquitted of any wrong doing. Hear hear. This bloke stolls around with this lighter, and believe me it looks exactly like a real gun, holds it to a mans head whilst challenging police, and then points the "gun" at them and then gets shot 4 times. His family say this is outrageous, but what were the police supposed to do? They have to make snap decisions and in this case the guy was carrying a fake. It also seems he was a former "psychiatruc patient" which in some seems relevant in excusing his actions. Sorry, but what do the police do, wait until he's identified and his medical records are checked? Or let a potential armed person shoot someone. What if he had been a real gunman? What if the police had not taken any action and innocent people had died? Of course, the toad anti-police, anti-law lawyer Imran Khan would probably be lining his overflowing coffers with cash from the victims of that crime, no doubt claiming "police negligence". This bloke might have been innocent, but he was wielding a very realistic looking fake gun, and sometime instant decisions are made which are wrong. We shouldn't be looking to hound people for genuine errors of judgement. We're all human and capable of that after all.
Talking of being hounded, I see that David Blunkett has finally resigned. Thats a shame in my view because this bloke seemed a genuinely committed Home Secretary, with extraordinary intelligence. He might have made an error of judgement in moral terms by falling in love with a married woman, presumably old enough to make her own adult decisions (as I have stated before), although I doubt anyone alive doesn't have some moral skeletons rattling in their cupboard somewhere .....yeah, go on have a think about that! No, he has been hounded by the merciless right wing fuckwits of the Great British press, along with the Dirty Digger's broadcasting empire.
They wanted their pound of flesh and nothing would stop them getting it in order to shift a little more of their vitriolic, bile ridden, poisonous, pompous, moralistic, hypocritical and vile little scum journals.
And of course lets not forget Her Majesty's Honourable (sic) Opposition who have bayed like a pack of starving rabid wolves day after day to claim the scalp of a genuine and honest HARD WORKING man. A man who has overcome disability and prejudice to get where he was. A man who has tried to be progressive in his role. I can hear the sound of David davies stiffened member slapping against his stomach as he wanks himself in to a frenzy over his great media whore knobber victory. That's assuming he can still raise more than an eyebrow.
It just serves to remind me what a vulgar, vengeful, vindictive place Great Britain (hmm, ironic name for a country that) still remains at times. A country where innocent until proven guilty no longer applies. A country where the press and broadcast media decide the truth, and the sad, mindless, gormless Chavs and wannabee middle classes follow along sucking the media cock of lies and damned lies and choking on it's ejaculated venom. A country where political debate about real issues is reduced to the yah-boo-sucks level of a bunch of pompous sad wankers yelling and hissing at each other in the "mother of all parliaments". What type of mother is that....Vicky Pollard?
How fucking stupid some people are.
Later, GrocerJack
Justice is done. The police (who have never been my most favourite of people at times) who shot this lunatic, who had held a" gun shaped lighter" to another mans head, are acquitted of any wrong doing. Hear hear. This bloke stolls around with this lighter, and believe me it looks exactly like a real gun, holds it to a mans head whilst challenging police, and then points the "gun" at them and then gets shot 4 times. His family say this is outrageous, but what were the police supposed to do? They have to make snap decisions and in this case the guy was carrying a fake. It also seems he was a former "psychiatruc patient" which in some seems relevant in excusing his actions. Sorry, but what do the police do, wait until he's identified and his medical records are checked? Or let a potential armed person shoot someone. What if he had been a real gunman? What if the police had not taken any action and innocent people had died? Of course, the toad anti-police, anti-law lawyer Imran Khan would probably be lining his overflowing coffers with cash from the victims of that crime, no doubt claiming "police negligence". This bloke might have been innocent, but he was wielding a very realistic looking fake gun, and sometime instant decisions are made which are wrong. We shouldn't be looking to hound people for genuine errors of judgement. We're all human and capable of that after all.
Talking of being hounded, I see that David Blunkett has finally resigned. Thats a shame in my view because this bloke seemed a genuinely committed Home Secretary, with extraordinary intelligence. He might have made an error of judgement in moral terms by falling in love with a married woman, presumably old enough to make her own adult decisions (as I have stated before), although I doubt anyone alive doesn't have some moral skeletons rattling in their cupboard somewhere .....yeah, go on have a think about that! No, he has been hounded by the merciless right wing fuckwits of the Great British press, along with the Dirty Digger's broadcasting empire.
They wanted their pound of flesh and nothing would stop them getting it in order to shift a little more of their vitriolic, bile ridden, poisonous, pompous, moralistic, hypocritical and vile little scum journals.
And of course lets not forget Her Majesty's Honourable (sic) Opposition who have bayed like a pack of starving rabid wolves day after day to claim the scalp of a genuine and honest HARD WORKING man. A man who has overcome disability and prejudice to get where he was. A man who has tried to be progressive in his role. I can hear the sound of David davies stiffened member slapping against his stomach as he wanks himself in to a frenzy over his great media whore knobber victory. That's assuming he can still raise more than an eyebrow.
It just serves to remind me what a vulgar, vengeful, vindictive place Great Britain (hmm, ironic name for a country that) still remains at times. A country where innocent until proven guilty no longer applies. A country where the press and broadcast media decide the truth, and the sad, mindless, gormless Chavs and wannabee middle classes follow along sucking the media cock of lies and damned lies and choking on it's ejaculated venom. A country where political debate about real issues is reduced to the yah-boo-sucks level of a bunch of pompous sad wankers yelling and hissing at each other in the "mother of all parliaments". What type of mother is that....Vicky Pollard?
How fucking stupid some people are.
Later, GrocerJack
Today is Open University Exam Results Day........
And I got ......
84%........yep....thats 84%.......quatre-vingt-quatre%
84 FUCKING PERCENT!
Not quite a distinction, but the next best thing, and considering the lack of work on my part as the course came to a close it was more than I thought I'd ever get! So my little spat on October 12th did work....... Thanks Mr. Leathery Skin!
Later GrocerJack
And I got ......
84%........yep....thats 84%.......quatre-vingt-quatre%
84 FUCKING PERCENT!
Not quite a distinction, but the next best thing, and considering the lack of work on my part as the course came to a close it was more than I thought I'd ever get! So my little spat on October 12th did work....... Thanks Mr. Leathery Skin!
Later GrocerJack
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Great TV....
No. 1
Not so much great TV, but a great ad shown on TV. I'm surprised that no-one in the blogging community has commented on the fantastic advert for the Citroen C4 . You can view it here , just select the "See the TV Ad" link at the bottom left of the page and let it load. I know that advertising can be a heinous and nasty business, targetting vulnerable groups of people and persuading them to part with money they don't have for products they don't need, but fuck me, you do get some creative genius from it. This advert is simply stunning, right up there with the Honda "Dreams" ad or their "Hate Something., Change Something" masterpiece. A bloke at work is now having to convince his son that the Citroen C4 doesn't really do this in real life.
No. 2
Arsenal vs Chelsea, Sky Sports 1 ,Sunday 16:05. Did I watch this? Did I fuck! I decided that my hangover was too bad, and that this would not help the palpitations or nausea. I watched it later on, after I knew the result (2-2) and my beloved Chelsea had managed to come away from Airline FC's home ground pretty much unscathed. What a game though. Even the repeat was pulsating and the quality on display was fabulous and a terrific advert for The Premiership. Robert Pires is a cheating wanker though and the sooner someone kicks him up in the air and out of the game for six months the better.
No.3
How long is it since you watched a programme through your fingers because the settee is pushed against the wall? A programme of such terrifying intensity and edge of the seat drama you were tempted to take the easy option and turn over? Well, last night the BBC showed the final episode of the fantastic Spooks. I've harped on about this before because I don't think it gets the credit it deserves. maybe because it isn't fucking arty enough for the chattering classes and critics. Or perhaps it's because it isn't a costume drama. And yes, it is far fetched and glamourised but then a series about people shoving bits of paer around an office or attending security briefings isn't going to light anyones candle. But last night had me almost begging for them to not finish it the way they did. An hour afterwards I was still shaking and thinking ."....fuck me what a way to go". It had everything, kidnapping, torture, subterfuge, superb story and horrific violence, both shown and implied. The death of a main character, done so brutally and shockingly continued the reason I watched it from Series One. It is a brave thing to do to be willing to kill your stars off in order to make good drama. In the first series a main character was killed by having her head shoved in a deep fat fryer and then being shot in the back of the head. Last night, poor Danny sacrificed himself for Adams wife Fiona, by spitting out the words "Fuck you, you death worshipping facist" to his Iraqi kidnapper only to be rewarded with a bullet to the head, followed by a couple more for good measure. The scene where the same man then poured petrol over Fiona to video and put on the internet, preceded by his words "When your son grows up he will be able to view you on the Internet as you burned to death" was simply chilling beyond belief. No horror movie ever made could match this for the fear and intensity factors. Hats off to the Beeb, this was fucking marvellous TV, the best this year. Bring it back soon!
Later, GrocerJack
No. 1
Not so much great TV, but a great ad shown on TV. I'm surprised that no-one in the blogging community has commented on the fantastic advert for the Citroen C4 . You can view it here , just select the "See the TV Ad" link at the bottom left of the page and let it load. I know that advertising can be a heinous and nasty business, targetting vulnerable groups of people and persuading them to part with money they don't have for products they don't need, but fuck me, you do get some creative genius from it. This advert is simply stunning, right up there with the Honda "Dreams" ad or their "Hate Something., Change Something" masterpiece. A bloke at work is now having to convince his son that the Citroen C4 doesn't really do this in real life.
No. 2
Arsenal vs Chelsea, Sky Sports 1 ,Sunday 16:05. Did I watch this? Did I fuck! I decided that my hangover was too bad, and that this would not help the palpitations or nausea. I watched it later on, after I knew the result (2-2) and my beloved Chelsea had managed to come away from Airline FC's home ground pretty much unscathed. What a game though. Even the repeat was pulsating and the quality on display was fabulous and a terrific advert for The Premiership. Robert Pires is a cheating wanker though and the sooner someone kicks him up in the air and out of the game for six months the better.
No.3
How long is it since you watched a programme through your fingers because the settee is pushed against the wall? A programme of such terrifying intensity and edge of the seat drama you were tempted to take the easy option and turn over? Well, last night the BBC showed the final episode of the fantastic Spooks. I've harped on about this before because I don't think it gets the credit it deserves. maybe because it isn't fucking arty enough for the chattering classes and critics. Or perhaps it's because it isn't a costume drama. And yes, it is far fetched and glamourised but then a series about people shoving bits of paer around an office or attending security briefings isn't going to light anyones candle. But last night had me almost begging for them to not finish it the way they did. An hour afterwards I was still shaking and thinking ."....fuck me what a way to go". It had everything, kidnapping, torture, subterfuge, superb story and horrific violence, both shown and implied. The death of a main character, done so brutally and shockingly continued the reason I watched it from Series One. It is a brave thing to do to be willing to kill your stars off in order to make good drama. In the first series a main character was killed by having her head shoved in a deep fat fryer and then being shot in the back of the head. Last night, poor Danny sacrificed himself for Adams wife Fiona, by spitting out the words "Fuck you, you death worshipping facist" to his Iraqi kidnapper only to be rewarded with a bullet to the head, followed by a couple more for good measure. The scene where the same man then poured petrol over Fiona to video and put on the internet, preceded by his words "When your son grows up he will be able to view you on the Internet as you burned to death" was simply chilling beyond belief. No horror movie ever made could match this for the fear and intensity factors. Hats off to the Beeb, this was fucking marvellous TV, the best this year. Bring it back soon!
Later, GrocerJack
Monday, December 13, 2004
A quiet week please.....
I actually spent Friday night indoors because GMD was out on on the first of four (yes four) Christmas parties - One for her job, one for The Guides/Brownie leaders, one for the sheer hell of it with all the other members of the coven and then the "locals" do down .....errrr...the local. So I actually get to go to one solitary do, whilst she does four. I think somethings got a bit out of kilter here.
However on Saturday the Grumpy Old Dads Society (The GODS), a subsection of the GoGB went out for our "sort of" Christmas do. We don't have any food, mainly because a bunch of blokes sitting in any restaurant other than an Indian or Chinese is construed as being a bit "gay" down these parts. So all we do is visit the local Brewery pub in the neighbouring village. I'm not going to give the name of the pub, suffice it to say it sounds a bit like the Clip and Shell. We use a different pub to my local simply because ...well....my local is MY local and not theirs. The pub itself is actually a hotel with a dozen or so rooms, but it is physically attached to the brewery. The Landlady and Landlord are of the old school, friendly but quite strict on drinking up after the last bell. It has a public bar for the Chav/Yob/Shazza element, where the jukebox is nicely turned up and the lager flows freely. No-one over 30 drinks on this side, well no-one who could be reasonably considered as sane. Not because of the noise, but because it's very intimidating and the the younger blokes do like to be rowdy. There are often fights but the beauty of the place is that the Landlord simply asks them to leave and because they respect him so much, they do.
We, of course, inhabit the "lounge" bar. The furniture is old and slightly tatty, but a recent .......ahem....refurb saw the carpet cleaned, a lick of paint and some new upholstery fitted and the big leather armchairs situated by the roaring open fire and Christmas tree seem to have got the once over "clean and polish" treatment to make them smell leathery again. Structurally nothing was altered which had us all wondering what exactly had taken the three months for the refurb to be completed. The toilets are not close and they are shared with the public bar clientele. This often makes for humorous banter between the groups, but because you're in the toilet it is always good humoured. This bar is frequented by mainly local people ranging from 30-something upwards. From couples to singles, men finishing work, coming home from the Pompey game or just nipping out for a couple of quiet pints and a read of the papers. Somewhere they can freely smoke their ciggies, rollies, cigars or in the case of the kindly chap near us, a beautiful old pipe with the rich and gorgeous aroma that only pipe smoke can give.. If people were wearing the clothes of the thirties, you'd not think time had moved on apart from the distant boom boom of the jukebox.
Of course being next to the brewery you'd expect the beer to be good, but by God they surpass everything at this place and I can honestly say the Landlord, standing behind the bar in his shirt, tie and black waistcoat, grey hair and grey beard provides something so sorely lacking in pubs today. He cares about the beer he serves.......no he passionately cares about the beer he serves.. He grudgingly sells the ubiquitous Stella Artois and Carling lagers, plus Strongbow Cider (or...fizzy apple juice as he calls it - although the debate over whether it has ever actually seen an apple is always an ongoing one on our visits). But, the beer....well the bitter is served at such perfection you just have to gaze after it has been poured as the pint clears slowly but inexorably, to such a degree that you can see through the other side as if your eyes had merely had a light or dark red gauze put in front of them. The taste is glorious, and you find yourself talking like those wine connoisseurs, of such things as hints of chocolate, or a soupcon of treacle. There really is nothing like it and I include the beer I've drunk in Germany in this as well. I, though chose to stick with my preferred tipple of lovely dark, cool Guinness. In most pubs some insolent, ignorant 19 year old barmaid/man serves the Guinness by placing the glass on the drip tray, turning the tap on, serving other drinks and desperately rushing to flick the tap off before the glass overflows. This is then followed by the glass being hoisted to the bar, banged down, followed by the words "Three quid mate". The head is usually about and inch and a half deep, the top is covered in bubbles, and oddly enough they get a bit offended if you ask them to fill the fucking glass up.
But not at this pub, oh no. The Landlord holds the glass at an angle and pours the Guinness in. He slowly turns the glass as the black velvety liquid hits the side of the glass and swirls round like liquid liquorice. When the glass is about three quarters full, he stops and gently places the glass on the bar. Three of us were on the Guinness so he repeats this three times. Then he moves on to the rest of the round, pulling the bitters with genuine care and holding the glasses as if they were new born baby birds, each delivered to the bar with the softest of shimmy shuffle landings into the heart of the bar towel. No spillage. The Stella is then poured, with the hint of contempt for this foreign plastic invader beer and it's bland homogenised euro-taste of chemicals. One things for sure, the recipients hangover will be far worse then mine. Then follows the Strongbow cider, an even worse concoction of chemicals and cheap materials than Stella. The landlord jokes about the lack of apples ever being near this drink...."I think they might wave an apple at the vat, but that's about it"...and he follows this with the sort of chortle only Landlords can do. One things for sure Small Sykes (for it is he) will have the worst hangover of all, and the alcohol won't be the main cause. Then he takes the money and then he returns to the Guinness. Each one is then carefully poured until the head is about half an inch and just sticking up over the top of the glass in a convex meniscus shape. And each one has a shamrock drawn on the top and not one hint of one bubble. It is a hand crafted pint and one feels almost guilty in drinking it. I tried about 12 (yes 12) of these over the four and a half hours we were there and each one was as perfect as the first. All of this in great company with two new additions to the Grumpy Old Dads Society, talking, taking the piss, laughing, arguing, bantering, letching at women we have NO chance of getting and being just a little too sincere meant a great night out. The next one will be even better.
And did I have a hangover on Sunday.
Yep, a fucking huge one!
As a footnote, my local serves my drink well, and the bitter is looked after as well. On the rare occasion that one hasn't been up to scratch there has never been the slightest dissent from the bar staff or The Governor about swapping it. That's why it's my local and that's the same in this pub, and it just shows what good customer service and actually caring about the product you sell does. That's why you get regulars who come back. They want good service, they want good company, they want good beer, and if they're eating they want good food. To have one pub that can deliver that is great, but to have two is downright fucking brilliant. And there are more apparently, so when the new digital camera for Crimbo arrives I might have to run an occasional series of Pubs I Like. No wonder our pubs are the envy of everyone else.
Later, GrocerJack
I actually spent Friday night indoors because GMD was out on on the first of four (yes four) Christmas parties - One for her job, one for The Guides/Brownie leaders, one for the sheer hell of it with all the other members of the coven and then the "locals" do down .....errrr...the local. So I actually get to go to one solitary do, whilst she does four. I think somethings got a bit out of kilter here.
However on Saturday the Grumpy Old Dads Society (The GODS), a subsection of the GoGB went out for our "sort of" Christmas do. We don't have any food, mainly because a bunch of blokes sitting in any restaurant other than an Indian or Chinese is construed as being a bit "gay" down these parts. So all we do is visit the local Brewery pub in the neighbouring village. I'm not going to give the name of the pub, suffice it to say it sounds a bit like the Clip and Shell. We use a different pub to my local simply because ...well....my local is MY local and not theirs. The pub itself is actually a hotel with a dozen or so rooms, but it is physically attached to the brewery. The Landlady and Landlord are of the old school, friendly but quite strict on drinking up after the last bell. It has a public bar for the Chav/Yob/Shazza element, where the jukebox is nicely turned up and the lager flows freely. No-one over 30 drinks on this side, well no-one who could be reasonably considered as sane. Not because of the noise, but because it's very intimidating and the the younger blokes do like to be rowdy. There are often fights but the beauty of the place is that the Landlord simply asks them to leave and because they respect him so much, they do.
We, of course, inhabit the "lounge" bar. The furniture is old and slightly tatty, but a recent .......ahem....refurb saw the carpet cleaned, a lick of paint and some new upholstery fitted and the big leather armchairs situated by the roaring open fire and Christmas tree seem to have got the once over "clean and polish" treatment to make them smell leathery again. Structurally nothing was altered which had us all wondering what exactly had taken the three months for the refurb to be completed. The toilets are not close and they are shared with the public bar clientele. This often makes for humorous banter between the groups, but because you're in the toilet it is always good humoured. This bar is frequented by mainly local people ranging from 30-something upwards. From couples to singles, men finishing work, coming home from the Pompey game or just nipping out for a couple of quiet pints and a read of the papers. Somewhere they can freely smoke their ciggies, rollies, cigars or in the case of the kindly chap near us, a beautiful old pipe with the rich and gorgeous aroma that only pipe smoke can give.. If people were wearing the clothes of the thirties, you'd not think time had moved on apart from the distant boom boom of the jukebox.
Of course being next to the brewery you'd expect the beer to be good, but by God they surpass everything at this place and I can honestly say the Landlord, standing behind the bar in his shirt, tie and black waistcoat, grey hair and grey beard provides something so sorely lacking in pubs today. He cares about the beer he serves.......no he passionately cares about the beer he serves.. He grudgingly sells the ubiquitous Stella Artois and Carling lagers, plus Strongbow Cider (or...fizzy apple juice as he calls it - although the debate over whether it has ever actually seen an apple is always an ongoing one on our visits). But, the beer....well the bitter is served at such perfection you just have to gaze after it has been poured as the pint clears slowly but inexorably, to such a degree that you can see through the other side as if your eyes had merely had a light or dark red gauze put in front of them. The taste is glorious, and you find yourself talking like those wine connoisseurs, of such things as hints of chocolate, or a soupcon of treacle. There really is nothing like it and I include the beer I've drunk in Germany in this as well. I, though chose to stick with my preferred tipple of lovely dark, cool Guinness. In most pubs some insolent, ignorant 19 year old barmaid/man serves the Guinness by placing the glass on the drip tray, turning the tap on, serving other drinks and desperately rushing to flick the tap off before the glass overflows. This is then followed by the glass being hoisted to the bar, banged down, followed by the words "Three quid mate". The head is usually about and inch and a half deep, the top is covered in bubbles, and oddly enough they get a bit offended if you ask them to fill the fucking glass up.
But not at this pub, oh no. The Landlord holds the glass at an angle and pours the Guinness in. He slowly turns the glass as the black velvety liquid hits the side of the glass and swirls round like liquid liquorice. When the glass is about three quarters full, he stops and gently places the glass on the bar. Three of us were on the Guinness so he repeats this three times. Then he moves on to the rest of the round, pulling the bitters with genuine care and holding the glasses as if they were new born baby birds, each delivered to the bar with the softest of shimmy shuffle landings into the heart of the bar towel. No spillage. The Stella is then poured, with the hint of contempt for this foreign plastic invader beer and it's bland homogenised euro-taste of chemicals. One things for sure, the recipients hangover will be far worse then mine. Then follows the Strongbow cider, an even worse concoction of chemicals and cheap materials than Stella. The landlord jokes about the lack of apples ever being near this drink...."I think they might wave an apple at the vat, but that's about it"...and he follows this with the sort of chortle only Landlords can do. One things for sure Small Sykes (for it is he) will have the worst hangover of all, and the alcohol won't be the main cause. Then he takes the money and then he returns to the Guinness. Each one is then carefully poured until the head is about half an inch and just sticking up over the top of the glass in a convex meniscus shape. And each one has a shamrock drawn on the top and not one hint of one bubble. It is a hand crafted pint and one feels almost guilty in drinking it. I tried about 12 (yes 12) of these over the four and a half hours we were there and each one was as perfect as the first. All of this in great company with two new additions to the Grumpy Old Dads Society, talking, taking the piss, laughing, arguing, bantering, letching at women we have NO chance of getting and being just a little too sincere meant a great night out. The next one will be even better.
And did I have a hangover on Sunday.
Yep, a fucking huge one!
As a footnote, my local serves my drink well, and the bitter is looked after as well. On the rare occasion that one hasn't been up to scratch there has never been the slightest dissent from the bar staff or The Governor about swapping it. That's why it's my local and that's the same in this pub, and it just shows what good customer service and actually caring about the product you sell does. That's why you get regulars who come back. They want good service, they want good company, they want good beer, and if they're eating they want good food. To have one pub that can deliver that is great, but to have two is downright fucking brilliant. And there are more apparently, so when the new digital camera for Crimbo arrives I might have to run an occasional series of Pubs I Like. No wonder our pubs are the envy of everyone else.
Later, GrocerJack
Thursday, December 09, 2004
The Nativity Play.....
Yes folks its that time of year again, whereby as a dutiful parent I oblige my responsibility to dispense with two hours of valuable time to go and watch the Junior School Nativity play. You have to understand that Teenager has been out of this scholl for two years now and Baby has been there for three of her allotted four years. So, overall for six years I have made my way to my junior size plastic seat in the school hall to watch either the Summer Show, or the Nativity Play.
I digress......the seat size makes no odds to me because.......well......frankly I'm not exactly likely to be picked for the Village Basketball Team. I lack a certain amount of inches in the height department...luckily though not anywhere more...ahem ....important (well I would say that wouldn't I). Lets put it another way...I've never had cause to complain about aircraft legroom no matter how cheap the flight. Very definitely vertically challenged (ooh good...can I have a council house please?).
So back to the play. If you include the Primary School years then we're looking at about 18 showsI've done in all. A day and a half of my life has been spent watching children in religous themed plays. Of course it seems so sweet and beautifully innocent when you first go. You watch as the fruit of your loins proudly sings to the carols, or emotionlessly blurts out their simplistic lines containing words they don't understand in order to tell the story of the as yet unmatched virgin birth (wouldn't you have been a bit fucked off if you'd been Joseph? I mean Ok God fucks your wife and gives birth to the new King of the World and you don't even end up laden with riches...bum deal). You sit their grinning like a demented Bonnie Langford who's got a Rampant Rabbit running inside her having just smoked some home grown Dutch Skunk . But then the horror hits home.......after about 10 minutes of this, you've had enough. Your kids done their bit and now you're just looking at the genetic horrors that have been spawned by the Chav insurgency into your Village or Town. Little boys called Keanu or Tyler fingers laden with bogeys , little girls called Shania or Beyonce, ears freshly pierced for the second time having been done for the first time ten minutes after birth stand their and howl out songs plastered in Mum's No.7 make up. And all you can do is smile because you're trapped in this nightmare. When you want the mobile to ring from work it never does. You can't leave because your other half would be mortified and you could kiss goodbye to any more dry runs on making new offspring for a few weeks. Your rictus grin is now fixed to your face, and you clap with everyone else. It's a wonder the Head doesn't come out and throw you some fish your performing so well. The clock slows to a crawl, each second lasts a minute. Time doesn't travel this slow when your team are beating Arsenal 1-0 with 15 minutes to go and you're down to 9 men! The bodies defence systems are starting to kick in with 20 minutes to go, your eyes are glazing over, your ears are set to auto-muffle, your nose blocks itself, your breathing shallows. You are nearly asleep but.........
....then the horror really starts. The Head walks out and says those dreaded words, words that are far worse than such delights in your life like
"I'm late..."
"Do you love me...."
"Look what I bought. There was 20% off..."
"Darling , I'm not sure whats wrong with the car but...."
"FA Cup Final result : Arsenal 2 - Chelsea 0"
"He's just a friend..."
"Dad...I've something I need to tell you......"
"Guess who's coming over...."
No, this is far worse. She scans the audience, noting the Burberry baseball caps, the leather jackets (yep, that'd be me), the Nike trainers and slowly dons the black cap.........well she might as well do because then she says
"Now it's your turn.....show the children just how well you can sing...after all you're their role models"
God help them I think. Now I can sing...in the car, the shower or the bath. I'm quite a dab hand at a party after 10 pints of Guinness and a few slammers. I really come onto my own on thje terraces of Stamford Bridge (sung to the tune of My Eyes have seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord...I think I've got a Blue movie called that...)
"The Famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope, The Famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope, The Famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope and this is what he said.....FUCK OFF...,.who's that team they call the Chelsea, who's that team we all adore, wer der wer der wer wer wer der der der wer wer wer wer Coz Chelsea are the greatest football team"
You see - real class lyrics. And of course we have no real evidence yet to prove that final statement about our alleged greatness.
Anyway, the horror on all our faces is apparent, the Chavs are horrified, the pseudo snobs just want to die there and then, Dads groan inwardly, Mums just think......"aaaah ...well if the kids can do it...". To be honest most of the blokes are thinking along similar lines, with a slight variation of ...." ....just coz the kids can do it, why the fuck should I...this cost me a pound....they should fucking entertain me"...or maybe that was just me. We sang, in that tuneless, dreary, half arsed under the breath way that English adults do (I'm sure in Wales they fair sing the house down). Of course, some just cowardly fuckers just mouthed the words. I would have done if I was brave enough to even be a coward, but the look from GMD was one mark on the scale away from Medusa's "turn to stone" setting. Time just ran even slower. After eternity multiplied by ten, it was over and we could go. I said goodbye to friends and Hello to others I couldn't see on account of me not being able to see over the top of my chair without standing on it. As we walked out , Baby beaming away, the sense of relief was almost overwhelming. It was over, at least until the summer show. Life could start again and I could start planning the "very important reason to work late" excuse for that forthcoming event.
I hope to God the nativity story is true because if it isn't then I am going to having a little word with the Creator when he finally pops my clogs for me.
Later, GrocerJack
Yes folks its that time of year again, whereby as a dutiful parent I oblige my responsibility to dispense with two hours of valuable time to go and watch the Junior School Nativity play. You have to understand that Teenager has been out of this scholl for two years now and Baby has been there for three of her allotted four years. So, overall for six years I have made my way to my junior size plastic seat in the school hall to watch either the Summer Show, or the Nativity Play.
I digress......the seat size makes no odds to me because.......well......frankly I'm not exactly likely to be picked for the Village Basketball Team. I lack a certain amount of inches in the height department...luckily though not anywhere more...ahem ....important (well I would say that wouldn't I). Lets put it another way...I've never had cause to complain about aircraft legroom no matter how cheap the flight. Very definitely vertically challenged (ooh good...can I have a council house please?).
So back to the play. If you include the Primary School years then we're looking at about 18 showsI've done in all. A day and a half of my life has been spent watching children in religous themed plays. Of course it seems so sweet and beautifully innocent when you first go. You watch as the fruit of your loins proudly sings to the carols, or emotionlessly blurts out their simplistic lines containing words they don't understand in order to tell the story of the as yet unmatched virgin birth (wouldn't you have been a bit fucked off if you'd been Joseph? I mean Ok God fucks your wife and gives birth to the new King of the World and you don't even end up laden with riches...bum deal). You sit their grinning like a demented Bonnie Langford who's got a Rampant Rabbit running inside her having just smoked some home grown Dutch Skunk . But then the horror hits home.......after about 10 minutes of this, you've had enough. Your kids done their bit and now you're just looking at the genetic horrors that have been spawned by the Chav insurgency into your Village or Town. Little boys called Keanu or Tyler fingers laden with bogeys , little girls called Shania or Beyonce, ears freshly pierced for the second time having been done for the first time ten minutes after birth stand their and howl out songs plastered in Mum's No.7 make up. And all you can do is smile because you're trapped in this nightmare. When you want the mobile to ring from work it never does. You can't leave because your other half would be mortified and you could kiss goodbye to any more dry runs on making new offspring for a few weeks. Your rictus grin is now fixed to your face, and you clap with everyone else. It's a wonder the Head doesn't come out and throw you some fish your performing so well. The clock slows to a crawl, each second lasts a minute. Time doesn't travel this slow when your team are beating Arsenal 1-0 with 15 minutes to go and you're down to 9 men! The bodies defence systems are starting to kick in with 20 minutes to go, your eyes are glazing over, your ears are set to auto-muffle, your nose blocks itself, your breathing shallows. You are nearly asleep but.........
....then the horror really starts. The Head walks out and says those dreaded words, words that are far worse than such delights in your life like
"I'm late..."
"Do you love me...."
"Look what I bought. There was 20% off..."
"Darling , I'm not sure whats wrong with the car but...."
"FA Cup Final result : Arsenal 2 - Chelsea 0"
"He's just a friend..."
"Dad...I've something I need to tell you......"
"Guess who's coming over...."
No, this is far worse. She scans the audience, noting the Burberry baseball caps, the leather jackets (yep, that'd be me), the Nike trainers and slowly dons the black cap.........well she might as well do because then she says
"Now it's your turn.....show the children just how well you can sing...after all you're their role models"
God help them I think. Now I can sing...in the car, the shower or the bath. I'm quite a dab hand at a party after 10 pints of Guinness and a few slammers. I really come onto my own on thje terraces of Stamford Bridge (sung to the tune of My Eyes have seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord...I think I've got a Blue movie called that...)
"The Famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope, The Famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope, The Famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope and this is what he said.....FUCK OFF...,.who's that team they call the Chelsea, who's that team we all adore, wer der wer der wer wer wer der der der wer wer wer wer Coz Chelsea are the greatest football team"
You see - real class lyrics. And of course we have no real evidence yet to prove that final statement about our alleged greatness.
Anyway, the horror on all our faces is apparent, the Chavs are horrified, the pseudo snobs just want to die there and then, Dads groan inwardly, Mums just think......"aaaah ...well if the kids can do it...". To be honest most of the blokes are thinking along similar lines, with a slight variation of ...." ....just coz the kids can do it, why the fuck should I...this cost me a pound....they should fucking entertain me"...or maybe that was just me. We sang, in that tuneless, dreary, half arsed under the breath way that English adults do (I'm sure in Wales they fair sing the house down). Of course, some just cowardly fuckers just mouthed the words. I would have done if I was brave enough to even be a coward, but the look from GMD was one mark on the scale away from Medusa's "turn to stone" setting. Time just ran even slower. After eternity multiplied by ten, it was over and we could go. I said goodbye to friends and Hello to others I couldn't see on account of me not being able to see over the top of my chair without standing on it. As we walked out , Baby beaming away, the sense of relief was almost overwhelming. It was over, at least until the summer show. Life could start again and I could start planning the "very important reason to work late" excuse for that forthcoming event.
I hope to God the nativity story is true because if it isn't then I am going to having a little word with the Creator when he finally pops my clogs for me.
Later, GrocerJack
Briefs....
Oh shit! The British Grand prix has been reprieved. I thought we'd got away with it.
Oh shit! Lets hope this disease doesn't come back to haunt him.
Fuck it! Like anyone other than Pompey fans really care! Get over it.
Oh shit! Looks like I had mine in time then as I'm constantly using one of these.
Poor sod! Ricky Tomlinson is one of my heroes. How sad for him.
Fucking good job! Even this is too good for this bastard.
Bollocks! I'd better start planning then if this thing is right!
Later, GrocerJack
Oh shit! The British Grand prix has been reprieved. I thought we'd got away with it.
Oh shit! Lets hope this disease doesn't come back to haunt him.
Fuck it! Like anyone other than Pompey fans really care! Get over it.
Oh shit! Looks like I had mine in time then as I'm constantly using one of these.
Poor sod! Ricky Tomlinson is one of my heroes. How sad for him.
Fucking good job! Even this is too good for this bastard.
Bollocks! I'd better start planning then if this thing is right!
Later, GrocerJack
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
It's only Words.....
In the spirit of the festive season and all that
In the spirit of the festive season and all that
Things that are difficult to say when you're drunk.
m) That chair looks wobbly and dangerous and I certainly wouldn't try
n) I must get to my bed as I could never have a really good sleep in that hedge.
Later, GrocerJack
Who really cares?
So what is all the fuss about David Blunkett then? From what I can make out his detractors are hitting him from a couple of fronts, one being the fact that he had an affair with a married woman, Kimberley Quinn, although single himself, and the other that he influenced the speed that a Visa was issued to his lover’s Nanny because he is the Home Secretary. The biggest media whore MP in the country, the Tory wanker David Davies has been an almost constant presence on the news bulletins in his childlike eagerness to at last force a resignation from The Nanny Government. If you were to listen to this absolute tosser or read the shite bag right wing press such as The Scum, or The Daily Facist then you might be mistaken for thinking that our current Home Secretary had been buggering Cherie Blair in the back of one of John Prescott’s “two jags”, whilst snorting lines of Charlie from the Queens left bra cup, whilst toting an Uzi sub machine gun out of the rear window.
But he hadn’t.
He fell in love with a married woman and she apparently fell in love with him. So much so, that she had a child with him (paternity tests results pending). Anyone who has fallen in love knows one thing for sure……you don’t choose it…it chooses you and the harder you resist the worse it gets. And let’s not forget that no-one appears to making any moral judgements on Kimberly Quinn in all this, just hinting that perhaps a man in Blunkett’s position in the government shouldn’t be conducting affairs full stop, least of all with a married woman. Well why not? Surely this is a private matter between his conscience, his feelings and his lover? It has nothing to do with you or me, the press or anyone else, with the possible exception of the scorned husband, provided it doesn’t affect Blunkett’s ability to do his job. A few people have questioned how he could have conducted this clandestine affair without it affecting his judgement, but this is easily shot down by the “absurd consequences” argument. That is an argument which says that if his ability to conduct his job objectively and professionally is affected then the same principle would surely apply to everyone across the
As for the Visa application, well what is the issue if he did use his influence? Am I naïve here? Wouldn’t every one of us do the same? Don’t we do favours everyday for those we like above those we dislike? Isn’t this a normal facet of business daily life? Lets put it this way…if I was Pm, then I’d have my own private fucking jet…after all I am the leader of the country. I’d have a nice house; I’d accept large sums of money as gifts from companies…it doesn’t make me corrupt. I’d accept free tickets for
Later, CorruptJack
Friday, December 03, 2004
Mindless entertainment…….
Sometimes I just want to get in from work and watch something mindless, a chance to switch off the brain and be taken somewhere nice and untaxing. I don’t mean the Australian jungle where I can watch former, wanabee, and neverwillbe celebrities allow themselves to be publicly and ceremoniously humiliated in order to sharpen the double edged sword of raised profile/flagging career boost whilst raising money for “charidee mate”. Nor do I mean entering the world of Soapland, although I will admit to being a closet admirer of Emmerdale, hold a grudging respect for Corrie, which retains it’s darkly northern sense of humour. I hate and detest the soap based in my home town though. Eastenders is as far from being a realistic portrayal of typical Londoners as Liberace was from being a serial womaniser. No, I mean the type of film or programme that doesn’t try your patience, has enough feel-good factors, humour and interest without shoving some cause at me, or reflecting some sort of real life bizarre event or having labyrinthine plotlines. And not something that classes itself as high art, in fact the dumber the better. So here’s a Jack list of my ten favourite bits of utterly mindless, non-thinking, brain relaxing bits of entertainment.
1. Abba Gold – put the disc in, slide the headphones on, ramp up the volume, place glass of Rioja by side, put feet up, shut eyes, visualise band and sing. Nobody does it better….
2. Notting Hill – Dump the “twee, not like real life, sanitized view of Notting Hill” bollocks the critics, snipers and film snobs continually harp on about. That’s exactly the point. It isn’t real - it’s fantasy. And such a stunning simple love story plot - English boy runs bookshop, famous beautiful rich girl enters shop, boy is fumbling bumbling fool (and nobody is better than Hugh Grant at this) , they fall in love, they fall out, they re-unite. Simple, effective, funny, tearful and what the British always do best…show ourselves as flawed, vulnerable, defeatist but ultimately dogged people. The best of the Richard Curtis films by far.
3. Planes, Trains and Automobiles – this is what the yanks do pretty well. Unfeasible unlikely mix ups, love/hate relationships blossoming into mutual dependence and friendship all served up with a Schmaltz filling wrapped up in a slapstick pastry. One of the best movie scenes ever is Steve Martin asking for a replacement car at the airport after the sorely missed John Candy has taken the one he had booked.
4. Friends – any episode, any series. Yup, I have the full set of Friends, all ten series in pristine box sets on marvellous DVD. I thought they were twee, but I got to know the characters, courtesy of American suits who knew a good thing when they saw it and were prepared to let the writers develop the characters and storylines, without affecting the independent standalone nature of each episode. They gave it time to develop and grow irrespective of early ratings mediocrity. And American sit-com is better at doing what real sit-com should do than anyone else, particularly us. They pull you from laugh out loud moments to moments that make you close to tears and then back to laughter gain in minutes. They pull the emotions about with silky smooth ease, without resorting to stupidity or patronising the viewer.
5. Grand Theft Auto – Switch on PS2, insert disc, steal cars, run people over, fight coppers. Mindless, devilishly fun, highly immoral.
6.
7. Planet Rock – only available on DAB or via the TV. Plays back to back rock. No soul, no rap, no R&B, no folk, no dance, no garage, no drum ‘n’ bass, no boy bands, no girl bands, no pop, no local news or features, no manufactured bilge from the Simon Cowell production line of utter tripe, no former hospital radio DJ’s and most important of all – no pretensions to be anything other than a balls out rock radio station. Once played “All the things she said” by the now defunct faux lesbian duo TATU, but considering what a masterful and flawless piece of pop this was, can be forgiven and even applauded for doing so. Best listened to with beer not wine.
8. Top Gun – boys own stuff here. Navy boy joins Top Gun Academy, screws trainer, loses partner, falls in love with trainer, has issues with arrogant rival, gets new partner, saves the day, becomes hero, earns respect of rival. The End. All with great flying scenes in fuck-off fighter aircraft that every bloke would like to have a go in! Should be played back as loudly as possible to get the F-14 Tomcat roar to shake the living room windows and the floor to vibrate. As if you were next to the aircraft. Pure stupid mindless escapism.
9. A Fish Called Wanda /
10. Rocky II – Simple – scene one opens in the hospital hours after Rocky’s narrow defeat to Apollo Creed, ends up with him trying to endorse products on TV, acting (even Stallone acting as acting didn’t really work) and inevitably being forced back into a rematch for money, and to prove it was no fluke. In the middle of this Adrienne (his wife) falls pregnant and nearly miscarries……all together now…...”I want you to do something for me Rock…” “What’s that Adrienne?”……”Win”….”Huh?”….”I want you to win” cue Rocky music, goosepimples, adrenalin flowing and you know the rest. This is the only film I have ever seen in the cinema where the audience stood up at the end and cheered and applauded.
None of these are high art, with intricate storylines, or subtlety, neither do they shed light on real events, pretend to be avant garde, propagate conspiracy theories, break new musical ground or challenge my mental state in any real way.
And that’s just the way I want it after a long day at work
Later, Grocerjack
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Come back soon.....
Last night saw the end of The L Word...........thats Wednesday nights buggered then.
And yes I did watch for the obvious reasons but to my surprise it was also a quality drama series, and all the more surprising because it pulled no punches, with the storylines, the language or the ....ahem....action. I thought all US TV was sanitised, but this one , like The Sopranos and Six Feet Under seem to be breaking the mould. Either that or they're hidden away on super encrypted channels at four in the morning.
A felow blogger Watski wrote an excellent piece on the shiteness that is Elton John, and I saw a bit of the bollocks Ivor Novello programme on Saturday night. There is nothing else for me to say except that Sir Elt is becoming one of my prime hate figures. I have liked his music in the past, but what happened to dignity? Does he continually have to ram his gayness down our throats (I'm sure he'd be giggling like a schoolboy at that one). Does he think that his tantrums and swearing on live radio outbursts endear him to the "yoof of 2day". Are we supposed to laugh at his "outrageous" costumes (didn't Danny La Rue do that for a living?). Has no-one told him that how daft his syrups are? But even sadder is the fact that he can't write songs anymore, they all sound like re-hashes of his old stuff .....but without the quality. Sorry Elton, it's time to call it a day and retire to the "nostalgia" circuit.
Some more tonight, GrocerJack
Last night saw the end of The L Word...........thats Wednesday nights buggered then.
And yes I did watch for the obvious reasons but to my surprise it was also a quality drama series, and all the more surprising because it pulled no punches, with the storylines, the language or the ....ahem....action. I thought all US TV was sanitised, but this one , like The Sopranos and Six Feet Under seem to be breaking the mould. Either that or they're hidden away on super encrypted channels at four in the morning.
A felow blogger Watski wrote an excellent piece on the shiteness that is Elton John, and I saw a bit of the bollocks Ivor Novello programme on Saturday night. There is nothing else for me to say except that Sir Elt is becoming one of my prime hate figures. I have liked his music in the past, but what happened to dignity? Does he continually have to ram his gayness down our throats (I'm sure he'd be giggling like a schoolboy at that one). Does he think that his tantrums and swearing on live radio outbursts endear him to the "yoof of 2day". Are we supposed to laugh at his "outrageous" costumes (didn't Danny La Rue do that for a living?). Has no-one told him that how daft his syrups are? But even sadder is the fact that he can't write songs anymore, they all sound like re-hashes of his old stuff .....but without the quality. Sorry Elton, it's time to call it a day and retire to the "nostalgia" circuit.
Some more tonight, GrocerJack
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