Category Archives: Shite

Seventh heaven

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21

I’ve downloaded and installed Windows 7 beta; it’s very nice, a bit like Vista was supposed to be. Very fast, with some great innovations going on in the technical bowels of it… well, it’s got this good power management thing that turns things off when they’re not in use then zips them back into operation as soon as you use them again.

And the new Windows Media Player is nifty to the extreme, allowing previews of tracks and that. Lovely.  Are you watching, Apple?

But anyway, techno-schmeckno. Although pissing about with your PC can be quite exciting, it’s always with more than a touch of apprehension that I embark on such adventures. The idea of wiping everything off your machine – EVERYTHING – so you can install a new operating system and start again is pretty alien, given all the shite you have to put back on when you’re done, and the prospect of it all going horribly wrong. Nonetheless, I managed it without any problem and it’s like having a new machine.

It’ll be like having an old machine again when the beta version expires on 1st August and we all have to rush to buy a licensed copy for about £200 (v clever, Mr Microsoft)… or go back to Vista.

God, this is a bit techy.

Anyway, if you’re feeling a bit nostalgic having just updated to Windows 7, perhaps you’d like to take a walk down memory lane and have a look at these screenshots from previous incarnations of our beloved operating system; took me right back, so they did.  My personal favourite was Windows 95, no it wasn’t, it was totally shit – especially with that fucking bouncy paperclip thing.  Windows didn’t get anything like half decent until XP.

DHL
Yes, I’m working from home today (I’ve checked my e-mails periodically); this means that I was here to accept a parcel for Jo. We have a front door, with a bell, that is easily accessible. Mr DHL decided to try to come in through the back gate (locked), thus alarming Little Rocky and setting him off on one of his frantic barking tantrums. When Mr DHL realised that perhaps it’s not that common to break down somebody’s gate to deliver a parcel through the patio doors at the back of their house, he decided to come round to the front door and bang on it as loudly as possible, sending Rocky’s tantrum into megadrive.

Total nob.

Fuckbook is brilliant!
Well, that’s how I feel today at least, and my opinion is subject to change on a whim, or as the result of being “poked” by some cunt from years ago who I only added as a friend out of politeness. Be warned.

I found myself in hysterics the other night after I decided, goodness only knows why, to post some images of me that had been taken for official documents, ID cards, passports, that type of affair. Now, if I hadn’t just wiped everything off my PC, I’d be able to upload those images to Flickr and show them here. Here’s the link instead. Actually, forget that, I don’t want this page to link to anything that has identifiable information about me. Not that I’m paranoid or a shrinking violet or anything.

Anyway, here it is, my own personal gallery of shame:

Hrrm, can’t explain the big gap between the rows, but fuck it, you get the picture. I’m essentially a big fat bloater screaming to get out of my otherwise silf-like frame and, in general, I succeed in expressing the inner me very well.  I particularly like the photo from my driving licence and UK passport: see how I’ve skilfully plucked one eyebrow, but not the other?  And people wonder why I always travel on my Italian passport.

E-mail scam
“Hello, I am Prince Ngoloki Hokey Cokey from Western Nigernya and I would like to share e-mailing with you”

I am becoming more paranoid by the day and it won’t be long before I’m wearing a tin foil helmet to try to keep the thought police out. From March, all our e-mails are going to be stored on huge snooperbase for the purposes of criminal investigations and antiterrorism efforts. Well, that’s the government’s excuse at least. Great, isn’t it? I’m just going to have “Hydrogen peroxide source” as the default subject for all my messages and I’m going to change my name to Wahida Al Jalabi (apologies to anybody who happens to have that name!). I’d like to think everybody will do the same so the whole thing comes crashing down around Home Secretary Jacqui Smith’s stupid deaf ears.

I’m Spartacus!

Surely saving all our e-mails for snooping purposes is no different to having all our post opened and checked before we send or receive any?

I guess it’s quite comforting to know know that the government is so scared of its own people that it has to erode our civil liberties on a daily basis, but watch out for legislation preventing people from voting if they speak too loudly against them.

Cunts.

Goulash in the Gulag

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I’m having goulash for my tea. Well, it’s beef casserole with lots of paprika in it, so I guess that makes it a goulash. We used to have it loads when we were kids and I doubt it’ll taste the same as Connie Cakesniffer’s, but I’ve made it in one of those traditional casseroles, so there’s some semblance of authenticity there.

Look at my tea:

Goulash

It’s currently cooling down as I don’t fancy putting something that’s just come out of a 200°C oven in my mouth. Smells nice enough though.

Anyway, I could hardly describe my living arrangements as being a “Gulag”, but perhaps mentally they are. I was accused of titivating my bedroom by Jo when she was having one of her rants about me living of the life of Riley here. This accusation is based on me putting up some curtains in there to keep the heat in:

Oo la la

Unfortunately, I bought completely the wrong size and they cover the entire tiny radiator so block the heat coming into the room. The chandelabra is nothing to do with me.

Rocky worries me sometimes; he pulls so hard on his lead that he makes himself vomit. this is nothing new, but sometimes he makes himself vomit so violently that he collapses onto the floor. He did again today when I was taking him for a walk, I thought he was having a convulsion. But he got to his feet, shook himself off, had a big poo and was OK again.

The problem was that he’d been eating cat food at my mum’s and now his beard smells of rotten Felix. Makes giving him a cuddle a bit unpleasant.



Ritorn’ a Fuckbook
Yes, I caved in and reactivated my Fuckbook profile. It’s actually quite good fun at times, especially now that I’ve deleted some of my most irritating “friends”; those people who just add you so they can send you shite.

In all honesty, I only did it so I could check out the photo’s of a former colleague’s new baby, but you know, all babies look the bloody same anyway. Anyway, at least I know how to deactivate myself again if needs be.

Wouldn’t it be fabulous if you could deactivate yourself in real life? If only.

Tippety-tap

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Rocky has developed an irritating new habit: tapping at closed doors.

It started the other week, I’d go to bed at night, shut the bedroom door, then within about ten minutes of getting into bed, I’d hear the pitter-patter of furry feet coming up the stairs followed by a gentle tap on the door. I’d ignore him, he’d tap again. I’d ignore him, I’d hear him huff at the door and lie down. I’d ignore him, then he’d stand up, tap again, huff again, then give up and do back downstairs.

A couple of hours after falling asleep, I’d be woken by more tapping, huffing, tapping, followed by him returning to his bed downstairs.

Now he’s started tapping on all the closed doors in the house. Why? What is wrong with my little mutt?

It’s best to ignore him and not respond in any way; he’ll soon stop, but it’s quite annoying and I hope he gets over himself sooner rather than later.

Oh dear, he’s eating Jo’s slipper again. No Rocky, don’t do that. See, I did try to stop him.

Diplomatic relations
A new colleague started with our team yesterday, she’s come over from China. I’ve been spending time helping her acclimatise to being in the UK: the most important thing is making sure she can cross the road without being run over. It’s second nature to us lot over here, but you know these foreign types who drive on the wrong side of the road.

She had to register her presence in the UK with the Police. We tried the local police station in Moss Side, it was shut. There were people inside, but they didn’t fancy letting anybody in. “Fighting crime (the people), protecting people (ourselves), hiding from inner city scumbags.” The second station was open, but we were told that we could only register at the big police station in the city centre. So off we pootled into Manchester, where the registration office was closed for lunch. The coppers were strutting about as if they were it: “Ooh, look at me in me stab proof vest, with me handcuffs hanging off me belt. Do you like my cocky swagger? You fancy me, dontcha? You’d better, or I’ll taser you in the fucking face!”.

Cunts.

Could it be the weather?
It’s fucking freezing still. I can’t get warm. My toes are icy all the time.

Jo came home after a couple of days with Pigsnout. She noticed that the thermostat was set to 22, mentioned that our gas bill will be bad (I don’t disagree with her) and then said that I can’t get warm because I’m wearing too many layers and I’m not allowing my body to acclimatise. No, I can’t get warm because it’s not been above zero for the past two weeks and it’s fucking freezing cold in this godforsaken hell hole of a country.

Why can’t my dog be normal? You see other dogs, they have their food put out for them and it’s gone in thirty seconds; they growl if you go anywhere near them while they’re eating. I put Rocky’s food out and he ignores it for two hours, then eats it in shifts, taking a mouthful at a time, constantly returning to the living room to check that I’m still here. Or I have to stand in the kitchen with him while he eats. He won’t leave me alone while I’m in the house, yet as soon as he goes outdoors, it’s as if I don’t exist. And now he’s rubbing his face on his blanket and turning his bed upside down and dragging around the living room.

Oh dear, no Rocky, don’t chew Mummy Jo’s slipper again, that’s so naughty of you.

Gloomy

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You get days when you can’t be bothered doing anything. Sometimes it’s just nice to sit in the quiet and wait for it to go dark; some days it’s dark all day anyway and there’s no waiting necessary, you just sit in the half light, listening, snoozing off, always a little too cold for comfort.

The DVD needs changing to the next disc in the Frasier Series 5 box set. Displayed on the TV is the menu screen from the disc that’s just finished, prompting me to get out of my seat, walk over there, eject it and replace it. But the quiet is nice. I have my little dog lay next to me and I can hear his deep breaths as he falls deeper into slumber. The clock on the shelf ticks quietly. Cars bring the neighbours back home from their work. The keys on my keyboard tap erratically as I compose and type the words to these sentences. And the DVD menu peeps at me over the top of my laptop screen.

Stop to think.

Become aware of myself.

I am in my living room, I can hear the sounds I described. I concentrate on my breathing, holding the out breath for a couple of seconds. I can feel my heart beating, heavy and faster than normal.

How am I feeling?

Gloomy.

Lonely.

Sad.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a moment like this. Have I moved on any since I felt like this all the time? Times like these make me doubt it. I still have the same problems, the same situation, the same hopeless future, but at least now I’m not yearning after a love that was taken from me, I’m just in a bit of a weird uncertain limbo. And I just don’t know what’s going to happen or when.

It’ll be OK.

Electric blanket

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6

We’ve been experiencing a relatively cold winter here in the UK. I don’t like it. The canal is almost completely frozen over.

Icy canal

This proved Rocky’s saviour yesterday as I almost threw him in it when he was being a total shit on his walk. I liked the noise the sticks made when I threw them onto the ice. I wonder what noise the dog would’ve made.

On days like today, the crisp, blue skies are beautiful, but the sun rarely gets high enough in the sky for the shadows to disappear and for the ice on the pavements to melt.

Take today for example; we had snow flurries overnight that froze to an icy sheen on the pavements by dawn. Despite wearing sensible Timberland boots with a chunky sole, I spent the day walking like a penguin with Parkinson’s disease. I have no idea why I have zero confidence when walking on slippery surfaces, but I can remember being this way for as long as I could walk – gripping onto fences, walls, my mum as I slipped and slid to school. I hate the ice. I hate things that involve me feeling unsteady on my feet such as ice skating and roller skating, and I have absolutely no desire to even attempt skiing.

Why is it then, that while I can’t walk on anything remotely slippery even in the most suitable attire, some people can stride along with full confidence on a surface resembling an ice rink while wearing stiletto boots? I couldn’t believe some of the shoes women were wearing today. Bitches. Perhaps the heel actually acts like a crampon and provides the best possible grip in such conditions. Maybe I should give them a go. I’d probably end up spinning around, pinned to the ground by one heel with the rest of me flying around in a circle of screams, torn ligaments and hair.

With it this cold, my peripheries are always icy and, by bedtime my toes are unbearably cold. I got a duck feather and down duvet for Christmas, it is lovely, but it doesn’t warm my toes particularly well. Of course, if I had a nice warm body next to me, and if the owner of that body loved me enough, they’d let me warm my toes on them. Unfortunately, I am without woman, good or otherwise, so I need to explore alternative avenues to keep me warm. One option would be to have Rocky in bed with me, but he prefers to sleep at the top of the bed next to me and I doubt he’d stay near enough to my feet under the duvet for him to be of any use. The next best option would be to invest in an electric blanket. I had the luxury of one of these when I stayed with friends in Norfolk and it was delicious! The one I had use of had a timer function so it stayed on for 75 minutes – just enough time to settle down, do a bit of reading and drop off.

Imagine the other functions that could be integrated into an electric blanket: iPod dock; massage function; alarm clock…. cattle prod! Your alarm would go off, gently at first, perhaps playing a gentle tune or waking you with a soothing massage. But if you snoozed off: DZZZZZZTZZZIPPP!!!!

I’m going to write to JML to see if they want to develop my idea along with all the other wonderful things they sell, things that look so fucking brilliant on their TV ads, but turn out to be disappointing bits of utterly useless junk when you come to have them. A bit like women, but with a battery or a plug.

Another lightbulb moment

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There are some things, the simplest things, that cause a great deal of torment every time I encounter them.  One such thing is changing the headlamp bulb in my car; I’ve never been able to do this without it being the cause of a minor disaster.  The trouble with my back is due to an incident trying to change a headlamp bulb back in 2003: bending over the engine compartment for forty minutes while attempting to get the bulb out was enough to render me crippled for a fortnight and unable to walk without being in pain for months afterwards. I actually went to the doctor at the time and, during the consultation in which he made no eye contact, he told me “Well, that’s you with a bad back for the rest of your life”. He wasn’t wrong, I can’t stand or walk for more than 20 minutes without it seizing up.

My previous car still had a snapped-off bulb floating around inside the headlamp housing when it was written off in an accident.

And yesterday, while trying to pull the connector off the back of a spent bulb, a portion of the bulb housing itself snapped off.  The new bulb is now held precariously in place with some rather  ineffective glue and a foam sticky pad to stop it wobbling about.  I also bashed the back of my hand on something very hard and sharp.  My efforts were accompanied with lots of swearing as my dad stood by, ready to help if I decided to climb onto the engine and start pulling the HT leads off and sticking them on my tongue with the engine running.

What is it with these things?  I think the latter two episodes are symptomatic of my apprehensions in dealing with car light bulbs because the first incident.  Wary of my weak back, I feel I need to rush to get the job done in case stooping over the car for a millisecond too long will lead to my back going again.

Or it could be rubbish design on the part of Nissan.  Trying to negotiate things like electrical connectors and bulb clips among the intricacies of the cooling and air conditioning pipes, while also trying to avoid getting covered in shite from a car that hasn’t been washed in seven months, it doesn’t make it easy finding the right position for successful bulb extraction and back injury avoidance.

Anyway, that was my excitement for New Year’s Day.

New Year celebration

I actually commemorated New Year’s Eve this time, I usually hate it.  This year, it was spent with a bunch of, mainly, queers round at the house of some friends.  It was actually OK, with great food, decent company and a  rather disturbing discussion about penises.  I was shocked to find that one ultra lesbian friend has what I would say is an unhealthy obsession with cocks – she likes cocks but not men, whereas my position is that men would be much more attractive without cocks.

Despite the freezing temperatures, we managed to enjoy the spectacle of a setting off a Chinese lantern to celebrate the New Year.  Look at all those people, freezing their tits off, going “Ooooh!” at the pretty fiery lantern as it floated off into the night sky… and see if you can spot the Straight.

Chinese lantern

Ooooh!

Norfolk

I spent a few days with friends in Norfolk after Christmas.  It was nice to finally get away to see them, after trying to arrange a visit for a long time.  The journey is a pig and I hate the distance between us as it would be so nice to be able to see them a lot more often than the once or twice a year.  The little dog would like to get to see them more often too, well, he’d like to get to see their dog Peggy more often as he likes the challenge of trying to touch her with his willy as many times as possible during our stay with them.

We went to the seaside on Monday. It was freezing, so I didn’t bother taking my costume, but the dogs had a good time tormenting other animals.

Rocky runs

Rocky beach

Rocky Pegger nuisances

Rocky soggy

It was quite cold down there and I was privileged to witness a beautiful starry sky one night. We don’t get to see this too much up here because of the light pollution from the big city, so it’s quite spectacular to see when it does happen. I tried to take a photo, but the long exposure (and it being too cold for me to have the patience to attempt more shots with a tripod) made the image a bit wobbly. You get the idea though.

Starry sky 1

So that’s me for you. Struggling with the tail end of my winter depression and the start of my new year blues. Just January to get through and I might just make it.

It hurts

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6

Christmas Day is probably the only day of the year where you graze from getting up in the morning until going to bed at night. The grazing is only interrupted for a huge meal smack bang in the middle of the day. A huge meal with about three puddings and lots of fizzy drinks.

Needless to say, after consuming about half a kilo of salty snacks, 400g turkey, 200g bacon, 100g sausage, 250g sprouts, plus roast potatoes and parsnips and then two helpings of Christmas pudding and a generous slice of panettone… oh, and not forgetting an orange and a satsuma, just so as I could kid myself that I’d had something slightly health today… after all that food, I’m bloated like a blimp, I’m doing the most toxic farts imaginable, and everything hurts. It hurts to breathe.

I’m in bed now, as another Christmas Day draws to a close, looking forward to the morning in the sure hope that relief from my pain will come after a cup of coffee and the thought of a cigarette – of all the things that I have admitted to my parents, smoking cigarettes is one secret that I’m keeping to myself because, even though telling them I’m gay was quite traumatic, they will definitely kill me if they ever find out I smoke.

My brother is a lovely man, but he really gets on my tits and I hate the way he dominates the telly when he’s here. He insisted on watching some shite on Zone Horror instead of proper Christmas TV, and then he fell asleep during it. I went off and occupied myself by burning a DVD of a film I’d downloaded from the internet this afternoon. The Night of the Demon (or Curse of the Demon in the US) was made in 1957 and starred Dana Andrews as an American Psychologist who comes to the UK to debunk the claims of the leader of a devil-worshipping sect.  He is cursed by the said leader and tries avoid the same fate that befell a colleague – a big demon came out of the woods (“It’s in the trees, it’s coming!”) and forced him to drive into some live power lines.  Anyway, since TV was so utterly shocking tonight, we watched that and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Tomorrow is the Boxing Day running buffet.  Hurrah!  It’s quite good that the shower here at my folks’ is absolutely useless as it gives me an excuse to go home and have loads of fags to build up my nicotine levels before the noise in the afternoon starts again.  There will be my sister and Little Con, Alan (who always shouts) and Jane (who puts up with him for some god unknown reason, love I think), Jackie (cousin) and her husband Dave.  All talking over each other, with Mum not paying attention and demanding that things are repeated at least twice each time they’re said.  Me and Dad just keep ourselves to ourselves.

At least we won’t be joined by Jackie’s brother and his wife, who has been on a diet since the day I met her in 1984 and who won’t touch a thing to eat because “Oh no, I don’t like that, it’s hangin’.  I can’t stand that, it’s mingin'” and then insisting that their son won’t eat anything either “Oh no, he won’t eat that, he doesn’t like it”, which I think is the most rude behaviour imaginable when somebody has gone to the effort of preparing a load of stuff.  She never takes her coat off either and just sits huddled (usually over the buffet, whinging) with a face so sour that I’m sure it’s begging to be punched really hard… repeatedly.  I’ve never punched anybody and I don’t think I ever will.  I wonder if I  could pay somebody to do it.

I think there’s a half-chewed sprout blocking my colon.  I am in lots of pain.

Is it hometime yet?

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It’s about a quarter past ten, the 23rd December 2008.  I’m at work.  I have sent an mail-merge e-mail – get me! – and a couple of work-related e-mails.  There is absolutely nothing going on as we run down towards the Christmas holiday.

Should you have to take annual leave for a day or two off if things are so quiet at work?  I suppose it’s better than being laid off or being forced to work reduced hours, as so many people are at the moment.  I’d normally have a “working from home” day, but I don’t think I’d get away with it somehow.

So what am I doing instead?  Well, I have my iPod with me and unrestricted internet access.  The only things missing are Frasier or MTV Dance, an endless supply of coffee, a comfy sofa and a bouncy little dog and I could be at home.

It’s very cold here too and I’m about to call on the services of the cardie of mirth.

Today’s Daily Mash brings us some useful Government advice from the Department of Stating the Blindingly Obvious and Nannying:

“BRITAIN GETS THE STUPID CHRISTMAS ADVICE IT DESERVES”

GOVERNMENT guidelines on how to avoid accidents at Christmas are every bit as obvious as they need to be, it was confirmed last night.

As the emergency services braced themselves for three days of utter chaos, experts said the government had done everything it possibly could short of strapping everyone to a chair and feeding them pulped turkey through a tube.

Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “You will notice page five of the Daily Mail carries an angry story about ‘why oh why does the government have to treat us like Christmas morons?’.

“But if you then turn over to page six you will see a story about a man from Dorset who called the fire brigade after shoving at least 18 inches of Norwegian Spruce firmly up his back passage.
“Page seven is devoted to the Yorkshire family who celebrate Boxing Day by piling all the empty boxes in the middle of the living room before setting fire to them.

“And we then turn over to a double-page spread featuring a heart-breaking interview with the sole survivor of the Great Hemel Hempstead Turkey Disaster of 1983.”

A department of health spokesman said: “Instead of a real Christmas tree this year why not go for a small, laminated photograph of a Christmas tree? Leave it floating in a bucket of water in case you’re tempted to set fire to it.

“And if you’re worried about food poisoning from an undercooked turkey, just eat a load of crisps instead. But not the sharp ones. Go for a soft, round crisp like a Wotsit or a Quaver. And don’t forget to keep a bucket water nearby in case you’re tempted to set fire to them.”

This article is actually closer to the truth than seems imaginable as the Department of Health in England has produced an Advent Calendar-style leaflet that warns of perils associated with the festive season.  I don’t know how we’d get out of bed without causing ourselves life-threatening injury without our wonderful government telling us what to do.

Papa-Ratzi’s Christmas good will to all men (so long as they’re not gay, lesbian or transgender)

Kiss the ring, muthafucka

Kiss the ring, muthafucka

Thank goodness for Pope Benedict!  He’s going to help re-train all us queers so that humanity will survive, or rather, heterosexuality will survive.  Apparently, saving the world from sexual deviants is as important as saving the rain forests.  Fucking Nazi.

How about saving the world from religious nutcases?  Why do they feel the need to be so hateful?

I suppose that’s what you get when you appoint somebody who was in the Hitler Youth as the top bloke and voice on earth for the invisible bearded man in the sky. The pope condemns gender bending. This is a man who wears lovely white frocks, accessorised with a red stole & matching ruby slippers.

Cunt.

Hey, Mr DJ

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22

I’ve had a very rewarding, but rather dull day.

In the days before digital music players, you’d take a 7″ or 12″ vinyl record, a cassette, or a CD and you’d play it using the appropriate piece of equipment.  You listened to the music, enjoyed it – or not, but invariably, a track would be listened to in full.

Albums were compositions of related songs, often based on a theme that developed from one track to the next, and you’d absorb the whole thing, drawing your own inferences as to the meanings of the music, the words, and that.  After reaching the end, it was tempting to listen again, and again.

Enough of my love for Bros and Kylie.  These days, with the advent of MP3 and listening to music on iPods, Zens, PCs, our relationship with music is so transient.  I find it difficult to get the end of a single track, let alone to listen to a whole album.  But I wonder whether music has moved on too?  Does an album still contain those individual compositions, eached linked by a common theme?  Who knows?  I haven’t listened to entire album in such a long time.  Instead, I have all the music I care to listen to loaded onto an MP3 player, where I listen to all the tracks on shuffle play, often skipping many of them before they even get going.

Being pretty good when it comes to recognising music: I can usually tell what I’m listening to within a couple of seconds of it starting, but sometimes I get duped it it’s an obscure album track – obviously – or something crappy world music that I downloaded in the misguided hope of expanding my musical horizons, but have failed to delete.  So I come to listen to my music on shuffle play and I find myself stumped as to the identity of a track.  It often helps that the artwork for an album is displayed on the lovely screen of my iPod Touch, which I can see from the comfort of my sitting position all the way over to where the shiny device of genius sits in its docking station.  But herein lies the problem: since I don’t usually get my music from iTunes, a lot of my albums didn’t have the artwork associated with it on the player, so I’d have to actually get up and look at my iPod so I could see what was playing.

My life really sucks at times, doesn’t it?

Having a full library of the music artwork would obviously forewarn me that a track from El Guincho’s Alegranza, or some other crap was next up as I sit skipping track after track.  It’d also allow me to know when a track that I actually liked was coming on.

Because of this, I spent the day downloading and associating all the missing album art for the music on my iPod, all of it.  How tedious, but as I said, how very rewarding.

I could always delete the stuff that I don’t like, but I might just get a bang on the head one day that changes my musical tastes.

Apparently, my dislike of most rap and hip-hop music, and that awful southern African music with the guitars and the deep male voices actually makes me a racist!  No, I’d say it makes me somebody with decent musical taste.

Guitar man

I tried to play my guitar last night.  It’s so difficult!  I started playing when I was about eight and it was so hard to stretch my tiny fingers over the fretboard, but I worked hard at it and was actually quite good at it.  Did exams and everything – passed them, even got distinctions in a couple of them (or whatever you get when you’re quite good).

I’ve forgotten it all now.  And my fingers, despite being a little bit bigger than 25 years ago, are so very very weak.

Fuck it though, I can’t even get through a single track without needing to skip to the end so I’ve got no hope of making my way through a piece of sheet music without getting bored half way through.

All my own work

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13

After stealing somebody else’s talent with my last post, I think it’s only fair that I think of something original of my own.

Watching the music channels recently, it’s refreshing to see how the artists use their talents to come up with original Christmas songs.  You’ve got Roy Wood and Wizzard (I wish it could be Christmas every day), Cliff (Mistletoe and wine), Elton (that song that he did at Christmas), and those others that I can’t be arsed to remember, mainly because my brain has been saturated with them for the past three weeks and it is now using protective measures to prevent recall.

Anyway, there are some songs that have been done to death – Do they know it’s Christmas (three different versions, too many releases), White Christmas, Santa Baby, errm and some others (again, the protective measures have kicked in and I daren’t delve too deep in case something fuses and I end up running around the house nakes, chomping on the cardboard tube from a roll of wrapping paper while screaming All I want for Christmas, is yoooooooooooooo-hooooooooooo!!!)

So yes, cover versions.  There’s a bit of controversy at the moment because somebody (the winner of a TV talent show no less) DARE do a re-hash of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.  Who’s complaining, Cohen?  Like hell he is, he needs to fill the $10m hole in his pension that was left when his manager shafted him.  Nope, the evangelical fans of deceased singer Jeff Buckley are kicking up a stink  because somebody who can sing better than Jeff (even before he drowned himself) will probably get to the top of the chart with their version of the song.  You see, Jeff’s fans see his version of the song as sacred, never to be touched again.  Not that his is the best version, having listened to a load of them (and there have been gazillions) the best version is probably John Cale’s – as featured in Shrek, but not on the soundtrack (that was the perpetually flat Rufus Wainwright).

It’s a bloody song, for goodness sake.  Jeff Buckley, my arse.  If he was alive, do you really think that he’d give a shit whether the latest talent show hopeful had done yet another cover of a song that he didn’t even write?  No, he wouldn’t, unless he was an idiot, which he might have been since he went for a swim and drowning – even I couldn’t manage that (because I know I can’t swim and I wouldn’t try it).

People get so precious about things.  If you don’t like a new version of a song, don’t listen to it.  Get your Walkman out, find your Jeff Buckley tape and listen to your heart’s content.  Just stop fucking whinging.  And let’s face it, nobody would’ve even heard of Jeff Buckley if it hadn’t been for Alexandra Burke singing the song as X Factor winner.

Jean genie

Last night, I tried some jeans on that I bought in 2006, they’d been consigned to the back of the wardrobe since summer 2007 because I’d grown too fat for them.  They’re baggy now: arse crack-exposing baggy.

I celebrated by having Dominos pizza for tea.

And there’s another thing.  Dominos must’ve delivered here about 4 or 5 times now and they STILL have to phone up to ask where I am.  I know this is a a new estate and the road’s not on any maps yet, but don’t you think they’d make a note of where these new places are when they deliver to them?

Nice pizza though.  Mighty meaty with extra jalapenos and black olives (no onions, I detest onions on pizza, but quite as much as I detest pineapple or peppers).