Go here, download Hydrogen and watch what remains of your free time disappear.
Too. Much. Fun.
Saturday
Friday
Imagine blogging again?
No...
Went to see Iron Man. If you haven't yet, and you don't know this yet, wait until the credits are over and done with before you leave the cinema.
Some wee came out. Just a little.
No...
Went to see Iron Man. If you haven't yet, and you don't know this yet, wait until the credits are over and done with before you leave the cinema.
Some wee came out. Just a little.
Wednesday
Tuesday
In lieu of anything thoughtful, today I'll be going for that blog favourite: a browse through some of the search engine queries that have brought people to oeillade. I wonder how many of these web monkeys left disappointed?
i) 'WLTM scottish' - Wouldn't we all, dear?
ii) 'Underground humiliation porn' - Those poor, poor moles.
iii) 'That was when you kissed me' - How lovely.
iv) 'Sex garage petrol soaked rag' - How lovely.
v) 'the winner of the nx bikini contest' - How did they find me?
vi) 'Geddy Lee 5ft 10' - I've met him and he is.
vii) 'Fred and Wilma's blog' - Let's see: prehistoric, not real, cartoons...
viii) 'Fuckchops' - Nice.
ix) 'Hair fairy and cancer' - ?
x) 'Middle age' - Great.
i) 'WLTM scottish' - Wouldn't we all, dear?
ii) 'Underground humiliation porn' - Those poor, poor moles.
iii) 'That was when you kissed me' - How lovely.
iv) 'Sex garage petrol soaked rag' - How lovely.
v) 'the winner of the nx bikini contest' - How did they find me?
vi) 'Geddy Lee 5ft 10' - I've met him and he is.
vii) 'Fred and Wilma's blog' - Let's see: prehistoric, not real, cartoons...
viii) 'Fuckchops' - Nice.
ix) 'Hair fairy and cancer' - ?
x) 'Middle age' - Great.
Sunday
My week enjoyed a comfortable and fulfilling second-half, which is more than can be said for England on Saturday. I shall come to the football later.
Saw Sophia and Dirty Three on Wednesday night at London's Barbican Centre. Both bands played live renditions of a seminal album from their respective back catalogues as part of ATP Concerts' Don't Look Back series of gigs. It was a truly excellent showcase for two of the finest bands around. Xfm have some Sophia live session tracks to listen to here (although they don't come anywhere near the majesty of the band's Barbican performance, performed with an eight-piece string section), of which So Slow is the pick. I'd urge you to give them a try if you like music that tugs unashamedly on the heartstrings.
A podcasting find: The Decemberists. Beautiful crafted songs and great musicianship. I urge you again. Consider yourself well urged - mp3 here.
To the football: a win, a clean sheet and a guaranteed place in next year's World Cup finals ought to bring a smile to this blogger's face, but it doesn't. Something was wrong with the side, but I don't really know what it was. I'm not convinced we need a dedicated holding midfield player (in fact, Gerrard played pretty defensively on Saturday and looked perfectly comfortable), nor do I think there was a major problem up front (except for the fact that Crouch was shite). Something just didn't click. We lacked a little width, Beckham still cut inside a little often for me while Cole's left foot is for standing on. Defensively we occasionally found ourselves at sixes and sevens, but I wonder how much of that is down to the loss of squad shop steward and all-round trappy bugger, Gary Neville.
Who can say? Had the ref given us that second (undeniable) penalty and Owen had just managed to get his chip over the legs of the onrushing Austrian goalkeeper, we'd have won by three goals and there'd be no complaints from anyone. It could have been more had Beckham not been sent off for daring to go within fifteen yards of the Austrian's poxy left-back with anything more threatening than a bunch of flowers, a big smile and a friendly hug. Fuck it. We're going to win the damn thing next year in Germany. You heard it here last.
Saw Sophia and Dirty Three on Wednesday night at London's Barbican Centre. Both bands played live renditions of a seminal album from their respective back catalogues as part of ATP Concerts' Don't Look Back series of gigs. It was a truly excellent showcase for two of the finest bands around. Xfm have some Sophia live session tracks to listen to here (although they don't come anywhere near the majesty of the band's Barbican performance, performed with an eight-piece string section), of which So Slow is the pick. I'd urge you to give them a try if you like music that tugs unashamedly on the heartstrings.
A podcasting find: The Decemberists. Beautiful crafted songs and great musicianship. I urge you again. Consider yourself well urged - mp3 here.
To the football: a win, a clean sheet and a guaranteed place in next year's World Cup finals ought to bring a smile to this blogger's face, but it doesn't. Something was wrong with the side, but I don't really know what it was. I'm not convinced we need a dedicated holding midfield player (in fact, Gerrard played pretty defensively on Saturday and looked perfectly comfortable), nor do I think there was a major problem up front (except for the fact that Crouch was shite). Something just didn't click. We lacked a little width, Beckham still cut inside a little often for me while Cole's left foot is for standing on. Defensively we occasionally found ourselves at sixes and sevens, but I wonder how much of that is down to the loss of squad shop steward and all-round trappy bugger, Gary Neville.
Who can say? Had the ref given us that second (undeniable) penalty and Owen had just managed to get his chip over the legs of the onrushing Austrian goalkeeper, we'd have won by three goals and there'd be no complaints from anyone. It could have been more had Beckham not been sent off for daring to go within fifteen yards of the Austrian's poxy left-back with anything more threatening than a bunch of flowers, a big smile and a friendly hug. Fuck it. We're going to win the damn thing next year in Germany. You heard it here last.
Tuesday
So much happening! So much to cover!! What to do?? Write, boy. Write.
The Tory leadership election starts in anger this week, as a series of nasty, overprivileged tossers compare cocks to see who's going to be allowed to give voice to the impotent outrage of Middle England during the forthcoming parliament. Britain's Most Successful Political Party (TM) will, however, continue to offer utterly ineffective opposition to the government as said tossers are too busy arguing over which one of them hates the French the most to get around to properly disagreeing with Tony Blair. They are a shower of shit and I despise them.
Following the wall-to-wall reporting of New Orleans' descent into an apocalyptic hell as the remaining inhabitants turned on each other, it turns out that the violence might not have been anywhere near as bad as the broadcast and print media had led us to believe. If this is true, it's a fucking disgrace. Tens of thousands of poor, mainly black Americans were left to rot in unspeakable conditions, but the media focus was turned to reporting, AS FACT, a series of unsubstantiated rumours depicting the abandoned as savages. Because it made better copy.
There's other things too, I'm sure.
Oh yes, of course. The eleven millionaire chavs posing as our national football team take on the mighty Austrians this weekend in a must-win game. I strongly suspect that the controversy-phobic Sven will stick with Rio and John Terry at the back, leaving the refreshed Sol Campbell a little extra time to ponder the big footballing issue of the day, namely whether he has the biggest face in the game or whether that accolade should instead be sharpened-up and thrown from the terraces in the direction of Sam Allardyce.
More hodge-podge soon.
The Tory leadership election starts in anger this week, as a series of nasty, overprivileged tossers compare cocks to see who's going to be allowed to give voice to the impotent outrage of Middle England during the forthcoming parliament. Britain's Most Successful Political Party (TM) will, however, continue to offer utterly ineffective opposition to the government as said tossers are too busy arguing over which one of them hates the French the most to get around to properly disagreeing with Tony Blair. They are a shower of shit and I despise them.
Following the wall-to-wall reporting of New Orleans' descent into an apocalyptic hell as the remaining inhabitants turned on each other, it turns out that the violence might not have been anywhere near as bad as the broadcast and print media had led us to believe. If this is true, it's a fucking disgrace. Tens of thousands of poor, mainly black Americans were left to rot in unspeakable conditions, but the media focus was turned to reporting, AS FACT, a series of unsubstantiated rumours depicting the abandoned as savages. Because it made better copy.
There's other things too, I'm sure.
Oh yes, of course. The eleven millionaire chavs posing as our national football team take on the mighty Austrians this weekend in a must-win game. I strongly suspect that the controversy-phobic Sven will stick with Rio and John Terry at the back, leaving the refreshed Sol Campbell a little extra time to ponder the big footballing issue of the day, namely whether he has the biggest face in the game or whether that accolade should instead be sharpened-up and thrown from the terraces in the direction of Sam Allardyce.
More hodge-podge soon.
Friday
How long 'til we reach middle age?
My girlfriend is moving in with me at the end of next month. Tonight, she is coming over and we are going to measure up and plan where we're putting all of our 'things'. It's my idea.
Today is Friday.
More specifically, this evening is Friday evening.
And we're going to spend it measuring and scribbling like a couple of domestic cartographers. Not out getting shitfaced until four in the morning and falling into a taxi outside some indie club in the West End. Not necking a load of pills and waving our hands in the air until dawn. Not even taking in the latest play by some hip, edgy young playwright or buying porn at three in the morning in Soho. No no, we'll be measuring sofas and wardrobes. And it's all my idea.
What, in the name of all that is holy, is happening to me?
My girlfriend is moving in with me at the end of next month. Tonight, she is coming over and we are going to measure up and plan where we're putting all of our 'things'. It's my idea.
Today is Friday.
More specifically, this evening is Friday evening.
And we're going to spend it measuring and scribbling like a couple of domestic cartographers. Not out getting shitfaced until four in the morning and falling into a taxi outside some indie club in the West End. Not necking a load of pills and waving our hands in the air until dawn. Not even taking in the latest play by some hip, edgy young playwright or buying porn at three in the morning in Soho. No no, we'll be measuring sofas and wardrobes. And it's all my idea.
What, in the name of all that is holy, is happening to me?
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