Gertsamtkunstwerk

RIP Johnny Cash

BBC NEWS | Entertainment | Music | Country legend Cash dies

Grrrrrr

You would think that few transactions in life would be simpler than taking a disposable camera to Boots for D&P. Indeed, I did such a thing on Wednesday. Yesterday, I went to collect it but they couldn't find it. They said they would call me, but didn't.

I tried again this morning. You know, despite my rants in here, I'm actually quite pleasant and polite. But there comes a point. I enquired whether their system was able to say whether it had been developed. I was really quite stern when I said that I had waited twenty minutes yesterday and was already late for work. "And then you hand my slip to your colleague whilst he's busy serving this chap." I said it really was sloppy service. I pointed out that when I left it - yes, the place was busy - the film was just left lying on the counter. (Part of me is thinking that maybe they put it into someone else's envelope). the system said it is overdue. The other chap said that the machine had broken down and they had send it to another lab. He'll phone me this afternoon.

I think they have lost it. Which would be extremely annoying. That having been said, I don't even know whether the photos would have come out - I am convinced that Jimmy removed too much of the packaging and probably exposed the whole film in one fell swoop.

I am wondering whether I should turn on the tears and say how it contains some of our holiday photos and some of my brother's wedding. To be honest, I'm not saying this is the end of the world, even in a photography context, because they are similar to ones captured digitally. Still, it's not unreasonable to expect a D&P lab not to lose one's film.

State sponsored terrorism

This article on the coup in Chile on this day in 1973 serves as a reminder of the extent of terrorism perpetrated by the US government through the decades- Guardian Unlimited | Special reports | Two 9/11s, one story

It doesn't mention the role played by the Bush administration in the coup against Hugo Chavez in Venezuela.

Thank you Tony

I'll probably have my Labour Party membership card confiscated* (ooh, never had that threatened before...) but go on kids, you know you really want to leave a message at ThankYouTony.com: A site to thank Prime Minister Tony Blair for his support of the American actions in Iraq.

* if I still had one, but it was nicked when I was burgled.

Speaking not as a parent

I'm not quite sure what to make of speaking as a parent. I suspect it will appeal more to you parenty types, but it made me giggle. I love the way each post builds up to a spot of boasting, only for reality to intervene!

Eccentrics?

You know, if you want a laugh, you really should read down the list on Blogging Brits and peruse the descriptions people have submitted:

twenties male (in his twenties, not from the twenties. i don't wear spats or a monocle or owt like that)

subjects like why do Basingstoke & Deane install roundabouts at every bloody junction, just so the public can still drive over them as if they wern't there. What is the idea of the Wote Street Statue (the willy looking thing)

If people find my writing interesting, I think that says more about them than about me

Erm. Follow my life, and watch how many times a week I can drink 8 cans of Carling! Captivating viewing. Rather like a car crash, with my liver being the only victim.

And if you're a blogging brit and you haven't yet joined, you too could add a lunatic description....!

Homeward bound

I saw the back of the 1807 leave the platform. I made my way to the Tube. The Tube was shut. I returned to the main concourse and decided to go to the walk-in medical centre. The lift to the entrance was broken and the alternative route was locked. I stood waiting for a platform for the 1822. I saw Steve (my ward councillor, leader of the opposition and one time very close friend, who I've not seen for the best part of a year). We stood talking and the 1822 was announced as cancelled. We debated whether to go to Balham and walk or wait for the 1837. We waited.

The 1831 to Balham was platformed; Ambrose walked past - like Steve and I, former ward secretary; former next door-but-one-neighbour of Steve (the in-between house was occupied by the national secretary of the Communist Party); former Angell councillor, had tried to deselect me in 98 - but, actually, turned out to be a good friend and flat-shared with an old Uni mate of mine for a year. Ambrose was clearly going for the Balham and walk option - he said he had a platform.

So Steve and I chatted. When our train came we watched Edward, a former Conservative councillor, walk further down the platform, followed not long after by a Labour Party person who had managed to go round losing votes when he stood in a marginal ward in 2002, and had to be kept away from the public on the day of the Stockwell by-election due to his very tight white t-shirt, extremely tight and short white shorts, black socks and work shoes.

Ah, yes the Stockwell by election. Won by Labour on a 10% swing from the Lib Dims (the day after David Kelly's funeral). The LibDims had spent the campaign denying they would abolish the green boxes. Last week Labour Group got hold of minutes from the Western Riverside Waste Authority where the two Lambeth LibDim reps had confirmed their intention to abolish the green box scheme.

Steve showed me what happens if you put 'Libs ' into predictive text (it spells Liar).

Meanwhile, a former Tory mayor of Lambeth has been jailed after being found guilty of electoral fraud - he was caught on camera filling in postal ballots and adding them to the pile on election night.

Our former councillor colleague Kitty has upped sticks and moved to the North West to fight for selection as a Parliamentary candidate for what appears to be a safe Labour seat - one with a 16,000 majority. the more eagle eyed amongst you will have spotted that he seat in question is Burnley, where the local council includes BNP councillors.

I suspect that it may have a fair amount of media attention in 2005.

Odds and ends

Apropos of the noise of window-cleaning cradle being moved. "It sounds like a disrailed train being put back."

Disraeled? Sounds like something from the Victorian era.
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Ann Summers has recently opened a branch in Victoria Palce. Int window is a poster saying 'Boys will be girls'. I had to read it three times to make sure I had read it correctly. Then I saw the picture of teenage lad wearing a red bra.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no prude, but it does seem a bit, y'know, in yer face.

Christmas is a coming

Lionel draws attention to Churches' ad for Christmas and asks Would any practising Christians care to comment on this?

I think it's irrelevant to practising Christians, who'll go to Church, anyway, or to people of other faiths, or atheists, or uninterested parties.

Surely the people the churches should be trying to attract are those who who have a faith in God, who want to pay more attention to their spiritual side, but are deterred by the churches themselves.

The biggest deterrent to worship is churches. My principle opposition to most organised religion is their dogmatic attitude to matters of human relationships and sexuality, in particular their continuing subjugation or stereotyping of women. This is coupled with the dreadful tradition of sermons within most Christian churches. I really can't see the point of being lectured to by a rather dim chap who has little intellectual rigour, limited knowledge and a narrow experience of life. To find an intelligent clergyman is a rarity. Very few of them are capable of understanding theology and philosophy. The best of the rest limp by on simplistic parables and platitudes, and far too many of them use the sermons to impose their sick psychology on the ears of their willing sheep.

Most congregations are little better. Every church has a large proportion of ostentatious worshippers. They include the woman who bustles self-importantly, organising the readers, and the brass polishers; and the man who feels the need to prostrate himself with arms across his body each time he leaves his pew.

And then there's the Cartwrights. A memory that haunts me from twenty years ago. The Cartwrights were a devout family. It always struck me how weirdly shaped the males were. Tall, and not exactly beanpoles, but very bony. Hips that stood out at angles. Greasy hair and wispy moustaches. Mother Father two sons and daughter. Each one of them ugly as fuck and incapable of smiling. Some of them did readings. They frequently did the offertory procession. In a dull suburban church full of Tory-voting sanctimonious social climbers, doing the offertory was status. Not a personality between them. I used to people watch during Communion. You'd spot your classmates and signal 'We'll chat outside." You'd play 'spot the hunk from the Boys School'. Special marks were awarded for Spot the Footballer or Chief Constable. Most people ambled up, some walked demurely. Not the Cartwrights, though. Always led by Pompous Papa they walked down the aisle in an obvious show of piety. Glided in religious rapture. Not only did they hold their hands in the universal prayer grasp, but with their arms stretched out from the elbow, to ensure that everybody could see how holy they were. Mind you, in their defence, they never used church as the opportunity to show off the latest expensive fashionable clothes.

Digression aside, my personal view is that if churches want to up their audience they should attempt some spirituality and theology. Certainly in the Catholic Church, the weekly mass is no more than recital of a set formula, reminiscent of times tables in infant school, and a total absence of prayers. I can see why evangelical churches, independent or within the existing churches, are so popular.

If somebody can point to me a church that encourages prayer, insists on high musical standards, has clergy with rigorous, questioning and reflective intellect, avoids sermons and set services, believes in the equality and uniqueness of each human being, discourages attendance by the reluctant and co-erced, encourages dressing down, is aware that this is the 21st Century and prefers weekday to evenings to 'show your face on Sunday to conform', I might go to it. A poster of Santa in a manger, condemning the Bacchanalian outrages of a traditionally Bacchanalian festival will not persuade me to darken the door outside of hatchesmatchesanddispatches.

Intermittent knee pain

My left knee is hurting. It's never been the world's best knee. It's a contender for knobbly knee competitions. Since teenage years I have joked about the onset of colder weather being marked by pain in my left knee. But not severe pain. For the past twenty years it's been a slight 'ooh' when, say, running down a single step in cold weather.

This morning it was much more painful than it has ever been before. I don't mean really painful. If Dislocated shoulder is 9, period pains are 7, sprained ankle 4, and paper cut, 0.5, this is about 5.5. It was only slightly crippling. By the time I had to leave the house it was tending to okay. It hurt sharply when I stepped down off the train. Going up the stairs was okay, but walking on the flat sent a moderate stab of pain through my leg.

It seems okay again now. An internet search shows the knee to be an incredibly complex joint and I am unable to self-diagnose. Oh well.

This entry is possibly the most boring weblog entry ever. It's not an acute pain, it's not the result of an accident. I just have to expect that my knee is in decline. If I'm still blogging in ten years time, I want this entry here as a record of when it all began.

That's all. Move along now

Weekend

Matt and Abby's wedding was wonderful. Just about as perfect a wedding as can be imagined. And it has been blogged elsewhere from here!

Once we got out of London (two hours...!) the journey to South Cave was uneventful, except for the pool of water that leaked from our under the car as we took a leak at the Little Chef in Nottinghamshire that had run out of name badges.

Good food and excellent drink at the Fox and Coney - I was on Timothy Taylor Landlord.

An attempt to get tot he petrol station/off licence had us driving instead on the motorway-like A road halfway to Leeds and back before buying a couple of bottles of wine at the pub and heading back to the hotel. We were intercepted in the car park by Charlotte and Chris wondering where we had got them (they went away happy with knowledge) and over to Pauline-and-family's cottage to borrow a corkscrew.

Breakfast and horse feeding was followed by a walk of an hour or so from South Cave to Everthorpe and back, a quick pint, and back to the hotel to change.

We arrived at the church at just the same time as various cousins, and the bridesmaids. Eleanor had clearly found herself a 'new best friend' in Grace, Abby's mate from Uni who had looked after her at the rehearsal and did so during the service.

Matt and Abby seemed quite relaxed as they got married. As they signed the register the North Ferriby Ladies Choir sang the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria and another song about Love is Like a River - not the Stevie Nicks song.  Before they started, Joseph, being a little boy turned to me and said "Cover your ears." Afterwards he had to admit they 'weren't bad'.  For many adults it was very moving.

Few photos were taken outside the church, but it was a quick rush back to Rudstone Walk for more photo taking.

The weather held off wonderfully - Jimmy and I were amongst the last handful to go into the marquee and we had to stand under the tree to finish our cigarettes.

The speeches came first - from Abby's father Alan, from Matt and from Dan, whose previous outing as best man had seen a 45-minute speech, but he admitted he had received death threats on Friday - he was timed at seven-and-a-half, plus presentations. Alan referred to the fittingness of having the reception in a tent, asking us to leave our sleeping bags at the door.

The food was excellent, it was good to see six cousins (and three partners), an uncle-in-law, father's cousin and her husband, plus various of Matt's friends I had not seen in ages - nice lads, especially the housemates from his second year, Giles, Ed, Tim and Mark.

The evening's festivities featured a big band which seemed to go down with the youngsters as well as the older folk. No one misbehaved, and I only had one argument with one cousin who manages to combine arrogant condescension with woeful ignorance and stupidity, and I have concluded that I was right to dislike him from the age of nine and charitable to make an effort in my twenties. I also received a copy of the Nottingham Evening Post property section, which was good.

We left the reception at about half twelve and crashed back at Pauline's cottage. Joseph was asleep on Pauline's lap - having carefully collated all the Little Chef name badges he had received from various cousins, and Jimmy was nodding off. Pauline said we had better go because Eleanor would never get to sleep until we did!

We saw the bride and groom off to Oban, warning them about the treacherous stairs in the Oban Inn, and then we departed. The journey was wonderful until We crossed the M25, then it was horrible as our hearts sank.  A day and a half in a beautiful part of East Yorkshire, and then a return to grotty aggressive London.

Property Diva

Hopefully, if my Nottingham-dwelling cousin responds to my telephone message, I shall be the proud owner of pictures of Troubled Diva Towers on Saturday.

Gender equality?

Child prostitution is a subject most of us can ignore, unless it happens in our neighbourhood.

It seems good that a conference is being organised, if that means an impetus to positive action. Also good that the Beeb is covering it. I have to take issue with appalling wording and dubious content of the report. Specifically:

Wendy Shepherd, team leader of the charity's Secos project, said there was an increasing number of boys being abused.

She said: "I think the majority of people don't want to think about boys being involved and being abused.

The implication is that prostitution of boys is a much graver problem, even though evidence available elsewhere suggests that far more girls are involved. A further implication is that girls are fair game, that it's almost normal to use a girl child for sex, whereas the use of a boy child is uniquely abhorrent. The deeper implication in that is that women/girls exist for the sexual gratification of men. This is why I am a feminist.

If I were a gay man, I think I would also find the tone and implications of this piece to be offensive. However, I am struggling to articulate why, so would be grateful for the opinions of gay men, in particular.

Dictionary headers

Another in the occasional series, straight from Compact Oxford Dictionary/Thesaurus/Wordpower:

Liberal Democrat/Lie

Ooh, bit political, bit political there, as Ben Elton used to say when he was funny. (Like he cares, now he's a multi-zillionaire)

Incidentally, what's an alternative word for Thesaurus?

Update: Don't ignore the two-way tzarina

Bentley Day

There was a Bentley parked outside work today.

Later, I waited at the bus stop and looked at a Bentley parked outside Caesars, Streatham's leading nightclub. I thought, strange, that's not Fred's - or maybe he's got a new one. But if he had got a new one, he would have kept the number plate from the old one C4 SAR. The Bentley with the standard number plate pulled away to reveal, parked behind it, Fred's usual Bentley.

Three Bentleys in one day - is that a record?

Still, this dreadful web page (screenshot) explains why there was a seven-foot-plus man with an American flag in his dreadlocks and a distinguished -looking retired man entering the club just after seven. Mind you, it doesn't explain who the bleach blond tart was falling out of her clothes as she tottered out of the Bentley. Classy!

IVF

I posted the link on Sunday because I didn't have time for a more considered piece. The ensuing comments demonstrated that it is a subject guaranteed to create a debate.

As far as I am concerned, there are two separate strands to the debate. One relates to the public expectation that the NHS should not be rationed. The second relates to differing views on childbearing.

Before the NHS was set up, there was a belief that demand for its services would dwindle , whereas, not only has demand increased but so have the cost of treatments.

Most people have an expectation that their health needs will be met (eventually) by the NHS. This is certainly consistent with the founding principles. In practice this is not the case.

Perusal of any news source will find examples of patients denied the care they believe they need, often because of the 'postcode lottery'. Often, too, because of a clinical judgement that the patient will not benefit from the treatment. (To the patient, it's always worth giving it a go).

The demands on the NHS are numerous. An ageing population - "In 1951 there were 0.2 million (0.4 per cent of the population) people over 85 , while Census 2001 shows that this has grown more than fivefold to over 1.1 million (1.9 per cent of the population)." As the body wears out, there is more need for healthcare.

One of the facts is true

I accidentally hit a link to the Daily Mail and found a fascinating article about Posh Beckham. Fascinating, because it purports to give us intimate insight into the private life of Okay's first couple, how she bullies and controls David, and all that. The writing style is just a little bit too 'oh gosh! guess what tidbit of gossip I'm privileging you to share' although not quite 'Sensational look at Bossy Posh!' you might expect of, say, The Sun. I am sure that half of it is based on hearsay, and three eighths on conjecture.

Still, we can all agree that Posh is utterly without talent.

WHS are the spawn of Satan

Recently realising that I am not alone in having a stationery fetish - at least two other bloggers on my roll share it - I feel more relaxed talking about it. A lunchtime visit to WH Smith led inevitably to the stationery department. A packet containing a desk set of hole punch, stapler, pencil sharpener and scissors bore a sticker saying 'Touch Me'.

Ah! I thought. WH Smith acknowledges the existence of stationery fetishm. I touched and realised they were made of rubber. Shocked, I reeled away in horror, fearing that some passing stranger might take me for a rubber fetishist, a thought that appals and revolts me.

Twisting words

One letter can make all the difference. Descending to the Underground, I pondered that it would be so much more interesting if the delays were caused by a detective train at Highbury.

Writing paragraphs for a report, I said that some staff had attended a Palin English course.

Unfortunately, I have spent some of the morning cold-calling some staff in the 'tail' bit of our Department (the one that wags the 'dog').

"I work in Internal Audit, which is in, like, the core-Department."

Like the core Department. What kind of teenager am I?

The future is bright

We went out to our local curry house on Saturday night. It is an excellent, modern curry house.

As we approached we noticed four cars parked on the pavement, including one parked across the shopfront of the restaurant. Standing by the car was an ugly looking boy of about seventeen, whose whole body language was intended to intimidate, and who glared at me as if I had murdered his granny.

We walked in and at the first table inside the door was "Piece of Shit". I first encountered "PoS" a couple of months ago. Jimmy and I were having a quick drink in the Hand when we noticed a rumpus in the street. It seemed at first like an argument, but it turned into a fight, with this man "PoS" hitting a woman. Some other bloke got involved, and the police were called. They carted PoS off.

The woman is a prostitute and PoS is a client of hers - they now live together. His daughter is also a prostitute, who was badly beaten up by a pimp. Jimmy has known PoS vaguely for years. When you are in the service industry you can't really choose your customers. PoS greeted Jimmy, and with a nod in the direction of the pallid prostitute, said "See, I keep her controlled all the time."

He was uncomfortable at being put on the table next to PoS but our attention was distracted by the booming of heavy bass coming from one of the cars parked outside the barbers next door. I feel sorry for the man who runs the restaurant; he can be a bit full of himself, but he runs a good establishment, and is trying to make a living.

As we often do, we asked him to recommend a wine. He suggested one - a Cotes du Rhone. He explained that the bottle was chipped, but we could have it at cost price. It had been stolen when he was broken into, but he had managed to get quite a lot back from the shopkeepers that bought it from the thieves (he also managed to find out who the thieves were and even got the Burglary Squad satisfactorily interested). He is at his wits end with the illegal parking. I told him that I found it very intimidating - sure, we know the place is good, but I'm not sure I would have been comfortable going in if I was new to the area, or passing by, or whatever. I certainly have no wish to stand at the bus stop in the evening.

Random shops

I was browsing briefly in a well-known high street clothing retailer and heard the checkout woman scream repeatedly, "Who's Next?" It was way too philosophical for me, so I left.

Earlier I had been in Clinton's Cards, and the music playing was Art Garfunkel's Bright Eyes*. It's about thirty trillion years since I heard this. I was surprised at how much I like it. If you had asked me yesterday, I would have said that I liked it when I was eleven, but that was long ago and far away.

*mp3 available to "friends" by email!