Gertsamtkunstwerk

Domingo deftly raises money for a cause

A magical, masterful night

Olympics Open

I watched the entire opening ceremony except for popping out to get dinner out of the oven, missing a few of the teams parade by eg France and Germany.

It was one spectacular show, I really enjoyed the opening tableaux and display, showcasing three thousand years of history, the highlights being the drums and the statues.

The march past of the teams was tremendous fun, trying to place the small nations on the globe before the commentators did. I thoroughly enjoyed the different displays of clothes and costumes. The one that stood out was the embroidered brocade of the flag bearer of one of the former Soviet Central Asian Republics, which was reflected in the tops worn by the women. The Japenese use of pastels, especially the green and pink fans elicited paraise chez Gert. It was fascinating noting which teams got the biggest cheers. To some extent it reflected the number of spectators in the stadium from that country - the wealthy and poulous nations of Europe, Australia, USA, Japan. I enjoyed the looks of pride and nerves, excitement and joy on the faces of the competitors.

And I so loved the hats that so many of the men wore, so stylish, and so Thirties in their styling.

Now, let the ganes commence. I know, I know, they actually began on Wednesday.

I think GB will end up with very few medals - it will be a come down from Sydney.

I am particularly looking forward to Equestrian, Fencing, Gymnastics, Hockey and Weighlifting, as well as Synchronised Swimming and Synchronised Diving...

The Can Do Girl

You would be amazed at how much I have achieved this week, just by dint of waving a magic wand.

On Tuesday I mended a CD rack. All I had to do was unload all the CDs, partly dismantle the rack, and put it back together again using only the four screws I hadn't been bothered to insert in the back when I originally built it last autumn...

On Wednesday morning I switched on the downstairs stereo and instead of my intention of pressing 'Tuner' as I had intended, I pressed 'CD' and it didn't make the funny noise it had been making in March when I had stopped using it as a CD player. (Instead I have had the upstairs CD player downstairs, which has been depriving me of upstairs CD playing for a long long time...).

This afternoon I removed the random image code from this ere blog - the error code at the top was beginning to bug me, not to mention the ridiculous load time. I subsequently noticed that my sidebar has stopped truncating and the index seems to rebuild properly every time someone leaves a comment. A subsequent entire site rebuild seems - touch wood - to be working. So Pete's diagnosis of the server timing out was correct. It just got sick of having to reel through way too many photos in the random file. I shall restore the feature in due course, but first I have to wade through selecting which photos to actually include.

Inspired by my wand-waving skills, I phoned the Environment helpline to point out that the bulk garden waste collection I requested last week still hasn't happened, and that our green boxes are being left unemptied. The woman on the helpline said that my house, and that of my three neighbours was not on the database. I was perfectly sweet, prefacing my remarks with a comment that I was not having a go at her personally, that she is merely the poor person who answers the phone, however, I find it irritating that our houses are on the Council Tax database. Twenty minutes later various actions have been logged*

Further fired up, I thought, I can do anything. It was time to mend the CD/DVD drive in the 'pooter. Everything unplugged and disconnected. First of, give it a good clean. You know the vent at the back, by the fan. Take a look at it sometime - matted and congealed dust. How do I clean that, I thought? A brush! What sort of brush? Aha, I thought, one of those make-up brushes that has been sitting in the drawer in my bedroom for years, never really serving a purpose...(what a grrrrl I am!).

And all I had to do with the CD/DVD drive was slot it back into box. No unfastening box nor nothing!

I so rock.

And in between backing up months of 'pooter stuff, and blogging, and checking my Usenet groups, I'm rearranging the kitchen cupboards.

God, I am so cool it's unbelievable.

* The Borough is going to rack and ruin since the Liberals started running it. If they can't get the Environmental issues right, god knows what's happening in education, social services, and corporate government. Well, actually, they are just being incompetent. That's for certain.

Deacon Blue

I've been neglecting my "Record Collection by Forty" project since I received a bumper order from Amazon.

But here goes!

Deacon Blue are one of the great underestimated groups of the late 80s/early 90s. I'm not suggesting they be acclaimed as great. Although, the benefit of hindsight suggest to me that Raintown was one of the most astonishingly good debut albums ever.

In second year at Uni, I went home for Easter holidays. There was a lot of turmoil and tension going on, so I spent most of the time I wasn't working ensconced in splendid isolation with pop radio. One oft-played track stood out - When Will You (Make My Telephone Ring)? I returned to Uni and discovered that my mate Mabel was equally mad on Deacon Blue, and, further more, had the entire album taped off her brother Si d. So we listened enraptured. I later bought my own copy of the album.

It works so well in its entirety as an album, but, in addition, all the songs are at least good, He Looks Like Spencer Tracy Now, Raintown and When Will You (Make My Telephone Ring)? are very good, and Dignity, would stand as excellent simply because of the lyrics. Add the music, and I sincerely believe it to be one of the great songs in the pop-rock cannon.

The other Deacon Blue vinyl (ie cassette) I have is When the World Knows Your Name. I don't believe this to be as strong as Raintown. But consider that it contains tracks such as Love and Regret and Fergus Sings the Blues.

I will blog my Deacon Blue on CD in due course...

Alphabetically, what comes next?

Olympic Opening Ceremony

As you know, the participating nations enter the stadium in alphabetical order. Thus Britain enters just after Mauritania and just before Mexico.

TV Gem

It's so easy to trash today's TV, say there's nothing on. Perhaps it has always been so. Perhaps we don't look hard enough.

Last night I caught a couple of half-hour programmes called Mediterranean Tales - Irma Kurtz recreating Mark Twain's travels from Innocents Abroad. It's programmes like this that make BBC4 a jewel in the crown. Shame that such a good programme is hidden away from peak viewing on a peak channel.

Although Irma Kurtz taught me at least half of evrything I know about sex, I don't really know much about her. She narrated an impressionistic view of Venice and Rome, but it never came over as 'Me, me, me'. She's laid back, but she cares. She adopts an intelligent and intellectual approach, but doesn't lecture.

The photography was self-consciously arty, at times almost achingly so. And the sound track was some of the most beautiful music ever written.

It's been shown before and no doubt it will be repeated in due course...

One for the leddies...

And for the gay men. And for the straight men/gay women with a butch partner... (see, this is a Valuing Diversity weblog...)

Want to make your man feel strong, animalistic, brutal?

Today's society prefers men to be gentle, sensitive, and calm, forcing your guy to constantly fight against hundreds of thousands of years of conditioning.

Wouldn't it be liberating to let his inner beast out, just once?

Help him realise his secret, unrealized fantasies of rape and sheer, overpowering, atavistic he-man behaviour by playing it to the hilt.

As soon as he walks in the door tonight, scream as loud as you can, claw him across the face, and run into the bedroom. Slam the door, draw the children close to you and call the police.

If he gets in, make him fight for every pleasure.

Throw all the fixtures at him, kick him in the goolies, and above all, never stop screaming. He'll get an incredible rush of alpha-male dominance, briefly, until help arrives.

Essential Opera

I have two CDs by this name; indeed I have fairly recently blogged the Classic FM version. What I can't understand is that if CLassic FM produce a CD of 16 tracks. not one of them featuring Andrea Bocelli, they can't take a slightly less dumbed-down attitude to their programming.

Songwise, not a turkey. I would say that the quality of versions differ. But that's 'free' Cds for you...!

Decent versions:

• Verdi's Anvil Chorus from Trov And Chorus of Hebrew Slaves - the Ambrosian Chorus under Muti. The Anvil is not my favourite Verdi chorus (but that's like saying 'not my favourite Thornton's chocolate'), whereas Hebrew Slaves probably is. Mind you, I have countless better versions than this...!
• Jose Cura's E Lucevan le Stelle isn't bad ( I do like the conductor on this...), but again I've heard better - this is one of the arias in my pending sing-off (I haven't forgotten...)

Crap versions:

• Celeste Aida - Krisjan Johannson, an excerpt from Naxos. Okay not CRAP crap, but considering all the at least adequate versions there out there, this is sadly inadequate.
• Sempre Libera from Traviata - Monika Kraus (who?) No, this is bad. I think my favourite version is Renee Fleming, but Angela Gheorgiu is right up there challenging. An I know that many older versions are regarded as much better. It's such a fabulous aria (okay, I know it's really a cabaletta, but WTF), I don't like it being squawked like this;
• Jonathan Welch sinnging Che gelida manina from La Bohème

From this album I really like Kiri Te Kanawa's Se come vol from Puccini's Le villi (an opera I have never really heard of); Plácido Domingo singing the wonderful Vesti la giubba from Leoncavallo's Pagliacci (IMO better than Caruso...!); and Maria Callas's L'amour est un oiseau rebelle from Carmen.

I have another one, on Decca, that I got years ago. It has been played very many times. My faves are

1. La flleur que tu m'avais jetée, from Carmen, sung by Plácido, sounding ravishing
2. Va pensiero - Solti & Chicago SO
3. Belle nuit, o nuit d'amore from Hoffman, sung by Joan Sutherland and Huguette Tourangeau - although I've heard much much better versions...
4. Gloria all'Egitto (Grand March and Ballet) from Aida, Maazel and La Scala - I can't believe that for years I had a real downer, almost to the point of detestation of this piece...!
5. O mio babbino caro from Gianni Schicchi, sung by Renata Tebaldi

M People

I have a couple of their CDs, Bizarre Fruit and The Best Of...

A strange band. they were almost big at one time. Pleasant. One immortal track - Search for the Hero, which is pretty cool, and provides the backing for one of my favourite adverts, ever, for a car. You know the advert. I just can't remember the car...!

Should I have bought these CDs? Yes, because I wanted them at the time. Do I get a spontaneous urge to play them now? No.

Can I rave about their greatness or rage about their crapness? No.

Shrug

Blogging from work

Go me!

I've been back less than an hour and have already had a fight with the security turnstiles. In addition I have already directed tourists to Buckingham Palace. I wonder whether I should send them the quick way, down Buckingham Gate. Nah, I direct them through St James's Park. They looked like they could do with the exercise. Besides, they should get some nice photos. Mind you, they'll probably spoil them by positioning each other in them. Nothing like a photo of a gurning partner/companion to ruin an otherwise acceptable photo.

Caz is also back today. She was off for a couple of weeks during my first short spell; then we both managed to go off long-term on the same day - the previous day we had each contributed to each other's breaking down in tears. You have to feel sorry for our manager...He's not in today.

Some free form poetry

For the past three hours, people - at least I assume they're people - have been hitting my site with the following words. The punctuation is mine...

Cadbury pest. Sweets sex tits. Large tits Manchester United song amount to. Tip bluetooth connectivity Haywards Heath. Dogging places abide with me at the Cup Final accountancy. Jokes, "Swing your pants surrey crackwhores."

Celebrity stalking skip registration. Weather archives nude lap dancers. Live sex Royal Marines. Gibraltar 2004 doncaster dogging song. Best years of our lives updated adverts of August 2004 looking for single women in worksop, friendly couple. My boss is a twat breast cleavage. Pictures Music Man.

Lyrics Black Lace me days lyrics to rugby 'gang bang song' best punk song ever. Being woman advantages boobs how to grow chest hair portraits. Prostitutes quizzes to see if your straight or gay. Or bi Debenhams customer complaints poor service xml.

British weather Yank-bashing football quotes. British army women dress uniform live in Guildford. Email address 2004 brighton pier. Old fat woman do guys wear thongs?

Smart arse Harrods Christmas 2004 escorts. Paying tax Ian Hislop London big boobs tits. Analsex stories green fairy weblog dogging in yorkshire office noise. How do I google somebody lead singer. Air Supply waking the dead. Jimmy's Chocolates Gary Neville wife/partner team. Squirrel top twenty. Rock songs 2004.

I'm actually a bit surprised that there are few searches for celebs. Over the past few days I have had hundreds of search requests for Peter Kay, and dozens for each of Plácido Domingo, Simon Keenlyside, Michael Owen, Peaches Geldof, Abi Titmuss and Gaynor Morgan.

I know, I know, this post will only encourage the googlers. But they're unrelenting anyway.

Godfather of opera tenors

Domingo holds court at Baalbek

Interview and concert review.

Not very flattering photo, though....

Sigh...

Update in response to Lynn's comment...!

Whereas this one taken earlier this year...

The importance of spoken English

Libby Purves writes The word on the street is: spoken English reely matters

The BBC provides more background

In another example of Gert-the-Fogey, I say I agree wholeheartedly. Actually, Libby Purves is spot on - teaching children about the different styles of English and when to use them is a vital component of creating an egalitarian society, and, actually, not fogeyish at all.

It ties in with my exasperation at the illiterates that pop-up with tedious frequency on this blog. If they cannot grasp why they should communicate in standard English, it is unlikely that they will ever learn to do so. And they sell themselves short, because one would assume they have the intellectual capacity to assimilate and analyse information and form thoughts. But those thoughts of our no value if they cannot persuade other people.

Death

There's seems to be a lot of people dying recently. I mean famous people. Famous people who, on the whole, have surpassed their three score years and ten.

Let me see - Paul Foot, Carlos Kleiber, Francis Crick, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Red Adair, Bernard Levin, and Fay Wray. That's quite a roll-call in just three weeks.

And I'm sure I've forgotten someone.

The Blog of Death is a useful resource concerning those famous in the USA.

Anyone fancy collaborating on a UK-focused blog of death?

Update: Just spotted an obituary for Margaret Simey. A remarkable woman - died two weeks ago aged 98. Not so famous, but definitely worthy of an RIP on my blog.

Trip to Windsor

On Saturday, we went to Windsor. We went for a walk down the river, and back. A nice pint in the Royal Oak pub. A cruise on the river. An afternoon tea. Mm, scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream...Yum. Yum.

We tried to go into the castle at quarter past four, but it was closed. Bastards, I thought. We pay for the bloody thing out of our taxes, and those parasites won't even let us in on a hot hot hot mid-Saturday-afternoon in the holidays. They ought to get their heads out of their arses and stop treating us, their paymasters, as plebs. And if anyone comes out with any crap defending the Royal Parasites Family, I might as well warn you now, I'm deleting the comment.

Rain

...or the absence of...

I just want it to rain. Properly. A proper cacophany of thunder and lightning and an emptying of the clouds. Just fifteen minutes of inundation is all I ask...

Review of Britten's War Requiem

Anthony Holden says How much more appropriate it would be for the Last Night of the Proms this year, and indeed every year, than the jingoistic flag-waving which perennially puts this nation to shame. I say "Hear hear" heartily.

Also contains a review of Barenboim's West-Eastern Divan

one couldn't help thinking that Sharon and Arafat should be made to sit side-by-side through one of their concerts and then start talking.

Waking the Dead

In the Pina Colada zone

Why do I keep reading reviews that say that Waking the Dead is insane and illogical?

Is it perhaps because it us unpredictable and unformulaic? May I venture to suggest that that makes it just a little bit like real life? And thus, credible.

You know I love it. I've barely missed an episode in the four or five years it's been showing. It kind of crept up and warmly embraced me.

And to this day, it remains, to my knowledge the only TV programme to acknowledge the existence of Central Government Auditors. Okay, that was the least believable part of the entire series, but, my god, we were talking about it for days afterwards.

And, like Second Sight (Clive Owen) and Judge John Deed (Martin Shaw), as well as being absorbing, entertaining drama, has the incidental added bonus of starring a genuine eye-candy hunk that can act (Trevor Eve).

Updatefurther musings from 16 August

My responsibilities as Entertainment manager

I shall only briefly mention that we went to Windsor today. I may write more tomorrow, or tomorrow, or tomorrow. Just a warning - I took over a hundred photos...

We got home at about six o'clock. As we approached home, he said he'd park up and we'd go in Wetherspoons (I'd been salivating for a time about having a cider). But as we got very near home, I realised that what I wanted more than anything was a Nice Cup of Tea (hot and strong, like my men, er, man).

One thing led to another (oo er missus). I moved onto the Pimms, he moved onto the whiskey. It seemed to make perfect sense to recline in the garden.

My job is entertainment manager. This is in addition to being whore in the kitchen, chef in the bedroom. Something relaxing, he commanded. I put on Classical Chillout. Which is perhaps a little too mellow for a Saturday night. The nice new Aussies next-door-but-one were having a house warming, but civilised and moderately quiet, barbecue. We were invited, which was nice, but we decided not to go. The RA chair was having a party on the next road. We weren't invited - not really surprising, we are not RA people, really.

He wanted something lively, so I put on School Disco End of Term Party, fast forwarding through the crap ones. What fun I had singing along to Rupert the Bear, hamming it up to I've Never Been To Me, and reviving my wannabe-Clare Grogan (didn't everybody, back then?) act to I Could Be Happy. Even more fun hearing neighbours diverse singing along and discussing various tracks.

It was a good end to a school disco - I'll Find My Way Home, Love Is In The Air
and Last Christmas. Yes, that's right, Last Christmas. And, indeed, why not?

Himself said - you've awoken the passions of the Colombians and the Portuguese. What next?

There can only be one follow up - the sheer utter eroticism of Germany. I lack an entire Tristan und Isolde, so had to compromise with merely the Love Duet, which is almost certainly the most orgasmic music in my collection.

I don't think I've ever before lain out in the back garden, flat on my back on the Sit'n'Sleep, sipping Pimms and Lemonade, watching the sky darken and seeing the stars come out (in London? Stars?) whilst feeling entirely relaxed and perhaps even comforted by the chatter from the neighbouring gardens.

There's a film in post-production of Tristan and Isolde, but not Wagner's opera (which Leonard Bernstein believed to be the greatest work of art ever).

Guilty pleasures

Oh, the shame

A compilation of those songs that are actually really good, but suffer from an image deficit.

Pilot, definitely. You would be amazed at he number of Search Requests I get based on the lyrics to Magic "Oh oh oh it's magic, never believe it's not so..."

Looking at the track listing, I only know one other - Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton - and that, surely, doesn't count because it charted in 1990 on the back of David Lynch's 1986 film.

A bit of thinking should surely come up with an alternative, UK-Bloggers Guilty Pleasures CD. I think I will nominate anything by Neil Diamond, but if I have to pick one, it would be Forever in Blue Jeans. Or To Be Or Not to Be by BA Robertson. Or Northern Lights by Renaissance.

I think Charlene's I've Never Been To Me has been resurrected as retro-chic, and thus, doesn't count.

Unfair, but apt...

Schubert: Die Winterreise: Bostridge/ Andsnes

Bostridge conveys more the image of an Oxbridge choral scholar who has ventured out without his scarf than Schubert's traveller

- just on this CD or generally?

Henri Cartier-Bresson

The Guardian has a 'special report' on on the great photographer who died on Monday.

Pope as feminist?

Is the Pope a feminist?.

I long ago stopped being a fan of Germaine Greer, but, actually, this article is very much worth reading. I don't disagree with anything she says, and I find some of the evidence quoted to be quite reassuring.

However, the fact remains that whilst the Vatican retains its vile genocidal policy on contraception, it continues to destroy the attempts of many many people (including a vast number of nominal and devout Catholics) to fight the real immorality, Poverty.

Incidentally, someone of my acquaintance, who has spent the last ten years working as a Catholic lay chaplain, pointed out to me that the Vatican's policy on condoms to prevent AIDS is not only morally wrong, but is inconsistent with other teaching.

Many women are prescribed the contraceptive pill as a form of hormone treatment, for gynaecological or endrocrinological problems. The main purpose is to treat those conditions, in much the same way that anti-biotics are prescribed to kill bacteria. The fact is, by taking the Pill, the woman is thus also rendered infertile, is regarded doctrinally as an acceptable incidental consequence, and the woman is not deemed to be 'in sin'. Therefore, by that logic, using condoms to prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS should also be doctrinally acceptable, because the contraceptive function is merely an incidental consequence.

Her mother, and my mother (who know each other) regard the contraception teaching as ridiculous and outdated, and what a couple do in their private life is of no concern to the priest in confessional. Another friend has a brother who is a Catholic priest and he has made it quite clear to this friend that effective contraception is an essential part of a sensible married life - just count the children and the bedrooms and do the sums.

Whilst unaccountable, exclusively (or predominantly) male organisations seek to impose their crackpot ideas on governments and wider society, I believe we have a moral duty to speak out against them.

The chaplain and the priest speak out from within. There again, they are exceptionally intelligent, well-educated people with a greater understanding of the world than your average dullard plonked into the parishes of the world.

Ignorance

... is bliss for children tackling history reports the Telegraph.

It just amazes me to read this. I realise that I have been blessed with an exceptionally absorbent and retentive memory - oh you want me on your pub quiz team!- and even I have lapses eg yesterday I could not remember the word that means the sound a train driver causes the train to make as it goes through a station without stopping. The closest I could get was 'hooter'.

But this isn't just about forgetfulness - by substituting 'hooter' I was able to communicate my meaning (ie that one hears such things in the middle of a still, windows-open night).

Ask me cold when the Battle of the Boyne was and I would be struggling to get more precise than the late 17th Century. But I do know for sure that it has absolutely nothing to do with the Lord of the Rings. That's not about knowledge of cold, hard facts - that's about a modest analytical ability to compartmentalise unassociated information. I thought it was a skill that the overwhelming vast majority of people develop at Infant School age.

It's too easy to blame the schools - for heavens' sake, most of them are struggling to instill basic social skills into a the small but significant minority of their pupils. To a certain extent, all through life we absorb information we understand, or about which we care, and filter the rest.

Perhaps I shouldn't care about widespread ignorance. Perhaps it has always been like that. Perhaps we - the chattering classes - just expect more nowadays.

I suppose I just pity those without a thirst to learn. A couple of years back I was horrified to read that half of Primary School teachers didn't know what the Human Genome Project was. I don't pretend to know a lot, but I bet I could explain it reasonably satisfactorily, if superficially, to a Primary School teacher child.

And even though I have absolutely no interest in the Lord of the Rings I know that it is a series of three novels by JRR Tolkein written in about the 1930s, ultimately about the struggle between bad and good, set in a mythical fictional world, with a Ring symbolising power and goodness. If pushed, I could also name some of the characters. I could also tell you that CS Lewis had the view that it reflected Tolkein's support for the Nazis, and that Tolkein was heavily influenced by Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung, whichin turn heavily influenced the Nazis. I could tell you why that is important, and I could also tell you why both Rings should also be viewed as Stand Alone works of art without recourse to political analysis. Oh, and Lord of the Rings was made into three films.

Celebrity obsessed?

Sven will we be adult about sex?

Brian Reade in The Mirror is absolutely right about the ridiculousness of two consenting adults shagging being given more coverage than real world news.

He also mentions that when Francis Crick died, 98% of the population had not heard of him - to that I will add other recent departures, Paul Foot, Carlos Kleiber, and Henri Cartier-Bresson, all of whom are more worthy of respect than the Abi Titmusses and James Hewitts the tabloids blueurch on about relentlessly.

And I might even add Marlon Brando - I would suspect that a fair proportion of people who avidly follow the lives of Reality TV stars probably haven't heard of Marlon Brando, either. And don't hold your breath for recognition of Ronald Reagan...

But that's the problem, isn't it? Brian Reade is usually a good read, but, when all is said and done, he writes in the Mirror, which, despite its occasional outbreaks of moral indignation (and more power to its elbow there), nevertheless is primarily in the market for its Sports coverage and its celebrity gossip.

And I know that there are a few people floating around BlogLand who fail entirely to understand why tabloids contain celebrity gossip. Because it sells newspapers! Why, because there is an inherent human instinct to be interested in the lives of other people. Perhaps especially there is a natural element of schadenfreude in seeing those that are more powerful, or richer, or more glamorous, with egg on their face.

My problem is, the tabloids tend to focus on the easily-accessible, publicity-hungry C-listers and Royals (mainly interchangeable, I think!) because it doesn't require much work. However, to me, the interest lies far more in those who don't attend the opening of every paper bag. They are usually the ones with the sleazy, scandalous lives, and I find it far more entertaining to read about them, often piecing together various bits and pieces from diverse sources, than to read yet again that some slapper shagged another slapper.

A couple of weeks ago I linked to a Times article about conductors' sex lives, which I helpfully preserved on Usenet/Google Groups. Norman Lebrecht had already discussed Why conductors have great sex. These stories would never sell tabloids - and there is similar, titillating gossip from the world of literature etc. The truth is, these people are more interesting than vacuous wannabe Model-Actress-Whatevers.

Search request special

I seem to have had a lot of requests for DVDs featuring nudity. I would recommend Rigoletto, where nakedness is used intelligently in an overall satisfactory dramatical and musical presentation, and Alcina, for its gorgeous music and its erotic - bordering on pornographic nudity.

I have also read a recommendation for Thaïs -

...a lot of flesh is on display here, the entire female corps de ballet is topless, save for necklace
chains, and Thais has a topless doppleganger who gives a radiant
performance of the Meditation (Though Mei's costume leaves little to the
imagination)...William Joyner's bright tenor rings nicely and in Nicias's
brief time onstage, Joyner creates a vain but imminently likeable fellow.
His mini-skirt almost has one fearful of seeming something revealed that
shouldn't be.

You know I'm just being provocative, don't you...?

Floods

The Sub-Standard uses words and pictures to capture the essence of London's worst August storms ever.

Isn't it bizarre that it can be so wet in Kensington, only about three or four miles as the crow flies, and yet, here, all we had was some light drizzle which promised more but failed to deliver. Three times I went outside hoping to dance semi-naked in the rain. Three times the rain persisted in staying away.

I'm puzzled. I sometimes think Brixton gets a special Caribbean climate, but this is ridiculous.

Weather it affects us

I woke up with a migraine. It just got worse and worse, so I had a bath. Bizarrely - or not? - it dissipated just as the first thunderclaps were heard.

Extraordinary

This Sven-Faria thing ain't about football any more. It's partly about the Mirror sub-editor's inability to understand Italian in their desire to get a pun on Sven. But that's by the by.

Just read the article to find out how Faria's affairs became public knowledge. She was duped into sending emails to someone who claimed to be an old friend.

Really, really bizarre. And, I presume, the duping bitch had absolutely no idea when she started out that her target happened to be sleeping with the England Football Coach.

You know, if someone had tried to write this as fiction, they would be derided as being beyond the bounds of credibility.

The Green Box Embarrassment

In this desert of deprivation and depravity is an oasis or enclave of intellectuals, lefties and achingly concerned. Oh my god, we love our Green Boxes. You know, the ones where the council come round once a week to collect your recyclables. Unfortunately, it seems to be once a month* at the moment, and all us achingly middle-class Guardian/Telelgraph readers are repeatedly saying to each other "Oh yes, the Green Box - gosh, it makes us looks like boozers! Of course, the council hasn't collected it for weeks."

It's partly true, of course.

Jimmy reckons that before the introduction of the Green Box, he had no idea how much booze, especially wine, was consumed indoors. He assumed that people either drank in pubs or not at all. But now, he's a confirmed indoors wine drinker. That's why our box is full. Nothing to do with me, honest, guv.

* this is what happens when the Liberal Tories run the Council. They've even allowed the municipal flowers to die in the municipal hanging baskets. (Imagine if Babylon Borough council had allowed that to happen). And to think that some people base their local vote on national or international politics. Subsidiarity, that's what I say.