Ante Christ

So, Christ's Mess 2009 is well and truly over for another year. Actually it's the last time Christ's Mess 2009 will ever happen so that statement is bullshit really. Anyhoo, it has been a pretty quiet one this year, I got me some good stuff, some books about some olden days wars and it was a Krautrock Christ's Mess this year with albums by Amon Dull II, Faust and Kraftwerk all being well received. . The rest of it has been lost in an alcoholic haze that began the day before Jesus' Birthday and pretty much ended yesterday.

It's my birthday, Motherfuckers!

Most of my time has been spent at relatives houses, I saw Neil and Lou's gaff for the first time on Christ's Mess day. It was surprisingly tasteful, I told them. It seems compliments are not always well received. Neil served me with a poor man's version of a Mojito all night, although I'm fairly sure there was no Bacardi in the last two, just lemonade and mint. Lou served the world's most miserable buffet; Party Eggs supplemented proper Scotch Eggs, cheese puffs in place of Hand Cooked Crisps. Having said that, her home made sausage rolls were fantastic. Ian had his (in)famous quiz, one that I have won for the past two years and I was back to defend my title. This time, however, the quiz was loaded against me, it was more like A Question of Sport than Mastermind and I was knocked from my position of number one. A History question, a History question, my Kingdom for a History question! I won't be going back next year.

Who took over as chairman of Arsenal in 1956?
How the fuck should I know?

On Christ's Mess Eve I'd put a bet on a Horse on the King George VI's Chace at Kempton. Ian had given me a hot tip on a nag called Racing Demon. I should have known, most horses that win are called Mustapha's Moustache or Pieface Thackery or some other ridiculous moniker. Calling a horse Racing Demon is just asking for trouble, it's too much pressure from the start. The race was run on Boxing Day and James and I called over to Ian and Chris' to watch the affair. If the gee gee romped home I was looking at a win of about £800, enough to ship me off to Japan and New Zealand in March. The moment arrived and they were off! At the first bend of the three mile course, the lame fucking donkey that I'd put my fortune on was pulled out of the race. The commentators never said but was probably shot and turned into glue afterwards.

and coming in last is Racing Demon...

Fuck you I won't listen to what you tell me

Last night I was going to write about my reactions to Rage Against the Machine's Christ's Mess win in the number one UK charts slot, but in the cold light of morning I can't be bothered as it has been covered so much elsewhere, it's just enough to say: IN YOUR FACE SIMON COWELL! So what I will do instead as we head speedily towards that inevitable festival of arguments, disappointing presents and burnt turkey is to offer up a few more pictures of gaudy light displays that have been spotted around my area.


This little beauty sits on the edge of a duel carriageway, there are frequent pile ups outside the house due to the distracting nature of the lights. You will notice a few features, one of which is the parachuting Santa on the wall. This is a now common theme of Christ's Mess light displays. When I was a child Saint Nick moved around the world in a reindeer pulled sleigh. This, it seems, has been superseded by a winter paramilitary operation not unsimilar to the French Foreign Legion paratroops dropping on Dien Bien Phu. A fully armed Father Christmas smashes into your rooftop throwing stun grenades to keep the children subdued whilst he distributes presents and drinks the sherry left out for him the previous night.


I apologise for the blurred nature of this photo, but when I lifted the viewfinder to my face the blinking lights gave me an epileptic fit like when playing on a Nintendo for too long. When I came to, the sun had risen and I couldn't get another photo of the GLORY OF CHRIST'S BIRTH DEMONSTRATED THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF GLARING LIGHT. You can just see it, but this one has several figures in the garden; angels and Santa's parade around and stand to attention like some winter themed dwarf Nuremberg Rally. The light from this display was so bright and focused that it actually burnt a scar onto the face of the moon when it was first turned on.

There is always one that outshines the rest, please, don't excuse the pun, and this one is it. Not only is the house bedecked with intense lights, but they have spilled out onto the roof of the garage. Every available spot is taken up by a glittering display of non-existent wealth. This display burns brighter than Betelgeuse and is now classified as a Class O stellar body. No human eye can withstand the intensity of the light. Even standing within 100 yards of this house can result in massive tissue damage through third degree burns.

This is the kind of Christmas Light Display I like...

It's also this time of year that we get the hackneyed literature themed Great War Christmas truce stories wheeled out. My friend sent me the following passage from a memoir he'd just finished reading, the date for 25th Dec. 1914 reads like this:

'We awoke to the sounds of carols coming from the German trenches, we recognised Silent Night, and we were reminded of the day as the songs drifted across the cold fields. The Hun shouted to us, 'Hey Tommy, sing with us!' Of course, they shot the bloody hell out of us the day before, so our boys replied with a heavy barrage of rifle fire. Hostilities continued for the rest of the day.'

Happy Christ's Mess

Swordfishtrombones

I only allow myself one trip to a church a year (not to PRAY! Good God, what do you take me for?) and as it's getting close to Jesus' Birthday this happened last Friday. I wasn't visiting the church for religious reasons, it was to see a musical group, The York Waits. I was under the impression they were a Tom Waits cover band. They aren't, it's a Medieval quintet of merry troubadours, who maketh a noyse of shawms. They were performing at Wentworth Church as they did two years ago when I last saw them. It was a great night of Sackbuts, Crumhorns and Hurdy Gurdys! Although there was no jigging in the aisles we were merrily wassailed all night. Mind you, the rest of the audience were at least three decades older than me, so there wouldn't have been much jigging with all those delicate hips. With the culture out of the way we ended up in the most unfriendliest pub in Wentworth. They even rung the time bell at 10.45! On a Friday night! Christ, I thought we were living in the 21st Century now, what with 24hr drinking licenses back in place. Obviously the news never reached Wentworth...

Tom Waits, not the York Waits...

Saturday evening's entertainment was thwarted by the weather. I love snow, I think it's great. I just don't like it when it stops me from doing things. Like getting to Newcastle for a party because the A1 is completely whited out from a blizzard. I was travelling up North to see Alistair, Keith, Jon and Shirley from No Man's Land for a curry party at Alistair's place. An hour and half into the journey and the snow fell in a flurry, turning the whole road into a Grim and Frostbitten Kingdom. Sadly I decided to turn around in case it got too tricky. I spent the rest of the night drowning my sorrows in the beer I'd bought for the party, a Chinese take away and Wife Swap (the program, not the actual act...).

The A1: approximately 19:00hrs 19/12/09

I made a Festivus card initially for Hrappi then I thought I'd make it available to all who answered the call for addresses on Facefuck. Only a few of you asked for a copy, so I thought I'd better make it even more widely available. Here it is for you to cut out and keep although you won't get a personalised message from me hoping you will choke on your Christ's Mess Pudding:


And just for Festivus, here is a rather long, but pretty amusing Singapore blog, don't worry it's getting closer to the point where I got fired so you won't have to read too many more of these...

Friday, June 08, 2007

Wednesday morning consisted of me laying out some grids until I got fed up with it, well, until we all got fed up with it and we left site at lunchtime. We did have a legitimate reason, Mr Wong and Sing were still Jungle bashing, so we couldn't get near the top part of the site anyway. Also the computer started playing up after I dropped it in one of the hangers... We had to pick it up from the repair shop so we could carry on with the scanning work anyway, so at least our break was legitimate. Ang is getting so used to it, he doesn't argue anymore, he just jumps in his cab, asks us if we are going to Yishun for a lift and drives the JCB to it's parking place. On the way back B&T had an argument, I sat in the back with my hands on my ears saying 'I hate it when mummy and daddy argue!' this meant that T**** didn't come with B*** and I to get the computer. The feculent assistant explained to us that the computer was beyond repair and nothing could be done, the warranty being practically useless as it only covered software. We took it back as it had all the data on it anyway and B*** had an idea as to how to get the stuff off it. We had a lunch of Curry and great Naan Breads and went our separate ways, B*** went back to Yishun to hit the computer with a hammer until it worked. I wanted to go to Chinatown, as I haven't been yet and wanted to make the most of my afternoon off. I went via Little India, just for fun, you realise. I was immediately asked if I wanted to buy a suit off some random punter in the street. 'I don't wear suits.' I told him 'What about a nice shirt?' he countered. 'I don't wear shirts either.' It took a while like this to extricate myself from the conversation. Trouble is, I arrived at Chinatown and I was walking down the main strip a certain Mr Michael Wong dragged me into HIS Manchester Tailor shop. He started by buttering me up 'You look fresh, have you just got up?' 'I've been up since seven.' I told him. It was about 2.30pm. Then he proceeded to go through the exact same conversation as the guy in Little India:

Michael 'You want a suit, I got good suits. All Italian cloth'

Alex: 'I don't wear suits, Michael.'

Michael 'These are very good quality, Italian'

Alex 'Yeah, they really are nice, but I don't wear suits.'

Michael 'OK how about a nice Italian shirt?'

Alex 'Again, I'm afraid I don't wear them.'

Micheal 'Good Italian cloth, very good quality.'

Alex 'There obviously appears to be some breakdown in communication here, Michael. It's not as though I am discussing the finer points of Sartre's Existentialism with Ang. All I'm telling you is I have no need for suit or shirt, no matter how nice or fucking Italian they are.'

I took my leave and went into the Chinatown Heritage centre, with a promise to Michael that I'd be back in two weeks with some money and a change in my attitude towards suits and shirts. The Chinatown Heritage Centre was excellent, as with most museums here. It had a great mock
up of a typical Chinatown building with all the little separate rooms. It also dwelt on the fact that the biggest building in Chinatown (the Theatre, I forget the name. Google it.) was
the best place for suicides until the modern high rise housing developments took it's crown as suicide choice number one.

At the end of Temple Street in Chinatown, is, unsurprisingly a temple. In fact there is quite a few. I went into the Sri Mariamman Hindu temple, a beautiful example of Hindu architecture, bedecked with fabulous beasts and heroes and heroines of Hindu mythology, it is the oldest of Singapore's Hindu Temples and probably the finest. All these wonderful beasts peer down on you as you enter through the main gate, a massive double doored wooden affair. Inside are further sculptures all over the roof of the main temple building. Dragons, Tigers, cows, men and women all compete for the space. I took my shoes off and went inside for a closer look. I saw that you had to pay $3 for the privilege of taking photographs. As the temple was free to enter I didn't mind this little fee and paid my three bucks. I took one picture and my camera's batteries promptly died.

That was one expensive fucking picture. I hope their fucking temple burns down.

I went to see Zodiac on Wednesday evening, a great movie that I will go and see again as it is quite complex and The Coughers Union was sitting directly behind me and hacking his sphincter up during the entire performance. Thursday brought about a full day of actual work, after which
B*** and I went swimming for a couple of hours. Today, Friday was declared a day off. I don't know what the idea behind that was. I prefer a Saturday or Sunday, so I can go out on Friday night. But, I'm not the boss, am I? I spent Thursday evening discussing the finer points of
European women with Ariff, I told him that they were all fat, ugly, violent, broken bottle wielding pigs, which is true for about 70% of them.

I got up this morning and set off to Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. It was fantastic, I saw a couple of Lizards, and a family of monkeys. In fact I walked around a corner and they were all sitting on the path, creeping slowly forwards I got a good few pictures of them, one of them was sniffing another ones arse, so I recorded that for prosperity, or should that be posterity? Then a load of schoolkids came up the path and frightened them away. I also went over to Bukit Batok Nature Reserve, where I looked at the historical site of the Japanese Shinto Shrine which was built buy our POWs. It isn't there any more and the original step appear to have been covered by modern concrete ones, but there is a monument. I finished my battlefield tour at the Memories At The Old Ford Factory, where the British Commander Percival signed the surrender. Again, a fantastic museum. I have yet to come across a bad one.

It's conversation with Ang time again:

I was listening to the Spice Girls on the radio:

Alex 'Ang, do you like the Spice Girls?'

Ang 'Spy Girls?'

Alex 'Spice Girls (starts singing Wannabe).'

Ang 'I only know one spy; James Bond.'

I thought I'd better leave it before we got too confused, then he came over and asked:

Ang 'Where's Bigfoot?'

Alex 'What? The Rockies I think.'

Ang 'No, big foot, your friend.'

Alex (twigging) 'Ah, Dave? He's gone home, may come back later.'

Ang 'I call him big foot, he has size twelve feet.' He then proceeded to show me his feet.

Alex 'I'm only size eight.'

Ang 'Me too.'

Alex 'Well Ang, you know what they say: "Small feet, big cocks"'

Ang 'I see show about Bigfoot.'

He then went on is some detail and gesticulation to describe the film Bigfoot and the Hendersons.

Alex 'Yeah, I've seen bits of, it's called Bigfoot ad the Hendersons.'

Ang 'No, called something else I think.'

And here we go round the mulberry bush...

Burn Baby, Burn!

I called the dole office on Monday and had a lengthy phone interview to see if I was owed any money, since I've been paying my taxes for years (OK, mainly in other countries, but taxes is taxes...) and it's time to suck on the foul teat of the corrupt state. I'm gonna milk that cash cow for all it's got, well £65 a week anyway. I had a lengthy interview in which they asked me a million questions about if I had dependents, other sources of income, massive savings or property here or abroad. It was a forty five minute long conversation on my part of 'no, no, no, no, no, no, no' I should have just rung up and said 'no' at the start and cut out the middle man. I secured myself an appointment at the Rotherham Job Centre and called down the next day. I don't know if you've ever been in a Job Centre, but they are the most depressing places on Earth. It's like a long a very bad episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show. The place is full of tracksuits, gold ear rings and chip bellies. The fraudulent and slovenly squirm about like limbless beasts tricking their way into free money and Crisis Loans. It is pretty close to what Dante imagined as his 5th and 8th circles of Hell.

Rotherham Job Centre: Find Your Way Back To Work...

Working there must be worse than working at an abattoir; after a short time in the 'Front line' (this is an actual term used by the Job Centre personnel for the position of signing people on, i.e. the closest contact with the great unwashed) the workers develop a Thousand Yard Stare. Lifeless eyes stare at you as you scrawl your name across the next available line on your signing card. The dead black eyes of a shark peer into your soul as they ask if your circumstances have changed at all since you last signed. It may be an urban myth, but I'm pretty sure you are not allowed to sit on a jury after you've worked in the Job Centre due to Dehumanisation. After wrestling with the interrogation of your circumstances and once you've signed your name, you're out, free again to drink Super Strength lager in the park with the other life losers as you await your next giro cheque. This is how I spent this afternoon.

A four pack? It must be Giro Day!

Last night however was another night of Pagan Idolatry, this time at the Dodworth Fire Festival. Kate had asked me along to her local Heathen celebration of Vinterblot. Like many communities cut off from the modern world, such as Amazonian Rain Forest Tribes and Papua New Guinean Mountain Dwellers, Dodworth folk have developed their own language, society and rituals to prop it all up. Few outsiders have ever dared attend the Fire Festival and I felt like an 19th Century explorer watching tribal activity from the safety of the tree line. First there was the hypnotic rhythm's of the Samba Band, they worked themselves up into a frenzy of lust which culminated in an animal sacrifice in their Godless religion. The women folk of the tribe stepped up and chanting a strange language known to Anthropologists as 'Barnsley', they preceded to dance a mating dance for the men folk of the village. With this over the male elders of the area gathered and danced the sacred 'Morris' each intending to attract the attention of the most fertile of the women folk.

The costumes represent a different bird, symbolising the flying of the soul to heaven and the virility of the wearer

Then the fire procession began, each of us, clutching the sacred fire stick walked through the village to arrive at the Wickerman where the village Virgins had been placed. Once the massive wooden edifice was ablaze the entire village packed into the local watering hole and watched a Mummers Play, where St George was attacked by a dirty Turk. It was touch and go whether George would make it through the battle but a few drops of magic potion from the local Witch Doctor brought him round to finish the fight and be victorious. The crowd went wild and the local youths went on a drunken rampage through Dodworth, burning and raping all in site. A good night was had by all.

Dodworth was left a smoking ruin

I was thinking about films plots the other day and came up with the idea of a Time Travelling Dog. I was going to call it Bark To The Future, if you can think of a better name let me know. But as I thought about it, it was a rubbish idea. How would anyone from the past or future know the dog was a time traveller? It was just a fucking dog. It wouldn't be able to tell anyone where it was from:

London 1666, ext: there is a blue flash and the Dog appears on a grotty side street. It walks out onto the main road and straight into two 17th Century Dandies:

Dog: Woof woof woof (Subtitles: Hey, you two, I've come from the future to tell you that London is going to burn down!)

Dandy 1: I say Gideon, looksee at yonder Dog, come a-parambulating from yonder lane.

Dandy 2: Aye Samuel, the Good Lord Bless'th me with sight to gaze upon yonder canine. We must use such opportunity to pander the beast with love

They both precede stroke and tickle the dog

Dog: Woof woof woof (Subtitles: Get off me, stop it, seriously, someone is gonna start a fire in a bakery, do what you can to avert this disaster! The city is going to burn down)

Dandy 1: Gideon see how he responds to our touching with his voice lifted to heaven!

Dandy 2: Thou ist a fine pooch and there is no denying it! Would thou beg'st for a treat?

Dog: Woof woof woof (subtitles: Listen to me, Please! Ah fuck it, I give up!)

What day is it? The date!
12th... May... Thursday...
WHAT YEAR?

And to finally wrap things up for this post, here is another mildly amusing Singapore Blog entry...

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

We got onto site yesterday and Ang helped us to dig the rest of the anomalies on the areas we had scanned on area three. We found bugger all in the way of ordnance. I then began to lay out the rest of the grids over area three, in the place Messrs Sing and Wong were busy smashing trees left, right and center. I was silently cursing Mr Sing for driving his bulldozer over my survey flags. Then the heavens opened, we ran for cover at the Thorhirah restaurant, where I pulled! It's a pity he was the wrong gender. The waiter (whom B*** and T**** are certain is a gayer, I'm not sure he's a
bummer, a bit effeminate, but no shirt lifter.), asked us if we go out dancing, he told me he knows this Indian Nightclub (full off Indian girls, he assured me...) and wants to take us there on Friday. I immediately thought no, then I thought about it and even if I end up in a Gay Indian Nightclub, it
would be a right laugh. I'm not gay, but then neither am I homophobic. So if he asks again, I will hang out with the guys from Thorhirah.

We sacked work off due to the rain and dropped Ang off at Yishun. Most conversations with Ang go like this:

Me: Ang, so you like Bruce Lee? (adopting Bruce Lee Stance)

Ang: Tai Kwon Do?

Me: No, Kung Fu, Karate?

Ang: Karate, Japanese, no good. I don't like.

Me: You hate the Japs?

Ang: Huh?

Me: The Jap Bastards? They invaded Singapore.

Ang: I don't understand your talking.

Etc.

Ang was telling me today how to speak Chinese, apparently it's something to do with cleaning your teeth with dental floss and snorting. I had originally asked him if he knew some girls in a photograph in a magazine. Our conversational paths tread through some pretty thick jungle, occasionally crossing over but generally ending up at two completely different locations. His most common phrase when in conversation with me is 'I don't understand your talking'. Mine is 'What the Hell does that mean Ang?' If you don't know, it's a paraphrasing of Big Trouble In Little China in order to amuse myself. Little things.

We finished early today as well, we are on the heals of the machines. The original plan was to go swimming but I ended up at the Asian Civilisation Museum instead. The Singaporean museums leave the British ones in the dark, they are a pleasure to go to, instead of a chore. There was a
really good exhibition on Beauty in Asia, it had a good little section on tattoos.

Spacelord Motherfucker!!!!!

It's been a while since my last posting, that is because I've been pretty busy of late. Sue me. As we are getting closer to Christ's Mess my social life is picking up. Monday saw me at the Corporation in the company Kate, Angela, Lauren, Ross, Adam, Alex (not me, another Alex, silly) and Chris and some pirates. Now, being a Ninja by birth, I found the pirates most distressing. I nearly flipped out several times. It was to be expected as I'd gone to see Alestorm; a Pirate Metal band. They were OK, but I always think they are a bit of a one trick pony, there is only so many albums you can release about buckling swash and drinking rum. Even the singer seemed disenchanted with the pirate theme by asking the piratically attired audience 'are you still wearing those retarded costumes?' They were good musicians and reasonably funny, so I had a good night overall.

'Yeah, liked them when they were Battleheart, but the change to Alestorm and pirate metal was sublime...'

Wednesday found me in the company of Danny, Bennet and Barnsey celebrating Danny's birthday with several J2Os on my part. I was pretty under the weather and was under the impression that we'd meet at 2.30 for 'a couple of drinks'. It was 9.30 by the time I dropped everyone off and was eating Pizza with Danny and Jaime. What had preceded was an afternoon of arguments over top six bands, arguments over darts, arguments over pool, drawings of cocks on pub blackboards and general drunkenness on the part of the others.

I couldn't find a picture to illustrate Danny's birthday, so here's a nice festive picture instead

Then... Friday was Aleisha's leaving do. She's off back to America for good, so all the York PhD set were out to say goodbye. After battling a massive gridlock on the A1 I finally reached York and met up with everyone. Again another good night was had, where I managed to avoid talking to people about what their PhD subject was and talked about Guns, films, Herr Docktor Clay's plans for racial 'purification' of Greater Germany and music. In fact, this guy I'd never met before called Dave and I were talking about music so enthusiastically it was catching the attention of the rest of the group who seemed perplexed that someone could talk about anything else BUT their PhD subject. I ended the evening by talking shit to Aleisha and Chloe in their place until four in the morning when I fell asleep on the couch and woke up to the Siberian chill that seems to pervade their house.

Again, here's another Festive photograph

Saturday morning consisted of pushing my way through the madding crowds in York centre and meeting Herr Docktor Clay all too briefly over a Gourmet Burger. A hungover drive later I picked Dave up to set off back up the M1 to Leeds to go and see MONSTER FUCKING MAGNET. I was almost on the edge of not going as I felt rough from the night before, but Mainy was relying on me for a lift and I was looking forward to seeing them anyway. Fuck me, I wasn't disappointed. They kicked off with Dopes To Infinity and proceeded to play some of their best stuff, Zodiac Lung, Twin Earth, Powertrip, Spacelord, Third Alternative, Negasonic Teenage Warhead and Tractor amongst others. What made it though was the Hawkwind cover of the Right Stuff segueing into Longhair and the grand finale of Spine of God. Wyndorf's fat now after the overdose rehabilitation, but he still fucking rocks! It was a Dragstrip to Eternity, Baby!!

I'm ape and god in one
A GTO from the stars

Ego Sum Lux Mundi

Last night was the traditional turning on of the Christmas lights in the village, that along with the traditional burning the effigy of Baby Jesus in a giant Wickerman. Since nailing the fucker to a cross didn't work and he rose from the dead, the village committee decided it would be better to ritually burn him. But only after a load of naked Maypole dancing and Drawing Down the Moon of course... We're nothing if not proudly Pagan here in South Yorkshire.

O, Lord! O, Jesus Christ!

We duly trudged through the six feet of snow to the village centre along with what seemed like the entire population of the village and awaited the light up. As we were waiting Whiston Brass Band entertained us with their renditions of what sounded like Christ's Mess tunes. But with the smashing noise from all the bottles flying at them it was difficult to pick out any particular tune. Mind you the mosh pit that kicked off down the front seemed pretty fierce. Gypsies had gathered on the outskirts of the crowd and were fleecing people like there was no tomorrow with rat poisoned candy floss and cuddly toys stuffed with knives. Then Seven O'clock rolled round and the Methodist church up the road smugly lit up their crucifix while the organisers faffed around trying to find a socket for the plugs in the centre of the village. With the sockets located the lights came on and the crowd released a community 'Ooooh!'. Myself and the family beat a hasty retreat to the local pub to celebrate Festivus before the crowd turned ugly and the whole thing descended into a drunken orgy of violence as it does every year. The rest of the night is pretty blurred, the one thing I do remember is doing a multicolour yawn into the toilet at some ungodly hour, so I must have had fun I guess...

Whiston before the lights... Very Dull...


Whiston after the lights... Still Dull...

Speaking of Christ's Mess and lights, it appears to be that time of year that the great unwashed, terminally unemployed and assorted peasantry decide to try to kid you into thinking they have money that they don't have with vulgar displays of material wealth. Here are a couple of examples from around my area. I shall try to find more to show you as the Season to be Jolly rolls on...


This is as close as I could get to this one, but the glare is still apparent through the trees. The garden was full of lights as was the three walls of the house.


As shown here, this is the front of the same house. The lights from this house were so bright, as I drove towards it I had to avoid a four car pile up that had been caused by the glare from these lights.


This house was over the road from the previous two photos and if there was a neighbourly competition going on, then, boy, these guys were losing it. As I was taking this picture a man appeared from the house next door and aggressively asked me why I was taking pictures of his house. The unemployed and down trodden obviously have a lot to hide. I told him I was taking pictures of the lights cos I liked them and this seemed to sway his anger. So never say I don't risk my life for your entertainment. It was just like combat photography, I tell thi. I think it must have been what Robert Capa was going through on the Normandy Beaches.

Closer to home I found these beauties:


Yes, even in a fairly affluent area people still feel the need to show off their material wealth. When the owner of this little display turns on the power the lights of Sheffield dim for a second. The National Grid records a flicker not unlike when people turn on the kettle during the advert break of X Factor.


Note the tasteful placing of the Santa statue in this cornucopia of Christmas themes. Nothing says how much you like Jesus' Birthday more than a fucking eight foot plastic Santa. The lights burning in the bedroom window will ensure these people don't get a wink of sleep during the entire Festive period.

And finally, here is the Motherlode:


The light from this display was so bright that I burned an image of it permanently onto my retina when I looked through the view finder of my camera. It is like staring into the centre of the sun. The light from this house confuses aeroplanes attempting to land at Leeds/Bradford Airport. Along with the Great Wall of China it is the only other human structure that can be seen from space. I have shown this house before in an older blog I used to write, but it appears that it gets bigger and brighter with every passing year. The trumpeting angel is a new, and some may say, tasteful, addition to the display. It really brings home the true story of Christ's Mess. Nothing truly says JESUS like a massive electricity bill come January.