And who would live in a place like this? Pt2

Before I begin this part there is a few plugs that I would like to throw out there for your entertainment: Logan Josh has begun a blog HERE which makes this one pale into insignificance. Hilde Maus finally updated HERE. And the Evil Herr Docktor Clay has produced his own rival to the very theme of my most recent postings, HERE. Give him no credit, however, this is merely a reprint of earlier material. I would NEVER stoop doing such a lazy thing!

Back to Part Two of a tour around Rotherham (find part one HERE), the fine homestead nestling in the bosom of the Rother Valley. Home to a quarter of a million souls, it was founded in the Early Medieval Period and grew around a spot where a Roman Road crossed the River Don. After the Norman Conquest, Rotherham was placed under the protection of the lord Nigel Fossard and his successor De Vesci. Both of these obviously knew the town's reputation and rarely if ever actually visited the place. Canny fellows, them both.

'Horse for sale! Get your lovely Horse here! Come on love, you need a horse in your life!'

This etching depicts Rotherham in its Late Medieval Period hey-day, replete with market square and cross post. The hustle and bustle of the three annual fairs and the Monday and Friday markets of yore would have given the centre a real busy and thriving market town feel. Come with me gentle reader as we take a walk through the civic centre of the today and see what it has to offer the Oniomanic day tripper, intent on quickly separating their foolishness and their money. Onwards to the hub of the shopping experience; College Street!:

Empty lots, boarded up buildings, but at least B&M Bargains is thriving!

Here we can choose from an exciting range of one shopping experience. B&M Bargains, the store that sells practically EVERYTHING. Just like a Dole scroungers Harrods. What need has Rotherham for other outlets when we have the almighty B&M? The boarded up shop to the right of B&M was the town's only Marks & Spencer. This has now been closed for several years when it was realised that the people of the town were unable to afford the Dine In for £10 offers. Well, with only £64 a week from the Dole, you would struggle too! We turn away from the delight of College Street and seek out further shopportunities on High Street:

It was a sad day indeed when Sofa Craft had to close

Struggling to find anywhere to part with our hard signed for cash, we walk up and down High Street seeking out an emporium that will pander to our fevered need for retail therapy:

Even help from the Heritage Lottery Fund failed to keep this place open...

Whilst we pace fervidly up and down High Street on the lookout for an open boutique, or eyes fall upon the oldest building in Rotherham:


Formerly the Three Cranes Inn, this timber framed building from the 15th century is the only one of it's kind in the town. It survived a Civil War and Two World Wars only to be left to slowly rot away by a Town Council filled with THICK AS SHIT EX-STEELWORKERS WHO KNOW NOTHING OF CULTURE OR HISTORICAL IMPORTANCE. Sadly we leave High Street, seeking out pastures new, wending our way through delightful hidden and secret meandering passageways:



We eventually find ourselves in All Saint's Square. At last! Shops that are open! This is beyond our wildest dreams!:

There is an oxymoron somewhere in this photo, but I'm damned if I can find it...

We are taught healthy cooking by non-other than TV's Jamie Oliver then stuff ourselves stupid with chocolate next door at Thornton's. Sitting on a bench in the middle of the square we are at once delighted and overcome by the spectacle of the TELLY ON A STICK:

Someone had lost the instruction manual and no-one could work out where the 'on' switch was...

One of the greatest acheivements of Rotherham Town Council. The £150,000 White Elephant topping to their cake of Civic Centre destruction. Recently the council have decided to pull the plug (pun intended) on the Telly On A Stick in order to save money on it's upkeep. It struck me, they could have saved a whole load more money if they'd NEVER BUILT THE FUCKING THING IN THE FIRST PLACE! But what do I know? I'm no fiscal expert. The Council were put in their positions because they know what they are doing? Right?

Still to come; how Rotherham celebrates its town heroes, further pictures of crumbling important historical buildings, a tour around the sleazier side of town, further council folly and a night out in Rotherham...

And who would live in a place like this? Pt1

Rotherham, the jewel of the North, the Xanadu of South Yorkshire. Did Kubla Khan ever rest his eyes on a beauty so rich as this great industrial town? I think not, for his were not the riches of Canklow, Herringthorpe or the sprawling beast of Eastwood. But this town, my place of birth is about offer up its diamonds for you, gentle reader, as we go on a tour of Rotherham. Where do we begin our quest? At Boston Castle of course, for its beautiful views across the valley and the sprawling metropolis squatting like some Lovecraftian horror waiting to pounce:


The 'castle' was built in 1775 by the Earl of Effingham as a hunting lodge and named in protest of the harsh treatment being meted out by the British to the American Colonists. Tea drinking was banned by the Earl as a further measure. Against such an interesting and colourful backdrop Rotherham Council have allowed it to fall into dereliction and disrepair. Well it's cheaper to clear up a pile of rubble that it will eventually fall into than fix cracks in walls like this:

Not Civil War seige damage, Rotherham Council damage...

Leaving the sad state of Boston Castle behind we venture into the town itself. Rotherham straddles the River Don as it flows gracefully through the civic centre. Some commentators have said it resembles the mighty Tiber, or indeed the majestic Rhine as it meanders through the burg. I will mearly allow you to make up your own mind from this view:

If you fall in, just hang onto the chains until someone notices you and try not to swallow any water...

Around the river are dotted the latest in a new Council initiative: the Rotherham Renaissance. New buildings have been springing up, all resplendent in steel and concrete. Eager to take on new businesses and tenants, the shops and flats have lain empty since the buildings were completed about two years ago:

Fabulous Business opportunities await in your new premises!

Meanwhile over the road, the ancient dwellings known as the Imperial Buildings lie equally empty. Until only a few years ago this complex was awash with many small businesses supplying all the meat, tobacco and flowers a small town could need.



It has been rumoured that these businesses had been in existence since the dawn of Man. After touching the obelisk, whilst several monkeys went on to smash each other's heads in with bones, one astute simian began trading, in a cave, Zippo lighters and pouches of Drum Tobacco. Over the following centuries that cave became the nucleus of the Imperial Buildings. Until a few years ago when the council saw fit to encourage business growth by MOVING ALL THE BUSINESSES OUT! Far be it for me to criticise, I am no fiscal expert, so I guess the Council must know what the fuck they are doing. Right?

Other places in Britain take pride in their historic buildings, affording them all the beautifying treatment they deserve. Not so in dear old Rotherham. There appears to be an active program against incongruous and anachronistic beautification. Along with the Council's ingenious plan of allowing Boston Castle to fall into a state of dereliction, several other historic buildings around town have also received the same treatment. They are a savvy bunch, the councillors. Why pay for the costly demolition of a building when time will take it's toll anyway?

Beautiful crumbling facades. Rotherham's heritage.

There's more to come in Part Two, get ready for more historical buildings left to rack and ruin, Jamie Oliver's attempts to make the town thin thwarted by bad juxtapositioning, a nightlife unparallelled elsewhere in the country and THE BIG TELLY!

I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire

With nothing better to do on Sunday night I went to see the film The Road. I asked Ninjasaurus Rex if he and his wife would like to accompany me, but their response was something along the lines of 'fuck off you loser, we've got REAL friends coming over for dinner. We'd have invited you, but we both think you're a cunt. So die.' Then the phone line went dead. With their words ringing in my ears, I wept all the way to the cinema, ALONE.

'Then I told him to Fuck Off! I could hear him crying as I put the phone down! Cheers!'

There will be a couple of small spoilers in this next paragraph, so skip to just beyond the picture if you don't want to know them. The film was good, it had come recommended by Herr Doktor Clay. He'd told me it was depressing film with an uplifting end. I later asked him how he could call the impending bleak future faced by nuclear war survivors as an 'uplifting ending'. He said the guy didn't rape and eat his kid so that was uplifting in his book. It's a pretty depressing film throughout, not really a date movie, but damn good except for a few small points. Which I shall sum up for you now: Towards the end the man (non raper) and boy (non eaten) 'befriend' a kindly blind old man, who is white. A little later they are then robbed completely by a black man. I thought this to be slightly playing up to racial stereotypes a little. Mind you, I would probably complain if it was the other way around saying the PC brigade had had their hands all over it. There was also a scene where the man (non raping non cannibal) is shot in the leg by a bow and arrow weidling survivor. But the scene just doesn't go anywhere, except to add further complications to their quest.

The worst Nuclear Winter since records began

One final, quite minor point (not a spoiler), but enough to wind me up, was that every skeleton that they came across was fully articulated. The rib cages standing up and all the bones connected by invisible tendons. This happens so often in films and it really winds me up. Once a body has decomposed there is nothing left to support the bones and they collapse in a heap. As an archaeologist I probably see this more than most, but I would have thought it was obvious to the layman as well. I know in films it's done for dramatic effect, but it still looks pretty fucking stupid. Besides this minor infraction the film is a frightening, depressing and realistic portrayal of the aftermath of a Nuclear Holocaust. It also has Charlize Theron in it, which is always a good reason to see a film.

Helloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Other than that I have moved into selling guitar pedals, well, buying two off Dave and selling them on at a profit. It works out well for both of us. He gets cash in hand to throw at strippers and I get money for when I need it. In a similar vein I have been trying to track down Colin to buy some books off him, but getting hold of Colin is akin to mucking out the rocking horse stables. Despite an email, a text message, a answer phone message and even sending Lauren after him, he has failed to emerge. Tomorrow is another day and hope springs eternal in the quest for the Magical Golden Mane. I might just fill his inbox up with abuse.

'Colin! Answer your fucking phone!'

The Phantom Shitpipe

Danny was accusing me the other day of writing boring Blogs. In his description they were all about 'trenches' and not much else. Well since I've been out of work since November, I haven't mentioned trenches since at least then, have I? Anyway Danny claimed that he scans the entries to find his name and doesn't bother reading the rest. With this in mind I'm going to mention Danny all the way through this entry. I was out with Danny on Thursday evening, which is where the afore mentioned conversation took place. I was actually out with Danny, Barber, Bennett, Dean and a previously unknown to me Richard. It was Barber's birthday so we were out to celebrate in fine style. It was during this raucous party atmosphere that Dean told me of the Blog he is writing about the musings during Bennett's daily routine as an unemployed dilettante. Read it HERE, it is updated daily so I suggest you keep coming back and reading it. I told Dean I would link to it to get it more readers in order to wind Bennett up even more, so go for your life kids! After a few drinks in The Bluecoat, we all fell upon Renoirs, which was open for the first time on a Thursday that night. It was student night and being lap-dancing club the dances were cheap. It was decided that we would get Barber a birthday dance. So, Danny, Dean, Richard and I all put money in. In the end we paid about £40 for a single dance from one girl when I was told later by one of the other girls that we could have had two girls dance for him for £20. Bah, that's what being stupidly drunk does for you.

'Hang on, how much are we paying for this?'

Anyhow, I declined any further dances for myself. I'm not really into lap-dancing clubs and only went along as the others were going. This just sounds like a lame excuse, but I promise you it's not. I find it too exploitative on both sides to be paying money to watch a girl gyrate. It's not as though you can do anything anyway, except just sit there and watch. I find that incredibly frustrating. I ended just chatting to the girls, finding out about them. I was chatting to Donna, who's dancing name was Dee (incredibly imaginative...), she was a law student at Sheffield University and in her third year. I was quite content to chat to her about university life, but told her 'I don't want a dance off you, I'm not interested. I'll quite happily sit her and talk bullshit to you all night, but you won't have a penny off me. Since you're working, you'd be better off trying someone else in here.' Which she promptly did. I left Danny and Bennett alone in there and went home after a quick visit to Chilli's for a Chicken Burger. Om nom nom.

'Which particular slice of 'instant heart attack' does your chef recommend?'

Friday lunch was spent in the company of Ninjasaurus Rex and a very disappointing halloumi wrap on his part and I spent last night drunkenly shouting at The Phantom Menace with Dave. We'd both watched separate reviews on tinterwebz about the worst film in the history of man and wanted to see if it matched up with the reviews. You can experience it as well by checking out these links:

Phantom Menace Review 1

Phantom Menace Review 2

Danny.

Abattoir

I have been a bit late with new blogs of late as I stupidly kicked water over my computer and it now refuses to work. The little cunt. As I decide what to do with it I have limited assess to computers so I will try my best to keep this updated. Anyhow, it's been a pretty quiet week since the last posting. Not only has my computer lost the will to live but the Dole have yet to access my claim and I am still waiting for the money they owe me from a month ago. I also need them to sort out my claim asap so I can enroll on a college course, as I get it for free when signing on. I may as well take everything they have.

'Hi is that the Toshiba help line, yeah, I've dropped a bit of water on my computer, is there anything you can do to help?'

Yesterday I went to see Avatar. It is the biggest pile of crap my eyes have rested on for a long time. It is three hours too long. It is wooden, cliched, hackneyed, boring and lacks any real depth. Even the 3D gets boring after half an hour. I'm not going to dwell on this as there is a great review of the film HERE. But what I did notice was that James Cameron used the same basic designs for the vehicles as he did in Aliens, the Marine's drop ships were very similar and there is a walker very similar to the Cargo-Loaders in Aliens. Obviously Cameron has a hard-on for these vehicles and now has the technology to play with to make them seem more realistic. What did annoy me though, was the fact that the Marines in Avatar are using Helicopters and machine guns. This film is set about 150 years in the future. This is the same as the British Army of today going into Iraq armed with muskets and smooth bore cannons.

Operation Desert Storm kicked off in grand style!

Whilst on the subject of similarities between Aliens and Avatar, I noticed several others. Both films centre on a repressed race under siege and fighting a territorial battle for survival. Except in Aliens they spit acid. Both films have the Marines attacking the alien race, but in Aliens the Marines are 'good' in Avatar the Marines are 'bad'. Basically the message here breaks down to in the 1980's war=good, in 2010 war=bad. This is how simplistic and banal the 'message' behind Avatar is. And it is forced on you like sledgehammer blows. It also purports to have an ecological message behind it all (which is in itself is bullshit as Cameron spent the GNP of a small African Nation making this film, money which would have been better spent on combating CO2 emissions...), as does Aliens, however. What it the ecological message in Aliens? 'Take off and nuke the entire site from orbit.' Which to be honest, is what I would have done with the Navi. I felt no compassion for them whilst watching Avatar. My loyalties sat with the humans, why would I be compassionate about a race of aliens of which I knew nothing? They are sitting on a rich seam of unobtainium (please...........), get them shifted off it and mine the fuck out of their planet. Who cares? I would have felt far more sympathy had the film been based around a tribe of Masai, fighting against an overwhelming presence. Why, because the Masai are human and the Navi are lanky blue skinned freaks. Having said all that, I shouldn't have been surprised as this was a film from the man who brought you Titanic...

Navi? Problem solved...

Double Your Money!

I went to sign on again on Wednesday. The Job Centre hasn't changed much since before Christ's Mess it's still full of the stinking scum of human effluence. This time, however, like me, they were all demanding to know where 'their fucking giro was'. I haven't been paid since before Christ's Mess, despite them having had three weeks to sort it out. I was told that the computer system they were using was from the old Civil Service and therefore had the computing capacity of a village idiot drunk on lumpy cider, moonshine and pond water. It had the digital equivalent of a straw hanging out of its mouth, hence the delay in sorting out my claim. I was told I would be paid on Monday, so I'm expecting a lump sum of the money I'm owed, plus the money I just signed for. Yes, come Monday, I'll be richer by £12.68p!! As I was signing I was also informed that I will have to attend a 'back to work session' in a week or so. I was informed it would affect my claim if I decided not to attend, I was informed of this just as I was about to open my mouth and say something like 'But I know how to get back to work, I have a degree after all, I'm not a fucking thick Rotherham Orc, who wouldn't be able to find his arse with both hands. I also keep my CV updated and I am in touch with potential employers, there is nothing they can possibly teach me, in fact I should be teaching them. So take your fucking course and shove it so far up your arse that it touches the back of your teeth.' Or words to that effect.

"Can I put 'eating man flesh' as a hobby on my CV?"

I've just returned from Sheffield where I had a lovely lunch with Lauren and in turn saw Angela, Linzi and Colin. Much archaeology gossip ensued. Which brings me to something completely unconnected. The British Archaeological Jobs Resource website sent me a message through Facefuck the other day, it read: Subject: BBC Radio want to know top 5 archaeologists songs: 'Just got onto Radio Scotland... they now want top 5 archaeologists songs for next weeks radio show.. go here to add your fave!' I looked at the lame ass list that the other archaeologists in the country were producing and it had the same old hackneyed shit that archaeologists always come out with, which they generally think are hil-fucking-arious: Christy Moore - 'Don't forget your shovel' being usually somewhere in the list as is the Mock Turtles 'Can You Dig it?'. By far the best and criminally overlooked Archaeological song, which sums up everything about archaeology and the people that practise it is Anal Cunt's 'Van Full Of Retards':



Speaking of music... the accusation keeps getting levelled at me that I 'only like music that no one's ever heard of''. This is simply not true, I do like music that is obscure and difficult to obtain, that much is true. For the early part of the nineties I was heavily involved in the underground Black Metal scene. It is not like it is now, with Myspace and Blogs offering downloadable music at a click. I had to write to bands themselves to hear their music, there was a system of exchanging and recording tapes for each other. I would write out by hand long lists of the music I had available for recording and search similar lists from others to find gems that I'd not got copies of. CDs and Records were virtually unheard of, record labels operated like cottage industries pushing out 500 copies of a split EP. This has coloured my taste in music to an extent that I still get the buzz of excitement when I finally track down that hand numbered limited edition LP of that Scottish Black Metal band released through an Italian Label. Whilst this is still true of me, I do like popular music. Just not all of it. My critics complain that if few people have heard of a band then that band must by definition be shit. By the same definition U2 must be one of the best bands on the planet. As must Coldplay. And they simply are not. But here, to prove my detractors wrong, is a list of bands/artists that are very popular and known to the mainstream and I like them: Abba, AC/DC, The Bee Gees, Black Sabbath, Boney M, Johnny Cash, Nick Cave, Daft Punk, Deep Purple, Dr Dre, Elvis Presley, Ice Cube, Iron Maiden, Joy Division, Kraftwerk, Led Zeppelin, Manowar, Metallica, Misfits, Motorhead, Pink Floyd, Public Enemy, The Prodigy, Run DMC, DJ Shadow, Slayer, Snoop Doggy Dogg, The Stone Roses, Tom Waits... I could go on... But I won't. Instead I'll leave you with this little gem:

We. We. We. We. We. We Are Floating In Space

I was asked by Ninjasaurus Rex for dinner on Friday night and for a game of his Starship Combat game Captain Ferk III (it was under the guise of 'playtesting' but I know full well he's only doing it to make me play SciFi games...). As he knows a thing or two about cooking I politely accepted the offer. It was either that or CHIKEN TIKKA PIZZA from the Punjab (the takeaway, not the region. The delivery cost would be astronomical to have a pizza flown in from the sub-continent of India). Although I've always been suspicious of the Punjab takeaway (they do curry, Pizza and Kebabs all in the same place, make your minds up lads), Sarah recommended the CHICKEN TIKKA PIZZA and they have been commended by Whiston's local Snooker 'celebrity' Shaun Murphy. At least that's what the portrait shot of him on the wall says. In the event Ninjasaurus Rex made a lovely Rogan Josh curry and then I lasered his face off in deep space. It was just like the Return of the Jedi, but with less Ewoks.

'Everyone to the life rafts! This has gone to rat shit!'

On Saturday I was graced with the presence of Justin and Lucy. They were on their way home to Brighton from Scotland. The pair of idiots had decided to go to Scotland for a two week holiday in the depth of the ICY WINTER OF DEATH. With just an ancient camper van to sleep in the foolhardy pair reached Oban only to break down on New Year's Eve in Tesco's carpark. The snow fell, there was nothing open and even the gas in their heater froze. Cutting their losses the pair retreated to Lucy's parents, with their heating and food, and called in on me on their way home.

'try it in third...'

I immediately dragged them out for a walk down Whiston meadows but not before Justin had become worryingly obsessed with the Cliff Richard Calendar and Card that Lauren and Herr Docktor Clay had respectively given me for Christ's Mess. Justin wanted to see Ulley Reservoir as it had featured quite heavily on the news a couple of years ago, when it threatened to breach and sweep all of Whiston away in a flood of Biblical proportions. Fortunately it never happened and my building of an Ark was all in vain. When I say Ark, I mean a massive cage which I was planning to herd all the Rotherham female population into.

'I promise you, it's for your own safety. I'll let you out when this is all over...'

So we walked over hill and dale, and over another hill and into another dale. Ulley was further than I remembered, so our plucky little band turned off up a snow covered road and back on ourselves before night fell and the wolves came out. Justin had not only become obsessed with Cliff Richard, he had become obsessed with having a curry as well. We took a taxi down into Rotherham town and after trying a few places (one was no longer a curry house and another was closed. At 7pm on a Saturday night? I ask you!) we plumped for Akbar's, yet another taxi ride away. We had to wait in an extremely loud bar area while the waiter's built our tables or something, but we finally got to eat. It was good, but the meal was crowned whilst waiting for our taxi home. A young lady came teetering on six inch heels onto the snow with two massive fireworks. Intending to set them off to celebrate her mate's birthday the expensive one failed to impress or even go off and the one that cost the least was akin to Akureryi last year... Finally back in Whiston I showed J&L the pubs of the village until getting drunk and collapsing in my bed. A great weekend.

And finally I'll just leave this here.

Into the Lungs of Hell

This is how the country would look if Nick Griffin's BNP gets in power:


What with the country still in the ICY GRIP OF WINTERY DEATH, I haven't been able to go very far from the house, the news has been telling people to make journeys only if they are essential. But having said that, I mentioned to Ninjasaurus Rex that I wanted to go to Meadowsmell at some point. Since Monday I've had this seed planted in my head about buying a Marks and Spencer pizza. I just fancied one and the desire has grown out of all proportion driven by the lack of ability to move far. I have woken up everyday with a feeling gnawing at my mind: Pizza, pizza, pizza. I have also been wanting to buy some parcels for the books I'm selling on EBay. Ninjasaurus told me his wife, Sarah, was wanting to get a new phone, so we reasoned that all these were legitimate reasons for essential travel in these harsh conditions. They both came to my house and I managed to get the car out of the garage with no problems, but two hundred yards up the road it came to a grinding halt on the small incline up to the main road.

'Try it in a lower gear.'

It took nearly an hour or slipping, sliding and clearing snow with a rake (standing in for a shovel) to get the car back into the garage. We decided that our journey was still essential enough to continue on the bus. It was an exciting adventure for me, journeying into the unknown on public transport. Since having a car I've been able to travel like a KING, whilst the great unwashed moved about crushed together in cattle cars.

'A Daysaver, please'

But Winter turned the tables on me and needs must as the Devil drives, whatever that means, and we took the bus into town. Sarah and Ninjasaurus were old hands at this game and helped me choose the ticket that was right for me.

'Where the fuck is this bus, these two are boring me now...'

We changed buses in Rotherham after a debate over taking the train or another bus. I don't think I would have been able to sustain the excitement had we gone on the train, so we took another bus. This involved standing in the ICY GRIP OF THE WINTER OF DEATH for a while until one arrived. God alone knows how we survived.

'I thought the X78 runs every 12 minutes?'

After battling the elements and scrubbers on the X78 (the route originates in Doncaster, the home of an altogether lower class of people than those from Rotherham...) we arrived at our destination, the Land of Shopportunity: Meadowhell. It was the quietest I'd seen it for a long time, although there were still great gangs of children roaming around. Every single school in Britain has been closed, due to lazy teachers seizing any excuse to not work (they get about 40 weeks off a year already, what more do they want? Blood?) and as a result the children have been running wild in the streets like animals. As it was so quiet I managed to get everything I needed within about ten minutes whilst Sarah signed her soul away on a new phone contract.

Just as Meadowhell should be, when I visit.

Sarah insisted on getting a cover for her new phone so we stepped into the future in the Apple Shop. It was so far into the future there were no tills and Sarah had to pay by telekinesis. With Sarah's mind probed, we needed nothing more and once more boarded a bus, homeward bound.

The future's shite, the future's Apple...

It's Snow Joke

A little bit of snow has fallen in the North of England and as usual when this kind of inclement weather patterning occurs chaos has broken out. There has been rioting on the streets with cars being over turned and set on fire. Anti-snow protests in Wetherby have resulted in the death of sixteen people, including three police. In Sheffield the Supertram was derailed and looted before being set alight. The BBC News sent their intrepid Foreign Correspondent to the North to cover the stories. They uncovered horror stories of children refusing to go to school and instead spending their days fighting with crudely crushed together balls of snow. The general public is afraid to step into the street lest they be attacked by gangs of youths armed with these rudimentary weapons. Half of the pensionable population have fallen victim to the unrelentless snowfall by either freezing to death after refusing to put their heaters on or have slipped on the ice and broken a hip. The cost over the past two days to the NHS is comparable to the GNP of a small African Nation. Something has to be done and done fast, I'm at my wit's end, I can't get to Meadowhall to buy parcels from Poundland.

Oh No! No to Snow!

as I've been pretty much confined to the house due to the snow, I've been doing what I normally don't do. That is, watch TV, not only have I become consumed by the Jeremy Kyle Show, but I've slipped into Come Dine With Me. I have to do something to break this downward spiral up so I have also been watching the entire output of the Flight of the Conchords. I've exhausted that avenue of entertainment and will now have to turn to the two Kurosawa films I was bought for Christ's Mess. I'd go out sledging, if I had a sledge and some friends to go with.

'Can I come and play on your sledge with you?'
'Fuck off!'

With not much else to tell you, I thought I tell you a couple of jokes. The first one I told to Jamey over Facebook and she said I had to put it in this blog. The second I found when searching for a translation of the Funniest Joke Every Told in the Monty Python sketch of the same name. This second one actually made me literally laugh out loud for about two minutes. Let me know which you prefer...

A woman is giving birth and the midwife takes the baby, looks at it and says to the woman 'There's some good news and some bad news'
The woman says 'OK, what's the bad news?'
'Well,' says the midwife 'Your baby is ginger.'
The woman says 'Well what's the good news then?'
'The good news' says the midwife 'is that it's dead.'

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy whips out his phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps, "My friend is dead! What can I do?". The operator says "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a shot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says "OK, now what?"

Shit bag

Simon Jenkins is a SHIT BAG

It's Not All Walking

New Year's Day is now well and truly over, as is 2009, we'll never see it's like again. Thank fuck. I spent my New Year's Eve in the company of Dave, Linzi, Jon, Joolia, Richard and Wendy and we proceeded to get as drunk as ants, whilst shouting about various things like being raped by bottle nosed porpoises. Which is nowhere near as bad as getting raped by a shark, but there you go. There was a pitiful display of fireworks from the rest of the estate, but being in the poorer part of the village, what can one expect? As the evening got later and we got drunker the music got louder until Dave was blasting Metallica at a level that was enough to makes one's ears bleed. I'd hate to live next door to that stupid hippy.

A Marine Sexual Predator

Along with the New Year Decibel madness my parents have hosted two parties, the first for my mother's rambler's club. They all left at five o'clock ON THE DOT, lest they turn into pumpkins or something. The next evening was the lot from the local boozers, now this was a much more boisterous affair, being that they can take their booze due to having had good practise in the pub. Bob also came down from North Allerton, which is a lot further than Cow Rakes Lane, where Ninjasaurus Rex was hiding, although he had been repeatedly invited, least of all by my drunken mother on Christ's Mess Eve. Bob won my father's quiz, another shaming in the brainy stakes for me. She took home a picture of Whiston Manorial Barn, to be proudly displayed on her work desk at Archaeology South East, no doubt.

I coulda been a contender Charlie...

I have spent the rest of the holiday period quietly contemplating my navel and I have actually watched a massive amount of TV (for me) recently. The other night I settled down to watch 'The Turn of the Screw'. It was new BBC adaptation of the Henry James novella. The book is excellent, not much happens but the suspense it builds up is immense until the cataclysmic finale. This latest adaptation I could only watch for half an hour due to the cack-handed nature of the script. Coupled with bad acting, this was one of the worst things I've watched for a long time. It started off badly with one of the opening lines 'Tell me what terrible things happened in that beautiful house'. How clumsy are those lines? It's like holding up cue cards for the audience because the writers believe we are all so busy sucking on our own feet that we have no idea what is going on around us. It got worse, the governess was shown crossing a street in Victorian London with the voice over of the psychiatrist saying 'You were young, pretty and excited about you new job'. LET THE ACTOR SHOW IT TOO ME, I DON'T NEED TELLING! Those lines should be in the script but as a description of the character, not the voice over. The interview of the Governess was a wincingly awful scene with a really bad flirtation that would have never have happened in Victorian Britain. I turned off after twenty five minutes into an hour and a half program. It suffered as all dramas on TV, namely the people writing them are not good enough to write film scripts so they smash their way through classic writing like bulls in china shops. As usual TV treats us like idiots believing we are not up to the challenge of working things out for ourselves. I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT!

Ext: Ghostly figure walks out of door

VO: This is a ghost. It is not a person, it is a Ghost.