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.

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...