Personal Blogs

Fortunately, I renewed the warranty on my PC in February.

Unfortunately, it looks like the hard drive, if not fubar is 'fu' heading in the general direction of 'bar'.

Fortunately my warranty includes hard drives

Unfortunately, hard drives aren't covered for 'in house' repairs, so the base unit will have to go back to the depot.

Just what I need right in the middle of TMA 06 and two thirds of the way through an OU course...

I've made them send an engineer out anyway, just on the off-chance it's memory problems (what?) which they do fix on site, but chances are I'm going to be typing at least TMA06 on my laptop and will be having to back up everything off my PC and go through all the Pavlova (yes, I know it's palaver - I'm doing a Hilda Baker for fun. Tsk. I arsk ya) of reinstalling EVERYTHING to a new HD etc, which will mean all sorts of aggro with Microsoft, Adobe and various other manufacturers convincing them that I'm not using illegal software but trying to re-register legitimate software, reconfiguring internet settings with a company that has changed hands and mail settings more times since I originally signed up for the account than Katie Price has changed bra sizes and DAYS of putting back on everything I've taken off to stop the people at the repair centre nicking all my registration details and getting my software from Microsoft, Adobe and everyone else on the 'suspect' list in the first place...

And all the bundled junk (free trials, unwanted programmes, adverts etc) that clutters the desktop when they do a 'factory install'.

So instead of, as planned, reading the rest of Girls On Top and writing TMA06 over the next 2 days (day and a half now). I will be cleaning the pigsty of a bedroom wherein lies my 'writers hovelcorner'in readiness for a visiting tech guy on Sunday, backing up everything on my PC, carefully copy and pasting all my license keys etc etc... 

Oh well onwards and...

No duck news today... I did wander past the pond but they were away on an excursion while the builders were in refurbishing the little jetty thingies the anglers camp out on. Definition of a camp angler? One with sequins on his waders and a manbag for a baitbox. Definition of anglers 'camping out'? One hand on their tackle and the other on their hips... 

Watched the DVD today... For what's supposed to be one of 'the top plays written by a modern female playwright' I thought the dialogue in places was awful. Anyone else?

The last scene was VG and all were interesting thematically etc and all had 'good' lines, but there were some right ol' clunky bits too IMO. And as for that 'period piece' in the garden it was unnecessary and unbelievable... not shocked or squeamish - it just seemed pointless and ridiculous(?) But maybe I'm wrong, and these things happen between teenage girls quite regularly(?)

Good luck with the TMA O6's - Mine's gonna be titled 'Shoulder Pads and Stonewashed Denim'.

All together now...

'cos we are living/in a material world/and I am a material girl (ooh ooh)'

:D  

Oh bumholes. Absolutely glorious day today (well, for March, and considering what we’ve been getting), so I ventured out into the big wide world for a luvverly walk around the park and to the shops and – guess what?  I think I’ve picked up a ‘bug’ somewhere. Headachy, chesty tickle (ooer missus) aching muscles, groaning cockles and swollen whelks. Hopefully it’s just an ‘overtired and run down’ thing (not been sleeping too well and lots of late nights and early starts to boot). Tootorial tomorrow too...

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned but we have a cat, and unfortunately I don’t like her very much. Nothing awful – I don’t hate her or anything like that – just a bit of a personality clash. Ben absolutely adores her (she sleeps on his bed every night), but even he admits she’s a pain in the arse. I won’t go into all the details, but suffice to say she is a nervy, ‘special needs’ cat who’s frightened of her own shadow, meows constantly, dribbles and pukes has IBS, needs meds every day and is constantly hungry. Of all the many cats I’ve owned, she’s the only one I’ve ever wished I could turn the clock back on and walk straight past at the cat rescue centre ...

Anyhoo. Having said all that, it was lovely to see her this morning actually out in the garden with no other cats around to scare her enjoying the sunshine and stalking through the overgrown grass around our rockery (well, the garden wall fell down but we call it a rockery) trying to catch mice and frogs. I watched her for about five minutes, and she was luvverly. See what a bit of sunshine can do? If we all lived in a goldilocks world where it was never too hot, never too cold but always ‘just right’ and we all had full bellies and time just to chill out watching cats every day this could be a fantastic planet... All you need is love, sang the Beatles. I’d qualify that to ‘Love, Sunshine and cats (even ones that are very hard to like) in the garden.

Walking back from the park I passed the village pond, and the mum on the corner has been busy with her ‘watch out for our ducks’ signs again. Now I’ll admit to being rather fond of the little duk-duks myself, and I hate the thought of one getting squished under the wheels of a Chelsea Tractor as it cuts through to avoid the town centre, but I kind of resent this woman claiming ownership of them and appointing herself  Prime Protector of the Pond (presumably a stepping stone on the road to ‘First Lady of the Lake’- dom?) . I found last years rather angry sign ‘Don’t Murder Our Ducks, written in blood red paint on a four foot high banner after one did get unfortunately squished under the wheels of a Chelsea Tractor quite disturbing, if I’m perfectly honest.

Anyhoo. Though slightly peeved at her presumption, catching sight of the duck  lady’s new signs did trigger a brief daydream in which I envisioned myself and several cronies attired in deer-stalkers and green jackets with shotguns (think Elmer Fudd during hunting season) concealing ourselves around the lake under the cover of darkness. After rounding up all the real ducks and removing them to a place of safety we then floated several brace of decoy ducks full of feathers and blood capsules on the surface of the pond and awaited her morning inspection. As her door opened, we all popped up blowing madly on our duck-call whistly things and blasting indiscriminately, blowing the decoys to buggery while the duck lady ran screaming and foaming hither and yon in her nightie and dressing gown. At this point a Jeremy Beadle lookilikee with a microphone emerged from the undergrowth to explain that she’d ‘been framed’...

As daydreams go, quite a mean spirited one, I guess, but it did put a smile on my face for the rest of my walk, and I smiled even more broadly when my MP3 walkman on random play came up with Lemon Jelly’s ‘Nice weather for Ducks’ as an accompanying soundtrack. Ah... spring...

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiVmdJO5yTU&playnext=1&list=PLE3194D17EED1A675

Today I was walking back from the library and I saw three little kiddywinkies trying to make a 'leafcastle' with a bucket and spade and pile of soggy leaves they had found at the bottom of a drainpipe. They were absolutely loving it, especially when one of them found a worm and they were all giggling and going to pick it up and then not picking it up and screwing up their noses and going 'ewwwwwwwwwwwww' and stuff...

I bloody love kids! They're BRILLIANT!!

These days, though, (and I'll admit it's probably a sign that I'm getting old) it's always with a tinge of sadness that I watch them doing that kind of stuff, 'cos the 'optimum age' at the top end seems to get lower and lower every year. Don't you think the world would be a nicer place if the worm and leafcastle years lasted a bit longer, and the fags and cider years kicked in a bit later? Ho hum. Sigh.   

You need to put on a Yosemite Sam voice when reading today's blog headline BTW...

Among the many MANY things that really annoy me (I make the grumpy old men on 'Grumpy Old Men' look positively chirpy) are those situations when you find yourself trying to offer advice to people who will only see what they want to see regardless of how flawed the argument underpinning their perspective or how solid the basis of any logic offered in opposition to it.

So after being frustrated in that way today I penned the following to vent steam:

The Princess and the Pekinese

Once upon a time there was a Princess. The Princess was very sad, because her pet Pekinese 'Peeky' had just died.

  'Why don't you get another one?' her father, the King, suggested.

  'Oh, I'll never find another Pekinese so loving and gentle and loyal and friendly' the princess wailed, 'there really is no point in looking'.

  For weeks and weeks the princess whinged her way around the castle with a face like a slapped arse. She sulked in the scullery, moped around the moat, blubbed in the banqueting room, grizzled in the gatehouse, cried in the courtyard, ranted in the ramparts, pouted by the portcullis, dawdled dolefully by the drawbridge, traipsed tearful through the towers and even gave bawl in the great hall. Everyone, including the King, who loved her above all others, got quite sick of the sight of miserable little moo.

  'Right,' said the King, 'I've had enough. You're getting a new dog and that's final!' So he sent out his Knights on a quest to search the pet shops throughout the land and find as many Pekinese puppies as they could.

  When all the Knights had returned (with the exception of those who said 'ni', who disappeared into the shrubbery and were never seen again) the king had all the Pekes lined up in cages in the great hall, and escorted the Princess along the line so she could make her choice.

  She looked into the second cage. 'Too thin,' she said, 'off with its head!' and off it was taken to be beheaded.

  She looked into the next cage. 'Too tall,' she said, 'off with its head!' and off it was taken to be beheaded...

  And on it went, for hour after hour, for there were many Pekes and many cages to be examined, and none seemed to satisfy the very exacting standards of the princess. Some had eyes that were too big, some eyes too small, some had tails that failed to wag while others waggled too wilfully.

  Mile after mile of cages were examined, as pile after pile of peke heads piled, until only one solitary cage remained, inside of which trembled the tiniest most timid looking Peke you could ever imagine.

  'Oh, no,' said the princess, off with its head. it's too...too...'

  For a moment she was lost for words, having used up every negative she could think.

  'Ahhhhhhhhhh,' said the King, hopefully, but then -

  'It's too vicious looking' said the princess,  quick, quick, take it away, I'm frightened.'

  The King was stunned. He leaned forward and looked into the cage.

  'Why, he's tiny' said the King, no bigger than a little grain of couscous.'

  'He's vicious, I tell you,' said the princess, 'I can feel it in my bones.'

  'But he looks more scared of you, the poor little mite' said the King.

  'Pah!' said the princess, 'he's just biding his time, the evil little shiatsu'.

  'I'm sure he's not,' said the King, 'and he's a Peke, not a shiatsu'.

  'Peke? Peke? A Freak more like - a malevolent, murderous, malicious malcontent if ever I laid eyes on one. Put it to the sword, daddy, before it bursts from the cage and rips us all apart.'

  By this time the King was getting more than a little bit peeved with the princess.

  'Guard,' he said, 'release the poor little creature, let's have a closer look'.

  The guard did as he was asked, and as the door of the cage swung open the little animal moved timidly forward. The King picked it up and held it shivering in his hand. The little puppy sniffed and licked, snuffling gently with his little wet nose between the King's fingers.

  'Why, he's adorable,' said the King, and cuddled him closer.

  'Adorable?' said the princess, 'that... that... killer?'

  'Look, you've got it wrong' said the King, 'he's an absolute delight, just hold him yourself and see'.

  'Right. Right,' said the princess, 'I'll show you. Put him down on the floor'.

  The King did as his daughter asked, and no sooner was the little puppy on the ground than she poked it with the tip of a royal stiletto. The little puppy whimpered softly. The Princess poked him again, harder, and he gave a little yelp. He looked up with big, mournful eyes, and she brought back her foot and kicked him high into the rafters.

  'I say!' said the King, calm down, love.'

  The little dog landed in the corner and the princess rushed towards him, but as she approached the little chap fled to avoid her.

  'Guards, stop that dog! she shouted, and the guards quickly formed a circle around it with their shields.

  Peering over the top, the princess took a spear from one of the guards and poked the peke in the belly. The peke moaned. She poked again, and the peak whined pathetically, looking round forlornly for a gap in the shields. She prodded again, and the peke whimpered, cowering from the pointed blade. She poked again, and he barked in terror. She poked again and he bared his tiny teeth.

  'See - I told you there was something wrong with him' said the princess. 'Now: Off. With. His. Head.'

---------------

[NB: I must confess that I'm probably equally capable of making the occassional trip to that same Egyptian River ;). Let he is without sin and all that...]

:D 

Went for a walk today (hooray! Sunshine!') and couldn't help but notice that dog's poo seems to be back in fashion. When I was a littlun it was everywhere you walked, especially if walking down one of the many 'dogshit alleyways' that led to any of the local parks. Then things seemed to improve for a few decades, what with fifty pound fines and pooper scoopers and little plastic baggy-waggies etc.

But in the past year or so it seems to have come back with a vengeance, and dodge the dung has become the order of the day again when walking kids to school or popping to the shops for your daily loaf of bread and pint of gin (I jest, of course. Nobody eats wheat anymore, surely?). And I can't help noticing that this huge growth in the amount of dog eggs we see seems to correspond directly with the number of spotty little 'erbs in trackies and hoodies dragging 'ghost face' pit bull crosses around and the similar growth in chubby little bat faced mollies with Chihuahuas, pekes, and snivelling little shiatsu’s tucked under their armpits. What do you reckon the chances are of any one of them actually having a plakky baggie in their pocket or clutch bag? Yerse, me to.

Now I know I'm a bit radical in my thinking about this, but along with Chelsea Tractors and mobile phones doggy-doo is one of my pet hates. I'm hoping to find like minded people so we can lobby government and local authorities to introduce regular dog-mess patrols, made up of HUGE muscular blerks going round in pairs and 'encouraging' dog walkers to clean up behind their animals...

One thing I have noticed is that if you do see someone letting their dog squeeze one out on the path and you actually confront them about it, you'll always have happened to catch them on the ONE DAY that they had forgotten to bring a bag with them, or the day they ran out of them. Personally, I think that's just too big a coincidence, and I suspect they might not be being entirely honest about their usual poop scooping habits. But to be fair, I think we should give them the benefit of the doubt, so I propose that in the case of a 'first offence' they be treated with leniency, and if they have pockets or a handbag they can just pop it in there and be let off with just a caution. Second offence should be a fine, and they have to carry it home in their bare hands, and repeat offenders should just be given a plate and spoon (or knife and fork if the consistency demands), followed with a damn good kicking for 'afters'. Mostly, I hold the dogs blameless, and some I believe actually take it upon themselves to clean up after other dogs (lurchers are known for it, apparently), but I do think the dog-mess patrollers should also be equipped with scaled down versions of the stun guns used to humanely destroy cattle for situations where overly vicious (or 'yappy') dogs (or owners) are encountered...

What do you think, then? Firm but fair?

Oh- talking of 'firm but fair' you still don't see much white poo about do you? When little we used to think this was poodle’s poo, but I'm now reliably informed it has to do with the fact that dogs don't get fed bones anymore, and that for 'white' you should actually read 'calcified'. Perhaps, in that case we should add bright food colouring to all dog foods - at least that way they'll stand out more when we're walking along the road, and I guess from a distance it would look like flowers.

We could have different 'seasons' of different colours - i.e. with Easter coming up all yellow...

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er streets and shops

When all it once I spied a crowd

A host of golden doggy plops.

Having fired off TMA05 I jumped straight back in yesterday to catch up on Chapter 2 Gender and Poetry, and I’ve got to say I’m getting really sick of these weak as water arguments being offered to prove that every single negative that arises in a woman’s life arises as a result of ‘Patriarchal Domination’. That’s not to say, of course, that us blerks haven’t got a lot to answer for in some ways, but where’s the objectivity in this course material? And where’s the acknowledgment of the very simple, down to earth (venus and mars, dog and cat) fact that men and women do differ in their psychological makeup, and that, unwelcome or not, men find aspects of women’s behaviour equally challenging, and those perspectives have some validity too? If a bloke wrote a course book containing the kind of gender bias this course book contains it would cause outrage, especially if the arguments used to ‘back up’ the theorising had the kind of holes in that we find here. Or am I being sexist, by expecting that ‘feminine logic’ should need to demonstrate the kind of logic that other kinds of logic are expected to demonstrate, or offer solid conclusions based on all the available evidence rather than wishy-washy ones based on cherry-picked examples of other equally flawed and subjective theoretical wool-gatherings? Probably.

Now, I’ve got my tongue quite a way into my cheek here (sort of) and I’m playing devil’s advocate to put the cat among the pigeons, but mexed mitaphors aside, I think there is some merit to the logic that follows, and I think, in the name of ‘balance’, it’s worthy of consideration.

Throughout the history of the written novel and the history of contemporary (as opposed to classical, rather than ‘modern’) poetry, women have been the largest producers and the largest consumers. Despite this, these areas continue to be ‘dominated’ – (I use the quotation marks to highlight the irony of a word that should be available to both sexes being hijacked to imply a pejorative, gender-specific value judgement when used in conjuction with the words...) – by men. Now I may be wrong (I haven’t read all of it yet), but for all the theories put forward in the course materials there seems to be one possible explanation for this that hasn’t been given any consideration whatsoever; perhaps the reason men continue to be regarded as the best writers and the best poets, is because they’re actually better at it?

Shocking as that conclusion might be, it would explain a great deal that none of the arguments put forward in ‘Literature and Gender’ seem able to explain: Why, in fields where women greatly outnumber men both as producers AND consumers, do men win all the prizes?

And it’s not just in the world of publishing that we see this. The same patterns exist in almost every field where female consumers outnumber – or at the very least equal – the number of male consumers, and also notably within those fields that relate more specifically to female aesthetics and consumption. Top clothes designers – Men. Top hairdressers – Men. Top Interior designers – Men.  Top chefs – Men. I don’t know enough about shoes, handbags, jewellery etc to be able to say, but my guess would be – Men. Moving away from feminine objects of desire to ‘Art’ generally; Musical composition – Men. Painting – Men. Sculpture – Men. Philosophy – Men. Then there’s the scholastic stuff like Science and Maths etc... oh, men again!

And the answer can’t be as simple as men being bigger and stronger and ‘dominant’, because history and evolution have proven time and time again that brain is better than brawn, so after  200, 000 years or so of human evolution any initial bias based on the ability to throw a rock the furthest would probably have evened itself out by now.

I think the reality is (and this would seem to be borne out by scholastic results, though of course there is a proven inherent bias in school teaching methods that favours the ‘female brain’ pathology) that in general terms women do have the edge on blokes, but they tend to be less represented at the kind of levels where the word ‘genius’ might be bandied about. In essence, women are very good at being quite good, and they’re quite good at being very good, but they’re just not as good at being exceptional.

To be honest, I’m not sure what that means in real terms – whether it is better to be a good all-rounder than an artisan or a Jack-of-all-trades rather than a master of one. My instincts tell me that both have equally valuable things to bring to the table – if only they can stop arguing about it and trying to prove that what they’ve got is better, and that the only thing stopping them from achieving their full potential are the people on the other side of the table.

Talking of tables, though, if we’re sitting down to eat, who’s going to do the cooking? Do you fancy Jamie, Hugh or Gordon in the kitchen tonight, or Delia/Nigella?

If you’re a laydee, and you’re preference was one of the first three you’ve just made my point for me. Now, what music should we put on...

---------------------------

PLEASE remember the tongue in cheek, and feel free to copy/paste on the A210 forum if you like watching cats and pigeons doin' their thang too!

Well - that's TMA05 off rushing through the ether... only two more and then the TEST....

AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

---

If yours has gone - good luck, if not HURRY and good luck...

and remember, all you ugly ducklings, that it'll all come out in the wash. YOU ARE VERY FINE SWANS INDEED.

(NB: for anyone not doing A210 the subject of TMA05 is 'transformation'.)

Are you one of those people like me who know the odd mix of pleasure, pain and social embarrassment that comes from uncontrollable laughter, or are you a miserable bastard? (NB: that ‘miserable bastard’ is just there for comic effect. I don’t really think people who don’t laugh uncontrollably are necessarily miserable bastards, but I do think they’re missing out. L) I can’t remember what it was, but I was watching something a couple of weeks ago that had me rolling on the floor clutching my sides in a place somewhere between agony and ecstasy , and in between my gasps and prayers for oxygen I found myself thinking it’d been too long, and I’d missed it.

I’m not 100% sure about my first experience of UL (uncontrollable laughter), but I’m fairly sure it would have had something to do with either Pete and Dud, Monty Python or Spike Milligan. Spike is certainly at the forefront of my comedy memories – I can remember scenes from an old B&W puppet show called the Telegoons I watched when I was little more than a babe in arms. The only other TV memory I have from that period is of an Oliver Postgate stop-frame animation called The Pingwings, who were a family of little knitted penguins who lived on a farm. As they weren’t particularly funny, I guess they appealed on a more fundamental level, but the telegoons were definitely a sign of my emerging funny-bone. My dad used to fart into his reel-to-reel tape recorder and play it back on slow speed sometimes too, as a sound effect for ‘Mr Popper’s Motorbike’ (Mr Popper had a helicopter too – the old man’s old Philishave) but this was more for his own amusement. I used to laugh, because it was preferable to the beatings I’d get if I didn’t, but it wasn’t the genuine laughter brought forth by Eccles and Bluebottle and Neddy Seagoon. (NB: I am lying about the beatings – he was pretty lousy as dads go but abhorred violence. When I asked him what he’d done in the war and whether he’d ever killed a man my mum rolled on the floor laughing, so I guess I got my sense of humour and most of my beatings from her.).

If Spike was the cause of my first UL incident, it wouldn’t have been the Telegoons. ‘Q’ came along a few years later, and I remember a squeaky bun sketch (not that funny watching now) that made me roll up and another with Spike as a daft scout leader being fed sugar lumps by John Bluthal. I was a bit too young to ‘get’ the Pete & Dud stuff properly, but I do remember laughing at bouncing nuns and The Glid of Glood and Dud’s corpsing (proving laughter is infectious).

One thing I definitely remember crying real painful tears to was a sketch by Tommy Cooper, sadly, as far as I can tell (I’ve searched for it on YouTube etc), lost forever. I wasn’t (ain’t) a big Tommy Cooper fan, but his comic timing and mugging to camera could be devastating at times. The sketch was one about a sleep clinic, supposedly filmed with a stop-frame camera throughout the night, each photo taken at two minute intervals. The first shows an empty room and bed. The second shows Tommy coming through the door in ‘Wee Willy Winky’ nightdress and cap. Then he’s yawning and stretching/pulling back bed covers/getting in etc etc. Then there’s a couple where he’s just asleep, and then he starts moving in his sleep... by the time it got to the photos where he’s on top of the wardrobe, under the bed, outside the window etc I was in agony... I swear if I ever get a chance to write on a TV sketch show I will reproduce that sketch and give Tommy a credit at the end. It probably doesn’t sound much – I guess you had to be there and it is a very visual gag – and it may just be that it wouldn’t work with anyone else. Part of the humour lay in the physical incongruity of it; that giant of a man on a tiny single bed, and on top of a wardrobe etc.

Anyhooo. Probably waffled on enough about UL, but for any You-Ellers out there (the new official term) I hope you find something to set you off soon. If alone, and in the comfort of your own home even better, but if you happen to find your next fit coming upon you in public I hope you can relax and enjoy it. It is F***ing embarrassing, I know (I walked straight out of a potential girlfriend’s house during an episode of Monty Python [Any THING goeeeees... fish bananas, old pyjamas] after her entire family had watched po-faced as I convulsed on the floor. As any You-Eller will tell you that kind of response is only gonna exacerbate the situation), but I have absolutely no doubt it’s good for the soul too.

Oh – final thought. Laughing until milk comes out of your nose is one thing, but hot coffee is a different matter. Hot vegetable soup is the worst of all; peas aren’t too bad but the sharp corners on diced carrot hurt like hell.

Keep smilin'

dx

Dunno where to start really. I want to write something for my blog but can’t think of a topic.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Topic.

Haven’t had one of those in years. I remember the last time I did eat one it was too sweet even for my sweet tooth – was like trying to eat the filling from a banoffi pie that had been rolled in sugar then covered in CHOKLIT. Actually, it must have been even sweeter than that, because as I typed the banoffi pie stuff it actually sounded quite tempting. I’m very good, though. I don’t succumb to my sweet tooth very often (which is probably why I’ve still got my sweet tooth – that and an aversion to Koki Kola. I do enjoy the Okey Kokey occasionally, but as far as I know that doesn’t affect your teeth – unless you trip over a chair or something and land face down on an ashtray. Knees bend, arms stretch, ow ow ouch! Sorry. I digress), but I still like to think about it occasionally. Last time was when I went in to a local baker’s for a samwidge and saw they sold Jap Cakes (can you still say Jap Cakes or is that un PC? Does the ‘jap’ in Jap cake refer, offensively, to Japanese people or was it a Japanese recipe originally, or is it something else entirely? I didn’t see a little plastic thingummy with the words ‘Jap Cake’ on it and all the other cakes were labelled, so perhaps someone complained? But that’s silly – wouldn’t Eccles Cakes be offensive to Goons? Lardy cakes offensive to fat people? Sticky Willies offensive to people with.... erm... shall we not go there?). Anyhoo, back to Jap Cakes and my succumbing. The reason I succumbed is because my son has a gluten allergy so can’t eat many shop bought cakes. A Jap cake, however is a meringue based confection, so when I saw them I thought it my duty to get him one, and it would have been bad manners not to join him. He ate his with relish (yuk – tomato and meringue – horrid combination. Not THAT sort of relish you arse!), and then ate half of mine too. See. That’s how good I am.

Anyway. Can’t think of a thing to write, so I might as well go and have my lunch. While typing I clicked on the internet thingummy and did a quick google for Jap Cakes, finding the recipe below. Haven’t tried it, so if you give it a go don’t hold me to account, but perhaps this can be the boys ‘life-skills’ lesson on Sunday morning, and then he and his BFF can eat them for tea. Oh – I won’t do the coffee/buttercream recipe suggested; I’ll do something nutty instead. Who knows, maybe I’ll even boil up a tin of Fussell’s and do ‘Banoffi Japs’...

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Banoffi Japs....

Jap Cakes:

3 egg whites
170 gms caster sugar
85 gms ground almonds
2 tbs cornflour
Whisk egg whites until stiff, then add half the sugar. Fold the remaining sugar with ground almonds and cornflour into mixture. Line a baking tray with baking parchment and spoon or pipe mixture into 5 cm circles. (This mixture will make about 12 circles)
Bake at 150 C/ Regulo 2 for 40 minutes.
Filling:
My recipe has a coffee butter cream filling using 85 gm butter/ 115 gm icing sugar plus coffee essence and a little hot water. You could make a chocolate butter cream instead.
Keep two of the cakes and sandwich the rest with the icing and spread a little icing round the side. Crush the other two cakes and roll the assembled cakes in the crumbs.
I think that bakers then dribble a little melted chocolate over the cake to complete the decoration

Hmmm... That curry Saturday night was excellent. Usually I make them from scratch, but I found a packet in that strange little foreign foods section they have now in Tesco's for a Bombay Byriani Mix made by a company called Shan. It comes in a little box like a packet of stuffing mix rather than a jar or packet and looks very low-rent/authentic iykwim. Didn't do it exactly as it said on the packet, but close enough to thoroughly recommend to any curry lovers out there. 'Tis quite spicy, so hang fire (no pun intended) with the extra chillies until you've had a taste...

So. Fer fer fer fer fer Firth's a ker ker ker ker ker King's Speech winner at the Oscars then?

Good on him, and everyone else involved, but I couldn't help thinking of Kate Winslett in 'Extras' saying you're a shoo-in if you play a holocaust victim or a 'disabled'. And that in turn got me thinking that unlike the real world of DLA benefits or Carer's Allowance etc the eligibility criteria in cinematic terms is getting easier to fulfil every year.

Not that long ago, Daniel Day Lewis portrayed Christy Brown - a profoundly disabled man with cerebral palsy who overcame massive communication and physical handicaps as well as extreme poverty to tell his story to the world. Tom Cruise got his Oscar for Born on the Fourth of July, depicting a man torn apart physically and emotionally by the ravages of war. Sean Penn and Dustin Hoffmann may have set back understanding regarding autism by years with their stereotypical portrayals, but at least the storylines of those films tried to address the realities of disability for disabled people by exploring issues like social stigma, value judgements and long-term institutionalisation... But the Kings Speech? A film about one of the richest, most privileged men on the planet, with access to the most up to the minute professional Speech and Language input from the most highly regarded practitioners available... Am I missing something here?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting for a moment that a severe speech impediment doesn't have a potentially devastating impact on the life and opportunities of an individual, or overlooking the additional pressures implied by status, position and public duty, but I can't help thinking that any disadvantages were probably more than compensated for by having access to all that MONEY.

So what for next year’s Oscars? Bill Gate's ongoing struggle to overcome Athlete's Foot? Warren Buffett's dramatic fight against verucca infection and his eventual rehabilitation via duct tape and a rubber swim sock? The Queen's Cold Sore?

For anyone going to the cinema to see The King's Speech, I hope you enjoy it. For anyone losing their DLA benefits in the latest round of cuts, I hope you can still afford the price of admission.

Saw on David Attenborough's 'Madagascar' last night a rather sneaky female parrot who mates with all the male parrots in the area, then lays a clutch of eggs. As none of the males know which (if any) of the eggs/chicks are carrying their genes forward, all of them bend over backwards to keep the female well fed and watered while the chicks are growing up. Now no getting away from it, it's all clever stuff, but having said that some of the really thick sixteen year old pram-faced slappers living on my estate seem to have come up with a very similar strategy...

Taking it one stage further, it was also worthy of note that the female parrot loses her feathers and develops an ugly coloured baldy head during the mating season, so she actually looks at her worst while taking on all comers. This is also mirrored in the actions of the pram-faced sixteen year olds, who are among the most aesthetically challenged but most accommodating of the local lasses generally, but who seem to go the 'extra-mile' in making themselves even more unattractive during the mating ritual by getting pissed out of their brains on alcopops and snakebite...

Ain't nature wonderful

Ooooh, how lovely. I see in the news today that the powers that be have backed down on the idea of selling off our forests and woodlands to private investors. Oh, JOY!Now at least we'll have somewhere to put our tents up when the full effects of all the other sweeping 'reforms' (I put that in ironic quotes because when I double checked I found I was right in thinking that 'reform' is generally a term used to imply positive changes) they've made start biting. Oldest trick in the book... propose something arse-achingly moronic, and while the whole country goes into a flap about that you can slip all the really damaging stuff through without 'em even noticing.Tuff times ahead, people - unless you're lucky enough to be in that top ten percent who just keep getting richer and richer despite recessions and cutbacks and tax hikes. Keep your tilly-lamp primed and your sleeping bag out of the puddles, and we'll have a nice old sing-song later round the campfire. There'll be rabbit stew and hedgehog hot-pot for all, so don't forget your billy can, will you?

Oh - I've also posted this in the blog section of the website I'm trying to put together... I'd appreciate any feedback if anyone goes for a looksee... Not much content yet, as a work in progress, but it'd be nice to hear it's displaying properly, that the links work and so on, if anyone can be arsed. Thanks a squill.

www.lovely2cu.moonfruit.com

David