31st March 2008
Conversation with El Bossman @16:30 by coffee machine
Bossman (leaving for the day): "You're still here? You take this work thing way too seriously."
Kenny: "What? I'm only having this coffee so I don't fall asleep on the way home."
I'm off to see if I have enough energy and am sufficiently non-snottified to mess about with a podcast again. Then again, That Gadget Show is on tonight and they have some CCD on it that I am interested in.
Never, ever call me a geek.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 15:38 GMT, by Kenny
The more I think about it...
Remember my little idea of last week where you could subscribe to whatever editorial you want from whatever paper to listen to in your car on the way into work? The more I think about it, the less ridiculous it sounds. Initially even I groaned as I typed it, but upon a bit deeper thought and having listened to the radio en-route in this morning, I'm utterly convinced it's a winner.
I'm not one for having the latest din banging away from the radio, complete with a 30 second headline slot, competitions to win items of no interest etc.. If I want music, I have my CD player that always plays what I want. However, some days (such as today when I sound like Bonnie Tyler and Rod Stewart's love child -- thank you hay-fever) when I am not in the mood for singing along to my choix du jour, I like a bit of serious radio. This typically means radio 4 or 5 live.
Ten years ago, I lived on 5 live. It was on everywhere in the house from dawn until dusk. Ten years later, having spent many years essentially being spoiled by NPR, I've returned to the UK and 5 live seems to have lost its edge. It's all call-ins. This slide started when Nicky Campbell joined and seems to have progressed apace.
Radio 4 also seems to have dropped its standards. I'm sure that all the guests that are pulled from the back of the sofa have very valid points to make so it's a bit of a shame that they cannot make them in coherent sentences. I wonder how John Humphries keeps his patience dealing with people who are barely able to announce their name let alone put forward a plausible slant on whatever it is they have been brought in to comment on. It's so hit and miss.
I sympathize with the backroom staff at the BBC. It's one thing to read an abstract or summary that has been put forward by a potential interviewee but another when said commentator is absolutely hopeless as a radio guest. It must be even more cringe-worthy for TV stations.
I'm not personally slighting the guests who are interviewed -- I would make an awful guest on a radio or TV interview. My nerves would cripple me and I would be gibbering rubbish for the duration as my mind focused on anything but what I should be talking about. Call it Turrets by proxy:
"Kenny, what would you say to those that allege the quality of caller or interviewee on the BBC has declined over the years?"
"Well, erm [squints] John, as I was saying on my blog -- I can't remember the address off the top of my head but you can find it on t'interweb if you search for my real name, but I'm not giving that out -- where was I? Ah yes. Interviewees and callers. Well, erm John, it often sounds like guests have no particular point to make other than have their name broadcast and callers seem to be screened for the most unintelligble accent possible and the least credible and most ill-informed argument. I say that, but I actually had to have cue cards written down for me to read because otherwise, I would have babbled like those I am accusing of babbling. See? You can see I'm ad-lib'ing now can't you? No? Well it's better explained at http://www.makekennymoney.com which is not my blog.
"By the way, didn't Utd have a great game on Saturday? Chelsea were bloody lucky to get three points and do not deserve to win anything other than the award for the least creative football played all season."
"Erm, thanks Kenny. Kenny is a raconteur and legend in his own bathroom, whose website can be found if you know what you're looking for. Over to Joanne for the travel..."
To prove how utterly awful I am when there's a microphone around you only have to look at some of the interviews or seminars I have given where there has been a camera present. I still have a DVD of one of my better performances. I say better but believe me, it is the best. The rest are worse, if that is possible.
I tried a podcast once. I think I left it up there for all of two minutes before I yanked it. The thick accent makes me sound thick(er). I found this out by accident one night about a year and a bit ago. I'd let slip that I had a blog in th'Oddies -- okay, I confessed that I had mentioned one of the lads in there. One of the people on my list of loves to the left was one of the bar staff in there and went off to read El Bloggo. The next time I saw her (sorry Emma, calling you "her" seems very impolite), she came and sat down next to me and said something to the extent of "you can write." I was a bit floored. I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. I eventually came to the conclusion that the me you meet on the street sounds nothing like the me you get on t'interweb. It's probably the same for most people. Written submissions are a lot more comprehensible than spoken.
So my argument is that sound and vision media is best left to those who can do it well and not to those who think they can do it well. And how do we do this in the real world? We vote with our patronage.
Given the choice of listening to a bunch of reality TV wannabes calling into radio 5 or having to download the mornings editorial and subscribing, I know which I prefer.
What would be dead brill (he says in his best Manc accent) is if I could have all my blogroll and chosen editorials downloaded in an audio format for me to listen to on the way into work. That way I would not be as bothered by commute times, and I would gain about an hour a day from not having to be on the net.
Remember you heard it here first. Although as we say here, "if you can think of it, it's on t'interweb", so maybe you didn't hear it here first.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 09:28 GMT, by Kenny
30th March 2008
No good deed goes unpunished
Cosmic karma fails to read the rule book.
I've been kind to my fellow human beings all week, so what am I rewarded with? Hay-fever. Wait a minute, how can you have hay-fever when it's been throwing down biblical amounts of rain? You can't. But I have. As such, I'm a grumpy SOB, so cross the street if you see me.
Compounding my allergy driven shortness is one email from across the other side of the pond. The kind that makes you want to buy a shotgun and solve a problem with minimal fuss. I've taken several deep breaths and started to respond on a number of occasions over the last 24 hours, but for once in my life, I'm in a position where my power over the English language is failing me. I may do it in French just to add a little je ne sais quoi of pathos.
Speaking of French, Barbara Ellen has articulated the sickening tonguey that was the visit of French president to our shores far better than I can. I've just deleted about four paragraphs of vitriol on the subject in the interest of not starting a war -- I shall not be goaded.
Anyway, what's the scoop with this Carla girl woman? I'm starting to wonder about my eyesight. I can honestly say that I see prettier women than she walking down the street in Wigan on a daily basis. She's one of those faces that sits on magazine covers, presumably because her features were thrown at her face in the correct order and with military accuracy. Honest chaps, would you look twice at her if she walked past you? I really just don't get it at all. But then again, I don't get the Kylie bit either.
And my last little paragraphlet for now, before my nasal passages involuntarily empty themselves onto the screen, is to thank Mrs Supervisor (long suffering spouse of Mr Supervisor -- sir and madam to you lot) for her text of yesterday evening stating "Gossip Girl is to TV what Heat magazine is to the Nobel prize for literature. Check your brain at the door.". She has taken one for the team, without any protection whatsoever -- we all owe her eternal thanks.
Oh, and Missus S, I apologise for nearly ruining NCIS for you. I take it that the la-la-la text response combined with a timely delete button didn't cause you too much anguish.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 10:48 GMT, by Kenny
28th March 2008
Yet more rambling with no real thread of sense
Okay, this is getting a little too much.
Hot on the heels of promising levity would be resumed I'm going to temporarily ignore that commitment for just a few moments longer. Having moaned that everything is too expensive yesterday, I've come across an article by (yet another) favorite columnist of mine, Martin Samuel who describes the current state of the UK economy fairly astutely. In fact, I cannot disagree with a single punctuation mark in it. It's what I have been thinking for quite a while.
I'll pause while you all sigh -- Kenny and his bloody journalists -- and then gasp in astonishment that this is Kenny talking about a male journalist. He's gone all bi-journal-ual. S'okay folks. Chloe from Smallville and Bryony still top the list. And please don't tell me Chloe doesn't exist really -- I'm already on a low caffeine day.
What may surprise you more is that, and wait for it, he's contemplating stopping buying a daily paper. As we all know, the Kenny started off life being a pretentious tosser (no comments asking "What do you mean started off?") who bought the Guardian at Uni because he never liked the tabloid muck. Once he realized his brain was hurting with the endless contemporary Vietnamese synchronized pomegranate juggling reviews, he switched to the Telegraph and has never really looked back.
Now, it has come to my attention that I cannot physically fit reading the Times and Telegraph everyday of the week, along with doing their crosswords and have a life into a finite amount of time. Something has to give. I'll keep you abreast of any decision. Yeah, I know, it's not much of a life anyway, so what's the issue?
Here's a thought for the newspapers -- what about doing what the BBC do with their news programs and producing a podcast subscription service? That way, you could automatically select the editorial columns you want to read (no-one really reads the news anymore because the papers are always 24 hours behind t'interweb), download them and listen to them in the car on the way into work. I reckon that's a winner. I'd pay the cost of my daily papers over the year to access podcasts and the online versions of the crosswords.
Better still, you could have third-parties syndicate so you could pick and choose which people you want to listen to. Great eh? A Bryony column, a Barbara Ellen column, a Martin Samuel column and all the editorials.
Of course that would never happen because the brand Nazis would whip a hand to their foreheads and faint in faux horror. But what could happen is that (and I'm thinking a tad optimistically here), some bright spark armed with a bit of venture capital could contract journalists and provide a central service thereby eliminating the "brand" conflict. Or they could just negotiate a markup with participating media companies. I guess it would kind of be like a Reuters but for editorial -- great possibilities there -- multinational contributions, distributions and the prospect of turning the tables on the print media and getting them to bid for the columns. Hey, I'm starting to like this idea (I'm off out for dinner with my old CEO, "Old VC magnet" as we call him, in a few days time and will run it by him in a jocular manner and wait to see whether the $ signs in his eyes give off that worrying orange glow).
Ba-da-boom. Job done.
As I was typing this, the "committee" at work, comprised of myself, a couple of contractors and one of our super-flipping-off-the-radar-intelligent-yet-down-to-earth development guys (it must give him a headache thinking down to our level) had an impromptu session on the subject of the economy. While comparing the cost of living in various countries etc., we all ended up violently agreeing with the tenet that the UK economy is rapidly heading the way of the Japanese in the late eighties and early nineties. It is fundamentally broken (as Mr Samuel correctly says) and it is going to take some damned clever thinking to resurrect it like the Japanese managed to. Unfortunately, I cannot wave my imaginary wand and proffer even a fraction of an iota of a solution.
Got to dash and design something or other. I'm in one of my scatty moods today where my brain is operating at a frequency that the hardware cannot handle. Someone has been overclocking my neradrenalin levels.
Must hit Starbucks. Resistance is futile.
PS -- Just as I was starting to get over my "I really do like Madonna's style" phase, she goes and endears herself to me again. Well, at least it's not Bono crusading for the abolition of potato pies.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 12:16 GMT, by Kenny
27th March 2008
Gossip Girl
If you have come here looking for my ranting on Gossip Girl I'm afraid to tell you that I could not bring myself to watch it.
Instead I will finish watching Fitna and remind myself why the only time I take religion seriously is when it preaches systematic persecution of other religions. When I say seriously I mean I'm sat puzzling how anyone can blindly follow orders from on high -- my tiny brain cannot cope with it.
I know you're all dying for Kenny to get off the serious potty and back to the usual junk. Thanks to repeat prescriptions, the late-night chemist and the wonders of better living through chemicals, I shall probably be able to oblige tomorrow.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 22:13 GMT, by Kenny
Starbucks ate my paycheck.
I tell you what...I would hate to be a recent graduate or, worse still, a twenty-something non-graduate. It must be hell.
Foolishly mi'esteemed colleague Grom has pointed out that a Starbucks has opened about three minutes walk away from work. Given that we are no longer permitted to smoke ourselves into an early grave on the balcony, we all need to leave the carpark to smoke. The problem is that once you get that far, you might as well hit Starbucks. Cig en-route, cig en-route back and a large cappuccino to boot.
At this point I feel obliged to say that I'm not really all that fond of Starbucks coffee, but their cappuccinos are passable. I'm not really fond of the whole coffee shop vibe. It's usually a place of dubious decor, dubious musaq, full of dubious intellectuals reading dubious literature. Pretty much like Berkley University really.
This particular Starbucks is actually quite tolerable though. The staff are friendly (I defy you not to end up having a chinwag with them) and it's not stuffed full of part-time anarchists reading Marx and Engels. The reason for this is, quite simply, anyone who earns less than at least triple the minimum wage probably cannot afford to live or work in this area. I must confess that my weekly outgoings have jumped since I was pointed in the direction of this watering hole.
What they've done is build luxury apartment buildings with balconies looking over the docks. When I moved to Leeds in 2005, I looked at similar flats nearby. At the time, they were similarly priced to the ones in the City Center so opted against on the basis that there were no shops nearby and I didn't have a car. Since then, the new complex has been built and up have surfaced the Starbucks, a Tesco Local, numerous restaurants etc. -- yuppy heaven really, albeit at a price.
I just checked out their website out of interest. These flats are being rented out at £800 a month for a 1 bedroom apartment, rising to over £1000 per month if you want two bedrooms. Based on my apartment in Leeds, I suspect the council tax will be well over a grand a year too.
They're not shy about who they want there either. Their flashy website (and I mean that metaphorically as well as technologically) states that the average residents are professional singles or couples with higher than average disposable incomes.
Even if you're a star 25 year-old trader, you might have a hard time justifying to yourself spending that kind of money on a flat. Personally, I think I have gone off the idea of a flat forever. It may be okay if you move into one with a partner or friend, but a one-bedroomed flat can destroy you quite quickly. And who the hell would want to buy one to live in? Certainly not me.
Someone left a fairly acid comment on Bryony's blog yesterday regarding the fact that she was single and was finding it difficult to find an affordable decent flat. Either they are blessed with a substantial private income or they haven't looked out of their window recently. If it's £1000+ for a moderately sized flat in Leeds, what would it be in London? (Actually I suspect London prices are not that much different from Manchester or Leeds nowadays).
It must just suck to leave Uni full of energy with the prospect of a salary only to find that all you can afford is to rent a room in the roughest end of town and little chance of ever owning anything without marrying a high-earner and paying bank share-holder bonuses for the rest of your life. My heart really goes out to them. I think for the foreseeable future, I'll be staying in command central in Wigan. That's unless something changes -- Kylie moves in next door and lowers the tone of the neighborhood or I decide I'm really fecked off with the UK and do something mad like move to China.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 12:17 GMT, by Kenny
26th March 2008
If you need me, I'll be upstairs drowning kittens
...for drowning kittens is a noble hobby.
Warning: For those of you who have limited time and just want to cut to the chase without a wordy prelude, just scroll down to the "condensed version". I appear to have gone off on one again.
After yesterday's mental burp, I'm now back on the warpath with humanity (I use the term freely).
I made the fatal mistake of picking up the TV guide for the week and looking if there was something that would suitably addle my brain into the submission of sleep. I daren't watch NCIS in the evenings or my dreams are full of hot Goth chicks gushing about techie things so an alternative was sought. I didn't get very far before I had to poke both my eyes with two (now wasted) lit cigarettes.
My first misfortune was to spot that Desperate Housewives is back on the box. I needn't say anymore. From Halo to Hellraiser in two words, right there.
The second was to spot something on ITV2 tomorrow night. When you read this, I'll guarantee that there will be some vommage, so grab your nearest receptacle now, be that a bucket, vase, shoe, anything.
What I am about to describe speaks volumes. It's an oldie that those of us who have been blogging for any length of time despise. Remember the bad old days when what we then refered to as MSM (mainstream media) used to be fascinated by bloggers? Before politicians realised that there were both left and right wing conspiracies evolving from murky basements all over the world? When we could proudly say that collectively we had disproved the theory that if you give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite amount of time, they could produce the works of Shakespeare? They were sweet old days weren't they? [I'm looking all wistful as I type].
Well the MSM finally grew up a couple of years ago and thought "Hell, we'll have a piece of that hot action". Blogging was never our exclusive space to begin with so I quite welcomed the fact that they had extracted their heads from the tailpipe we had put them all in, and joined in the fun. Yeah, some missed the point and started blogs that read like like copy destined for the business pages.
The first few MSM blogs that I read were literally crafted from the same set of rules journos use for print media -- make the first paragraph carry enough of the story for it to be engaging and then weave out the extended version over the length of available column inches. This is done because research shows that most people don't read all of a news story in its entirety.
I know the above because a very nice but austere gentleman from the Financial Times once gave me a seminar on how to deal with the press, including writing copy, being interviewed, things journos hate -- all that kind of thing.
[Aside: I doted on the FT guy's every word and nearly got myself fired by taking one of his points to heart and agreeing so much I ended up starting WW3 with some bone-headed MBA marketing twerp who not only was on the wrong side of utterly farcical, but grated on me almost as much as Auberon Waigh and Ernest Hemmingway do. I could never make him out -- he was in product marketing for some heavy duty engineering kit. He wasn't techie enough to do technical marketing yet he wasn't fluffy enough to do marcomms, so I failed to see his worth at all. All he appeared to do was take whatever I or my compadres had written, scribble out our names and add his. I'm not bitter. Honest. But look at SMT magazine from about 2000. /Aside]**
I'm digressing. This is what happens when I have been drinking coffee in industrial quantities all day and my supply of kittens has run out.
Where was I? Ah yes. The MSM. The MSM have embraced bloggage quite well in the UK. I've not checked out any of the tabloids, but most of the broadsheets do a pretty darn good job. They've spotted that it's a different kind of medium to print journalism -- i.e. much less formal -- although I suspect regular readers of broadsheets may not have realised that the blogs the papers provide are not (and should not be) an extension of the paper itself.
The point is that twenty years ago, if you read something in the paper that made you animated, you may pick up your trusty flint and etch out a stone tablet to be mailed to the editor, which may or may not elicit a response. Today all the media have instant feedback in volumes that their predecessors could not have imagined. This isn't just because we no longer have the onerous task of writing and posting things. It's because we know who the journalist is and we suss out which journalists we like and read their blogs while ignoring the blogs of others we're not so keen on. In return I suspect that modern-day journalists get much more positive feedback than they used to (as well as the negative) and feel more comfortable dropping the print-media style when they blog. No harm, no foul.
When I first started dealing with journalists, I used to be paralyzed with fear at the prospect. They may be asking innocuous questions but boy was my brain working overtime to not say anything that could be vaguely misconstrued. Older and wiser now, I'm pretty sure that the editors of Circuits Assembly, The X Advisor and Asia-Pacific Developments would not have held the front page had a demo gone wrong. Nowadays I have no professional media contact but if I ever do again, a la Homer Simspon, I'll be thinking "Brain, you are not Bill Gates so if you make a gaff, laugh about it and then buy them a drink later."
[Aside2: Remind me to tell you about the time we made up an acronym for a piece of technology that the executive VP used in an interview. /Aside2]
Condensed version:
I've waffled off again like a senile old gimmer. What I could have said in much fewer words is that the MSM have got blogging.
TV is about five years behind them. To wit: ITV2 10:00pm Thursday March 26th -- Gossip Girl. This is part 1 of a 22 part series about a bunch of girls who get all their gossip from the famous blogger surprisingly named Gossip Girl. All I can think of is that someone came upon an old article on Belle Du Jour or any other of the risque kiss-and-blog sites.
Okay, I could kind of get it if you were Steve and you had a mind to write a show based on blogging. But 22 shows? A writer as good as Steve could pull off a run of 8 I think before even he would run out of suitably sensationalist plots but I'm assuming the writer of Gossip Girl will not be a blogger and will have "researched" the shows by visiting links listed on littlegreenfootballs, sackedairhostess or whatever.
I just don't know what to do about the show at all. Do I watch (with sick fascination) one episode so that I can confirm my suspicions? Do I give it two? Or do I trust my judgement and wait for someone I know is with brain to torture themselves and see what they think before dipping my toe in the fire?
What I do know is that no matter what, no good can come from persons who are normally glued to Hearbeat watching it and suddenly deciding that all bloggers live such exciting (sic) lifestyles and are therefore a threat to all they hold dear.
Just for a laugh, I'm going to wear my blogger sweatshirt in Eccles on Saturday and spot how many middle-aged and old women attack me with wooden stakes and cloves of garlic.
I've gone on again haven't I? Mea culpa.
** -- I'm sure the statute of (keep your ugly mug shut) limitations for that particular job have run out so I have no qualms in airing my pent-up frustration from yesteryear.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 22:24 GMT, by Kenny
25th March 2008
Dictionary corner
The monstrous spectacle of religious leanings once again seems to dominate the headlines today. The government appear to have wangled a kind of Divine get out of jail free card for members of the labour party who wish to show their true colours in a free vote on (three areas of) the subject of embryo research while apparently expecting those same members to vote with the government when the grand unified theory of those areas is put forward as a bill to be passed as law.
I start to chew my own leg when we get into such murky territory. God obviously will forgive those that exercise their right to vote against embryo research yet bow to His Gordonness come the real thing. All others will be condemned to eternity at a drinks reception hosted by Dennis Thatcher. I jest. It would be George Best.
There are so many ethical and moral problems with this scenario, not to mention some deliberate muddying of waters.
Here's my problem. To me, ethical and moral are two distinct words with two distinct meanings but are generally regarded as synonyms. I tend not to use the words "moral" and "immoral", probably because they have a nasty undertone of religious cant that I was subject to for the six years I attended a C of E school (5-11). In my world, morals are for those who fear the wrath of their chosen deity. Ethics, on the other hand, provide a less rigid form of morality that is born out of an individual's conscious choice to do the right thing, regardless of what the stentorian voice of Rome dictates.
[Actually, I lie. I use the word "immoral" quite a lot when I see designs of computer programs/systems that I disapprove of. I'm not just saying they are wrong, I'm saying they are cosmically wrong.]
The innate problem with my use of "ethical" as a less rigid form of "moral" is that it implies that ethics are a subset of morals when they are quite obviously not (well at least not according to my probably misguided interpretation).
Humour me while I consult the dictionary a second. Hmm, as I thought; that's not much help. It seems to treat ethics and morals as one in the same.
Before I disappear in a puff of logic, I'll get back to my original point.
As a confirmed member of atheists-not-so-anonymous, I find myself in conflict with those MPs who will cast their "get out of jail free" vote based on their religious beliefs and then cowtow to the party line. Firstly, I'm uncomfortable with any laws that are passed purely or partially because of a religious belief. Worse still, I'm very uncomfortable when laws are twisted to reflect religious values. There are a basic set of rules of law that unarguably stand. Unfortunately for people like me, they happen to be mentioned as moral guidance in religious texts. Now my argument above goes South. In this case, the moral guidance derived from religion is now actually a subset of the general ethics on which I stand. For example, no good book to my knowledge says that I can't keep the change when I've been given too much, but ethically I can't.
In Kenny speak, the passage of a proposed law on the use of embryos should be decided on ethics not morals. Were it to be so, and all religion set aside, it becomes even more problematic at a personal level. When there's no Gabriel to the left and Lucifer to the right and we have to think about the consequences of our (combined) actions, it's not such an easy ride.
The reality is that those who vote against the bill in its final reading, for whatever reason, are pretty much making career-breaking decisions. To be honest, I don't envy them at all. Personally, I can't make up my mind whether I agree or disagree with the bill; I'm pretty convinced I could argue either way quite passionately.
Anyway, the whole shebang is an odious snakepit. Mixing politics, religion, ethics and morals is bound to end in a lowest common denominator law that neither appeases the dissenters nor the proponents.
In most walks of life, I'm quite happy to take risks. When I get to something as sticky as this, I'm afraid I wuss out and opt for the line of least resistance. I don't fully understand the whats and wherefores -- I don't believe that anyone does -- so my vote would be an ethical but cowardly "nay" on the use of embryos.
I think more than anything, this little dilemma proves that our current democracy is not quite as (a) secular and (b) democratic as it should be.
Christ, that was a ramble. I'm sure I could have wasted the time I spent typing this watching DVDs of NCIS (I have over 1000 minutes of them).
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 23:01 GMT, by Kenny
24th March 2008
Must...resist...the...urge...
...to blog about the football.
Can't.
See this? This is one happy Kenny. Five points clear with seven games left. Okay, two of those are Chelsea and Arsenal. I'm not too worried about the Arse given their recent performances, but Chelsea are once again finding some decent form, which unsurprisingly coincides with the return of Drogba. As I postulated yesterday, Drogba is the current-day Henri. Give him room at your peril.
I had wanted a draw between the Arse and Chelsea but knew that it was Chelsea's game for the taking. Shockingly, I wasn't in the slightest bit bothered by them winning. The departure of the chosen one from London has done my blood pressure a world of good and the TV needs less cleaning from me clawing at it like a thing possessed. I now no longer need to scream "the things you see and hear when you don't have a grenade handy" when I look at the results.
I am, however, still utterly unimpressed by Sky's punditry. Jamie Redknapp would do well to understand that it is possible to take a breath during his idiotic ramblings either to construct a thought or to let someone else at least announce who is playing. That is not where my criticism ends.
Furriners (those not hailing from these shores) will not know that there is a swathing division within our land. It's much deeper than football teams, transcends petty religious squabbles, dwarfs wars and can bring normally gentle souls to each others throats within nano-seconds. All this is caused by two (three) words that should be outlawed by the UN:
Andy (feckin') Gray.
It's binary. You either think the sun shines out his orifice or you will consider the deployment of nukes to his town of residence a pussy-footed under-reaction.
I am squarely in the latter camp. His voice is like tortured puppies but that is not why I hate him. His manners are akin to those of a drunk Eton student but this, again, is not his downfall. He rattles off rhetoric at a volume that drowns out a capacity crowd but, again, it doesn't merit lethal force.
The reason for my support of cruel and usual punishment and its application to him can be summed up in one sentence:
He talks unequivocal shite.
Period.
I don't care whether he is right or not (for the most part he isn't but on off-days he forgets to be wrong), there isn't a word of sense comes from his pea-brain. He even contradicts and argues with himself. The man should be Gobshite Laureate for football.
Without ranting like a rabid dog, let me tell you how utterly annoying he is. Those of you who watch soccer in the US will no doubt will have heard the commentary and coverage of one Irish idiot who I wrote about years ago (thankfully I have forgotten his name). He's on ESPN or Setanta or Fox Sports World or something. Andy Gray makes him sound educated. This is how bad it is.
My usual trick is to turn the damned volume off and deal with either a webcast from Al Beeb or find a radio, so I can tune in to Alan Green in ecstasy (him, not me).
Gray is a menace. I could be out with the girl of my dreams, armed with a guarantee of some boot-knockin' yet if I saw that vacuous twerp in the same restaurant, I would do everything within my power (including forsaking da boots) to drain every last breath out of him.
You know I'm not one to hold random hatreds (shut up at the back), but Gray is up there with Stalin and Bin Laden in my book.
[FEW...DEEP...BREATHS]
You're okay. I've settled down with a brew now. He's gone from my mind just like Dreyfus's thoughts about Clousseau.
Anyway, you're reading a first when I say I actually felt sorry for Liverpool yesterday. Mascherano probably deserved another card for dissent (he would have got one eventually) but the refereeing was awful. Someone should have told Bennet that he was not the Easter bunny handing out eggs. Torres certainly did not deserve his card. Ferdinand was petulant but it's one of the biggest matches of the season -- tempers are bound to be frayed. No-one got violent so a strongly worded warning was all that would have been needed to keep the game on even terms. To be fair, I've seen schoolgirl matches (no disrespect) where the animosity was more intense. In fact, I'd like to point out to Bennet that yesterday must have been the first Liverpool/Man U game where the ref did not have to break up some kind of handbags at dawn incident -- and that wasn't because of his awesome refereeing.
As W pointed out in an email to me:
"Headlines like '10 man Liverpool outclassed by United' really annoy me. We threw it away, we weren't outclassed..."
I have to agree. Outclassing someone is what we did to Arsenal not too long ago. United beat Liverpool fairly comprehensively but it wasn't a thrashing. Had Bennet not reduced Liverpool to ten men, Gerrard could have played a lot further forward rather than holding up a rather defensive midfield and therefore only having one man (Torres) up front (for the most part dying of exposure).
For once, I feel sorry for the scousers and I look forward to them battering both Chelsea and Arsenal in the Champion's League, and we'll see them in the final.
End of football rant. I'll try to return to being coherent now.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 13:49 GMT, by Kenny
22nd March 2008
Where did I leave my halo?
I've had a top-tastic, earth-movingly good day. I'd love to explain why in detail but I can't. Normally, as you all know, I wear my heart on my sleeve blog for all and sundry to have a quick poke at, but on this occasion, I'll have to keep it pretty vague.
Before you all get carried away and read some kind of romance into my "earth-movingly good" description, let me stop you right there and say that nothing could be further from the truth. All I can say is that for some reason I was in an uncharacteristically fine mood this morning and had a severe dose of the old aphorism "practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty". Beauty and Kenny are best left out of the same sentence so I took heed of the former part of the adage.
I dunno. I think all this Smallville is getting to my sub-conscious. I don't like seeing people in distress at all and if you can relieve that anguish by even a fraction, I've always thought it an obligation to do so. An act of kindness needn't mean parting with money. I'm sure quite a lot of the people around me would have walked straight past two incidents today with a disgusted look. Even more would say that I'm stupid and could have got myself into a bit of a pickle. Were I a religious being, which we all know could not be further from the truth, you might explain my actions with "there but for the grace of God". Suffice to say, all turned out fine and I can count three people who don't know me from Adam that smiled today. Job done.
Call it what you like but I'll sleep easy tonight.
I'm not used to being in such a good mood...I don't know which must be more annoying to you lot; Kenny throwing his dummy out of the pram in a hissy fit or Kenny bouncing off walls like Tiggr?
To top it all off, I have a cunning plan...
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 18:27 GMT, by Kenny
Contortionism...
...blow your own trumpet (as my brother says).
Ahem. Twenty minutes. Telegraph battered. Kenny on fire. Not difficult at all (with the odd exception), but damn fine fun for a Saturday morning.
Now to sort out my e-mail problems.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 10:41 GMT, by Kenny
21st March 2008
Rhapsody a la Kenny
I donned my beret at an angle of exactly 37.5 degrees today and took the winding road around to Mr Supervisorville for a brew (read a gallon or so) and a good gossip.
I got to visit the studio in which all his many creations are born, and of late many an arty photo has been snapped. I had to sign a non-disclosure as to where/what it is and all electrical gubbins was confiscated. This was not because he is afraid of me sneaking pictures but because anything electrical that is left there is fair game as being an extra string to his proverbial bow in creating his paintings. The Supervisor collects all sorts of things for use in his art. Me being the neanderthal pointed out that a lot of very poorly paid Chinese workers spend their lives working in blood, sweat and tears to create these electronic marvels for the price of a rice grain, only for them to be shipped half way around the world to be dismantled, crushed or torched for use in his work. I was careful not to push that point as he gently yet menacingly waved the acetylene torch in my direction. I quickly extinguished my cigarette and changed the subject.
Mrs Supervisor was home too. We have long-since forgotten that we share the same kind of TV viewing habits. We formed a kind of unholy bond about 15 years ago, based on one series that only she and I watched. Everyone else was being lame and watching Twin Peaks. Not us. It came as no surprise then when the subject of modern TV came up and we were on exactly the same page for exactly the same reasons. The Supervisor looked bewildered at our enthusiasm and mentioned something about counting paper-clips.
A truly gradely afternoon. Except for the bloke who complained that I had taken up two parking spaces. Upon apologising for it though mitigating my crime with the feeble excuse that I didn't want to block his neighbor in, he declared that they were away on holiday so it didn't matter about their drive. I politely apologised again, even calling him sir (a nasty habit that I picked up from being in the US -- over here it probably gets interpeted as being sarcastic) and said in my "Honest Clarke" character voice, "I'm dreadfully sorry. I haven't been here for about 15 years." It didn't seem to land in a position where he could come in with a backhand smash so middle England came away with a respectable draw, and a "see you young man" in the direction of The Supervisor, together with a sly wink.
Mrs Supervisor and I now have a date with the TV so I have to run.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 20:58 GMT, by Kenny
20th March 2008
Quick change of subject
I know I said I'd have a think about Northern dates but I have been distracted. Amazing how work suddenly breaks out in force the day before holidays...
I'll stick the date thing on the back-burner.
I just wanted to get something off my chest. It's an admission that I am not proud of. I am bloody hooked on Smallville. You know? Superman when he was just a Superteenager? It's utter drivel, yet I sit there saying the same damned things at the TV every night.
"Look Clarke, it strikes me that what we have here is a serious dose of you being a plank. In corner A we have the auburn, emotionally-supercharged, sultry dimwit who always blows you off and just annoys the living daylights out of me for being such a drip. In the other corner, you have the cute little journo girl who doesn't give a fish's tit about anything and has more balls than you have. What's to beat yourself up over? Quit saving Lana and start knockin' da boots with Chloe. It's easy. That way the series will end and I'll not lose an hour a day watching you being a prat. I remain your trusted ally, Lex Luther."
Got to run...it's starting.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 19:05 GMT, by Kenny
B-day
Well, it's that day again. Yup, Bryony day so what else would you expect from me?
The thing is, because it's school holidays the damned lazy-arsed paper-boy has been taking it as carte blanche that he can lie in. My paper has been arriving as late as 10:00am by which time I have long been gone, so I have had to rely on the electronic version. And I don't even get a sniff at the crossword until I get my tired arse home, by which time any energy that I might have has long since been dispensed with. This was particularly irritating yesterday when I still had four clues left (okay it was a tad tougher than usual) and I was sat toying with the idea of going to bed or finishing the bloody thing. I voted like I knew the paper boy would.
Bryony's topic du jour is the evil surrounding divorce. This is a subject that I swing both ways on. I'm allowed to comment given that I am probably more experienced in the process than anyone else. Not that my parents are divorced or ever would be. I'm the black sheep. I learned from the experience of divorce. I can repeat it exactly.
In the first case, it was a no-brainer. Divorced parents or one 6 foot under and the other doing a life stretch. The latter option would have been guaranteed either way -- either her or I would have been pushing up daisies. You cannot live in an environment that is so fueled with passive aggression while the kid is around and openly hostile when they're not.
The second case is less of a no-brainer. I'm not even sure it's finalized. I have emails stating that Nski is to be married in the Spring but I haven't seen a jot of paperwork. I'd definitely have stuck that one out but a certain American publicly quoted company, a shite immigration system, some "WTF - Panic" and 4000 miles distance kind of put the mockers on it. Happy? No. Resigned. Yes.
Ultimately the welfare of the child should be the primary concern. Sometimes you can work through things like infidelity (I never thought I would write that) and get back to normality. Others you have to sever an artery and bleed for a while, knowing that it's for the best.
Just like your lives, everyone's is a lot more complicated than you know, so passing judgement on whether a couple are right or wrong to happily sing D-I-V-O-R-C-E or not is at best ill informed.
Let's face it, divorce or not, nobody wins. Unless your initials are HMM (damn -- I swore I would not even think about her let alone allude to her in print). Ugly topic for ugly times.
--
There's a bit of a surprise ending to Bryony's column -- no-one has asked her for a date! I had only had my first gallon of tea when I first read that at home, so I kind of left it alone as being one of those surreal moments you have when you can't remember whether you're awake on autopilot or still hitting the snooze button. Having arrived at work and read it again, it has not changed and I was gobsmacked that legions of adoring fans hadn't swamped the comments (there's time yet, mark my words).
I do feel there is some mileage in thinking about what constitutes a Northern date though. Any suggestions from the Northern contingent? I'll have a dwell on that and post my thoughts later, after I have quickly rattled off War and Peace in techno-babble.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 10:26 GMT, by Kenny
18th March 2008
Brief lives
Well that was a bit of a ride home. The M62 was full of the usual feckwits driving down the outside lane at 120mph waving a tin cup out of one window and a white stick out of the other, but otherwise it was bearable.
As I left the M62 to get on the East Lancs just outside of Eccles (have you noticed that Eccles seems to feature heavily in my list of things that happen?), I happened upon *that bend(r)*.
*That bend(r)* is not *this bend(r)*. I will explain.
Back when I was a pimply faced yoof, just out of Uni, I used to commute between Lowton and Leeds so I knew all the roads like the back of my hand. As you leave the M62 and follow the slip road round, there is a warning to slow down. That is *this bend(r)*. You can take it quite easily at 70mph. However there are no signs for *that bend(r)* being anything other than a slight nod to the left. Believe that it is anything like a slight nod at your peril.
At the time, I had a fairly rapid company car and my then fiance (ex-wife alert!) was, for reasons I forget, driving my car back from Leeds one afternoon. I was driving her dirt-brown Diesel Astra (hunk of shite etc etc). Somehow, due to being young and stupid, we ended up racing back. It should have been no contest but we were neck and neck as we came off the M62 onto the slip road. Ex-1 was about 50 yards in front of me as we approached *this bend(r)*. I knocked it down a gear and blasted past her at about 70mph around the bend and gained about 100 yard lead. I then hit the breaks to take *that bend(r)*, knowing full well that there was no way she could exceed my speed going around it. The bad news is that her pride was blasting at scarlet as she passed me, flashing a defiant glare in my direction.
I must confess, I did panic. I could see her hurtling into a bend at about 80mph that you would struggle to take at 55mph with no sign of any braking going on. I flushed red hot with worry and my legs felt like they were on fire; I was sure that she was about to join many before her. I flashed my lights, sounded my horn and gesticulated in a useless fashion.
At the last moment she must have seen a fence approaching her at high speed, jammed on the brakes, yanked left and prayed. She over-steered and then over-corrected and zigzagged her way around the bend, just about avoiding writing off my car and the rest of her existence.
That is a visual that I never wish to see again, ex-wife or not.
So tonight I was on that slip road thinking about my Ex's near miss with the grim reaper as I always do when I approach *that bend(r)*. Imagine my surprise when I approached *this bend(r)* only to see a chap stood on the hard shoulder, decked in standard issue day-glow yellow jacket waving what appeared to be a rag in a "slow down" gesture. As the kindly gentlemen was quite vigourously waving his rag, I did as he asked.
I turned to approach *that corner(r)* to be faced with possibly the worst crash I have ever seen in my life. Car parts were strewn all over the road, multiple cars were pulled over on the road and smack in the middle of the carriageway was an overturned black Ford of some description. The overturned car was, to put it mildy, utterly fecked. The roof above the driver and passenger seats was subtended from the base of the windscreen at an angle of about 30 degrees. If whoever was in the front seats of that car survived, it will be a miracle.
Unlike the rest of the world I weighed it up quite logically as I crawled by in the zoned off lane. I've no idea whether anyone was still inside the car as I'm not big on rubber-necking, playing the ghoul on the pavement or graphic medical visuals. The emergency services had not yet arrived so it was all a bit of an improvised mess. I considered stopping to offer assistance but, spotting a number of cars pulled over further on, I decided I would be of no help and that the best thing I could do was get the hell out of the way just in case anyone behind decided to do an Ex-1 on me and fly around *that corner(r)* like a mad thing, nudging me into the next dimension too.
So with sweaty palms, I drove like an old codger home, wondering what it must be like to go head over heels in a piece of tin with a sickening visual of Ex-1 nearly ending up in an overturned car, just from one moment of stupidity.
The most obvious and horrible part (I always find) is thinking about the people who were in the mangled wreckage. They had probably just done their ordinary day at work and were looking forward to their weekly dose of Holby City when bam, time's up kids. They'll have had no inkling that they would be hurtling through the air a few hours later. Shocking. Really, really shocking.
I'm about as fond of my Ex-1 as I am of neuropathy but I wouldn't have wished that kind of accident on anyone. I just hope I was wrong with my assumption that no-one could have been alive in that carnage.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 23:30 GMT, by Kenny
US economy not in upfall
It's official. According to Al Beeb:
Mr Paulson [US Treasury Secretary] has been touring the US breakfast television studios in an attempt to reassure markets and consumers about the economic situation.
"We know we're in a sharp downclimb and there's no doubt that the American people know that the economy has turned down," he said.
Well that's okay then isn't it? I am left wondering what the hell a downclimb is (it can't be a fall because it's climbing and it can't be a rise because it's down) and exactly what the US economy has turned down. A date with Courtney Cox? A free trip to Beijing? An Oscar? The volume?
Do these people not have spin doctors (or as we used to call them PR people) to make sure their statements are intelligible, even if they are complete lies?
Bring back Big Al Greenspan. He would never have let this kind of nonsense happen.
Aside: It's interesting how the US is attempting to spend its way out of recession by cutting interest rates while the UK is tightening everything by raising them. Stan of the Mount, any ideas why? If your robe is dry, I'll be the guy hitting F5 on RadioFreeStan.
Update: It seems that The Observer picked up on the dramatic downclimb too:
Picture shamelessly nicked from The Guardian/Observer website.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 14:01 GMT, by Kenny
Any excuse...
...to trot out an old faithful (just in case Newcastle fans missed it the last three hundred million times I posted it):
Yeah, right Kev.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 10:10 GMT, by Kenny
A few quickies...
...and that's just before bed.
Firstly, I have not baited Her Bryonyness into a comment on the Macca divorce settlement although I did get a response saying that she was writing about Basil Brush which will be far more interesting I'm sure (you can read it here).
Next up, Stan has put the fear of God in me. I don't mind the global economy collapsing but the thought of a Bear pie market is unthinkable. I think I'm going to panic buy.
Need I say that the Telegraph crossword was battered? (W -- liked SHELVE and PARAMOUR but not NOODLE).
Finally, unless you happen to be phoning me to offer me a job with great pay, ultimate power and no responsibility, or are on my list of favorite people (see left), do NOT call me after 21:00.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 00:08 GMT, by Kenny
16th March 2008
Another for my list
I do like a good dose of realism.
From Today's Observer, Barbara Ellen issues a dose of common sense and, with a quick twist, brilliantly belittles (no pun intended) Mick Jagger, Keith Chegwin and the poxy taste of our great and good.
Given the last few weeks columns (I particularly like this one), she's fast becoming as much of a "must read" as Bryony.
Is this early middle age onset? Other men covet Brittney Spears, Kylie (feckin') Minogue or other faceless non-entities. I get all misty-eyed over journalists. Maybe I should buy a sports car and throw away any Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton CDs.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 15:40 GMT, by Kenny
When did I get so senile?
Okay, after over three months with not a single beer passing my thirsty lips, I had thought that my brain might be acting at somewhere near capacity. Mais non mes petites.
In the past two weeks, I have filled my cup with sugar rather than the sugar bowl, filled the sugar bowl with boiling water rather than my cup and this from ten minutes ago, the piece de resistance:
"What was I doing?" you may ask. Well, I was meant to be putting on deodarant but not only picked up the wrong aerosol, but missed (thank God). My Fedora is now stained and the wardrobe mings like it is freshly returned from the barber's shop.
Thank God for camera-phones or I would not be able to record these events to be held against me in any future sectioning proceedings. On the other hand a "diminished responsibility" plea sounds like a fine defence does it not?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 12:07 GMT, by Kenny
14th March 2008
What's that smell?
Ah yes...it's testosterone emanating from the general direction of Wigan. No, I've not scored a hot date with Angelina Jolie. In fact, I've not scored a date at all. But I have battered the Telegraph crossword.
Stan may finish his Grauniad crossword in 15 minutes and poo-poo my daily Telegraph bashing exploits, but it has to be said that today's was a bit of a bugger. I really do wish that the Telegraph would publish who the setter is, so at least you know what you're up against. For example, if you see the words "Auracaria" or "Paul" next to a crossword, your bowels should contract in fear and if you see the word "theme" next to either of them, just write in random words that fit because unless you are called "Stan", your day has gone and you will feel like your IQ has plummeted below that of Tom Cruise.
Today was a particularly gratifying exercise as I polished it off and then proceeded to field numerous calls from the paternal unit while he wriggled his way through it. Metaphorical strutting complete, I may lower myself and print out the FT.
I must add that I don't spend all of my life dissecting cryptic clues, but I do find a knowledge of them distinctly advantageous, if only for the obscure words you end up knowing that no-one else has ever heard of. It also makes playing at insulting people's ideas in boring meetings as you mentally construct a clue that to all intents and purposes says "shut up" a blast. I award extra points to myself if I can make the clue on-topic in the context of the meeting.
On an entirely different note, following my first serious post in forever yesterday, I was kind of sick in my throat when I looked at page 3 of the Telegraph. A la simple crossword clue:
"Inert element confused top journalist" - Kenny '08 (2,4)
Have at it.
[Stan -- you'll have got it by the time you get to this bit so don't spoil the fun ;) W, if you need help with the Wellygram, drop me an email, give me a call or send a pigeon -- K]
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 15:27 GMT, by Kenny
13th March 2008
Thank God I rule my own kingdom
Some days I thank God that I have full live and die decision-making capability with regards to comments. Bryony's column today seems to have dragged up some prize doofuses.
I think I have only ever had to delete one comment in 7 years. It may say something about my circulation figures. On the other hand, maybe the great and the good who grace me with their presence are of a higher mind set than wanton mud-slingers.
If I were Bryony, I'd have my fingers surgically broken at close of play every Wednesday so I could not physically respond to the great unwashed who seem to take great pride in insulting people from the comfort of their desk.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 14:12 GMT, by Kenny
And while I'm here...
Amen.
"...But actually, a lot of people care. They care about her [Amy Winehouse] music. They care about her well-being. They just don't see the fate of nations hanging on whether she makes it through rehab or not."
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 13:24 GMT, by Kenny
Media feast leaves me a little sickly
Meanwhile back in the States...
...a quick gear-shift back down to non-triviality. It has been brought to my attention that I have started to blog like the archetypal vacuous blond. It's worth pointing out that I'm not blond. The rest is up for grabs.
Al Beeb still has a modicum of decency left within its lumbering offices. It appears to be the only media outlet left although even it has alluded to what should be left the hell alone.
Over the past twenty-four hours I've been slowly but surely disgusted by the coverage of the Greater Manchester Police Chief's suspected suicide.
The fact that the chief of police for Greater Manchester has apparently committed suicide is news. No mistaking that. It's sad news. Anyone who gets to that rank is either thoroughly corrupt or genuinely good at what they do. I have no reason to believe that Michael Todd was anything other than a very good policeman.
It is then very sad to hear that he appears to have been so depressed that he has taken his own life by an as yet undiscovered method. The Al Beeb link I have referred to above is the only report I have read that didn't get off on manic analysis of his personal life.
The press have made much hay of his alleged affairs, separation from his wife etc as being the cause of his self-inflicted demise. Within hours of the discovery of his body all the main news sites were detailing his troubled private life for all and sundry. Sex sells and bugger anyone's feelings. For once, I looked away as I saw where the reports were going.
The fact is that no-one's life is squeaky clean. I mean absolutely no-one. The media thrive on that fact. Whatever dirt they can exhume from someone's past, they will.
Speaking as someone who is not particularly proud of being in his thirties with two divorce badges under his belt, I know how awful you feel when events in your life don't go to plan. Sometimes it's a hey-ho and others it's an all-consuming hurt/guilt/shame. Sometimes such events are self-inflicted and others way out of your control. If you're any semblance of a human being, you don't take your badges from under your belt and wear them with pride. They eat away at you and yes, you do sit asking some fundamental questions about your worth. It's a natural part of the analytical process by which you learn.
Michael Todd seemingly was right in his analysis of his own situation. I bet he knew the media had hold of details of his peccadilloes and knew what was coming his way. The fact that he seems to have chosen to avoid the humiliation of being plastered all over the press and the subsequent coverage proves him right. Sadly, or not so sadly, he will never know he was right.
I remember a statistic from many years ago that theorized that the children of suicide victims are far more likely to commit suicide themselves. I would imagine that this hypothesis is doubly true for those left the legacy of a posthumous rake of coals for all to see.
I had a conversation with the maternal unit last night on the subject of Michael Todd. She alluded with absolute certainty to his suicide (by throwing himself off a cliff) and the reasons behind it. I'd already seen the trash-talk and had actually paid attention to the reports that said he hadn't thrown himself from a cliff so snapped a little, correcting her on the manner of his (still alleged) suicide. She started detailing his personal life (as she had heard it on the TV news). I interrupted with an even more snappy "How on earth do you have the capacity to memorize all this useless and speculative information?" at which point I was chastised for making no sense. It's one thing to know it, it's another to bring it up as a topic of interest. The maternal unit asserted that she had only remembered it because it was the reason behind his death. Yeah right -- down to a level of detail that knew where his estranged wife lived, how many times they had been separated etc.
There are a million and one reasons for why people commit suicide and I'm not sure that speculating as to why helps anyone concerned. Different people torture themselves for different reasons.
I've not yet read the obituary in the Telegraph. I hope they have taken their hat off in respect, honoring a man who did so much good and have left his family well out of it. That's what I expect from my paper of choice.
Some of the wisest words I have ever heard when dealing with mental health problems, came from the dumbest box of frogs W and I used to hang around with. His father committed suicide -- we never spoke about it because he didn't want to speak about it. His words?
We were at Stonehenge for the first time in our lives. W and I sat marveling inwardly with our own thoughts. Almost as one, we turned to C and asked "What are you thinking about?"
The response? "I'm not. It's best not to think about these things."
I might extrapolate from that and say it's best not to write these things about someone you didn't know.
Update: The Telegraph have done me proud.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 12:32 GMT, by Kenny
12th March 2008
Quirky fact of the day
Apparently I was conceived on the Isle of Wight. This has thrown me into a greater philosophical quandary than any work, lack of work, health or marital problems I have ever endured. Does this make me a Southerner?
I have been all over the world but I have never been to the Isle of Wight. Should I make some ritual pilgrimage back?
Notice I have not mentioned the Great Storm of the North once on account of the fact that, other than idiot drivers, there is nothing serious to report. Well, apart from the headlines I have being rotated above which are coming live from my mole at the Crankwood MOD station.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 13:25 GMT, by Kenny
11th March 2008
North/South divide widens...
...thanks to brisk breeze. Northerners airlifted home.
Al Beeb have put the North on high alert after predicting that the brisk weather that our Southern cousins have recently suffered is heading North. Although not explicitly stating such, but coyly intimating it, it is believed that the winds will be taking the M6 Northbound:
"Forecasters are predicting gales of up to 80mph affecting Northern Ireland and the north of England and Wales, and possibly snow in northern England.
They expect wind to disrupt rush-hour traffic on roads in the north of England such as the M6 and the A1." [There are other roads, but these are the main conduits (forgive the pun) twixt North and South - Ed].
Chris Fawkes was more convincing with his assertion that "These winds have the potential to disrupt transport quite easily."
After days where emergency services were stretched to capacity airlifting Northerners from the South of the country where they will invariably have been partaking of early Spring jaunts across the Channel on booze cruises, things look even more bleak for Northerners and Southerners alike.
Northerners will find themselves returning to scenes of chaos similar to those they left not 24 hours ago, with looting and crime rampant.
Southerners however, will face a much grimmer prospect. After the devastation of a shed in Torquay, they have to face the very real prospect of being French. Geophysicists predict that Newton's Third Law will kick into force (no pun intended) and the pressure applied as the Great Storm of '08 moves North will produce an opposing force that will snap off any land South of the M42 and push it in the direction of France. Given EU re-zoning proposals, this might mean that we could be saying au revoir to our Southern friends.
Meanwhile in Northern England preparations for the onslaught were underway. Elastic bands had been attached to all flat caps, arks had been assembled from Ikea flat-packs and prophylactics had been distributed to those preparing for a good hunker. Countdown had been cancelled in favour of real water-polo coverage from Cheltenham; such is the impact of Storm '08(TM).
The storm is forecast to be with us for 40 days and 40 62 nights, finally leaving the coast of Scotland on the 06:30 Belfast Seacat service.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 16:56 GMT, by Kenny
Crikey 'eck -- we're all really doomed
Scene: M62, Yorkshire, last night. Roadside traffic alert signs read "SPRAY - SLOW DOWN". The chap who wrote that might as well have put a smiley on the end. You know he was giggling at such a noncey message.
Cross over t'Tops and descend into Lancashire. Roadside traffic alert signs blaze a passionate "SEVERE GALES IN SOUTHERN ENGLAND - SLOW DOWN". Okay, it didn't say SLOW DOWN. It said QUEUES LIKELY. 200 mile-tailbacks from London were surprisingly not reported by Natasha Kaplinski ergo did not occur. In code speak sympathy.South()--;
Remind me to tell you about my suspicions of further falling standards relating to Osama Bin Laden and the national Kitkat reserves.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 13:42 GMT, by Kenny
10th March 2008
How long do I have to do this?
Apocalypse now...well maybe tomorrow
Well folks, this sceptered isle is once again in crisis. It's raining and windy. Quelle bloody surprise. If the earthquake doesn't get your chimney, the floods will. If the floods don't, no doubt we'll have a fire during the summer that will definitely get it.
I think we should all be putting in pre-emptive insurance claims. So far, my list is as follows:
-- Solar lamp uprooted violently from side of pond and submerged at depths that are too dangerous to negotiate with just a net in these conditions. Will require air support to extract it.
-- Whip lash from constantly having to correct steering when gusts blow across tops of Pennines.
-- One sock lost from washing line in freak gust.
-- Emotional scarring from Tescos not delivering groceries due to inclement weather. (Sorry kidder: had to get that one in there).
Heavens to Betwys-Coed, when did we become such a nation of blouses? The next thing we know, we'll have "storm seasons" just to be as big and butch as the Americans. I can see it now:
STORM ALERT - TROPICAL STORM GRUNWALD APPROACHING CLECKHEATON - FORECAST TO VEER SHARP RIGHT AT BATLEY ROAD (IGNORING TRAFFIC SIGNALS) AND PRODUCE LIGHT RAIN - HATS NOT ADVISED - STAY TUNED TO WUSS RADIO FOR FURTHER INFORMATION - OH, AND LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS - STATISTICS TELL US UNWANTED PREGNANCIES TRIPLE DURING STORM SEASONS (ALL THAT HUNKERING DOWN AND WHATNOT) - LAST THING, ETHEL - PORK SAUSAGES TONIGHT AND DRIPPING IS ONLY 20 PENCE AT TESCO BUT THEY'RE NOT DELIVERING - STOP
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 14:11 GMT, by Kenny
9th March 2008
Some things are just not right
When did someone say it was okay for Lewis to feature a sex scene? Well okay, it wasn't a sex scene, but Hathaway was half a metaphorical inch away from knockin' da boots with a transgendered person. Of course, this being Lewis, the threat of a romp was quickly dashed as his tryst was interrupted by his potential bonkee trying to burn him to death. But still, these things do not happen in Oxford. Is nothing sacred?
I will lie in bed shortly, mortified that I thought the lass Hathaway was about to become intimate with (who was a bloke in the story -- I have no idea whether the actor was a man or a woman) was quite dishy. If I can wipe that out of my memory, I'll still be plagued by the fact that I used the word "tryst" in a blog post -- I cannot possibly articulate how much I hate that word.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 23:29 GMT, by Kenny
8th March 2008
In which Kenny changes a CD and meets a friend...
...all in the same day.
Anyone who has spent any time around me in the past few months will either be as completely in love with Fiona Apple's music as I am or will carry a hatred beyond all others to their grave. Her piano composition is not complicated at all (she ain't no Tori Twiddle 'Everything To The n+1th Degree' Amos). Given a piano, I think it would take me a matter of minutes to play most of her songs. There's just an ounce or squeeze or pinch of something that makes her work addictive. In creating a desert island disc list, I can be as fickle as the next man and change depending on the color of my undergarments, but a guaranteed entry is Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine. If you could wear out CDs, this one would be worn out.
So it will either surprise or delight you (depending on which of the above camps you are in) to hear that the CD has been changed. I'm sure it will not be out gathering dust for too long but it has definitely left the CD player in the car.
The substitute? Well, let's say it's not exactly head-banging AOR.
My musical tastes have obviously changed over the years. There were years when all I listened to was electric guitars (early teens), followed by synths (mid 80s) followed by acoustic guitar and then piano (hence the Tori, Kate Bush, Fiona Apple, Charlotte Martin etc.).
As I've grown older, a good piano knocks my socks off. The proof of this is that if you check out my last few internet radio stations, it's all classical piano stations. Unfortunately, some of these institutions perceive classical piano as being power-ballads played on a piano. I think the first time I heard a Bryan Adams/Bruce Springsteen/whomever (I wouldn't know the difference) song (I use the term freely) played on a concert piano, I vomitted and developed Turret's all at the same time. Words that I would never speak in front of polite company (not that any of you are in that category, I hope) spewed forth like I was attempting some DIY trepanning.
Suffice to say I got naffed off with the radio stations as I wanted some proper music. During my weekly soujourn into Eccles today, I called into the HMV near McDonalds and started looking for some of my favorite Rachmaninov pieces. As luck would have it, they had precisely 3 CDs and were doing an offer of all 3 for £15. "Get in!" I screamed aloud, much to the consternation of fellow patrons who were tearfully leafing through Girls Aloud's back catalogue. £15 lighter, I returned to my car where I remained for about half an hour, annoying people by not freeing up my parking space and submerged in a couple of piano concertos.
If I'd been driving a red E-type jag, you would have sworn you'd walked onto the set of Inspector Morse. Grumpy bloke sat struggling with 23 across (Launceston for your information) with booming R-man tunes. As soon as I spotted this cliche, I sped off to McDonalds, grabbed a couple of quarter-pounders and absorbed the sports pages of the Daily Mirror, just to kind of fit in.
After the breakfast of champions, I left the Golden Arches and headed to where I should be where the subject of music cropped up. I mentioned that I had just bought some R-man CDs to the lass there (we'll call her E), which started a rather prolonged conversation about life, the universe and everything (including the pulling value of a cute puppy -- her words, not mine). Prior to today had you asked me for an opinion on E, I would have said that she was an extremely kind and pretty girl but I have obviously seriously underestimated her, which is very unlike me. I usually have people pegged within a few minutes. I'd finished yesterday in a maudling mood and when asked how I was doing this morning I replied "middling to shite" (one down from fair to middling). I drove to Eccles in a bit of a funk, cursing drivers left, right, in front and behind. After a few minutes of music, a large McDs and a delightful conversation with a very attractive young lady, I left Eccles in a very up-beat and pragmatic mood which has carried over to this evening.
Now I must away...is it wrong to eat pudding, chips, peas and gravy while grooving to Piano Concerto No 3 in D minor? Or should I try something in B flat?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 20:48 GMT, by Kenny
6th March 2008
Oh God.
Why the hell did I start thinking about dogs?
I've just done a search for lovable little (well okay, potentially enormous) rogues in the area. I fell completely in love with at least six of them.
Look at this beauty. She's Akita crossed with Malamute...
And this family are proud parents (a Husky and a Timberwolf)...
There was one of the Huskys that was snow white all over with dazzling blue eyes but the cheapskate website had disabled thieving images so you'll just have to imagine her.
The rest were either pure husky, pure Malamute, pure Akita or pure Shepherd.
Note to self: must resist urge to just go and get one. But just think of all the fun you can have training it to "accidentally" knock the phone off the hook, the conversation over breakfast, playing "where can I put my cup of tea without the dog snaffling it?" and oh so much more. You know you want to. No, Kenny, stick to the plan.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 22:59 GMT, by Kenny
Ladies, step aside
I was broswing Al-Beeb's website earlier, looking for something to cast a disparaging eye over, when I came across their pictures from Crufts. My gut reaction was one of outrage; half the alleged "dogs" that are shown are nothing more than gerbils with perms. I hate gerbils and I hate perms, ergo I hate anything smaller than a labrador. They are toys. Not toy-dogs, toys.
It got me thinking about my dear old Sasha in the US. I know about as much about how she is doing as I do my kids; that is to say pretty much feck-all. After the usual wave of cursing myself for letting events overtake me and then the following rationalization that it would have happened sooner or later (hindsight), I started thinking about whether I can be arsed dealing with women again. My first wife was a psycho. My second appears to be a promiscuous pyscho. On the whole, I'd say women are about -300 on my top 10 list of things to do. It would be nice to have someone to confide in but unless something utterly bizarre happens, Kenny is going solo. Or is he...
It struck me that I actually give Sasha more thought nowadays than I do Nski. She was the only one of the dogs that had a brain. We had a fundamental understanding of each other. She would growl with delight (nearly bay) when I got up or came home and I would respond in kind.
Kenny (opening door): I'm...
Sasha: GrrrrrWoooooooowooooooowooooooooooooooooooooo
Kenny: GrrrrWoooooowooooowoooooGrrrrr
Sasha: WoooooooooooooowoooooooowwoooooooooowoooooGrrrrr
Kenny: Now then Basher - oooowoooowoooo
[ad nauseum]
I so dearly wish I could have brought her back to the UK with me. That dog was as faithful as anything. She was the only one you could trust not to do a bunk when let off the leash. She'd potter around the garden in a superior swagger while the other two, on their leashes, looked on enviously. When we went camping, I used to walk her around the campsite without her lead -- she quite happily just followed me. The only thing that would be guaranteed to distract her was my football. If I was playing with the football, she'd charge in with the most vicious tackles and run off with a full size football in her mouth.
So Crufts has got me thinking about dogs. I want a dog. Something about the same size as Sasha with a similar brain, so a German Shepherd or a Husky or a cross thereof. In order to do this, I'll need someone to look after it during the day (hey, what are mothers for anyway?) - checkbox one ticked. I'll need a fenced yard - check box two ticked. I'll need to manipulate all around me into thinking it was their idea for me to get a dog - BINGO.
Kidder, Flip-Flop, Waaart, K, Supervisor: you are banned from discussing this with anyone other than me so as to not spoil the plan.
So we have it:
-- Convince all around me that they think a dog would be a great idea for me.
-- Convince parental units that they can dogsit while I'm at work. This is not too difficult as my mother would jump at the chance and my dad will be fine because he hasn't got the bills and hassle of actually being a dog-owner.
Now I just need to execute and think of a name.
--
I just re-read that and saw the "I want a dog" bit. That is the third time a Pet Shop Boys song has crossed my mind today. I think I may have overdone the vanilla custards at lunch time.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 19:14 GMT, by Kenny
5th March 2008
One of many Kenny ex-res's
If you look at the photo in this sad piece of news, in the foreground you can just see the top of some brown houses. I lived in one of those.
The closest thing we had to excitement was a bomb threat to the same University building that is in the picture. It got me out of bed. I was not amused. I can't even remember what they taught in that building. Us maths and computery types had our own purpose-built buildings that were conveniently connected by a skywalk to the student union bar, for when all that n-point Gaussian quadrature got too much.
The following year we did have a chap shot dead about 100 yards from our front door (which was about half a mile away from the one in the photo). Such are the perils of 'Boro.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 10:38 GMT, by Kenny
3rd March 2008
Euro fun
We all know I'm a bit anti-Europe when it comes to all things of a political bent. I'm sure the population of Europe are, for the most part, very nice people who feed birds, hold doors open for others and leave the sum total of their estate to the cat protection league (aside -- there was a listing in the Telegraph for some old dear who left an estate worth £5m and the only specific bequest from this fortune was a £200 gift to the cat protection league -- quelle altruisme).
While the people may be nice on the whole, I do not suffer foreign governments gladly. Actually, I don't suffer our own gladly any more. The creeping dose of PC pox that started afflicting us in the 80s is now at pandemic proportions.
This is why it is always pleasant when that time of year comes around and the Eurovision Song Contest kicks in. It provides hours of mock jingoism and means you can ascertain what your friends and family *really* think about the EC and our European cousins. I for one have discovered that some of my most hippified, vegan, tree-hugging, whale-saving colleagues actually measure 8 on the richter scale of neo-fascism, just by gauging their reaction to one song.
I feel it only fair to describe the rules of the Eurovision Song Contest to those who are unfortunate enough not to have ever experienced the raw emotion that is hatred. It's cathartic.
The rules are roughly as follows:
-- Each country (by its own system of democracy, usually a TV call-in vote) selects a song from a bunch of nobodys that have been specially selected from the tap-room of the wine bar down the road or the local gay bar to represent them at the final stage of the competition.
-- Come the big night (which is held in the country of origin of the previous winners), each of the acts from each of the countries performs. At the end of the melee, judges representing each of the countries award points to each of the entries. I think I am right in saying that they are not allowed to vote for their own country. The points are totted up and whoever has the most is the winner.
That seems pretty straight forward doesn't it? Mais non mes petites. There are unwritten rules.
-- Everybody hates the UK even though their acts win in terms of crapness of song, campness of performers, gaudiness of costume and flatness of vocals. Nil points.
-- Everybody loves the Irish for that cheeky grin, faux sentiment, sheer shit-facedness or a combination thereof. Douze points et une demi-litre de Guinness.
-- Everybody feels sorry for former Soviet block countries as they emerge on the stage wrapped in potato sacks with begging bowls, having queued politely for 3 weeks before the performance, only to find they are on last. A concilliatory 5 nyhktob.
-- Nobody can understand any of the Scandinavian entries. They do well to find an extrovert who is willing to perform (an extrovert in Scandinavian is defined as someone who looks at *your* shoes while he talks to you rather than his) a song that inevitably describes losing Elga in a Fjord fishing accident which fails to translate so some rapid-fire humour is unleashed on a confused audience. Norwege, deux points.
-- No-one can understand why the Italians always field some hunky mediterranean chanteur, who can probably melt chocolate at ten paces but oozes so much smarm that the chocolate curdles before the end of the first bar, when they have possibly the most beautiful women in the world. So sadly, Italia, sei punti.
-- Deutschland. Zu must der zwolf punkt gibt. Genug sagten.
You see the stakes? Warheads are primed all over Europe pending the outcome of the political hot potato.
This year, Ireland have pulled out left and right bowers in the form of a Turkey singing about Irish stew. I kid ye not. There's nothing I can add to that first sentence that will belittle, derogate or denigrate it any more than that. It is a crime against all things civilized.
Over lunch yesterday, the subject was raised. Initially I feigned apoplexy and choked on a chicken bone but made a surprise recovery when the inevitable question came up (don't ask and I will not incriminate) -- "What will the Turkish people think of someone dressing up as a Turkey and taking the piss?" This got me thinking.
The perfect Eurovision Song Contest entry a la Kenny would be as follows:
A bloke in a burka (Islamic vote cinque points) singing (in Polish) about his love of steaks (Hindu vote nil points) while wielding a sausage (triple whammy -- German, Polish, Islam vote nil points). The chorus would be something along the lines of not cooking steaks in Guinness because it's only good for cleaning your eurocents (wham, bang). The "take it down" part of the chanson (de rigeur) would be an explicit narrative of the night you spent with Marco's 18 year old daughter (allusions to sausage games optional). Avoid the use of the word frog at all costs but by all means feel free to up the tempo to double time while trying to fit in a quick rap about a surrender monkey. Finally, a football metaphor using the words "1966", "You're only singing 'cos your pissed" and "El Grande Capitain" should be deployed detailing your sexual exploits while touring Europe on a lager-fueled binge-drinking exercise. Backing singers should have a Swedish blond (wrapped in the stars and stripes) on each shoulder and should be waving a candle fashioned from a vodka bottle, petrol and bog roll.
Have I missed anyone out?
I think it's a winner.
Kenny, Tout les points. D'accord.
PS -- When did Israel become Europe?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 12:33 GMT, by Kenny
