cynicalbastard

My beloved and I visited Le Champignon Sauvage ( a Not the Nine O’Clock News sketch there–’when I met Gerald he was completely wild’, ‘wild? I was livid’) this week. And very good it was too. I broke my incipient and collapsing vegetarianism by eating duck hearts. And very nice they were as well.

It’s the sort of place which allows you to enjoy yourself. Laugh, have fun. We had fun by writing our new Edinburgh show. ‘Major moments of world history through the medium of mime’. We got Diana’s death, the Kennedy assassination (Mrs W. doing a particularly good impression of the magic bullet I thought), the Vietnam War, Anne Frank (though that required some vocalisation, ‘fuck this, not another diary…’).

Any other ideas?

One of the issues in getting older is that as time spins faster and faster you realise that you’ve left longer and longer between visiting/seeing/speaking to/touching base with long term friends. Added to which, I’m not really that good at keeping in contact with people (mardy sod was a term invented for me).

The beginning of February always reminds me of this because its the birthday of so many of them. So, apart from Mrs W., with whom I had a happy few days, there’s Jo and Dave, whom I’ve known for almost two decades now, and are beloved of my heart, and then Sean who I barely see, but who saw me through many bad times, and, of course, to my best ‘Friend’, Mr. Friend himself, still floaty and in love, who I miss rather a lot.

Happy birthday y’all.

Walked into the (public) toilets at work today. Two guys are there wanking each other off (and, no, before you ask, neither was attractive).

“Get out of my fucking gallery”, quoth I.

Which they did. One of my more literate colleagues points out that a slight alteration in intonation and they’d just have assumed they’d been performing the wrong act in the wrong part of the building.

“Oh, sorry, is this the fucking gallery? We wanted the mutual masturbation performance space…”

See? This is why xianity is so much fun.

you get scared that something might not be as good as it sounds–Thomas Pynchon’s new novel is out on the 21st.

Spanning the period between the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893 and the years just after World War I, “Against the Day” moves from the labor troubles in Colorado to turn-of-the-century New York, to London and Gottingen, Venice and Vienna, the Balkans, Central Asia, Siberia at the time of the mysterious Tunguska event, Mexico during the revolution, Paris, silent-era Hollywood, and one or two places not strictly speaking on the map at all. With a worldwide disaster looming just a few years ahead, it is a time of unrestrained corporate greed, false religiosity, moronic fecklessness, and evil intent in high places. No reference to the present day is intended or should be inferred. The sizable cast of characters includes anarchists, balloonists, gamblers, corporate tycoons, drug enthusiasts, innocents and decadents, mathematicians, mad scientists, shamans, psychics and stage magicians, spies, detectives, adventuresses, and hired guns. There are cameo appearances by Nikola Tesla, Bela Lugosi, and Groucho Marx. As an era of certainty comes crashing down around their ears and an unpredictable future commences, these folks are mostly just trying to pursue their lives. Sometimes they manage to catch up; sometimes it’s their lives that pursue them. Meanwhile, the author is up to his usual business. Characters stop what they’re doing to sing what are for the most part stupid songs. Strange sexual practices take place. Obscure languages are spoken, not always idiomatically. Contrary-to-the-fact occurrences occur. If it is not the world, it is what the world might be with a minor adjustment or two. According to some, this is one of the main purposes of fiction. Let the reader decide, let the reader beware; Good luck - Thomas Pynchon.

the bells are chiming on Saturday, so there will be a three week hiatus. If you leave a comment and haven’t before you might get caught up in the spam sweep when I return, so apologies in advance. Keep it cynical and keep it bastarded.

my sadness to the general feelings over STeve-O dying. Being a cynical old misanthrope, I have more than a sneaking admiration for people who can be so genuinely enthusiastic about everything they do.

Similar to the lovely Simon Reeve and his Equator programme, and of course to the even lovelier Bruce Parry who meets the maddest people, does the maddest things, and just seems to charm them all, never mind the language barriers, by his affection and regard for them.

(The reaction when PArry asked one of the West papuan Kombai whether they were interested in where he came from is total class…

“Not interested really. We like you, you’re very funny, but we have no interest in where you come from…Whatever jungle it is, it must be pretty s**t �cos you can’t climb trees, you always have to carry ridiculous items on your body, you’re too fat, you can’t cross logs without a hand…In general you’re pretty sh**…Why would we want to know about this place?”)

All three are official cynicalbastard walloffamers. The world is a slightly colder place tonight.

I used to do this sort of crap all day. Now I’m a boss, of course, I have to frown upon such activity. Enjoy the ‘gentleman’s code of wind-up’.

Most amusing.

And its congrats to me on passing the driving test (at the ach-hemm sixth attempt), oh and getting the MBA. And its congrats to Mr CynicalbastardFriend for getting engaged and soon to be hitched. In LA. We’re settling for Yorkshire for ours.

So the sun’s out. So the neighbours have a barbecue. So they play music. Loudly. Now this being the beating heart of the bourgeoisie, its not yer grime, or yer dancehall.

No, it’s Phil Collins. Followed by Lionel Ritchie. Really, no one would condemn me for nailing them all to a tree would they? Like Mr Blair says, I’m taking action against the yobs on my street.

While I was aware, pace Fisher and Kasparov’s body-hair, that chess wasn’t quite the sedate game that many expected, I was still somewhat surprised to see Nigel Short’s report of the recent Olympiad. Shenanigans in voting? Love-jealousy? Punch-ups?

It’s like a Russian novel.

Current favourite phrase—’no shit sherlock’

My staff look at me very strangely when I use it.

I want to go in a hand-crafted wicker coffin. They’re just so English. (Spot from Boingboing of course).

Football Association makes sensible decision shock. Hell in a handbasket I tell you. Next the ICC will base themselves in a country where cricket is played. Nah, stupid thought.

Rafael draws attention to the scourge that is the grey squirrel.

My mother has the right idea. She catches squirrels in squirrel traps and then dumps them in the pond. They drown in five seconds or less. As she puts it, ‘it’s them or the bulbs’.

And all that.

The need to finish the great work (ie my dissertation) and the impending deadline for business plans and strategies means nowt from my gob for a while.

And then we will be back in full bile-filled flow in early Feb. In the meantime, if you’re not already aware of them, please check out the blogroll members.

(Something will now happen that I’ll be forced to comment on in great detail of course).

Oh yeah, and listen to Polar Bear. Life is a lot easier with them in your life.

Okay, so I work in the culture industry. Well, something to do with culture anyway. I always feel a little bit inferior to my friends who are social workers working with the most difficult of our fellow citizens, my friends who work for the emergency services, those who cook for a living, or produce web designs, etc. They might not be that well paid, but they can proclaim their professions at parties with pride, whereas I’m always just a little diffident.

Still, I used to be a music and arts journalist, so at least I’m doing something a little more relevant/helpful to society. And at least I’m not a politician.

I’ve just failed my driving test. Now you might be expecting a rant at the expense of a polyester encased examiner. But, no, twas entirely my own fault. My brain simply turned to mush. When the examiner has to point out that it might not be that great an idea to keep trying to set off with the handbrake on, it’s time to call a halt.

Given I could lop a couple of fingers off my left hand and still count on the remainder the number of times I’ve failed tests, exams and other such trials, I’m going to regard this entirely as a growth experience.

And try again. But not thrice. I follow WC Fields on this.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.

Strange how some journalists mean more to us than others. Anything by Polly Pot tends to be treated with contempt, of course. But Matthew Engel is the Editor of Wisden, and therefore feels almost like one of the family. Okay, not at John Peel level, favourite Uncle, but certainly well-liked cousin.

So his account of the death of his son from cancer, written with humour, grace and a lot of love, seemed somehow more significant than just words on a page. I’m not saying only the deaths of the children of sports journalists would affect me (though it can’t be ruled out), but some we get to know, some we get to like.

It certainly puts the tragedy of the England performance in Pakistan into perspective.

I don’t know about you, but I always wake up about three minutes before my alarm goes off. Some German researchers have been investigating the phenomenon (not why I do it, but why anyone does it). As with so many things, it’s down to hormones.