...to the show that never ends
We're so glad you could attend
Come inside, come inside
Hello Gentle Reader
I hope you'll forgive me kicking off with some lyrics from Emerson, Lake and Palmer, a band much diminished in recent years following the sad demise of Emerson (self-inflicted gunshot wound) and Lake (cancer). ELP no longer, now just 'P'. Actually that sounds like he could be a character in a James Bond movie. After all in the Bond-verse we have M (presumably for 'man at the top', or, more prosaically, 'manager'), we have Q (quartermaster, obviously) so why not P? And just what role would P play? Pianist? (Surely Bond musical have a musical accompaniment for all those dry martinis). Painter and decorator? (Gotta keep the MI6 HQ looking spruce). Pissoir attendant, perhaps? (I suspect that after all those martinis Bond's aim is a bit less than steady, resulting in, shall we say, a wee bit of over-spray... And someone's got to clean up the mess). But hey, I'm rambling. Not entirely a surprise as it's before 10:00 of a Sunday morn and I've not even had a cup of tea yet. That, at least, is something I can rectify. Bear with me while I make myself a refreshing cup of hotbrown...
[5 minutes later]
That's better. Right, onwards. You're probably wondering where I've been these past seven years. No? Not even maybe wondering? Not even the most fleeting curiosity as to why there were no new blog posts? Ah, how soon they forget...
Well, for the record, I wasn't in chokey serving a 10 - 15 stretch for not using someone's preferred gender pronoun (commit vehicle thievery with violence and you might get a fine and community service, but fail to refer to some fruitcake as 'ze' and you'll be hauled off for re-education - North Korean stylee no doubt - pronto; identity politics will be addressed in a future blog post, bet you can't wait). I've not been away winning the Great British Bake Off (my name is not Nadiya Hussein and there's nothing soggy about my bottom).
No, the truth is rather more mundane: I lost the will to blog. I started feeling depressed (fear not, this isn't going to turn into some Diana-esque confessional) and the will to write just evaporated. Rather than entertaining you, Dear Reader, with the cockwaffle I'd previously been wont to churn out I found I'd rather be out walking along the coast, or disturbing the peace of the countryside with my Harley-Davidson. But the depression is now a thing of the past. No, I'm not on the happy pills, I found the cause (accidentally) and removed it, and in the process realised what a tit I can be. Read on.
One day, after brekkie, Art-Girl and I were discussing medicines and their side effects. Now, I wouldn't say I was rattling like Lance Armstrong but I was taking a number of meds for a gastric condition. Anyway, in the course of our chat, I pulled out the boxes of my various nostrums and started reading the list of ghastly conditions with which I might be afflicted. And there it was: common side effect - depression. All that time I'd been taking stuff that, whilst it was stopping me from feeling Pat 'n' Mick, was giving me a serious dose of the mopes. Buggeration! So I stopped taking it. And sure enough the depression vanished. Okay, my stomach feels a bit dodgy from time to time, but that's manageable with a vegan diet high in tofu and whole grains. Hey, I'm kidding. You really think I'd be eating that shite? I have a preference for eating actual food. Y'know meat, fish, pasta, kebabs (I always have the salad), beer. As Inspector Morse always said: beer is food. And given that beer's made from barley I'm sure it counts as one of the five-a-day that Nanny State is always exhorting us to consume.
Anyway, I'm back now and (ab)normal service will be resumed. So, what can you expect over the coming weeks and months? I guess I'd say more of what I served up previously (surely you weren't expecting any shocking originality), but perhaps with a bit more profanity (worry not, I'm not turning into Chubby Brown) and vitriol (there's much in the world that's making me angry). But always I'll try to give you a side order of humour (US readers will, I'm sure, not be too disconcerted by the UK spelling). A certain Dangerous Faggot (no, I'm not being homophobic, that's the appellation he's adopted for himself) says that you should always try to wrap the truth in a good joke. And that's my aim.
There will also be reviews and recommendations of movies and music, but, given that my tastes in sound and vision tend toward the esoteric (dyslexics please note I'm not referring to smut), you won't find anything on Coldplay or any of the Hunger Games movies. Rest assured, this blog will not be turning into the culture section of the Daily Express (or the Guardian for that matter, I have no interest in the Matabele Nose Flute Ensemble).
Right, I think that's enough for now. The sun is shining (well, trying to) and my Harley awaits. I'll see you again soon.
Chin chin
We're so glad you could attend
Come inside, come inside
Hello Gentle Reader
I hope you'll forgive me kicking off with some lyrics from Emerson, Lake and Palmer, a band much diminished in recent years following the sad demise of Emerson (self-inflicted gunshot wound) and Lake (cancer). ELP no longer, now just 'P'. Actually that sounds like he could be a character in a James Bond movie. After all in the Bond-verse we have M (presumably for 'man at the top', or, more prosaically, 'manager'), we have Q (quartermaster, obviously) so why not P? And just what role would P play? Pianist? (Surely Bond musical have a musical accompaniment for all those dry martinis). Painter and decorator? (Gotta keep the MI6 HQ looking spruce). Pissoir attendant, perhaps? (I suspect that after all those martinis Bond's aim is a bit less than steady, resulting in, shall we say, a wee bit of over-spray... And someone's got to clean up the mess). But hey, I'm rambling. Not entirely a surprise as it's before 10:00 of a Sunday morn and I've not even had a cup of tea yet. That, at least, is something I can rectify. Bear with me while I make myself a refreshing cup of hotbrown...
[5 minutes later]
That's better. Right, onwards. You're probably wondering where I've been these past seven years. No? Not even maybe wondering? Not even the most fleeting curiosity as to why there were no new blog posts? Ah, how soon they forget...
Well, for the record, I wasn't in chokey serving a 10 - 15 stretch for not using someone's preferred gender pronoun (commit vehicle thievery with violence and you might get a fine and community service, but fail to refer to some fruitcake as 'ze' and you'll be hauled off for re-education - North Korean stylee no doubt - pronto; identity politics will be addressed in a future blog post, bet you can't wait). I've not been away winning the Great British Bake Off (my name is not Nadiya Hussein and there's nothing soggy about my bottom).
No, the truth is rather more mundane: I lost the will to blog. I started feeling depressed (fear not, this isn't going to turn into some Diana-esque confessional) and the will to write just evaporated. Rather than entertaining you, Dear Reader, with the cockwaffle I'd previously been wont to churn out I found I'd rather be out walking along the coast, or disturbing the peace of the countryside with my Harley-Davidson. But the depression is now a thing of the past. No, I'm not on the happy pills, I found the cause (accidentally) and removed it, and in the process realised what a tit I can be. Read on.
One day, after brekkie, Art-Girl and I were discussing medicines and their side effects. Now, I wouldn't say I was rattling like Lance Armstrong but I was taking a number of meds for a gastric condition. Anyway, in the course of our chat, I pulled out the boxes of my various nostrums and started reading the list of ghastly conditions with which I might be afflicted. And there it was: common side effect - depression. All that time I'd been taking stuff that, whilst it was stopping me from feeling Pat 'n' Mick, was giving me a serious dose of the mopes. Buggeration! So I stopped taking it. And sure enough the depression vanished. Okay, my stomach feels a bit dodgy from time to time, but that's manageable with a vegan diet high in tofu and whole grains. Hey, I'm kidding. You really think I'd be eating that shite? I have a preference for eating actual food. Y'know meat, fish, pasta, kebabs (I always have the salad), beer. As Inspector Morse always said: beer is food. And given that beer's made from barley I'm sure it counts as one of the five-a-day that Nanny State is always exhorting us to consume.
Anyway, I'm back now and (ab)normal service will be resumed. So, what can you expect over the coming weeks and months? I guess I'd say more of what I served up previously (surely you weren't expecting any shocking originality), but perhaps with a bit more profanity (worry not, I'm not turning into Chubby Brown) and vitriol (there's much in the world that's making me angry). But always I'll try to give you a side order of humour (US readers will, I'm sure, not be too disconcerted by the UK spelling). A certain Dangerous Faggot (no, I'm not being homophobic, that's the appellation he's adopted for himself) says that you should always try to wrap the truth in a good joke. And that's my aim.
There will also be reviews and recommendations of movies and music, but, given that my tastes in sound and vision tend toward the esoteric (dyslexics please note I'm not referring to smut), you won't find anything on Coldplay or any of the Hunger Games movies. Rest assured, this blog will not be turning into the culture section of the Daily Express (or the Guardian for that matter, I have no interest in the Matabele Nose Flute Ensemble).
Right, I think that's enough for now. The sun is shining (well, trying to) and my Harley awaits. I'll see you again soon.
Chin chin
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