w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

10 bonus points if you can complete Today's Lyric?

I seem to remember a montage - probably at Madame Tussaud's - where the grisly event which led to this track being penned was being displayed?

It was very graphic, as I recall, including the ability to choose when the fatal shot is fired.

Aah, I'm giving too much away - Google away if you don't immediately know the answer.

Number One Daughter has just ordered a 7' stunt kite on t'internet.

She's 23 and an assistant psychologist.

That's my girl!

The estimate finally came through for our old VOB, Mrs.D's pre-Cooper Rover Kensington SE.

Nigh on £600 to replace the petrol tank, starter motor and a winter service - waaay too much for an N-plate Metro-by-another-name. especially as the wings were starting to severely rust and the driver's door no longer responded to the remote central locking.

But the breaker who called to take her away couldn't believe how good she still looked superficially _ neither of us believed he'd scrap her, so we may well see her limping around in days to come.

And sad news for Witchy and Mr BW - if you're a regular visitor, she'd probably appreciate a small comment?

Regular readers will know that, usually, I post when I get to work, of a morning. But the Company's filters have blatantly blocked Blogger's button for signing in, so I'm having to resort to posting by e-mail. If the links, fonts and html don't work, it's not going to be editable until I get home tonight, by which time any derivable humour will be lost. That'll be a shame, because I think it just might be good enough for a MBWLA point?
Ach well, enough excuses. We're going in...

The premise for this post was inspired by this very funny lady. In case you can't be ar5ed to follow the link (but I thoroughly recommend a tour of her blog - she's absolutely random), basically she posed the question "Could an internal combustion engine operate using methane gas?"
Actually, she asked if a car could run on farts, but that's Canadians for you.

My input developed into something which would have burst her Comments box, so I've expanded on her original theme, but given her full credit for the idea.

Now cows, those queens of the pastures, are famously past masters at the art of fartulence. But I reckon the young boffins at the Ministry of Alternative Fart Fuels have already been down that farm track.

"Dear Dairy (sic)
Today, we stuck a rubber hose up a cow's sphincter and attached the other end to a Bunsen burner. We then measured the heat given off by the flame.
Conclusion: We're gonna re-name this sucker "Jumpin' Jack Flash" (it's a gas, gas, gas.)

Signed
A. Norak and G. Eek

Now I reckon that you could attach a trailer to your car and back up a cow, alliteratively, to some sort of siphon system, so that so-called solids soak away to a septic tank (for slow burn production) while the good gas given off is guided into a pressure cylinder (on a separate trailer, for Health & Safety reasons) for immediate use. You'd also need another trailer to provide the raw materials for gas production - maybe a mini-field, sponsored by Wal-Meadow?

But probably one cow wouldn't be enough, especially for long-haul trips? Udderwise (groan) you'd have to train the AA crews to live on a diet of cabbage and Brussels sprouts, so that if you break down, they'd break wind and give you enough puff to make it to the nearest emergency dairy farm.

So a whole trailer-mounted herd would be required? Quite a caravan. And not one I'd fancy following all the way down to Cornwall. Still, by the time you arrived, you'd be totally self-sufficient in Cornish Clotted Cream...

We had dinner with friends last night, who we originally met through Mrs.D's work. Although I'm technically 'the outsider' of the four of us, I know enough of the names and events of their world to not feel excluded when, inevitably, they start talking 'shop' when we meet up.

We went to their wedding, have been to the children's christenings, meet up pretty regularly etc., so yeah, we go back some.

He's recently switched roles from being a store manager in the chain they all work for and has migrated into HO. Because I've undergone this culture shock myself, I was interested to know how it'd gone...

"It's good, but very frustrating" he ventured. "I'm used to having my own team and being able to control the speed of events, but now I just lay down the law and someone else deploys it?"

I was only surprised that he wasn't surprised that the HO staff knew nothing about their 'real world' and that their lack of direct interaction meant they couldn't seem to appreciate the effect their diktat had on the people who actually bring in the money. "Ivory towers?" I suggested.

"But overall, do you like the new role?" I asked.

"I do, I do, I do" he replied (not because we were practising getting married, but he's from a certain race, to be sure) "but there are some things I miss."

"What, like the hiring and firing, the sob stories, tales of woe and diverse excuses for staff absenteeism, the domestic dramas that mean you suddenly have to plug a hole with staff seconded from equally important other duties, the wasted hours driving to and from work, the sudden visit from 'higher ups' - inevitably at a point in the day when the displays are shot to pieces and customers are fractiously stacking up - the constant need to be running around like the proverbial blue-ar5ed fly, making sure that no-one's skiving off?

Whereas now, you sit coccooned on the train, with your Lemon Tree coffee and immersed in books that, otherwise, you had absolutely no chance of getting around to read, your earphones plugged into something soothing or rousing, depending on your mood that day?

He mused for a split second.

"Yes, there is that" he grinned. "Cheers!"

I guess uploading photos from work will be a bit of a bu99er, and, as I
worried in the previous post, the "Today's Lyric" spot may lose some of its
spontaneity, but, hey - back in action?

Like many people, I view the first signs of spring as heralding the end of what is, usually, crappy winter weather and dark, depressing nights.

The new season is generally presaged by "Dear Sir" letters to the Times, claiming to be the first person in the U.K. to have heard a cuckoo calling.

But before that, I like to hold onto the last of the summer, for as long as possible. Well, I am a Leo - and therefore king of my own little patch of jungle - so think I'm entitled to laze in the the sun's rays until the last possible moment?

And for me, summer continues as long as hot air balloons drift overhead, as one did last night. Hmmm. Air balloons. May have an idea involving them...

Now it may be a temporary blip, an aberration even, but it seems that work's filters may be blocking the "Sign in" button of Blogger which, if true, means the end of posting just before starting work, and may mean evening compositions. Bit like homework.

But - and what really bu99ers me up, is that the inspiration for "Today's Lyric" comes from whatever I happen to be listening to on the way in to work.

"Tomorrow's lyric" just doesn't seem to have the same immediacy about it?

It could be a whole new method of blogging. We shall see.

Number One Daughter sneaked back home in the early hours of this morning from her holiday in Turkey. It'll be good to see her again tonight.

And Number One Son may be establishing a base in Cornwall (maybe it's those traditional English holidays they enjoyed when they were kids?)

I get the feeling that Empty Nest Syndrome is looming...

Off to S6 for a meeting.

May be back in time for a quick trawl round the blogosphere?

If not, enjoy your weekends, y'all...

Just spotted on msn.co.uk's News Headlines page:

Katrina deaths: homocide charges filed

I thought we'd gone beyond all that?

Update:

Several hours later, and the spelling mistake's still there?

It's homicide, ffs!

Out of the blue, we received a letter from someone we've both known a very long time.

Met originally as the beautiful girlfriend, and subsequently wife, of someone I once worked with, we holidayed with them several times and created a language and catalogue of catchphrases that survive to this day.

They always get one of our infamous 'Christmas letters' but over the years - and primarily because we've moved around and on - we just lost social and verbal contact.

And it seems that, for literally a whole generation of time, she's been labouring under the total misconception that the last time we met up, she somehow said or did something that offended us, and so caused a rift? Mrs.D. and I racked our brains, blamed early dementia, mentally retraced our history, but could not remember having anything but the greatest fun with them?

We tried to 'phone, but they're ex-directory, so we wrote and asked her to call us.

Last night, the 'phone rang and her mellifluous, modulated voice was there, uncoarsened by the twenty plus years since we last spoke, and it was just like stepping back in time.

She said our letter had been like a release from prison and could we meet up soon?

"Nah, pi55 off!" we said, and then all laughed our collective socks off.

I bet she's still a stunner...

As I was driving to the airport, to collect our friends from their flight back home, the opposite carriageway was absolutely packed with motorbikes and scooters. So many that I was thinking twice about coming that way back.

'Must be a blummin' big rally somewhere' I thought.

Later that day, Bruv rang to say he'd been invited by a mate to go here on one of these. Needless to say, we're no longer on speaking terms.

In other news, my webmistress is still having some problemettes with my new template. We'd hoped to launch last week but, as with all the best-planned I.T. projects, there was some 'slippage'.

Now any advice you could give would go straight over my noddle, like a fast, flying thing, so if you can help, please do. Poor girl's spending far too much time on me.

But don't follow the second link unless:

a) you're male and are in a position to have a "Men behaving badly" 'sofa cushion' moment (as, I confess, I did); or
b) you're female and aren't prone to blushing easily (during or post coitus)

We thank you.

One for The Dictionary, there, Witchy?

Regular readers, yes, you three, will have noticed the transient beauty of Today's Lyric.

A bit like Liv Tyler, really. One day, someone's going to wake up next to her and think "Whatever did I see in this human sack of spuds?" Until then, jammy b@st@rd!

The inspiration for Today's Lyric always comes from whatever is on the minidisk for the day’s commute – so if the battery dies, or I just forget to insert a disk, there's no Lyric. It's a simple set-up and it works for me.

They generally last 24 hours, except for Friday’s, which hangs on ‘til Monday, as:
a) the weekends’ amusicalments are random; and
b) I can’t be ar5ed to blog, so no-one calls to read anyway.

Today's came from the dog-end disc of an A-Z suite I compiled for my 50th. The far end of the alphabet wasn't so difficult to populate as you'd think.

U2 made a guest appearance. I really don’t like them, but my buddy’s a big fan and it was going to be a background music thing. Ultravox turned up. Oh, Vienna was a long way from my mind, then. On my birthday, I was scuba-diving in Hawai’i. Just think of that. Fifty years old and hovering in paradise. Antler and brain coral for flora and these guys for the fauna..



(Sid) Vicious Did it his way, (Joe) Walsh’s Life was good so far, the Warm Jets were on the Never never, (Roger) Waters Knocked on Heaven’s door (but got no reply – there is no Heaven), (Paul) Weller was swirling around in a Whirlpool’s end, the Who Wouldn’t get fooled again (well, two of them won’t, anyway), (Robbie) Williams also made a guest appearance (and so generated Today’s Lyric), Wings flew in (Mrs.D. had tagged along – couldn’t you tell?) but had to run, X-Ray Spex failed to make it in time, the Yardbirds were singing For their love, (Frank) Zappa was eating a Peach en regalia, the Zombie’s were there, and ZZ Top Gave me all their loving’ (figuratively, of course). Delicious.

As transient as Today's Lyric was what was going to be today’s post.

In between the half-light of dawn, when you wake up needing to pee, but your brain does this miraculous mental calculation that it’s safe to go back to sleep without disgracing yourself and risking a trip to the launderette (who’s catch-phrase was "We don’t do duvets"?) and that electrifyingly shocking moment when the alarm signals the start of another day, I had today’s post content and, yea, even the title, firmly in mind.

But then, bu99er all. A complete blank.

This may be the last post in this template. The M.Eng Herself may be about to change the way I look. Forever. I may be cut up about it?

Hence, Blogotomy.

I was queuing in the Post Office yesterday (to send some musical? entertainment to someone and was behind a very unusual lady.

She was about my height (5' 8"ish) and around 30 years old. Nothing unusual there.

But she had hair that reached down to the back of her knees. All different shades of blonde and, as far as I could tell, all her own. An incredible, multi-hued, shining, glossy growth.

And I was just thinking how long it's been since I saw someone with more than collar-length hair. Maybe it's just the effort involved in keeping it groomed?

It was certainly a beautiful mane, and I wasn't the only person (male or female) in the queue who was mesmerised by it.

We got back from visiting the out-laws on Saturday evening, and decided to have a glass (or seven) of wine in the garden, to wind down from the journey.

So I nipped into the garage to get a couple of garden chairs out, and there was a godawful smell of petrol.

A quick recce of the mower, and its fuel can, let them off the hook, so attention was turned to Mrs. D's pre-Cooper Metro, which stands gently rusting in the garage, waiting for the first of our kids to leave home and take her with them. Yours for the price of a new starter motor, Guv'nor.

But there was no pool of fuel fouling the floor? Running a hand underneath revealed that the poor old girl was resting in her own damp patch, like a neglected incontinent, petrol weeping, but not dripping, out.

We 'phoned the AA. Well, you don’t want the embarrassment of a 999'er, do you?

"Ffs, get the Fire brigade out. Now!" they expostulated. Well, maybe they didn't say it quite like that, but a degree of urgency was definitely recommended.

We rootled out the 'phone book, and looked up "F". Zip. No, the word "Zip" wasn’t under "F", but there was nothing. Except 999. So we 'phoned the Old Bill. He told us to stop bothering him and to 'phone the police instead. So we did, and they gave us the number to call.

"We'll send someone round" said the lovely lady at the Fire Station. "That'll take forever" I grunted. "Let’s find the corkscrew while we're waiting."

"They won’t send a whole unit, will they?" pondered Mrs.D.

"Nah, it'll be one of those anonymous little cars that they stick magnetic lamps on" I scoffed. "Cheers."

We heard the siren a few seconds before the flashing blue light show blinded us.

Eight crew hopped masculinely out of the huge red Dennis, which un-selfconsciously blocked the whole of the lane.

"Park it on yer lawn, mate" was the recommendation. "It'll soak away into the ground."

While we were doing the front garden yesterday, an anonymous white van turned up and a lad started to poke around our lawn with some weird detector.

"Have we got (another) problem?" we enquired. "Someone reported a gas leak" he replied. "Nah, it's fuel leaking from that old Metro" we explained.

"No, it's not petrol, look at these readings I'm getting from under the soil!"

I'm just wondering if the old place will still be there when I get home tonight…

...this

via Mike



Click to enlarge

The Office crew went here the other night.

Sat next to the stage, inevitably I was targetted by the evening's M.C.

"And what's your name?" he sneered.

"Mr.D."

He bent down to shake my hand, and got the Hawai'ian shake back. (it's a four-parter)

"Fcuk, you hang out with the guys!" he managed to get out. He was rattled.

"And what brings you here?" (trying to regain the edge).

"The train, usually" he got back.

"Ah, the train. Mr.D., you and I are going to have a great night this evening. Just the two of us."

Cue taxi for Mr.D.

(I should have told him my job is a life model and that the artists often run out of chalk when they get to the naughty bits. Mebbe I'll keep that one back for next time?)

Great weekends, y'all.