Summer has arrived, and with it the return of the World of Spim. I must admit I've been a bit sidetracked, steamrollered by the all-consuming juggernaut that is Facebook. Though I can assure you you've not missed much - just the ebb and flow of publishing, exemplified by some powerful and exceedingly tiring lunches, and endless, soul-destroying gym work to counter the effects of the sometimes hefty calorific intake that this entails. You must understand. Although there's been lots going on that I've meant to vent my spleen about. Notably MPs expenses - my favourite scandal of this or any other year - and the rise and fall of dear old Susan Boyle.
Boyle: cross between Joe Bugner and Eddie Large.
Incidentally, I had a bit of a start in the gym earlier this evening. I was standing in the changing room, scantily clad, and opened my bag to pull out a neatly rolled pair of pants, fresh this morning from the radiator. I shook the pants loose, ready to pop them on, but imagine my surprise when a large, leggy and presumably angry Cellar Spider (Pholcus phalangioides) tumbled free. The spindly beast skimmed thigh, calf and plums as it rolled lazily onto the floor before scurrying away to safety beneath the lockers.
Even as a committed arachnophile of long standing, I don't mind admitting I was ruffled.
But I digress. Having finally retired from cricket, I now have time to do things at the weekends that do not involve my standing in a field being cold for six or seven hours. This has opened up brave new worlds of excitement and adventure. For example, I have spent the last two glorious, bright, sunny weekends recovering from hangovers of legendary proportions after various shabby nights of booze. This sunday's was spent at my friend Spoons's house; I sat groaning on the settee while he expertly nursed me back to health. He may have healing hands for the ailing drinker but, for technology, Spoons brings nothing less than the chilling claw of death; this time it was the turn of the Nintendo Wii to commit electronic hari-kari, and while fiddling about with the leads round the back he managed to set fire to his arse on a candle. Unbelievable. A strong contender for world's clumsiest man, in the last six months Spoons has managed to break no less than three mobile phones, and two sat-navs, one of which - extraordinarily - he actually reversed his car over. Alanis Morissette take note - that's irony.
This weekend's collapse on the sofa of despair was precipitated by a return to form on the dancefloor; a sensational night in London's trendy West End, featuring moonwalking, faux-jive and shimmies, complete with a long and tortuous night-bus journey home. In my heady, bequiffed early twenties I took it as read that by the time I turned 30 I would own a bijou city pied-a-terre, thus eliminating any need for travel home after dark. Sadly, this did not transpire. So the night bus it is. Can there be a more unpleasant place to spend an hour and a half of your life than in a metal box approximately 15 feet square containing an assortment of drunk, fighting, vomiting, shouting idiots, a significant proportion of whom are eating kebabs? Surely there's no better advert for a 24-hour tube.
Anyway, I was sat on the bus - amazing how swiftly one sobers up in moments of peril - and one of these drunken oafs decided to stagger over for a brief chat. It went something like this:
'Ariiiight maaaate'
'Yes. Hello.'
'Go'a fag?'
'No.'
(pause)
'Do you know who I am? DJ Shadow'.
(pause to think of suitable response)
'Are you really?'
'No. Fuck off'.
Well, he did me there. I really didn't see any of that coming.
This week's celebrity spots
Only one, but its a good one from last week. McCartney. Walking down Carlisle Street with the usual attending train of stunned tourists, staring and pointing in disbelief. The man is immune to criticism from these quarters as you know, but all I'll say is that the hair dye is patchy in application, has a purplish hue, and should really be abandoned.
McCartney: maroon-headed monopod-humper.
Recommendations
Well the season's over - I predicted 10th and West Ham somehow scrambled to 9th, so that'll do for me. Usually I get quite grumpy this time of year with no football to take my mind off the jaw-dropping awfulness of day-to-day life, but there's a lot of decent sport to distract me at present. The Twenty:20 cricket, for example. Bewildering to watch but quite fun. When I was about 9 or 10 I remember watching Chris Tavaré scoring a fine 74, spread over the best part of two days of mind-numbing test cricket; earlier on today, I saw Pakistan star Shahid Afridi hit 54 from 40 balls in what was one of his slower and more patient innings. Even now, Tavaré remains despised by a generation, though back in the day I once found myself bowling to his brother, who played for lowly Bristol league team Portishead CC - as did former Wales and Coventry manager Bobby Gould. Fact.
Gould: took liking to bowling of Spim.
And then there's Wimbledon. What a shambles tennis is these days - like heavyweight boxing but with even more anonymous Russians. Regular readers won't be surprised to see a recommendation for seasoned friend of the blog Serena Wiliams, at a tasty 11/4 (ToteSport). I hate tennis, but Serena's my kind of girl - she's got balls. And when she grunts with exertion while giving it a good whack its the roar of a proper champion - not like flibberty jibbert newcomer Michelle Larcher de Brito, who screams like two foxes fucking. Have a listen here - an extraordinary disgrace. In the men's game there's little of interest bar the sight of desperate Henmaniacs frantically clinging to the coat-tails of dour Scotsman Andy Murray - who, should he win, will become British again. He won't though, of course - people are forgetting that Federer (4/6, Coral) is brilliant; the 9/1 (various) on general offer for a miserable quarter-final exit for Murray looks long, and I strongly recommend investment.
I am confident you'll enjoy the rockish/indie crossover combo Apteka, who have just enough of the Jesus and Mary Chain about them to whet my whistle - écoutez. Returning to my more usual mellow electronica brief, I am enjoying the sounds of Yoome, who come complete with an unwittingly hilarious blog.
Boyle: cross between Joe Bugner and Eddie Large.
Incidentally, I had a bit of a start in the gym earlier this evening. I was standing in the changing room, scantily clad, and opened my bag to pull out a neatly rolled pair of pants, fresh this morning from the radiator. I shook the pants loose, ready to pop them on, but imagine my surprise when a large, leggy and presumably angry Cellar Spider (Pholcus phalangioides) tumbled free. The spindly beast skimmed thigh, calf and plums as it rolled lazily onto the floor before scurrying away to safety beneath the lockers.
Even as a committed arachnophile of long standing, I don't mind admitting I was ruffled.
But I digress. Having finally retired from cricket, I now have time to do things at the weekends that do not involve my standing in a field being cold for six or seven hours. This has opened up brave new worlds of excitement and adventure. For example, I have spent the last two glorious, bright, sunny weekends recovering from hangovers of legendary proportions after various shabby nights of booze. This sunday's was spent at my friend Spoons's house; I sat groaning on the settee while he expertly nursed me back to health. He may have healing hands for the ailing drinker but, for technology, Spoons brings nothing less than the chilling claw of death; this time it was the turn of the Nintendo Wii to commit electronic hari-kari, and while fiddling about with the leads round the back he managed to set fire to his arse on a candle. Unbelievable. A strong contender for world's clumsiest man, in the last six months Spoons has managed to break no less than three mobile phones, and two sat-navs, one of which - extraordinarily - he actually reversed his car over. Alanis Morissette take note - that's irony.
This weekend's collapse on the sofa of despair was precipitated by a return to form on the dancefloor; a sensational night in London's trendy West End, featuring moonwalking, faux-jive and shimmies, complete with a long and tortuous night-bus journey home. In my heady, bequiffed early twenties I took it as read that by the time I turned 30 I would own a bijou city pied-a-terre, thus eliminating any need for travel home after dark. Sadly, this did not transpire. So the night bus it is. Can there be a more unpleasant place to spend an hour and a half of your life than in a metal box approximately 15 feet square containing an assortment of drunk, fighting, vomiting, shouting idiots, a significant proportion of whom are eating kebabs? Surely there's no better advert for a 24-hour tube.
Anyway, I was sat on the bus - amazing how swiftly one sobers up in moments of peril - and one of these drunken oafs decided to stagger over for a brief chat. It went something like this:
'Ariiiight maaaate'
'Yes. Hello.'
'Go'a fag?'
'No.'
(pause)
'Do you know who I am? DJ Shadow'.
(pause to think of suitable response)
'Are you really?'
'No. Fuck off'.
Well, he did me there. I really didn't see any of that coming.
This week's celebrity spots
Only one, but its a good one from last week. McCartney. Walking down Carlisle Street with the usual attending train of stunned tourists, staring and pointing in disbelief. The man is immune to criticism from these quarters as you know, but all I'll say is that the hair dye is patchy in application, has a purplish hue, and should really be abandoned.
McCartney: maroon-headed monopod-humper.
Recommendations
Well the season's over - I predicted 10th and West Ham somehow scrambled to 9th, so that'll do for me. Usually I get quite grumpy this time of year with no football to take my mind off the jaw-dropping awfulness of day-to-day life, but there's a lot of decent sport to distract me at present. The Twenty:20 cricket, for example. Bewildering to watch but quite fun. When I was about 9 or 10 I remember watching Chris Tavaré scoring a fine 74, spread over the best part of two days of mind-numbing test cricket; earlier on today, I saw Pakistan star Shahid Afridi hit 54 from 40 balls in what was one of his slower and more patient innings. Even now, Tavaré remains despised by a generation, though back in the day I once found myself bowling to his brother, who played for lowly Bristol league team Portishead CC - as did former Wales and Coventry manager Bobby Gould. Fact.
Gould: took liking to bowling of Spim.
And then there's Wimbledon. What a shambles tennis is these days - like heavyweight boxing but with even more anonymous Russians. Regular readers won't be surprised to see a recommendation for seasoned friend of the blog Serena Wiliams, at a tasty 11/4 (ToteSport). I hate tennis, but Serena's my kind of girl - she's got balls. And when she grunts with exertion while giving it a good whack its the roar of a proper champion - not like flibberty jibbert newcomer Michelle Larcher de Brito, who screams like two foxes fucking. Have a listen here - an extraordinary disgrace. In the men's game there's little of interest bar the sight of desperate Henmaniacs frantically clinging to the coat-tails of dour Scotsman Andy Murray - who, should he win, will become British again. He won't though, of course - people are forgetting that Federer (4/6, Coral) is brilliant; the 9/1 (various) on general offer for a miserable quarter-final exit for Murray looks long, and I strongly recommend investment.
I am confident you'll enjoy the rockish/indie crossover combo Apteka, who have just enough of the Jesus and Mary Chain about them to whet my whistle - écoutez. Returning to my more usual mellow electronica brief, I am enjoying the sounds of Yoome, who come complete with an unwittingly hilarious blog.
2 comments:
My celebrity Spot of the Week: I saw Tottenham Frontman, Jermaine Defoe, on Gants Hill roundabout the other day. Completely village that is. What made it more village is the fact he was atleast 6 feet shorter than me.
Nice work Special K. I assume he was wandering towards Faces.
Either that or the garden centre in Newbury Park to hang out with the other gnomes.
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