keresaspa: (Seagull)
It's ate bread now given that I've been home since Sunday and, as I suspected, the Dreamwidth exodus seems to have killed this journal stone dead but the tenth annual London extravaganza probably needs to be recorded anygate.

Ergo )
keresaspa: (Starry Plough)
One of the few half-decent legacies of the outpouring of bollocks that accompanied the centenary of the Easter Rising is the Belfast finally has a statue of James Connolly to call its own. I've passed it plenty of times on the bus on my way to the match but, until today, I hadn't actually viewed it in the flesh. Still, here it is for all to enjoy.



Long overdue. Heck even Chicago has had one for years and the Americans are so right-wing that they label bloodthirsty capitalist monsters like the Clintons as leftists. Still everyone's a critic and I'm no exception. Inevitably it reflects the hobby horses of the modern "republican" movement so there's a whole bit about the Irish language tacked on to make sure it gels with Sinn Fein's only policy these days (seriously, since becoming leader has Michelle O'Neill done anything apart from witter on endlessly about Erse whilst standing around looking like a hot milly?). Given Connolly's at-best lukewarm reception to the Gaelic movement and his actual preference for Esperanto it seems rather irrelevant but I suppose the Sinners aren't going to include expositions of syndicalism while they were busy administering Tory rule. But I digress.

One other thing - is it just me or does the way the statue is modelled make him look like he was about four and a half tall? OK, photographic evidence suggests he was by no means tall (although Jim Larkin was a huge man for his time) but equally he looked about average otherwise and had a stocky build from his years of soldiering whereas the statue has him like a wee scrawny leprechaun. OK, it's in west Belfast and I know blokes are smaller up there (I'm about 6'3" or so but I feel like a seven footer on the Falls sometimes) but let's aim for accuracy. Mind you, I'm sure I could have done a lot better, I don't think.

Still either way, notwithstanding the tacked on Irishian stuff or his tiny, frail body it's good to at last have a statue of Irish republicanism's best ever adherent in my own town and I'll proudly salute my comrade when I pass. Well, something good had to come out of last year, didn't it?!
keresaspa: (Diggory)
The short version of this is that London was rather good apart from the going and the coming, which were hell on earth. On the off-chance that anybody is still reading this (and I note in my extended absence that I am now down to one person submitting regular updates on my friends list) I shall expand at some length about what took place.

The Austrian stork nurtures the kites )

2015 thing

Jan. 1st, 2016 09:03 pm
keresaspa: (Lester and Eliza)
Two days running? God, it's been years since that sort of rot. Anyway:

1. What did you do in 2015 that you'd never done before?
Left the Atlantic Archipelago (that's British Isles to you imperialists).

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Never do, never will.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Two of the Donegal Celtic mob died - one from cancer, the other took his own life. To be honest though I didn't know either of them that well.

5. What countries did you visit?
France, Scotland and England. I actually visited a personal best of 24 towns and cities this year, with Larne, Newry, Dun Laoghaire, Banbridge, Paris and Dunfermline all new to me.

6. What would you like to have in 2016 that you lacked in 2015?
Cash on demand, same as every year.

7. What dates from 2015 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
I'm very stereotypically male about remembering dates so none.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Dunno.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Dunno.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Usual haemochromatosis plus my vertigo has kicked into overdrive to the point where massive turns are now a daily occurrence and some can last for several hours. I've started having the odd fall as well.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
As noted recently, Mirel Wagner albums.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Oh, you're all great.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
Here's a shock - Sinn Fein. I'm not sure if I mentioned that at any time last year.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Music as ever. Trips and that too I suppose.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Don't be silly.

16. What song will always remind you of 2015?
"The Road and the Miles to Dundee" by Jim Reid And The Foundry bar Band or "Pasties and Cream" by Brenda Wootton. Neither are available online though so I can't link to them (is it just me or has YouTube removed about half of its music videos in the last week or so?).

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? about the same
b) thinner or fatter? ditto
c) richer or poorer? ditto

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Nothing in particular.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Again, nothing springs to mind.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
It's already over so....

21. What was your favourite month of 2015?
No idea. August maybe.

22. Did you fall in love in 2015?
Don't be daft.

23. How many one-night stands?
Mind your own business.

24. What was your favourite TV programme?
I've pretty much given up on TV these days. I don't even bother watching the football on Saturday nights sometimes any more.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't think so, although my opinion of Simon Danczuk is really starting to harden.

26. What was the best book you read?
No idea. Been mostly short stories and non-fiction this year. Of the former William Beckford's "Vathek" was probably the best.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Mirel Wagner, as discussed yesterday.

28. What did you want and get?
A new article to get published in When Saturday Comes (in shops 14th January).

29. What did you want and not get?
The new Extreme Noise Terror album, although a copy is winging its way to me from Germany. I'll believe it when I get it and not before as it's fast becoming the new "Things may Come and Things May Go, But the Art School Dance Goes on for Ever" for me.

30. What was your favourite film of this year?
I think I saw a total of two films on TV this year (Midnight Run on ITV Four one night and Despicable Me dubbed into French in Paris) and none in the cinema. Any interest I ever had in films has long since died off.

31. What did you do on your birthday?
Watched Nortel defeat Mossley 4-2 at the Mossley playing fields in the second round of the Border Regiment Cup. It was even less glamorous than it sounds.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
As ever, isn't this essentially the same as question six?

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2015?
I wouldn't. I haven't changed a lick of my image in years but to call it a "fashion concept" would be completely ludicrous. If pushed I'll go with "man who looks a lot older than he is dressing to his wrongly assumed age".

34. What kept you sane?
Assuming I am sane, then the match.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Demi Lovato. I may have the makings of a dirty old man. But come on, eh?!

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
The quiet death of Irish republicanism and its rebirth as Tory collaborationism, all with the tacit approval of the victims of this development.

37. Who did you miss?
Cigs as ever.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Can't think of anyone. I've not really met anyone new this year.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2015.
No.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"Poor old horse, he must die".
keresaspa: (Reiko Ike)
Cast your mind back if you will to 4th March 2006. A battle in more ways than one at the Hawthorns with a Chelsea side at the height of gittery (King of Divers Arjen Robben red carded for a two-footed assault on the mighty Jonathan Greening, Didier Drogba in his original incarnation before his rebirth as a modern saint) nicking a 2-1 win off the home side. Jose Mourinho also clashed with his hapless opposite number Bryan Robson although to be fair there was little actual clashing with Robson meekly backing down from the strutting Portuguese. Two things happened that day for me: (1) it confirmed in my mind that the mythical "Great Escape" had been an aberration and Robson's side were going down (2) Mourinho was a complete tosser. Up to that point I must admit I had rather enjoyed his antics in a love-to-hate kind of way. Sure, he had the devil about him but the devil in question was Mephistopheles, twirling his moustache, tipping his top hat and seducing cygnine maidens with his rakish ways. From then on he became Beelzebub, a buzzing, fussy annoyance no longer amusing on any level but rather deeply irritating.

As such the travails he now finds himself in fill me with more glee than is perhaps healthy. Not since the chaotic Leeds United side of 1992-93 have I witnessed champions make such an unholy mess of their defence of the league. Even then it doesn't really compare as Howard Wilkinson's title winners had always been rather a shock, a collection of odds and sods that somehow, against all wisdom, nicked a league title (not a million miles away from Claudio Ranieri's knockabout Leicester side, a team to whom I must doff the hat despite my personal distaste as an anti-racist and a Japanophile at Vardy) and who were undone the following year by a certain maverick's taste for a certain team-mate's certain (pre-trout) wife. No names, no pack drill. Certainly they weren't comparable to the current Chelsea side, upon which a king's ransom has been lavished by a cartoon supervillain in pursuit of kudos.



All poetic justice, of course, for his treatment of the daphnean Eva Carneiro, a woman hung out to dry by the ever hubristic Mourinho who at the same time sent the message to his players that the possibility of a permanent brain injury for one of their number was of less import to him than a result in a routine league match. That in the course of doing what she was there for a woman should be so publicly humiliated by Mourinho means that he deserves all he has coming to him. With her untamed hair and dark eyes she may look the sort of lady to draw a dagger from her garter and plunge it into the weasel's black heart, her bosom burning with a fiery passion that no mere man can cool (steady on, old chap, you're getting carried away) but back in the real world she was always within her rights and her treatment appears to have dampened morale considerably in an already out of sorts squad.

Beyond that remains the éminence grise of John Terry, a figure every bit as malevolent as Mourinho but possibly even more influential than the self-appointed Special One. In times gone by when Terry was at Mourinho's shoulder it all went swimmingly but now that he is slowly being sidelined he re-emerges as a dangerous internal check to Mourinho's power, filling the last days of Steven Gerrard role to Mourinho's Brendan Rodgers. With players out of sorts, frustrated and disinterested, Mourinho no longer has his captain to call upon in order to do his dirty work, leaving him looking increasingly lost. Mourinho has defended the indefensible manys a time where Terry was concerned but now the relationship looks dead in the water and in the power struggle that ensues Mourinho might well prove the casualty. And it couldn't happen to a nicer fellow.

Despite their plastic nature, that putrid core of National Front and Combat 18 boneheads that have always infested their support, the loyalist connections, Abramovich, Terry and the rest I don't necessarily hate Chelsea as an entity. When erudite lounge lizard Carlo Ancelotti took them to the double I had no issue with their success and indeed was glad to see Ferguson's lot being put in their place for a change. But with Mourinho in charge they just tip over into the realms of pure diabolical evil and as such I wish them all the failure in the world. As such, to witness the crumbling of the empire as Mourinho enters his Romulus Augustus phase is a joy indeed, with the Special One left looking terribly normal and his expensively assembled rabble of individuals being made to look as nothing. Joy of joys and long may it continue.

Paris

Aug. 29th, 2015 11:07 pm
keresaspa: (Seagull)
Hello you *waves*. Yeah, just back from Paris and that, which, of course, means I have to go on at length about the last week. Apologies in advance if this gets a bit incoherent but you should all be used to that by now.

Lundi )

Mardi )

Mercredi )

Jeudi )

Vendredi )
keresaspa: (Türkan Şoray)
Passing bells for everybody's favourite good time girl as our Christmas has been made that little bit bleaker with the death of Mandy Rice-Davies. Regardless of what they were, her and Christine Keeler will always deserve a tip of the hat for finally exposing the seedy licentiousness of our so called masters and betters. It may have only been the tip of the iceberg and the real juicy details will always be held back (the full extent of Keeler's knowledge of the sordid goings-on of Phil the Greek will probably not be known until long after the old bigot has finally carked it) but after centuries of the misdemeanours of the rich and powerful being hushed up it took somebody to finally lift the lid a touch.

Keeler might have been the looker of the dynamic duo (you can't really blame old Profumo can you, I mean hubba hubba!) but dear Mandy was probably the gamer of the pair, even leaving us her passable go at being a sultry siren.



Janie Jones probably did it better (er, the music that is), but a good effort nevertheless. Either way, farewell to Randy Mice. As long as there are dirty old men in positions of power may there always be a stock of whistleblowers.
keresaspa: (Türkan Şoray)
Music questions, possibly already answered years ago )

Cor blimey

Jul. 17th, 2013 10:13 pm
keresaspa: (Albert Gladstone Trotter)
Hello you. Yes it was London time again recently but I got back too late last night to record my exploits. Never fear, I'm here now to "entertain" the reading some with every minor detail. "Enjoy".

Hit it )
keresaspa: (Brigitte Bardot)
Frankly I wouldn't normally dream about mentioning anything so flippant but if this vile creature believes that this is a heifer then frankly stick a set of horns on me and call me a bull. Good Lord, you couldn't make these morons up, could you?

And speaking of all things bovine (as I suppose I was in a roundabout way) am I alone in not seeing what all the fuss is about with regards all this horse meat nonsense. The crux seems to be that people who enjoy eating a huge dead animal with red flesh are absolutely repulsed by the thought of eating another huge dead animal with red flesh. Nonsensical. People baulk at eating horses for purely cultural reasons and frankly who doesn't look at a Shire or a Clydesdale and think that there would be a few decent cuts of meat in such an immense creature? Due to haemochromatosis and its large iron content my consumption of red meat is very low anyway but were I to find out that one of my few forays into being a beefeater actually meant I could eat a horse I wouldn't bat an eyelid. Frankly if they told me my last lasagne actually contained giraffe, antelope, elephant or any other big mammal I wouldn't give a monkey's toss (even if it contained monkey). Now can we stop flogging this dead horse and move on? Thank you.

Hab bumhug

Dec. 24th, 2011 08:28 pm
keresaspa: (Snowman)
It can be a bloody irritating time of year can this Christmas lark. The constant throng of people everywhere, the irritating preponderance of drunken idiots all day long, bored children at large looking for trouble, the sudden and unexpected reinvention of the word "sleep" as a noun that can apparently be pluralised and resentful minimum wage skivvies being made to wear Santa hats in a heartless attempt to increase their humiliation. This also ignores the constant trips to Iceland to pick up forgotten food items for yours truly, a place that combines all of the aforementioned horrors under one roof (well, maybe not the "sleeps" one), offering no comfort at all, bar possibly the sight of spokeswoman Stacey Solomon grinning at you over packets of dead fish (hey, Solly might be rough as a roofer's glove but she has my two favourite face faults i.e. a big nose and a tendency towards being toothy. Yes I am an odd fellow).

Still worse things happen at sea and it is apparently the time for good cheer or some such so let's look on the bright side - at least "Last Christmas" and "Fairytale of New York" were given a bit of a rest this year. There'll be no snow, somebody will cry inEastEnders, you'll secretly hate those socks and you'll end up feeling more than a little nauseous but it comes once a year so you might as well make the best of it. Now to bed with you all less the big man with the white beard decides to give your house a miss this year. And let's face it Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without Kenny Rogers dropping in for a cup of tea and flies graveyard. Or the old pickled walnut obviously.

In the words of Clement Mark Moore "Happy Christmas to all...

keresaspa: (Two Ronnies)
Already the town is in an uproar and it is only going to get worse as Belfast gears up for the flaming MTV Awards. Trying to pass the City Hall is proving virtually impossible now that some great idiot has dumped a bloody great stage in front of it, just so as those whiny barstewards Snow Patrol can drone out their turgid rubbish alongside the combined talents of swingbeat nobody Jason Derulo (if it doesn't have "woke up this morning" lyrics and a guitar-driven sound I'll never call it R&B) and Boyce Avenue (no, me neither). This being Belfast of course there isn't a venue big enough for the whole shebang to happen at so instead it is to be carved up between riverside eyesore the Odyssey Arena and tiny Masonic HQ and Ulster Resistance birthplace the Ulster Hall. So if you have paid all that money to attend in the hope of seeing Snow Patrol, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and LMFAO then I'm afraid you're out of luck as crummy little Belfast can't accommodate all that world class "talent" under one roof. Of course it will be the sanitised, ultra modern "Titanic Quarter" Belfast that they all see but wouldn't it be great if they all got lost along the way and little poppets like Selena Gomez, Hayden Panettiere and Nicole Polizzi were forced to familiarise themselves with the delights of such beauty spots as the Springfield-Woodvale peace line, picturesque Glenbank or even the breathtaking majesty of Lanark Way. Either way do it as the world will never be able to go on until it can be conclusively determined how long Justin Bieber could survive in the Mount Vernon estate before finally suffocating under the combined weight of three hundred head of Lowwood Primary School heifers. Oh and if the organisers do decide to go with my suggestion and comically disperse them all to the four corners of the metropolis then kindly carry on up the Ormeau Road before dropping off Amy Lee as I'm sure I could find some room for her. Rather.

I mean really what will it be next, the Oscars come to Dungannon?! I ask you.
keresaspa: (Tiger Jeet Singh)
Weird livejournal antics again - yet another of these flaming DDoS attacks? Were it not for the fact that I'm in a happy little rut on here and Dreamwidth seems to be the only blogging site that is even more dead than lj I would decamp to my unused account over there. Certainly the vacuous post-post-modernity of idiot magnets like Facebook and Twitter hold no interest for me whatsoever as (a) I have absolutely no interest in what you ate for lunch, how much of a cow Cheryl in HR is or whether or not you are loving the latest Black Eyed Peas 45[1] and (b) I like to waffle when the notion takes me and as a consequence I have no desire to limit what I say to 140 letters or whatever the hell it is on that blooming website that is the most overrated thing since Pippa Middleton's arse.[2] So with all that in mind I guess I am here to stay and as a result I must endure these occasional breakdowns in service. After all Mr. Medvedev is a very cross little man and he isn't even able to comfort himslef with the thought that at least the gays like in the same way that Mr. Putin can. Poor little Dmitry, why so angry all the time?

Well anyway fingers crossed that this post actually erm posts and doesn't disappear into the aforementioned astral plane. Otherwise the world will forever lose a critical destruction of the merits or lack thereof of a minor royal's rump and that would never do.


[1] If you had a lunch of wild venison and caviare in the company of Noam Chomsky, Diego Maradona and Ursula Andress, if Cheryl from HR has committed a series of violent and senseless murders with her laptop or if the latest Black Eyed Peas 45 was so transcendental that it caused you to discorporate and traverse the astral plane then I would be very interested but in each case Facebook would still lose as I would want more context beyond "Just back from Astral Plane - Fergie rocks".
[2] To suggest that the parasite's derrière is anything special is not only monarchism of the worst order but also an affront to Kim Kardashian, Jennifer Lopez and Nicki Minaj.
keresaspa: (Default)
Good luck to Ed Miliband if he thinks getting his shadow cabinet hobby horse through is the beginning of his great comeback but I for one can't see it making much difference. If he hasn't been able win people away from the malevolent Cameron by now I seriously doubt that replacing Liam Byrne with a former GMTV presenter will be the move that tips things in his favour. The whole thing smacks suspiciously of rearranging the orchestra on the deck of the Titanic.

Of course now that he has his little power (and most probably it is the only power he will ever win) we can prepare for the inevitable disappearance of Caroline Flint. There's no question about it, that Chief Whip-worshipping time server is long overdue her comeuppance for being one of the most faceless nobodies to ever hold government office and if Miliband has even an iota of sense she will be among the first to pushed aside like yesterday's loaf. That being said, it won't be the same without her, will it? As much a cretin as Caroline Flint is she is unquestionably a pouting, raven-haired, doe-eyed goddess whose very presence enlivened the humdrum, disheartening grind of modern British politics through the underrated trait of being a bit of a hey-hey. And of course it is terribly archaic and patriarchal of me to judge her like that but if you can't say anything nice say nothing and I could find nothing nice to say about her political career. No doubt Miliband will now make this post look pointless by keeping La Flint on-board but if I'm being honest the only point that this post ever had was for me to have a bit of a perv. Yes, I am a terrible man.
keresaspa: (Nana Mouskouri)
Justice served in the cup final. Words cannot express how much I hate everything about this current incarnation of Stoke City so to see them drubbed 1-0 was good indeed. And drubbed they were for whilst the 1-0 score line suggests a close game in truth Manchester City had their numbers from the word go and were very worthy winners indeed. Whether or not this marks the beginning of the emergence of Manchester City as a true giant only time will tell but I am keeping my fingers crossed that it marks the beginning of the end of Pulis and his squad of scumbags. With any luck they will fall apart and depart to the land of wind of ghosts as soon as possible. Elsewhere apparently another team from the same city won some other trinket but I'm not sure of the details of that one as it hasn't been mentioned anywhere. Oh well.

Evening was given over to the horrors of the Eurovision Song Contest and horrific it was in more than a few places. Highlights, such as there were, were provided, inevitably, by the previously mentioned Evelina Sašenko and her fantabulous funbags (who seemed to go down a storm south of the border for some reason), Estonia's bit of refried Gwen Stefani which grew on me quite a lot since the semi-final and a really rather atrocious effort from Spain which I nonetheless enjoyed due to a combination of its compelling awfulness, my general taste for the Spanish language in song and the chanteuse delivering it who fell somewhere between the two stools of Kym Marsh and queen of the gypsies. Which, of course, is as fine a place to fall as any. Lowlights are almost too legion to catalogue but amongst those that deserve dishonourable mentions were that smug little bitch from Finland, those bloody Irish twins about whom I have no humour whatsoever and would happily watch dying, a breathtakingly terrible pointed hat effort from Moldova that should have been drowned at birth, a crap effort from Lena after her sterling work last time out and a really rather poops winner from the Azerbaijanis. Still I suppose the chances of hearing really good music at a Eurovision Song Contest are about as likely as discovering the meaning of life on an episode of Gossip Girl. And to all a good night.
keresaspa: (Evil Timbo)
Somewhat against my better judgement I decided to give away two hours of my life last night to watching the first semi-final of the annual cheeseboard that is the Eurovision Song Contest. Now we have already established some time ago that the high watermark of the contest was reached in 1976 when a sturdily-built Grecian hippy took the stage and warbled a cheerful ditty imploring Mariam Theotokos not to cry over the Turkish invasion of Cyprus. Like all true greats Mariza Koch was destined to be unloved in her own time, finishing a steward's inquiry worthy 13th out of 18, some distance behind that God awful Brotherhood of Man song which gave Britain its least deserved victory since the Maori Wars. Unsurprisingly there was nothing amongst the slew of manufactured banality delivered by plastic boys and giddy girls that threatened Mariza's undisputed crown. But, whilst the music was decidedly lukewarm, we were treated to an outbreak of code red on the buxom wench alert scale. Yes, many congratulations to the wonderful people of Lithuania for deciding to give the gift of Evelina Sašenko to the rest of Europe. When Saturday night rolls around it may be a case of enduring rotten song after rotten song but at least the fair Evelina will provide plenty of enjoyment for me and my fellow perverts, which, after all, is largely the purpose of the whole thing these days. Well done, madam.
keresaspa: (Default)
So it seems the glorious day has finally arrived. Birds can sing again, the children can laugh again and the clouds have rolled away to leave us with only truth, justice and the American way. Yes, Osama bin Laden is dead and the war on terror can be hailed a success as terror no longer exists and we are left only with serenity, love and loving serenity. Or is it just the case that a figurehead has died and things will continue as they were before as any group of five or six Islamists with a few guns and a bit of semtex can call themselves Al-Qaeda and have the same effect as any mythical centralised organisation under one supreme leader? As far as great victories go this looks about as significant as the day Dietrich Eckart died. Sure bin Laden might have been a figurehead who people could admire but to suggest that he was directing a worldwide terrorist network and that his death will see this collapse is just ludicrous. In death he'll remain as much a figurehead as he ever was to those predisposed towards him and the usual activity will continue as it did before through the sort of leaderless resistance that Louis Beam could only dream of. I also wonder if we are actually going to see a body or any proof of this, preferably one that hasn't been shot in the face or conveniently facially mutilated in any other way. Far be it from me (and it usually is) to suggest that St. Barack has invented this or is simply revealing something that was known years ago but isn't it handy that this came along just as people were questioning why a man elected on a somewhat anti-war ticket has just stuck his oar into a third war in Libya. Nope, just me then. And to clear one last thing up Wafah Dufour is pictured in this little missive to underline an important subsidiary point about not judging people by whom they happened to be related to but rather by who they are as individuals and not just because I fancied shoehorning a picture of a pretty Middle Eastern laydee into an otherwise lacklustre post. No, really.

And speaking of long, drawn out and completely pointless things today saw Belfast given over to the horrors of the Marathon. Joy of joys as the streets and roads are crowded with people sweating their way through 26 miles of varicose vein inducement. Any attempt to go anywhere is invariably hamstrung by groups of them who have given up the ghost hanging around on pavements, mingling with the idiots who stand around watching the whole farce unfold. I can perhaps see the point in waiting at the end of the route and watching to see who wins but what is gained by sitting around at a random point on the Ravenhill Road watching a series of non sequiturs sauntering past when the winner has been declared hours ago, clapping like some demented seal as they do? I have to say of all the pointless noise memes that exist in our culture (noises made whilst laughing or crying, saying "achoo" whilst sneezing, yawning, etc) clapping is almost my least favourite. Whoever decided that the way to show appreciation was by slapping one hand against the other in order to make an annoying cracking sound should have their face placed between two hands attempting to clap from now until doomsday (the worst pointless noise meme being tutting, a habit that makes me want to start gouging eyes out, slashing guts and kicking throats). Like Belfast is not already impassable enough with the constant threat of idiots in bowler hats walking on roads; do we really need yet another day given over to it? The pavement is for normal walking, not your fancy walking. Bloody plimsoll-wearing nuisances!
keresaspa: (Default)
Shame on Finland falling for the cheap, populist, hate-filled rhetoric of the True Finns. As much as I detest the old school extreme right at least you know where you are with them. The sort of balls-out, supposedly grass roots, Israel-loving nationalist crap espoused by the likes of these snotbags, Geert Wilders or the Tea Party tossers really gets my goat as it is so two-faced pretending on the one hand to be respectable but throwing about the same old anti-everything rhetoric and presenting it as "common sense". I'm certainly not a big fan of the European Union but to fall back on the same old right-wing nationalist arguments to oppose it is tired to say the least. Another victory for the no-goodniks and I'm sure Tony Halme is enjoying a smile to himself in Hell.

Elsewhere it seems that the goons looking to bugger up Scottish football even further by cutting the SPL to ten teams again apparently want to add a British League Cup to the mix. A winning formula there, I don't think. Fair enough certain inhabitants of Old Trafford and Goodison Park might get a kick out of playing Celtic and Stamford Bridge would no doubt be full to capacity if Rangers were in town but on a rainy October night Wigan Athletic v St Johnstone or St Mirren v Wolves would probably struggle to get four figures much less a packed house. Besides whilst the Old Firm, with their delusions of playing in England, might get to feel like big boys I really can't see what English teams would get from playing against the other jobbing sides many of whom would struggle in the third division. Interesting to note, of course, that in the three one-off attempts at this already contested (the British League Cup, the Empire Exhibition Trophy and the Coronation Cup) Celtic triumphed every time. It is equally interesting to note that in the last ever instalment of the Anglo-Scottish Cup Rangers suffered a 3-0 hammering at that hotbed of football excellence Saltergate. Yup, Old Firm allegiances die hard. And above all just what is the problem with the current 12 members of the SPL plus Dunfermline Athletic, Raith Rovers, Falkirk, Dundee, Partick Thistle and Livingston playing each other twice a season with two or three promoted and relegated annually? Too sensible, perhaps?

And finally a video for you all to enjoy. I caught it recently on some show presented by that annoying David Walliams character in which he took the opportunity to sneer at well-meaning people who happened to use different terminology in the past. How admirable of a 39 year old man to find it amusing that children have learning difficulties and that people want to help them. He apparently thought it funny but for me only one conclusion could be drawn - wasn't Barbra Streisand a fine piece of womanhood in her day? Good Lord, she's practically smouldering there. Yes, I am a sick man.
keresaspa: (Reiko Ike)
I've never rated the work of Quentin Tarantino. I know he's one of those people you are supposed to think is great but for me he has always been a cultural vandal, pillaging bits and pieces from other people's work and then cobbling the results together to make a piece of old rope that "cool" people fawn over. Worse his films attract the sort of horrendous obsessive who somehow feels they can cover up a complete lack of personality by constantly quoting lines, invariably in a desperate attempt to recreate the accent of Samuel L. Jackson or Harvey Keitel despite coming from Bandbridge. As such when I chanced upon Kill Bill Vol 2 I was expecting very little and I saw nothing to change my mind therein. A watered down rip-off of the Pinky violence genre starring the ghastly Uma Thurman was not about to convince me of the merits of the man. I mean say what you want about the awful exploitation "plots" but at least the likes of Miki Sugimoto and Meiko Kaji ensured there was something to look at other than the stork in human form that is Ms. Thurman.

Still as rubbish as the whole thing was I will give him credit for one thing - putting Lucy Liu in the Reiko Ike role. Now that was worth the fifteen minutes of my life I wasted on this bilge. Eh, phwoar, eh! She might not have been so adept at "accidentally" cutting her own kimono into shreds but it was a fine turn that will live long in my memory.



If there is anything better than a Far-Eastern woman waving her katana about then I haven't discovered it.

Do you know, I think I had a point to make when I started this post but it has rather been waylaid within a Niagara of filth. Do excuse me as a cold shower may be in order!

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