They’ve been in Doctor Who # 2

Hale and Pace.

Woo-ooah!

I would just like to implore you to be hypnotised by this. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, probably. Thanks to Dave and b3ta for bringing it to my attention.

Spthooons

Speaking of Fawlty Towers and following from my previous rant about spoons; I’ve been presented with a selection of spoons from a colleague at work. He’s a “Towers” fan too and many of our conversations consist purely of quotes from this legendary series.

“Spthoons” is of course a quote from the “Hotel Inspector” episode.

 I’m now planning to celebrate the new spoon immigration by keeping them in a small container and regularly interrogate them about the history of England and explaining how they should fit in. Once this has been successful they will be integrated into the cutlery drawer. Crime will probably increase by coincidence and the forks will be accused of institutional racism. Meanwhile the more liberal knives will be trying to hold round table discussions with all parties in order to rebuild the cutlery.

The negotiations will probably fail forcing the knives and forks to act in unison and start of civil war. The climax of which will be the deportation of any spoons which do not match the decorative patterns of the knife and fork combinations.

Bloody cutlery.

They’ve been in Doctor Who # 1

 John Cleese.

Biz-Tsar

Earlier this month in Moscow I saw the largest collection of Fabergé Eggs in the world. Being a jet setting playboy I am used to such sights, but the Moscow Millionaire Fair opens everyone eyes. And quite possibly their legs. Boasting such tasteful delights as a solid gold baby’s dummy, a diamond encrusted mobile phone and a tropical island, the event hopes to beat last year’s turnover of $600 million. How worthy.

According to Forbes, 88,000 new millionaires have emerged from Russia in the last twenty years, leading to ever more extravagant methods to stand out from the crowd. This coupled with the fact that Russian weren’t allowed to own nice things in the Soviet Union goes some way to explaining the complete lack of taste and sophistication. You can get your tits done too.

One of the exhibitors is Park Avenue. This is their entry in the fair guide:

Feel the passion. See the beauty. Know the rogue spirit that is Randall Tysinger.

A bit rogue, a bit child, a bit brilliant artist. Swirl them all together, and splatter them on the canvas of humanity. That’s Randall Tysinger.

A quirky amalgam of humor and passion, Randall Tysinger lives by his senses. As owner of Randall Tysinger Antiques, one of the largest and most enchanting collections of European antiques in Northern America, Randall was born with a sixth sense about European antiques … their craftsmanship, their legacy, their ability to transform daily life into something more graceful and transcendent. That’s why he travels Europe’s back alleys and obscure shops in search of the incredible … the pieces that speak of lives past and of magical moments in history.

Having grown up in the family’s retail furniture business, the young Tysinger spent his childhood alternating between tomfoolery and serious protйgй. Yet in 1981, at the age of 29, Randall created his own magical moment in history during a trip to Italy he had won for selling mattresses. Upon arrival in Florence, the rogue artist inside him took over, and he found himself sneaking away from his tour group to soak up the ambience and craftsmanship of the city’s back alley workshops. Not dissuaded by time nor the frantic tour guides searching for him, Tysinger spent the remainder of the trip studying the masters, not rejoining his tour group until minutes before the flight home.

What happened during that happy accident changed history. No longer was Tysinger destined to sell mattresses from the family furniture store in Thomasville, North Carolina. The third generation Tysinger would, indeed, carry the family name into the future, but no longer would he be hawking picnic tables and swing sets from a storefront. Instead, he would indulge his senses in the sights, sounds and touch of Europe’s finest antiques and bring them to America to share with those of like mind.

Today, the name of Randall Tysinger means more than exclusive European antiques. It represents the rogue child artist in each of us … the raw passion and the treasures we would hope to find if we could sneak away and scour the back alleys of Europe ourselves.

Now, the passion and beauty that drove Randall Tysinger to follow his heart into the alleys of Florence come together in the Randall Tysinger Collection for E.J. Victor. Feel the passion; see the beauty; know the rogue spirit that is Randall Tysinger.

Randell sounds like a right knob doesn’t he? More for fans of Catherine Tate than Catherine the Great.

And what on Earth’s a serious protйgй?

The Rain in Spain

It’s May 2005 and in a bedroom somewhere in Auckland two daft monkeys have a few minutes to spare between gallavanting.

Nobody calls Moriarty McFly chicken

Still haven’t got Jon on here yet (sorry, it’ll happen) so until he entertains you himself here’s something he showed me by which I was much tittilated…

Cockswain

I went with Sally to see Graham Coxon at the Astoria. It was weird. I didn’t really know his solo stuff but Graham Coxon was alright, did a top job, punked it up a bit, few good songs, lovely. However, the crowd were a little strange.

There was a mosh pit. The mosh pit were rocking out, throwing themselves towards the stage like the young scallywags they were, plenty of injuries and sweat and swilled beer. Well done the mosh pit. Sally and I got through them quite easily, they being enthusiastic weaklings and us being hardened rock chicks (that’s my version of the story). However, at the front left of the stage where we positioned ourselves to annoy the guitarist it was a different story.

Hordes of petite pretty women in ultrahip outfits stood still – some perfectly still – showing no signs of enjoyment whatsoever. The band poured out songs through which I would find it incredibly difficult to remain static if listening through my headphones on the tube. They responded with a credible impression of Topshop mannequins (only one or two people away from the bouncing throng) looking miserable. Fair enough if this was slow, sad music, but it wasn’t. They lined the whole front of the stage.

If they did make a move it was simple; one arm aloft, pointing and clicking with the mobile phone. Not just one or two, oh no, all of them. As though they’ll show or send the photos later, to tell their mates “yeah I was at Graham Coxon, look at the fun everyone else was having”. “I was there because I’m so hip, I know all about Blur and shit, I was there you know.” So what’s the point in that?

Dave and I discussed it last night. He reckons it’s the media’s fault – telling you what you should like, how you should dress, where you should go. I guess you get there, it’s not where you really want to be so you take photographs by way of compensation to pretend you’ve been having fun. Or you go there just to take photos to add to your porfolio of cool… there’s me in the tent at Glastonbury, there’s me next to someone who knows Danny from Supergrass, there’s The Kaiser Chiefs. I used to love James Blunt, me, but now everyone says he’s shit.

I’m often tempted by events because it would be great to say “I was there”. But while you’re there, enjoy yourself. Even if you don’t really want to be there, find some fun. Or leave. People! Be happy! Do I really have to tell you this?

Curb your Anality

This morning I was being particularly anal. Not only did I clean all the cutlery, but I also cleaned the cutlery divider thing. Yep, that is anal. So anal I’m approaching bowel status.

It was during this particularly anal stunt I discovered all the teaspoons I brought into the house two years ago have fucking vanished. I mean where the fuck have they all gone?!

I know socks, pens and blue whales vanish all the time, but what sort of pinky communist liberal scum, comes into your house and steals your fucking teaspoons?! They aren’t valuable, they didn’t need liberating or anything. You can’t even fucking sponsor them, so why the fuck would you want to steal them?!

Immediate action is called for, so from this day all visitors are now banned and anyone leaving the property will be subject to an intimate body search. Even me. And I’ll tell you all this, if I find one of you trying to make off with more of my cutlery using the old “cutlery-in-a-condom-up-the-arse” routine I’ll bloody tan your fucking hides with a wooden spoon…. assuming you haven’t already fucked off with that too.

This was my first post. Great wasn’t it.

When your heroes sell out

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!