Brass Monkeys

I'm not keen on the cold. I'm even less keen on the cold when the wind chill is factored in, exposing my sensitive nose to potential frostbite.

Thankfully I have discovered a proper Irish pub on Park Avenue. It is not dominated by flatscreen televisions showing Premiership football, food is cheaply available but not compulsory, and they have a Dublin barman who talks shoite but has wonky spectacles and ensures that your glass in replenished before you have to ask.

The dining concourse at Grand Central Terminal also provides welcome respite from the intolerable cold. I am firmly convinced that should heaven exist it will closely resemble this august institution where all manners of comestible from every corner of the globe may be purchased for remarkably few shekels. For the outlay of rather more shekels it is also possible to repast on top notch seafood at the Oyster Bar.

Spiffing.

Ignited States of Neon

I have gone here.

Whilst here I will be spending some time here and here, although there is a reasonable probability that rather more of my time will be spent here, here , here, and here.

Ta ra.


n.b There are rumours that the Faces are to join the crumbly rockers reunion brigade. This is obviously an obscenity as Ronnie Lane is dead, and without his heart and soul they will be a pale facsimile of their former selves as well as a bloated parody.

Do us a favour lads, leave us with the memories.

Gimme Shelter

Before

..and after

It is very thoughtful of Keith Richards to express his grave concern regarding the drug addled antics of Amy Winehouse. Apparently he has warned her that should she continue in her decadent ways she will end up as wizened and haggard as him.

If I was Amy I wouldn't pay much attention as there are clear suggestions of pot, kettle, and black in Mr Richards pronouncement. Anyway, Amy is a bit of a munter at the best of times so I imagine that the prospect of aging disgracefully into decrepitude won't trouble her unduly.

If I was Amy I'd be more worried that I might end up falling out of coconut trees and tumbling from the ladder in my library. If Keith had kept using smack he would have spent most of his time comatose and not been tempted by dangerous exertions.

The Po Faced Liberals Gazzette

I have nothing against the Guardian per se. It is a quality newspaper with a distinguished history, and having its roots in non conformist Manchester liberalism has a much more attractive provenance than the likes of the Daily Torygraph.

Recently it has even been published in a user friendly form which combines the best of the tabloid and broadsheet formats. This makes it eminently practical for reading on public transport (not that I travel on public transport as this is reserved for students, dolescum, and crumblies).

My problem with the Guardian is its readership. The public sector, students, and ex hippy communist environmentalists adore the Guardian. They can be observed in Starbucks nodding sagely over their skinny lattes as they devour the latest polemic from George Monbiot. George is always right about everything at all times, and isn't slow to castigate anyone who fails to concur with his world view.

The Guardianista are just irritating. Personally I would like to mug a few, just to prove that a liberal is someone who hasn't been kneed in the groin and had their wallet stolen yet.


* Oh, happy Valentines (apart from Guardian readers). No, I didn't get any either.

Ahmed the Dead Terrorist

As I see it the only response likely to really get up the Islamonutters noses is derision. People with bigoted ideologies can cope with vitriol and contempt, but they can't cope when someone takes the piss out of them.

Laugh at Hamas, giggle at al Quaeda, chortle at Hezbollah. If an attitude and ideology is beyond comprehension don't try and engage with it, treat it as the bollocks it is and laugh it out of the room.

The Dangers of Exercise

I am frankly bemused by the excessive media attention paid to the supposed dangers inherent in binge drinking, smoking 40 Marlboro a day, and chomping down on super sized cheeseburgers on a regular basis. Not so very long ago we were digging lumps of coal out of the ground and eating weasels. Why the joys provided by a little affluence should be frowned upon to the extent where one may point at a porker and cry 'you should eat less you fat bastard!' beats me.

Then there are these new fangled gymnasiums, in which one is supposed to enjoy cycling (while going nowhere) next to a fat sweaty Nigel from accounts farting and wheezing his way towards the nirvana of a six pack. Then there are the fat mommas in skin tight Lycra jogging up and down like sea cows on amphetamines. It's all more than a sensitive soul can endure.

The word 'gymnasium' needs to be reclaimed by those of us of a slothful nature. Strolling along with Plato discussing the golden mean between opposing ills, especially when contemplating what type of fried fish would be served with ones olives at luncheon, had its attractions. Admittedly some athletic grunting did go on, but that was strictly the preserve of the meatheads who didn't know their alpha from their omega.

The fable about the tortoise and the hare has always appealed to me. That's right thinking that is, and should be carved in stone above all Health Clubs and gymnasiums.

I didn't get where I am today by needlessly stressing my ligaments and joints.

Thought for the Day

If God exists why are arses exactly the right height for kicking?

Discuss.