An even bigger splash

I love overhearing snippets of other people's conversations. Yesterday I was getting cultured up in Nottingham Contemporary Gallery (I've seen better Hockney exhibitions, by the way. Yeah, get me, the culture vulture) and overheard two women in their mid-twenties: "The trouble with Jen is that she's like a dog on heat. She's moved back here because there aren't enough men for her in Sheffield". At which point I had to restrain myself from asking for Jen's number.

Mind you, I quite often find art galleries a sexually charged environment. Especially that Tate Modern.

May I extend Yuletide felicitations to you?

Well another year over, and 2009 was a right old bag of shite: the death of a parent, a massive disappointment selling her house (thanks a bunch Ms fucking Miller of 15 Dunghill Mansions, Newark. You knew the circumstances under which we were selling the house, you sow) and then topped off nicely with a redundancy scare (I'm still in gainful employment, unlike forty of my ex-colleagues, poor sods). So it'll be a massive relief to see the back of it. I'm not normally one for New Year's Eve but I'm going to buy the biggest firework available to let off this Dec. 31st/Jan. 1st as a final 'piss off' to a shit year.

Anyway, I know I don't normally give much away on this blog, but I've been thinking about Mum and Dad a lot these past few days. Things reached a peak when I heard this on the radio last night. It's a song I remember from my childhood and surprised myself by knowing all the words. It's lovely.

Add to that all the Alan Bennett stuff that's been on telly lately (both Mum and Dad loved him, and as a tribute I'm going with sis to see one of his plays with Alison Steadman next year, which Mum said she'd liked to have seen), Ed Stewart promoting Junior Choice on Radio 2 ("'Ello darlin'!") a general air of melancholy and the fact we won't taste her trifle this Christmas has left me feeling incredibly sad. I daren't even watch that Oliver Postgate documentary that was on last night, I'll save that till after Crimbo, I think. Postgate's voice just transports me back to the front room of our 1930s three bed semi on Elm Avenue with Mum in the kitchen making something yummy. And don't even get me started on the organ, flute and Richard Baker intro to Mary, Mungo and Midge "A town is full of buildings..."

I'm not one to burst into tears - I'm a man after all, and not given to tears - but I think Christmas has highlighted the fact that I'm now, technically, an orphan. Boo-hoo for me.

Anyway, enough of the self-pity, which I normally hate, and may I wish you a Merry Christmas and a spiffing 2010. I'll see you on the other side, hopefully a bit more regularly than of late. Sorry this post's a bit depressing. To cheer you up have this Top Tip from Viz: "Former member of 10cc Lol Creme, don't sign your name at the end of text messages conveying bad news." Aah, LOL!

Have this for Christmas too, Mark Radcliffe always used to play it at Christmas and I love it.

Thanks to Mr Clearbrook...

...I've been reminded how shit this advert it. I seem to remember blogging about the Iceland Christmas ad last year, and this year they've really surpassed themselves.
For starters they've made all the food look completely unappetising, surely not the desired effect.
Secondly, why are they still obsessed with prawns?
Thirdly, how can Coleen Nolan push all this crap food when she's been banging on in the Daily Mirror all year about how to lose weight?
Fourthly (is that a word?), why is everything miniaturised? Mini this, mini, that, mini the other. Is it so the mouth-breathers who buy this cack don't know how to eat with cutlery and so have to shove everything in whole?
Fifthly (okay, that's definitely not a word), why the aside about smoked salmon, as though it's some new innovation? Or is it because the people eating this shite regard smoked salmon as something a bit swish? I don't know why if that's the case, I can't stand the stuff.
Sixthly, chocolate-covered frozen strawberries? What sort of sick mind came up with that?
Seventhly, who'd like to give Coleen, Jason and that twat who says "Yer not kiddin'" a miniature vile of paraquat?

Enjoy: