Ah, Saturday......Mum's taken The Little Terror out for the afternoon, Wife is still sleeping at 2.00, and I have the leisure to do as I will. A couple of years ago, you might have found me in the pub at such a time, but I seem to have outgrown that. I find drinking in the afternoon generally makes me feel ill, unless I'm going to continue into the night. Instead, I'm continuing to rescue my book, The Joy of Raki, which my computer decided to eat one day a few months ago. when I've sorted it out, I'll be posting extracts on this site. Don't get to excited, now..........Have a nice weekend!

I haven't added anything in hte past week or so, as you may have noticed. Coming up....! God, politicians, egotism, quantum stuff, more raki and recipes, and of course, more ranting....keep happy people, the weekend starts tomorrow :))

I'm too tired to have anything much to say. my hand is wandering somnolently, like a tired crab across stones, over the keyboard, waiting for instructions as to where it should place its next weary foot

Yes, I know that we all waste our lives somewhat blogging away, but just look at this site.....Someone still fightin' the commie menace! Yeeeeeee - Hahhhhhhhhh! Reckon the ol' confederate flag ain't going down over your ranch just yet! Dear Pant -T: IT IS DEEPLY BORING. GO DRINK SOME BEER AND FIND SOMETHING TO PROCREATE WITH.

Well, I'm glad that I added a site monitor to my site to see how many people are visiting....thank you, all five of you. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Now tell all your friends!

AHHH! It's far too nice to be stuck in the office! It's 26 bloody degrees centigrade and it's only April! I'm going down the pub.

Ooooooh, I'm feeling so bitter and twisted that I thought I'd inflict a poem on you all. This is actually a development of an idea I had years ago that I never fully worked out, and is very much a rough draft.


I made a god
Of tattered sticks and tattered rags
Of broken mirrors and plastic bags
I made a god
From holy books
And rotten wood
I made a god
Of Dollar bills
And Shopping tills
I made a god
From any trash
And my body, sold for cash
I made a god
Made like me
Made of shit surrounding me
Made of lies
Made of cries
Made of screams
Made of dreams
I made a story for my God
That told of His Holy Wrath
And of how he sent to me
Tattered sticks and tattered rags
Broken mirrors, plastic bags
Holy Books, rotten wood
Other things,
But all was Good.

More on kids� tv
Roly Poly Fucking Olie
�way up high/ in the roly poly sky/ is the little round planet/ of a really swell guy��
So begins the introduction to Roly Poly Olie, a CGI kids� cartoon, currently shown on channel 5 on British TV. Children like this. I most definitely do not. I can feel my teeth being worn down to stumps just thinking of this bastard programme. Why do I hate this show so much? Where do you want me to start?
For those who haven�t seen it, Roly Poly Olie is based around a shiny, happy family of rotund robots, who live in a jolly, rotund house with a variety of semi-sentient house objects, the majority of which are also round. The whole place looks like it�s been overdoing whatever the robot equivalent of cholesterol, burgers and lard is. Roly Poly Olie�s best friend is a token square robot. He has a smaller sister, who crawls around, burbling maniacally. Apart from mom and dad, he has an uncle who is no other than a robotic Elvis! There is also an elderly robot, purportedly his grandfather�.
The first reason I detest this show is its utterly false premise. Hold on, Paul, I hear you cry. Aren�t all children�s progs based on faintly absurd premises? Oh yes, I answer, but some are worse than others. This robotic twat�s family are not only robotic, they are retro robots. The background music and the dress (yes! Robots must, apparently, wear some kind of garment!) hark back to the late 40�s/early 50�s. Ah yes, back to the mythical Golden Age of America��Mom wears a pinafore, the better to do her household duties, Dad tinkers with stuff in the garage. Everyone smiles, everything�s going great, and everything is resolved happily in handy, ad-friendly chunks. Oh Fuck off. The token square robot (for which read token black kid) wouldn�t even have a look-in in the real mid-century America. He�d be strung up, or at best told to take a different bus. One episode features a robot in a fucking wheelchair! Please.
I could go on describing this programme�s many faults, but I won�t. Here�s just a plea to the idiots who make this kind of dross. Stop it. Now. Stop telling and selling children this comfortable myth, one that will only make them disappointed as they cast their eyes across their own families. As for the Elvis lookalike, all I can say is that you are a bunch of craven wankers for even inventing this character.

Crap joke for the day........
John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten, decided that it was time to give his house a makeover. He pondered who to get in to do it, then contacted tv house pundit Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen. The dandy one arrived at the house the next day, dressed in leather trousers and lilac ruffed shirt, and began to enthuse about all the wonderful things he would do to transform it.
'Yeah, whatever, mate', snarled Mr. Rotten. 'Just don't do no lurid colours, right? I HATE lurid!'
John then went off for a well-deserved Sex Pistols reunion tour for a week, seeing the sights of such fabulous places as the Frinton tea rooms, The Guildford Corn exchange and Butlin's in Rhyl. On his return, Laurence stood beaming outside the transformed shack.
'I think you'll just LOVE what I've done!' he cooed, mincing into the hallway and ushering John in. 'Look!'
John stared around him in utter disbelief. The floor, the walls, the ceilings, all were painted a lurid pink-purple shade.
He grabbed Laurence by his florid lapels, then headbutted him.
'What did I tell you, mate, eh?', he screamed. 'No Fuschia! NO FUSCHIA! Nooooooooo Fuschia for meeee!'

GIVE ME A PRIESTLESS GOD RATHER THAN ALL THESE GODLESS PRIESTS!

More war news.....
I see, with a sinking feeling that Donald Ducksfeld's baleful eye has now fallen on Syria. For Christ's Sake, what is the matter with these wankers in the White House? Bush is a twat, but he's basically all these older men's Gimp. So, you think you're acting out some kind of Divine Will? No, you aren't. You're just terribly egotistical. I lived in a Muslim country for many years, and to be quite frank, I'd far rather trust a Muslim than some jumped-up neoimperialist servant of satan masquerading as a servant of God.

Back to the war,,,,
I feel utterly frustrated by the events in Iraq. Can anyone suggest what I can do to realistically help people there?

An indiscriminate list of friends
OK, so I haven�t written for a while. Blame it on the fact that Wife and Child are away. Actually, I�ve had a wonderfully slobbish couple of days: No one shouting me into wakefulness. Anyway, here�s a totally indiscriminate list of friends, past and present, that I will undoubtedly need to update regularly, plus the reasons I like these people. For those who are past friends, I really would like to get back in contact with you.
1. Nur, my wife, my life, the darling star of my heart.
2. Angus, my son, for whom I would spend the last bitter drop of my blood defending: with Nur, he constitutes the constellation of my world.
3. Duncan Sheckley, my Bro�. Dunx I�ve always regarded as my brother, ever since we met while selling car number plates.
4. Martin Heslop. Martingo!! Martin is the most patient, kindly, and among the most kind-hearted people I�ve ever had the privilege to meet. He put up with the most extravagant of my rants and rages while we shared a flat in Istanbul. My Best Man at my wedding.
5. Lynne Sutton. The Doctor. Currently healing the sick of Sydney. What can I say? A great laugh, and looking a lot more Kylie!
6. Peter Boylan. Currently sitting in my DOS seat at Dilko English. Peter, when he came to The Big Stan, was like a large, 50-year-old kid let loose in a sweet shop. He�s become an asset and a necessity to his company.
7. Graham Elton. Grimbo. We�ve argued, often viciously, but I�ve always liked him for his sheer, simple, life-affirming energy.
8. Marc(us) Powles. Made me laugh. I especially loved his drunken rant at a female member of English Centre, �If you were a bloke, I�d kick yer fuckin� cunt in!�. Other than that, a serious, dedicated radical and a fine poet.
9. Jo Richardson. Friend from Uni days.
10. Julian Cook. I�ve known Julian for nearly 30 years. We�ve gone our separate ways now, but I still remember our torpid days in the White Horse.
11. Mike Groves. My current (acting) boss. A thoroughly sound chap. Anyone who can drunkenly decide to stagger into the After Dark club can�t be bad.
12. Pete Mitchell. Sweetie Meatie Peatie! Hehh heehh hehhh heehhh hEEEEHHHhhhh heeehhhhh
13. Lee Hill. At the moment, he has squirreled himself away to write his magnum opus, which will surely be as good as we
expect.
14. Johnno. A strange one, this, as I don�t think it�s reciprocated. My mirror image.
15. Kevin McGuinness. Bejayzus, a foine bloke, to be sure an� begorrah��.J
16. Guy Elders � A Sound Bloke.
17. Andrew Pardue � where are you?
18. Jason Browning. Last seen at Ataturk airport.
19. John McManus. Still Goth after all these years�..
20. Tackle, AKA Alan Blastland. Free Terry Mandela!
21. Matt 'n' Dave. I always think of Matty and Dave as a single entity for some reason. Dave has recently transformed himself
into some kind of 'Matrix' uberman. Matty remains the same.
22. Fiona Woof. Currently doing theatrical stuff.
More to be added�����

Ahhhhh, the end of term!

Well, the war seems to be winding down somewhat. Now let's see what kind of peace appears.....
I was reading the letters column in 'the Guardian' earlier on. Many were commenting on yesterday's front page photo of the feet of thise killed in the previous day's bombing. As I read, one thought came to me: At least we can see, and witness these dead. What of all those under Saddam's regime, all those feet of the dead, that were never seen? Yes, we can mourn those who have died in this war. What of those who went unremarked?
I remain angry about this war, or, more precisely, the pretexts and plans of those that instigated it. I still think Bush is a psychopath. I still think Donald Rumsfeld is a deeply scary human being. I still think that the US administration is not only illegal, but ignorant, bullish and dangerous.

You know those adverts that pop up on our blogspots? Well, I've just noticed that they appear, not by random, but by linking to key words in the text of the last blog entry. For example, my last blog entry regarded children and kid's t.v. Lo and behold, adverts pop up relating to kiddie's stuff. So, if I put any series of random words in, I should be able to influence what kind of advert appears on my blog. Let's try. Penile Enlargement. Barbie. Lard.

The weird world of kid's tv

I enjoy watching kid's tv in the mornings with my son. It reminds me of my own childhood. However, I can't help noticing how weird the world of children's tv programming actually is. Let me take one example for now, as I will return to this topic. It's 'The Busy World of Richard Scarry'. Many have grown up with his books and the cartoon series. This cartoon - 'The bloody weird world of Richard Scarry' might be more appropriate. It contains the cast of the books, including Lowly, who happens to be a jolly, talking earthworm. Quite apart from the fact of having an earthworm as a central protagonist, it's this annelid's actions that are strange. Here's one scenario: Lowly is playing with his friends in a field, when he decides to climb a tree. He falls out of the tree. He writhes on the floor, crying 'Owww! My leg! I think it's broken!'. We cut to a scene in a hospital. Lowly is in a wheelchair.
1) Worms do not climb trees.
2) Worms do not have legs.
3) The requirement for wheelchairs in the dark world of the average annelid is, we can safely assume, zero.
Planet Earth to Richard Scarry: Please, man, get a grip. Please.
Coming soon: Critique of Roly Poly Fucking Olie, rainbow, Mr. Benn and other classics.

I haven't posted much Raki Joy here recently, so it's high time I did. Let me begin by reiterating what a wonderful drink raki is. The scent of anise, the liquid silken feeling of it as you drink, the heightened flavours of food, the happy alcoholic haze you gently succumb to......and the really interesting hallucinations you get if you drink too much.
My first happy experience of drinking this stuff came in December, 1993, in the heart of Izmir. My colleagues, Guy and Luciano, and I were just packing in the lessons for the evening at our dodgy English school. A couple of Luciano's students asked us if we wanted to grab something to eat, so we went with them along the Kordon and down one of Alsancak's back streets until we came to an Ocakbasi. An ocakbasi is, essentially, a restaurant thrown around a large indoor barbecue. You can sit around the grill, watching your food being cooked, and keeping wonderfully warm on cold winter nights. The place was packed, because a Galatasaray-Fenerbache football match was on. We managed to grab a table in a corner, and were joined by the students' friends. They insisted on paying for everything, and insisted on us drinking raki. The food was basic, but excellent: Piyaz (bean salad), Kuzu sis and kofte, Coban salatasi, Haydari, and small bowls of leblebi. The place was hot and noisy and full of fag smoke and the cheers and groans of the men watching the football on the greasy tv perched high in the corner. But what a meal! Luciano was talking in English and Italian: Guy was rapping away in Turkish: I was practising my then limited Turkish with a couple of students, and using my limited French. Still others (there were twelve of us by now) were conversing in German, in Kurdish, in Farsi, in Arabic: A mad babel of languages swirled and dived around our table, fuelled by the food and the raki, a crazy communication that somehow made itself understood to all. Several of the students had been in prison for political reasons, and were cheerfully recounting being tortured: Two guys were merrily arguing about Marco Polo's Voyages, Ibn Batutta and the Seyahatnamesi: Others were talking comparative philosophy. For a few magical hours, I felt entirely entranced by this dinner table, which had all that you need for a good time: Good food, good tobacco, excellent conversation and raki.

Idiotic signs and packaging #1
Go to your local supermarket. Go to the freezer section. Pick up a box of McCain's Micro Chips. Go on, it won't harm you just picking up the package. The plastic wrap will prevent you turning into some zombie trailer slob. Read the packaging. Remember, these are chips, designed to be cooked in the microwave, but just chips (fries if you're American). Made of potato, containing perhaps salt and a bit of oil. That's all. Chips. And what does it say on the package? 'Made from real potato'. Really. 'Made from real potato'.
Dear God in Heaven.

Addendum to previous blog: The Socrates and Plato mentioned are, of course, Socrates O' Flaherty and Plato Jones, bar pundits from 'the Dog and Carcinoma' Public House, Dunfistin, Scotland.

Today's philosophical question, taken from one Socrates posed Plato in a little-known meeting in Athens:
HOW DO UGLY PEOPLE MANAGE TO BREED?

well, whoopy-doo, we're all winning the war y'all......fan-fucking-tastic. Hell, that oil's gonna be flowin an' Halliburton's gonna be makin' a grand profit....yee-fuckin-hah.
In one way, I'm glad that there appears to be a swift end to this sodding travesty - fewer deaths. In another, I'm scared - that psycopath Bush will be given legitamacy through force rather than votes. Ave Ceasar....Morituri te Salutant!
Well, at least there's one thing that the ol' Septics have got better at, and that's killing their own fucking side.
Message to U.S. high command: My neighbour's annoying the hell out of me. If I phone in and tell you there's an Iraqi tank in my neighbourhood, will you send round one of your nice tankbusters to blow the shit out of it? Actually, scrap that. You're more likely to hit me.........

Recipe time!
Well, actually, cocktail time. I'm sure most of you have heard of a Black Velvet: a mix of guiness and champagne. Well, this is what is probably best defined as the complete opposite of that. It was concocted one very drunk summer afternoon in Bangor, North Wales, in 1989.
Brown Velcro
Ingredients
One bottle Newcastle Brown Ale
One bottle pomagne, or any other very cheap fizzy wine.
With hungover, trembling hands, pour ingredients in equal measure into pint glasses. Mix with a heavily nicotine stained finger. Light a fag and feel the headache throb behind the eyes. Take a swig, then start cursing and swearing at the utterly foul taste. After this, you will be able to drink anything. Umbrella and cherry are optional.

Bluuurrggg......I've had a long slog of a day today. I don't mind giving exams, as I having been doing this week, it's just marking the bloody things. Why can't I have my own secretary to do that? The lesson this morning was a fairly half-baked affair. The joys of reading and summary writing.......I could see my students' eyes glaze over after about half an hour. They're a fairly hard working group, but you can only push out the material so far....we ended up chatting, about this and that, but university in particular: I stressing the need to keep their minds open, to experiment with their abilities, and above all, never be shy or afraid, the twin banes of my life.

Wednesday! A week and a half to go till the end of term. My wife and son are jetting off to Istanbul for a holiday with the relatives then, so I will have myself to myself for nine days. I know how it will go....for the weekend, I'll have the sheer bliss of not being woken up early - an extremely rare pleasure. I'll probably end up going out and getting horribly rat-arsed at least once. After a couple of days, I'll start missing them, and spend my days watching daytime tv instead of getting on with life. Indeed, my astounding ability to do absolutely nothing for days, even months, on end has been a sad defining feature of my life. Take heed, kids........I haven't done too badly with my days, but I am keenly aware that everything could be so much, much better. Fear nothing!

I have only one thing to say today.....urrrrgggg.