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'Bieber covered in slime', said a BBC News headline. This meant, apparently, that Justin Bieber had been subjected to some sort of dunking on a children's TV programme. It wasn't just a statement of fact.
On Saturday I was having problems with the new washing machine. It wouldn't stop. Even shouting at it to STOP FOR CHRIST'S SAKE had no effect. Eventually I somehow managed to trick it into releasing my washing, but I'm not sure that it's entirely fooled, deep down. They're cleverer than they look, those things.
It wouldn't have mattered so much if I wasn't hurrying to get to Ross and Christine's; although, when I did, Ross was still in his dressing gown, making the most of his leisure time now that he has a new job. I don't know what it is, but such is the air of mystery that he has created around it, I speculated that it must be Al Qaeda - or KFC. 'Is there any reason it can't be both?', he asked.
We were going to a barbecue at Phil and Vicki's at which the guests of honour would be Rhys and Hadeel, who were launching their new baby Nia onto the social scene. 'Baby cuddles' were high on the agenda, though I warned Facebook not to expect any of those from me. Told by Vicki that I would be expected to 'hold a small child', I agreed only on the basis that it would be 'cooked to my liking'. In the event Rhys thrust his screaming child into my face while I was backed up against the wall. 'It was horrible', I gasped, after it was over, then seeing Hadeel staring right at me, felt obliged to add: 'No offence.'
In spite of the expected exhaustion, Rhys is still going to carry on reviewing films on the other blog. I gave him If...., an acknowledged classic, but when I returned home it was to see sleazy 1980 horror film Don't Go In The House, in which our 'hero''s memories of child abuse over the hob at his mother's hands have left him unable to relate to women except with a flamethrower, in a specially-built chamber with sheet-metal walls. This makes dating a bit of a challenge (this was in the days before Match.com, you understand); nevertheless, in a strangely poignant scene, he has a stab at 'normal behaviour' and visits a disco, but it all ends in disaster when he sets a woman's hair on fire (which was, to be fair, probably a lot harder to avoid in the 1980's).
At no point in the film, to my slight disappointment, does anyone actually say the words: 'Don't go in the house.'
On Saturday I was having problems with the new washing machine. It wouldn't stop. Even shouting at it to STOP FOR CHRIST'S SAKE had no effect. Eventually I somehow managed to trick it into releasing my washing, but I'm not sure that it's entirely fooled, deep down. They're cleverer than they look, those things.
It wouldn't have mattered so much if I wasn't hurrying to get to Ross and Christine's; although, when I did, Ross was still in his dressing gown, making the most of his leisure time now that he has a new job. I don't know what it is, but such is the air of mystery that he has created around it, I speculated that it must be Al Qaeda - or KFC. 'Is there any reason it can't be both?', he asked.
We were going to a barbecue at Phil and Vicki's at which the guests of honour would be Rhys and Hadeel, who were launching their new baby Nia onto the social scene. 'Baby cuddles' were high on the agenda, though I warned Facebook not to expect any of those from me. Told by Vicki that I would be expected to 'hold a small child', I agreed only on the basis that it would be 'cooked to my liking'. In the event Rhys thrust his screaming child into my face while I was backed up against the wall. 'It was horrible', I gasped, after it was over, then seeing Hadeel staring right at me, felt obliged to add: 'No offence.'
In spite of the expected exhaustion, Rhys is still going to carry on reviewing films on the other blog. I gave him If...., an acknowledged classic, but when I returned home it was to see sleazy 1980 horror film Don't Go In The House, in which our 'hero''s memories of child abuse over the hob at his mother's hands have left him unable to relate to women except with a flamethrower, in a specially-built chamber with sheet-metal walls. This makes dating a bit of a challenge (this was in the days before Match.com, you understand); nevertheless, in a strangely poignant scene, he has a stab at 'normal behaviour' and visits a disco, but it all ends in disaster when he sets a woman's hair on fire (which was, to be fair, probably a lot harder to avoid in the 1980's).
At no point in the film, to my slight disappointment, does anyone actually say the words: 'Don't go in the house.'
posted by martin at 10:59 AM
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