Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in Russman's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, August 19th, 2008
4:18 pm	Births, Deaths and Such It’s been a while since I’ve updated this thing, and it only seemed fair that I allow you a discrete glimpse into my personal life. Much as a Victorian urchin might peek through a frosted window to a Christmas feast within. If the walls of Chez King could speak the stories they would tell…. This easy option unavailable to me, I must therefore fill the room with that most english of sounds – the thwack of skin on plastic. First, I need to report the sad death of my companion and friend Sindbad. Sindbad was a good cat taken from us all too soon. A few months ago I became rather ill. Ill to the extent that I had to be taken by ambulance to what I can only presume was an addict and prostitute rehabilitation centre judging from those treated within. A young nurse attempted to find a vein in my arm. She couldn’t find it, but by god that wasn’t going to stop her from trying. Not that I gave a damn, I was well out of it and only discovered that my arm had turned into a painful colander the following morning. On my return home Sindbad was noticeable by his absence. I dimly recalled that when I was carried into the ambulance wee Sinbad made a break for freedom. I would normally leave the back-door open, but in my palsied condition was unable to muster strength enough for this, so he remained at large all night. Or at least part of the night, as he was run over while I was in hospital and, unable to undo the back-door made his way to a nearby field, where he died. There is little in the world more depressing on return from hospital than to walk slowly across a field with a binbag. So there you go. Very sad and all. Still, life goes on. And how…. A few weeks ago, I hosted a barbecue for S’s family. Finding ourselves short of sweetcorn for he barbecue I hit upon a devious plan. One of the local farmers grows sweetcorn. Sweetcorn of such so plump and sweet it would be perfect for our barbecue. S said to take it would be theft and she would have no truck with such. I swayed her with my compelling argument : Taking food from a field is known as “scrumping”. Whereas theft will result in the police getting involved, with scrumping the worst one will encounter is a farmer hopping from foot to foot on the side of the field shouting “Garn! Ged oud of it you kids! Grrrr..” He concerns assuaged we strolled nonchalantly into the field, whereupon I produced a ring and requested her opinion on marriage. The ground was muddy. It was wet and muddy and smelt strongly of dung. Nevertheless, after thirty seconds of an expectant stare I took my cue and, (greater love hath no man), knelt in the product of a cows bottom and repeated my question. What did she say ? Well, after we returned home I whipped off my trousers, threw them to her : “Clean these love….you may as well get used to it early.” (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 9th, 2007
9:02 pm	Biking for Boys Last week I wrote about the joys of my new scooter – a joy tempered only by my almost immediate longing for a bigger, faster motorbike. Let me clarify; I wear a big leather jacket, shades, black leather gloves, massive lumpen boots and Kevlar lined jeans. On a Moto-Guzzi or Harley I’ll look the part. On my 125cc scooter with L plates I look … a cock.  I’ve got a fantasy of meeting a nice girl (a “chick” or “bitch” in motorcycle parlance), and sweeping her off her feet onto the back of my motorbike. Zoom off into the sunset with throaty roar and whiff of petrol mingled with machismo. Unfortunately this doesn’t quite work with the current bike. I’m not sure it would move with 2 people on it for starters, let alone the logistics of fitting her on the damn thing. Which leads me into a dilemma. Do I get a different bike ? I got this particular scooter for safety. It’s got a roll-cage, bumpers, and so forth. A proper big-boy’s motorbike on the other hand, has big lumps of metal arrayed over it’s surface. It’s also cold. My current bike has a nice heated seat to keep my bum nice and toasty. Not that it’s without it’s problems. Last week I left a ½ eaten chocolate bar on the seat while I scrabbled around indoors looking for leather jacket. It took a little longer than expected and by the time I returned it looked there’d been a small animal having a dirty protest on my bike.  I can also justify that this is the perfect time of my life to get a fast bike. I’m single with no dependents, so it’s only my life I’m risking. I’m in my mid-thirties, so I’m in a solid, sensible frame of mind, rather than my hormone charged twenties. I’m wealthy enough to afford a rather spiffy machine too, instead of a Crapmobile 500. The thing is, I'm no longer at an age where I consider myself immortal. I'm convinced I won't need a seat heater as I'll be kept warm by the heat of sheer terror, knowing as I do that if I hit something capricious fortune will roll a dice and decide to take a foot, and finger, a leg ... ? And it will happen, of this I've no doubt. Riding a motorbike through traffic is much like riding a pedal-cycle through a dodgem ride. It's not the the other drivers don't notice you, it's just that they don't care. There was a recent study on the phenomenon known as 'SMIDSY' (“Sorry mate, I didn't see you”). It was found that car drivers do see motorbikes, but as the bike isn't big enough to trigger a subconscious danger signal, the driver doesn't react. So the question is, do I : a) look cool but end up a bit smashed up. b) look like a cock, but with all my bits and pieces. For the answer I need look no further than the wisdom of Mr Keanu Reeves : “Pain heals and chicks dig scars” ...a Ducati MonsterThrust1200 it is then.   (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 2nd, 2007
10:37 am	My Dulled Mojo I have a Star-Wars lightsaber. It sits next to my desk at work, and when someone enters my office I stand up, draw it dramatically and say in my finest Alec Guiness : “I am – a Jedi. These aren’t the files you’re looking for. Move along, move along”. Leaving aside the question “Is this appropriate for a company director?”, my behaviour has divided the office along gender lines. Men, as one, recognise my Alpha-male status (I am holding a Star-Wars light-saber after all…), and ask for a go. They are impressed by my mojo. Women are, I’m sure, similarly impressed. However, being subtle creatures they hide this behind looks of pity and withering contempt. But the lightsabre is one of the few gadgets I own that gives me a visceral thrill of pleasure when used. There’s no denying that a change has happened in me. I thought it was something that only happens to men when they become a father, but alas, I too have succumbed – and find myself no longer excited by the latest gadgets to come from the hardworking artisans of Japan. I used to need to have the latest phone, (my current one a small  socket on one side that I’m convinced is where you put the coal). I don’t own an MP3 player, nor see the need as you can’t receive Radio 4 on one. My home computer was bought back in the days when salesmen called it a “magic lantern” and had to be smuggled home in case the villagers saw it as evidence of witchcraft. In essence, I’ve changed from a “have” to a “have not”. This apathy has led to an inevitable dulling of my senses. Whereas a few years ago I could point out the differences between a nokia 6310 and a Nokia 6310i cellphone, (and believe you me, the difference mattered to me!). Now, all phones look alike and do the same thing. They make calls and take pictures. More than that I can’t tell you, nor frankly do I care. The same holds true for other gadgets, and once I’ve discovered they fulfil their primary purpose I lose interest. None of this would matter, except I work in IT. Technical advances approach with the speed of jetfighters and without geekish enthusiasm I find the whole thing a little bewildering. This is not good news when managing a staff of hardcore techies. So I’ve hit on a fine solution to the problem. When a member of my staff asks me a technical question I sport a look of concern. Concern mingled with worry, which quickly dissolves into calm disapproval. Steepling my fingers I say : “Do you really not know that ? I would have expected you, in your job, to know the answer to that. I’m just about to take a call, but grab me in 10 minutes and I’ll try to explain it to you.” Shaking my head at their ignorance, pausing for only one incredulous stare, I walk off. 10 minutes later they’ve looked it up on Google and say  : “Ah yes. I did know it. Just tired I guess” “And what is the answer then” And so, they haltingly explain. I nod approvingly, giving me an aura of all-enveloping knowledge. I give it 18 months before I'm caught out.   (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 25th, 2007
4:23 pm	Mid-life Crisis I dice with death. I look him in the face and laugh. I tweak his nose and pinch his scythe. Not only that, but my skin has started to exude an oily liquid that appears to be excess testosterone. My shoulders are broader, my bum sexier and my eyes flash with the promise of a thousand raunchy nights. Women see me and their breath catches in their throat. Men avert their gaze and count their manhood cheap by comparison. How, you ask yourself, has this dumpy IT Manager affected such a change. The answer : I’ve invested some money. Not on plastic surgery, but in something more potent. More visceral. My garage is now the lair of a … motorbike. Here’s a picture of one :  http://www.stefano.pozzato.name/bmw-c1.jpg She’s a beast. 125cc of banshee power connected to the back wheel via a system of pulleys and rubber bands. Let’s take you through her many sterling qualities : Firstly, with me on her, she weighs nearly a third of a ton. This ensures that I don’t (indeed cannot) speed. Starting at the lights goes as follows:                 Pile on full throttle.                 Watch as streams of cars pass either side in a terrifying “Wall of Death”                 Feel the bike wobble as it starts to pull forward.                 Sit forward in an attempt to be more aerodynamic.                 Realise this will make no difference in a bike with a roof.                 Sit back and proceed at a stately 15mph.                 Ignore the yells of  “Twat” from passersby. Other refinements include : Heated seat and handlegrips (broken) ABS braking (a juddering stop instead of a smooth one) tyres – two (bald). Seatbelts (BMW considers riders who “ditch” before a crash as cowards. They spent a lot of money on this bike. If it’s going to crash you can damn well crash too). Headlight (a glow-worm in a jar judging by it’s effectiveness) This aside, I have to admit, it’s glorious fun, and appeals to the miser in me. Or at least I thought it would. The petrol is cheap, the servicing inexpensive, tolls are free as is parking. But there’s a snag. I’ve been riding around in jeans and jacket, wearing my usual sturdy trainers. Only to find out that in the event of a crash I’ll be “using my fingers as crayons on the road”. Also, my feet will become a minced bloody mess. We tend to think of roads as nice smooth places, but if you look at them hard it’s actually ridged and corrugated with chippings. Like a breadknife. Or a cheesegrater. Now, I want to reduce the size of my backside, true; But I had imagined this could be achieved by a regime of running and fresh vegetables. Not scraping my bum along the road leaving a macabre snail-trail of subcutaneous fat and blood. So I’ve started buying protective clothing. Jeans with Kevlar lining, gloves with cordura patches, boots made from leather and steel. I feel manly. I feel badass. There’s a lightness to my step. A lightness caused by my now empty wallet, as my leather jacket’s fleecy lining is neatly juxtaposed by the fleecing I received myself.   “£250 for a pair of gloves ?! How can you justify such prices ?” “Ah. But how much are sir’s hands worth to him?”   “Biking boots at £600! Ridiculous!” “I quite agree sir. And may I say how well formed sir’s feet are this morning. Quite unlike a pair of bloody stumps with a shin-bone flapping on the end. No. Fine feet these with toes and everything sir. Stumpy! Come over here and take a look at this man’s handsome feet…Stumpy used to subscribe to sir’s view that £600 is too much. I don’t doubt you’ll have much in common…soon.” The unfortunate result of all this is that the bike has cost for far in excess of any car. Perhaps a rocket-powered skate-board to work will be more sensible… (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 19th, 2007
3:36 pm	Holiday I have been absent for some weeks, for which I am sorry, but I have an explanation. I have done something bad. Something I said I would never do. I have been to France, (Paris and the Rhone Valley) – and it was good. Very, very good indeed. The food was delicious, the women beautiful, the weather a warm balmy sunshine that gently ushered you from breakfast to aperitif time (3pm). At 8am I’d jog to the patisserie in the village, buy fresh croissant and jog back. Breakfast was taken on a lilo in the private pool with a floating table full of croissant and coffee. Days were spent drinking wine, eating olives, visiting vineyards, restaurants, castles and “old stuff”. Evenings, a lazy haze of fine wine, good food and charming company. We’d sit by the side of the pool exercising our opinions on the taxing questions of the age : “flat rate income or variable ?” “Russian Revolution or The Great Leap Forward ?” “Roman Empire or Byzantine ?” No aspect of human learning was beyond us, our conversation taking a more philosophical turn as the evening wore on and the ladies had gone to bed : “Beer or wine ?” “Online dating or swingers party ?” “tits or face ?” On our first evening the village wine festival was in full swing, all entertained by a singer “Serge” with his band. Serge is a man blessed with an overabundance of energy and a deficiency of inhibition. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a fifty year old Frenchman belting out “Do The Locomotion” in a pissed up village square. But there was a downside. Paris was overpriced, unfriendly and stank of… well…piss. A dull stupid people Parisians – They failed to understand English even when spoken loudly and slowly. Their only saving grace is their antipathy toward the thousands of American tourists who have flown 3000 miles for an opportunity to talk loudly in a Yurpeean street. Not that there’s anything wrong with Americans per se. Every one I’ve met in person has been charming, soft-spoken and friendly. I think there must be some kind of quality control in place on Air-France where a questionnaire is passed around to all visitors from the US. “Ah Monsieur. Your questionnaire. Zere is ze probleme… You do not appear to be a…how you say… loud annoying asshole, yes ? And you are using both ze knife and ze fork… Have you zought about visiting England instead.” Which would explain why we get all the good ones. Not that the national shame all goes to the US, as I shall explain. When we visited the Rhone Valley we invented a little game – “Spot the Ugly Woman”. This is harder than you think . The rules are simple. Old age must be taken into account and the “score” adjusted accordingly. We’d been an hour without a sighting. Lithe twenty-somethings littered the streets, smoking Gaulois. Older women wore perfect couture suits, or something they’d just “thrown together” while looking like they could suck a golf-ball through a hosepipe without smudging their lipstick. And then we saw them. Two women in their early twenties sauntering down the street. Their jeans too tight, and tops too short, leading to an unpleasant “muffin” effect where the copious belly fat spills over the top of the jeans. Hair scraped back in the finest chav tradition, and a smattering of sportswear. We tried to hide our mean schoolboy chuckles as they went past :   “Is this where they make the wine then ?” “Yeah. I fink. Let’s go an get pissed”   Glee turned to burning shame by association, and we slunk back home. To get pissed. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, July 23rd, 2007
5:31 pm	I Fought the Law and the Law Won A mature tapeworm will use 20% of the calories you eat. A vampire bat will drain enough blood from you  to increase it’s body-weight by a third. Yet neither of these creatures is as voracious a bloodsucker as the parasite known as Homo Legalus. I’ve recently had the bittersweet pleasure to engage an eloquence of lawyers to retrieve damages on my company’s behalf. The  lawyers themselves were charming, pleasant and cripplingly expensive. Also, it became increasingly apparent that they did not subscribe to the same priorities as ourselves. If I might illustrate with a metaphor : Me: I want you to make them suffer. Sic ‘em boy. Lawyer : Of course sir. Might I suggest a fire, lit under their feet ? Me : Excellent suggestion. How fortunate I am to have such a fine mind working on my behalf. And so this legal thug diligently creates an inferno under your enemies. And you’re so enjoying your adversary’s discomfort you fail to notice he’s  fueling the fire by tossing, first the contents of your wallet, and then your bank account to feed the merry flames. This metaphor occurred to me during a telephone call to discuss strategy. Both lawyers called at 4pm, and after 55 minutes we were all finished. “So… Russell…erm…how are things going? How are you keeping ?” This was unusual. Charming and approachable though I am, I’m not used to small talk in business calls. However, there are few greater pleasures in the world than having a willing audience, and the subject of “Mr Russell King” is one of my favourite. I granted them the benefit of my thoughts for some minutes. I had barely warmed to my theme when, at 5:01pm precisely, they both made polite excuses and hung up. As a colleague later pointed out, lawyer fees round up to the nearest hour, and my waxing eloquence had cost us a further £675. “Ah”, you’re thinking, “good lawyers are expensive”. And I agree, but there’s something about a person who adds a £6.50 taxi ride expense to their £5000 daily rate that’s intrinsically disagreeable. All this expense can be justified if value for money is forthcoming, but early in the case a visit to our QC yielded a taste of what was to come. A politician grilled by Paxman could not have hedged, prevaricated and dodged the question as deftly as this man. Finally, our three hours up, he declared that, on balance, and given the right judge, we might win the case. Or we might not. And that’ll be two thousand pounds please. With such decisive legal minds on our case what outcome would you expect ? Well, you have to bear in mind our opponents too had a pack of lawyers sucking at their bank account’s rich creamy teat. So, when we first saw them, both of us were exhausted from the arguments and the early morning rickshaw shifts in order to pay our respective legal bills. So exhausted in fact that halfway through the proceedings both parties had an epiphany. One party (them) that they were likely to lose, and the other (us) that our winnings would be eaten up by legal bills. At this point we both agreed it was all very silly, and we’d drop the case for a bag of buttons. Jerome K Jerome summed it up well : “If a man stopped me in the street and demanded of me my watch, I should refuse to give it to him. If he threatened to take it by force, I feel I should, though not a fighting man, do my best to protect it. If, on the other hand, he should assert his intention of trying to obtain it by means of an action in any court of law, I should take it out of my pocket and hand it to him, and think I had got off cheaply.” (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, July 15th, 2007
9:43 pm	Felis Cut-us Sinbad has been shot. While I'm writing this he's being slit open by a trained professional in the pet hospital to remove a bullet. Afterward they'll reassemble the parts and hand him back alive. At least that's the idea. I'm hoping this procedure involves gold-plated scalpels and flying in a specialist cat/bullet retrieval team from a Swiss clinic - given the £1000 bill. But I suspect instead they subscribe to the "I saw you coming" school of economic thought. i.e. 1 retrieved bullet equals a full set a tyres for the vet's Mercedes. Not a bad rate of exchange, but I'm in no position to haggle. I'd hitherto thought keeping a cat in the countryside was safer than the city. In town he could have fallen in with a  bad crowd, dealing catnip to kittens and offloading blackmarket mice to men called Luigi. Sort of like TopCat, but with more viscious killings. But in the countryside, while we humans are drinking Pimms in our deck-chairs, it's the feline Killing Fields out there. The vet painted a picture similar to the opening scene in Saving Private Ryan, with local farmers as the German machine gunners. My only consolation is this may give him some much-needed respect from other cats in the area. "Oh this? Yeah, took a bullet back in the Summer of '07." Also, it will lend some much needed masculinity to my pet-ownership. A man who lives alone with a cat ? Someone you'd ask for interior design advice. See if he's interested in those Liza Minelli tickets. But he owns a cat with bullet holes ? Why, then it must have been shot why he was in his garage repairing an engine. On his tank. With his teeth. Despite this bravado, I'm pacing the room with a  mixture of fear and anger. Someone out there took a potshot at my pet, and I want to know who. Why, I'm not quite sure. Should someone shoot your dog the protocol is quite simple – you appear on their doorstep at 3am with a  cricket bat and beat them unconscious. The police on hearing the situation will assure you, you have every right to proceed, both morally and legally. Every Englishman holds a deep belief that in the event of a mugging, his faithful hound (a 15 year old wheezing pug for example) will turn into a vicious killing machine – defending his master and then fetching help from the nearest policestation. “Sergeant Perkins, this dog seems to be telling us something.” “Woof....wheez wheez” “Russell's in trouble ? 4 muggers ? Near the abandoned well? Come on Constable Davies, this brave little dog may just have saved his master's life” In reality the pooch is more likely to give out a couple of wheezing barks. If that doesn't work slowly waddle away, farting gently. But despite the reality, the image persists in all right thinking Englishmen that a dog is inviolate. To shoot one is to commit a moral crime even a Frenchman would balk at. But not cats. Dogs have corned all the good PR, and cats haven't helped themselves as they just don't seem to give a damn what we think about them. From their lofty height of 8 inches cats contrive to look down their nose at us. We, who give them their food, provide comfortable bedding, groom them... hmmm... this sounds worryingly like Edwardian domestic service – (which would explain their snooty attitude; it's that of a master to a servant). So, while I wait for my tiny master to resume his place as head of the household, I'm pacing the room working out ways to ensure his future safety. Perhaps a cat-mounted revolver so he can return fire will do the trick. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, July 8th, 2007
10:39 pm	Cooking "I want a knife. A big sharp one." Usually my direct forthright manner puts people at their ease, but I fear my opening gambit was not having the desired effect. Still, with shaking hand the shop-assistant guided me to a machete shaped kitchen knife, her companion by the till with 999 on speed-dial should my whispers of "pretty. So pretty pretty" be the precursor to something more active. I decided to put her at her ease: "It's ok. I'm not a nutter." - and smiled, in what I thought was a cheeky grin, sadly interpreted as a psychotic leer. I was browsing with my friend Jackie (another food enthusiast) in a shop called "Super Kitchen" or something equally asinine, and had spotted the knife section. Most men have long since shed their fascination with knives, along with the other childish pursuits (comic books, video games...). My development, however, has been stunted from an excess of port while young. And so, I looked at rack after rack of gleaming lacerators, my happy face reflecting from each, entranced. Now, I know from book-learning that there are two ways to check a knife's edge. The first, hold the knife upside down. Now look at the edge. (This is more impressive if you purse your lips, and try to look critical). If you see the light shining off the edge then you've got yourself what we sharp-knife aficionados call "a Blunt Knife". The second, more exacting test, is to turn the knife to a 45 degree angle and gently push the blade along your thumbnail. If the edge digs in - it's razor sharp. I'd performed the first test, and had started on the second, only to hear a shriek of horror from the assistant, and an gasp of expectant fascination from a pair of small boys nearby. This man was going to cut his thumb off. His flippin thumb! Now that's entertainment! "Ha ha. No need to worry good shopkeep. I'm simply testing the sharpness of the blade." "Please. Please don't do it." "It's fine. Look, I'll show you." "Oh god no. Don't..." I did it. The blade dug in, working perfectly, to a mixture of relief (mine and hers) and cheated disappointment (small boys'). "Oh. Sorry. I didn't realise you were a professional chef." Had I discovered my nickname among female friends was "Mr Big Willy" I could not have been more pleased. And so, it was with a light step I exited clutching my new purchase. Which brings me onto my subject this week - Cookware. Or more accurately, cooking in general -The noblest of obsessions. What other strange alchemy can transform base elements into objects of veneration ? Try asking a plumber to build a bathroom from some rocks and wood and he'll shake his head dourly. But give a chef a load of old tut you've found in the dirt, and before you can say "botulism" he's serving up "lapin tué en la voiture avec potatos putréfiés". I've tried cooking and thought I was getting the hang of it. I can make sushi (harder than it looks - at least it is when I do it), a full english breakfast and burn things on a barbecue. I've considered catering college in evening classes, but there's an ugly rumour that something called "salad" may be involved, which doesn't sound like anything I need to know about. However, my confidence has taken a knock recently as I've discovered "Escoffier". A frenchman who, in typical gallic sadism wrote a book...the book; on french cookery. It's a huge tome of tightly written text exhorting the reader to make recipes labyrinthine in their complexity. Not that they appear complex initially. But this devious frenchman has built traps for the unwary where he writes : "2 spoonfuls of bechamel sauce [see page 781]", as one of the ingredients. Page 781 contains a full page of instructions for bechamel. Well, I'll have none of that nonsense - mayonnaise is a sauce. It's white. In it goes. "Cook for 1 hour at gas mark 4". I'm hungry now, so 30 minutes at gas mark 8 it is. I'm typing this as I'm about to tuck into my Escoffier creation, and I have to say : I look forward to trying out a different recipe of his every night. ... I'm deeply unimpressed by french cooking, and will stick to cremating my dinner on the barbecue. But don't think Mr Escoffier's book has been completely useless. The pages are gratifyingly flammable. (Comment on this)
Monday, July 2nd, 2007
11:33 am	Soichiro Honda Mr Honda, creator of the Honda Motor Corporation, was a bastard. I say this even though I own a Honda Accord which has proven utterly reliable. And despite my admiration for a man who created a world-beating company from a wooden shack in Tokyo. No, his bastard credentials are embodied in my damn Honda which, despite my best efforts, keeps chugging along with frightening Nipponese reliability. I’ve tried taking speed-bumps at 60mph, using the wrong type of fuel, driving with the engine pinging off the rev-limiter for hours a time. But despite my best efforts of Anglo-Saxon sabotage, Honda-san starts every morning with a “mmmmmmm” sound that I believe is Japanese for “Ah westerner. Say goodbye to European car industry. We crush you with 5 year plan. So sorry.” My loathing for this reliability may come as a surprise to you dear reader, but allow me to grant a small window into my thinking. I’ve owned a variety of cars over the years, my most recent being a Lotus Elise sportscar. I’ve written about this before : It’s a sheet of aluminium with an engine and two seats. Sitting in the driver’s seat you look down and there’s a polo mint, which on closer inspection turns out to be the steering wheel. Of course, you’ll not be needing that, as in the intervening time between sitting down and grabbing the steering wheel the car has broken down. This is excellent news for men who love cars but feel guilty spending money. “Ah. I’d love to keep this car, but alas, it’s broken down. Tsk tsk. Better get a newer…”  (and faster) “…one. Heigh-ho, off to the TVR dealership I go.” A Honda exhibits none of this obliging temperament. You see dear reader, in my heart there wells up a illicit lust. I've tried to hide it, but I know deep down I'm living a lie. Honda has been gentle with me. Reliable, dependable. He's made sure my posture's comfortable, my buttocks are well cossetted, the sweaty sheen on my skin gently dried by his air-conditioned breath.  But really I want an Italian. I want passion from something that snorts and snarls when I get into it. I want to be thrown from side to side, be bent over double for hours at a time. I want to deal out rough love and be covered in bruises after a long, hard ride.   ... I shall leave this line of reasoning now, and we shall never speak of it again....  Yes. Cars.  When I relinquished the Lotus, knowing as I did that my "personal image" would take a dent, I consoled myself with the thought that - "I'm too old for a sportscar. Besides, I'm big enough and confident enough that I don't need some crutch to my self-esteem. A Honda will do the job of getting from A to B." (Not that a Honda doesn't go fast, it's just that 55mph is such a comfortable speed)  Well, it turns out after all that, I'm actually a small and immature man who does need a crutch. I have the pot-belly of middle-age, thinning hair – so it’s either a sportscar or a motorbike. Having seen lorries treating bikers like 6ft piñatas filled with chunky salsa, a car seems the choice for a physical coward like myself. And so - I've been eyeing a Maserati. Not an expensive one. There's too much potential for a reliable car if I did that, and then where would I be? No a 3200GT should provide excitement on so many levels. Will it start ? Will I lose my license ? Will my house be repossessed ? The only obstacle in my way is Mr Honda and his unbreakable vehicle, but I have his measure. I’m going to leave it in London’s West-end with an “I love Al-quaeda” sticker in the window. That should do the trick. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 24th, 2007
4:48 pm	Exercise Two months ago I thought I was fat. Having lived my life thinking salad is a cosmetic garnish only, and as a consequence buying clothes by the yard rather than by the item - I could be forgiven for my certitude. But I was wrong! I've discovered my physique is that of a "power athlete". Apparently, beneath the epidermal fat are an array of things called "muscles", ready to compress, stretch and (if I might use a phrase borrowed from our american cousins), "pump iron". This pleasant discovery came to light part way through a gruelling session with my personal trainer. He, a wiry man built from hard angles and sinew, commented on my lack of endurance. This after a brisk hundred yard trot followed by a similarly brisk five minutes of writhing and sobbing. "You're not exactly built for running are you..." I was shocked. Hurt even. With my broad thighs and generous "energy deposits" around my middle, who would be a better long-distance runner than I ? My disappearing confidence was apparent - as was the dwindling chance of repeat business. "Ah. What I mean is. You've the physique of a power-athlete. Not a skinny endurance runner. You're built for ...for...bursts of controlled explosive activity. Like a boxer or ..." He need say no more. I hobbled over to the bureau, gathered my strength and wrote a cheque for twelve sessions. He looked me up and down : "I'd better cash this quick". Oh how we laughed. But, now two months in I'm finding myself enjoying the wind in my hair, the steady pound of my feet on dirt. The sensation of reaching my front door drenched in sweat, endorphins pinging through my veins leaving me aglow (and technically high on opiates). But by far the best thing, is the smug self-righteousness that wells up every time I see someone overweight. I may be the same size as them, but, by gum, I can run a full 1/4 mile without stopping followed by three push-ups. Of course, this feeling is tempered by a lingering doubt that no matter how much exercise I suffer, my muscles will be unwilling to relinquish their cocooning layer of fat. I hope that over the coming weeks they'll shed this adipose tissue – effecting the sort of transformation one sees only in cartoons when saying “By the power of Greyskull”. My instruction to my trainer on our first meeting was, “I want you to make me fit and muscley. Nothing too fancy and bulging. Like Bruce Lee will do. But ...” (thinking quickly) ”...not the being dead part”. He looked me up and down and sucked his breath over his teeth. No doubt questioning my dedication. “I'm commited. I don't care if it takes all week.” He gently shattered my illusions, informing me that fat, in some people, is as hard to remove as dog-poo in the cleats of a trainer. (If this is a mishap you've ever experienced, for example when running, then you'll be nodding your head in empathy). To compound the misery, fat yields it's buttery embrace last from those parts of the body that one really cares about. I've subsequently verified this, with my body moving ever closer to the classic “olive half-way down a toothpick” shape much loved by middle-aged men. But nil desperadum! I will persevere, even though running for one of my physique is like pushing a jelly uphill with a stick. I will sweat, I will pant, I will ache. I will run hell-for-leather for the part of my running route that has a mainroad - just in case the numbness in my fingers is the start of a major heart attack, (there's a higher chance of being spotted by an ambulance). But overall, most importantly, I will stay smug. Because running's only a half hour of pain, whereas self-satisfaction lasts the whole day. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 18th, 2007
11:55 am	Home Help I have hired a home-help. Or more specifically, I have hired a person who picks up a crisp twenty pound note every week from my dresser. I have been informed the house is clean by my family who recently visited. (I suffer from a medical condition which renders me unable to detect dirt or mess. My doctor has diagnosed it as a “Y-chromosone” or somesuch). However, up until my familial confirmation, I was aware only of the dissappearance of the twenty pound note, and that Sindbad (my cat) had found his way outside on my return home. Normally the finger of suspicion would fall upon Sindbad. Assuming he had seen the cash, and with an eye to the main chance popped out to buy a hookah and an eighth of catnip. Fortunately my powers of recall and deduction led me to link my recent employment of a “cleaner” with the dissappearing money. The mystery solved I’ve started noticing small changes around the house. My shaving soap and badger hair brush have started to be placed on the left of the washbasin for example. I usually store these on the right, so I can : Smooth back my hair with my left hand, keeping the hand over my greying temple so as not to upset my jittery early morning nerves. Reach down with my right and mix up some shaving lather. Now, I face the shaving mirror in confusion (and dawning horror at my grey hairs), whilst making ineffectual grabs for where the shaving brush should be. My books, once heaped in a louche pile, have been marshalled into disciplined stack. Worse, last week I found a note. “The hoover …” – My dear girl. It’s not a hoover, it’s a vacuum cleaner. Advertising is fine in it’s place, but not in private correspondance – “… stopped working and wont’ start. You might need to get another one for me.” Now see here my dear. I’ve been a gracious host. I’ve allowed you to come into my home and move my things around without complaint. Shown sang-froid despite being unable to find both books and shaving equipment at first glance. I’ve even got over the brief confusion of the missing twenty pound note. But to have the temerity to ask me to buy another of these contraptions just so you can have your fun. It takes the biscuit! I left instead a sternly worded note outlining my thoughts on the matter and have heard little since – however my shaving brush now seems to find it’s way into the most unlikely of places (kitchen cupboards are the current favourite), and the Le Creuset pans are scrubbed to a less than perfect finish. This series of small terrorist acts has the potential to turn into a grinding psycological war. Me; refusing to buy cleaning equipment, Her; using devious cunning to upset the balance of my day. I’ve no immediate plans to surrender, unless she unleashes the greatest weapon at her disposal : Putting my shoes in the shoe cabinet – perversely the last place I’d look. Then I will have little choice but to concede defeat. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, January 8th, 2005
12:12 am	Buying a House Denalyia and I are buying a house. Or more accurately, we're *not* buying a house. We're running on a hamster-wheel of housebuying - a capricious god watches us occasionally chuckling with laughter. I give you an example of our recent travails : Me : Soon. Soon my beloved. We'll have a house of our very own. She: Oh. I *do* hope so my sweet prince. Me: Indeed my dear. I shall carry you over the threshold, pausing only for a moment to brush the roses aside that grow around the door. I'll be careful not to let my feet slip on the polished oak floor, as I'm distacted by all the Victorian period features. She: Roses darling ? Don't forget the jasmine and hollyhocks in the front garden. Me: Of course. I been meaning to say, perhaps we can make do with just the three downstairs reception rooms. We could put the library in the fourth bedroom upstairs. She: I understand darling. Sacrfices may have to be made. Me: And may I say how fetching you're looking in that chiffon. I was saying to the Duchess earlier today ... and so on. A typical conversation between us before we had started on this house-search. The reality is somewhat different. Jean-Paul Satre, if he had ever wanted to convey the horror of existance for his readers could have made his works considerably shorter by included the sentance "buy a house with no deposit" on the first page and left the remainders blank. Unfortunately the typical conversation with the estate agent is thus : Satan (for it is he): I have a fantastic* property for you to view. Me: Where? How much? Oh praise be! LiePeddler: 57, Vandal Crescent, Shittham. It's a great place. Just what you're looking for. A scant 1 hours drive from the train station, with a single knocked through bedroom and living room. To make a light airy space, the previous owners have combined the kitchen and toilet into a single room. It's just within your budget. Me: (weakly) Why are the current people selling ? Lord of the Fallen : Ah. They dissappeared recently. The neighbour (nice man. Does a lot of digging in the garden after midnight), told me. Decent enough chap. A Mister Shipman-West-Dahmer. Compounding our misery is the 'advice' from family, friends and colleagues. When I inform them I'm buying a house with no deposit, they 'tsk tsk' to themselves and inform me santimoniously that I would do far better to hold off and buy a house when I have the full 5 or 10%. "So I should keep renting then?" I speculate. Ah no. Renting, it would seem makes one a single step up from a dog or highly trained mouse in the intelligence ladder. "It's dead money you see. Much better to buy" - I am informed. The remains but a single alternative. I shall grow my hair and go live in a cave. It may be cold and damp, but it's free. Furthermore, at the end of the day it's the simple things in life you cherish. Like the face of a small child as I run out of my cave screaming obsecenities, flinging my own faeces, driven mad with loneliness and ringworm. ---- *fantastic - Technically this means "Bizarre, as in form or appearance". This is how estate agents stay out of prison. (10 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 22nd, 2003
5:30 pm	Those Long Sleepless Nights Recently I haven't been sleeping well; Or more specifically I've been sleeping perfectly well up to the early hours of the morning - Whereupon my eyes slam open, and consciousness goes from sleep to wide-awake without passing through any of the intervening stages. Typically this is at 5am, with another 1 1/2 hours left of my precious 6 hours nightly kip. I'm unsure what causes this. My evolved monkey-brain probably has some pressing business it needs to attend to. Maybe I'm being alerted to the possibility of danger outside the cave mouth (bedroom door). A Surrey puma perhaps. Or a rare Dorking bear (old age pensioners their natural prey one would imagine, looking at the vast reserves of this resource available in Dorking). Or perhaps my subconscious is buzzing with danger at James Bond style tarantula crawling over the bed. Alas, I turn my steely gaze around the room in a manly quest for Hemingway-esque danger and derring-do, and find none. Every sense alert, my muscles flexing, veins standing out like ripcords, as I lay under my MrMan duvet, just my eyes peeking manfully over the top. So it appears 4 million years of evolution has been wasted, and I shan’t be needed to spring into action; a two-fisted dervish of destruction. Berating my subconscious (which I'm sure if it could talk would be shrugging it's metaphorical shoulders with a 'Better safe than sorry guv. More’n my jobs worth'), I heave my gentlemanly bulk from the nest of conjugal delights (hem hem) and nip off for a quick glass of water. Upon returning, without fail, Denalyia has grown vastly in size. Whereas on getting into bed she accumulates duvets and blankets like an overgrown colonial hamster, forming a discrete breathing ball of quilting on her side of the bed; Now she has become a massive sprawling mass of immovable flesh in the dead centre. Gentle entreaties don't shift her, nor do repeated proddings. I briefly consider getting the car-jack to raise one side of the bed, rolling her over to her side, but settle for cowardice being the better side of valour, and snuggle into the 6 square inches remaining. At this point I discover that the part of the duvet covering me has obviously grown lonely in my brief absence, and has joined with it’s five brothers and sisters performing sterling service keeping Denalyia toasty-woasty. In fact it’s managed to snuggle underneath the aforementioned immovable object. If Hercules had retrieving that duvet without getting a mouthful from his missus as one of his tasks, he’d have given it all up as a bad job. But persevere I do, eventually laying my head down in bed, closing my eyes – just in time for the alarm clock to go off. Chortling with mirth at my predicament with a chorus of “fuckityfuckfuck”s I spring out of bed, run a nice warm bath and hop in wide-awake with the happiness of being alive. And fall asleep in the bath, making myself late for work. Bum. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, October 13th, 2003
2:48 pm	vote for me At time of writing the leader of the Conservative party is IDS. Namely, one Iain Duncan Smith. The extra 'i' in his first name would indicate a certain devil-may-care bohemian attitude. A man who lives for the moment perhaps and damn the consequences. In short, it conjures up excitement, verve and a certain 'foreign' air. Sadly, the Nissan Micra of my pet theory has been flattened by the Monster Truck Rodeo of the Facts. The leader of Her Majesties official opposition party is presiding in his dull gloomy way, over the decline of the Tory party. An organisation that has... well, let's be honest... had it's ups and downs. If it were a horse, Mssrs Knacker and Son have a speculative look in their eye, and a horse shaped slot in the glue factory schedule. My own politics being to the far right of the Telegraph editorial column - I have watched with growing horror the spectre of the Liberal Democrats becoming the main party of opposition. The idea of two packs of hand-wringing pro-tax-rise lefties in the Palace of Westminster is one which fills my stout yeoman heart with a black melancholy. And so, stiffening my resolve, disguising hard favoured rage with fair nature, I have little choice but to put myself forward in the leadership race for the Conservative party. True. True. I have hitherto expressed little interest in politics, except for the occasional outburst at the television when I see people on unemployment benefit, or those who have the temerity to criticise the royal family. However - I do exhibit the following - All points in my favour I'm sure you'll agree : 1. I have hitherto expressed little interest in politics. 2. I have angry outbursts when I see people on unemployment benefit. 3. I have angry outbursts when I see people criticising the Royal Family. 4. I look good in blue. A shoe-in I'm sure you'll agree. But there's more. 'surely not!' comes a well-paid crony from the back of the town hall. 'Ah yes' I reply, my answer ready (already the consumate Westminster statesman). Should I consequently be elected to Prime Minister (just a matter of time) I will lower the upper income tax bracket to -10%. That's right. The government will give you money back! People on high wages do important jobs, and deserve the extra cash in their pocket. Also, it gives those in lower paid employment the extra incentive to work hard and get into that all-important upper-tax band. I'll halt unemployment benefit with a stroke of my pen, and replace it with a system of indentured servitude. All immigrants will be held in a British island (say the Falkland islands) for processing. Then, after processing we'll ship them off to Greenland and *tell* them it's Southampton. Tatoos on people under 35 will be illegal, and earings on men over 35 as well - bringing a much needed minimum level of sartorial elegance to Britain's estates. A sensible and measured manifesto you cry. Finally a politician with both the charisma, but also the personae gravitas to pull it off. Indeed, indeed. But one step at a time. Please write in to your local conservative office (on your speed dial surely, hmmm?) and request they swiftly... no, *immediately* ... install Rsking as the rightful successor to the Thatcher mantle. No need to call me to confirm - I don't want the phone tied up when Head Office calls. Next column - Why we must attack continental Europe's soft underbelly while they're weak. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, October 6th, 2003
4:26 pm	Getting old. I remember when I was eighteen, thinking that as I would be 27 by New Year 2000, I would be too old to party. Looking back from old-ages lofty heights, I can say with some certainty that the flat-stomached, clean limbed, fresh-lunged sexually-frustrated eighteen year old may have had a point. Up until now, the decline into middle-age has been a gradual and almost sophomoric affair. Cardigans mean comfy knitwear instead of a popular beat combo. I’ve started to enjoy jazz and classical, as it’s a bit less noisy than that other stuff., and has a proper tune you can hum along with. Wine is chosen for it’s palate instead of it’s alcohol per pound. I find myself discussing the merits of different A-roads with my friends. All in all, a gentle descent into dotage, with the occasional pause to try and remember where I’m going. Nothing unpleasant. But last week I happened to glance in the mirror when stepping out of the bath. To my shock (and no little horror), someone had stolen my pert arse replacing it overnight with an middle-aged man’s saggy backside. It’s not the replacement per se I resent; It’s the suddenness of it all. Me and those rounded cheeks go back some decades, and I would have liked the opportunity to say goodbye. I suppose there must be reason for it; After all, children have the Tooth Fairy to take away baby teeth making room for adult ones. Perhaps my tight teenage tushy has been stolen away by the Bum Ogre, or some other minor figure of mythology. Hard though it may be to imagine what the Tooth Fairy does with all those teeth; It’s harder still to see why the Bum Ogre would be abroad at night, young men’s buttocks the target of his thievery. Unless he’s a member of the clergy. Also, it seems like other parts of my body are becoming more slovenly. The hair at my temples has finally decided on a change of lifestyle, going with the easily maintainable ‘gray look’ instead of the more ambitious brown it had previously decided on (not, as far as I was aware, a choice that’s later negotiable). My body has tried to compensate for it’s betrayal by sprouting other dark hairs in strange places. Such is it’s fecundity that I find myself eyeing the Shopping Channel nasal and ear trimmer with a speculative eye. I live in constant fear that my body will find another orifice and grow bristly hairs from that also; I fear QVC may not offer a specialised trimmer for *that* hour of need. (A gap in the market perhaps…). The single saving grace of the whole affair is that I know I’m not really getting old. The rest of the world is getting younger, in a spiteful plot to make me feel an old duffer. (Of course I mean “feel *like* an old duffer”, not…well… you know what I mean). The Police Force appears to have lowered it’s age of entry considerably in the last decade. The modern history programs, which used to show stuff that was positively ancient, as far back as the 60s and 70s sometimes – Now show things that happened just yesterday in the 80s and 90s. And so it’s with a light heart and a trip in my step that I shall skip… well shuffle… into my thirties. Besides, I know it’s not 30 you need worry about. It’s 40 that’s the biggy. Hopefully by then I’ll be too far gone to notice the decline of my faculties… (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, April 25th, 2003
4:59 pm	The Triumph Stag Now, some of you may already know of my Toad-of-ToadHall like enthusiasm for cars that ensure instant death upon collision - eschewing such luxuries as seat padding, working heaters, insulation, etc: Instead making do with the more virile alternative of a bigger brrm-brrm noise maker at one end. My Lotus works on this principle, being essentially an engine with 4 wheels attached with the driver strapped to the front. One imagines the Lotus engineers, being dedicated pipesmoking overall-wearers and rather attached to their excellent engine, placed the driver in the front to protect the engine in the event of a crash. The main complaint I have with this whole system is that because the entire car body is of the approximate weight (and protective qualities) of, say, an anorak made entirely of moonbeams; the engine by necessity is relatively small. Consequently the sound it makes, instead of a brrm-brrm is more of a wwhh-wwhh. Imagine if you will a sewing machine. Now imagine kind reader that you take a closer look at that sewing machine and find the manufacturing stamp of that famous industrialist 'Messrs Fisher Price & Co.'. Furthermore you find on investigation the assurance that it is safe for ages 5 and up. This sound is not unadjacent to that of my car, although the sewing machine perhaps has the edge in the high-rev range. So it's with some delight that I watched my father (gawd bless the old duffer) bring into the ancestral home a 1974 Triumph Stag. For those not familiar with this most thoroughbred of British marques, it's a V8 Grand Tourer. Being British designed and built is obviously a stamp of quality in a vehicle, and so I was unsurprised when I cast my jaded eye over it's stately form and took it all in. My Bond to my father's 'Q' I leaned over to him languidly "All the usual refinements I presume?" "Of course" came the laconic reply. And indeed: The plastic faux-walnut veneer. The electric windows that effortlessly wheeze and stutter their way three-quarters closed. The real plastic seats made by British Leyland (declared bankrupt 1975). But even with this display of finesse I was unprepared for the experience of actually starting this Beast of Albion. Well. To be completely honest with you the 8 tries to start the damn thing actually came as no great surprise, but once the engine caught, fired, started, stalled, restarted, stalled, restarted, and finally ran smoothly - I was taken aback. The rumbling animal growl from under the bonnet hinted that while a pipe-smoking overall wearer may have designed this car - He smoked a damn BIG pipe. With the stinkiest brashest tobacco money can buy. Probably bought in from a specialist outlet for pipe-smokers who live on the edge. Pumping the accelerator brought...well...more stalling, but in a Stag this is known as 'owning a car with character', and so with perserverance, technique and a hammer we managed to coax forth a heart-pounding roar - rising to a deep-timbred scream with more throttle, (think of Barry White catching himself in his zipper). And so, it's with no small measure of anticipation that like an expectant father, I'm pacing my office waiting for the MOT results so we can unleash this Panther of the Sceptred Isle on the local countryside. I shall keep you informed. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, April 24th, 2003
10:53 am	Walkies Well, this last weekend myself and my trusty mule denalyia (yah mule, yah!) walked in the steps of the pilgrims across the North Downs from the ancient market town of Dorking to the hive of scum and villainy that is Guildford. Now for those of you not fortunate enough to have grown up in Surrey -for if England is God's own country, then Surrey is his garden (and Liverpool presumably his outdoor privy with pieces of newspaper tacked to the door for divine arse-wipage- but I digress); it is a fine walk with excellent views marred only by the tedious task of having to alternately put the left foot in front of the right and then vice-versa several hundred thousand times. My feet, unused to such ungentlemanly treatment, did their best to protest - Which if you ask me is a little rich given that ones feet are their for a single purpose, and asking them to perform this simple task is scarcely beyond their repertoire of talents. However, complain they did, and joining their carping was the perfidious thighs (O betrayed by my own genital-props) and stomach. Never before has my stomach, a hardy and ...shall we say, 'built on a robust scale'..organ failed me before. So imagine if you will dear reader the pain and anguish I had to endure. The painful feet, the burning thighs and the proverbial as well as literal bellyaching. denalyia was of scant help - gamboling ahead like a little baa-lamb while I trudged behind like a great lumpen three legged ox. However, the cruel and unusual punishment aside, a good time was had for one good reason. Not the views, oh no. Views, it's generally agreed in chez Russ, are things best experienced through a pane of glass. Either a car window, or by preference, the television screen when tuned into Heartbeat or somesuch other pastoralfest. No. The pleasure in question derived from the sneering and dissapproving looks we bestowed on those other walkers either a) walking too slowly (lazy fat ugly people in the main) b) walking too fast (the majority of whom were flash showoffs with no taste) c) driving to natural beauty spots (soft jellyfish people with no spine) d) walking longer distances than us (sad lonely folk with no social life) Special mention must be made of the Duke of Edinburgh award hikers (rough surly young people), where we gained a good half hour of enjoyment first tsk-tsking to ourselves at their foul language, and then complaining at good length to each other of the youth of today. Eventually, struggling with blisters, bunions, and other foot-related ailments we arrived in Guildford, a once pleasant town overlooked by a modern built cathedral that squats on a hill overlooking the town like a gigantic terracotta toad on a pondside. I shall write no more of Guildford, as although it must have it's good points (people do live there after all), the only one I could find was the train station; viz. A method of leaving Guildford - Which I think says it all. Russ. (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, December 12th, 2002
11:46 pm	First post Although it's almost certainly true that this will be both my first and last post to LiveJournal, I felt it my duty to record my wit and wisdom, for future generations yet to come. I feel that by keeping such writing short and to the point, I will earn not only the praise and admiration of my peers, but indeed also the lifelong gratitude of schoolchildren not yet born, who will be expected to learn my quotes for fear of the headmasters lash... ... ... I have just been informed that the lash, cat-o'nine-tails, cane, and indeed even the shillyhaugh have been deemed too ineffective for our toughened schoolchildren, and for the last ten years the phrase 'parent-teacher-child mutual support group' has added new terror to the words 'state education'. Which neatly brings me onto my topic of today. Children. Loath them, or merely detest them, it's a sad fact that the world population of anklebiting human-rodentia is on the increase. Ah! you may argue. The UK's population growth is inconsequential when compared to those hotbeds of bodily fluids - China and India. "Piffle!" say I, loudly waving aside your arguments with a sagely shrug of my shoulders and furrowing of the brow. Besides, I have plan that, if effective, will solve not only the problems of Great Britain, our Green and Pleasant Land, Sceptered Isle… [sound of Jerusalam can be heard distantly on the breeze] …Land of Albion, We Few, We happy few… …ahem. – Not only will solve the problems in the UK, but also those abroad as well. My Grand Idea – Eat those infants which are look like they’re doing poorly at school. Now I realise this system is open to abuse. Doubtless close to Christmas teachers will be looking at their empty larders and start marking down the plumper juicier children in the hope they will be selected for culling at the end of the term. But looking on the bright side, there will be little more staying inside on the playstation once adults start darkly referring to it as ‘fattening up time’. Indeed – We will be rewarded with a nation of healthy schoolchildren with little more on their minds than doing well in school and maintaining no more than 3% bodyfat. Those children who – let’s be kind – “don’t make the grade” will be humanely culled; And lets face it, who wouldn’t want to carve into a delicious Sunny-Delite fed bantam-weight year 3-er on a Sunday. Or perhaps if family are coming round a free-range “Dagenham” from Bernie Matthews Council Estate farms…. ? Think about it – you know it makes sense. (12 Comments |Comment on this)