Sunday evening shindig #6...

Blur - On Your Own

So take me home, don't leave me alone

I'm not that good, but I'm not that bad

No psycho killer, hooligan guerilla

I dream to riot, oh you should try it

Last post...

As if Elizabeth Windsor doesn't have enough to worry about re her Royal Mail, given that hardly anyone corresponds via snail mail anymore. That poor, poor woman now has to contend with lousy typographic errors undermining the very post boxes that carry the reet royal initials. Who on earth would dare to make such a mistake? Clearence? Treason more like.

Defacer...

If you're going to deface a banknote, and therefore, according to my understanding of the The British Currency and Bank Notes Act (1928), be liable on summary conviction to a penalty not exceeding one pound, then do it in style, I say. M was presented with this tenner at an ATM today. I am assuming that the writing has been crossed out because the author was unhappy that s/he had been unable to spell 'bitch' correctly - the struck through "Fuck you you bith" lacking a certain something. I also assume that the 'bith' in question is HM herself.

Mary...

Our neighbour Mary has finally got the message that Finn's name is, erm, Finn. For several weeks she has been calling him Flynn. I countered each such utterance with a louder Finn but I thought I was wasting my time. Until yesterday, that is, when the penny appeared to finally drop with the stubborn/dementia-ridden one and she called our little monkey by his actual name. There is a three foot tall fence separating our two gardens, so it is a good thing that this confusion has been sorted as summer will no doubt be full of Mary and Flynn...oops, Finn, conversations.

Gibberish....

Busy weekend. Wedding. Sunshine. Football. Sunshine. Editing. Sunshine. That kind of thing. Hell, I even found myself weeding the garden this morning, which is a rarity for me, hence the need to pull some of the blighters out of the ground. I rediscovered a table beneath lots of tangly sticky stuff, which was nice and made Finn say "ooh!". I'm writing some speeches for a business type tomorrow. Alarming.

Sunday evening shindig #5...

Pavement - Stereo
Pigs, they tend to wiggle when they walk
The infrastructure rots
And the owners hate the jocks
With their agents and their dates
If the signatures are checked
You'll just have to wait

Sunday evening shindig #4...

Reverend and the Makers - Heavyweight Champion of the World
And you work harder, work harder
Cos you’re told that you must
And you must earn a living
And you must earn a crust

To King's X and back...

Thrilling train ride to London King's Cross and back again. Literally. Got off the train, had one pint on Euston Road, then it was back on the train home, with camera pointed from the engine's cab to the railtrack for a short film title sequence. All for Ted Lewis – I hope he appreciates the effort. The Rt Hon Alan Johnson MP was sitting in the carriage with us on the way down. Reading the Telegraph, pouring over the latest on the expenses scandal. We got fed up of making comic asides about saving receipts etc and had a chat with him – well, camera guru Martin more than me, the two of them sharing an unhealthy interest in all things BAE Systems and Martin shamelessly conducting an OOV interview as his camera rolled. Alan made it clear that he was paying for the wine that he shared his table with, even though it looked as if he was going to get it gratis. Anyway, enough about politicians. Thanks Hull Trains for making it possible and also supplying me with some much-needed food (feta salad followed by fish platter in case you're wondering).

Proof....

Entered a strange Scene 6 twilight zone with big play. Wrote a scene, wasn't happy, wrote a different one, wasn't happy, merged the two, wasn't happy. And this went on and on. I (we!) need a holiday. Although I also need some more lucrative employment.

Saw a proof today of the Humber Mouth (Hull literature festival) brochure. And very good it looks too. One of those moments when you realise you better get your finger out, as you're involved with two of the events listed. Oh, the arts, why did you sink your teeth into me?

Time travel...

Whilst in Bridlington yesterday I noticed, for the first time, that there is a disturbingly old-fashioned shop located on the town's Promenade. Ladies fashion emporium Ernest Whiteley & Co was, apparently, established here in 1901. But despite my countless visits to this East Coast seaside town, I'd never noticed the place. 'Fashion', I hasten to add, is used in the loosest possible sense as there is nothing remotely fashionable about the garments that fill the windows of this complete anachronism. When you walk past and glance inside it feels as if you've discovered that interruption in the space-time continuum you've been looking for all your life. Who buys this stuff? How can it possibly remain in business in these tough times? Well done, Ernest Whiteley & Co, for thriving and surviving for so long. My new favourite newspaper, the Daily Telegraph, may have found the reason why Whiteley's remain in operation - bra fittings. Read more about such matters and what Brid's like in the rainy season in Stephen McClarence's feature here. Writing over two years ago, the author suggests that Whiteley's is a "cosy refuge on an out-of-season day on the East Yorkshire coast — particularly for the more mature customer." Wot, no hoodies?

Seaside special...

We went to Bridlington. Well, what else are you gonna do when the sun is shining and you have a small amount of fuel in the car? We had the award-winning south beach pretty much to ourselves, although the chill wind prevented us from donning Speedos and knotted hankies. Such is the British way that the town was full of elderly folk on those annoying mobility vehicles and, generally, overweight and aesthetically challenged families. We ate chips and ice creams amid the seagulls and M tried - but failed - to win Finn a plush Thomas The Tank from a grabber machine. Apparently, there's an arts festival (BAF - I'm sure you can work out where this acronym is coming from) going on in the town right now but we couldn't find any sign of it, other than a big banner announcing its presence. Maybe that was the art.

Flipping heck...

Hmmm. Yes. A lot of news to digest. All the same story, mind.

I see nothing else for it - Parliament should be dissolved and each and every MP with so much as a question mark over their expense claims - and shut up saying you thought you were operating within the rules - should exit politics. For. Ever.

These people are lying, cheating, thieving scum. They're certainly not fit to rule over anything or anybody. They're not fit to legislate. They are no longer fit to be our servants. They have spent enough of our money. They've made enough profit out of us, bought enough toilet seats, ladies blouses, dog food, light bulbs, gardeners and cleaners. It can't carry on. Enough is enough.

Quite where we go from here I dunno. Quite obviously the political system is something else that's broken in this country. This, folks, is Thatcher's true legacy - a legion of careerist politicians in her dreadful image who have forgotten that they work for us, not the other way round, where greed is the norm, where morals and ethics mean nada. Labour, Tory, Lib-Dem, you're all the fucking same. Nothing to vote for, not there.

Time for a radical solution? Yes please.

And I never thought I'd say it, but well done the Daily Torygraph. Their full list of those 'investigated' here.

Sunday evening shindig #3...

Public Enemy - He Got Game
It might feel good
Sound a litle somethin'
Damn the game
If it don't mean nothin'

Out in the streets...

This page intrigued me yesterday, as we wandered the Avenues. It was just laid there, begging to be photographed. Any idea what book it's from? "'What on earth is that?' I asked my mother as I pulled out odd bits of clothing, a dilapidated blotter, books, old boots, gloves and an old cushion.'

Reserved for Goth...

A most peculiar reservation advertised atop a table in one of Hull's most well-lit cafe bars. "Reserved Goth 2pm" read the postcard taped to the table top. Wish I could have hung around long enough to see the Goth arrive but sadly, by the time we had eaten our tapas and swallowed the last of our ale, there was still no sign of the black-clad creature.

Sunday evening shindig #2...

Beastie Boys - Intergalactic
If you try to knock me you'll get mocked
I'll stir fry you in my wok
Your knees'll start shaking and your fingers pop
Like a pinch on the neck of Mr Spock

Hopefully our street will look tidy...

Rather strange note to all on a community notice board not too far from our house. A plea to residents to take note of builders details and then tell the council if they leave any rubbish on site, so that the council can inform their "inforcement officers". All in the name of keeping the neighbourhood tidy, although I do fear that this particular vigilante may give up the notes out of frustration and take a baseball bat to any construction companies that dare to leave half a brick in the street.