Sorry to hog the home page again, but when one of Backside’s little niggles gets too persistent I have to put digit to key. This time it’s his disbelief that people pay good money to go and watch their favourite sports.
Take golf. With luck you might witness as many as 50 actual strokes from a grandstand! Or 100 if you want to walk all day. And cycling. Whoosh, you missed the leaders, whooooosh you missed the peloton. Take my pic of the Tour in Slacky Bottom. City marathons. No whoosh, just the occasional sweaty jogger. But OK, they’re free.
Why do people do it? Who knows?
PS Cricket is different.
So old Cliff is under suspicion for kiddie-fiddling. Has been for a year allegedly. And oh-so-responsible Auntie Beeb saw fit to announce a search of his London pad. Plod says they didn’t tip off the meeja. So old Cliff seizes the high ground…..for now. Load of rubbish, etc., etc.
But, but….imagine that Plod had taken no action following reports of abuse.
Would the baying pack be any happier?
I’m all for equal opportunities at work but p-lease! A one-armed pilot? Pity about his prosthesis getting caught in the controls and falling off though, eh? But safety was not compromised, allegedly. Yeah, right.
What next, I wonder, to shock and entertain us?
Aha! You think they’re badly designed airports. Naeh. We’re talking language here, particularly among young people. I hear them a lot from my grandchildren when chatting together. Every commment sounds like a question, as if the speaker is on shaky ground or genuinely seeking an answer. “I saw Sarah today (?). She looked like paler than usual (?). Even though she’s like just back from Florida (?).” You must have heard the same (?).
Now none of us oldies enjoy this particular trend, do we? (genuine question) Well, I don’t. Why? Because it sounds weird to my septuagenarian ears. And we probably think it started with Neighbours or Beverley Hills 90210 (antiquated TV soaps from Oz and LA) in which we were treated to the mores of far-flung tribes.
But soft! Apparently the uptalk fad has been amongst us Limeys for far longer. Was it North British, Northern Irish or wha’? Auntie Beeb has an opinion, as ever: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-28708526
(to the tune of ‘My Old Man’s a Dustman’)
All the trams are dirty yeller,
The smog is kinda grey.
They call us Tykes, we’ve got no bikes
‘Cos it’s hilly all the way.
Oh…..the……mums are at the bingo,
The dads are down the pub.
I’ll teach you lot the lingo
But! The Indians make the grub. Read more…
The widow of a Camel smoker has managed to see her way to an award of 20-odd billion dollars – because RJ Reynolds didn’t ensure he knew that their product could endanger his health.
Now I can only suppose that said smoker lived in a hermetically sealed box for the duration of his ill-fated life, shielded from every other source of information that might possibly have educated him about what his fags often do to smokers, from creating addicts to killing millions. Whatever! He and his wife preferred to play the lottery of life. He lost, she won.
Yes, of course there’ll be an appeal, filling the boots of several hundred more lawyers in the process. She’ll end up with less (but more than any of us could dream of). Nice job, lady. Did you ever ask hubby whether he’d heard any whispers about the risks? Far be it from me to suggest that you were complicit!
PS Mrs J is a life-long smoker. I have no plans to sue in the event of a similar occurrence.
I suppose it was inevitable that as soon as the man on the Clapham routemaster was equipped with electronic extensions to his consciousness and spent the journey to work playing with them, the world of politics would be turned upside-down.
Why would he want to wake up to a portrait of Michael Gove when waiting somewhere in the corridors of power were Cameron’s selection of comely ladies ready to strut the Westminster catwalk?
And what’s more to the political point, why would his counterpart on the Budapest tram prefer Mr. Rumpypumpy to the selfied Helle Kinnnock?
Yes, the trend begun by Ron Reagan all those years ago – whereby the clown became the ringmaster – looks set to gather pace. Never mind the quality, check out the Twitter followers. Sixteen-year-olds will vote, reality stars will rule and whatever else happens, it will be a prettier sight.
He: How are you today?
She: Why do you always ask me that when you know I’d tell you if there was anything wrong?
He: OK, good. I’ll just go and make sure we have enough of everything for when our guests arrive.
She: I’ve already done that – it’s always left to me, as you know.
He: OK, fine. I’m quite looking forward to seeing them again, aren’t you?
She: Actually I wish you’d stopped me inviting them but you didn’t. She’s such a control freak and she leads him around like a poodle. Read more…
I didn’t watch the semi-final. Too late and too many – er – Germans. I dislike the monotonous noise their fans emit when they’re winning – which they did, even though Brazil had God on their bench.
So Brazil still has its coffee and nuts, while my team, Holland, is on track to face Germany in the final, given a fair referee tonight v the diving Argies.