Today I am not having lunch with Boris Becker. How should I be feeling about this? Surprised, disappointed, confused, relieved, nonplussed, forlorn, elated or indifferent? Once again I am not sure how I feel and cannot even begin to describe my current emotional state. Because to be fair, Boris never gave me reason to believe that we might be having lunch together. And I certainly never (wittingly at least) intimated that a luncheon might be on the cards for today.
Luncheon? What is a luncheon anyway? I never heard of anyone (Boris, or Prince Charles or Terry Nutkins or anyone) having a breakfasteon or a dinnereon so why luncheon? Who knows? Maybe Jimmy Wales knows. Jimmy Wales, someone else incidentally, that I am not having lunch with today in case you were wondering. But I digress. The point is not that I am not having lunch with Jimmy Wales, but that I am not lunching with the 3 times Champion of Wimbledon, Boris Becker. Why? Well, partly I imagine because Boris is busy. And I too am busy. Too busy for lunch? No, never. I always make time for lunch. I don't how to make time, if time can even be said to exist in any real sense but nevertheless I always manage to make some of it - for lunch. In this respect you could say I am slightly French, or Gallic - with the level of importance I attach to and my unwavering fondness for the second meal of the day - but only slightly. How do I feel about this? Bof.
One day I hope to meet Boris Becker and one day too I imagine Boris hopes to meet me. At some point in the future we will meet and talk about tennis and no doubt other sports (e.g basketball) and women and no doubt other female creatures (e.g cows) and we will get on so well like an amicable pair of old birds sitting in a tree that a lunch date will become an inevitable eventuality. It is just a matter of time and "time", as they (and when I say they, I mean Douglas Adams) say is, "is an illusion - lunchtime doubly so".
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Friday, 17 June 2011
Moonshine & Trumpery - is any body there?
This morning I was in the middle of a bowl of muesli when I suddenly thought to myself: I’ve had approximately 11,500 breakfasts and I’m still not bored, on the contrary I honestly believe I enjoy breakfast now more than ever and hopefully I have plenty more to look forward to! Then I thought to myself : Who is this self I am thinking to?
Who am I? Who is I? If I am not myself then who or what is? I is the 9th letter of the Latin alphabet (after H and before J) but it’s also a word, the first person singular pronoun in English. We use it to refer to ourselves. It’s capitalised, whereas you, he, she and it are not. It’s important. I is important. But am I important? I was beginning to have my doubts.
I spun a yam and clung to Kent. Metaphorically, of course. I still don’t know what that means. How do you spin a yam? Is it a sweet potato or just really similar, how do you cling to a county and why would you want to? My primal sense of self, the poor defenceless creature, was under threat once more. The burden of existence thrust upon me without prior warning or consent, the overwhelming triviality of life bearing down on me, pulverising my moth-eaten, weather-beaten soul. Then I looked outside and saw that it was raining. So I turned on the TV. I watched for a moment and said to myself: It is raining outside, I don't know who I am, I am currently unconvinced of my purpose in life but at least I am not on the Jeremy Kyle show. I is not Jeremy Kyle, I is whoever you want I to be. Grammatically this all sounds very problematic, but existentially it is a walk in the park. Enjoy...
Who am I? Who is I? If I am not myself then who or what is? I is the 9th letter of the Latin alphabet (after H and before J) but it’s also a word, the first person singular pronoun in English. We use it to refer to ourselves. It’s capitalised, whereas you, he, she and it are not. It’s important. I is important. But am I important? I was beginning to have my doubts.
I spun a yam and clung to Kent. Metaphorically, of course. I still don’t know what that means. How do you spin a yam? Is it a sweet potato or just really similar, how do you cling to a county and why would you want to? My primal sense of self, the poor defenceless creature, was under threat once more. The burden of existence thrust upon me without prior warning or consent, the overwhelming triviality of life bearing down on me, pulverising my moth-eaten, weather-beaten soul. Then I looked outside and saw that it was raining. So I turned on the TV. I watched for a moment and said to myself: It is raining outside, I don't know who I am, I am currently unconvinced of my purpose in life but at least I am not on the Jeremy Kyle show. I is not Jeremy Kyle, I is whoever you want I to be. Grammatically this all sounds very problematic, but existentially it is a walk in the park. Enjoy...
Friday, 18 February 2011
Moonshine & Trumpery - a taster
This dame walks into my office without knocking on my door, sometimes I think why did I even bother getting a door if people aren’t even going to bother knocking on it, then I remember the door came with the office so I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Oh, well, such is life. Anyway, I happen to be in the middle of my lunch. It’s Tuesday so I’m having quiche and salad.
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my quiche and salad?”
I look up and notice the dame. She’s hot. My God, hotter than a page 3 girl in the middle of the desert in the middle of the day, wrapped up in a duffel coat. Boy I wish she’d do herself a favour take that coat off.
She pulls me out of my quiche and salad.
“How the hell did you get in there?”
“What do you think? I slipped on a banana skin. What’s with all the questions? I’m the private dick around here.”
“Not that private from what I’ve heard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.”
“No, you tell me.”
“No, you tell me.”
“All right forget it. I don’t have all day, can’t you see I’m closed for lunch?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Lucky you. What did you have?”
“Chicken.”
“What kind of chicken?”
“Actually I had an egg, I was in a hurry and couldn’t wait.”
“What can I do for you, Miss…?”
“Miss Nomer.”
“How appropriate.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not my real name.”
“Let me guess, you won’t tell me your real name because you distrust me.”
“It’s mistrust.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How’s the quiche?”
“I’ll live. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what the problem is.”
“I can’t sit down. I’ve got piles.”
“I got piles too, lady. Piles of paperwork, I’ve got a tax return to do before the end of the month or I get hit with a fine. Quit wasting my time and tell me what you want.”
“I think I’m having an affair.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve been acting very strange lately.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know but I’m going to find out. I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll follow you around for $50 a day, see what I can dig up.”
“Why dollars?”
“Because the pound sign on my laptop doesn’t work.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’ll give you 50Euros.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Actually I drive a Nissan Micra, sometimes I ride a bike, what with the congestion charge and everything.”
“All right, 50 quid, and you got yourself a deal.”
“50 quid, that’s more than 50Euros.”
“Yeah, well, VAT increase, if you don’t like it, lump it.”
“What does expression even mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“Please, if my husband finds out I’m having an affair, he’ll kill me.”
“I won’t let that happen to you.”
The dame gives me 50 quid and I kick her out of my office, I hurt my foot I forgot I’m not wearing any shoes, I never wear shoes when I’m eating quiche, don’t ask, that’s just the way I roll. Actually I roll like this. I give the dame a head start; tell her to go about her day as if everything is normal. With the 50 quid she gave me I go to Star Bucks I can just about afford a coffee, I order a skinny latte, Grande size, which is the smallest size you can get even though everyone knows Grande means big. Where the hell did these bozos go to school? Don’t they know anything? Rio Grande? It’s a pretty big river. La Grande Illusion? It’s a pretty big illusion. Grande Fratello? The Italian version of Big Brother, same crap different language. Anyway, you get the picture.
I take my coffee, and walk on trying to catch up with the dame I don’t want to walk too fast as I’m afraid I’ll spill my coffee, I’m behind her about 50 yards, a yard for every pound she gave me to follow her but she must she sense that she’s being followed because she picks up the pace. I take a sip of my coffee, it’s real nice, I got an extra sprinkle of cinnamon on top, but I think I’m going to lose the dame, it reminds me of the time I had to follow Kris Acabusi, man that guy is fast, especially when there aren’t any hurdles in his way.
Suddenly, the lady turns around, I react in the only way I know, I dive into the nearest bush, not that kind of bush what do you take me for? I mean a shrub. Phew that was close. I pick myself up, run down the nearest alley, not that kind of alley, I climb over a fence, into a garden, through a cat flap; it’s a small cat flap, when I say small I mean Grande size, big enough for a tiger. Crikey, who would live in a house like this? There’s only one way to find out. I go upstairs and get changed. The lady arrives at the front door and rings the doorbell. I open the door; I’m standing there in a fancy pink dressing gown, with fluffy slippers and big fat cigar hanging out my mouth.
“Good to see you again,” I say.
“You too,” says the dame.
The lady plants a big fat kiss on my lips before I’ve had a chance to take cigar out of my mouth.
“Ouch y,” she says, “that really hurt. When are you going to stop smoking?”
“I’ll stop smoking when you leave your husband,” I reply.
“That’s real funny, darling” she says. “How was your day?”
“Great,” I say. “Now come inside and take off your duffel coat.”
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my quiche and salad?”
I look up and notice the dame. She’s hot. My God, hotter than a page 3 girl in the middle of the desert in the middle of the day, wrapped up in a duffel coat. Boy I wish she’d do herself a favour take that coat off.
She pulls me out of my quiche and salad.
“How the hell did you get in there?”
“What do you think? I slipped on a banana skin. What’s with all the questions? I’m the private dick around here.”
“Not that private from what I’ve heard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.”
“No, you tell me.”
“No, you tell me.”
“All right forget it. I don’t have all day, can’t you see I’m closed for lunch?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Lucky you. What did you have?”
“Chicken.”
“What kind of chicken?”
“Actually I had an egg, I was in a hurry and couldn’t wait.”
“What can I do for you, Miss…?”
“Miss Nomer.”
“How appropriate.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not my real name.”
“Let me guess, you won’t tell me your real name because you distrust me.”
“It’s mistrust.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How’s the quiche?”
“I’ll live. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what the problem is.”
“I can’t sit down. I’ve got piles.”
“I got piles too, lady. Piles of paperwork, I’ve got a tax return to do before the end of the month or I get hit with a fine. Quit wasting my time and tell me what you want.”
“I think I’m having an affair.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve been acting very strange lately.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know but I’m going to find out. I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll follow you around for $50 a day, see what I can dig up.”
“Why dollars?”
“Because the pound sign on my laptop doesn’t work.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’ll give you 50Euros.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Actually I drive a Nissan Micra, sometimes I ride a bike, what with the congestion charge and everything.”
“All right, 50 quid, and you got yourself a deal.”
“50 quid, that’s more than 50Euros.”
“Yeah, well, VAT increase, if you don’t like it, lump it.”
“What does expression even mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“Please, if my husband finds out I’m having an affair, he’ll kill me.”
“I won’t let that happen to you.”
The dame gives me 50 quid and I kick her out of my office, I hurt my foot I forgot I’m not wearing any shoes, I never wear shoes when I’m eating quiche, don’t ask, that’s just the way I roll. Actually I roll like this. I give the dame a head start; tell her to go about her day as if everything is normal. With the 50 quid she gave me I go to Star Bucks I can just about afford a coffee, I order a skinny latte, Grande size, which is the smallest size you can get even though everyone knows Grande means big. Where the hell did these bozos go to school? Don’t they know anything? Rio Grande? It’s a pretty big river. La Grande Illusion? It’s a pretty big illusion. Grande Fratello? The Italian version of Big Brother, same crap different language. Anyway, you get the picture.
I take my coffee, and walk on trying to catch up with the dame I don’t want to walk too fast as I’m afraid I’ll spill my coffee, I’m behind her about 50 yards, a yard for every pound she gave me to follow her but she must she sense that she’s being followed because she picks up the pace. I take a sip of my coffee, it’s real nice, I got an extra sprinkle of cinnamon on top, but I think I’m going to lose the dame, it reminds me of the time I had to follow Kris Acabusi, man that guy is fast, especially when there aren’t any hurdles in his way.
Suddenly, the lady turns around, I react in the only way I know, I dive into the nearest bush, not that kind of bush what do you take me for? I mean a shrub. Phew that was close. I pick myself up, run down the nearest alley, not that kind of alley, I climb over a fence, into a garden, through a cat flap; it’s a small cat flap, when I say small I mean Grande size, big enough for a tiger. Crikey, who would live in a house like this? There’s only one way to find out. I go upstairs and get changed. The lady arrives at the front door and rings the doorbell. I open the door; I’m standing there in a fancy pink dressing gown, with fluffy slippers and big fat cigar hanging out my mouth.
“Good to see you again,” I say.
“You too,” says the dame.
The lady plants a big fat kiss on my lips before I’ve had a chance to take cigar out of my mouth.
“Ouch y,” she says, “that really hurt. When are you going to stop smoking?”
“I’ll stop smoking when you leave your husband,” I reply.
“That’s real funny, darling” she says. “How was your day?”
“Great,” I say. “Now come inside and take off your duffel coat.”
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
A poem from Napoleon Bonaparte to his lover Mademoiselle Georges the beautiful French actress
In all of Europe
From Iceland to the Caspian Sea
Which some people actually consider to be
not a sea but a really big lake
Being as it is an enclosed body of water
You are the most beautiful young woman
For obvious reasons I’m so glad you’re not my daughter
From Iceland to the Caspian Sea
Which some people actually consider to be
not a sea but a really big lake
Being as it is an enclosed body of water
You are the most beautiful young woman
For obvious reasons I’m so glad you’re not my daughter
Monday, 4 October 2010
Tennis Elbow
Jill: How’s Phil?
Jackie: Oh, he’s all right. You know Phil
Jill: Yeah, I know Phil.
Jackie: He says he’s got tennis elbow.
Jill: Tennis elbow, what’s that then?
Jackie: It’s what you get when you play tennis.
Jill: I didn’t know Phil played tennis.
Jackie: He doesn’t. He’s never played tennis in his life.
Jill: Oh, so how’d he get tennis elbow then?
Jackie: I don’t know, he says he went to the doctor’s and the doctor said he’s got tennis elbow.
Jill: Is there a cure for it?
Jackie: He’s not allowed to play tennis six weeks.
Jill: That shouldn’t be too hard.
Jackie: Not for Phil, no.
Jill: It’s funny isn’t it?
Jackie: Do you want to know what I think?
Jill: What?
Jackie: I reckon he might be having an affair.
Jill: What, Phil?
Jackie: Yeah, Phil.
Jill: With a tennis player?
Jackie: Yeah, a tennis player. You know Phil.
Jill: Yeah, I know Phil.
Jackie: How’s Brian?
Jill: Oh, Brian’s all right. You know Brian.
Jackie: Yeah, I know Brian.
Jill: He says he’s got Athlete’s foot but apart from that he’s fine.
Jackie: Oh, he’s all right. You know Phil
Jill: Yeah, I know Phil.
Jackie: He says he’s got tennis elbow.
Jill: Tennis elbow, what’s that then?
Jackie: It’s what you get when you play tennis.
Jill: I didn’t know Phil played tennis.
Jackie: He doesn’t. He’s never played tennis in his life.
Jill: Oh, so how’d he get tennis elbow then?
Jackie: I don’t know, he says he went to the doctor’s and the doctor said he’s got tennis elbow.
Jill: Is there a cure for it?
Jackie: He’s not allowed to play tennis six weeks.
Jill: That shouldn’t be too hard.
Jackie: Not for Phil, no.
Jill: It’s funny isn’t it?
Jackie: Do you want to know what I think?
Jill: What?
Jackie: I reckon he might be having an affair.
Jill: What, Phil?
Jackie: Yeah, Phil.
Jill: With a tennis player?
Jackie: Yeah, a tennis player. You know Phil.
Jill: Yeah, I know Phil.
Jackie: How’s Brian?
Jill: Oh, Brian’s all right. You know Brian.
Jackie: Yeah, I know Brian.
Jill: He says he’s got Athlete’s foot but apart from that he’s fine.
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Ego Death and Sensible Shoes
Today I experienced what I can only describe as an out of body mystical transcendental ego-killing experience. I thought to myself: what is this self I am thinking to? If I am not myself then who or what is I? I was suddenly detached from my own self in the most exhilarating, liberating way and all my anxieties and insecurities vanished. Then I went to Clark's and bought some sensible shoes - not for myself but for my feet.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Hounslow Gray saves the day
Hounslow Gray, semi-famous explorer and environmentalist extraordinaire
Convinces the balding polar bear
Who's down in the mouth
About extinction
To move down south
To avoid extinction
The ice caps melt, the sea level rises
As Hounslow Gray surmises
It's a bloody disaster
There's no happily ever after
But the polar bear doesn't care
Or even give a toss
He's now living in Brent Cross
Having an affair with his boss
And lamenting the loss
Of his hair
Convinces the balding polar bear
Who's down in the mouth
About extinction
To move down south
To avoid extinction
The ice caps melt, the sea level rises
As Hounslow Gray surmises
It's a bloody disaster
There's no happily ever after
But the polar bear doesn't care
Or even give a toss
He's now living in Brent Cross
Having an affair with his boss
And lamenting the loss
Of his hair
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