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Saturday night

Crassology – Dixon style.

Last night I watched the final of “Britain’s got Talent” on ITV. It was primarily a collection of profound tosspottery. But this act stood out (even above the pro-mawk that was teenage rappers “Bars and Melody”. It was “Paddy and Nico”. An elderly British woman being chucked around the stage by her much younger Spanish dancing instructor – “Oh, young man!”. The act itself reminded of a Quote by TS Eliot along the lines of it being fascinating “If you concentrate on the essential horror”.

But that was not the point. Paddy, the geriatric hoofer, had almost missed the final due to some (clearly) minor injury and Alesha Dixon (one of the judges) praised her “courage” and explicitly compared it to the courage of the troops on D-Day. Epic fail.

So, doing a three minute dance routine is equivalent to charging Sword beach with a rifle at a German machine-gun nest? Alesha, get your dictionary out.

I dunno who won. Frankly I was past caring so put the footie on only to see England secure a goal-less draw against those titans of the game – Honduras. Yes, Honduras. When it comes to the real thing Italy are going to murder us and stack the bones in the shower before breakfast.

I did quite a lot of swearing at the telly last night. And yes, there is a literary ref there which I’d be interested if anyone knows. And I mean knows, not Googles.

Day of the Doctor.

It is today. It is a fixed point in time and space and I shall be there – or at least in Stockport (the Manchester tickets had gone) – to see the 50th anniversary show live in 3D in the cinema. Cool. I shall not be alone. This is being shown live in 94 countries in 1500 cinemas live. This has never been done before. My wife recently bought the 50th anniversary edition of Dr Who Magazine. It has a copy of the 1964 first anniversary edition of the mag which includes a letter from a reader saying that the Who was the best programme (don’t we call ‘em “shows” now) on either channel. How times change!

I should have bought a fez for the night. Fez’s are cool. There is nothing more but this…

The Second Coming…

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

- William Butler Yeats.

Yeah, like whatever because you don’t need a blood-dimmed tide when you have this

David Alexander, 39, of Seaton Delaval, Northumberland, was shocked when he looked over and saw the image of Christ appear above the dashboard of his friend’s car.

Having said that I am sceptical about the second coming in Seaton Delaval because I’ve been there and the the odds on finding three wise men and a virgin in that neck of the woods must be extrememly long.

Mr Alexander, who works as a support manager for a data marketing analysis firm, said: “I was sitting in a friend’s car on Sunday night.

“We were about to set off when an image manifested itself on the driver’s side of the windscreen.

“I could see a face staring back at me – it looked just like the Turin Shroud – except it looked like Jesus was smiling back at me.

Ant & Dec Themselves were unavailable for comment. They had a prior engagement on a taco in Yucatan.

Or possibly the wall of a Chinese take-away in Sunderland* (same article). Having said all that Alan Pardew reckons NUFC might win the Europa Cup. It would appear belief in miracles is alive and well in my native land.

*If God incarnated in Sunderland to look upon His Creation we are all, to use a technical term, fucked. At least they seemed to have fun (whilst it lasted) in Sodom and Gommorrah but Sunderland has been joyless buggery since the year of our Lord 1179.

Britain’s got talent…

I’m going on it next year.

I’m going on with a lesbian Oompa Lumpa who will do the usual song and dance schtick until I shall proceed to beat her to death with a leg from a Queen Anne dining set. The act is to conclude with a full chorus of Rule Britannia!

If that doesn’t knock Simon for six then I am fucked if I know. I mean the howling, pissing and moaning will be something else. And that’s just from me – not the orange dwarf that dies for our pleasure.

I think I might call it “the aristocrats”. Or I shall just stage a wombat gang-rape. Why not?

At least it isn’t another fucking urban dance collective.

Something for the weekend…

Let us imagine…

It is Saturday night and onto the stage, in front of Simon Cowell and the rest, Ant & Dec usher on youthful (or indeed even alive – this is fantasy)…

Bob Marley, Bruce Springsteen, Debbie Harry, Elvis Presley…

What happens next?

And no I’m not being an old git here because the same would happen with my generation. The same would happen with Suede or Alison Goldfrapp or Portishead (now that would be fun given Beth Gibbons notorious stage-fright) or indeed even Kylie.

The same would happen with Florence + The Machine. People are still making great music and there is also the likes of Matt Cardle who exists only to dampen gussets last dampened (though perhaps in a different way) when the US 8th Airforce was stationed nearby – “Oh, young man…”*. I confidently expect at some point in the near future for some “Britain’s got an X-Voice” star to be bingo-winged to death – “I saw him first Doris…”.

Don’t get me wrong. I love this. One of the great cultural revolutions I have recently witnessed is the death of popular music in the sense of the “Hit Parade” and all that malarkey. It’s great. The download generation has bust it all open.

We are all now all .alt

We are all individuals.

(I’m not.)


Your choice. Girls fancy him you know. And the female of the species criticizes us lads for going like “route one” for stereotypes with like tits and everything! Christ! He is the most unoffensive fucker I have ever seen (and that is what offends me). He makes “One Direction” look like “The Who” in their hell-raising days with Keith Moon. He looks injection moulded from the least threatening of plastics.

*Ever been “young manned”. It’s terrifying. It is mainly done by dears requiring help parking their Honda Jazz within two metres of the curb. The Jazz is the biddie & codger mobile par-excellence – they buy ‘em because Hondas last – longer than most of the drivers will judging by the parking anyway. In a few year’s time there will be a lot of very reliable second-hand cars on the market with one extremely careful owner. Getting the fucker into fourth might be a struggle because the coffin-dodgers who drive them regard that as tantamount to jumping to warp speed – “She kannae tek much more of this Cap’en!”. If I die on the roads it won’t be due to some boy racer but some old git getting hen-pecked behind the wheel (“You’re not Sterling Moss, you know”), as the speedo hits 55 in the fast lane of the M6 and it all goes 2001) and choking on a Werther’s Original. My automotive death shall be wearing driving gloves.

It’s Saturday night

Or, at least it is here, on Queenslands Sunny Gold Coast, so relax and listen to a little Rosemary Clooney.

She is Georges aunt, you know. Better looking too.

You want a second? How about Vikki Kerr crooning to Les Brown? I got to say, I prefer Gene Teirney on this song, but I couldn’t find a video, just a recording.

For the rest of the evening? Relax, pull up a DVD, lie back and immerse yourself in Greg Hildebrandt’s fantasy of a perfect Saturday night.

For the rest of the weekend? Talk amongst yourselves. I’m gunna catch that DVD.

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