Saturday, 14 March 2009

Just guff 'n' stuff

Russell Brand. Who is he? (All right, give me a break. I haven’t lived in the UK for four years). Know now though. Going by his looks love child of Jo (she of the same name and hair) and Alice Cooper. Was going to do a piece on him. Won’t now. Don’t want to.

Swearing. Who needs it? Who wants it? Not me. Is it necessary? No. Is it enjoyable? No, absolutely not. Why do it? Don’t know. In my own private Mary Whitehouse campaign, I refuse to watch modern films and programmes in which an unnecessary assault of foul language is to be found. I am on strike. They could at least have the decency to bleep it out.

I am now an avid and proud voyeur of films made between the thirties and seventies. Sticking to early seventies because as the decade progresses things can go a bit pear-shaped. Can be bit of a minefield in the start of the decade. Clockwork Orange? A whole new discovery has been made. My favourite has to be British-made films of the fifties. What have I been missing all these years? Think of it. You could save on your TV licence. You’d need only to buy one for black and white.

I can only end by saying... by Jove, the Brits made some b****y good films, didn’t they?

English lesson. Listen carefully. What do you mean, no? Tough! Did you know, b****y is not actually profanity it’s an adjective. However, still ****** it out in magnanimous attempt to appear erudite... or does that very action defeat the object?

You know what makes a good exercise? Singing. Apparently. Expands your lungs. I used to be a singer in a group, no, really. These days, to the relief of ears everywhere, the nearest I get to a band is that thing you find attached to your waist as in trousers preferably elasticised for that extra comfort and ease of movement. Have no idea why I put that in... talking of bands, I’ve seen the new Take That video. It was their testament to there’s a squeeze going on and we’re right in there with you.

Gary Barlow bashing away at a piano that looked to be made from plywood and orange boxes. His three-day growth was more down and out than designer so he got that right. Mark Owen jumping up and down like he was having a reaction to something possibly his leather jacket which looked two sizes too small. How could he breathe never mind sing? Jason Orange gallantly sporting his I’m-joost-a-working-class-lad-from-oop-North cloth cap and finally, Howard Donald who was laughing hysterically as he drummed along to their latest in a long line of hits. I think he was grinning. It was hard to tell underneath the furry animal straddled across his face.

I like them really in a distant sort of way. Always have.

Wednesday, 4 March 2009

Mandatory families?

It’s too family-oriented. There are single people and couples out there as well. A huge percentage of the public don’t have children.

They’ve matured moved away or not due to recession and high mortgage repayments or perhaps... wash my mouth out... they don’t exist because public in question never wanted any in the first place. We’re not all Little House on the Prairie. I realise this no doubt puts me in the same bracket as the Antichrist, so shoot me! We do exist and tripping along to Mothercare or Disneyland Paris is not high on my list of ten things to do before I die as much as I rate Donald Duck as one of the best entertainers to come out of America.

With the elderly living longer and the young not being given a chance to get old due to the increase in hoodies and knife-oriented crimes, there’s a huge audience out there whose first thought in the morning is not, “I hope I can make it to nursery school this morning without Ashentella being sick all over the back seat again.” For many, those days have long gone or - were never there in the first place.

Don’t get me wrong. There was a time a few years ago I thought about having a child. Adopting one. A baby girl from China because:
a) I like the Chinese
b) girls appear to be surplus to requirements
c) adopting because I’m into recycling.

Due to my general dithering and worrying thoughts of - would they consider me as a parent due to my ME (I don’t agree with that and it is highly discriminatory but this is [yeuch!] real life) and would I cope due to my ME and being single (more realistic) - I lost out.

It’s the so-called fashionable attitude to children that makes me feel uncomfortable. Why can’t people leave children in general alone to be children, treat them like children (they’re not demigods) and allow them to grow up in their own time? Why do many, under the guise of “we know best” along with the expectation the public must be like-minded, insist on interfering? I mean, assisting. And why is it when confronted by the sight of “precious” in its pushchair with one finger up its nose the other jabbing at it eye bawling its head off because the jabbing finger has ended up in the eye, why is it we’re expected to fall over backwards claiming “how gorgeous!”

Scary. On the other hand... have a well-behaved little ball of fluff or a cute ugly manky-looking mongrel trotting along on the end of its lead and you might get more of a reaction...