Tired and Emotional

It can only get worse

Month: December, 2005

Crumpet

crumpet

Good enough to eat, especially at tea-time but then again there is — and most definitely was — another meaning to the term crumpet, especially in the late 1960s and 1970s.

Shirley Eaton, Madeline Smith, Honor Blackman, Ingrid Pitt, Carol Cleveland, Pans People et al, they all were exemplary pieces of crumpet. Sometimes brash and dominating, sometimes naive and virginal but always scantily dressed and showing acres of cleavage. They were prime crumpet, the portrayal was said to be sexist but the crumpet always triumphed over the foolish and often lecherous middle-aged men in the TV sit-coms and the Carry On films.

Crumpet became adult with the great British sex comedy typified by the Confession Of films starring Robin Askwith and many pneumatic girls, but it was not watcheable with your parents unlike the television of the 1970s; crumpet was in crisis with only Benny Hill playing the bespectacled and lecherous fool. Eventually he was killed by the feminism which triumphed in the 1980s.

The dolly bird of the 1950s and early 1960s blossomed into the crumpet of the late 1960s and 1970s but was killed by political correctness: leaving us with commercial, posh totty but without the naughtiness of the girl-next-door piece of crumpet. Totty remains but is too surgical, botoxed and enhanced but definitely not saucy in the Donald McGill postcard fashion: crumpet was altogether naughty but nicer.

Crumpet? Good enough to eat and just as tasty — phwoar!

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Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas After all the hassle of the pre-Christmas arrangements I hope everyone has a merry Christmas.

Christmas Shopping

hristmas ShoppingI’ve done it — the Christmas shopping that is — and it was just as bad as anticipated. My main aim of buying an iPod nano was frustrated by by all the other idiots who were ahead of me — the bastards! Thus a highly focussed shopping expedition became an exercise in damage limitation and, whilst there was one iPod 60Gb left, there was no way I was spending that amount of money on a speculative present. A quick dash around various shops for multiple, smaller presents and job done until next year, but the experience has left my blood pressure at dangerous levels.

Shop assistants don’t improve do they? At one counter I was queueing and observed this particular species of incompetence at work. One assistant was so slow I wondered if he was on maximal antipsychotic medication while his colleague stood and chatted on the phone to a friend from what I could hear of the conversation. Fifteen minutes later, three customers served by Mr Retard and Mr Chatty still hadn’t deigned to grace us poor mugs with his services.

Still, as I said, job done and I’m now home with only the wrapping to do, a stiff gin and tonic by my side. I’ve promised myself to not leave it so late next year, just as I did twelve months ago.

Christmas

Christmas HumbugOh bloody hell, it’s Christmas and I have yet to go shopping for presents for my nearest and dearest. Why do I leave it so late each year? It’s probably because I dislike the traditions associated with this time of year: my family nagging me to send cards to relatives I don’t see from one year to the next, pushing a trolley around a supermarket that is more chaotic and frantic than New Orleans on a damp day as the great unwashed stock-up for the coming glutton-fest, trying to buy presents when I haven’t the faintest idea what the intended recipients want, the forced bonhomie I have to assume to avoid being labelled a humbug, the crap television programmes etc. The list goes on and on and on.

The only saving grace is the bottle of ten-year-old tawny port I allow myself at this time of year, opened in the run-up to Christmas; a medicinal glass imbibed, late at night when all else are asleep, to settle the nerves and fortify the constitution — I’ve started early this year. Tomorrow I have to go shopping for the presents that nobody really wants. Me? I’m hoping for a lump of coal.

Bah, humbug!