We certainly get a better class of busker on the streets of Cardiff of late. We are encouraged, naturally, to think of them as "street theatre", a distinction which many of them are actually coming to deserve.
Okay, the sliver-painted guy who's given up being a statue and started crooning with a Casio would be a bad example, but take the chap in our picture; now that's what I call a string virtuoso! So impressed was I, that I actually parted with a golden sovereign, as much as recompense for his patience in front of my lens, as for his acrobato-fiddular prowess, which was considerable.
More of this, and things like it, say I!
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
The Crap of Christmas Past
The Book We All Got Last Christmas® was called "Is Is Just Me, Or Is Everything Shit?" It was perhaps something of a pleasant change from Jamie Oliver or Bill Bryson, but recieving it nonetheless signified a total inspiration collapse on the part of the giver. Now, not all of us always get The Book We All Got Last Christmas®, me unincluded. For example, I got one of the Jamie Oliver ones a few years back, despit Jamie being up an alley a few blocks down from mine. Yet, perversely, no-one ever bought me a copy of The Book We All Got The Christmas Before Last®, "Eats, Shoot, and Leaves", despite the fact that that one was fairly self-evidently so far up my alley, it had climbed my gate and eaten my begonias.
So anyway, the rub is that I've finally gotten around to reading "Is It Just Me, Or Is Everything Shit?" Amused though I was to discover that the authors had honed their polemical skills in the smoky corridors of University of Wales, Cardiff, less of the rest felt as familiar as I'm sure they would have hoped. Underwhelmed is a word that springs to mind, and I like the cut of its jib, so I'll use it here. I was underwhelmed. Musing, as I later did, on how this scruffy afternoon's work down the pub had netted its progenitors an indeterminate but undoubtedly poly-wadular shitload of dosh, I was moved to upgrade underwhelmed to an epithet more evocative of extreme displeasure and the intent of vengeful violence.
It was only a last-minute intervention by the intermittently-functional neural cluster that warns me of things like approaching lorries and unzipped flies, that alerted me to the notion that the entry title 'Is It Just Me, Or Is "Is It Just Me, Or Is Everything Shit?", Shit?' might not be a first in blogland. That was close, then.
Anyone fancy collaborating on The Book We'll All Get Next Christmas®? I'll get them in...
So anyway, the rub is that I've finally gotten around to reading "Is It Just Me, Or Is Everything Shit?" Amused though I was to discover that the authors had honed their polemical skills in the smoky corridors of University of Wales, Cardiff, less of the rest felt as familiar as I'm sure they would have hoped. Underwhelmed is a word that springs to mind, and I like the cut of its jib, so I'll use it here. I was underwhelmed. Musing, as I later did, on how this scruffy afternoon's work down the pub had netted its progenitors an indeterminate but undoubtedly poly-wadular shitload of dosh, I was moved to upgrade underwhelmed to an epithet more evocative of extreme displeasure and the intent of vengeful violence.
It was only a last-minute intervention by the intermittently-functional neural cluster that warns me of things like approaching lorries and unzipped flies, that alerted me to the notion that the entry title 'Is It Just Me, Or Is "Is It Just Me, Or Is Everything Shit?", Shit?' might not be a first in blogland. That was close, then.
Anyone fancy collaborating on The Book We'll All Get Next Christmas®? I'll get them in...
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Put her on Freecycle, Michael!
Well, it may not be one of the 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover that Paul Simon recommends, but "Freecycling" seems to be catching on, and it's certainly been profitable around here of late. Today, for example, I got rid of a bag of VHS tapes (remember them?) and got a lovely smile from a cute blonde in exchange; lovely smiles from cute blondes are definitely worth having, trust me. Later on, I relieved a technology hoarder, with even more space issues than myself, of a swanky AIWA 3-head cassette deck, thus freeing up my more everyday model for down-handing to my deckless Dad. Everybody wins.
It's a simple concept but it works; don't throw good shit away just because you can't use it, give it away to someone who can. You get to resolve a potentally tricky disposal issue, they get a freebie. My top score so far is a pair of his'n'hers mountain bikes for the folks - for no pounds & no pence, I jest ye not. Meanwhile, I've got fewer tatty bookshelves clogging up space...
If it's all new to you, I heartily recommend it. Have a look at http://www.freecycle.org , find your nearest group and give it a try. Sure, you'll get a few jerks asking if you have a spare Rolex, but it's an ultimately rewarding experience. Plus you get to feel all righteous about being nice to the planet. Bargain.
It's a simple concept but it works; don't throw good shit away just because you can't use it, give it away to someone who can. You get to resolve a potentally tricky disposal issue, they get a freebie. My top score so far is a pair of his'n'hers mountain bikes for the folks - for no pounds & no pence, I jest ye not. Meanwhile, I've got fewer tatty bookshelves clogging up space...
If it's all new to you, I heartily recommend it. Have a look at http://www.freecycle.org , find your nearest group and give it a try. Sure, you'll get a few jerks asking if you have a spare Rolex, but it's an ultimately rewarding experience. Plus you get to feel all righteous about being nice to the planet. Bargain.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Four Go Mad In Cardiff
Today it's the turn of the charming Edmond family to brave the dimensionally transcendental thrills 'n' chills of Cardiff. Bold adventurers Kyle and Milo sally forth with nary a flinch into the maw of the rift, with bemused mum Mary and father "it's for the kids really" Ian clinging to their coat-tails.
Kyle gets into the spirit of things by wearing a handsome anorak on a sunny day, and there is much wonderment as little Milo turns out to be indestructible. The services of Albion Hospital are not required.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Bright Shadows
Thanks to Hev's seemingly incurable wanderlust, I spent most of this week in Prague - for no reason, which is usually the best reason. As a first-timer, I was gratified to discover that Czech beer is indeed all that legend portends...
It is of course a place so photogenic it practically sucks the photos out of cameras, so check out the flickr link for the eye candy.
Almost a generation now since the "velvet revolution", the place still hides the occasional echo of communist austerity under the bubbling maelstrom of nascent, unfettered capitalism. It's a bittersweet, bewildering place, so many centuries old and yet still seeming somehow unfinished. I sense that it and I are not quite through.
It is of course a place so photogenic it practically sucks the photos out of cameras, so check out the flickr link for the eye candy.
Almost a generation now since the "velvet revolution", the place still hides the occasional echo of communist austerity under the bubbling maelstrom of nascent, unfettered capitalism. It's a bittersweet, bewildering place, so many centuries old and yet still seeming somehow unfinished. I sense that it and I are not quite through.
Monday, March 13, 2006
"...And We Know We Are!"
Gawd, it was a bad weekend to be a British rugby fan. Scotland chained and whipped by the Irish, England dealt an unprecedented stuffing by the French... and our lot becoming the first team to fail to beat Italy at home. Draws in rugby are rare, so I suppose we got a collector's item. Lucky us.
These guys didn't mind, though. They came, they saw... well, two-and-a-half out of three ain't bad.
These guys didn't mind, though. They came, they saw... well, two-and-a-half out of three ain't bad.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Wasps eat Tigers, Scarlet has Bath...
Jollity galore as Cardiff hosts the semi-finals of the Powergen Cup. Fans of London Wasps, Llanelli Scarlets, Leicester Tigers and Bath.. erm... Bath, descend upon us in swarms. Or packs. Or whatever the collective nouns for the other things are.
There are cheers and tears aplenty as Leicester and Bath are evicted from the house, but not without giving our little city a welcome splash of colour to remember them by.
There are cheers and tears aplenty as Leicester and Bath are evicted from the house, but not without giving our little city a welcome splash of colour to remember them by.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Oh, you mean THIS gate key!
Via the courtesy of the University Hospital of Wales, I today completed my personal set of Intimate Invasions by Trained Professionals TM. I'm wondering whether I now qualify for a free binder... In the process, several new words for pain were discovered and a lifetime of trauma stored for future cashing-in on psychiatrists' couches.
On the plus side, I now know precisely where my threshold of I-will-kill-babies-to-make-this-stop is. Should I ever, therefore, be captured by a hostile power whilst in possession of your vital secrets, rest assured that they will be safe for at least 3.8 seconds.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Location, Location, Location!
It's high time I did my duty as a citizen, and took a small flock of acolytes under my wing for a safari of discovery in the footsteps of the city's number one Legal Alien.
Jason Lythgoe-Hay, Steve Lyons, Julia Houghton, Chris Howarth - you have been chosen to explore the streets of Cardiff, in antarctic conditions, towards a greater understanding of the new and special mythological nexus that has formed around this City of the Rift. To boldly go where no fan has gone before. Except a few.
And did they explore! Heroically sacrificing inches of shoe-leather - and nearly one whole calf muscle - they struck forth, with Yours Truly as their guide, and encompassed in one afternoon the better part of a universe of adventure. From Blitz-era London to the year 5-Billion did they trudge with never a moan, every step of the journey documented by Jason's prolific shutter. Bravely they tracked the Slitheen! Incredulously they beheld the abode of the Empty Child! Serendiptously, they took pot-shots at the retreating Cybermen! Through freezing winds and driving sleet, they braved the horrors of Grangetown to seek out the abode of the Reapers!
Afterwards, spent and righteous, they retired to the Valhalla of all Pilgrims that is Wetherspoons, wherein they slaked their thirst - and, generously, that of their trusty guide - and partook of the sausages of success. Then, with parting jollifications, they struck out for their northern homelands with disarming gusto, leaving Cardiff all the poorer for their leaving.
Good Luck and Godspeed, brave travellers, and may the lure of greater adventures speed your return!
Blue Screen of Death (ra da-da da-da!)
Ah, Cardiff.
You try so hard to be on the cutting edge. You spend oodles of dosh on the latest multimedia communications technology for the masses. You reach for the Future with both hands.
Such a shame you didn't listen to visionary folk-hero Edmund Blackadder, who once very nearly said, "If you want something done properly; un-install Windows before you start!"
On the plus side, I have discovered that the phrase "Blue Screen of Death" fits rather neatly into the tune of "Chanson D'Amour", and that's had me humming happily all day.
You try so hard to be on the cutting edge. You spend oodles of dosh on the latest multimedia communications technology for the masses. You reach for the Future with both hands.
Such a shame you didn't listen to visionary folk-hero Edmund Blackadder, who once very nearly said, "If you want something done properly; un-install Windows before you start!"
On the plus side, I have discovered that the phrase "Blue Screen of Death" fits rather neatly into the tune of "Chanson D'Amour", and that's had me humming happily all day.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Sobriety, take #366
Bloody Scotsmen!
Come to my town, lose to my rugby team, buy me beer...
How's a fella supposed to stay in the kind of miserable funk that (apparently) begets creative inspiration?
I am so dehydrated that Sony are considering putting little sachets of me in the boxes with their gadgets. I could swear that when I got in the bath tonight, the water level actually went down.
Come to my town, lose to my rugby team, buy me beer...
How's a fella supposed to stay in the kind of miserable funk that (apparently) begets creative inspiration?
I am so dehydrated that Sony are considering putting little sachets of me in the boxes with their gadgets. I could swear that when I got in the bath tonight, the water level actually went down.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Chick IT
Girls don't do technology, right? The Video Cassette recorder, the DVD player, the Games Console, the Freeview box, the radio alarm, the plug; all these things were designed by men, for men, and the female brain is far, far too finely tuned to important, emotional stuff to cope with all the "jargon" - correct?
Ah, but now what happens? Now - more fool us - we have designed a fiendishly complicated electronic device which allows you to chat more! Suddenly, technology is no problem. All at once - who knew? - you're all bells and whistles, you ladies. Twenty-minute monologues on the bus - at 90dB, of course - about Julie from Personnel's cat, or whether Siobhan fancies the Maths teacher. Whole afternoons spent huddled on park benches with your FCUK sweater over your knees, clicking away on little keypads faster than any rational human could think a coherent sentence. Clutching those little plastic-and-silicon talismans in the kind of unendingly rapt embrace of which your "unromantic" partner probably only dreams. Not for you the inconvenience of reflexive feminine befuddlement when challenged with GPRS, SMS, 3G, mp3/polyphonic and more weight of arcane nomenclature, of the kind that would send you into theatrical yawning fits if attached to any other useful device!
Here's news for you, females: Next time you pull the old "Oh, you know I can't grasp these techy things..." line, we're taking your mobiles away. We'll handle all your calls for you. Don't worry your pretty little heads. It's boy stuff.
Ah, but now what happens? Now - more fool us - we have designed a fiendishly complicated electronic device which allows you to chat more! Suddenly, technology is no problem. All at once - who knew? - you're all bells and whistles, you ladies. Twenty-minute monologues on the bus - at 90dB, of course - about Julie from Personnel's cat, or whether Siobhan fancies the Maths teacher. Whole afternoons spent huddled on park benches with your FCUK sweater over your knees, clicking away on little keypads faster than any rational human could think a coherent sentence. Clutching those little plastic-and-silicon talismans in the kind of unendingly rapt embrace of which your "unromantic" partner probably only dreams. Not for you the inconvenience of reflexive feminine befuddlement when challenged with GPRS, SMS, 3G, mp3/polyphonic and more weight of arcane nomenclature, of the kind that would send you into theatrical yawning fits if attached to any other useful device!
Here's news for you, females: Next time you pull the old "Oh, you know I can't grasp these techy things..." line, we're taking your mobiles away. We'll handle all your calls for you. Don't worry your pretty little heads. It's boy stuff.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Gentlemen Prefer Punchlines
Are Blonde Gags funny anymore? Well, maybe sometimes.
Just to make sure no-one takes offence - if you're a blonde, don't click here.
Just to make sure no-one takes offence - if you're a blonde, don't click here.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Ready when you are, Mr. Spielberg.
Could someone please explain, in simple words, what the movie Munich is trying to say? It spent two-and-a-half hours trying to bash its message into my cranium, to no avail. Sure, I got the basic points about self-identity ("home") and the cyclical nature of revenge, but there's got to be more than that, surely?
Steven Spielberg tends to make profound movies about profound subjects (War, Holocaust, Racism) and jolly movies about silly things (aliens, dinosaurs, man-eating sharks, possessed petrol tankers). But despite the grim subject material, Munich is remarkable for being actually quite easy to watch, and the violence all seems to occur at arm's length. Given the limitlessly contentious nature of the subject, the movie's morality wisely leaves space for the audience to pick its own heroes and villains, but such equivocation - while laudable on one level - leaves the authorial voice so much the weaker. It's not that I'm expecting answers, just that I'm grappling to understand what this movie thinks the questions are.
Most perplexing of all is the device of having the protagonist, Abner, frequently endure "flashbacks" of the Munich massacre, despite not having been there. This leads to a giddy, spectacular and (unfortunately) utterly bewildering denoument as we watch the final gruesome moments of the victims unfold in Abner's head, while he has sex with his wife...? Okay, I can make the link between orgasms and explosions, but I'm fairly sure that's not what The Big Berg's getting at. He's cleverer than that.
I wish I was.
Steven Spielberg tends to make profound movies about profound subjects (War, Holocaust, Racism) and jolly movies about silly things (aliens, dinosaurs, man-eating sharks, possessed petrol tankers). But despite the grim subject material, Munich is remarkable for being actually quite easy to watch, and the violence all seems to occur at arm's length. Given the limitlessly contentious nature of the subject, the movie's morality wisely leaves space for the audience to pick its own heroes and villains, but such equivocation - while laudable on one level - leaves the authorial voice so much the weaker. It's not that I'm expecting answers, just that I'm grappling to understand what this movie thinks the questions are.
Most perplexing of all is the device of having the protagonist, Abner, frequently endure "flashbacks" of the Munich massacre, despite not having been there. This leads to a giddy, spectacular and (unfortunately) utterly bewildering denoument as we watch the final gruesome moments of the victims unfold in Abner's head, while he has sex with his wife...? Okay, I can make the link between orgasms and explosions, but I'm fairly sure that's not what The Big Berg's getting at. He's cleverer than that.
I wish I was.
Schroedinger's Hamster
Cutesy animal story with built-in amusingly horrible ending:
BBC NEWS | World | Asia-Pacific | Snake 'befriends' snack hamster
Anyone care to run a sweepstake on the furry one's chances? How long before domestic bliss is ended by a soft gulping sound?
BBC NEWS | World | Asia-Pacific | Snake 'befriends' snack hamster
Anyone care to run a sweepstake on the furry one's chances? How long before domestic bliss is ended by a soft gulping sound?
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Spiky Light
It may look to you like a radioactive porcupine, or a slow-shutter shot of a firework, or a negative close-up of my chin. In fact, this is part of an installation by Simon Fenoulhet at the Glyn Vivian art gallery, Swansea.
You're not supposed to take photos, actually - but with the flash off, who's gonna know? Anyway, I heartily recommend a viewing if you're in the area - and why wouldn't you be, after all?
Once you're all cultured-up at the GV, you'll feel a lot less bad about languishing in the depths of one of Swansea's many oblivion vendors and drinking just a little too much cheap beer.
We did.
You're not supposed to take photos, actually - but with the flash off, who's gonna know? Anyway, I heartily recommend a viewing if you're in the area - and why wouldn't you be, after all?
Once you're all cultured-up at the GV, you'll feel a lot less bad about languishing in the depths of one of Swansea's many oblivion vendors and drinking just a little too much cheap beer.
We did.
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