onionbagblog
Love is...| Saturday 30 December, 2006 |
The Beatles
Drive my Car / The Word / What You're Doing
'Beep beep
Beep beep
Yeah!'
YES it's bloated, YES it's another Christmas cash cow in the rapidly deteriorating legacy of the Four Boys from Liverpool who Shook the World and YES - it's Stars on 45 done proper.
HELP! etc.
But the 'new' Beatles album is also a lot of fun (although I could have done without Cirque de Soleil and the subsequent chin stroking.)
Good old George Martin gets the production credits, but it could easily have been the Chemical Brothers. Way to go, Daddy-o.
It's a fascinating insight into what Mr Martin's fave tracks are, and how he might have twiddled them, had he had full artistic control back in the day.
Lucy in the Sky is given a 2001 A Space Odyssey intro treatment with the elongated stretching out of the first few bars; Ringo's melody is magical (no, really) with Goodnight introducing Octopus' Garden, and then segueing into Yellow Submarine; and the All You Need Is Love finale if colourful and camp - 'This is Johhny Rhythm on guitar wishing yus all goodnight,' indeed.
Apple Corp and the modern interweb don't really go together very well. Which is strange, coming from a company founded on Peace, Love & Understanding. So hopefully the Beatles' legal beast will turn a blind eye to this file.
Have fun.
*plus*
Go on then - here's the Apple online expert once again.
Look at his face! Just look at his face!
onionbagblog comedy gold:
And speaking of art or arse, it seems that any old fool can exhibit at the Saatchi Gallery these days...
technorati: the beatles
| #permalink |
Holiday by Mistake
'Good evening Sir, and how are you this fine evening?'
*who the fuck are you?*
'Um, yeah, I'm alright. Who is this?'
'My name is Carly and I'm here tosell you some shit present to you the opportunity of a lifetime!'
*no shit - a crate of Carlsberg and a DVD of Withnail. I can die a happy man now*
'Your name has been exclusively selected to receive a free top of the range mobile!'
'Really?'
*mrs onionbagblogger gives me one of her 'think I'll stick around, this is gonna be fun' looks*
'This is the perfect way to start the New Year, Sir; a new mobile for the new you!'
*who writes this shit?*
*subversion mode sets in*
'So, let's get this straight: I'm getting a free mobile off you?'
'That's right Sir! Very shortly you will be able to utilise our full comprehensive package of additional options that we will also make available to you.'
'Ace, man. I love caravans me. I've always wanted a mobile home. And how kind of you to give one away to me for free. Now then, about this comprehensive package of additional options that you speak of. Are talking calor gas heaters here?'
*long pause*
'Um, Sir...'
*fumbling of script. nothing in the marketing manual on how to handle a mobile home madcunt client.'
'So where's me new caravan gonna be then, Carly? Norfolk? Please tell me it's in Norfolk - I fucking LOVE Norfolk, me.'
'Sir, I think we have had a slight understanding.'
'Oh, bugger. Go on then girl, I'll settle for Skeggie instead.'
*mrs obb gives me the 'time's up' look - you've had your fun, let it be*
'Sir, we're offering you a free mobile.'
'Yeah, fucking tops, innit? What berth is it?'
'Um, Sir, would you like an upgrade?'
'A hotel? How very generous of you Carly.'
'Sir, I think you should speak to my Supervisor.'
'Carly, I think you're a sweet girl and you're only doing your underpaid job. But I think you ought to inform your Supervisor that making unsolicited phone calls to private numbers isn't going to endear me to the knobber marketing message that you've been told to read out.'
'We can bundle in a 3G facility if you like, Sir?'
'Carly girl, just leave it. I'm on for a free caravan IN NORFOLK, but a wanky knobber mobile that will probably cost me more than the ground rent for a caravan 'aint my thing.'
'Thanks you for your time, Sir.'
'Cheers Carly. Shame about Norfolk and all that. Don't suppose you like Withnail?'
*'you pushed it too far' look from mrs obb. you're not going to watch Withnail tonight now*
technorati: knobber marketng whores
| Friday 29 December, 2006 |
'Good evening Sir, and how are you this fine evening?'
*who the fuck are you?*
'Um, yeah, I'm alright. Who is this?'
'My name is Carly and I'm here to
*no shit - a crate of Carlsberg and a DVD of Withnail. I can die a happy man now*
'Your name has been exclusively selected to receive a free top of the range mobile!'
'Really?'
 Are we talkng calor gas? |
'This is the perfect way to start the New Year, Sir; a new mobile for the new you!'
*who writes this shit?*
*subversion mode sets in*
'So, let's get this straight: I'm getting a free mobile off you?'
'That's right Sir! Very shortly you will be able to utilise our full comprehensive package of additional options that we will also make available to you.'
'Ace, man. I love caravans me. I've always wanted a mobile home. And how kind of you to give one away to me for free. Now then, about this comprehensive package of additional options that you speak of. Are talking calor gas heaters here?'
*long pause*
'Um, Sir...'
*fumbling of script. nothing in the marketing manual on how to handle a mobile home mad
'So where's me new caravan gonna be then, Carly? Norfolk? Please tell me it's in Norfolk - I fucking LOVE Norfolk, me.'
'Sir, I think we have had a slight understanding.'
'Oh, bugger. Go on then girl, I'll settle for Skeggie instead.'
*mrs obb gives me the 'time's up' look - you've had your fun, let it be*
'Sir, we're offering you a free mobile.'
'Yeah, fucking tops, innit? What berth is it?'
'Um, Sir, would you like an upgrade?'
'A hotel? How very generous of you Carly.'
'Sir, I think you should speak to my Supervisor.'
'Carly, I think you're a sweet girl and you're only doing your underpaid job. But I think you ought to inform your Supervisor that making unsolicited phone calls to private numbers isn't going to endear me to the knobber marketing message that you've been told to read out.'
'We can bundle in a 3G facility if you like, Sir?'
'Carly girl, just leave it. I'm on for a free caravan IN NORFOLK, but a wanky knobber mobile that will probably cost me more than the ground rent for a caravan 'aint my thing.'
'Thanks you for your time, Sir.'
'Cheers Carly. Shame about Norfolk and all that. Don't suppose you like Withnail?'
*'you pushed it too far' look from mrs obb. you're not going to watch Withnail tonight now*
technorati: knobber marketng whores
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Nottingham Panthers 4 Cardiff Devils 1, 26/12/06
Ah, Elite League ice hockey - I remember that; a two hour trek from South London to the East End badlands during the early hours, all to watch a team dubbed the 'Big Red Machine.'
Big White Elephant would have been more apt. And so for my Boxing Day hockey fix, I found myself back 'home' in the Fair city as Cardiff came to town to take on the Panthers. No Great White Elephant here, just a Nottingham Arena full of... Great White Elephants. I hope you've paid for two seats, Madam.
NO cameras, NO festivities and definitely NO fun are the house rules around these parts. With the seven inch super zoom (ironically) somewhere in Cardiff for repairs, my opportunities for inflicting some seasonal subversion were limited.
And so I turned towards the NO fun forbidden fruit for my kicks. Just as an eight year-old girl fell over in front of my seat, spilling her enor-mo-cup of Coke crap, I allowed myself a slight smirk. Compared to the stone cold sober locals, this comical act of defiance was the Fair city equivalent of pant wetting Holy Grail comedy. I was warned by a grey coated steward to 'limit my excitement, Sir.' The over-zealous fucker had a face to match the colour of her coat.
And so how was my Boxing Day hockey? Hmmm...
The Panthers are proudly sponsored by the GMB, a right of centre 'trade union' in the loosest sense of the word that make Mr Tony seem like an axe-wielding Bolshevik. It's all about Hard Working Families you see. Hard Working Families are at the heart of hockey in Nottingham. A family of four is welcome. You'll be fleeced for the car park and family ticket, be bullied by the ankle biters to buy a family size selection of heart-stopping over fried shit and then finally finding yourself forking out for club merchandise that would shame the estate of the dead junkie Princess Whore. Happy Christmas, and all that; you need to be hard working to pay for all that pap.
But what of the penny pinching single bloke demographic who wants to escape from the family fun on Boxing Day and let off a bit of steam? You can fuck right offJase Jack. All of this Hard Working Family crap leaves the National Ice Centre a soulless shed full of Hard Working Families either (i) knackered from working too hard or (ii) fucked off with the whole family thing to actually make any noise.
There's no hiding from it - hockey is a MAN'S sport. You can stick yer family fun up your arse in favour of a good 'ol fashioned hockey face wash.
But even sanitised family fun can fuck up sometimes. The Anthems (it's a hockey thing) were sung by some local eye candy birds on centre ice. After a few false starts with the sound system, this all meant that we finally faced off with half of the hockey brutes skating around with a semi-boner. I didn't know where to look, and neither did the eight year-old coke spilling little kid.
There's no point skating over the issue - Cardiff were crap. Currently homeless, it means no ice time for the players, plus all those Hard Working Families from South Wales have to stay at home indoors and beat the shit out of each other instead.
And so no surprises when Cardiff went 1-0 down in the first period. Out went the catchy chant of 'Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham,' with some locals struggling to learn the complete words.
A second was scrambled and the singing got no better. You too would find it hard to cheer on a hockey franchise that has historically under-achieved even more so than Mr Tony and his obsession with Hard Working Families.
Back came the eye candy on ice at the first period break. They were singing some Pie Jesu shit, which I've always misinterpreted as an ode to the love of Pork Farm pork pies from our Lord Saviour. The 'Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham,' was more tuneful to be honest.
The second period would have been better spent back at home with my Hard Working Family, debating the division of labour in a post-modern society (even though none of them are actually working right now.)
The home crowd 'amused themselves.' Not a metaphor, but it may as well be. 'Stick Boy, show us yer knob,' was the best it got for the Cardiff equipment kid. Bizarrely a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody broke out. Never my favourite tune, and the performance by a dozen Nottingham pissheads in an Arena that has all the atmosphere of a meat packing shed did little to win me over.
A 2-0 score line at the end of the second was more of a comment on how Panthers couldn't be arsed, rather than the crapness of Cardiff.
More of the same twaddle followed at the start of the third, and my thoughts turned towards a night out with the local Nottingham Conservative Association, which surly would have been more fun. But two quick goals followed for the Panthers and so I put the Big Night Out with the blue rinse bigots on the back burner.
A consolation goal for Cardiff with eight minutes on the clock, a short handed effort that had the happy house of fun in the Fair city in need of a visit from the Samaritans. Suicide watch came-a-calling; and that was just for the second rendition of Bohemian bloody Rhapsody.
'Mama, just killed a man...'
That's Hard Working Families for you, etc.
And so was my Elite League experience all that?
I'm actually looking forward to a road trip to Lee Valley at the weekend now.
technorati: nottingham panthers
| Thursday 28 December, 2006 |
Nottingham Panthers 4 Cardiff Devils 1, 26/12/06
Ah, Elite League ice hockey - I remember that; a two hour trek from South London to the East End badlands during the early hours, all to watch a team dubbed the 'Big Red Machine.'
Suicide Watch came-a-calling |
NO cameras, NO festivities and definitely NO fun are the house rules around these parts. With the seven inch super zoom (ironically) somewhere in Cardiff for repairs, my opportunities for inflicting some seasonal subversion were limited.
And so I turned towards the NO fun forbidden fruit for my kicks. Just as an eight year-old girl fell over in front of my seat, spilling her enor-mo-cup of Coke crap, I allowed myself a slight smirk. Compared to the stone cold sober locals, this comical act of defiance was the Fair city equivalent of pant wetting Holy Grail comedy. I was warned by a grey coated steward to 'limit my excitement, Sir.' The over-zealous fucker had a face to match the colour of her coat.
And so how was my Boxing Day hockey? Hmmm...
The Panthers are proudly sponsored by the GMB, a right of centre 'trade union' in the loosest sense of the word that make Mr Tony seem like an axe-wielding Bolshevik. It's all about Hard Working Families you see. Hard Working Families are at the heart of hockey in Nottingham. A family of four is welcome. You'll be fleeced for the car park and family ticket, be bullied by the ankle biters to buy a family size selection of heart-stopping over fried shit and then finally finding yourself forking out for club merchandise that would shame the estate of the dead junkie Princess Whore. Happy Christmas, and all that; you need to be hard working to pay for all that pap.
But what of the penny pinching single bloke demographic who wants to escape from the family fun on Boxing Day and let off a bit of steam? You can fuck right off
There's no hiding from it - hockey is a MAN'S sport. You can stick yer family fun up your arse in favour of a good 'ol fashioned hockey face wash.
But even sanitised family fun can fuck up sometimes. The Anthems (it's a hockey thing) were sung by some local eye candy birds on centre ice. After a few false starts with the sound system, this all meant that we finally faced off with half of the hockey brutes skating around with a semi-boner. I didn't know where to look, and neither did the eight year-old coke spilling little kid.
There's no point skating over the issue - Cardiff were crap. Currently homeless, it means no ice time for the players, plus all those Hard Working Families from South Wales have to stay at home indoors and beat the shit out of each other instead.
And so no surprises when Cardiff went 1-0 down in the first period. Out went the catchy chant of 'Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham,' with some locals struggling to learn the complete words.
A second was scrambled and the singing got no better. You too would find it hard to cheer on a hockey franchise that has historically under-achieved even more so than Mr Tony and his obsession with Hard Working Families.
Back came the eye candy on ice at the first period break. They were singing some Pie Jesu shit, which I've always misinterpreted as an ode to the love of Pork Farm pork pies from our Lord Saviour. The 'Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham, Nott-ing-ham,' was more tuneful to be honest.
The second period would have been better spent back at home with my Hard Working Family, debating the division of labour in a post-modern society (even though none of them are actually working right now.)
The home crowd 'amused themselves.' Not a metaphor, but it may as well be. 'Stick Boy, show us yer knob,' was the best it got for the Cardiff equipment kid. Bizarrely a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody broke out. Never my favourite tune, and the performance by a dozen Nottingham pissheads in an Arena that has all the atmosphere of a meat packing shed did little to win me over.
A 2-0 score line at the end of the second was more of a comment on how Panthers couldn't be arsed, rather than the crapness of Cardiff.
More of the same twaddle followed at the start of the third, and my thoughts turned towards a night out with the local Nottingham Conservative Association, which surly would have been more fun. But two quick goals followed for the Panthers and so I put the Big Night Out with the blue rinse bigots on the back burner.
A consolation goal for Cardiff with eight minutes on the clock, a short handed effort that had the happy house of fun in the Fair city in need of a visit from the Samaritans. Suicide watch came-a-calling; and that was just for the second rendition of Bohemian bloody Rhapsody.
'Mama, just killed a man...'
That's Hard Working Families for you, etc.
And so was my Elite League experience all that?
I'm actually looking forward to a road trip to Lee Valley at the weekend now.
|
technorati: nottingham panthers
| #permalink |
I Don't Feel Good
Not Now James, We're Busy.
Fuck me - I was actually at the front for this gig back in the day. I wonder how many Premiership clubs will continue with the shitty enforced goal celebrations of I Feel Good on Boxing Day?
Get on the Good Foot, etc.
mr brown
| Saturday 25 December, 2006 |
Not Now James, We're Busy.
Fuck me - I was actually at the front for this gig back in the day. I wonder how many Premiership clubs will continue with the shitty enforced goal celebrations of I Feel Good on Boxing Day?
Get on the Good Foot, etc.
mr brown
| #permalink |
A Christmas Tale| Sunday 24 December, 2006 |
The stretch of the Northern Line between The Oval and Sunny Stockwell is insignificant for any number of reasons. This North bound tunnel is usually a particular pain for rush hour commuters, with the carriages packed to the full as Brixton based boys and girls change at Sunny Stockwell en route to the City; the route is deadly straight - no tight corners to perfect your carriage surfing technique; and no glamour of a branch split, as is the case for Kennington, or even the aesthetic appeal of an island platform that has been left behind at Clap'ham.
I needed a drink... |
But eyes right midway through the stretch and you might just catch a glimpse of the South Island Place sidings. A glamorous name for a ghouly location on the London Underground.
This little hubby hole for midnight tube workers has historically been used to store the essentials of the job - replacement rails, signals, copies of The Sun etc. The only access to South Island Place is along track side, with no entrance or exit from up above.
South Island Place sidings are also the location of a tragic accident on the London Underground some fifty years ago. A workman was crushed to death by an oncoming late train. No early warning signals then for safety, just a trusty Tilley lamp to warn any drivers of the danger ahead.
It is a local SW8 myth that the ghost of South Island Place can still be see at night, some 100 feet below the surface, patrolling his particular patch with his trusted (but ultimately useless) Tilley lamp.
You're unlikely to see the night talker whilst trains are still running, but many a London Underground employee has asked for an SW8 transfer after seeing the lone man and his Tilley lamp in the early hours.
Fast forward fifty years and we return to the onionbagblog darts dungeon. I really am addicted to the arrows right now, regularly spending some three hours plus an evening down in the wine cellar.
It's a fine way to pass away the winter months, shutting yourself away from the rush of London life above ground, routinely and obsessively throwing three sticks of titanium into a bed made out of natural rope fibre.
The obb darts dungeon is below ground level, situated... opposite South Island Place. The clunking noise of passing Northern Line trains is as hit and miss as my arrow action. The cellar vibrates slightly with each passing carriage. It's a reassuring feeling that I'm living in the Big City and that obb HQ II is ideally situated for a Boy About Town.
The darts dungeon is lit by a solitary light bulb. The decor of the place doesn't really call for anything more lavish. In case of power cuts then we have a couple of torches stored beside the stairs leading down. Forward planning and all that.
Except a couple of months ago, I misplaced one of the torches. I was changing a bulb above ground level at the time and couldn't place the red torch once the job was done. Never mind, it will turn up some other time.
In fact it turned up last night.
I've been sleeping alone the past couple of nights as the fragrant mrs obb is doing the family thing back with her folks. My evening routine was no different to normal; I played darts until around 11pm, and then retired to bed.
Darts is not exactly the most draining of activities, but I was exhausted after a demanding pre-Christmas day that had just passed. It was lights out and fast asleep within minutes.
I slept fine until the early hours. I was awoken by the familiar sound of a Northern Line train passing underneath. Looking at the bedside clock, I assumed it was around 12.30, with the noise coming from the last train. But no, it was 3.30 am.
How very strange. Maybe it was a train being tested? Your brain doesn't really stop to think of too much detail at this time in the morning. Still, I had been disturbed and needed a drink.
I went downstairs and passed the door to the cellar. Pitch black outside and I noticed a faint light shining through the cracks in the floorboards from up above. I was now fully awake and thought that maybe I had left the light on from my earlier darts session.
I opened the cellar door, and from the foot of the stairs, peered down.
I'm not sure how long I stood there. It may have been minutes; it may have been an hour. The light was coming from a faint beam in the far corner of the cellar. I wanted to ignore this and head back to the safety of my duvet. But still, the clunking of a Northern Line carriage could be heard.
I had to act. I stumbled down the stairs to find out where the light source was coming from. Down in the depths of the darts cellar and finally the clunking of the Northern Line stopped. Precisely at the same time, the faint light source disappeared as well.
Now with the main light on, and very much awake, I tried to make sense of it all. In the corner of the darts dungeon was the red torch that had been 'lost' all those months ago. But where I found it was a corner that I had cleared out the very night before, and it definitely wasn't there earlier.
I bolted for bed and hid away until sunlight.
If you're catching the last Northern Line train tonight, keep an eye out as you pass South Island Place. You might see my torch.
Sleep well tonight.
technorati: sw8 spirits
| #permalink |
Every Picture Tells a Story
And so here's what has been happening at onionbagblog over the past twleve months.
It's all in pictorial form - a fitting way to end the year seeing as though the (not so) trusty seven inch super zoom is currently en route to Cardiff to be repaired.
The old girl has served me well this year. So has the camera.
Boom boom.
*thanks to mr flickrleach, once again*
obb flickr feed
technorati: camera never lies
| Saturday 23 December, 2006 |
And so here's what has been happening at onionbagblog over the past twleve months.
It's all in pictorial form - a fitting way to end the year seeing as though the (not so) trusty seven inch super zoom is currently en route to Cardiff to be repaired.
The old girl has served me well this year. So has the camera.
Boom boom.
*thanks to mr flickrleach, once again*
obb flickr feed
technorati: camera never lies
| #permalink |
Fork It!
The shortest day of the year, and I spent it pretty much how I started 2006, twelve months ago.
Coming up with a cure for cancer? Solving the mystery of life and the Universe? Finally cleaning the back of the toilet where a 'DANGER - TOXIC!' sign has miraculously appeared?
Nope. None of these.
I got utterly arseholed watching Withnail and I.
Chin chin.
It's been a rum old year for some reasons, and a rather fun one for others. Dear old Withnail somehow manages to match the mood for any occasion.
Film buffs often bang on about parallels in their own life as a reason as to why they rate their favourite films of all time. Fine, I say, although remind me never to accept an invitation for tea and cake round at Mark Kermode's as he continuously euologises over the (over-rated) Exorcist.
But Withnail is truly wonderful. With a time shift between London and the Lakes, it's the onionbagblog lifestyle all the way. The Christmas 'holiday by mistake' isn't happening this year. The summer months provided me with the opportunity to get pissed in Penrith instead.
And so I'm stuck with Danny the Drug Dealer (that will be my supply of PG Tips,) lovable Uncle Monty (old Bill, my morning bathing companion at Clap'ham baths) and the backdrop of London, so wonderfully captured within the film for company.
'London is a city coming down from its trip and there's going to be a lot of refugees.'
Especially around Heathrow, I reckon.
Chin chin.
technorati: holiday by mistake
| Friday 21 December, 2006 |
The shortest day of the year, and I spent it pretty much how I started 2006, twelve months ago.
Coming up with a cure for cancer? Solving the mystery of life and the Universe? Finally cleaning the back of the toilet where a 'DANGER - TOXIC!' sign has miraculously appeared?
Nope. None of these.
I got utterly arseholed watching Withnail and I.
Chin chin.
It's been a rum old year for some reasons, and a rather fun one for others. Dear old Withnail somehow manages to match the mood for any occasion.
Film buffs often bang on about parallels in their own life as a reason as to why they rate their favourite films of all time. Fine, I say, although remind me never to accept an invitation for tea and cake round at Mark Kermode's as he continuously euologises over the (over-rated) Exorcist.
But Withnail is truly wonderful. With a time shift between London and the Lakes, it's the onionbagblog lifestyle all the way. The Christmas 'holiday by mistake' isn't happening this year. The summer months provided me with the opportunity to get pissed in Penrith instead.
And so I'm stuck with Danny the Drug Dealer (that will be my supply of PG Tips,) lovable Uncle Monty (old Bill, my morning bathing companion at Clap'ham baths) and the backdrop of London, so wonderfully captured within the film for company.
'London is a city coming down from its trip and there's going to be a lot of refugees.'
Especially around Heathrow, I reckon.
Chin chin.
technorati: holiday by mistake
| #permalink |
The Big Dipper
The last LIDO DAY of the year on Sunday and I was sure going to make the most of it. Time and tide wait for no delusional South London swimmer, still yearning for the Glory Days of the summer when I lived at THE Lido.
And so it was up to my New Favourite Lido up at London Fields before the heated (debatable) pool pulls down the shutters until early spring 2007.
The overly warm water at Clap'ham had been crap early morning the week before. I like my swimming experience to give me a good tickling and put a spring in my step for the day ahead.
'Due to circumstances beyond our control, the water is colder than normal.'
Arse. That's not the North London greeting I wanted to hear upon reaching London Fields.
Steam slowly rose up out of the temperate pool, with small pockets of the winter solstice sun piercing through it as it rose above my head.
It was like a long lost scene from Underwater TOTP, circa '81. I was the aquatic Midge Ure, overcoat replaced by Speedos as I sung of how 'this means nothing to me...' as the King of Front Crawl in the adjacent lane gave me a good kick in the ribs as we momentarily passed.
'Ah, Shaddup yer Face,' I said.
The swim itself was breathtaking. No, it really was breathtaking as I touched down after twenty lengths of the Olympic size pool and plotted the quickest route to return to the indoor changing rooms.
It's all about the challenge you see. A half hour cycle through the City, sprinting through Shoreditch at 8am on a Sunday morning with the only sign of 'life' coming from the clubbers coughing up all the crap they'd consumed in the previous twelve hours.
You need to arrive at London Fields with your brow just starting to form the first droplets of sweat. I can usually achieve this by the time I reach at Elephant mid-summer. But mid-winter? And with three layers as well.
No time for chatting up the happy go lucky Hackney bird on reception. Straight into the hot shower before you make a break for the great outdoors and the lovely Lido.
London Fields s a mixture of the old meets the new. Fantastic facilities, but sometimes you long for the modernist planning tradition that cuts right through the heart of Brockwell Lido.
Which bright young thing straight outta the University of Hackney's Architecture Department came up with the backwards idea of putting the lockers OUTSIDE for a Lido that will be open during the winter months? With the sweat and hot shower water freezing fast on my skin, I risked icicles forming on my torso as I struggled with the (non-returnable) 20p for the locker.
I started to cry and thought of how great the distance now seemed between London Fields and my double duvet back in SW8.
'I may be gone a long while,' I told mrs onionbagblogger as I was departing.
No brave speech in return from the fragrant one:
'Piss off you twat. You're fucking mad.'
Twenty pence in the slot and I was in the zone. Well, I was standing outside in E8 wearing nothing but a pair of shreddies as the temperature went into retreat and failed to hit double figures.
There was only one thing for it - leg it across the Lido patio and into the lukewarm water. I felt like a streaker at the South Pole, although given the dropping temperature, I wasn't exactly blowing my own trumpet.
Into the water and I slowly started to warm up. The trick is to keep on swimming. None of this rests in between lengths nonsense; that's how frostbite sets in. Keep your head underwater as often as possible as well. So what if you drown? It's better that death by blue head.
Twenty lengths to match my (non-returnable) 20p for the locker and I was a changed man. My body was blue and my balls were barely functioning. It's like the playground torture joke of having matchsticks on your eyelids, a naked girl dancing in front of you and an electric wire placed just in front of your knob; what's the point in swimming amongst some fine North London females when the old man down below has taken the day off?
What a wonderful city we live in where you can celebrate mid-winter with an outdoor swim in an all mod cons watery paradise. Shame it's up in North London Knobber Land (which I'm actually starting to rather like in recent months. London Fields, Lord's and a recent rediscovery of the seedy appeal of Camden Town. I'll be drinking in coffee shops and bangin' on about postcode property prices next.)
I've certainly overdosed on Lido Life this year. I genuinely love THE Lido. It's the only building that I find more beautiful than most females.
Tooting was the find of the summer; previous visits have been tarnished with the suburban crowd not being as welcoming as the SW2 summer swimmers. But with Brockwell closing before the sun had the chance to set on the season, Tooting became my bit of totty on the side during the late summer days.
London Fields has been a fling. Wham! Bam! Thank You Mam! You would find it very hard to become sexually aroused though swimming out of season, even in a building whose unforgiving colour scheme is nothing but a prick tease to a serial Lido shagger.
And so I've now got a three month reprieve to recharge my Lido Loving ways before London Fields starts flirting with me early spring.
No chance of shooting my load at 6.45 in Clap'ham each weekday morning.
technorati: london fields lido
| Monday 18 December, 2006 |
The last LIDO DAY of the year on Sunday and I was sure going to make the most of it. Time and tide wait for no delusional South London swimmer, still yearning for the Glory Days of the summer when I lived at THE Lido.
I live for the Lido |
The overly warm water at Clap'ham had been crap early morning the week before. I like my swimming experience to give me a good tickling and put a spring in my step for the day ahead.
'Due to circumstances beyond our control, the water is colder than normal.'
Arse. That's not the North London greeting I wanted to hear upon reaching London Fields.
Steam slowly rose up out of the temperate pool, with small pockets of the winter solstice sun piercing through it as it rose above my head.
It was like a long lost scene from Underwater TOTP, circa '81. I was the aquatic Midge Ure, overcoat replaced by Speedos as I sung of how 'this means nothing to me...' as the King of Front Crawl in the adjacent lane gave me a good kick in the ribs as we momentarily passed.
'Ah, Shaddup yer Face,' I said.
The swim itself was breathtaking. No, it really was breathtaking as I touched down after twenty lengths of the Olympic size pool and plotted the quickest route to return to the indoor changing rooms.
It's all about the challenge you see. A half hour cycle through the City, sprinting through Shoreditch at 8am on a Sunday morning with the only sign of 'life' coming from the clubbers coughing up all the crap they'd consumed in the previous twelve hours.
You need to arrive at London Fields with your brow just starting to form the first droplets of sweat. I can usually achieve this by the time I reach at Elephant mid-summer. But mid-winter? And with three layers as well.
No time for chatting up the happy go lucky Hackney bird on reception. Straight into the hot shower before you make a break for the great outdoors and the lovely Lido.
London Fields s a mixture of the old meets the new. Fantastic facilities, but sometimes you long for the modernist planning tradition that cuts right through the heart of Brockwell Lido.
Which bright young thing straight outta the University of Hackney's Architecture Department came up with the backwards idea of putting the lockers OUTSIDE for a Lido that will be open during the winter months? With the sweat and hot shower water freezing fast on my skin, I risked icicles forming on my torso as I struggled with the (non-returnable) 20p for the locker.
I started to cry and thought of how great the distance now seemed between London Fields and my double duvet back in SW8.
'I may be gone a long while,' I told mrs onionbagblogger as I was departing.
No brave speech in return from the fragrant one:
'Piss off you twat. You're fucking mad.'
Twenty pence in the slot and I was in the zone. Well, I was standing outside in E8 wearing nothing but a pair of shreddies as the temperature went into retreat and failed to hit double figures.
There was only one thing for it - leg it across the Lido patio and into the lukewarm water. I felt like a streaker at the South Pole, although given the dropping temperature, I wasn't exactly blowing my own trumpet.
Into the water and I slowly started to warm up. The trick is to keep on swimming. None of this rests in between lengths nonsense; that's how frostbite sets in. Keep your head underwater as often as possible as well. So what if you drown? It's better that death by blue head.
Twenty lengths to match my (non-returnable) 20p for the locker and I was a changed man. My body was blue and my balls were barely functioning. It's like the playground torture joke of having matchsticks on your eyelids, a naked girl dancing in front of you and an electric wire placed just in front of your knob; what's the point in swimming amongst some fine North London females when the old man down below has taken the day off?
What a wonderful city we live in where you can celebrate mid-winter with an outdoor swim in an all mod cons watery paradise. Shame it's up in North London Knobber Land (which I'm actually starting to rather like in recent months. London Fields, Lord's and a recent rediscovery of the seedy appeal of Camden Town. I'll be drinking in coffee shops and bangin' on about postcode property prices next.)
I've certainly overdosed on Lido Life this year. I genuinely love THE Lido. It's the only building that I find more beautiful than most females.
Tooting was the find of the summer; previous visits have been tarnished with the suburban crowd not being as welcoming as the SW2 summer swimmers. But with Brockwell closing before the sun had the chance to set on the season, Tooting became my bit of totty on the side during the late summer days.
London Fields has been a fling. Wham! Bam! Thank You Mam! You would find it very hard to become sexually aroused though swimming out of season, even in a building whose unforgiving colour scheme is nothing but a prick tease to a serial Lido shagger.
And so I've now got a three month reprieve to recharge my Lido Loving ways before London Fields starts flirting with me early spring.
No chance of shooting my load at 6.45 in Clap'ham each weekday morning.
technorati: london fields lido
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Cray Wanderers 0, 16/12/06
And so the ex-ex-Fisher Athletic manager is now in the dug out down at Dulwich; our Fisher friends are not only ground sharing at Champion Hill, they're also now sharing the shame ownership of the club. Come Saturday afternoon and we welcomed the return of an old Dulwich favourite, Omari Coleman who pulled on the proud pink 'n blue as part of a dual registration deal with... our friends Fisher.
Something smells fishy to me.
Whatever next? Dulwich and T***ing fans form a South London sewing circle and knit a pair of mittens for the players, in mutual respect of each other's friendship?
You may remember that Omari was originally poached to play for Watford, and Dulwich were done up like a kipper. The Hamlet #9 was a small fish in the big sea of professional football, and so he's returned to the minnows of non-league football to cast his net wider.
Meanwhile the Brentford scouts are dangling the bait in front of Dulwich's current top goal scorer, Chris Dickson. If I were the joint owner of two South London non league clubs, I'd also sign Dicko up on a dual registration deal right away to double the haul.
Cray Wanderers came to Champion Hill on Saturday unconcerned about the current column inches concerning table topping Dulwich. Today's headlines are tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers.
A bruising affair in the first half; it was a bit like the fight in my SW8 chip shop the night before where two pieces of cod got battered. Billy the Fish could have been playing up front for Cray, and still the Wanderers would be swimming against the tide. A free kick in the far corner went out for a throw in the opposite a corner; likewise a shot on goal taken inside the six yard box.
A rare SE22 appearance from the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger, but the crab like attacking plans of Cray sent her to sleep.
A space hopper found its way onto the pitch (this is non-league football) and I half expected Omari to hop out of South London for a second time.
The end of the first half was all about who was more incompetent. Nothing to do with the two teams, but the two managers who continually kicked the side of their respective dug outs, out of frustration rather than anger. Much like their two teams, the kicks didn't always connect.
Jamie Coyle did make contact though, bang on 45 minutes with a back post header. It's a cruel game football; not going in at half time 1-0 down, but the non league rites of passage involving a Cray Yoof player during the break. Paraded around in the touchline mud, and then used as a human bog brush, the poor boy walked off in tears. And who can blame him? A strong letter of complaint from his Mum is being sent to Soho Square as we speak.
It just wasn't cricket, unlike the bat and ball game that was being played by some South London Yoof behind the away goal. The action wasn't as one-sided as the Ashes, but some of the haircuts were.
Back on the pitch and mrs obb was back asleep. It's not the first time that she's dozed off as a huffing and puffing bloke wearing pink 'n blue prods around to no avail.
Dicko was dismissed for Dulwich with five minutes to go. He got the better deal to be honest.
Still - five points clear at the top of the pile and a planned evening of sharking around South London later on. Spot the red herring.
technorati: dulwich hamlet
| Sunday 17 December, 2006 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Cray Wanderers 0, 16/12/06
And so the ex-ex-Fisher Athletic manager is now in the dug out down at Dulwich; our Fisher friends are not only ground sharing at Champion Hill, they're also now sharing the shame ownership of the club. Come Saturday afternoon and we welcomed the return of an old Dulwich favourite, Omari Coleman who pulled on the proud pink 'n blue as part of a dual registration deal with... our friends Fisher.
Something smells fishy to me.
mrs obb fell asleep |
You may remember that Omari was originally poached to play for Watford, and Dulwich were done up like a kipper. The Hamlet #9 was a small fish in the big sea of professional football, and so he's returned to the minnows of non-league football to cast his net wider.
Meanwhile the Brentford scouts are dangling the bait in front of Dulwich's current top goal scorer, Chris Dickson. If I were the joint owner of two South London non league clubs, I'd also sign Dicko up on a dual registration deal right away to double the haul.
Cray Wanderers came to Champion Hill on Saturday unconcerned about the current column inches concerning table topping Dulwich. Today's headlines are tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers.
A bruising affair in the first half; it was a bit like the fight in my SW8 chip shop the night before where two pieces of cod got battered. Billy the Fish could have been playing up front for Cray, and still the Wanderers would be swimming against the tide. A free kick in the far corner went out for a throw in the opposite a corner; likewise a shot on goal taken inside the six yard box.
A rare SE22 appearance from the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger, but the crab like attacking plans of Cray sent her to sleep.
A space hopper found its way onto the pitch (this is non-league football) and I half expected Omari to hop out of South London for a second time.
The end of the first half was all about who was more incompetent. Nothing to do with the two teams, but the two managers who continually kicked the side of their respective dug outs, out of frustration rather than anger. Much like their two teams, the kicks didn't always connect.
Jamie Coyle did make contact though, bang on 45 minutes with a back post header. It's a cruel game football; not going in at half time 1-0 down, but the non league rites of passage involving a Cray Yoof player during the break. Paraded around in the touchline mud, and then used as a human bog brush, the poor boy walked off in tears. And who can blame him? A strong letter of complaint from his Mum is being sent to Soho Square as we speak.
It just wasn't cricket, unlike the bat and ball game that was being played by some South London Yoof behind the away goal. The action wasn't as one-sided as the Ashes, but some of the haircuts were.
Back on the pitch and mrs obb was back asleep. It's not the first time that she's dozed off as a huffing and puffing bloke wearing pink 'n blue prods around to no avail.
Dicko was dismissed for Dulwich with five minutes to go. He got the better deal to be honest.
Still - five points clear at the top of the pile and a planned evening of sharking around South London later on. Spot the red herring.
|
technorati: dulwich hamlet
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Photo Friday
A final Photo Friday, for this year anyway. With wonderful timing, the seven inch super zoom has decided to hibernate for the winter.
Arse, Sony.
Fine to fix the fault, but a blanket product recall would have been better.
It threw a wobbler just as Boy Y was throwing a wobbler, demolishing a classroom after feeling 'depressed' that he didn't get a large portion in his Christmas dinner.
He got off lightly, to be honest.
I'm supposed to be the official photographer as Santa (yeah, right...) visits the school later on today. Can't quite justify charging a fiver for a pen and paper drawing.
The pictures here are my end of year offering for The Way We See It. Another Shoreditch trip, this time to Great Eastern Street. Not a lot to see. Not without a camera anyway.
Arse, again.
technorati: great eastern street
| Friday 14 December, 2006 |
A final Photo Friday, for this year anyway. With wonderful timing, the seven inch super zoom has decided to hibernate for the winter.
Arse, Sony.
Fine to fix the fault, but a blanket product recall would have been better.
It threw a wobbler just as Boy Y was throwing a wobbler, demolishing a classroom after feeling 'depressed' that he didn't get a large portion in his Christmas dinner.
He got off lightly, to be honest.
I'm supposed to be the official photographer as Santa (yeah, right...) visits the school later on today. Can't quite justify charging a fiver for a pen and paper drawing.
The pictures here are my end of year offering for The Way We See It. Another Shoreditch trip, this time to Great Eastern Street. Not a lot to see. Not without a camera anyway.
Arse, again.
technorati: great eastern street
| #permalink |
Double Top
I've become addicted to darts. The drawn out winter nights have been spent submerged in thedarts dungeon wine cellar, practicing my precision throwing and developing a slightly worryingly obsession with quick fire mathematics.
I'm averaging 100 with three darts, and over one hour of oche action every evening. It's all about practice see you. Any Tom, Dick or Raymond Van can work their way to the top of the professional game. You just need to put in the hours and get over the stigma of wearing a silly shirt in public. I'm already halfway there.
Ah, but darts is not a true sport, I hear you cry. As long as you don't cry it into my spilt beer that is lined up in the darts dungeon.
My officially 'knackered knee' has put an end to my onionbagblog half marathon days. Darts is where the action is at right now, and I'm feeling as fit asAndy Fordham a fiddle.
Critiques of Archery for the Working Man are nothing but elitist sport snobs. Booze, bellies and bad hair cuts - what is there NOT to like about darts?
Lock me up in the darts dungeon with the iPod and a pot of PG Tips and I'm a happy man.
The PDC starts next week and I'm hoping that it's not too late for a last minute entry. I hit 140 earlier on this evening. Impressive, you might think. I had been down in the darts dungeon for almost four hours at the time.
'Keep out of the black and in to the red, there's nothing in this game for two in a bed.'
No chance of that for the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger. I'm too busy playing darts.
technorati: k-ing love darts
| Wednesday 13 December, 2006 |
I've become addicted to darts. The drawn out winter nights have been spent submerged in the
Archery for the Working Man... |
Ah, but darts is not a true sport, I hear you cry. As long as you don't cry it into my spilt beer that is lined up in the darts dungeon.
My officially 'knackered knee' has put an end to my onionbagblog half marathon days. Darts is where the action is at right now, and I'm feeling as fit as
Critiques of Archery for the Working Man are nothing but elitist sport snobs. Booze, bellies and bad hair cuts - what is there NOT to like about darts?
Lock me up in the darts dungeon with the iPod and a pot of PG Tips and I'm a happy man.
The PDC starts next week and I'm hoping that it's not too late for a last minute entry. I hit 140 earlier on this evening. Impressive, you might think. I had been down in the darts dungeon for almost four hours at the time.
'Keep out of the black and in to the red, there's nothing in this game for two in a bed.'
No chance of that for the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger. I'm too busy playing darts.
technorati: k-ing love darts
| #permalink |
Shhhhh
A refererence to the Tory knobber behind all the bollocks yesterday, perhaps?
Name the location, etc.
Dearly Beloved...
technorati: somewhere in SE17
| Wednesday 12 December, 2006 |
A refererence to the Tory knobber behind all the bollocks yesterday, perhaps?
Name the location, etc.
Dearly Beloved...
technorati: somewhere in SE17
| #permalink |
Crap Journo*
*remember him?
Sniffin' out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Tory Twats
And so it's back to the good 'ol days of the Nasty Party then.
I'm not sure what's worse: Being overlooked by Mr Tony for not being part of a 'hard working family' (working class with kids,) or being penalised by thatnice knobber Dave Cameron for not exchanging wedding vows and bodily fluids.
I'm quite proud of my failure not to fit in with Mr T's hard working family worldview; I'm a professional skiver and would rather walk naked to North London knobber land than walk down the aisle in some silly penguin suit.
But the Nasty Party is showing its sinister side once again with plans to penalise co-habitating couples.
Where the fuck does this doctrine that 'marriage (and then divorce) is good,' whereas sixteen years of happily co-habitating (I kid you not) is something to be sniffed at?
It's all a load of bollocks, and bollocks to them all, etc.
'Marital breakdown is causing an underclass,' according to knobber Cameron. Um, wasn't his wankfest dream girl once responsible for this?
And how does this Back to Basics bollocks bed down with the Nasty Party's new found love (oh yes) of The Gays?
Politicians should stay out of the bedroom and stick to the tart's boudoir. Short memories, some people.
Hammered
Poor old Alan Pardew. Sacked by a biscuit man before he even gets the chance to blag a king size tin of freebies for Christmas. And all this from the biscuit baron who proclaimed Pardew as 'the future of West Ham' less than a month ago.
West Ham historically aren't a sacking club. Dear old John Lyall lasted fifteen years, Bonzo four, and it was ill health that eventually led to the removal of Glenn Roeder.
But it's all change in the East End. Eels are out; custard creams are in as the new currency. The whole culture of the club has changed overnight. Once the bulldozers are in at the old Boleyn and the Hammers are getting hammered at Stratford in some half empty enorm-o-dome, then you might as well be Middlesbrough for all the history and tradition that has been trashed.
Pardew is an old Dulwich boy, passionate, proud and now in possession of a P45. Betcha The Sun blames it all on 'The Argies' tomorrow morning.
And finally...
Sticky Wicket
Mark Ramprakash has been playing away in Cardiff. An average of over 100 runs in EVERY first class game last summer, the star of a Saturday night mainstream TV show, and now the title of Gigolo to add to his glittering CV.
Don't tell the Nasty Party, Ramps. They'll have you castrated just before the Ten O'Clock News, quicker than the time it takes you to tell your 'what's grey and slides across the dance floor?' Cum Dancing joke.
technorati: no knobber mainstream media whores here
| Monday 11 December, 2006 |
*remember him?
Sniffin' out the stories and serving them up in a shit sandwich...
Tory Twats
And so it's back to the good 'ol days of the Nasty Party then.
I'm not sure what's worse: Being overlooked by Mr Tony for not being part of a 'hard working family' (working class with kids,) or being penalised by that
I'm quite proud of my failure not to fit in with Mr T's hard working family worldview; I'm a professional skiver and would rather walk naked to North London knobber land than walk down the aisle in some silly penguin suit.
But the Nasty Party is showing its sinister side once again with plans to penalise co-habitating couples.
Where the fuck does this doctrine that 'marriage (and then divorce) is good,' whereas sixteen years of happily co-habitating (I kid you not) is something to be sniffed at?
It's all a load of bollocks, and bollocks to them all, etc.
'Marital breakdown is causing an underclass,' according to knobber Cameron. Um, wasn't his wankfest dream girl once responsible for this?
And how does this Back to Basics bollocks bed down with the Nasty Party's new found love (oh yes) of The Gays?
Politicians should stay out of the bedroom and stick to the tart's boudoir. Short memories, some people.
Hammered
Poor old Alan Pardew. Sacked by a biscuit man before he even gets the chance to blag a king size tin of freebies for Christmas. And all this from the biscuit baron who proclaimed Pardew as 'the future of West Ham' less than a month ago.
West Ham historically aren't a sacking club. Dear old John Lyall lasted fifteen years, Bonzo four, and it was ill health that eventually led to the removal of Glenn Roeder.
But it's all change in the East End. Eels are out; custard creams are in as the new currency. The whole culture of the club has changed overnight. Once the bulldozers are in at the old Boleyn and the Hammers are getting hammered at Stratford in some half empty enorm-o-dome, then you might as well be Middlesbrough for all the history and tradition that has been trashed.
Pardew is an old Dulwich boy, passionate, proud and now in possession of a P45. Betcha The Sun blames it all on 'The Argies' tomorrow morning.
And finally...
Sticky Wicket
Mark Ramprakash has been playing away in Cardiff. An average of over 100 runs in EVERY first class game last summer, the star of a Saturday night mainstream TV show, and now the title of Gigolo to add to his glittering CV.
Don't tell the Nasty Party, Ramps. They'll have you castrated just before the Ten O'Clock News, quicker than the time it takes you to tell your 'what's grey and slides across the dance floor?' Cum Dancing joke.
technorati: no knobber mainstream media whores here
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Long Face
And the 2006 Sports Personality of the Year is...
What a right Royal fucking farce.
'The Great British public loves a Royal,' noted mrs onionbagblogger.
A blue blooded aristocratic bitch against some bloke from the Potteries who plays a pub sport for a living? The Power didn't stand a chance. He hasn't been privileged as a birthright and given the time and money to develop his talent.
And just want talent is required to ride a bloody horse?
It gets worse - the silly wench is bonking a rugger bugger. I fear for any offspring should the egg chaser spunk his beans inside the little tart.
I'm all for minority sports being profiled as the annual BBC wankfest, but horsey horsey IS NOT a sport. BBC bosses are blushing right now after the crappest acceptance 'speech' in the history of broadcasting has forced them to remove the 'Personality' tag from the award for next year.
The highlight of the sporting year has been dumbed down to an X Factor piss poor copy cat format. Where was the crazy stunt of some boxer wearing his gloves playng tiddlywinks? What about Ian Botham trying to eat 334 boxes of Shredded Wheat during the broadcast? And the promised live shagfest between Sue Barker and Sir Cliff?
Vote horse, get horse.
technorati: sports personality is pants
| Sunday 10 December, 2006 |
And the 2006 Sports Personality of the Year is...
What a right Royal fucking farce.
'The Great British public loves a Royal,' noted mrs onionbagblogger.
Vote horse, get horse |
And just want talent is required to ride a bloody horse?
It gets worse - the silly wench is bonking a rugger bugger. I fear for any offspring should the egg chaser spunk his beans inside the little tart.
I'm all for minority sports being profiled as the annual BBC wankfest, but horsey horsey IS NOT a sport. BBC bosses are blushing right now after the crappest acceptance 'speech' in the history of broadcasting has forced them to remove the 'Personality' tag from the award for next year.
The highlight of the sporting year has been dumbed down to an X Factor piss poor copy cat format. Where was the crazy stunt of some boxer wearing his gloves playng tiddlywinks? What about Ian Botham trying to eat 334 boxes of Shredded Wheat during the broadcast? And the promised live shagfest between Sue Barker and Sir Cliff?
Vote horse, get horse.
technorati: sports personality is pants
| #permalink |
Bad MF
Well lookey HERE:
Mummy, Mummy - I've been called 'bad.' By a bloody marketing monger as well.
But coming from some knobber who thinks caffeine is great (TEA, dear,) I'm not going to get my strategic online portal pants in a twist.
Let us not forget that marketing eventually turns everything into shite. If you are a marketer then you ARE shite. You have no soul and your life is even less meaningful than that of a common garden worm.
'By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. No, this is not a joke: kill yourself... I know what the marketing people are thinking now too: 'Oh. He's going for that anti-marketing dollar. That's a good market.' Oh man, I am not doing that, you fucking evil scumbags.'
Oh yes.
A blog all about bloody marketing?
It's all a load of bollocks, and bollocks to them all, etc.
I note with interest that mss (betcha it is) caffeine's top three tags are 'london, blog and funny.'
Which is quite funny in itself.
Ha ha.
Ah - takes me back to the balmy days of the Great Metro Knobbers Online War. And that's still shite as well.
PLUS:
All you need to know abut how to play the game with the thieving corporate scum over HERE.
technorati: i am a bad person
| Saturday 9 December, 2006 |
Well lookey HERE:
Mummy, Mummy - I've been called 'bad.' By a bloody marketing monger as well.
But coming from some knobber who thinks caffeine is great (TEA, dear,) I'm not going to get my strategic online portal pants in a twist.
Let us not forget that marketing eventually turns everything into shite. If you are a marketer then you ARE shite. You have no soul and your life is even less meaningful than that of a common garden worm.
'By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. No, this is not a joke: kill yourself... I know what the marketing people are thinking now too: 'Oh. He's going for that anti-marketing dollar. That's a good market.' Oh man, I am not doing that, you fucking evil scumbags.'
Oh yes.
A blog all about bloody marketing?
It's all a load of bollocks, and bollocks to them all, etc.
I note with interest that mss (betcha it is) caffeine's top three tags are 'london, blog and funny.'
Which is quite funny in itself.
Ha ha.
Ah - takes me back to the balmy days of the Great Metro Knobbers Online War. And that's still shite as well.
PLUS:
All you need to know abut how to play the game with the thieving corporate scum over HERE.
technorati: i am a bad person
| #permalink |
Knockout
F***! S***! W***! B*******! D*erby! L*icester!
That's the sound of my size 10 hangover giving me a seasonal greeting on Saturday morning.
Where did it all go wrong? Wining and dining with twenty female teachers at someknobber Clap'ham lifestyle bar swanky SW4 eatery. Where did it all go right?
It wasn't a great start.
'Bollocks if you think I'm going out with you dressed like that,' said mrs onionbagblogger. 'You look like a poor Paul Weller imitation from 1985.'
Um, that was the idea, love.
And so a quick costume change and then we were boarding the 155, Clap'ham bound.
Friday night a fortnight before Christmas is officially Work Office Party Hell. Except I work in a school and so we're exempt from the stereotypes of cheapo posh frocks, photocopying your arse and secret snogs in the stationary cupboard.
We spent the evening boozing and bitching instead.
Back in the day job and we try and sit the kids boy / girl / boy / girl. A variation of sorts was in place at SW4: Preggers / not preggers / preggers / not preggers. At least I knew where to dip my bread.
'You're sitting RIGHT THERE,' I instructed mrs obb. 'Look, there's even a sign on your seat that even said NOT PREGGERS, NO WAY JOSE. Sit your arse there and keep your mouth shut.'
The (s)wanky SW4 eatery was vacated, and then we moved on to a knobber lifestyle bar next door, so painfully trendy that the wrong sort of hairstyle was penalised with an extra bar tariff. My Paul Weller circa '85 was laughed out of town, and so down the Clap'ham Road it was, back to familiar onionbagblog territory.
Home James, home. But one for the road first with the fragrant mrs obb at ourbonkers bible basher boozer friendly local across the road.
I have past form here; I've lodged more than one complaint with the Lambeth Council knobbers regarding the amplification of tambourines at two in the morning. But it's all so different of course when it's some local pisshead who's made a twat of himself at the work Christmas party and doesn't know when to stop.
We found ourselves in a lock in situation. Hurrah! Um, Help! Being locked in at the bonkers bible basher boozer is not where you would choose to be in the early hours of a Saturday morning. You're in danger of being robed up, Polyphonic Spree style, being spoken to in tongues by some foaming at the mouth care in the community type and then being asked to fill on tambourine as Old George has 'missed his medication.'
Bollocks to that. Time to make my own entertainment.
Putting the first 50p into the jukebox was a mistake. Three quid later and I knew it was very wrong. I've never actually used a pub jukebox before, and it was starting to show in the second rate pub ska that was coming out of the speakers.
Just how bloody difficult is it to select Mr Rod's f-king ACE Killing of Georgie in-between a box of CD's that you would usually find in a second hand charity shop? Bring back the bonkers tambourine bashers, I say.
mrs obb was not impressed:
'You want to play some shit, and you can't even select the shit, you useless tosser.'
I was banished back to the bar, and one for the road became another round where I was strangely drawn to the unappealing allure of a bottle of Newcastle Brown.
The best thing that you can say about Newcie Brown is that once an empty bottle is rubbed against the static on a sensible woolen jumper, it will miraculously obtain the ability to stick to a corner section of a wall unaided. This was scientifically proven at L*icester University as boredom struck in during some dodgy RAWK disco back in the day.
But boredom was not locked in with us at the bonkers bible basher boozer. A couple of Good Time South London Girls were though, and they were actually enjoying my ballsed up second rate ska selection on the jukebox.
'Ah yeah...' sang Mr Rod eventually.
'Facking hell - who put this shit on?' asked the Good Time South London Girls / mrs obb.
Bollocks. Time to leave then. The lock in was un-locked and I stumbled across the road back to obb HQ II. Back in bed and Mr Rod serenaded me once more on the Pod. It's a fine drinking song to be sure, even if your poison at the time happens to be a fresh brew of PG Tips.
The morning after was a bit of a disaster; mrs obb missed her stupid 9am start at Brixton Rec for some silly US sport, and I woke up with an iPod wedged where it really shouldn't be resting.
I was in need of an encore from Mr Rod. But wait - where's the bloody headphones? Half an hour later of rummaging around on all fours (plus headphone searching, boom boom) and they were located in the wine cellar. How the bloody hell did that happen?
And so a strange night; pregnant teachers (not guilty), a wobbler with Mr Rod and spilt tea all over the white satin sheets. The perfect hangover cure is coming up, swiftly followed by a Big Night of Boozed Up British Boxing back at obb HQ II.
Happy days.
technorati: ouch, that hurts
| Saturday 9 December, 2006 |
F***! S***! W***! B*******! D*erby! L*icester!
That's the sound of my size 10 hangover giving me a seasonal greeting on Saturday morning.
Where did it all go wrong? Wining and dining with twenty female teachers at some
It wasn't a great start.
Old George has missed his medication |
Um, that was the idea, love.
And so a quick costume change and then we were boarding the 155, Clap'ham bound.
Friday night a fortnight before Christmas is officially Work Office Party Hell. Except I work in a school and so we're exempt from the stereotypes of cheapo posh frocks, photocopying your arse and secret snogs in the stationary cupboard.
We spent the evening boozing and bitching instead.
Back in the day job and we try and sit the kids boy / girl / boy / girl. A variation of sorts was in place at SW4: Preggers / not preggers / preggers / not preggers. At least I knew where to dip my bread.
'You're sitting RIGHT THERE,' I instructed mrs obb. 'Look, there's even a sign on your seat that even said NOT PREGGERS, NO WAY JOSE. Sit your arse there and keep your mouth shut.'
The (s)wanky SW4 eatery was vacated, and then we moved on to a knobber lifestyle bar next door, so painfully trendy that the wrong sort of hairstyle was penalised with an extra bar tariff. My Paul Weller circa '85 was laughed out of town, and so down the Clap'ham Road it was, back to familiar onionbagblog territory.
Home James, home. But one for the road first with the fragrant mrs obb at our
I have past form here; I've lodged more than one complaint with the Lambeth Council knobbers regarding the amplification of tambourines at two in the morning. But it's all so different of course when it's some local pisshead who's made a twat of himself at the work Christmas party and doesn't know when to stop.
We found ourselves in a lock in situation. Hurrah! Um, Help! Being locked in at the bonkers bible basher boozer is not where you would choose to be in the early hours of a Saturday morning. You're in danger of being robed up, Polyphonic Spree style, being spoken to in tongues by some foaming at the mouth care in the community type and then being asked to fill on tambourine as Old George has 'missed his medication.'
Bollocks to that. Time to make my own entertainment.
Putting the first 50p into the jukebox was a mistake. Three quid later and I knew it was very wrong. I've never actually used a pub jukebox before, and it was starting to show in the second rate pub ska that was coming out of the speakers.
Just how bloody difficult is it to select Mr Rod's f-king ACE Killing of Georgie in-between a box of CD's that you would usually find in a second hand charity shop? Bring back the bonkers tambourine bashers, I say.
mrs obb was not impressed:
'You want to play some shit, and you can't even select the shit, you useless tosser.'
I was banished back to the bar, and one for the road became another round where I was strangely drawn to the unappealing allure of a bottle of Newcastle Brown.
The best thing that you can say about Newcie Brown is that once an empty bottle is rubbed against the static on a sensible woolen jumper, it will miraculously obtain the ability to stick to a corner section of a wall unaided. This was scientifically proven at L*icester University as boredom struck in during some dodgy RAWK disco back in the day.
But boredom was not locked in with us at the bonkers bible basher boozer. A couple of Good Time South London Girls were though, and they were actually enjoying my ballsed up second rate ska selection on the jukebox.
'Ah yeah...' sang Mr Rod eventually.
'Facking hell - who put this shit on?' asked the Good Time South London Girls / mrs obb.
Bollocks. Time to leave then. The lock in was un-locked and I stumbled across the road back to obb HQ II. Back in bed and Mr Rod serenaded me once more on the Pod. It's a fine drinking song to be sure, even if your poison at the time happens to be a fresh brew of PG Tips.
The morning after was a bit of a disaster; mrs obb missed her stupid 9am start at Brixton Rec for some silly US sport, and I woke up with an iPod wedged where it really shouldn't be resting.
I was in need of an encore from Mr Rod. But wait - where's the bloody headphones? Half an hour later of rummaging around on all fours (plus headphone searching, boom boom) and they were located in the wine cellar. How the bloody hell did that happen?
And so a strange night; pregnant teachers (not guilty), a wobbler with Mr Rod and spilt tea all over the white satin sheets. The perfect hangover cure is coming up, swiftly followed by a Big Night of Boozed Up British Boxing back at obb HQ II.
Happy days.
technorati: ouch, that hurts
| #permalink |
Can't Pay, Won't Pay
...for my work.
Without Prejudice
Time to open up the onionbagblog Inbox once again:
>>>>Hi there.
My name's Phil, I work at a digital marketing agency producing websites for a number of clients including Premier Travel Inn. We are looking for an image to promote the Twelfth Night celebration at Bankside on Premier Travel Inn's website and one of our designers thinks your image below would be perfect for the job.
I'm wondering if you'd give us permission to use your image? There's no budget for it I'm afraid but you would have your photograph on a very popular website and we'd be very grateful for your help.
Let me know if you'd be happy for us to use it.
Phil
The cheeky cunts!
Thenu media knobbers digital marketing agency has digital awards coming out of their digital arses. None of them are for online etiquette. They probably employ a Flickr Monkey to sit there all day sourcing Can't Pay, Won't Pay images.
>>>>Hi there
Many thanks for the interest, and thanks for asking first.
I am unable to grant you permission to use the picture free of charge. If you would like it to be licensed out for use, I am happy to advise you of my rates - it's how I make a living.
Regards
obb
A few hours later and the penny dropped (sort of):
>>>>Why don't you let me know a cost for the image and I can see if our client is happy to pay. It's just an unusual situation where all the costs have been agreed ages ago and this falls out of the scope of the budget but I can ask.
We really like the image!
What's your price?
Aha! Some filthy lucre is still swirling around nu media knobberland! Now I'm being pimped out by the fuckers!
>>>>Three hundred quid and the job's a good 'un for a global one year unrestrictive copyright licence.
Silence - that's the sound of Mr Flick Monkey urgently trying to find some other fucker whose work they can rip off free of charge.
It's all a load of bollocks, and bollocks to them all etc.
But there is a conclusion:
I hereby give permission for unrestrictive global usage of the image, for any period of time, for any commercial or non-commercial purpose. EXCEPT for use in relation to any activities involving daredigital.com or Premier Travel Inn.
Download and save >>HERE<<
If daredigital.com or Premier Travel Inn dare (ha!) to abuse this request, I will sue their corporate digital arses for copyright theft. And it will cost the fuckers a lot more than a poxy three hundred quid, m'Lord.
I welcome any feedback from thethieving online scum daredigital.com or Premier Inn Travel and their shoebox sized, overheated and overpriced poxy hotel rooms in the comment box below. I reserve the right to edit them and call the clients THIEVING CUNTS once again.
Of course the real value of the image is arbitrary. It's worth as much as someone is prepared to pay; or as little as the owner is prepared to devalue it to. I knocked it out in under a second and so it only seems right that it is available at the knock down price of nowt.
Except for daredigital.com or Premier Travel Inn of course. I wouldn't want to devalue myself that low.
Anyway...
The 12th Night Festival next year takes place on 6th January down at Bankside outside Shakespeare's Globe. It comes highly recommended.
Why don't you take your camera along?
technorati: thieving online scum
| Wednesday 6 December, 2006 |
...for my work.
Without Prejudice
Time to open up the onionbagblog Inbox once again:
>>>>Hi there.
My name's Phil, I work at a digital marketing agency producing websites for a number of clients including Premier Travel Inn. We are looking for an image to promote the Twelfth Night celebration at Bankside on Premier Travel Inn's website and one of our designers thinks your image below would be perfect for the job.
I'm wondering if you'd give us permission to use your image? There's no budget for it I'm afraid but you would have your photograph on a very popular website and we'd be very grateful for your help.
Let me know if you'd be happy for us to use it.
Phil
The cheeky cunts!
The
>>>>Hi there
Many thanks for the interest, and thanks for asking first.
I am unable to grant you permission to use the picture free of charge. If you would like it to be licensed out for use, I am happy to advise you of my rates - it's how I make a living.
Regards
obb
A few hours later and the penny dropped (sort of):
>>>>Why don't you let me know a cost for the image and I can see if our client is happy to pay. It's just an unusual situation where all the costs have been agreed ages ago and this falls out of the scope of the budget but I can ask.
We really like the image!
What's your price?
Aha! Some filthy lucre is still swirling around nu media knobberland! Now I'm being pimped out by the fuckers!
>>>>Three hundred quid and the job's a good 'un for a global one year unrestrictive copyright licence.
Silence - that's the sound of Mr Flick Monkey urgently trying to find some other fucker whose work they can rip off free of charge.
It's all a load of bollocks, and bollocks to them all etc.
But there is a conclusion:
I hereby give permission for unrestrictive global usage of the image, for any period of time, for any commercial or non-commercial purpose. EXCEPT for use in relation to any activities involving daredigital.com or Premier Travel Inn.
Download and save >>HERE<<
If daredigital.com or Premier Travel Inn dare (ha!) to abuse this request, I will sue their corporate digital arses for copyright theft. And it will cost the fuckers a lot more than a poxy three hundred quid, m'Lord.
I welcome any feedback from the
Of course the real value of the image is arbitrary. It's worth as much as someone is prepared to pay; or as little as the owner is prepared to devalue it to. I knocked it out in under a second and so it only seems right that it is available at the knock down price of nowt.
Except for daredigital.com or Premier Travel Inn of course. I wouldn't want to devalue myself that low.
Anyway...
The 12th Night Festival next year takes place on 6th January down at Bankside outside Shakespeare's Globe. It comes highly recommended.
Why don't you take your camera along?
technorati: thieving online scum
| #permalink |
Way Out West
Another cycle over Blackfriars on a blustery Saturday morning. West Smithfield was within my sight, all for The Way We See It.
It's the kind of stretch that is all hustle and bustle during the weekday, but come the weekend and it become a ghost town. Perfect for my kind of photography - concrete not characters please.
It was all slightly depressing, although not as downbeat as I feel right now, watching the 'highlights' from Day 5 at Adelaide.
Deary me.
If only cricket was as black and white as the Blackfriars photography.
technorati: west smithfield
| Tuesday 5 December, 2006 |
Another cycle over Blackfriars on a blustery Saturday morning. West Smithfield was within my sight, all for The Way We See It.
It's the kind of stretch that is all hustle and bustle during the weekday, but come the weekend and it become a ghost town. Perfect for my kind of photography - concrete not characters please.
It was all slightly depressing, although not as downbeat as I feel right now, watching the 'highlights' from Day 5 at Adelaide.
Deary me.
If only cricket was as black and white as the Blackfriars photography.
technorati: west smithfield
| #permalink |
