miscellaneous extraneous aneous

The Naive And Sentimental Voyager
Wandered into a pet shop in Dublin this afternoon. It was a seedy enough joint. Walls festooned with ads for a taxi owned by one of the city's better known hoodlums. My fellow browsers exuded all the positivity of your standard dangerous deprived city kids from Central Casting. I felt sorry for the South American parrot serving her purgatory in the corner. Presently I approached the counter. "Have you got any hamster balls?" sez I to an earring bloke on point duty. He goggled briefly. "I'm noh a foon hamster," he riposted in rich Dublinese. The general mirth this caused among the clientele compelled me to retreat from the shop forthwith.

Quotes Of The Day
British Foreign Secretary David Milliband: "The War On Terror was a mistake."
James Healy: "The British are still lions. But they are led by millipedes."

Idea For A Charity Rock Song
The video shows me hurrying through the streets of New York. I ask someone for directions to the nearest toilet. He indicates an adjacent skyscraper and tells me the loo is on the top floor. I race up the stairs. On the top floor I enter what appears to be an extremely shadowy lounge bar. Its denizens are slumped in meditative inebriation. Again I express my need for toilet facilities. A rough hewn stubbly chap at the bar turns. "Do what we all do," he suggests. "See this window here. You step out. No it's alright. Really that's what we do. There's a vent on the fiftieth floor that sucks you in. It gets you every time. There's no danger. It'll leave you right at the toilet door." I express disbelief to the man. He says: "Watch." He jumps out the window. At a floor some way down, he is sucked from view. He returns to the bar a few minutes later having used the stairs to get back up. "See," says he. I nod. Without further hesitation, I jump out the window and fall screaming to the pavement. A barman from Central Casting pauses from cleaning a beer glass with a dirty dish cloth, to address the stubbly man. "F---ing hell Superman," says the barman. "You're a b-ll-x when you've a pint in you." At that moment the music starts. I burst through the swing doors, grubby, scratched and but very much alive. I am singing. The camera moves back. I am singing the only good song to emerge from the Punk movement. I sing:
"Whatever happened to,
All of the heroes,
All the Shakespearos,
No one can find them.
Whatever happened to,
The heroes!
No more heroes anymore..."
As the camera pans back we see that the lounge is packed with drunk superheroes, Spiderman, Batman, the Hulk, Maggie Thatcher, they're all there. The song plays out around their tables. I think this can work. Get Spike Jonze to direct.

The Ones That Got Away
More great photos I missed. Many happy years ago on holiday at the Galway races with my gambling cousin Vincent and the brother who would one day become Doctor Barn. We had pitched our tent in a field across from the race track. Early one morning Barn became alarmed by the sounds of cattle outside. "They're going to trample the tent," he warned. The rest of us were too sleepy to care. "Go outside and shout Up The Yard at them," mumbled Vin. Barn opened the zip on the tent door. A bullock head immediately intruded into the tent. For one moment Barn and the bullock were eye to eye. They stared speechless into each other's souls. Then the bullock quietly withdrew. I'm telling you folks, that would have been the photo of a lifetime.

Great Memos Of Our Time
From: National Union of Journalists.
To: All those employed in journalism.
When the Johnston Press takes over your newspaper you have nothing to worry about. Nazi British overlords are our friends. Er, that's it.