May 2008

I try to avoid Britain’s Got Talent because … well, it’s a horrible spiteful show that brings back the Victorian sideshow and it celebrates children’s sickeningly cutesy talents to roars and tears when neither are truly earned. But I caught five minutes of it the other night (five-year-olds dancing … what’s wrong with this country?) and the thing that stood out above any supposed talent on show was what the hell has happened to Amanda Holden’s face?

I may be behind the times in this, and if so I apologise, but she used to look like this:

and now she looks like this:

What the photo above doesn’t quite capture is the sheer shininess of the head. And if my sources are correct, there’s eight and a half minutes between each photo.

So what the hell happened? But if we ever need it, here’s a reminder to us all that if Lesley Ash claims to be able to put us in contact with someone she knows, maybe we don’t make that call. Hm?


I’m a man of fairly simple pleasures.  I like my whisky.  I like my Xbox.  I like my iPod.  And every six months, I like to have a Pot Noodle.  A Chicken & Mushroom one.  On a roll.  A buttered roll.

I enjoy my biannual treat … so much so that I’ll buy another one a week or so later, not enjoy it so much, maybe even dislike it, or vomit.  And that’s my appetite for man-made foodstuffs sated for another six months.

So my six monthly Pot Noodle was just about due tonight and I had my roll all ready to accept its noodley goodness and had warned Julie not to come into the living room — for some reason, she finds the idea of eating noodles on a roll repugnant and it kinda makes her want to wash her eyes — and I was all set.

Kettle boiled.  Not too much water … it’s got to be able to stick to teeth otherwise it ain’t right … soy sauce applied at just the right moment … shovelled onto the bap … and it was horrid.

They’ve gone and friggin’ changed Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodles.  Sure, it tastes like it’s never seen or been within a mile of a Chicken or a Mushroom, but now the sauce tastes like it doesn’t know what MSG is. Or excessive amounts of salt and artificial flavouring. And that’s just wrong.

For shame, Golden Wonder.  You’ve just cost yourself £1.98 of annual turnover.  I hope you feel that pain.  And when you do, then you can come talk to me.

Up until tonight, I hadn’t realised how difficult it was to get your movie certified for release in Malaysia. I know. Crazy, isn’t it? I’m in my thirties, you know.

According to IMDB, there are 222 films currently on their banned list. You can see the list by clicking here. Or here. Doesn’t matter which. You could even click here. But not here, though. That would be stupid.

Anyway, to save you from clicking on any of those links immediately, let me first pull out some of the stranger members of that list:

  1. Ally McBeal
  2. Family Guy
  3. Pokemon
  4. Spider-Man (but both sequels seem to be okay — perhaps a problem with goblins?)
  5. Amistad
  6. Babe (yep — the one with the pig)
  7. Babe: Pig In The City (clearly learned their lesson following the Spider-Man fiasco)
  8. I Know Who Killed Me (presumably on point of principal)
  9. Lost In Translation
  10. This Film Is Not Yet Rated (just couldn’t resist the irony)

Now, I can’t see any theme here. It’s not like every film features a talking pig that masquerades as a sheep dog. Nor is it that every film has a final line whispered in someone’s ear so you come out of the cinema frustrated and a little cheated. So any Malaysian film censors out there, I’m up for being enlightened. And then banned.

There’s a Jasper Carrott marathon on Paramount Comedy 2 tonight, just in case you want to — I dunno — tear out your eyes and stuff them in your ears or something. You never know.

Simon Woodroffe, he of Dragon’s Den fame … not the most recent series, I’m talking back in Series One … maybe Series Two … look, you’d remember him, he was the guy with the sideburns who invented Yo! Sushi! or something, well Simon Woodroffe, right … he’s on Question Time on BBC1 just now, minus his facial accompaniments, and when talking about the 10p tax rate and deciding how to tax the rich while still maintaining enough enterprise to generate wealth, he said:

If you look across all the parks in the country, you won’t find a single statue to a committee.

And he’s right. And I think that’s wrong.

So, come on, everyone. Let’s put out thinking caps on and see if we can do something about this staggering statistic. Which committee would you like to see commemorated via the medium of sculpture in one of our nation’s parks? Perhaps the Public Accounts Select Committee gets your vote. Or who can ignore the fine work of the Arms Export Controls Committee (perhaps better known as the Quadripartite Committee). Please note, for the purposes of this unbuilt statue, quangos are ruled out.

Suggestions on a postcard to the usual address. Please mark your suggestions — “Woodroffe’s Sideys”.

When writing a blog, it’s important to be prepared at all times. You never know when you’re going to happen upon something that you later want to tell your Reading Several (ie Steve) all about.

Driving out of Alloa today, on our way to Crianlarich, the missus and I were conscious that something was going on and we weren’t at all sure what it was. There were lines of people outside Asda, groups hanging around on every bridge in town and other bunches of people standing around in fields.

My initial suggestion of a triathalon of Moscowvite-style shopping, mass suicide and, em, standing around in fields was rightly met with scorn. Then we remembered — today is a very important day in Alloa’s history because today sees the reopening of the Stirling – Alloa rail link and to mark the occasion, local dignitaries and some competition winners were making the trip in an Olde Worlde Steame Enginee.

I know. Who cares? Somewhat surprisingly, the answer seemed to be every sod in Alloa. The station is next to Asda, it goes under four bridges and canters along next to a field full of startled lambs and at 1:30 this afternoon, every spare inch was occupied.

The missus and I remained non-plussed until one of us — probably me — got caught up in the hype and decided to spin a you-ey and head back into town.

Because we forgot to lift the camera before we left the house, you’ll just have to take my word for it that driving over one of the bridges while a steam train was going under it was much like being chased by the Smoke Monster in Lost.

You’ll also have to take my word that I got a little excited when I saw the shiny old locomotive and a little more goosebumpy than I thought possible when I saw everyone waving at the train and everyone on the train, leaning out and waving back.

People don’t wave at public transport these days. Fire airgun pellets at it? Yes. Hurl dog shite at it? Yes. Jump in front of it? Well, sometimes. But wave? In 2008?

Seems the sight of an old steam train — such a textbook example of a bygone, simpler time — made the people of Alloa and surrounding environs get all nostalgic and weepy and maybe a even a little jealous of everything it represented.

I’ll keep my eyes open for a video to appear on YouTube or wherever, which seems bound to happen based on the number of people recording the moment, and if I track one down, I’ll post it and if you watch it, I wonder if you’ll get it. I wonder if it was one of those “had to be there moments” where for once, when your hometown goes mental, it was in a good way.

Just a quickie to announce that I’ve added a new Short Story — The Receipt — to the Short Story page. Realistically, unless there’s a sudden upsurge in my readership, I’m telling this to Steve, who’s already read the story and in fact gave me the idea in the first place. So maybe it’s not as exciting news as it first seemed when I tracked down the Pantechnicon link.

Anyway, it’s a nice pdf document and worth checking out, if not for my story then for the interview with Gary Russell, who I didn’t know I knew, but I remember his Dick in The Famous Five and I’m sure I read one of his Doctor Who books when I was trying my hand at that sort of thing.

So there you go. Don’t say I’m not good to you.

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