Homer Simpson is My Cousin

I was reading a good blog about the technically challenged among us –his nifty new mobile phone nearly gave the guy a brainstorm.
“Thank God for that” I thought “I’m not the only one.” It’s nuts, I should be able to cope with this stuff, I used to work with audio visual equipment, all the time.

The photocopier got tetchy? No problem, grab me tweezers and yank… and hope the engineer never catches me.

A few posts back from this, I revealed a few of me troubles with The Thing, my yummy Xblade computer; even now it does things I simply don’t understand.

I try to burn a CD
No way baby, not in your lifetime.



I really sympathise with Watski, him and me sing the same tune – his mobile does nasty things as well.
Watski's

I am never ever gonna get one of those all dancing mobiles, my brain fries as it is. Punch a few buttons…..ding a ling ling, Sod All ,happens.



I think I need a techno brain. No scrub that, I have to face it, Homer Simpson is my cousin.



Bloody hell, we ARE cousins.

The River 2005

November already and nearly the end of 2005 - looking over the blogs I realised that 'The River' is nearly a thread on its own. I have compiled them here, in order of publication, before they get lost in future blogs.

Gold on the River



October 2005 (Google search)


Dog Days of Summer





September, Iffley Lock. (photograph, PJ Smith)


Life on the River




View from the lock (Photograph, PJ Smith)

Down by the River



July. The Lockeeper's Cottage, Iffley. (Photograph, PJ Smith)


Amid the darker notes





July, view of the 'Bumps' Iffley. (Photograph, PJ Smith)

Gold on the River

Gold on the river, as the season changes and the colours have lost that vibrant promise, but all the same, every last day that holds off winter’s grip, is to be enjoyed. Mild enough, although the river is running full, and the trippers' boats have gone.
The water pounds through the weir at full pelt, frothing to a white cream and eddies and swirls in restless patterns. Muddy and full, the river reflects October skies, as the last leaves fall, floating away in a convoy of gold.


(Iffley Lock)


Now you can see the skeleton outlines of the trees along the river bank, no longer hidden in green, leaving a faint haze of beige and brown. The summer people are gone, leaving a fisherman, huddled on the path, wrapped in blankets and thankful for the peace, no longer tormented by small children feeding the geese, who always scream when the birds get too hopeful.



Most of the geese have gone now, only a handful parade the river, content to cluck gently, gone are the screaming displays of bravado, and the claiming of territory. No sign of the swans either, who used to assert their authority at intervals by staging rather spectacular displays of beating up the river, giving everyone the chance to admire their impressive wing span.

When our pair of swans are feeling especially belligerent, they float alongside the towpath, hissing theatrically at the walkers; it’s best not to take their insults too personal. I used to take revenge, by refusing to feed them, but I admit to softening up when I saw them create a perfect heart shape, bending long necks in submission.



Summer’s peace has gone, even the willow tree that bends down to the river, no longer hangs in graceful ribbons, as the wind tosses them into tangles, destroying their oriental tranquillity. Instead, the ground is covered in layers of big gold leaves, that rustle and hustle as you walk through them, just asking to be kicked and shuffled in.

When it frosts over, leaving the banks stiff and icy, I’ll bring some food down, just to make sure the ducks are all right.
Quiet now on the river, with short days of sepia brown and speckled skies of blue and grey. It’s beautiful.

Sorry You Hamsters

I have been watching the disclosures across the Pond, and I have to say at times my jaw drops open.
What’s going on? Since when did members of a country’s government engage in activities that are potentially damaging to their own country? Since Bush and his minders came into office is the answer.

The unlawful disclosure of an agent’s ID is treason, there is no other word for it; but why should any of us be surprised? Georgie Bush seems to have the moral fibre of a hamster.
(Sorry to all hamsters, folks)

His minders, e.g., Cheney and co., are bandits, they rape their own country, take the States into a war, for their own profit



I’ve said this before, that we can accept our politicians with all their faults; but not, a bunch of bastards with no integrity at all. They dishonour us, they give us a rotten stinking deal.



(Lewis Libby, former chief-of-staff to Dick Cheney)


No wonder, Uncle Tony holds hands with his friend Georgie – both from the same stable.

Over here in the UK, stuff gets murky: Mr Blunkett, (work and pensions secretary) who has been in and out of office, now OUT. A man who is known for chasing young women round London, and then asking them to have his babies (The Sunday Times.)
Also a man, without integrity, and lots of very poor judgement, kinda forgot to tell the House of Commons, his Boss, and any one else, that he had a few business deals going on.
“Conflict of Interest” words, dear David has ignored.



But Uncle Tony has told the BBC that Mr Blunkett is a ‘decent and honourable man.’
Well, there you go, the moral fibre of a hamster.




Sorry you guys, real sorry.

The Yellow Blob

Ahh well, can’t be hanging around the Thing all day, so patting it on its shiny blue head, make usual mad dash for the bus.
Never know these days if I’m late or not.
Used to rely on seeing this woman in a yellow coat walking up to the bus stop.



Fall out the door, look for Yellow Blob walking up the path – she always looks like one of the Moomins, even her hair is a Moomin style thing.


(for red, substitute yellow, and you get the idea)

Not once, have I seen her hurry, let alone run.
I run, my God, do I run.
The Yellow Blob never does. No matter what, Yellow Blob walks slowly up the path

Now the blob thing has disappeared…no more Miss Moomin, no more yellow blob

Gutted; now I just leg it and hope the bus is there.



Gone, just like the Moomins.




Just not there

Freddie the Great, if not the Good

My love affair with The Thing continues……





I got the sound drives loaded today

I played Queen

AWESOME

Oh Freddie, the great if not the good




Jesus, did the guy belt it out


Freddie Rocks

Bad luck to all if you don’t care about Xblade ‘puters and the glorious Freddie…yadda yaddda…..

Objects of Desire or.... the secret of the Universe

I have to confess – I spent the last week, playing with the Thing from Outer Space, or as Mad Dog called it , ‘The Boom Box from Hell”
He’s just jealous that his A-Drive is not hidden inside the nifty little panel, behind the blue light!

I guess Objects of Desire are just that; and this week’s Object will probably drive ‘little sister’ NUTS!!!!!

It is my David and Goliath watch.

I love it.



It is red, and it has cartoon faces, plus words of PROFOUND wisdom

‘Mullets get chicks’




Bloody hell, the secret of the Universe in one line. Marvellous.

What is a Mullet?



Simple, it’s a hairstyle – and until I did a search, thought it was totally modern, but I have found 18C references to this name.

It is red and I love it.

(and the Boom Box from Hell)

The Thing from Outer Space

It has come

The Thing from Outer Space



My XBlade Computer

You can look into the guts of the XBlade computer

It beams rays of blue light when you power it up

It took me all morning to find the A-Drive

God Has My Number

A combination of events crept up and clobbered me, by far the worse, is the doom of my computer

It died on me

I got the blue screeen of death, permanently

Yep.


No matter what, I cannot open the friggin' thing.




I am having to buy a new one.....
I guess God has my number, like I came up on his computer, an' he pressed the button

And said 'Let it be so'

And it bloody well was.
The doom of computer came upon me.
Friggin' Hell.

You can be a Paranoid

This one is for you paranoids out there – Calvin got it right here, folks.
Look at it this way, Calvin doesn’t wait to be accused, goes right ahead and demands protection.



Q - OK, are you paranoid?
A – Probably.



If you need to ask any of the following questions consider yourself a signed up member of the Paranoids. Don’t read the answers if you want a night’s sleep.

Q – Is there anybody out there?

A – Sure, we’re here and waiting for you.

Q – Are the aliens coming for me?

A – Yes, they are parked two blocks away.

Q – Are you listening to my phone calls?

A – Yeah – damn boring too. You really dig that phone sex?

Q – Have you poisoned my water supply?

A – Nah – the Government got there first.

Q –Have the Martians/Vulcans, invaded us?

A – Yes, have you looked at Tony Blair lately?
( You Yanks can just change the name)

The Dog Days of Summer

The events of the past week are not for the light hearted, as we watch, with horror, the devastation of the ‘Big Easy.’ And listen with incredulous dismay to Bush’s fatuous comments that ‘everything will work out’.



The sun still burns the skin, but in the mornings a mist shrouds the rooftops and lingers over the river, a sure sign that the season is moving on. Walking past the church, I can see rose hips colouring the hedgerows, and clumps of gleaming black elderberries hang heavy.

Before anyone says’ How English’ I spot two fat Pakistani ladies in saris and bangles leaning on the church wall watching the pious inhabitant of the village leaving the Sunday service. Perhaps they are wondering, as I am, why English ladies of a certain type, have to talk in shrill twitters.

Down on the river the first slight changes are showing, green burns to gold and the trees drop yellow tokens, drifting with the current. The dog days of summer are with us, and heat settles over the river where the ducks rest in the shade of the reeds and bushes.

Even the geese seem content to float gently on the water, no longer threatening all comers. I find it impossible to single out the young - the chicks have grown to maturity, and there is a sense of peace. Next year, the nursery will re-open but until then it is quiet.




Some of the geese have over indulged, and I can see one who is nearly spherical, so top heavy that I fear he will topple over. When he and his companions make the great flight for the winter, I am betting he will be the first to land.

The river gives a mirror image to the trees that bend down to the water, producing endless green depths, sometimes a river carp will break the still surface, sending out slow ripples of movement.
The boys jump from the stone bridge, their bodies brown with the summer, egging each other on to try another jump. “Scallywags” says the lock keeper, and waves another boat through.

The mist burns off leaving the intense heat that the Romans attributed to Sirius the dog-star, but it’s illusion to call it summer. Along the riverbank splashes of harsh orange tell us to prepare for the winter.

A black coot shoots over the water, leaving a perfect silver V on the river. Next year they will be back here, to raise another family.
Perhaps they will be lucky enough to raise all their chicks.
I hope so.