Wednesday, June 30, 2010

"His wife can't sing and his barber can't cut hair" - Brian Clough on David Beckham.
Album Review : Scream - Ozzy Osbourne 8*

Being the guitarist for Ozzy is rather like being in any incarnation of Thin Lizzy, you always have that ghost looming over your shoulder. Previous job incumbent Zack Wylde dispensed this by becoming physically and musically bigger and heavier than Randy Rhodes, although without quite the deftness of touch that Rhodes had.

Osbourne band new boy Gus G (aka Kostas Karamitroudis) from Greek power metallers Firewind then sounds like another deliberate change in style. Is Scream a dual lead guitar, widdly fretwank over dubbed thing with the Dark Lord attempting some Hammerfall/Sonata Arctica style melodies ? Is it buggery, it is massively heavy with huge riffs and just enough solos to make it proper trad metal, there's hardly a hint of power/symphonic stuff here.

Gus G has his guitar sound and style nicely in between Iommi and Wylde and with a light touch on songs like Life Won't Wait that nods towards Rhodes and Blackmore.

The whole band have really pulled out the stops for this album. Ozzy's last couple of efforts seem a little tired and formulaic compared to this collection of cleverly worked and fresh sounding metal songs.

Just listen to Diggin' Me Down, the slow build up grinds its way up to the first chords, and they fall into the song like iron ingots dropped off a tall building, boom, that Tony Iommi right there. Less obvious are the predictable verse-chorus-solo songs, DMD twists and changes into an almost acoustic mid section before climaxing in an almost Countdown era Megadeth blitz.

This versatility is all over the album, and the light and heavy style and time changes have opened up Ozzy's style. Fearless opens up like any of a dozen Black Label Society songs, and then it is almost like a challenge, it's as if Ozzy and Gus are saying "Hey, BLS could be this good if they were just a little more adaptable, a little less dedicated to those blurred and sludgy riffs."

Elsewhere on the album there are the chorus driven crowd pleasers like Let Me Hear You Scream and the obligatory balled Time, rendered better than nearly all previous Ozzy ballads by allowing Gus to make it heavier and more structured, actually it's more heavy metal lite than ballad if you get my drift.

This could well be the trad metal album of the year, the OAP Prince Of Darkness is well and truly back and on great form with a highly capable supporting cast.
Album Review : Trapped In The Amber Of The Moment EP - The Glass Menagerie 6*

For Fans Of : Good Charlotte, New Found Glory

Rather than being anything special, what I think this EP shows is the promise of better things to come. The Glass Menagerie, a young pop-punk band from Boston, had previously released a self titled EP which to be honest was a rather plodding, by the numbers, post punk effort. Trapped though shows a marked improvement in energy, projection, vocals and songwriting over the band's debut, it is altogether a more driven and rockier effort.

TGM still need to work on their technical ability, some of the guitar parts are still too choppy and basic and the flow of some tracks could be improved. Signed, Stamped And Filed is a song where you could say they almost have it, the changes between sung and shouted vocals work well and if the guitar parts were a little slicker it would be a great song.

A band to keep an ear out for, if with their next release they can improve as much as Trapped has over their debut they will be well on their way to being a very decent post punk outfit.

You can download both of the band's releases from their page.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

How Newspapers Work

by Checkinguponmeagain? over at b3ta.
Elves, Bastard Elves

A piteous scream from behind them caused the pair to slow for a moment, they caught each other’s eye as they jogged on, gauging if the other was prepared to turn back and help out, the scream ended suddenly and they resumed their headlong flight. A further note of panic sounded in Amelia’s breast, somehow in their stampede they had turned from the forest’s edge and moved deeper into its interior. Amelia stuck out her arm catching Simonon across his broad chest and they came to a panting halt.

I'm just trying out Scribd, I have posted the rest of this short story/vignette here.

I have no idea. Why do those children have no necks ? I do not know. Why do those children have strangely compressed heads ? I do not know. This is weird and disturbing, I'm sure it was meant to be a nice lads 'n Dad portrait, but it's more like a freakshow shot.
Hot Rock Chicks - Kimberly Freeman of One-Eyed Doll

The Broughton Bird Dog

Monday, June 28, 2010

I Don't Fancy Yours Much...

More from the Broughton Birdman Challenge 2010.
The Twins

Don't know whether Hecate Alice is yawning or crying in this one.

Vladimir Jack with spiky punky hair already, good going mate.

It Wasn't A Goal You Know

Yup, that's the view that the referee and Sepp Blatter had...
The Right Honourable Julian Smith, Member of Parliament for Skipton and Ripon

Dressed as a giant chicken, trying to jump over a river.

Excellent, I think we need more politicians like this, he's obviously a bloke who doesn't have such a self important ego that he can't make an outright fool of himself, good one Julian.

This is of course the Birdman Challenge at Broughton Show, an annual event where you can win £1000 and a barrel of beer for making a flight off that ramp and over the river.
On This Day...

...The Feast of St. Peter's Eve is celebrated, folklore has it that witches and faeries abounded between Midsummer Eve on June 23rd and tonight. Midsummer celebrations have largely died out, but are still celebrated in Cornwall as Golowan and in parts of Scotland as Beltane.

" worship of St John the Baptist, men stay up at night and make three kinds of fires: one is of clean bones and no wood and is called a "bonnefyre"; another is of clean wood and no bones, and is called a wakefyre, because men stay awake by it all night; and the third is made of both bones and wood and is called, "St. John's fire" - John Mirk of Shropshire's Lilleshall Abbey, C.1400's.

The photo is a flying witch from the Carolina Fun Flyers, check out their website here.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Book Review : If This Is A Man - Primo Levi 10*

Primo Levi was a resistance fighter in World War 2, Italian, and Jewish. When he was captured by the fascists the Italian forces handed him and his comrades to the Nazis, they were then shipped to Auschwitz. Of the 650 Italian Jews brought in on Levi's train, only 20 were to survive.

Levi's story is harrowing in the extreme, he spares nothing in his descriptions of the horrors and privations endured by the inmates of the work camp. Levi's work isn't just an autobiographical statement of his recollections, it is a serious contemplation of the nature of mankind under the most extreme duress. The first and foremost thought in every inmate's deed and action is only to survive, and although Levi writes...

[that] "precisely because the camp was a great machine to reduce us to beasts, we must not become beasts; that even in this place one can survive, and therefore one must want to survive, to tell the story, to bear witness; and that, if we want to survive, then it's important that we strive to preserve at least the skeleton, the scaffolding, the external shape of civilization." is apparent that only survival is possible, desperate survival from day to day, to be achieved by stealth, becoming invisible or important, by theft from your fellow inmates, by theft from the system. In a place where there is no possible chance of the renunciation of your 'crimes' or any possibility of hope, where man has all desires and dreams extinguished except that of simply staying alive for another day, there you will find what you are willing to do just to live.

Primo Levi's writing is intelligent and thoughtful, if applied to a subject other than the death camps, it would be beautiful, here it serves as a juxtaposition in itself, highlighting the deliberate evil without having to constantly state it.

You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find warm food
And friendly faces when you return home.
Consider if this is a man
Who works in mud,
Who knows no peace,
Who fights for a crust of bread,
Who dies by a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman
Without hair, without name,
Without the strength to remember,
Empty are her eyes, cold her womb,
Like a frog in winter.
Never forget that this has happened.
Remember these words.
Engrave them in your hearts,
When at home or in the street,
When lying down, when getting up.
Repeat them to your children.
Or may your houses be destroyed,
May illness strike you down,
May your offspring turn their faces from you.

69 of 1001.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

On This Day...

In 1284 the Pied Piper led the children of Hamelin out of the town never to return. There are many theories as to why the children of the town vanished, plague, a landslide or other catastrophe, to colonise other parts of Europe, a failed Children's Crusade. What does seem certain though is that the infamous rats in the story never existed, they appear to have added to the Hamelin tale in around 1559.

"In the year of 1284, on the day of Saints John and Paul
on 26 June
130 children born in Hamelin were seduced
By a piper, dressed in all kinds of colours,
and lost at the place of execution near the koppen." - from the Lueneburg manuscript (c. 1440–50)

English poet Robert Browning wrote a lengthy poem about the tale...

Verse 1

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Verse 2

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

Verse 3

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
``Tis clear,'' cried they, ``our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation -- shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!''
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

Verse 4

An hour they sat in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
``For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain --
I'm sure my poor head aches again,
I've scratched it so, and all in vain
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!''
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
``Bless us,'' cried the Mayor, ``what's that?''
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!''

Verse 5

``Come in!'' -- the Mayor cried, looking bigger
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red,
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smile went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin:
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: ``It's as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!''

Verse 6

He advanced to the council-table:
And, ``Please your honours,'' said he, ``I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.''
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
``Yet,'' said he, ``poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats,
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?''
``One? fifty thousand!'' -- was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Verse 7

Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives --
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished!
-- Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, ``At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, `Oh rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, `Come, bore me!'
-- I found the Weser rolling o'er me.''

Verse 8

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple
``Go,'' cried the Mayor, ``and get long poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!'' -- when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, ``First, if you please, my thousand guilders!''

Verse 9

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
``Beside,'' quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
``Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!''

Verse 10

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
``No trifling! I can't wait, beside!
I've promised to visit by dinner-time
Baghdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion.''

Verse 11

``How?'' cried the Mayor, ``d'ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!''

Verse 12

Once more he stept into the street,
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

Verse 13

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by,
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser roll’d its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
``He never can cross that mighty top!
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!''
When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say, --
``It's dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me.
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles' wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!''

Verse 14

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says that heaven's gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in!
The mayor sent East, West, North and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
``And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:''
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street --
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away,
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.

Verse 15

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers
Of scores out with all men -- especially pipers!
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

Friday, June 25, 2010

Stay Down - Black Spiders

The moon last night, 16 pictures taken and this slightly fuzzy shot is the best of the lot, cheapo tripod is now in the bin, need a decent one and an auto shutter release for this sort of shot.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

"I had the goal record in Huddersfield school football, 11 goals in one match, only problem was I the goalkeeper letting them all in." - Harold Wilson, twice British Prime Minister.
How Vuvuzelas Are Made

(Thanks to Squirt for sending this in)
The Perils Of Prediction

(pic - John Partridge)

John Partridge (1644-1714) published a series of almanacs in which he predicted, amongst other things, the day on which well known public figures would die, and the weather for each day of the year.

While travelling, he stopped at an inn for refreshment, once his meal was over he summoned the stable boy and asked for his horse. The stable boy told him that despite it being a sunny day, heavy rain was due and Partridge would be better off indoors.

Partridge dismissed the lad's advice and ventured out, only to be soaked to the skin in a summer squall which arrived half an hour later. He was interested to learn how the innkeepers had predicted the change in weather and so returned to the inn to question them.

"The truth is Sir, we have a book called Partridge's Almanac, and the fellow is so often wrong that whenever he promises a fine day we guess it will be the contrary, today said 'settled fine weather - no rain.' " - Jeffrey Kacirk, Forgotten English.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Trees Reflected In The Wharfe

Near Cocking End, the Wharfe is trickling, its lazy Summer sluggish flow in contrast to the bustle and threat of its dark and turbulent Winter waters, all is peaceful and slow.
Addingham Footbridge

Over the River Wharfe.
England On A Winning Run

England were steered home to a ODI victory over favourite foes Australia last night by an Eoin Morgan ton. It had looked as if Australia had built a good innings with Michael Clarke scoring a patient 87 in their total of 267 but England completed the victory with wickets and overs to spare.

Now, dear footballers, do you think you can possibly just show a little of the grit and determination that our cricket and rugby teams do, and at least if the World Cup ends at tea time today, go out with a bang not a whimper ?

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

The Spider Outside My Window

I presume it catches small birds and/or children to sate its blood lust.

It's nice not to have to commute to work, but living on site, this is the view from the back bedroom window, the work kitchen roof and fans. If I demolished the kitchen roof I'd have a lovely view of Ilkley Moor.
Mad Mike ?

Monday, June 21, 2010

Favourite Film Scenes...

Muad'Dib "dib..DIB..DIB!!!

"His name is a killing word."
Book Review : The Grapes Of Wrath - John Steinbeck 10*

This could be the best book ever written, it is certainly one of the most powerful and moving novels I have encountered. Steinbecks's novel about the Dust Bowl and the effects that big business farming and banking were having on small scale farmers is filled with slow burning simmering anger and blind hope in equal amounts.

The Joads, a family of sharecroppers, can no longer earn a living on the land in Oklahoma, partly due to the drought, and partly due to the changes in crop price structure brought about by the banks. They pin their hopes on the truth of a printed flyer which promises work in California, and loading their truck with all the possessions they can, they set out along Route 66 for the West.

When they arrive, after the death of the Grandfather, and after hearing tales told by other Okies that the handbills promises may be empty, they discover awful truth after awful truth. There are tiny amounts of work to be had, and conniving land owners use the abundance of inflowing labour as a mechanism to drive down wages. At almost every turn they experience the meanness of spirit of their fellow man and the near total lack of interest, or active hostility, from the authorities

Throughout everything, the Joads somehow manage to keep their family mostly together, and they are still in part hopeful that things will get better. There are flashes of anger beneath the surface though, and this sometimes breaks though in Ma's iron control of the family, Uncle John's sudden desire to get black out drunk, and the occasional threats of violence expressed towards authority expressed by Tom Joad.

Steinbeck's writing throughout is wonderful, he knew the newly poor people and how they lived, from their simple faith and doubts down to what they ate and wore, how they talked and thought and behaved and went about their daily lives. To Read 'The Grapes Of Wrath' is to become one of the Joads for 500 pages, to become poor and downtrodden and ill used, to experience indifference, prejudice and exploitation. It is a long road walked in somebody else's shoes, and it is wonderfully, beautifully, cruelly written.

68 of 1001.
You Shouldn't Play With Your Food ?

The Peruvian Guinea Pig Festival.
I Have New Victims Staff

Rachel, who was with us briefly last year, welcome back.

And Hannah, we chucked them in at the deep end last night, dinner service for 80 (with old hands Rob and Fred), they did fine.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

"The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Car loads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up ? A million people hungry, needing the fruit - and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains.

And the smell of rot fills the country.

Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out, slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificates - died of malnutrition - because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.

The people come with nest to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the yes of the people there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage." The Grapes Of Wrath - John Steinbeck.
Never, In The Field Of Sporting Endeavour

Has a team of sportsman been so over hyped, so overpaid, and so totally lacking in backbone, talent and the basic technical skills of their chosen sport.

Except the last time we went to the World Cup of course.

"Nice to hear your own fans booing you," said Rooney. Well Wayne, you get paid a fortune because you are supposedly the cream of the crop of English players, those people in the stadium payed a fortune to travel to South Africa to watch you, I reckon they were displaying a fair and honest critique of England's performance.

Rumour has it that the Algerian team thought they were getting booed for not being able to beat the low quality team they were facing.

Friday, June 18, 2010

"At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be "What is Hell?" Come early and listen to our choir practice." - Church notice board blooper.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Hot Rock Chicks - Angela Gossow

I have featured Angela before, but Arch Enemy's lead screamer/growler is uber attractive.

Hot Rock Chicks - Masha

Masha is the singer with Russian folk metal outfit Arkona.