Fun with Fonts

Elephantine Magic.

Boyfriend chatted up in Sainsbury's

Raven haired shopping beauty to Jonny: "Excuse me, do you drink red wine?"
Jonny: "On occasion, yes"
Girl (making good eye contact & angling her head): "Ooo, I wonder if you could help me choose a nice bottle?"
Jonny: "Yes (please)"

Lol. He ran before she had chance to suggest sharing it. Nice pulling tactic lady - hang out in the pricey booze section of a middle class supermarket. It's certainly warmer than loitering outside The Savoy waiting for some rich Arab to invite you into the champagne bar. (You know who you are!)

ps. He walked away chortling: "Pretty, pretty gooooood".

CBB

Excellent. One of my Dad's stock phrases is: "Made by morons, for morons." Just seen a suitably rugged construction worker commenting insightfully on Celebrity Big Brother. He said:

"Big Brother is SHITE. It's made for morons, WITH MORONS IN IT... by morons."

Love it! AND he said it in joiny uppy, which means he's qualified to comment.

Naughty sugar, Sugar?

Sofa chit-chat, the other day:

Man:"What the *hell* happened to Yammy Bleeth?".

Me: "You just said that out loud".

Man: "Never mind, find out, FIND OUT!"

So, I posed the question to 'The Bastardly' and they deliver a scary Wikipedia link (Yikes Yammy), but for my friend Alex-who-likes-Yammy's-Yammies, they also posted some vintage shots.

Reality TV

'Breaking news' stories on 24 hr news channels - more often entertaining than newsworthy? My favourite bits usually see the BBC's Jon Sopel deviating from his usual Beeb sobriety into garrulous commentary of unfolding non-events. His tautly serious waffle when reporting on unclear live footage is typical 24 news nonsense, but let's blame his producer-in-earpiece. It's always the same... there's nothing more to report... reporter intonation dips below normal vocal range and they'll start t-a-l-k-i-n-g l-i-k-e t-h-i-s, a-n-d t-h-e-s-e p-i-c-t-u-r-e-s a-r-e l-i-v-e... (Royal weddings and funerals are easier as they just throw in a 'flanked by the cortege'.) I like to add in my own ditties: "...and as there are no dead bodies in these live pictures, we will in fact be returning (in that special mawkish way you like) to the war in Irarrrrq" (where something bloody is bound to have happened).

Anyway, yesterday Sopel was tasked with narrating the pant-wetting scenes on Branscombe beach where the good folk of Devonshire were looting all manner of beached goodies from that poor listing off-shore tanker. It was reality TV at its best! Ok, so the environmental demi-catastrophe is dreadful, but the beach ball was hilarious. The newsreaders visibly moistening their breeches as a pack of 'scavengers' constructed industrial crutches from sodden palates to carry as many bumper packs of Pampers as possible. Sopel: "And look at this one! He's got a backpack, hey why can't he fill that too? He's missed a trick there...look at her, look at her she's having a look, nahh, doesn't fancy anything in that container ". Cut back to the studio where Sopel is slightly guiltily chortling away and performing rummy impressions of PC Plod carry-on style!

The beach scene was great simplefolk 'theatre', and vizzavi the industrial containers at least, why shouldn't they help themselves? They've been screwed by a shipping accident, let them have some free nappies, tractor parts, and luxury goods! The comments on the BBC website marked some differences between unconforming, playful Devon folk, and affluent hyperactively law-abiding cityfolk. Looting doesn't suit cityfolk. I'm in neither town nor country, but still feel deeply self-conscious about accepting a coupon in public. What would a Londoner know about looting a beach anyway? The tractor parts were for real tractors, not Chelsea ones, and they don't sell salinated face creams at Selfridges. Mind you, if the Napoli had to run aground, it'd have made better TV had it been off a Northern coastline. Scousers would have pummelled eachother near dead over those saltwatered bimma bikes. Northern stag & hen parties would have drunk all the wine (and brake fluid) before getting it off the beach, and an enterprising Cheshire Avon lady would've made a killing on Ebay. Mind you, wherever it beached, no-one wants those sodding holy bibles.

What a piece of work is a man...

I know where the 7 year itch is. Actually, it's more of a maddeningly pesky ache, occuring around the 'string' at the top of the 'arches', just below the 'ball', not far from the 'pads'. No, I'm not describing some ineffable indiscretion with my tennis coach - that's not the rub here- but the throbby spot on my boyfriend's foot which he claims only my hands can soothe. (Since you wonder, I'm no foot fetishist - plus his feet are ritually clean - I guess you could say I'm disinclined but deeply kind.) 'Anna Lee...Anna Lee, the Heeeee-aaaaaler...' he sings as I set about my nightly task of massaging his feet. Why? Because after 7 full years at the helm of his insteps, I've mastered the topography of his feet and he's grown used to his nightly elysian fix. It's the 7 yr itch he wants me to scratch.