In a world of constant change and technological evolution, where tablet sizes wax and wane and phones are forever getting smarter, and where things move on so quickly it’s hard to keep up, I think we may take comfort and solace in the fact that even after all these years, Fabric Land still haven’t updated their website.
All posts in category Uncategorized
Posted by reverend61 on November 14, 2013
Posted by reverend61 on October 16, 2013
2nd July – This morning’s word of the day: Attic Room Bug Syndrome. That feeling you get when you have to stand in the bedroom, hand on hips, other hand pointing firmly out of the door, in an attempt to get your children to mobilise, and you suddenly feel like the housekeeper from Jet Set Willy.
8th July – I don’t know why, but every time I hear Alan Jackson sing “It’s only half past twelve, but I don’t care / It’s five o’clock somewhere”, I find myself involuntarily replying “Only if you’re several regions to the left of an offset time zone…”
18th July – Memo to self: when encountering done-up-to-the-nines female colleague, I’m sure that saying “I barely recognised you, you look lovely” sounded like a compliment when it was only in your head.
7th August – If Beverley Craven really is right where she wants to be, losing track of time, how come she knows it’s four o’clock in the morning?
28th August – Well, I hope that little girl now realises that if you sit in an unlocked Portaloo, people are going to open the door…
3rd September – Does anyone else find it amusing that people like Vinnie Jones tell everyone how sick and tired they are of immigration, and then show their disgust by going off to live in another country?
7th September – Just managed to get the air mattress back in its bag. It’s a question of laying it down flat and squeezing from one side and the other, and then curling it into a tube, inch by inch, and then lying down on it every so often to push out the last of the air. It takes a long time, requires considerable physical effort and there’s probably an easier way to do it, but that’s how I roll.
8th September – Watching Withnail & I accompanied by a bottle of Hardys. If Em weren’t seven months pregnant I might have convinced her to do the drinking game. Probably a good thing she is, because we don’t have any lighter fluid.
20th September – You know you need to curb your Portal 2 obsession when you get to the last vacant slot in a car park and find yourself bellowing “SPAAAAAAAACE!!”.
21st September – As much as I enjoyed The Expendables 2, I can’t help thinking that including a screen credit that begins “Story by…” is colossally misleading.
28th September – Lesson learned this morning: if you’re supposed to go and get something from Cargo, you can save yourself a lot of time and considerable confusion if you remember that Cargo and Robert Dyas aren’t the same place.
Posted by reverend61 on October 2, 2013
Posted by reverend61 on September 11, 2013
THIS IS A TRUE STORY.
A woman was queuing in a supermarket when rudely, a woman in a burkha with three screaming children pushed in front of her. Despite polite protestation, the Muslim woman refused to move. “We don’t cut queues in this country, you’ll have to go to the back of the line,” said the woman.
The Muslim woman turned and said, “I don’t care. This country is a pit of sinful heretics who don’t deserve my obedience. You’ll have plenty of time to queue in hell after being judged to Shariah Law.”
The cashier then turned and said, “Hang on, love. This stinks of a made up story to share on social media! There are no sources cited, no links to news articles, no evidence AT ALL to suggest that this has happened. I mean, come on. This supermarket doesn’t exist. Neither do you two. Nor me, come to think of it. Snopes.com would bust this story wide open in about thirty seconds, it’s that fucking tenuous. In fact, the genesis of this story could probably be found in a bulletin board post or circular email originating from an AOL email address from 1996, and it was lies then, too. Basically, it’s a lie. A lie spread to infuriate the stupid. Much like the raison d’être of the tabloid newspaper industry, Samantha Brick or Katie Hopkins. You’re being trolled for a reaction to get attention or money.”
The cashier took a deep breath.
“Now fuck off out of my imaginary supermarket.”
(As discovered on Facebook. I take no credit for the authorship of this, although I wish I could.)
Posted by reverend61 on August 20, 2013
It worries me that somewhere out there in the darker bowels of the internet, there probably exists Smurf fanfiction that contains the words “Oh, Smurf me! Smurf me, baby! Smurf me!”.
It worries me even more that I’m actually thinking about this.
Posted by reverend61 on August 17, 2013
Posted by reverend61 on July 12, 2013
“So anyway,” I asked, “how old were you before you realised that deliberately spelling things wrong for the sake of a marketing gimmick was a stupid idea?”
Gareth’s response: “I was Se7en…”
Posted by reverend61 on July 10, 2013
The other day, a blogging acquaintance of mine posted about local legends – not the stuff of werewolves and monsters, but the more unorthodox members of a community. The former mental home patients released into sheltered accommodation but still free to roam the streets. The war veteran who has forgotten that he hasn’t seen combat since before the Berlin Wall came down. Society would label these people freaks and weirdos, and by the standards of accepted normality they would be right. But some of us don’t see it that way. If nothing else, it’s surely the very concept of normality that we should be questioning, perhaps by referring explicitly to the words of Fox Mulder, who once memorably asked “How do you define normal?”.
My aunt’s four-up two-down was perched halfway up a gentle hill, crammed in a row of terraces. Her sister lived opposite, although they seldom spoke. She knew many people in that busy corner of Folkestone, and knew the life stories of several – but no one knew the story of Doris, who would wander down the road twice daily carrying bags of shopping, heralding “I’M FED UP! I’VE HAD ENOUGH!” at the top of her voice. As children, we would mock this woman until the day my father pointed out that perhaps there was a reason she was fed up, whereupon the room grew eerily silent.
Meanwhile, Reading – where I lived – housed two locals who had the dubious honour of also being household names. The more famous of these was known to the rest of us as Lenny the Tramp (not to be confused with the other Lenny the Tramp, who currently resides in Enfield). Lenny was an eccentric who lived entirely by choice underneath the railway bridge near the river, despite offers of housing – a man who was once nominated for the post of town mayor by his fan club, and who eventually died one winter when his mattress was set alight (although the story goes that he survived the attack, likely a schoolboy prank, before dying of pneumonia some days later). At the time I was appalled at the notion that anyone could do such a thing. These days I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner.
Lenny’s bridge was about three miles away from our house, but much of the local eccentricity could be found no more than a stone’s throw away (if you were an Olympic discus champion), because that’s where Julia lived. Julia had been jilted when she was younger, and this had given her an unending distrust of male relationships. As a mark of almost ritualistic protection she would only ever go out once she had plastered her face in white flour, giving her a haunted, pallid appearance, designed to make her as unattractive to the opposite sex as was humanly possible. She would roam the streets like a suburban banshee, in threadbare skirts and old shoes and always the same gabardine mac, belted at the waist and falling to bits, and the local children – and their parents – would call her Raggy Annie.
Annie’s wanderings were usually confined to our own district, although I once saw her at some town centre traffic lights sipping milk from a carton with a plastic straw. In any event she frequently had to walk along the Oxford Road, past its pubs and council estates and discount electronics stores, to reach the Kwik Save where she did her shopping. The trolley would come home with her, up the hills and along the narrow alleys, before she dumped it in the nearby playing field. My friends and I would often walk home from school that way, and would look for the tell-tale signs of one of her shopping trips: an upturned cart, lying amongst the grass, the metal glistening in the afternoon sunlight. All creatures leave their tracks.
For a time, Annie would make these journeys with a dog, who always rode in the trolleys that she pushed up the hill. This was before the mange, and the court appearance and injunction that barred her from keeping any more animals. Neglect charges notwithstanding, she paid more attention to her dog than she had her mother, whose rotting corpse lingered in the rear bedroom for weeks before the neighbours rang the police to complain about the smell. None of this would have necessarily seemed strange to Annie, who lived in her own world, and who cared not a jot for the trappings and conventions of a society she’d more or less abandoned.
Her story ends with death, of course, probably at the hands of hypothermia or malnutrition, and the charred remains of the shed where her body was found – although the fire that destroyed it would not happen until after the burial. To most people, she was the local nutcase, an image she was apparently happy to let sit. But I remember her as a cultivated and intelligent woman who stopped to chat with my mother one afternoon when she was out walking and I was still in my buggy. She spoke about horses with an affection and awareness that betrayed her haggard and ghoulish appearance. “Something clearly turned her head,” my father reflected, when I asked him, before describing her as articulate and “well-spoken, probably well-educated, but sadly an object of ridicule and someone most people avoided”. She lived on welfare and managed without electricity, but if nothing else perhaps we should think of her last years as a final chapter in a tragic and unbalanced life story – the closing act of a Hollywood drama, rather than the sum total of her time on this earth.
Even so. These things resonate across the years. Some images stay with you. That’s why I can’t bring myself to refer to her as Julia, even though that was her name. That’s why I look at pictures of wizened, elderly ladies and find myself recalling a shuffling woman passing lamp posts and trees on an untidy street. And that’s why, whenever I see an abandoned shopping trolley, I always find myself thinking of Annie, or perhaps the ghost of Annie, strolling away into the darkness, with a couple of bags of discount groceries, and a dog under her arm.
Posted by reverend61 on June 26, 2013
Some people think this is funny; some don’t. Either way it’s a good illustration of how telling jokes on Facebook can backfire drastically.
Posted by reverend61 on June 23, 2013