Jun 052009

From memory:

Jacqui Smith.
Hazel Blears.
Beverley Hughes.
Tom Watson.
James Purnell.
John Hutton.
Geoff Hoon.
Margaret Beckett.
Tony McNulty.
Caroline Flint.

And why, when I google ‘uk minister resignation,’ is Al-Jazeera the top result? Suspicious, no?

Anyway, dare I say it: this meltdown is vastly more exciting than any other political event I’m old enough to remember, including Obama’s this-that-and-the-other. Although I was a child when the Berlin Wall came down, the Soviet Union fell apart, and Germany was reunified, these things meant nothing to me, living as I did with no understanding of twentieth-century Europe.

But I know a good farce when I see one, and I concur heartily with Obo: break out the popcorn. This truly is turning out to be The Best Show On Earth. Big, toothy, gleefully sadistic smiles all round.

Mar 052009

The scene – bella and flatmate are discussing full-serve toilets, as featured in today’s Guardian.

Me: Those toilets don’t sound so bad, the way you describe them.

Flatmate: And you know what – the Japanese-style ones, they’re like Continental toilets in that there’s a little shelf for inspecting your output. It’s weird; there’s like this little Viking longship poo sitting there, and then you press the button, and whoosh, it sails out. I feel like I should salute as it goes past.

Me: [dies laughing]

Feb 092009

I am fortunate enough to live with a flatmate who not only enjoys cooking, but does it well; and one of the innumerable pleasures of living with him is the fact that he is wont to make sausage sandwiches on occasion, most notably Saturday afternoons when I am ever so slightly hung over. He made sausage sandwiches recently using some rather lovely pieces of pork obtained at a butcher’s.

‘What do you want on your sandwich?’ he asked upon the completion of the grilling, extracting bread and butter from the cupboard.

‘Ah,’ said I; ‘I shall doctor my own.’ Two slices of bread I placed to one side of the plate; a small helping of brown sauce I placed to the other; the sausages I situated in the centre, next to my fork and knife.

‘What the hell is that? That’s not a sandwich. That’s heresy!’ exclaimed flatmate, staring at my plate in horror. ‘You’re supposed to put the sauce and the sausages between the slices of bread, not off to one side like that. You’re a sandwich Cathar, you are, with your bread and filling duality!’

And so it was decided that we are perfectly suited to be flatmates, not simply because our sillinesses match, but because we both know what Cathars were. How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such flatmates in’t!