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Ewar Woowar?

Cranius wrote:

Tree wrote:

cjh wrote:

Adam I wrote:Lyn Faulds Wood and Bill Withers feature where?

Lyn Faulds Wood while Jeremy Sands?


*Mark Spitz, Wesley Snipes*

True, but Jeff Bridges them all together.

William Hurt he's not included.

Danny Bonaduce, Joey Buttafuoco.


I got no jokes. I got an amp for my birthday though.

Sly Bug wrote:Je suis désolé pour ton grand père

Moi, aussi.

Courage...

Boombats wrote:

Cranius wrote:

Tree wrote:

cjh wrote:

Adam I wrote:Lyn Faulds Wood and Bill Withers feature where?

Lyn Faulds Wood while Jeremy Sands?


*Mark Spitz, Wesley Snipes*

True, but Jeff Bridges them all together.

William Hurt he's not included.

Danny Bonaduce, Joey Buttafuoco.


I got no jokes. I got an amp for my birthday though.

All this fun with names reminded me of a hilarious Scottish joke:

"What's the difference between Bing Crosby & Walt Disney?"

and then I realised that R. Tanx had beaten me to it...

After a particularly heated telephone conversation this morning, my sister just sent me this picture:



Ladies conspiring against me = SUPERAWESOME

That is SUPERAWESOME! There's just no other word for it.

crevecoeur wrote:I've been told by my grandma yesterday that my Grandpa was found on the bathroom floor on Monday morning, after a whole night collapsing.
He's in hospital right now, and don't know nothing about it, he don't talk and when he does he talks bullshit, he didn't recognize anyone and was enable to tell his name, raise his left hand when the doctor asked him to raise his right one....he's out of nowhere, just fixing a something vague in the air...

i have mixed feelings, i feel sad, i feel helpless, and in the same time i'm pretty aware that there's nothing to expect when this kind of shit hit you and you are 84 years old....
the brutallity of life hit me this morning.

sorry to hear about your grandfather.

This morning I got into a lift in the British Library with a late-50's/early 60's academic-looking bloke and a younger female friend or colleague of his.

As the lift started moving, he began putting on a tie in a rather convoluted manner - possibly even trying to put the pre-knotted tie over his head - that involved bending double and in doing so, he dropped his library card on the floor of the lift,

Feeling I ought to redress what had been quite a hassly start to the day - near-miss and ensuing argument on the ride in etc - I bent over and picked it up for him. He just looked aggrieved and said/shouted peevishly "But I did it on purpose!". I then stood there holding it like a tool, not sure if it would be politer to just drop it. He obviously took this as me somehow hassling him, as he then snapped "I can't do everything at once, you know!" His mortified colleague took the card off me, and I got out at my floor. Not a hint of "thanks" or even a smile from either of them.

Dudley, you've sketched a beautiful scene there. It strikes me as a quintessential example of early twentieth century English awkwardness and social horror. A lift in the British Library is a perfect setting.

...Of course, you were lucky to get out of that lift alive.


After a worrying wait, I finally received my tourist visa for next week's trip to India for a close friend's wedding. This was on my third visit, following plenty of queuing, demands for obscure documentation, exasperation, helplessness in the face of inarguable officialdom, and wimp's perspiration. The Indian High Commission is another ideal specimen, in this case of inherited British colonial bureaucracy. I belatedly realised how pointless and unfair it was of me to feel angry towards the people who work there (brusque, nitpicking and harassed): they're shoehorned into this behaviour by the set-up. And the set-up seems ineluctable following the long, long years of stifling British control. The man who finally gave me my visa ended up being very friendly.

Cranius wrote:I was just crossing Hyde Park, at the Kensington Gardens end, on my way to work, when I looked up to see my old friend Jeremy Irons walking his dogs along the path towards me. Of course, I greeted him instantly and we struck up a lively conversation about his thick grey moustache, which was a new accoutrement since I'd seen him last. It gives him an air of slightly dishevelled elegance, I have to admit. In fact, overall, he looked quite scruffy; wearing a battered-looking flat cap (back-to-front), a scarf tossed loosely round his neck and over the shoulder, with his fists rooted deep in the pockets of his rumpled coudrouy trousers.

Of course, I'm not really friends with Jeremy Irons, but I did just pass him in the park and spent the rest of my way across the park mulling the name 'Jeremy Irons ' over and over in my head.

I once guided Jeremy Irons through a theatre door at the RSC. He was unfazed in my presence.