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The charge of the light brigade.
A sad day. Tim Henman has announced his retirement from tennis after the Davis Cup next month. Tim is widely known as the quintessential Great British Failure, as evidenced by a career record of six Grand Slam semi-finals. He's plucky (kind of like a schoolboy preparing to snatch a jam tart off the headmaster's desk), he never gives up (kind of ( Read more... ) -
Aesthetics.
This is a very nice site. -
The tourist trap.
The summer months bring happy times in the quaint rural haunts of merrie olde Englande. Babbling brooks babble like babbling babies, kingfishers swoop to pluck silvery salmon from the foamy depths, cats paw at fluttering cabbage white butterflies that have fluttered up from between the daisies, sheep gambol through five-bar gates, the sharp crack ( Read more... ) -
The labyrinths of Limehouse.
Across the court and up another dark little staircase into "Johnson's" dirty bedroom. Johnson is a Chinaman, but he has an English "wife," who sits before the fire grumbling - because they have to pay 4s. a week for a house that lets in the rain. There are a few dirty prints on the walls, and a little oblong chimney-glass, with the backing almost ( Read more... ) -
Soap bubbles.
So I finally got permanently banned from the Digital Spy soap forums; this time for the heinous crime of calling Sean from Coronation Street "a pointless wank-stain on the pristine ten-tog duvet of soap". Now all my posts have been purged, but not before I managed to rescue these: my few brief forays into the world of screenwriting. There's not ( Read more... ) -
Observations on the music channels.
- Product placement in music videos is getting more ridiculous by the day. I remember a time where technology meant a Roland synthesizer, or a neon sign, or a bit of smoke and mirrors. Or a lava lamp. Nowadays, the pop video is a lurid cut-and-shut of Freudian metaphors. Look, there's a junkyard, reimagined as an illicit, dirty bordello where bros ( Read more... )
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Heart of darkness.
"In April, 1866, a mysterious murder took place in Cannon Street. The victim, a widow, named Sarah Millson, was housekeeper on the premises of Messrs. Bevington, leather-sellers. About nine o'clock in the evening, when sitting by the fire in company with another servant, the street bell was heard to ring, on which Millson went down to the door, ( Read more... ) -
Love-fifteen.
“Summer days, drifting away, to uh-oh those summer nights”, as Aristotle once said. Yes! The bees are a-buzzing, the flowers are a-growing, the birds are all trying to molest the bees and half of Sheffield’s underwater. It’s the Great British Summer - ‘summer’ of course being an entirely redundant word, because there’s nothing remotely summery ( Read more... )
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