(no subject)

Saturday involved a fair deal of traipsing around the West End and making a few purchases, tempted up to town as I was by the HMV sale.

I don't know if it's a new fashion, or a game of some kind which I've missed, being perennially out of touch with these things, but yesterday, more so than normal, the Great Unwashed (tm) were more annoying than ever. By this I mean that a measurable 90% of the plebs in London were milling around more aimlessly than ever, turning randomly and stopping abruptly and inappropriately in confined spaces before milling off again in random directions. If it is a game it must be based on the movement of bacteria in a petrie dish.

My pet theory is that the demo in Trafalgar Square was claiming the majority attention of the Orbital Mind Control Lasers and so without the proper guidance, the rest of the puppets were reduced to their back up move-and-bump program.

Anyway, the upshot of this involuntary encounter with the population and excursion into Oxford Street is that I am suddenly the owner of 3 new CDs (ironically, only one of which was bought in the sale) and two new DVDs. At long last I have The Italian Job on DVD and all is well. I can close myself to the sacrilege that is the current Hollywood offering and and enjoy the original 1969 classic.

And later on today I can bemuse myself with more Van Der Graaf Generator and The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robot.

The current musical selection, Mostly Autumn's Passengers is the other purchase of the day and is a randomly chosen, previously unheard (by me) progressive band. Well, supposedly. I'm a whole track and a bit into it, but it's quite mainstream at the moment. Listenable, but mainstream. Aah, here comes the electric violin and some pretentious vocals delivered in a suitably serious female voice.

Ah. It's progging up slowly.

The anti-war bods were colonising Trafalgar Square and speechifying when I walked past yesterday afternoon, quite late on. The speaker sounded to my ears much like Our Fraternal Comrade and Mayor, Red Ken himself. There is something about that bloke that gets right up my nostril, and regardless of any potential value in his right-on-message-of-the-day, (by which I mean, "which populist movement can I attach my bandwagon to today instead of delivering on my election promises?"), I find I want to punch out his lights, smack that weasily little face and shut his whining voice up.

Luckily for him, I have gargantuan self-control which was on no-way influenced by the presence of several hundred police and a few thousand anti-war demonstrators hanging from his every word. Nope, it was all me and my will power.

Clearly I have seen too much of this sort of thing over the years. All these earnest people - a veritable rainbow of colour, creed and political inclination all with one pacifist ideal in mind, and all I could think of was the old game card from Junta, Students Rioting: No Effect.

(no subject)

Saturday involved a fair deal of traipsing around the West End and making a few purchases, tempted up to town as I was by the HMV sale.

I don't know if it's a new fashion, or a game of some kind which I've missed, being perennially out of touch with these things, but yesterday, more so than normal, the Great Unwashed (tm) were more annoying than ever. By this I mean that a measurable 90% of the plebs in London were milling around more aimlessly than ever, turning randomly and stopping abruptly and inappropriately in confined spaces before milling off again in random directions. If it is a game it must be based on the movement of bacteria in a petrie dish.

My pet theory is that the demo in Trafalgar Square was claiming the majority attention of the Orbital Mind Control Lasers and so without the proper guidance, the rest of the puppets were reduced to their back up move-and-bump program.

Anyway, the upshot of this involuntary encounter with the population and excursion into Oxford Street is that I am suddenly the owner of 3 new CDs (ironically, only one of which was bought in the sale) and two new DVDs. At long last I have The Italian Job on DVD and all is well. I can close myself to the sacrilege that is the current Hollywood offering and and enjoy the original 1969 classic.

And later on today I can bemuse myself with more Van Der Graaf Generator and The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robot.

The current musical selection, Mostly Autumn's Passengers is the other purchase of the day and is a randomly chosen, previously unheard (by me) progressive band. Well, supposedly. I'm a whole track and a bit into it, but it's quite mainstream at the moment. Listenable, but mainstream. Aah, here comes the electric violin and some pretentious vocals delivered in a suitably serious female voice.

Ah. It's progging up slowly.

The anti-war bods were colonising Trafalgar Square and speechifying when I walked past yesterday afternoon, quite late on. The speaker sounded to my ears much like Our Fraternal Comrade and Mayor, Red Ken himself. There is something about that bloke that gets right up my nostril, and regardless of any potential value in his right-on-message-of-the-day, (by which I mean, "which populist movement can I attach my bandwagon to today instead of delivering on my election promises?"), I find I want to punch out his lights, smack that weasily little face and shut his whining voice up.

Luckily for him, I have gargantuan self-control which was on no-way influenced by the presence of several hundred police and a few thousand anti-war demonstrators hanging from his every word. Nope, it was all me and my will power.

Clearly I have seen too much of this sort of thing over the years. All these earnest people - a veritable rainbow of colour, creed and political inclination all with one pacifist ideal in mind, and all I could think of was the old game card from Junta, Students Rioting: No Effect.