Spam

I have just received an email from Misplays O Phenomenal.

Only last night I was wondering just how old Misplays was getting on, I haven't heard from him in an age.

We would spend hours back in my youth working out just the right weight to put on a stylus so that we could play all those warped LP records Misplays used to get from the charity shops. By and large cello-taping a two pence piece to the pickup arm would do the trick, but I do remember one particularly Himalayan record that needed an entire fifty pence piece to hold the stylus in the groove (and let's not forget that 50p coins were bigger back in the 1970s…).

How we laughed at the sight of the vinyl spiraling up behind the stylus in increasingly spring-like coils.

Why do spammers think anyone will read a message with a name like Misplays O Phenomenal?

Spam

I have just received an email from Misplays O Phenomenal.

Only last night I was wondering just how old Misplays was getting on, I haven't heard from him in an age.

We would spend hours back in my youth working out just the right weight to put on a stylus so that we could play all those warped LP records Misplays used to get from the charity shops. By and large cello-taping a two pence piece to the pickup arm would do the trick, but I do remember one particularly Himalayan record that needed an entire fifty pence piece to hold the stylus in the groove (and let's not forget that 50p coins were bigger back in the 1970s…).

How we laughed at the sight of the vinyl spiraling up behind the stylus in increasingly spring-like coils.

Why do spammers think anyone will read a message with a name like Misplays O Phenomenal?

Grumpy Old Man

Hm.

Still too tired to rant constructively (or entertainingly) so that will go back now to the weekend at which point the simmer should be complete and my feelings on the subject baked hard to the bottom of the pan. When better to chip them out and spread them before the eager world, eh?

I am not, however, too tired to make observations on life, and today's observation served for your delectation is this: I have forgotten the much cherished skill of negotiating crowds.

I well recall the days when I would wander through Oxford Street on the approaches to Christmas, when it is at its very busiest, and navigate the morass of bewlidered humanity with the calm equanimity of a battleship in high seas, sedate and unperturbed. I should select a destination and go there, regardless of the pell mell of humanity around me, casting the ocasional glare at some surly brute who failed to vacate the spot directly in front of me, and careless of the slow moving traffic (except, of course, Black Cabs, who were ever and will always remain deserving of respect) march with purpose across the road.

At some point, and not too recently either, I fancy, this skill has evaded me. I find even the smallest crowd of people to be an annoying distraction, worthy of the greatest carnage and bloodiest pain. I constantly stop to let the ignorati past, or change direction to avoid clumps of twee-brained gargoyles who stop for no apparent reason directly in front of me.

At one time, walking down the street allowed me the time to order my thoughts, play out in my head the theme tune du jour, and daydream about giant robots bestriding the city.

Nowadays my walking fantasies involve high calibre cannon, flame throwers and machetes.

I think I need a holiday.

Grumpy Old Man

Hm.

Still too tired to rant constructively (or entertainingly) so that will go back now to the weekend at which point the simmer should be complete and my feelings on the subject baked hard to the bottom of the pan. When better to chip them out and spread them before the eager world, eh?

I am not, however, too tired to make observations on life, and today's observation served for your delectation is this: I have forgotten the much cherished skill of negotiating crowds.

I well recall the days when I would wander through Oxford Street on the approaches to Christmas, when it is at its very busiest, and navigate the morass of bewlidered humanity with the calm equanimity of a battleship in high seas, sedate and unperturbed. I should select a destination and go there, regardless of the pell mell of humanity around me, casting the ocasional glare at some surly brute who failed to vacate the spot directly in front of me, and careless of the slow moving traffic (except, of course, Black Cabs, who were ever and will always remain deserving of respect) march with purpose across the road.

At some point, and not too recently either, I fancy, this skill has evaded me. I find even the smallest crowd of people to be an annoying distraction, worthy of the greatest carnage and bloodiest pain. I constantly stop to let the ignorati past, or change direction to avoid clumps of twee-brained gargoyles who stop for no apparent reason directly in front of me.

At one time, walking down the street allowed me the time to order my thoughts, play out in my head the theme tune du jour, and daydream about giant robots bestriding the city.

Nowadays my walking fantasies involve high calibre cannon, flame throwers and machetes.

I think I need a holiday.