Swear Word Ranking:
We're currently debating the severity of certain swear words, in this particular case 'Twat'
Please give you rankings out of 10 (10 severe - 1 mild)
Friday, February 28, 2003
Some random image googling on poade brings us two images (one split in two). The first is popisdead's brother getting married. The second is at http://www.wa-gunnet.co.jp/cool/poade.html and is altogether more worrying.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
Monday, February 24, 2003
"This morning, a nameless someone with whom I associate woke up and ate Caitlin's roommate's pet goldfish". Now I remember why I link Glendon.
Oh sweet jesus. Like drunken blogs aren't dangerous enough, soon I'll be making drunken blogs whilst at a club.
"I hate my life. George is dancing with a girl. Bastard. Hic. I feel sleepy. What the hell is this Queer as Folk style hell hole anyway?"
"I hate my life. George is dancing with a girl. Bastard. Hic. I feel sleepy. What the hell is this Queer as Folk style hell hole anyway?"
Sunday, February 23, 2003
with many thanks to georgied for pushing the idea and getting me started, I present dmj wap. I used google wap to translate the blog, and the msgboard doesn't actually work. But other than that...
Thursday, February 20, 2003
WE COME IN PEACE is Don Hertzfeldtesque genius. It's like Pingu for adults (if you presume Pingu is for children. Bazzoh and I have an animation friend whose company is making new pingus - an English company trying to make foreign looking cartoons. They're having a lot of fun by all accounts).
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Roger Waters in MOJO...
"I've never listened to a lot of music..." that goes some way to explaining why Pink Floyd songs sound like someone falling asleep on a keyboard "...because I'm too busy making my own." it takes a long time to come up with the idea of holding a single note for half an hour then does it? "I probably wouldn't recognise The Clash if I heard them on the radio." Oh, give it a go Roger. They'll be the ones using numerous notes, numerous ideas and actually writing songs.
"I've never listened to a lot of music..." that goes some way to explaining why Pink Floyd songs sound like someone falling asleep on a keyboard "...because I'm too busy making my own." it takes a long time to come up with the idea of holding a single note for half an hour then does it? "I probably wouldn't recognise The Clash if I heard them on the radio." Oh, give it a go Roger. They'll be the ones using numerous notes, numerous ideas and actually writing songs.
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
Funk45.com - short clips of rare funk.
Found because we've been looking for Vicki Anderson stuff. Thank you Shazam.
Found because we've been looking for Vicki Anderson stuff. Thank you Shazam.
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Monday, February 17, 2003
Chocolate Chaud
If I had one of those proper, professional, well designed blogs - the sort that have titles - then the title of this post would be 'Chocolate Chaud'. Because that's a phrase I used quite frequently last week, and it's chocolate chaud that I've turned to now that I have a cold. Lemsip just wasn't doing the trick. It may well have paracetamol, vitamin c and decongestant, but it hasn't got nearly enough sugar and it hasn't got any cocoa powder at all.
Paris was cold. Let's get that out of the way first. I know you're all going to say it was cold in Blighty too, and I don't care if the weathermen did say Britain and France were under the same 'low' or whatever - Paris was colder. The sort of cold you see written on the faces of foreign correspondents forced to deliver their news reports from the middle of Red Square. Maybe it's the geography of Paris (Paris has one bit of geography and it's called Montmarte) or something, I don't know. All I do know is that all the brass monkeys had taken the first flight to Ibiza just to be on the safe side.
But the cold didn't really matter in the end because, aside from the occasional tourist attraction we felt obliged to walk around, we didn't get out much. You see, in pictures and movies you may see people walking around Paris, enjoying the ambience and the passing seasons, but in actuality doing such a thing is insanity. Paris has something called a 'Metro' - an underground system designed with the lazy in mind. There seems to be about 500 feet between each Metro station. I couldn't tell you where any of the places I visited actually are, but I can tell you how close the nearest metro station was to it. The Metro is far cheaper than British public transport too as far as I could gauge. We travelled around all week on a 'Carte Orange' ticket. I had originally tried to buy a Paris Visite ticket as soon as we'd arrived...
"Je...vou...drais...deux Paris Visite...s'il vous plait..."
"Yes, yes, for how many days?"
"Sank."
"Ha ha ha, non, non, non..."
"...er, s'il vous plait?"
"Paris Visite is for tourists. You want a Carte Orange. It's half the price."
"Oh. Merci."
So much for research.
The Metro only gets you around the tourist bustle of the centre of Paris, but that's all you'll want to see of Paris. The 'suburbs' of Paris, as briefly spied from the train between Charles de Gaulle airport and the Gare du Nord, is an uninterrupted flat landscape of decaying houses, tenements and scrap yards. The only colour in this industrial vista comes from the constant graffiti that covers every available surface.
Within the centre though there is little graffiti; Paris is a very clean city, but for one aspect - dog shit is everywhere, an apparent consequence of banning dogs from the few open spaces available.
Did we do the very British thing of ignoring foreign culture and seeking out familiar places to eat and drink in? Well, kind of yes, but with good reason. The first day we tried, we really did. We went to a fantastic little restaurant in Montmarte, had a couple of courses and a bottle of wine, and enjoyed ourselves very much. But then that was most of the afternoon gone. In the evening we decided we'd just find a French bar or something to have a few drinks in. And we looked. And we looked. 'Drinking' in France means the imbibing of beverages. In Britain, 'drinking' means recreation; it's a sport and a social activity rolled into one. It does not involve food and it does not involve sitting in a cafe / restaurant. Searching for what we would consider a bar in Paris thus proved fruitless, and the two remaining evenings out involved two Irish Pubs and a British one. We did go to a place by the Louvre called Le Fumier or some such, but unless you have the spirit-quaffing constitution of an Ollie Reed or Hemingway, such Jazzy Parisian bars are best avoided. Beer is an expensive habit if you're tasting it in France. Reassuringly expensive my arse.
See and do? Musee d'Orsey, Dali Expo, Picasso Musee, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur, Montmarte, Eiffel Tower, blah blah blah. All fantastic of course, but not worth writing up here. Go watch Judith Charmers or something.
Paris is a great city; I miss the chocolate chaud (understand this, it ain't powder from a sachet and a kettle we're talking about here, we're talking about a bar of chocolate melted into warm milk.) but I don't miss the weather. On the most romantic day of the year Paris is not the most romantic of cities.
Oh, and the gig (Red Hot Chili Peppers) was very, very good.
Anecdotes to follow in the comments section if Poade remembers any.
Paris was cold. Let's get that out of the way first. I know you're all going to say it was cold in Blighty too, and I don't care if the weathermen did say Britain and France were under the same 'low' or whatever - Paris was colder. The sort of cold you see written on the faces of foreign correspondents forced to deliver their news reports from the middle of Red Square. Maybe it's the geography of Paris (Paris has one bit of geography and it's called Montmarte) or something, I don't know. All I do know is that all the brass monkeys had taken the first flight to Ibiza just to be on the safe side.
But the cold didn't really matter in the end because, aside from the occasional tourist attraction we felt obliged to walk around, we didn't get out much. You see, in pictures and movies you may see people walking around Paris, enjoying the ambience and the passing seasons, but in actuality doing such a thing is insanity. Paris has something called a 'Metro' - an underground system designed with the lazy in mind. There seems to be about 500 feet between each Metro station. I couldn't tell you where any of the places I visited actually are, but I can tell you how close the nearest metro station was to it. The Metro is far cheaper than British public transport too as far as I could gauge. We travelled around all week on a 'Carte Orange' ticket. I had originally tried to buy a Paris Visite ticket as soon as we'd arrived...
"Je...vou...drais...deux Paris Visite...s'il vous plait..."
"Yes, yes, for how many days?"
"Sank."
"Ha ha ha, non, non, non..."
"...er, s'il vous plait?"
"Paris Visite is for tourists. You want a Carte Orange. It's half the price."
"Oh. Merci."
So much for research.
The Metro only gets you around the tourist bustle of the centre of Paris, but that's all you'll want to see of Paris. The 'suburbs' of Paris, as briefly spied from the train between Charles de Gaulle airport and the Gare du Nord, is an uninterrupted flat landscape of decaying houses, tenements and scrap yards. The only colour in this industrial vista comes from the constant graffiti that covers every available surface.
Within the centre though there is little graffiti; Paris is a very clean city, but for one aspect - dog shit is everywhere, an apparent consequence of banning dogs from the few open spaces available.
Did we do the very British thing of ignoring foreign culture and seeking out familiar places to eat and drink in? Well, kind of yes, but with good reason. The first day we tried, we really did. We went to a fantastic little restaurant in Montmarte, had a couple of courses and a bottle of wine, and enjoyed ourselves very much. But then that was most of the afternoon gone. In the evening we decided we'd just find a French bar or something to have a few drinks in. And we looked. And we looked. 'Drinking' in France means the imbibing of beverages. In Britain, 'drinking' means recreation; it's a sport and a social activity rolled into one. It does not involve food and it does not involve sitting in a cafe / restaurant. Searching for what we would consider a bar in Paris thus proved fruitless, and the two remaining evenings out involved two Irish Pubs and a British one. We did go to a place by the Louvre called Le Fumier or some such, but unless you have the spirit-quaffing constitution of an Ollie Reed or Hemingway, such Jazzy Parisian bars are best avoided. Beer is an expensive habit if you're tasting it in France. Reassuringly expensive my arse.
See and do? Musee d'Orsey, Dali Expo, Picasso Musee, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur, Montmarte, Eiffel Tower, blah blah blah. All fantastic of course, but not worth writing up here. Go watch Judith Charmers or something.
Paris is a great city; I miss the chocolate chaud (understand this, it ain't powder from a sachet and a kettle we're talking about here, we're talking about a bar of chocolate melted into warm milk.) but I don't miss the weather. On the most romantic day of the year Paris is not the most romantic of cities.
Oh, and the gig (Red Hot Chili Peppers) was very, very good.
Anecdotes to follow in the comments section if Poade remembers any.
Friday, February 07, 2003
I feel like a blogtart blogging these. I don't like blogging obvious stuff, but I have comments to make:
Plastic Cat blogged a link to a page giving the evidence that Stockport Lad Dom and Yank Elijah are in a relationship. I didn't visit it yesterday cos celebrity gossip is 99% hokum and I'm not interested. But the site goes into incredible detail, and you end up quite convinced despite yourself, and quite glad for the pair of them. Whatever would Hetty Wainthrop say? (No, I don't know what pashmina is).
It's been in the paper this morning and all over the world wide blog yesterday, but Darian linked to a movie of the "Invisibility Cloak" the Japanese have allegedly invented that makes you thing "That's prerecorded and projected". If it's real it is fantastic. But it looks like a projection.
Plastic Cat blogged a link to a page giving the evidence that Stockport Lad Dom and Yank Elijah are in a relationship. I didn't visit it yesterday cos celebrity gossip is 99% hokum and I'm not interested. But the site goes into incredible detail, and you end up quite convinced despite yourself, and quite glad for the pair of them. Whatever would Hetty Wainthrop say? (No, I don't know what pashmina is).
It's been in the paper this morning and all over the world wide blog yesterday, but Darian linked to a movie of the "Invisibility Cloak" the Japanese have allegedly invented that makes you thing "That's prerecorded and projected". If it's real it is fantastic. But it looks like a projection.
Thursday, February 06, 2003
I would like to announce that every member of deadmanblog will die of a stroke shortly. Though Georgied'll certainly be the first.
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stolen
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stolen
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
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