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Another quiet Sunday.
Oct. 7th, 2001 09:38 pmSo . . . what have I been up to since Thursday? Not a massive amount, but a little, at least. Friday at work was fairly routine. I spent it digging through various projects for more useful reactions to perform. I've got quite a pile now, so at some point I'm going to have to pop into the lab for some serious wet chemistry. After that, home on the bus (noticing that Monday sees the release of a new Leonard Cohen album, which I showed my boss as she scrabbled though her purse for change in a call-box a few minutes later), have a bite to eat and watch the inveitable and compulsory Top of the Pops. Garbage . . . good god, how are the mightly fallen. I like La Manson's new barnet, but those denim shorts are just dreadful. I don't think all that much of the song either, but I've ordered the album from my favourite record shop, along with a few other odds and ends. It may be semi-professionally useful, in my capacity as a semi-professional crap goff DJ. I've also ordered (from there and elsewhere) new ones from Lenny C and Butthole Surfers (!), and some miscellanea from New Model Army, which will lead to me actually owning a copy of Marrakesh. Should be fun, when they all eventually arrive.
Later in the evening I wandered over to the pub for a couple of hours, which was fun. The usual people, the usual sorts of conversation. At the end of it Grimm came back to watch The Princess Bride, which amazingly he'd never seen. Actually, it turned out he'd already seen the end, but he enjoyed the new bits a lot, or at least claimed to. Saturday was supposed to be graced by the return of one of the multitudinous Saras, so we all congregated back in the same pub, but it turned out that she was delayed, and by the time she was actually in town she was too knackered to make it out. We therefore spent a whole day in the pub for no good reason, which we are all of course deeply ashamed by. England were in the final stages of a hard-fought draw with (IIRC) Greece, so the pub was half-full of pissed wankers singing about loving David Beckham (not in public, you don't - there are laws against that sort of thing) and hating Germans (drop dead you tedious moronic fuckwit). They hung around for quite a while lowering the tone of the place before proceeding to wherever neanderthals go when it gets dark.
And then today, which has been pleasingly like last Sunday. I've been listening to a very recent Curve album (Gift, I think it's called) and reading the papers. And watching the news, of course, which had a lot of film of ack-ack over Kabul and very little information. I just hope that the US public can be persuaded that a little bit of moderately well-targetted gunboat diplomacy is enough to slake their thirst for self-righteous gunishment. I've been pleasantly surprised by the fairly thoughtful reaction from the US Government. I'd half expected them to set the B52s to level Kabul within a couple of days, whereas in fact they've been almost temperate. They want rid of the Taleban, which obviously all right-thinking people do, but it's sad that it takes something like this to set them to making a big deal about it. And that the methods are so prone to damaging the recipient's collateral.
In other news, Railtrack's collapsed (Good) and will be remoulded into a non-profit-making trust charged with maintaining and prmoting the use of the British rail system (even better), and Julie Burchill has written another breathtakingly inane masterpiece of spurious logic (no surprise there, then) which succeeded in winding up a flatmate quite intensely. What a mad old hag Burchill is these days. She should check into whatever twilight home Baroness Thatcher of Belgrano uses - I'm sure they'd get on famously.
Later in the evening I wandered over to the pub for a couple of hours, which was fun. The usual people, the usual sorts of conversation. At the end of it Grimm came back to watch The Princess Bride, which amazingly he'd never seen. Actually, it turned out he'd already seen the end, but he enjoyed the new bits a lot, or at least claimed to. Saturday was supposed to be graced by the return of one of the multitudinous Saras, so we all congregated back in the same pub, but it turned out that she was delayed, and by the time she was actually in town she was too knackered to make it out. We therefore spent a whole day in the pub for no good reason, which we are all of course deeply ashamed by. England were in the final stages of a hard-fought draw with (IIRC) Greece, so the pub was half-full of pissed wankers singing about loving David Beckham (not in public, you don't - there are laws against that sort of thing) and hating Germans (drop dead you tedious moronic fuckwit). They hung around for quite a while lowering the tone of the place before proceeding to wherever neanderthals go when it gets dark.
And then today, which has been pleasingly like last Sunday. I've been listening to a very recent Curve album (Gift, I think it's called) and reading the papers. And watching the news, of course, which had a lot of film of ack-ack over Kabul and very little information. I just hope that the US public can be persuaded that a little bit of moderately well-targetted gunboat diplomacy is enough to slake their thirst for self-righteous gunishment. I've been pleasantly surprised by the fairly thoughtful reaction from the US Government. I'd half expected them to set the B52s to level Kabul within a couple of days, whereas in fact they've been almost temperate. They want rid of the Taleban, which obviously all right-thinking people do, but it's sad that it takes something like this to set them to making a big deal about it. And that the methods are so prone to damaging the recipient's collateral.
In other news, Railtrack's collapsed (Good) and will be remoulded into a non-profit-making trust charged with maintaining and prmoting the use of the British rail system (even better), and Julie Burchill has written another breathtakingly inane masterpiece of spurious logic (no surprise there, then) which succeeded in winding up a flatmate quite intensely. What a mad old hag Burchill is these days. She should check into whatever twilight home Baroness Thatcher of Belgrano uses - I'm sure they'd get on famously.
