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The newspapers have gone mad today. The Daily Abcess, if you can bear to look at a copy or find their webshite, has a banner headline about how the bombers were dodgy dole-scrounging illegal immigrants with incurable bedwetting (I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Except for the bit about bedwetting, of course). By tomorrow they'll probably have realized that Menezes was foreign and that they hate him for it. Look forward to a banner "He had it coming" headline.
The Daily Hate, apparently, is little better.
The Scotsman has stuff on metal giraffes, The Venue closing (we're not going to have any live shows in this town if this goes on) and Iain Banks answering questions about whisky on Mastermind.
Humphries: How many drinks have you had, Mr Banks?
Banks: Hic!
The Grauniad, by contrast with its aspirations towards being a hard-hitting socially responsible media organ, has an article about a foul-mouthed macaw with a habit of saying "Thank you, big boy,"
When the local mayor and a vicar visited,
Instead of the Benedicite ("Oh all ye fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord"), he told the mayor: "Fuck off," before turning to the vicar and saying: "You can fuck off too."
The sanctuary's owner, Geoff Grewcock, 55, said yesterday: "To their credit they didn't take offence and laughed it off - and luckily so did two policemen who were told: "And you can fuck off, you wankers."
This morning, I woke strangely from an odd dream. It had involved my mum, my dad's old Spitfire (Triumph, not Supermarine - it wasn't fast enough, in the same way that I can never outrun anything when I'm dreaming), and having a fling with someone in a different city, who for no readily apparent reason had a bunch of people install themselves in her back bedroom by pushing past me when the door was open, and claiming that it had been wide open so they'd wandered in. I called the police, and the fire brigade arrived to evict them.
I was woken (well, mostly-woken) by the radio, and my nose was a bit blocked. I was half-convinced that I'd been woken by the phone ringing. Every time I sniffed, I could hear in the sound of the sniff a small voice saying "pick up".
The Daily Hate, apparently, is little better.
The Scotsman has stuff on metal giraffes, The Venue closing (we're not going to have any live shows in this town if this goes on) and Iain Banks answering questions about whisky on Mastermind.
Humphries: How many drinks have you had, Mr Banks?
Banks: Hic!
The Grauniad, by contrast with its aspirations towards being a hard-hitting socially responsible media organ, has an article about a foul-mouthed macaw with a habit of saying "Thank you, big boy,"
When the local mayor and a vicar visited,
Instead of the Benedicite ("Oh all ye fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord"), he told the mayor: "Fuck off," before turning to the vicar and saying: "You can fuck off too."
The sanctuary's owner, Geoff Grewcock, 55, said yesterday: "To their credit they didn't take offence and laughed it off - and luckily so did two policemen who were told: "And you can fuck off, you wankers."
This morning, I woke strangely from an odd dream. It had involved my mum, my dad's old Spitfire (Triumph, not Supermarine - it wasn't fast enough, in the same way that I can never outrun anything when I'm dreaming), and having a fling with someone in a different city, who for no readily apparent reason had a bunch of people install themselves in her back bedroom by pushing past me when the door was open, and claiming that it had been wide open so they'd wandered in. I called the police, and the fire brigade arrived to evict them.
I was woken (well, mostly-woken) by the radio, and my nose was a bit blocked. I was half-convinced that I'd been woken by the phone ringing. Every time I sniffed, I could hear in the sound of the sniff a small voice saying "pick up".
