Gruts

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Puppet President

Cards on the table time: I don't like President George W Bush. I don't like him at all. In fact, to be brutally honest, I think he's a dangerous, ill-intentioned buffoon, and any American considering voting for him later this year is an asshat.

But that's quite enough shrewd political commentary for the time being; what I want to talk about is President George W Bush's walk.

I have a very simple question:

Is it just my imagination, or has the most powerful man on the planet got a totally mincey walk?

Dictionary.com: mince
v. intr: To walk with very short steps or with exaggerated primness.

Just look at him the next time he's on telly: he moves like a bloody Thunderbirds puppet. He holds his arms slightly raised, and swings them totally out of synch with his legs—legs with which he takes ridiculously short (and, it has to be said, prim) steps. He looks completely stupid. It's embarrassing to watch.

In other words, not only can't George W talk the talk, he can't even walk the walk.

(I'm really not making this up, I promise. Just watch him.)

…Oh, yes, and while I'm at it, has anyone else noticed that the UK Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown, always talks as if he's trying to prevent a Fox's Glacier Mint from popping out of his mouth?

Domesticated

Stense recently moved into the very first house of her own. Until then, she had lived in numerous rented accommodations. This evening, we had a big chin-wag on the phone about this and that, and I started telling her about Jen's and my plans for our own home:

Me: …And then we're going to knock through into the dining room and… Bloody hell, Stense, I can't believe I'm actually talking to you about home improvement!
Stense: And I can't believe I'm actually finding it interesting!

Ms Fitz

Fitz and Ms Fitz

My bald friend Fitz tied the knot yesterday. He married a lady known to me as Moley, although it turns out most other people call her Madeleine (which is a damn stupid nickname for someone named Moley, if you ask me).

My role was official photographer (weddings, bar mitzvahs, and chicks with spoons on their noses a speciality). Shown above is a snap I took on my digital camera towards the end of proceedings (you can tell, can't you?). The proper photos were captured on good, old-fashioned, reliable film—a bit Twentieth Century maybe, but still superior to digital for a couple of years yet, I reckon. Besides, I know what I'm doing with film (I hope!)

I suppose, now she's married to Fitz, Moley will have to be referred to as Ms Fitz, as in social Ms Fitz.

Conversation with Jen

J: What are you doing?
R: I'm writing an item about St Herman.
J: I could have been a long time trying to guess that one.

Patron Saints

As an unabashed atheist, I suppose I shouldn't have much time for so-called saints (many of whom were far from saintly), but I must admit that the devout sceptic in me always had something of a soft spot for St Thomas (of Doubting fame).

If ever we sceptics deserved a patron saint, then St Thomas would surely be our man: "You tell me Jesus has risen from the dead," said Thom to his colleagues. "Well I'm not buying it until I see some hard evidence." What a guy!

Anyhow, I only mention patron saints because yesterday I came across the following item on the BBC News website:

Religious legacy lives on in Alaska

The Russian Orthodox church in Alaska is claiming a resurgence in a faith that most people predicted would die out. When Russia sold Alaska to America for $7.2m in 1867 it left little trace on the state—except its religion.

Speeding across calm blue waters we head with pilgrims from around the world towards one of the Russian Orthodox Church's most holy places. But this is not Russia - it's Alaska.

Spruce Island, off Alaska's south coast, was made famous by St Herman, America's first Orthodox saint.

He and other monks brought orthodoxy to Alaska in 1794, several decades after the Russians conquered this land…

I must admit, I was fascinated to learn that there is a strong(ish) Russian Orthodox church presence in the northernmost of the United States—but not nearly as fascinated as I was to learn that there is actually a St Herman (actually, it turns out there are several). What a totally cool name! And a quick Google image search revealed that St Herman was a bit of a dapper dude.

Awesome beard, Herm! From now on, you're joining my (small) personal collection of patron saints.

Every atheist should have one.

Conversation with Jen

J: You're a really cheerful chappie, aren't you?
R: Yes, I suppose I am.
J: I could never live with a miserable bastard.
R: It isn't easy, believe me.

Better late than never

I was going through some old letters to Stense yesterday, when I came across the following, written on 1st August, 1996:

She is supposed to be taking me out for a Chinese meal next week, to make up for the birthday present she never bought me.

The she in question was Carolyn, and guess what? She never did take me out for that Chinese meal!

The way I look at, Carolyn still owes me a 31st-birthday slap-up meal. And what with the interest that will have accrued over the last eight years, I will feel totally justified in ordering crispy duck pancakes.

Bankers (with a capital 'W')

The Co-operative Bank's smile.co.uk homepage currently includes a fun survey:

Who do you turn to for money advice?

my old dad

a financial adviser

mags and newspapers

my mates

no one - I make my own mind up

Their survey overlooks one option offered in the bank's latest Keep Smiling email newsletter, which I received yesterday:

Your money and the stars
Take a look at Astro Anns predictions for the future. Whether its your finances or your love life you need a little guidance on, our resident Astrologer is at your service.

Yes, that's right: the Co-operative Bank—an organisation which prides itself on its ethical policy—has evidently decided that it is not unethical to treat its customers like fucking idiots by offering them the services of a soothsayer.

To make matters worse, the link provided from the email newsletter to the bank's astrology page contains embedded information in the form of a unique id code which will presumably allow the bank to monitor (through a program entitled mon.aspx referred to in the link) the clicking of the link. In other words, not only is the Co-operative Bank treating all of its customers like fucking idiots, but it is also tracking which ones actually are fucking idiots. I can see why this might be seen as extremely useful business intelligence.

I don't have a bank account with Smile, only a few ISAs. I will be moving them to another bank forthwith.

Looks like we've got ourselves a meme

Eileen Kinnear Someone with the unlikely name of Too Louche comments:

scott mills just nicked your joke and used it on radio one about 30 seconds ago

And someone with the equally unlikely name of Ginger Girl says in my guestbook [postscript: which no longer exists]:

I just heard them use your joke about the woman with the big glasses on radio one. your site is cool x x

Well, I suppose it beats being misquoted on Radio 4.

(Actually, it would appear that somebody else started the meme.)

So that's why it's called Blackpool

It's just like Paris, only less so. Yesterday, we decided to be frightfully Northern and have a day out in Blackpool. I'm by no means a fan of the place, having spent an eternity of a weekend there one November a few years ago. But yesterday's weather was glorious, and the company was fairly acceptable, and, on the whole, it didn't turn out too bad.

We started at St Anne's, where the tide was out—about a mile out. But we went for a paddle anyway, and we got to see a huge flock of knots—one of the natural wonders of the British Isles.

After the obligatory ice creams, we then headed off to Blackpool proper, and had a drive along the front. After skimming some stones at a quiet beach at the north end of town, we headed back to the main drag, and had fish & chips at Harry Ramsden's.

And then we went home.

But, when we got home, I discovered that the soles of my feet were totally black. One shower, and a half-hour session with a scrubbing brush in the bath later, and my feet are a slightly greyer shade of black. I'm not kidding: I really can't shift the stuff.

I have absolutely no idea where the black came from, but I think the clue might be in the name.