Monday, December 01, 2003

Well, I'm not sure if today's the first day of Christmas (I always get confused over that one) but it's certainly the first day in December, so seasonal portent (as well as your first chocolate from the advent calendar) is certainly overdue. But as usual in Britain, people are just taking the opportunity to indulge in unapologetically rabid retail activity, so bang on cue I was participant this evening in my first trolley rage incident of the season. *#$@ing careless drivers. About as welcome as a firework in your physiog.

Talking of which, something's been puzzling me, which I wonder whether anyone can help me with. I've become aware that both West Ham and Newcastle fans refer to Wolves supporters as 'Dingles'. But why? The Dingles in the Emmerdale soap are from Yorkshire while Wolverhampton was very definitely in the West Midlands last time I looked (which to be fair, was quite recently). Now if they called them crack exporters that would be much more on the money, if you ask me.

Still, there is some good news out there, and congratulations are due to Sophie Ellis-Bextor on her announcement she is Keith Cheggers. Mind, let's hope baby doesn't inherit mum's rhombus head or else it'll have to be a caesarian, mark my words.

And even if you *are* a Tottscum fan, there are always people less fortunate than you. Hard to believe, I know, but take Dawn Auty (42) from Blackpool for example: already suffering from terminal cancer, this weekend just gone she was due to be married. That was, until her wedding dress got trapped in the motorbike she was riding and she had to have both legs amputated. That's so terrible even I'm stumped for a one-liner.

More reasons to be cheerful: The Thermals Tour Europe! Playing London on consecutive nights, December 12th and 13th - winter warming has never been so welcome.

And finally, tonight's update on Mason and Dixon watch. Have now stealthily read up to page 149 (out of 768). Our heroes have travelled to Cape Town where the attentions of their landlady and the three cruel beauties that are her daughters are going completely over the head of the melancholic Mason who has his eyes on the stars for some astronomy malarkey. They then move on to St Helena, where they wind up some buffoon who may or may not be the brother-in-law of Sir Clive Of India, before Dixon has to take a detour back to Cape Town. No reappearance of the talking dog yet, and laugh-out-loud moments between pages 76 and 149 slowed down a little to about four, possibly as few as a couple if you haven't a taste for puns. But it's all good atmospheric stuff and it gives you a real taste for beer after reading, because M & D spend most of the book pissed-up and singing rowdy songs. It's the sort of book Bob Altman in his pomp could have made a terrific film from. But, on second thoughts, I think we could have all done without Keith Carradine approximating a Geordie accent. Eeh!


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