So we’re now officially at war. At which point I’ll get on my soapbox to make two points:
- This is not a war against terror. I don’t think the USA will be storming into Belfast to sort out the Real IRA or into Catalonia to silence ETA. This is a war against America’s enemies, enemies created by the USA’s own policies of sanction and denial. Call it whatever you like, but Blowback has come home to roost.
- In times of great national trauma, why does the Britney Spears dead in car crash rumour always resurface?
It’s half-time in the England vs Greece World Cup Qualifier, and England are looking shakey and are 1-0 down.
This morning I was on the tube, travelling North on the Jubilee line, and a middle aged couple got on, both decked out in the newest England shirts. The man spoke:
“Does this tube go to Wembley?”
Yes, it does. Are you going to watch the game in a pub?
“No, we’re going to the game! It’s our first International!”
Er… are you sure? You know the match is in Manchester?
Blank stares, then horror hits both faces, as they realise what they’ve done. Panic-stricken, they hurry off the tube at the next stop, and cross the platform to join a southbound connection, heading back into London to catch a train North. To make matters worse, they’ve travelled down from Yorkshire for the game, and a short journey across the Penines has turned into a three hundred mile round trip to miss, in all likelihood, most of the match. Stupid and tragic, both at once. Quite a combination.
Spammers come in all shapes and sizes, the most intrusive of these being the ones who pop up univited on whatever instant messaging service you use. I usually just delete and block the person in question, but there are far more entertaining ways of dealing with them.
My colleague Videl has just returned from holiday in Morocco, which is very possibly the best place in the world. Why? Because the goats climb trees.
Sometimes the saddest things can be the funniest. I think that when the grief has passed, we’re looking at one hell of a hilarious compilation record. It’s probably 20 years down the line, but this would be the ideal closing track.
I used to go out with a girl from Haywards Heath. It’s a commuter town just North of Brighton, and is the birthplace of tragic-fop-about town Brett Anderson, singer with the quite hopeless Suede. Haywards Heath is a terrible, terrible place, but it has a rather entertaining (and not very official, I suspect) website. Visit that, not the town.