Jamiebgoode is on holiday

(gone to sit in a hole in Lincolnshire for 2 weeks)

Bored

Bored
Bored
Bored
Bored
Bored!

When will something interesting happen?

Good morning.

I was awoken from deep sleep like a newborn baby, pink, squashy and grumpy. I had been dreaming a lot, and was rather annoyed to be dragged back into the grey light of the morning. From the dream fragments I still grasped as I awoke, I remembered that I had been constructing some sort of spoof TV listings, with humorous and satirical comments about the various programmes. I think I was laughing in my sleep.

Perhaps I will start keeping a notebook and pen next to my bed so I can catch any ideas before they fade in the light. This is assuming, of course, that my unconscious self is actually interesting or funny. It could well have been nonsense, like those bizarre conversations you can find yourself having with a sleep-talker.

New day, new you

Things have not been easy recently.
I decided to do some serious soul searching.
I used Google, and ended up buying three Wilson Pickett albums.

Poetry

Apparently 4,500,000% of internet traffic is spam emails. As email filters improve, the spammers have to get cleverer with their messages to make sure they get through. One way of doing this is by including random text copied from a variety of sources, to make the email appear genuine to any automatic filters. I believe there is a potential for a whole new genre of poetic literature to emerge from this practice. Just look at this one I received in my work inbox today. I was moved.


The ordinary, wide scene which begins
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Of meaning like these—the world created by
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Out of the road into a way across
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Covering the land—
Of meaning like these—the world created

Busey

I came back from Wales, mildly refreshed and slightly damp. Back at work again. Ho-hum.
Can you imagine my surprise, however, when on my return to the office I discovered that I was working with Gary Busey!
I was on my way to the gents to pay my respects to Mr Crapper when there Busey was, strolling out of a cubicle. I believe he works in Finance.

Wales

I am going to Wales this weekend.

Wales. A beautiful country. A land of song, of coal mining, of passionate poetry and belligerent nationalism. Where men are men, and women also wear trousers. Where rugged coastlines meet the violent Irish Sea, where drizzle-soaked hills are dotted with soggy sheep that nick your ice cream if you're not careful.

Ah, Wales. Land of my fathers. Or my father, anyway.

He left at the age of 21 and moved to Streatham, which was considered a step up.

Dark days

Ooh, it's very dark.
Very dark I said, Maureen.
VERY DARK. BECAUSE OF THE CLOUDS.
Yes, that's right.
And wet.
I SAID, WET.

NO, IT'S WET!

A rap about soap

Splish and a splash
I was taking a bath
In some soft Welsh water
Shipped in from Penarth
There was a noise
And a flash
And out jumped the pope
He knocked over my toothbrush
And pounced on my soap
I said, 'Hey, your holiness,
How can you do this?
Can't you go back to Rome
And mind your own business?'
He said, 'Sorry my son,
I must make sure it's blessed,
I have information this soap is possessed.'
And with a prayer and a flash he just disappeared
Leaving me soapless and still dirty-eared.
Now I always use holy soap,
When I can get it
And I'll stay well away from bedevilled cosmetics.