Virgin on the Furious

Reeking Lums of London

When I should have been making plans and travel itineries to get me too London amid Iceland’s best efforts to thwart me, I think they still have a big hang up about the Cod War you know. I have instead been distracted by some of the most eye scrapingly brutal television I have ever subjected myself too. I don’t really watch must TV, but I think it’s important to tune in now and again to remind myself why.

Offender number 1, Question of Sport. Christ, this was dated when Emlyn Hughs and Gareth Edwards were the captains. Sue Barker is I’m afraid to say no longer a poor mans Chris Evertt, unless the poor man has cataracts. But she’s not the worst, oh no, not by a considerable distance. Imagine taking a carrier bag, a Sainsbury’s one, its nearest in colour I think, filling it with dented saucepans until you can’t get any more in, paint a couple hang dog comedy eyes on it and there you have it, a decent representation of Matt Dawsons head. I think he may be the ugliest man assaulting my eyes on TV, excusable if he was remotely endearing, but I think he honestly believes he is some kind of comedy genius and that mob in the studio audience, who are the same ones who go and watch snooker by the way and hover around in the background on Antiques Roadshow just encourage him.

Offenders No2 and 3. Bloody Dick and Dom. These two are the equivalent of banging your head on a low ceiling and biting your tongue at the same time. They should stick their hand up to go out and entertain the troops in Afghanistan. I think they boys would have a ball throwing grenades at them. It must be depressing for them though, they really thought they were going to be the new Ant and Dec but now there whole career is heading towards them being a less distressing chuckle brothers.

Offender number 4. Fast and Furious. I mean, come on. I like action films and even those that ask me to cut it a little slack and say, “yeah, that could happen I suppose” but those that jar you right out of the cinema seat or sofa are just taking the piss, what is it with them. It’s like a little dog that’s trying too hard to please its owner and gets too excited and just pisses on the carpet. There all tearing across the desert in cars, big Vin Diesel shoots a tyre out of one of the pursuing motors with his shotgun. Of course, it then flips up in the air and cartwheels in a flaming ball across the desert like a 1950s land speed record attempt gone wrong. I mean, it’s a puncture for God’s sake.

Offender number 5. Andrew Lloyd Webber has a face like an old elephants knee. There is no place in my living room for a face like that or for musical theatre and all that gurning hamminess.
Finally up in front of Judge Lum, The Microsoft Explorer 8 ads and in particular the one with the middle aged guy who doesn’t want his wife seeing what he’s been masturbating too on the pornoweb and him showing off in a sweaty panic how quickly those kiddie pics can be closed down without leaving any evidence. That ad would have been much more effective if it was set in a gloomy damp bedsit, with a grubby stubble chinned 50 year old, in vest and pants, desperately bashing away at the erase history button as the vice squad come crashing through his door.

Still, it’s not all been bad, I saw Back to the Future all the way through for the first time and thought it was genuinely excellent.

I’ve been slagging off the local job centre a bit lately but realise I was probably just projecting the disappointment in myself that I was there in the first place rather than any real fault with the people there. I signed off on Friday and I had to go and hand a little letter in to do it officially. The usual impenetrable reception made sure I didn’t get over the threshold without an appointment but when I said why I was there, the woman’s face just lit up in a kind of euphoric disbelief, “Oh, that’s just wonderful, we don’t hear that often in here”. I was quite humbled really, to think that these people work away, getting worn down to a nub with the whole hopelessness of it, but when someone gets a job, it’s like they’ve won a little battle or something.
I decided, luckily enough, to let the train take the strain to London, and strain being the operative word in this instance. Iceland’s continuing efforts to bring all of Western Europe to heel meant that it was full of diminished frequent flyers, but I had been quite looking forward to the journey if I’m honest and at four and a half hours to Euston, and another thirty minutes on the tube out to Docklands, the plane, when you take checking in and waiting for bags and getting from Heathrow into account, would have taken just as long and cost twice as much. My seat was the worst on the entire train though. Seat 49, coach C on a Virgin Pendolino, avoid like syphilis. No window, no table and a fat student eating a smelly burger king with tomato sauce right next to me before we even left the station. I don’t think she will be in seat 48 all the time mind you, but here are still better seats. I noticed that is impossible to walk up a train with any class or in any kind of a dignified manner. Everybody gets bumped and jostled from side to side and end up staggering up the train like a drunk.

On the tube from Euston the empty seat next to me was of course taken by a Rangers shirted, Carling swigging ulsterned returning to the East End from the Rangers game in Glasgow. He was alright actually but he ended up in a long conversation with an Andy Murray look-a-like across the carriage that was the most intellectual football related discussion I had ever heard. The Brazilians are mesmeric, whose footballing ethos is one of dance, rather than battle, and on it went. The little Ulster fella wouldn’t have heard anything like this before in Govan. I just wanted to stand up, take his can of carling, squash it down to a pointy and jagged pancake, and ram it with all my might, elbow deep, down pretentious Andy Murray look-a-likes throat. Knob.

By the time I got to Docklands it had gotten dark, and to be honest, a little intimidating. Stabby little youths could be hanging about anywhere and I only had a vague idea where I was going, but my spider senses were spot on and made it safely to the Hotel, where funny enough, I was immediately robbed by the barmen. £5.30 for a Magners and a packet of crisps, Welcome to London. I could understand if it was The Ritz Carlton or something, I paid £8.50 once for a vodka and lemonade in a hotel in central London. But this wasn’t, it’s a Travelodge. Now Travelodge is fine and functional, especially if you like those themed hotels, this one appears to be a prison themed one, I think I am in the Wormwood Scrubs Wing.
Start the new job tomorrow so a big day, and just discovered I left my tie and toothpaste at home. BUGGER.

Lang may yer Lum Reek