40. This was supplied by Chuckles who most likely saw the comment about no music this evening – bizarre choice by an engineer.
Actually, the choice is uncanny as there is one lady through the week, connected to an older lady who passed on. Then there’s another I’m a bit worried about, connected to a house full of em … so all that going on and this was sent:
Continuing the theme of a miserable sinner singing gospel:
And of course:
What to finish with? I know, let’s try Jamie and the Southern Revival Band again. I had run Ain’t No Grave but what with so many bedridden at this time, that might not have been the best choice. Let’s go with this one:
39. Now, about this affliction called Turning Scottish, it’s not helped in this lady’s case by already being a Campbell:
Sharon Campbell-Rayment had a fall from a horse that knocked her out cold. Her recovery from that injury was complete with one small exception. For the past decade, ever since her accident, she’s spoken with a Scottish accent.
Wonder if a drop of Scotch would be beneficial in snuffing out the lurgy?
38. Let’s leave this mess before your eyes to remind you of Saturday night:
… and ask what you put in your porridge? I cut the apples and stew that first, halve grapes, segment clementines, add banana if available. Mixed fruit and nuts and a dash of milk to the porridge and water, heat the porridge, pour over the fruit.
Pour yoghurt over that, chop up stem ginger and spread that over the top.
37. Reading this below the youtube, it had me thinking, despite the grammar:
Everyone needs themselves a 50s narrator following them everywhere.
Essentially, that’s what American humour was at that time – the funny man – or in this case, the grumpy curmudgeon – and the straight man. It would be great being narrated around the supermarket by the straight man, every time a conversation began with a girl and so on.
And when someone at home picked on you, there’d be no need to punch him in the arm or shove his sandwich in his moosh, the narrator could step in and do it for you. Yes, like it very much:
A variation is speaking in ad-speak. So, instead of asking where the yoghurt was, you could now ask, and I read from the four-pack before me, ‘Excuse me, could you please direct me to the exclusive live cultures containng milk solids, grains, gluten and nuts, purveyed by the top-selling brand Activia? if you would be so kind?’
36. Rare photo, which anyone interested already has a print of, selling for a grotesque amount of dosh:
35. Bloomberg are labouring under the misapprehension that this is of the remotest interest to anyone. I leave pop-ups and ads ‘on’, in order to see the guff the site inflicts on me before reading its precious article, which results in me muttering ‘get knotted’ or its equivalent and binning the bloody thing.
Methinks the worst bit was lower left corner, being told I’d been granted one more article to read – get double knotted. Goodbye.
Now this one is trying it on:
Nope, on yer bike. If it’s not accessible, it’s not worth reading.
34. Brass monkey weather here and Plod is out doing good preventing food getting to the needy. Well done:
33. Planet Satellite:
The 1948 Planet Satellite was an unusual and very beautiful aeroplane. Its appearance suggested that Hergé had created it especially for Tintin to steal. The aircraft was the shape of a tear-drop, with a butterfly ‘Y-shaped’ tail. Its ‘hygienically’ clean shape spoke of speed, progress and a utopian future. The Satellite was a revolutionary design in almost every way.
Clearly, the idea was to tear through the rigging, leaving sails in tatters on the high seas, in order to reach this planet.
32. Dr. Bruce Charlton has written, on the Millennium:
Functionality was replaced by management, that is bureaucracy; i.e. totalitarianism – which is the attempt at complete surveillance and control at the micro level of individual ideas and behaviours in pursuit of universal damnation.
He wrote of the Millennium being “the threshold at which there was a generalised inversion of values” and quite rightly did not play my musical offering of Dweller on the Threshold by Van the Man which I left in comments. 🙂
Musically, I’ve tried to sheet it home to about 1997 when the change occurred but either way, it was around then. What made it all the more stark for me was going away in 1996 and Rip van Winkle-like or Peer Gynt-ish, returning in 2008. The contrast was dismaying.
31. There’s a dilemma in showing you this on a Sunday morning and it’s to do with the presenters – just personally, I find them difficult to listen to.
Yet it’s well worth listening to – the text, that is – because it underscores what we’ve been saying about Woke, particularly in the lady’s last minute of the clip. Official sports code heads have tried to sweep it under the carpet and when that fails, send in the rozzers to arrest and fine. More after the clip.
Now those accents, that brogue. For a start, Sydney always had a thicker or more ‘ocker’ accent than Melbourne, the latter with pretensions to ‘class’. Many of the faux ‘larrikins’ in the media are Sydneysiders, trying hard to speak Les Patterson brogue, i.e. as a parody, overdoing the nasal twang and Eliza Dolittle ‘ee-ow-aagghh’.
It’s some sort of a badge of honour to crucify the language.
For some reason, these people see it as endearing … to their own bubble, I’d say. Thinking back to those I encountered, there were many speaking more like Clive James, Barry Humphreys himself or Leo McKern.
In the AFL, the ‘women’ also try to overdo the ‘blokey’ demi-man, i.e. come over as one of the lads, and to me, it’s offputting. Examples are Nat Edwards or Sam Lane. It’s meant to be anti- feminine I suppose.
Late night presenter Clive Robertson, from Sydney, spoke in a less twangy manner and it was that, plus his taking of the amber fluid, which apparently did him in.
Newsreader Eric Pearce’s last newscast showcased the type of thing Robert Menzies was accused of – ‘poshing up’ the voice to appear more English, more Cinque Ports, more RP. If you still retain some twang, it’s mildly ridiculous to English ears.
It was not just the Aussies though. Maggie herself poshed up her voice, something noted by pundits and Spitting Image, and to me, it sounded forced.
We’ll leave South Africans for another time. Well maybe just a little bit.
Right, so that’s probably the few remaining friends I had, a lonely old age beckons [cue violins]. 🙂