Gove to Go.

I don’t know quit how but Michael Gove makes my ears feel dirty. I can somehow see his mind working and it’s not a pretty sight. In fact he’s a master of the bolloctical to quote my last blog. It’s typical of the Liberals to pin their mast to House of Lords reform, it being a political black hole since the turn of the last century. It’s a no win no vote concrete ticket to Davy Jones. The reason is simple. The commons is on its own cusp between elected commoners and professional politicians. Half are wedded to the idea of democratic elections throughout and the other half to it being the unique preserve of the commons. “You’re just Lords, we’ve been elected” is the elitist view from the commons but even though most Lords are approaching their incontinence years they represent a certain meritocracy in that their title isn’t easily come by and advancing years does bring with it experience and a capacity to gently reflect. In that sense it perfectly balances the testosterone filled heads of the commons gridlocked by fear of political failure. And what if the Lords became an elected chamber? They would be newbies and make the professionals in the Commons look strangely like political Lords. It might look like a capsize where the left of the boat, it now being upside down, appears on the right. ‘Come in number 91. But we’ve only got 20 boats.’ It would be good to have an elected meritocratic second chamber but there are two problems. No one wants to leave a successful career half way through and voters, evidenced by our current politics, wouldn’t know merit if it punched them in the face. So I suggest the Lords is a bit like democracy; it’s not perfect but it’s the best we’ve got. Unlike Michael Gove. I would personally paint his portrait and hang it in my attic if I thought he would spend his perpetuity teaching PE in an inner city sink school.

My New Word.

I have a new word. Mothermouse was in the kitchen singing, “I would catch a grenade for you,….” It’s a song about being in love. When challenged as to its value as a realistic sentiment MM, being an ex English teacher said it was metaphorical. I decided it was bolloctical; that’s my new word. It means ‘expressing one thing in terms of another in order to knowingly mislead.’ The young lady plied with this bolloctical statement will immediately picture herself as Whitney Huston being bodyguarded by Kevin Costner and probably burst into, “Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeiii will always love yoooooooooooou…..” She will completely overlook the fact her adoring twerp fresh out of Y11 will be picturing Sergeant Diehard in Call of Duty II, Black Ops edition. He will completely overlook the fact that Call of Duty II, Black Ops edition doesn’t have a love interest, and perhaps more importantly that grenades in real life hurt. This young lad should also posit the question, why is someone throwing a grenade at his girlfriend? Is she trouble or Syrian? Conversely is she one of Bashar al-Assad’s elite mercenary troops? Does he really want to be in the middle of a blood bath? But I suggest the simple addition of ‘bolloctical’ to the English language will solve all these dilemmas. ‘Sorry dear it was just a bolloctical statement contrived in my immature mind to convince you that I fancy you in order that you provide me of your unique amenities.’ It would provide a usefully specific location for all our bolloctically-motivated declarations. End of coffee break; the car won’t clean itself.

Dressed for Summer.

Beginning to realise global warming is just shorthand for getting more of the weather you don’t want. I avoided the rain going to the bank and got wet from mugginess on the way home. Having fulfilled my fiscal duties I decided to get my summer wardrobe from St Luke’s charity shop half price sale. Being not as sexually segregated as Top Shop my transvestite tendency hovered between rails. There’s also a practical side to this. Women donate cloths when fickle fashion moves on where men’s cloths are more often than not donated after they have literally moved on or when there’s no body left in the material itself. So I kitted myself out with a pair of size 12 jeans, boot cut, and a men’s pale blue sleeveless tank top. Actually the rack said size 10, which I was dubious about getting in to, but as the waist is lower on women’s jeans it makes sense to get a size smaller. At home I excitedly tried them on to show Mothermouse. She liked the jeans, which I have to say fit much nicer than men’s jeans, but said the tank top was vile. It constantly amazes me that such a fashion conscious woman should know nothing about men wear. Granted it was tight, but ‘vile’? It’s such an ugly word. She could have just said it was snug and shows off my muscles and left it at that. Anyway she does take a size 12 so “blurgh.” Calculating half of £3.95 and £1.65 did tax me and the lady serving but we agreed on £3.25 and here I am kitted out for the summer that has never been. And come to think of it she threw away my bright yellow XXXL jersey with ‘Timberland’ across the front without telling me and won’t let me wear my ladies cream sailor top with ‘SORTED’ on the front. That woman knows nothing!

OD on TV OD.

Since when was the sole purpose of writing to flatter the writer in his own estimation? A few weeks ago Samleck Durkmire in the Guardian’s Guide ‘TV OD’ column acerbically deconstructed a program that acerbically deconstructed a group of people gathered together to comment acerbically on the general public. I picture a queue of people each chewing on the turds of the one in front. It seems few of the Guardian’s crew of unpaid interns have the flare of the columns creator. I’m only being obtuse because I’ve forgotten his name. There was always some point to his ballet of images constructed from razor blades. And this week Trevor Twink turned his dull gaze on some food program. It appears we love watching programs about things we ignore in real life. Cash in the Attic, what’s in yours? Cooking, mine’s a Tesco’s cottage pie. Moving house, what! That’s the most stessful thing you can do without actually dieing. So with TV budgets only achievable by unpaid celebs glad of the exposure, intern directors, a dog on camera and the public for the price of a release form we have programs that aren’t worthy of commenting on let alone watching. This is of course a good thing, but it doesn’t absolve Trevor Twink of his duty to entertain more than his personal pronoun. But such is my love for Charlie Brooker’s, there I remembered it, wonderful images I turn to his page like Pavlovs dog each week hoping they’ve found another quality writer. Not yet.