She said 'Yes'

I'm getting chuffin' married! Through a slightly foggy haze of the previous nights' revelries with Sophie & Simon, I asked Beth on Christmas morning to marry me, and she said yes. Actually she cried and asked me if I was serious (I think she'd kind of given up hope a bit) and then said yes and made me a very happy man. Unfortunately the ring was a few sizes too big 'cos the bloke in the jewellers planted the seed of doubt in my head when I told him that Beth's size is a tiny 'I'.
So now the easy part is over we’re now facing the prospect of months of magazine scanning, begging favours off friends and trawling t’internet for venues. Bring it on!

Dear God...

These are priceless. I do hope they're genuine.

At last.

I could never quite believe it when David Attenborough wasn't amongst the top ten of the 'Greatest Britons' poll of 2002 (mind you, Alfred Hitchcock wasn't even ranked) but now, thanks in some part I should imagine to the BBC's frankly awe-inspiring 'Planet Earth' series, Sir David Attenborough has been voted Britain's Greatest Living Icon. I can't think of anyone more deserving frankly. This is a man who has been on our screens for, what might as well be, ever. He's been an integral part of the BBC as both a presenter and as controller of BBC2 and director of programming for BBC Television in the 1960s and 1970s.
One of the true pioneers of the nature documentary he's given all of us in this country a reason to watch television (intelligent television, not x-listed celeb, trash television) and has introduced generation after generation to the wonders and fragility of the natural world. His infectious enthusiasm is matched only by his respect for all life on this Earth. Nice one David.

Wow that's drunk.

This my fine bloggy friends, has to be THE story of the year.



Last night Kevin Craswell from Surrey had a few drinks, like so many of us do after work, and then he settled down for a nice peaceful sleep. Aaaaahh. As he drifted off, into the arms of Morpheus, as his waking thoughts receded and the blissfull dreams of a peacefull slumber overtook him a train passed inches from his head. You see Kevin had decided that his bed for the night wasn't to be situated in his bedroom or even a vacant park bench, oh no. That would've been way too easy for our Kevin. No, Kevin is an adventurous man, a spontaneous man, a hard-ball playing, dog-whipping, 'take me as you find me kind of a man' and he wanted to sleep on a railway track.
Apparently, according to the policeman guy, his foot was about, well - a foot, from the live rail (which carries approximately 750,000 volts) and he was using one of the rails as a pillow. Bless. How drunk must he have been! A passing train didn't wake him and nor did the Police helicopter. Now that's drunk.

Yey!

I'm back in business. The FT block seems to have gone so blogging will resume imminently.

No posts

The FT, where I work (if you can call it 'work'), has started blocking access to Blogger so, unless I can work out a way around it, I won't be able to post whilst I'm sitting at my desk, idly twiddling my thumbs and waiting for an image request to come in. Oh well, guess I'll have to do it in my own time then.

Mr. Gordon

Can't think of anything to blog about today so I'll just make do with copying out this bit from a very famous and very cool film. First one to e-mail me with the title of the film wins... er... respect. I'll give you a clue: he's just a man, with a man's courage...

                  
M: Klytus, l'm bored. What plaything can you offer me today?

K: An obscure body in the SK system. The inhabitants call it Earth.

M: How peaceful it looks.

EARTHQUAKE

K: Most effective, Your Majesty. Will you destroy this Earth?

M: Later. l like to play with things ... before annihilation.

HOT HAlL

P: Green Mountain Airways requesting instructions.

CP: l hope Flash Gordon's had a great vacation after last season.

FG: Any problem, fellas?

P: Just turbulence. Nothing serious. Nothing you'd want to toss a third-down pass through either.

CP: Would you like to autograph this for my kid, Mr. Gordon?

P: Call Boston approach. lt may be smoother higher up.

DA: Do us a favor and leave them alone. They're busy driving the bus.

FG: lt's just a little turbulence. My name's Flash.

DA: l know.

On a lighter note...

Spy bees!


Look at 'em, all regimented in their little plastic tubes. Apparently these little fellas have been trained to wave their proboscis around when they smell explosives or other dodgy chemicals. Now I'm all for technological and scientific advances but this one has me baffled. Sniffer dogs I get, they have extraordinary olfactory senses and 'enjoy' what they do. They are also pretty commonplace and it wouldn't freak anyone out to see a dog in, say, an airport. But bees? Surely people will run away from them when they come swarming towards you waving their proboscis (what's the plural of that I wonder?) around. How will the authorities know who's got the bomb and who's just allergic?
(I'm being foolish of course. This is a great discovery by science. Possibly.)

Anyhow, on to the second of todays madcap stories. This one's from good old Auntie Beeb and it's about couples who can now have a section of their wisdom tooth removed and have a wedding ring 'grown' from it. Now that's science! But hang on... what if the bone starts to grow 'into' your finger like some awful, low-budget horror film like my mate Steve said? Or what if your skin gets confused and thinks, "Wait a mo, there's bone there, and it's outside me. Better cover it up quick."
Apparently there's an exhibish in the atrium of Guy's Hospital which is just down the road from where I work so I'll go check it out and report back tomorrow. Sounds cool though. Here's a piccie.

Infantryman

I'm one of the lucky people who has to commute into work and I've recently taken to using this 'extra time' to work my way through the non-time-sensitive bits of the Saturday paper. All those extra supplements and 'special reports' are a fine distraction from the ringing mobile telephones and quiet snores of my fellow passengers.
This morning however, my quiet contemplation was broken by a piece from Saturday's Guardian Weekend Magazine where letters and e-mails home from troops serving in Iraq had been published. I'm going to deliberately avoid talking about the War and I presence in Iraq because it's a huge argument and one that will rage for a long time to come. Suffice to say that my opinion on it is the same as some and different from others.
I'm recounting this because one particular letter made me cry. Seriously, it made me cry. I had to stare out of the window at grotty old London for ten minutes while I regained my composure (luckily the 09:34 to London Bridge is never busy). I rarely cry over things that others would deem to be 'sad' (something I mentioned here in my 'incontrovertible truths' piece) but this simple letter home from an infantryman to his wife and children got to me.

Summer 2006: an injured soldier dictates a note to his wife, knowing he is not going to survive.
To my most beautiful *******
I am sorry to say that I must break my promise and not come back to you. Jaz is writing this for me and he will hand it to you in person. We have only been married such a short time compared to most and I know you and the kids will miss me but please remember what I said about death. I will always be there with you, always looking after you and smiling at you always.
Tell the kids to look after you and each other and to be brave and that daddy loves them so very much and a HUGE kiss for them both.
To you my sweet lady I thank you for each moment we had together, the laughter we had and the love we have always shared. Remember me but don't mourn me, celebrate what we had. Got to go, I'll be in the mountains where I belong.
Your man Billy

Yum

I've just had a Scotch-egg. I really like Scotch-eggs, though they do make me a little windy.