Gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
English sport has been in a glorious state of disarray over the past week. Not only have the national football team been exposed as a hapless, gurning bunch of show ponies who can't even do the job they're supposed to, but last night, the England rugby team (a collection of Easter Island statues, except with even less brains) were turned over by South Africa in the World Cup final! All we need now is for that smirking little tosser Lewis Hamilton to rupture one of his axles today, and the banquet of schadenfreude will be complete. I like how this whole Formula One saga has been reworked as some sort of medieval French romance, with Hamilton as the pure-bred youthful knight and Fernando Alonso as the swarthy Spaniard who forces his way into young maidens' bedrooms without permission and leaves greasy marks all over the curtains. The Englishman always wins through noble causes, the foreigner is always a cheat.
(Latest: he's currently about 212th, so it's all going well).
The university work's going to be stacking up in a few weeks. Two essays plus a quarter of the dissertation due by Christmas. Work on the latter has stalled in the last few weeks, but it's just about juddering into life again, as plans for a fragmentary epic on Victorian London take hold. Current plans are to take my cue from Walter Benjamin, and just do the whole thing as a series of quotes. Meditations on the urban unconsciousness. I need to practise drifting around certain places in a bid to discover the impulses at work and the exact nature of all your incestuous sexual energies. I'll be coming soon to a city near you.
Apparently they've brought back Wispas, but I haven't seen one yet. I might have to seek out my local dealer and ask for 49 grams of 'brown'. Then I'll crush it up and smoke it. Wispa cigarettes, that would be a marvellous idea. There's also a new Shakeaway opened in town. For the uneducated, this in an establishment that makes milkshakes out of almost any kind of confectionery available - you just choose what you want and they mix it up for you with a bit of milk and ice cream. It's a mug's game really, especially as they charge about three quid a pop and you could do it yourself at home for less. But one reason for capitalism's growth is that it has offered novelties that cater to the whims of the consumer. So why break free of the bonds of history?
Autumn has brought its usual mist and mellow fruitfulness. Wisps of smoke from dying bonfires hang in the air, squirrels store up nuts for winter, old people have to check they're not being poisoned by their gas main and it's dark by half 6. There's a tincture of winter in the air, and in that typically British way it's very gloomy but also very cosy. Makes me want to bake some oranges in the oven and do my Christmas shopping, which, thanks to the reduced rent that Emma's parents charge me, I should actually be able to do this year. Instead of making everyone corn dollies.
Oh yeah, and Dumbledore's gay. Sodomiarmus!
(Latest: he's currently about 212th, so it's all going well).
The university work's going to be stacking up in a few weeks. Two essays plus a quarter of the dissertation due by Christmas. Work on the latter has stalled in the last few weeks, but it's just about juddering into life again, as plans for a fragmentary epic on Victorian London take hold. Current plans are to take my cue from Walter Benjamin, and just do the whole thing as a series of quotes. Meditations on the urban unconsciousness. I need to practise drifting around certain places in a bid to discover the impulses at work and the exact nature of all your incestuous sexual energies. I'll be coming soon to a city near you.
Apparently they've brought back Wispas, but I haven't seen one yet. I might have to seek out my local dealer and ask for 49 grams of 'brown'. Then I'll crush it up and smoke it. Wispa cigarettes, that would be a marvellous idea. There's also a new Shakeaway opened in town. For the uneducated, this in an establishment that makes milkshakes out of almost any kind of confectionery available - you just choose what you want and they mix it up for you with a bit of milk and ice cream. It's a mug's game really, especially as they charge about three quid a pop and you could do it yourself at home for less. But one reason for capitalism's growth is that it has offered novelties that cater to the whims of the consumer. So why break free of the bonds of history?
Autumn has brought its usual mist and mellow fruitfulness. Wisps of smoke from dying bonfires hang in the air, squirrels store up nuts for winter, old people have to check they're not being poisoned by their gas main and it's dark by half 6. There's a tincture of winter in the air, and in that typically British way it's very gloomy but also very cosy. Makes me want to bake some oranges in the oven and do my Christmas shopping, which, thanks to the reduced rent that Emma's parents charge me, I should actually be able to do this year. Instead of making everyone corn dollies.
Oh yeah, and Dumbledore's gay. Sodomiarmus!