Navsatsnthat

Well you know those Sat Navs i was telling you about yesterday, the ones where Michael Caine's voice has been skinned to give directions, well, i think you can only get them in the UK. They cost about 300 pounds, sorry, pound, and instead of Sylvania, you could end up in Cricklewood or Streatham.

Why is it that people, sorry, persons, everywhere, in Erinsborough, at the bureau, in the cafe, and no doubt, right now, in some ridiculously overpriced share accom. hse an HM, who claims to have a good sense of humour and love comedy - yes, Brian the autodidact, ask/say

"Do you want a tea?"

Excuse me, nsrs

"No, I don't want a fucking tea, Brian but I would love a cup of tea, a cuppa, perhaps even a pot of tea or a potta, if you don't mind. Ta muchly and thanking you!"

Lord love a duck because he's never going to love Brian.

Curiously a tea is more palatable if it's profferred with a nice sandwich.

Have a good one (god knows what but please let it be good )

Yours

Snooter Pooter

Did you know

That you can purchase a satellite navigation thingy , sorry, Sat Nav, with Michael Caine’s voice providing the directions. Well you do now, so do yourself a favour.

Michael Caine is a big fan of Chill music and last year impressed Elton John with his knowledge of the genre. If you want to know more information like that and about his 2006 cruise on the Amalfi Coast, go here

Puff of smoke

Skeeter, Andrew Harwood and now Smoky Dawson.

So many of one's babysitting buddies from the formative years of telly viewing are departing this life.

Farewell and thank you stars of that black and white television set, against whose corners i twice cracked open my forehead, and from which I watched some glorious shows and saw man walk on the moon - although I couldn't understand the fuss, thought anyone with a rocketship could go there, and so began a lifelong difficulty distinguishing fiction from reality - yours Jeremy Irons as Charles Ryder.

The silver white dot that appeared on the screen's centre after the television was turned off was troubling.

The other evening i was at the hairdresser and sat opposite the actor who, many moons ago, played Alvin Purple. I was tickled.

On my way home i thought about Alvin Purple, Alvin Rides Again and then Son of Alvin Purple, which starred Gerry Sont. As the taxi turned from Victoria Road into the Crescent, i caught a glimpse of Glebe Island Bridge and thoughtfully stroked my chin while puzzling over the fate of Gerry Sont. Mercifully the taxi driver turned on PM, temporarily ending those vapid thought waves.

However, they readily returned tonight (as they do every night, on a fine Arab charger, no less) for while I was watching telly I was delighted to see Gerry Sont promoting a retirement fund.

Puzzle solved.

Rrrresult.

Cockadoodledoo.

What's the smudge tell me what'sahappenin'

Hey, all day i've passed people scuttling about with dusty grey smudges on the centre of their foreheads.

At first i was puzzled and thought it was perhaps an attempt at homepathically curing a cold but why would you look so smug, then i realised:

Ash Wednesday

Isn't that marking meant to be in the shape of a cross? What's with all the good padri being afflicted with the lazy digit?

Worse I realised that i'd missed fricking Shrove Tuesday - pancake Tuesday.

At the second state primary school i attended we used to sing this song:

Pancakes Lissela , Pancakes Lissela,
now's the time to fry'em
for today is Tuesday
and ....

I cannot remember the rest. Teacher's father was the minister of the church down the road. Teach used to make us sing The Lord of the dance too. We sang "they whipped and they stripped and they hung him high" with great fervour.

So much for 1901*and whatnot.

Anyway I guess it's 40 days until Easter and I'm not Lending a thing.

OH Easter is my favourite Christian festival. I just love it. Why? Because it's a great story: the cross bunny fighting three times with that mendacious rooster, running away to sulk behind a rock but fortunately laying a trail of chocolate eggs so Judy and the search party of soldiers managed to find him.

I just love that Easter break and the opportunity to have my annual Passiona film festival featuring the works of Zeffarelli, Rice & Lloyd Webber and Scorsese. It's superdooper Friday-Monday.

*4 years before France separated Church and State. The separation of pollie and supermodel edict is imminent there. It was decreed in Australia in the early 70's following Billy, Sonia and theslit-up-thigh gown going to Washington.

Hey Moana*

Some say carpe diem while others carp and demean.

(Now that would be a top little quote for the 2009 Women's Wit calendar – I’d like the quote in Times New Roman 12 pt but Mistress Bel written in hot pink 16 pt Monotype Corsiva or Lucida Calligraphy, probably the latter as it is nice and subtle.) It also has the potential to be an up little ditty to be sung by Racey, yours B. Bacharach.

While the mistress can be the cow with the crumpled horn, she generally restricts her whinging and funk attacks to herself, the select few sounding boards called friends, or cyberspace. Very noble and discreet.

One's railing and wailing sessions are generally short. The mistress having the maturity of a five year old can be easily cajoled into a good mood with a few soothing enquiries about herself, a pat on the head , and a dark blue cellophane bag of mixed sweets works a treat.

However, I am never the whinging raaag in the workplace, or on the mobe on the bus for that matter. That is just too disgraceful. Particularly when the whinging is expressed with a bubble gum accent meets Gilmore Girl banter. UGH. I mean to say, I didn’t go through the Blitz to suffer that. Indeed I did NOT.

Lady Grump, Lady Grump, it’s not alright, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.


*Bo Diddley or Craig Mclachlan song - it's always your choice on NSR

Lady Grump

From the bus window I espied a red 1989 Ford Laser with the number plate FUN 180. Its driver was a twonnysomething blonde, sporting a black shirt with Fitness First embroidered in blue above her pert right brrreast.

Driver was scowling into space puffing on a fag.