I hate it when the bottom of your trousers drag along the ground or catch under your foot especially in this mucky weather. I'm finding though that I have more drag from the left leg than the right. Originally I put it down to the weight of my wallet in my left pocket but maybe I've got one leg shorter than an other. A gimp in a built up shoe soon becomes a liability. Maybe it's just the way I waggle my hips when I walk.
I'm sitting right between size options nowadays. I'm not a 34 waist but a 32 means I'd have to hold my breath all day. A 34 leg feels a little long whereas a 32 leg kind of rides up when I sit down which means you see more sock than you would peering through a wankers window at midnight.
Ideally I'm a 33 x 33, so I could precisely fit my inside leg round my waist. Mmm, very tempting.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Farewell dear Beadle
Sad news that Jeremy Beadle has passed away aged just 59. I always thought he was a bit under-rated and is certainly better fare than any of the funsters we currently have fronting prank-style programmes (Hello I'm Steve Penk).
The abiding memory for me about Beadle was that when it came to the great reveal and he whipped off part of the disguise (invariably a police uniform) and produced the microphone he always kind of just stood there gurning whilst poor Joe Public let loose a string of expletives in his direction. He never introduced himself or anything, just pointed the microphone. Although most conversations were heavily bleeped I'm sure it was something like:
"You fucking cunt! You utter, utter bastard! Fuck off! Fuck you you beardy faced wanker........oh, sorry I thought you were Richard Branson. Ha ha, nice one Jeremy, you really got me there. Oh, wait til I tell the wife this one."
The abiding memory for me about Beadle was that when it came to the great reveal and he whipped off part of the disguise (invariably a police uniform) and produced the microphone he always kind of just stood there gurning whilst poor Joe Public let loose a string of expletives in his direction. He never introduced himself or anything, just pointed the microphone. Although most conversations were heavily bleeped I'm sure it was something like:
"You fucking cunt! You utter, utter bastard! Fuck off! Fuck you you beardy faced wanker........oh, sorry I thought you were Richard Branson. Ha ha, nice one Jeremy, you really got me there. Oh, wait til I tell the wife this one."
Tax doesn't have to be taxing
No, but it's allowed to nip your testes.
After turning up at the Inland Revenue to hand in my tax return I was directed to a post box in the wall to shove it in. An unmarked post box, completely unmarked. Fortunately there is a notice 50 yards away saying no receipt or acknowledgement will be given for returns handed in or posted.
How reassuring and considerate.
This is to encourage you to do it online but I'm always doing it online which is part of the reason why the barse on this suit is just about worn through.
After turning up at the Inland Revenue to hand in my tax return I was directed to a post box in the wall to shove it in. An unmarked post box, completely unmarked. Fortunately there is a notice 50 yards away saying no receipt or acknowledgement will be given for returns handed in or posted.
How reassuring and considerate.
This is to encourage you to do it online but I'm always doing it online which is part of the reason why the barse on this suit is just about worn through.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Rim Licker
How many people have drunk out of your Starbucks mug before you get it? I've taken to get a take out cup even if I'm sitting in. Ugh, lipstick rim. Boke, 'tache hair. Heave, bit of spinach.
You can save 25p at Starbucks if you bring in your own mug. As someone as anal as I am this would seem like a very attractive proposition but I'm torn as to how to keep my mug fresh on the way to work. Also, who determines if your mug is a tall, grande or venti. Is it one charge for all. Can you bring in a massive thermos?
Just some of the questions I won't be asking when I go to Starbies in a moment.
You can save 25p at Starbucks if you bring in your own mug. As someone as anal as I am this would seem like a very attractive proposition but I'm torn as to how to keep my mug fresh on the way to work. Also, who determines if your mug is a tall, grande or venti. Is it one charge for all. Can you bring in a massive thermos?
Just some of the questions I won't be asking when I go to Starbies in a moment.
Taxi for Gimplord
I really don't like getting into any kind of conversation with a taxi driver.
Shut up and drive as Rihanna would say. By the way, what a forehead that lass has. You could lay out a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle on it. That's a girl who really suits a fringe.
Anyway, yes, taxi driver conversations are uniformly dull and that's because they always set the agenda. You never get into a taxi and think, right today I'm going to talk to the driver about the Wesley Snipes tax trial, the upcoming rugby internationals, what DVD he last rented and if he's ever had an STD.
Nope, never happens. Instead you're asked about your work, weather, traffic, roadworks and if you know the best route to where you're going as he can't be arsed thinking about it.
Even worse are these microphones they have so that when the taxi stops these speakers activate and you can hear the driver talking more clearly. Unfortunately you can also hear them masticating and, as happened to me last week, you get a good belch in stereo sound.
I just close my eyes, pretend I'm asleep and start daydreaming as Rihanna tells me she's missing a bit of edge and could I get down on all fours and help her find it.
Park your arse
Starting to get a lot of buses again. I love watching people's behaviour on buses. Who they choose to sit next to or avoid, how they make themselves big so no-one will sit next to them, how everyone loses themselves in iPods and Metro's.
I had this guy with a man satchel sit next to me yesterday. I carry a sizeable Crumpler myself but this was some kind of effeminate leather and buckle thing. Anyway, he sat next to me which was annoying enough as I was trying to read and was sitting spreadeagled like a Blind Date contestant testing out a Thighmaster. I didn't give an inch though.
As soon as another 2 seater was available he was off like a shot. I take that as a personal insult. You've chosen to sit next to me and you'll fucking well sit there until I say otherwise. Am I that offensive that you have to move away at the earliest opportunity?
It's something I don't do myself. If I plant myself next to someone then that's me for the whole journey. Even if the bus empties of passengers. The whole top deck could be deserted except for me and the person I've sat next to. Quite unnverving for them.
In fact, the only thing more unnerving would be to go upstairs on the bus, see that there's only one person there and still go and sit next to them.
I recommend it if you want to be physically assaulted.
I had this guy with a man satchel sit next to me yesterday. I carry a sizeable Crumpler myself but this was some kind of effeminate leather and buckle thing. Anyway, he sat next to me which was annoying enough as I was trying to read and was sitting spreadeagled like a Blind Date contestant testing out a Thighmaster. I didn't give an inch though.
As soon as another 2 seater was available he was off like a shot. I take that as a personal insult. You've chosen to sit next to me and you'll fucking well sit there until I say otherwise. Am I that offensive that you have to move away at the earliest opportunity?
It's something I don't do myself. If I plant myself next to someone then that's me for the whole journey. Even if the bus empties of passengers. The whole top deck could be deserted except for me and the person I've sat next to. Quite unnverving for them.
In fact, the only thing more unnerving would be to go upstairs on the bus, see that there's only one person there and still go and sit next to them.
I recommend it if you want to be physically assaulted.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Weather
It's dark, dank, rainy and it's about to get very chilly.Time to get out the Damart thermals.
Mmm, figure hugging.
Storyville
Caught the tail end of Storyville the other night about the Jonestown Massacre in Guyana back in 1977. Amazing television. 909 people "committed suicide" on the instruction of Jim Jones. Kids were given cyanide first, then the women then the men. Until now I'd never realised the enormity of what went on.
909 people. Fucking hell.
Meanwhile over on MTV we had America's Most Clever Model or something like that. Utterly pointless television.
What a ying-yang night it was.
909 people. Fucking hell.
Meanwhile over on MTV we had America's Most Clever Model or something like that. Utterly pointless television.
What a ying-yang night it was.
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Do try this at home
Cheryl: What were you doing downstairs?
Larry: Eating a penis.
Curb Your Enthusiasm, Series 6, More 4, Monday nights.
Larry: Eating a penis.
Curb Your Enthusiasm, Series 6, More 4, Monday nights.
Coming late from the rear
Brokeback Mountain is repeated on Sky Movies tonight as a tribute to Heath Ledger. I've set the Sky+ but fuck knows when I'll get round to watching it as I've got about 10 other movies to get through. Reviews to follow on all of them as well. Whoop-de-doo you say as you'll all have watched them about a year ago but I'm catching up as I didn't get to the cinema much last year.
Just call me Film 2006/7.
Just call me Film 2006/7.
Gimplord reviews Hot Fuzz
It's better than Shaun of the Dead which was the most over-rated film EVER. I give it a 7.
Package for Gimplord
There's only one thing worse than being woken on a dark and stormy morning by the doorbell ringing and realising you have an erection and that's not realising you have an erection until you've opened the door to the postman.
Friday, 25 January 2008
Freak On A Leash
So there's this Goth that got chucked off a bus the other day because he had his fiancee on a collar and lead and the bus company said it would have been dangerous if the bus had to brake suddenly.Yeah, how long did it take them to come up with that one. I've seen old biddies knitting on the bus with potentially lethal needles and no-one stopped them.
We thought she might take a shit on the bus and they clearly didn't have a pooper scooper would have been more plausible.
The truth is they look a bit fucking freaky and the driver couldn't deal with it.
And he's right. A gimp goes on a collar and lead not your fucking wife-to-be.
Despicable.
Get a tan.
Know Your Limits
Couple of nights ago I was typing up a post about a book based on the Three Little Pigs being dropped from a government agency awards on the grounds that it could be deemed offensive to Muslims and builders.
Three times I tried to post it and three times I lost connection with Blogger. Clearly Gimplord was straying into territories that he shouldn't such as politics, race, class, religion and the powers that be thought,
"Gimplord, what the fuck is this? This is not what you're about. You're way out of your depth. You should be telling us about things like that really awkward button on the fly of your jeans instead. You know, the one that's so near the bottom of the fly that you have to put one hand in your trousers to help do it up from the inside and that if anyone caught you doing it they'd think you were having a jostle. Go on, tell us."
OK then.
I've got these jeans with a button fly and...............
Three times I tried to post it and three times I lost connection with Blogger. Clearly Gimplord was straying into territories that he shouldn't such as politics, race, class, religion and the powers that be thought,
"Gimplord, what the fuck is this? This is not what you're about. You're way out of your depth. You should be telling us about things like that really awkward button on the fly of your jeans instead. You know, the one that's so near the bottom of the fly that you have to put one hand in your trousers to help do it up from the inside and that if anyone caught you doing it they'd think you were having a jostle. Go on, tell us."
OK then.
I've got these jeans with a button fly and...............
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
Monday, 21 January 2008
Potty Mouth
A few years back Graham Norton signed a lucrative contract with the BBC, the kind ITV had already bestowed upon great thespians such as Ross Kemp and Robson Greene. Then it dawned on the Beeb that they didn't know what to do with Norton. His chat show shtick quickly became wearing and since then he's been plonked in front of us as the saviour of Saturday night TV. First off he presented "Can We Get A Ginger Maria" followed by "Joseph and The Amazing Gaping Anus".
They were bad enough in terms of quality but they got the ratings and more importantly, the phone votes. But nothing, fucking nothing, can compare to the utter cuntfest that is "The One And Only". Now, I'm no TV critic, but I know shit when I see it, smell it or stand in it.
Basically, they've scoured the country to find the best tribute singers the UK has to offer. Then in different heats we've had Battle of the Chers, Battle of the Kylies, Battle of the Sinatras. Selected by "superfans" the best of each of the artists are brought together every Saturday night to go through the usual routine of sing, vote, off you go. Last one standing. So far so bad.
What makes this programme so fucking bastard appalling though is that the tribute acts are so arse tearingly bad. At least in Stars in their Eyes they make a point of trying to make you look like a look a like. The stylists here don't give a fuck. Kylie looked like Samantha Fox, Lionel Richie is white and ginger with a 'fro bought from Partyland, Frank Sinatra looks like Reginald Perrin after a week trapped in a Greggs factory and Tom Jones had facial hair from the Groucho Marx school of boot polish and by the look on his face he was having his prostate checked by Frankenstein's monster wearing a lubed up boxing glove.
And they don't fucking well sound like them either.
It's so bad that they don't even bother with celebrity judges. Instead they wheel out voice coaches David and Carrie Grant. David and Carrie still live in the Fame Academy building as no one's had the heart to tell them that there won't be another series. They spend their days singing disco hits of the 70's to each other in between marathon bouts of tantric sex in front of the oversize Georgian windows.
Honestly, I'm not usually one to rant, but I breathed the same airspace as my TV whilst this programme was on so I feel I'm within my rights.
Graham, go and watch yourself in Father Ted then go and stand in front of the mirror.
They were bad enough in terms of quality but they got the ratings and more importantly, the phone votes. But nothing, fucking nothing, can compare to the utter cuntfest that is "The One And Only". Now, I'm no TV critic, but I know shit when I see it, smell it or stand in it.
Basically, they've scoured the country to find the best tribute singers the UK has to offer. Then in different heats we've had Battle of the Chers, Battle of the Kylies, Battle of the Sinatras. Selected by "superfans" the best of each of the artists are brought together every Saturday night to go through the usual routine of sing, vote, off you go. Last one standing. So far so bad.
What makes this programme so fucking bastard appalling though is that the tribute acts are so arse tearingly bad. At least in Stars in their Eyes they make a point of trying to make you look like a look a like. The stylists here don't give a fuck. Kylie looked like Samantha Fox, Lionel Richie is white and ginger with a 'fro bought from Partyland, Frank Sinatra looks like Reginald Perrin after a week trapped in a Greggs factory and Tom Jones had facial hair from the Groucho Marx school of boot polish and by the look on his face he was having his prostate checked by Frankenstein's monster wearing a lubed up boxing glove.
And they don't fucking well sound like them either.
It's so bad that they don't even bother with celebrity judges. Instead they wheel out voice coaches David and Carrie Grant. David and Carrie still live in the Fame Academy building as no one's had the heart to tell them that there won't be another series. They spend their days singing disco hits of the 70's to each other in between marathon bouts of tantric sex in front of the oversize Georgian windows.
Honestly, I'm not usually one to rant, but I breathed the same airspace as my TV whilst this programme was on so I feel I'm within my rights.
Graham, go and watch yourself in Father Ted then go and stand in front of the mirror.
Sketchy
Been real busy with work recently. Hopefully get some more free time later in the week which will give me a chance to post some new sketches on the blog.
Talking of sketches, I love the music on the new Etch-a-Sketch ad for Minis. It's called Tiny Sticks from the album South Bronx Story by ESG. It's from 2000 you know but like everything else you can buy it from Amazon. You can listen to it here.
Talking of sketches, I love the music on the new Etch-a-Sketch ad for Minis. It's called Tiny Sticks from the album South Bronx Story by ESG. It's from 2000 you know but like everything else you can buy it from Amazon. You can listen to it here.
Steakbake To Heaven
Saturday was a day of exotic adventures, of new tastes and sensations, of pastry and posturing.
At lunchtime I sampled a Greggs Steak Bake for the first time. We sat in a room together and had a blinking contest, the winner getting to eat the loser. I'm sure the Steak Bake blinked after half an hour or so, or maybe it swished it's tail. Either way I chowed down on the fucker to only moderate satisfaction. I wouldn't go back.
At evening time I bought my first Led Zeppelin CD. I used to have Remasters on double cassette back in the 90s but I don't think I ever listened to it. Although I'm too young to remember The Pelin (as they're known) when they were making records I think you must have to hit a certain age or understanding to finally appreciate their music. It's been a while since I threw some shapes like I did last night. With the lights on and the curtains open of course.
Sheer poetry in motion.
At lunchtime I sampled a Greggs Steak Bake for the first time. We sat in a room together and had a blinking contest, the winner getting to eat the loser. I'm sure the Steak Bake blinked after half an hour or so, or maybe it swished it's tail. Either way I chowed down on the fucker to only moderate satisfaction. I wouldn't go back.
At evening time I bought my first Led Zeppelin CD. I used to have Remasters on double cassette back in the 90s but I don't think I ever listened to it. Although I'm too young to remember The Pelin (as they're known) when they were making records I think you must have to hit a certain age or understanding to finally appreciate their music. It's been a while since I threw some shapes like I did last night. With the lights on and the curtains open of course.
Sheer poetry in motion.
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