Beer, Chips, and Chocolate
Of course we're a fat nation. My home town of Dumpstable was decimated as successive council geniuses pulled it apart in order to make the roads wider for cars. Almost none of the original buildings of the "historic market town" remain.
Just the other day, one of the genius organisers of the local (not Dumpstable, but where I'm living now) carnival was insisting that pedestrians, including those with pushchairs, should struggle along at the side of the path in the park, over the grass, sure, but also over the tree roots etc., so that important motorists could drive their cars into the park, closer to the event. God forbid they should have to walk any distance.
And the thing about the big park where we live, it is enormo, and you can basically get into it from 3 or 4 locations all around it, from one end of the town to the other: so most people didn't really need to drive at all.
Alternatively, since the carnival consisted of two beer tents and a brass band, put a tent up in the garden, get some beer from the fridge, and fart.
In other health-related news, I hate to criticise ER, because it has consistently been one of the must-see programmes of the past few years, with a strong cast that could stand losing a few big egos -- not to mention my stunningly beautiful secret girlfriend Maura Tierney.
But whereas the BBC's Casualty was twee and ridiculous with its little family dramas involving overturned cars and people falling downstairs or off ladders, ER has always used its main cast of doctors and nurses to generate its dramas, with the occasional button-pushing of children in peril.
But you can no longer suspend disbelief when yet another tragedy befalls John Carter. People joke about EastEnders, and how nobody can ever be happily married, or indeed, happy, for long, but in ER you can not only not be happily married, but you're not allowed to have healthy children - not keep them at least, and certainly not stay married or alive and have them.
So with the hapless Mark Green (stabbed, mugged, divorced, delinquent daughter, fucked up, dies of cancer) out of the way, and Romano (fucked up and lonely, arm lost to helicopter, killed by another helicopter) out of the way, and Weaver (fucked up and lonely until she finds lesbian love... but then lover killed in line of duty and their child snatched by intolerant grandparents) still reeling from the loss of her baby, it falls to Carter (rich and fucked up, stabbed, or shot was it, drug addicted etc) to have a still-born child and all the suffering that entails.
Enough already! At least Abby Lockhart (fucked up by bipolar mother and brother, alcoholic, poor, and lonely) got to graduate... or did she?
Just the other day, one of the genius organisers of the local (not Dumpstable, but where I'm living now) carnival was insisting that pedestrians, including those with pushchairs, should struggle along at the side of the path in the park, over the grass, sure, but also over the tree roots etc., so that important motorists could drive their cars into the park, closer to the event. God forbid they should have to walk any distance.
And the thing about the big park where we live, it is enormo, and you can basically get into it from 3 or 4 locations all around it, from one end of the town to the other: so most people didn't really need to drive at all.
Alternatively, since the carnival consisted of two beer tents and a brass band, put a tent up in the garden, get some beer from the fridge, and fart.
In other health-related news, I hate to criticise ER, because it has consistently been one of the must-see programmes of the past few years, with a strong cast that could stand losing a few big egos -- not to mention my stunningly beautiful secret girlfriend Maura Tierney.
But whereas the BBC's Casualty was twee and ridiculous with its little family dramas involving overturned cars and people falling downstairs or off ladders, ER has always used its main cast of doctors and nurses to generate its dramas, with the occasional button-pushing of children in peril.
But you can no longer suspend disbelief when yet another tragedy befalls John Carter. People joke about EastEnders, and how nobody can ever be happily married, or indeed, happy, for long, but in ER you can not only not be happily married, but you're not allowed to have healthy children - not keep them at least, and certainly not stay married or alive and have them.
So with the hapless Mark Green (stabbed, mugged, divorced, delinquent daughter, fucked up, dies of cancer) out of the way, and Romano (fucked up and lonely, arm lost to helicopter, killed by another helicopter) out of the way, and Weaver (fucked up and lonely until she finds lesbian love... but then lover killed in line of duty and their child snatched by intolerant grandparents) still reeling from the loss of her baby, it falls to Carter (rich and fucked up, stabbed, or shot was it, drug addicted etc) to have a still-born child and all the suffering that entails.
Enough already! At least Abby Lockhart (fucked up by bipolar mother and brother, alcoholic, poor, and lonely) got to graduate... or did she?
posted by Anonymous at
Thursday, May 27, 2004
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home