......as Noddy Holder once sang. Now that I know I’ll (probably) soon be officially unemployed, I have to make alternative plans for my future. And here they are:
Gigolo: My ability to find all sorts of women attractive might have served me reasonably well in this job in the past, but now I’m “of a certain age” myself I’d probably remind them of their ex-husbands.
Model: I’m essentially dressed by my wife, and using stuff she’s found cruising the town’s second-hand shops, so more Jarvis Cocker than Nick Cayman then.
Rent Boy: My mum once asked my what I’d done at school that day and I said “Careers advice”; she was shocked, she thought I’d said “Queers advice”. No.
Stick Breaker: I quite fancied this as a vocation but it was another confusion at skool careers advice class – what he said actually was “Stock Broker”.
Horticulturalist: OK, onto the serious ones now. My standing as The Man Who Introduced the Broad Bean to Romania puts me on a par with Diego Alvarez Chanca (chillies), Ogier Ghiselin de Busbecq (tulips) and Sir Walter Raleigh (spuds and fags); and ditto with heirloom tomatoes - the tasty 40+ Kg I got off my few plants I put down to buffalo manure and talking to them in the King’s Bloody English instead of the nonsense the locals use.
Teacher: “Ha, that’s a laugh!” will be what everyone who actually knows me is thinking. But I’ve realised during my current job that I’ve been more concerned for the career advancement of my bright young protégé than I have been for my own – which was maybe noticed and what did for my chances there. Also, I’m in a foul mood, and relish the feel of a well-sprung cane in my hand, it’s still legal here and, as they say, “If you can’t beat them…. where’s the fun in teaching?!”
Social Worker: Mrs Dilo is a trustee of a half-way house for orphans here and we know many lads who’ve been through this institution – and a very fine one it is too, teaching them cookery skills, tact, and suchlike – who turn up at our door hoping for a square meal and a bath etc. I flatter myself that I get on quite well with them, and have the advantage that I like some stuff which may appeal to them which their guardians wouldn’t touch, e.g. music and dancing (many are Romany). I wouldn’t be paid.
Please vote for which job I should do! (No voting twice, now, and no bussing in people from other places to vote, and dead people are not eligible, how many times do you have to be told this........)
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
President John
Hi folks, the saucy mood has now well and truly left me, the reason being that around the corner on November 22nd we have The Romanian Presidential Elections, which are not sexy at all. However, despite that, and on account of the recent Berlusconi revelations, I’ve decided to take a prostitute’s-eye view of this event and hereby present my analysis of the seven most high profile candidates based on how they’d be as Sex Industry clients.
Traian Băsescu PDL (centre-right): The incumbent president. They tried to impeach him on corruption charges, but failed, and many Romanians believe their motive was that he was trying to stop their corruption, so he’s a fair chance of being re-elected. A “bluff” and “blustering” former sea captain who regularly pisses off all other politicians, so he might taste a bit rank, and having had a girl in every port he probably fancies himself in the sack, but is the charm now wearing a bit thin? Salty. Recent poll prediction 31%. Trick Rating 8/10.
Mircea Geoană PSD (socialists - and former communists - though culturally conservative): A career diplomat and former ambassador to USA, but Mrs Dilo says he’s as thick as two planks and Cluj students have gouged out the eyes on all his posters here. Would want it straight like he used to do it with his wife before she couldn’t be bothered any more, so you might have to tell him “no kissing”, but he’d be the only one not to think to take his wallet with him when he needed the bathroom. Dopey. Recent poll prediction 32%. Trick Rating 6.5/10.
Crin Antonescu PNL (economic liberalists): A PNL man got Cluj it's famous new Nokia factory, but how much economic liberalism can a country like Romania take?? Antonescu's a former Minister for Sport, but his forename means “Lily” and he has the blank, light-blue eyes of a man not entirely comfortable with his own masculinity. Would make straight for your wardrobe, then ask to be spanked with your hairbrush. A drag, but with the best blackmail opportunities, so keep your camera handy. Kinky. Recent poll prediction 18%. Trick Rating 7/10.
Hunor Kelemen UDMR (Democratic Union of Hungarians in Romania): I guess all ethnic Hungarians (6.6% of the population) will vote for him but, barring an otherwise poor turnout, this won’t be enough. Seems decent and probably with acceptable person hygiene – though you might catch a dose of Magyar Moustache rash - but would pull out half-way through the job for no apparent reason and start lecturing you about the iniquities of the 1920 Treaty of Trianon like it was your fault. Haughty. Recent poll prediction 6%. Trick Rating 7.5/10.
Sorin Oprescu (Independent): The current mayor of Bucharest – which is also the path that Băsescu took to the presidency. Looks like John Inman’s miserable old git of an older brother, and mean with it too, so would probably just want to watch and then grouse about the price afterwards. But he’s also a qualified medical doctor, so you could ask his advice about any STDs you’d picked up from the others. Stingy. Recent poll prediction 5%. Trick Rating 6/10.
Vadim Tudor Greater Romania Party (ultra-nationalist): Standard tosser along the lines of Nick Griffin, Jean Marie le Pen, etc. with irredentist policies toward Moldova, Transnistria, Northern Bukovina and probably also the parts of Spain and several British nursing homes where Romanians are now a large proportion of the population. Would want to drape you in the Romania flag and eat sarmale off your naked breasts. Flakey. Recent poll prediction 6%. Trick Rating 1/10.
Gigi Becali: (Self-Serving Bigotted Criminal Gobshite Party): MEP, owner (kinda) of Steaua Bucharest football club and the most corrupt man in Romania (recently sent goons to bribe Cluj players in a match vital to Steaua’s Champions League chances, but somehow got away with it, again). Would drink a bottle of Iancu, call you “a dirty whore”, then chuck a wad of readies on the bed (all of which except the visible one being no longer legal tender). Oh, and he's got a centre-parting. Nasty. Recent poll prediction n/a. Trick Rating 0/10.
(NB: Andy of Csíkszereda musings can probably give you much more accurate and responsible punditry about all this.) We heard one of them - Geoană or Antonescu - spouting off on the radio recently and he was definitely of the Ruth Badger school of self-belief and historical inevitability, which gave me a great idea for my own personally approved candidate: yes, after coming second in the second series of The Apprentice (UK) – where Sir Alan ultimately chose, well, anybody except Ruth Badger - it’s Badger or Bust.... it’s Our Ruthie for President of Romania!
Traian Băsescu PDL (centre-right): The incumbent president. They tried to impeach him on corruption charges, but failed, and many Romanians believe their motive was that he was trying to stop their corruption, so he’s a fair chance of being re-elected. A “bluff” and “blustering” former sea captain who regularly pisses off all other politicians, so he might taste a bit rank, and having had a girl in every port he probably fancies himself in the sack, but is the charm now wearing a bit thin? Salty. Recent poll prediction 31%. Trick Rating 8/10.
Mircea Geoană PSD (socialists - and former communists - though culturally conservative): A career diplomat and former ambassador to USA, but Mrs Dilo says he’s as thick as two planks and Cluj students have gouged out the eyes on all his posters here. Would want it straight like he used to do it with his wife before she couldn’t be bothered any more, so you might have to tell him “no kissing”, but he’d be the only one not to think to take his wallet with him when he needed the bathroom. Dopey. Recent poll prediction 32%. Trick Rating 6.5/10.
Crin Antonescu PNL (economic liberalists): A PNL man got Cluj it's famous new Nokia factory, but how much economic liberalism can a country like Romania take?? Antonescu's a former Minister for Sport, but his forename means “Lily” and he has the blank, light-blue eyes of a man not entirely comfortable with his own masculinity. Would make straight for your wardrobe, then ask to be spanked with your hairbrush. A drag, but with the best blackmail opportunities, so keep your camera handy. Kinky. Recent poll prediction 18%. Trick Rating 7/10.
Hunor Kelemen UDMR (Democratic Union of Hungarians in Romania): I guess all ethnic Hungarians (6.6% of the population) will vote for him but, barring an otherwise poor turnout, this won’t be enough. Seems decent and probably with acceptable person hygiene – though you might catch a dose of Magyar Moustache rash - but would pull out half-way through the job for no apparent reason and start lecturing you about the iniquities of the 1920 Treaty of Trianon like it was your fault. Haughty. Recent poll prediction 6%. Trick Rating 7.5/10.
Sorin Oprescu (Independent): The current mayor of Bucharest – which is also the path that Băsescu took to the presidency. Looks like John Inman’s miserable old git of an older brother, and mean with it too, so would probably just want to watch and then grouse about the price afterwards. But he’s also a qualified medical doctor, so you could ask his advice about any STDs you’d picked up from the others. Stingy. Recent poll prediction 5%. Trick Rating 6/10.
Vadim Tudor Greater Romania Party (ultra-nationalist): Standard tosser along the lines of Nick Griffin, Jean Marie le Pen, etc. with irredentist policies toward Moldova, Transnistria, Northern Bukovina and probably also the parts of Spain and several British nursing homes where Romanians are now a large proportion of the population. Would want to drape you in the Romania flag and eat sarmale off your naked breasts. Flakey. Recent poll prediction 6%. Trick Rating 1/10.
Gigi Becali: (Self-Serving Bigotted Criminal Gobshite Party): MEP, owner (kinda) of Steaua Bucharest football club and the most corrupt man in Romania (recently sent goons to bribe Cluj players in a match vital to Steaua’s Champions League chances, but somehow got away with it, again). Would drink a bottle of Iancu, call you “a dirty whore”, then chuck a wad of readies on the bed (all of which except the visible one being no longer legal tender). Oh, and he's got a centre-parting. Nasty. Recent poll prediction n/a. Trick Rating 0/10.(NB: Andy of Csíkszereda musings can probably give you much more accurate and responsible punditry about all this.) We heard one of them - Geoană or Antonescu - spouting off on the radio recently and he was definitely of the Ruth Badger school of self-belief and historical inevitability, which gave me a great idea for my own personally approved candidate: yes, after coming second in the second series of The Apprentice (UK) – where Sir Alan ultimately chose, well, anybody except Ruth Badger - it’s Badger or Bust.... it’s Our Ruthie for President of Romania!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Gadjo Dilo’s Peccadillos #5: Neighbours
In the previous episode the charms of the housewife were discussed, and I suppose if you don’t have a housewife yourself then somebody else’s housewife is the next best thing. But, ah, the charm of The Neighbour goes far, far beyond that:
#1 Miss Balcony Nudist: When we lived in a block of flats we could shout to neighbours across the street, though we rarely did, contenting ourselves with “Ooo, look, No. 14E has become a right fat bastard since he got married”, etc.; but there was a young woman who I twice saw come naked onto her balcony to water her plants. Nothing more. Nothing more was required. They were perfect, golden moments that needed no further complication or adornment.
#2 Mrs Next Door: On one side we have the dishevelled geezer and his dachshunds, and on t’other we have a Hungarian lady and her husband. In my experience Hungarian women fall into three categories: A) Hard-faced bitches harbouring oceans of negativity and delusions of racial superiority, B) Modern girls with candid smiles suggesting an almost Scandinavian “availability”, or C) Nice, civilised women with admirable dress sense. Despite a surprising colourful vocabulary (says Mrs Dilo) for a demure middle-aged lady, #2 is a C (but with perhaps just a hint of B).
#3 Her Upstairs: When I lived in Tottenham the woman in the flat upstairs was a large West Indian lady with whom I got on well. But one abiding memory of my seven years there is of hearing her noisily going to toilet above me. Luckily I’m not squeamish about that sort of thing - and neither did it float my boat, before you ask, cheeky - but it shows that in some respects one knows one’s neighbour more intimately than does even her boyfriend or her proctologist.
#4 Washing Line Lady: The Archetypal Fanciable Neighbour – for is there anything more suggestive than washing?? Wet washing, fresh-smelling, limp and moist to the touch; or dry washing, smooth, crisp and new, an artist’s virgin canvass awaiting the imprint of a breast or a buttock to which to enspouse and to cleave.
#5 Kylie Minogue: Owing to my lack of interest in TV soap operas I only ever saw Kylie on Top Of The Pops, possibly. Call me old fashioned but I got the feeling that if you went round her house to borrow a cup of sugar or a couple AA batteries she’d lend you them, and with a smile that suggested “that’s when good neighbours become good friends”.
To end, of course, and because I'm feeling in a raunchy mood, another chance to covet that Neighbours' ass:
#1 Miss Balcony Nudist: When we lived in a block of flats we could shout to neighbours across the street, though we rarely did, contenting ourselves with “Ooo, look, No. 14E has become a right fat bastard since he got married”, etc.; but there was a young woman who I twice saw come naked onto her balcony to water her plants. Nothing more. Nothing more was required. They were perfect, golden moments that needed no further complication or adornment.
#2 Mrs Next Door: On one side we have the dishevelled geezer and his dachshunds, and on t’other we have a Hungarian lady and her husband. In my experience Hungarian women fall into three categories: A) Hard-faced bitches harbouring oceans of negativity and delusions of racial superiority, B) Modern girls with candid smiles suggesting an almost Scandinavian “availability”, or C) Nice, civilised women with admirable dress sense. Despite a surprising colourful vocabulary (says Mrs Dilo) for a demure middle-aged lady, #2 is a C (but with perhaps just a hint of B).
#3 Her Upstairs: When I lived in Tottenham the woman in the flat upstairs was a large West Indian lady with whom I got on well. But one abiding memory of my seven years there is of hearing her noisily going to toilet above me. Luckily I’m not squeamish about that sort of thing - and neither did it float my boat, before you ask, cheeky - but it shows that in some respects one knows one’s neighbour more intimately than does even her boyfriend or her proctologist.
#4 Washing Line Lady: The Archetypal Fanciable Neighbour – for is there anything more suggestive than washing?? Wet washing, fresh-smelling, limp and moist to the touch; or dry washing, smooth, crisp and new, an artist’s virgin canvass awaiting the imprint of a breast or a buttock to which to enspouse and to cleave.
#5 Kylie Minogue: Owing to my lack of interest in TV soap operas I only ever saw Kylie on Top Of The Pops, possibly. Call me old fashioned but I got the feeling that if you went round her house to borrow a cup of sugar or a couple AA batteries she’d lend you them, and with a smile that suggested “that’s when good neighbours become good friends”.
To end, of course, and because I'm feeling in a raunchy mood, another chance to covet that Neighbours' ass:
Friday, November 6, 2009
Name That Cat! #2
WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS A GRATUITOUSLY LARGE NUMBER OF SMALL FURRY ANIMALS
Yes folks they’ve finally arrived, 3 months after Ţuţica sprogged out she’s at last deigned to bring them to see us (and be fed, of course). We thought they’d died; we thought she’d had them, at location unknown, and they’d been eaten by the neighbourhood dogs or drowned by other deluded humans who considered themselves “owners” and with some heavy sense of responsibility. But there’s just two of them, which may be manageable and not necessitate a sack and a trip to the canal. And here’s what makes it all worthwhile: these two also need names. The names of the mother and Tanu, her “friend”, were chosen by your good selves and have served them well. We were unsure of the kittens parentage: it could have been Tanu, whose colouring is the same as Ţuţica’s, The Dark One, or The Ginger One; but the youngsters have a pleasing touch of the tarbrush and so it wasn’t incest and as Mrs Dilo and I agreed we’d be happy whatever they are as long as they’re not ginger... we’re very happy. We’re not entirely surely what sex they are either, but whenever we pick one up and have a look, it’s a boy; unfortunately we haven’t been able to catch both at the same time (cf, The Four Dachshunds Problem), but I’m with Chris Eubank (wasn’t it??) in believing that because I’m so incredibly butch and rugged any child on mine (albeit adopted, albeit of a different species) would have to be a manchild. The two names you chose last time are Romanian, but this time they’re going to be named after my heroes; oh, and the rules are slightly different - I’ve already decided, so you win a prize if your choice agrees with mine:
#1 Elvis: I’ve always wanted a pet called Elvis and I won’t get a better chance than this. (I admire his singing and dancing but most of all his noshing.) Also, due to the rubbish that is on cable TV, Mrs Dilo and I are often reduced to watching old films on MGM Channel and we’ve fallen in love with The King in a whole new way.
#2 Noddy Holder: Another personal Rock and Roll hero and with all the right attributes: a top pair of lungs, actual whiskers, and by all accounts one who can handle himself in a fight. Using The Jules’s excellent suggestions, I’d want our Noddy to introduce all the festive seasons for us by caterwauling on the doorstep: not only “It’s Christmasssss!!” but also “It’s Easterrrrrrrr/Ramadaaannnnn/Yom Kippurrrrrrrrr!!!!!” etc.
#3 Gandhi: I’ve always admired the Mahatma but felt he must have had a hard life what with one thing and another. I want to give him the chance to be reincarnated (if only in name) as a kitten so he can enjoy his sensual side and get the pampering he surely deserves.
#4 Nelson: Not named after genuine heroes Admiral Nelson or Nelson Mandela but, contrarily, after Nelson Gabriel, former BBC Radio 4 The Archers character, who made his living selling junk to gullible people - skills, sad to say, of much more use over here than those of the other two.
#5 Wellington: Again not a British wartime hero but the specky one off of The Wombles, those cute animated critters that tidied up the rubbish on Wimbledon Common, and he can start by tidying up the mess he’s made in the cardboard box we gave him to sleep in.
#6 Stig: Not named after that bloke off of Top Gear (who’s supposed to be a good driver, yeah, but has to wear a crash helmet inside the car… duh!), or after any number of Swedish blokes, but after Stig of the Dump, another childhood hero who was dead rugged.
#7 Bela Lugosi: Mrs Dilo’s often heard to say “Hmm, he looks a bit Hungarian” about any character in a film who’s started to behave in a disdainful manner. I’m expecting her to say this about one of the kittens when it turns its nose up at some new piece of bedding we’ve offered it from our wardrobe. Still a top name though.
#8 Linda Lusardi: (Just in case one of them is a lass.) I can’t get over the fact that I think cats are sexy. Ţuţica’s been full of milk and I’ve never seen such breasts on a cat, not even on Eurotrash. I don’t want to go down this road much further, but I might just go as far as naming a cat “Linda Lusardi”.
Yes folks they’ve finally arrived, 3 months after Ţuţica sprogged out she’s at last deigned to bring them to see us (and be fed, of course). We thought they’d died; we thought she’d had them, at location unknown, and they’d been eaten by the neighbourhood dogs or drowned by other deluded humans who considered themselves “owners” and with some heavy sense of responsibility. But there’s just two of them, which may be manageable and not necessitate a sack and a trip to the canal. And here’s what makes it all worthwhile: these two also need names. The names of the mother and Tanu, her “friend”, were chosen by your good selves and have served them well. We were unsure of the kittens parentage: it could have been Tanu, whose colouring is the same as Ţuţica’s, The Dark One, or The Ginger One; but the youngsters have a pleasing touch of the tarbrush and so it wasn’t incest and as Mrs Dilo and I agreed we’d be happy whatever they are as long as they’re not ginger... we’re very happy. We’re not entirely surely what sex they are either, but whenever we pick one up and have a look, it’s a boy; unfortunately we haven’t been able to catch both at the same time (cf, The Four Dachshunds Problem), but I’m with Chris Eubank (wasn’t it??) in believing that because I’m so incredibly butch and rugged any child on mine (albeit adopted, albeit of a different species) would have to be a manchild. The two names you chose last time are Romanian, but this time they’re going to be named after my heroes; oh, and the rules are slightly different - I’ve already decided, so you win a prize if your choice agrees with mine:
#1 Elvis: I’ve always wanted a pet called Elvis and I won’t get a better chance than this. (I admire his singing and dancing but most of all his noshing.) Also, due to the rubbish that is on cable TV, Mrs Dilo and I are often reduced to watching old films on MGM Channel and we’ve fallen in love with The King in a whole new way.
#2 Noddy Holder: Another personal Rock and Roll hero and with all the right attributes: a top pair of lungs, actual whiskers, and by all accounts one who can handle himself in a fight. Using The Jules’s excellent suggestions, I’d want our Noddy to introduce all the festive seasons for us by caterwauling on the doorstep: not only “It’s Christmasssss!!” but also “It’s Easterrrrrrrr/Ramadaaannnnn/Yom Kippurrrrrrrrr!!!!!” etc.
#3 Gandhi: I’ve always admired the Mahatma but felt he must have had a hard life what with one thing and another. I want to give him the chance to be reincarnated (if only in name) as a kitten so he can enjoy his sensual side and get the pampering he surely deserves.
#4 Nelson: Not named after genuine heroes Admiral Nelson or Nelson Mandela but, contrarily, after Nelson Gabriel, former BBC Radio 4 The Archers character, who made his living selling junk to gullible people - skills, sad to say, of much more use over here than those of the other two. 
#5 Wellington: Again not a British wartime hero but the specky one off of The Wombles, those cute animated critters that tidied up the rubbish on Wimbledon Common, and he can start by tidying up the mess he’s made in the cardboard box we gave him to sleep in.
#6 Stig: Not named after that bloke off of Top Gear (who’s supposed to be a good driver, yeah, but has to wear a crash helmet inside the car… duh!), or after any number of Swedish blokes, but after Stig of the Dump, another childhood hero who was dead rugged.
#7 Bela Lugosi: Mrs Dilo’s often heard to say “Hmm, he looks a bit Hungarian” about any character in a film who’s started to behave in a disdainful manner. I’m expecting her to say this about one of the kittens when it turns its nose up at some new piece of bedding we’ve offered it from our wardrobe. Still a top name though.
#8 Linda Lusardi: (Just in case one of them is a lass.) I can’t get over the fact that I think cats are sexy. Ţuţica’s been full of milk and I’ve never seen such breasts on a cat, not even on Eurotrash. I don’t want to go down this road much further, but I might just go as far as naming a cat “Linda Lusardi”.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Alright, Caalm Down Caalm Down!!
Our Romanian dance teacher said something at class last week that cheered me up: I told her I was having trouble remembering a certain sequence and she said “Don’t worry, by summer you’ll be good enough to be an honorary Scouser!” “Hey, lady” I said, “I yield to none in my admiration of the business skills, comedy timing and joie de vivre of our Liverpudlian compadres, and I feel that is one accolade I may surely never deserve!!”; but no, what she said was “honoris causa” 
- which sounds almost exactly the same - and means something like magna cum lauda, the best of the best, which was very sweet of her. So, here I come Ken Dodd, Cilla Black, Ricky Tomlinson, Robbie Fowler and especially Beth Jordache off of Brookside (right). Speaking of the last of these, that’s surely a Scouse version of a Romanian name. To end, a choice of listening: Beth’s 2nd cousin twice removed, world’s greatest ţambal player Toni Iordache; or the first few bars of Ferry Across the Mersey followed by a good fight:
- which sounds almost exactly the same - and means something like magna cum lauda, the best of the best, which was very sweet of her. So, here I come Ken Dodd, Cilla Black, Ricky Tomlinson, Robbie Fowler and especially Beth Jordache off of Brookside (right). Speaking of the last of these, that’s surely a Scouse version of a Romanian name. To end, a choice of listening: Beth’s 2nd cousin twice removed, world’s greatest ţambal player Toni Iordache; or the first few bars of Ferry Across the Mersey followed by a good fight: Thursday, October 29, 2009
Back on the Rock and Roll
Hi folks, I’ve been in a lousy mood because my boss has told me he won’t be renewing my contract when it expires in the New Year. Here (A) is what he actually said, (B) what he may have thinking, (C) what I was expecting to hear, and (D) the nightmare scenario:
(A) I want to thank you for your contribution over the last year and a half but I feel your skills are rather too narrowly academic for any future projects at this company and that we require people who are better suited to general computer work. I wish you all the best in finding another job.
(B) I have other employees who are younger (can’t argue with that, I’m the oldest git in the office by a long chalk), quicker (well of course they’re quicker at computing than I am, their minds are not burdened by the massive sense of fun and absurdity under which I‘ve been forced to labour every day of my miserable benighted life), and I pay them less (probably the clincher).
(C) Gadjo, this has been the most wonderful time of my entire life and though I have other employees they’re just children, they don’t know life like you and I do, they’re holding you back and (tears start to well up in his eyes) some times when you love somebody (totally losing control of his emotions now) you have to let them go.... fly, Gadjo, fly!!!
(D) Alright, Dilo, enough’s enough. I know you’ve tried but frankly you’re an over-educated twit, a fop and a smurf, and if I ever catch sight of your silly grinning face again – you think you’re funny but you’re not – I’ll personally see to it that you’re kicked out of this goddam khazi of a country for once and for all!!
Well, then of course the self-recriminations start: what if I hadn’t been late for that meeting, what if X hadn’t overheard me saying what I said to Y, what if I hadn’t pressed myself up against Z in the lift that time. But the boss is a very fair man, and I did try my best. It’s a f**king miserable feeling but I’ll not starve; I’m a tryer if nothing else, I can survive on very little, and I’ve worked long enough and been fortuitous enough to build up some financial security for myself and Mrs Dilo.
To herald my return to the dole office – assuming I was eligible to receive the 50p a week that would get handed out to me at the Romanian equivalent, which I don’t think I am - here’s a song from Half Man Half Biscuit’s LP Back in the DHSS:
(A) I want to thank you for your contribution over the last year and a half but I feel your skills are rather too narrowly academic for any future projects at this company and that we require people who are better suited to general computer work. I wish you all the best in finding another job.
(B) I have other employees who are younger (can’t argue with that, I’m the oldest git in the office by a long chalk), quicker (well of course they’re quicker at computing than I am, their minds are not burdened by the massive sense of fun and absurdity under which I‘ve been forced to labour every day of my miserable benighted life), and I pay them less (probably the clincher).
(C) Gadjo, this has been the most wonderful time of my entire life and though I have other employees they’re just children, they don’t know life like you and I do, they’re holding you back and (tears start to well up in his eyes) some times when you love somebody (totally losing control of his emotions now) you have to let them go.... fly, Gadjo, fly!!!
(D) Alright, Dilo, enough’s enough. I know you’ve tried but frankly you’re an over-educated twit, a fop and a smurf, and if I ever catch sight of your silly grinning face again – you think you’re funny but you’re not – I’ll personally see to it that you’re kicked out of this goddam khazi of a country for once and for all!!
Well, then of course the self-recriminations start: what if I hadn’t been late for that meeting, what if X hadn’t overheard me saying what I said to Y, what if I hadn’t pressed myself up against Z in the lift that time. But the boss is a very fair man, and I did try my best. It’s a f**king miserable feeling but I’ll not starve; I’m a tryer if nothing else, I can survive on very little, and I’ve worked long enough and been fortuitous enough to build up some financial security for myself and Mrs Dilo.
To herald my return to the dole office – assuming I was eligible to receive the 50p a week that would get handed out to me at the Romanian equivalent, which I don’t think I am - here’s a song from Half Man Half Biscuit’s LP Back in the DHSS:
Friday, October 23, 2009
Jazz Is Totally Up Itself
I’ve been compelled to write a post with this title as a consequence of my previous post in which I slandered another perfectly respectable music genre. However, such is my new-found cantankerousness and intolerance that I find myself able to fulfil this task as well.
I am going to present my argument solely in terms of Trumpet Playing and Anal Retention. Have a listen to the first part of Louis Armstrong’s West End Blues:
Over and over I tried to play that intro on my trumpet, then the tune, slow and melancholic (here’s a later, brassier version, which is also good) yet it flickers with the humanity that Armstrong could rarely keep to himself.
Unfortunately I can find no clip of the only track to which I’ve ever attempted to do a striptease: Armstrong’s early recording of Tin Roof Blues (Tiger Rag and it would have all been over in a flash....) Satchmo kept himself ticking with a bit of marijuana and the help of Swiss Kriss, a laxative of which he was such a fan that he once recommended it to Britain’s Royal Family, and I admire him as a man who kept his embouchure clenched and his bowels open.
Now, there were other trumpeters with nice styles (and some modern players of other jazz instruments that I like). But somewhere it goes wrong, it all becomes a bit, well, Jazz Club. And I reckon the cause is Mr Miles Davis. He’s probably a genius, enough people have told me that he is, so I’m probably a philistine, I’m probably missing out. But for me the most accurate word I’ve ever heard applied to him is “costive” – I just want to shake him.... shake him and shout “Wake up, you dozy bastard!! Wake up and go to the lavatory!!!!”.
Fortunately, however, all is not lost. Musicians from other genres have been inspired by jazz and incorporated it into their shtick. Here are my favourite Russians, Markscheider Kunst, whose trumpeter I reckon listened to more Louis than Miles; have a listen to the intro in the 1st one, before the band gets into its lovely Latino-Leningrad stride, then look at the 2nd one if you wanna see them in a proper video. Now, this is obviously just my personal preference, but to me that’s Nice!
I am going to present my argument solely in terms of Trumpet Playing and Anal Retention. Have a listen to the first part of Louis Armstrong’s West End Blues:
Over and over I tried to play that intro on my trumpet, then the tune, slow and melancholic (here’s a later, brassier version, which is also good) yet it flickers with the humanity that Armstrong could rarely keep to himself.
Unfortunately I can find no clip of the only track to which I’ve ever attempted to do a striptease: Armstrong’s early recording of Tin Roof Blues (Tiger Rag and it would have all been over in a flash....) Satchmo kept himself ticking with a bit of marijuana and the help of Swiss Kriss, a laxative of which he was such a fan that he once recommended it to Britain’s Royal Family, and I admire him as a man who kept his embouchure clenched and his bowels open. Now, there were other trumpeters with nice styles (and some modern players of other jazz instruments that I like). But somewhere it goes wrong, it all becomes a bit, well, Jazz Club. And I reckon the cause is Mr Miles Davis. He’s probably a genius, enough people have told me that he is, so I’m probably a philistine, I’m probably missing out. But for me the most accurate word I’ve ever heard applied to him is “costive” – I just want to shake him.... shake him and shout “Wake up, you dozy bastard!! Wake up and go to the lavatory!!!!”.
Fortunately, however, all is not lost. Musicians from other genres have been inspired by jazz and incorporated it into their shtick. Here are my favourite Russians, Markscheider Kunst, whose trumpeter I reckon listened to more Louis than Miles; have a listen to the intro in the 1st one, before the band gets into its lovely Latino-Leningrad stride, then look at the 2nd one if you wanna see them in a proper video. Now, this is obviously just my personal preference, but to me that’s Nice!
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