plasticbag.org

If you are sane and therefore want Anna to win Big Brother UK then ring 09011 980 101 immediately. If you need further reason than that, I could mention that there is a rumour going around London media circles at the moment that Big Brother have made a deal with The Sun to edit the TV footage to make sure that Craig wins. He is apparently considered very good Sun-fodder. This may very well be a load of bollocks, so concentrate on this simple message: Anna is GOD and commands you to vote for her.

There’s some astonishingly good – and extraordinarily strange – high quality Flash work over at nosepilot.com [via metalog]. It reminds me a lot of those strange five minute cartoon pieces that you sometimes see on BBC2 in between some late night talk show and the third repeat of V. Only it’s of infinitely higher quality. If you haven’t seen this quote yet, then you are nowhere near the end:

“I think I see it, that evil robotic duck.”

Many more days of holiday and I fear I might actually reach that fabled limit of Buffy saturation. Then again…

I read this interview with Radiohead in Q the other day, and thought to myself – if only they weren’t so torturous about what they do; perhaps then they’d have more fun with it. And then I thought about how long it took me to get a tiny little website rebuilt, and how much horror that generated for me, and then I shut up.

In this interview was a reference to the book No Logo by Naomi Klein, which the various band members said had clarified for them what they wanted to talk about on the album (if indeed they were talking about anything). So I thought to myself – “No Logo” – that sounds like the kind of book that interests me – it’s got that counter-cultural vibe going on; I think I’ll buy it.

So I went to lots of shops and couldn’t find it and returned home grumpy and forlorn. And then last night I spilt a glass of beer on my desk and had to grab about a ton of stuff off it and throw it on the floor so that I could mop up the mess. And what do I see at the bottom of the pile, but a copy of the book itself in full burning technicolour. Nick had bought it for me for my birthday and I’d completely forgotten.

The two activities that I had down on my list as “to be done” today were: 1) Sign up with new GP, 2) Get cable television. Since I have not managed to leave the house all day, the first one seems rather unlikely, and unfortunately the people who supply cable television are resolutely refusing to talk to me. Which leaves this day as rather a dead loss. I have played quite a lot of Quake III though – that’s got to count for something, right?

While we are on the subject of Radiohead, am I right in thinking that both the cover and name of their soon to be released album (Kid A) are really quite bad?

You’ll never guess – I bumped into weird guy with patch and nose again today. It was at my weekly visit for colonic irrigation. He goes to the same place. He is such a frustrating human being. Although, not really having spoken to him properly yet, I don’t really know how I could know that. God help me, I hope he doesn’t turn up to that fictional party I’m having next week.

So I’m watching television this evening and That ’70s Show comes on Channel 5. For the Americans amongst us I should point out that Channel 5 is to quality television what fart jokes are to Contemporary Dance Theatre.

The show is a favourite of regular plasticbag.org subjectee Kerry – my pet American – and for this reason I decided that I should probably watch it.

It’s basically pretty funny, but suffers much more than normal from trans-atlantic drift. All UK-based people will understand this one – it’s what has happened when you are staring at the TV screen trying blankly to work out what “cooties” are.

In the first episode I watched there was an appearance by ’70s President Ford. The jokes at his expense were, I fear as incomprehensible to me as any joke I might be able to make about <whoever – the – hell – was – Prime – Minister – before – Thatcher – rose – from – her – icy – crypt> would be to an American.

Or indeed to me, since I clearly can’t for the life of me remember what his name was.

By means of retribution on the USA for the export of comedy that only they will understand, I hereby suggest the export of The Vicar of Dibley, which I watched last night, and which contained about a thousand Paul Daniels, Debbie McGee and Crunchie jokes – all of which I “fear” might be lost on our American cousins.

Let’s see them put that on an obscure cable channel and forget all about it! Ha. Revenge is sweet.

So I’m walking down the street when I slip on a banana skin and land hard on my back. The weather isn’t brilliant so I get this kind of sky-grey haze moving behind the glowing spots that dance around in front of me. This weird-looking guy with a big nose and an eye-patch helps me up. Everyone else kind of walked past.

We didn’t say a lot to each other, but he didn’t make a very good first impression. You know the type – completely self-involved and nauseatingly smug. Instantly frustrating. He did, however, have a nice arse.

After helping me stand up, we did some “British” thing that you see on TV programs like Friends, but which never actually happens in England (possibly we looked a bit sheepish and mentioned the Queen) and went on our separate ways. God help me, I hope I don’t bump into him again…

Waferbaby corners Matt Haughey. His list of regular reads is interesting (and not just because he seems to read plasticbag.org every so often. I’m more impressed because of his level of committment. I will be completely honest – while the logs I read varies from day to day, I doubt I read more than five or six in any one day.