Beggars' Choice

Apparently (according to Mrs B) there is a juice bar in our local mall where they ask your name so that when your drink is prepared they can loudly announce its readiness, eg “wheat grass shot for [insert name here]”. To my surprise she said she provides her real name, which to me sounds like a missed opportunity. What name would you like to hear proclaimed loudly in association with a juice bar product? I think Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Or maybe Johnny Kickass.

UPDATE. Actually I think I would prefer to hear myself paged as "Slick Rick". No idea why.

Tonight, the Australian soccer team made it to the World Cup finals for the first time since 1760 or thereabouts. The players all seemed quite emotional but they had nothing on the SBS TV commentators who covered the match. Typical post-match interview:

SBS dude [in quavering voice]: Well, after 32 years of soul-destroying, gut-wrenching heartache, Australian soccer arrived in the most glorious, exciting way imaginable. The team played as magnificently as they looked, bedecked as they were in heroic golden shirts, shirts that could so easily have been fashioned from the mythical golden fleece sought by Jason and the Argonauts, fellow-heroes but of a bygone age. As the team rose like a phoenix from the ashes of despair, what were your hopes, your dreams, as you played out the most dramatic piece of sporting-themed theatre the world has ever witnessed, ever, in history?

Player: well, yeah; it was a game of two halves, but ultimately we knew if were scored more goals than them we would probably win, and … ah …

[SBS dude is now sobbing uncontrollably and will not be comforted.]

Player: Er …

[SBS dude waves player away through mist of tears.]

Well, at least it beat the time in 1997 when that idiot tried to steal the net, or whatever.

UPDATE. Post-match TV footage included scenes of the Australian soccer team in their change rooms singing "You're the One That I Want", accompanied by John Travolta. I would just like to say that I foresaw this in a dream, 4 months ago.

Spent yesterday at home, sick. Watched ’24 Hour Party People’ on Tuesday night, the semi-true documentary of the ecstasy-fuelled Madchester scene of the late 80’s/early 90’s. To enhance the mood, I took some drugs of my own – Codral – and settled down to watch the antics of a bunch of fondly-remembered loons that featured so prominently in my young adulthood.

To compliment this trip down memory lane, the next day Mrs B. bought me a mag that featured NME clippings from the time of Britpop, ie the era immediately post-Madchester. Again, more memories! And did you know the Spice Girls were originally known as Sporty Spice, Posh Spice, Sexy Spice, Hitler Spice and Sweet Spice? Nor did I! Now I know what you’re thinking – I’ve clearly made up one of those names – but I can assure you, as improbable as it sounds, one of them was indeed called Sexy. Wow! The things you learn when you’re sick!

Bye!

The following is based on a true story. Ah hell; it is a true story.

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Characters: DOREEN, a receptionist. REGGIE, a humble physicist.


REGGIE is sitting at his desk. Enter DOREEN, stage left.

DOREEN: Why didn’t you answer your phone?

REGGIE: Er … it didn’t ring.

DOREEN: Well, there’s a call for you at reception. I thought they would have rung you first.

REGGIE: I assure you, my phone did not ring.

DOREEN: Hmph!

Exit DOREEN, stage left.

Enter DOREEN, stage left.

DOREEN: They’ve hung up! [Pauses.]

DOREEN: This is all your fault.

Exit DOREEN, stage left.

CURTAIN

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We interviewed for a new physicist yesterday. The applicants were all garden variety nerds (like the rest of us), and one incredibly well qualified, 6 foot tall, Nordic-looking blonde chick.

I expect it's some sort of grand cosmic joke but it will certainly test the steely resolve of certain members of middle management who don't seem to like girls.