chrisp65

draw undefeated shitting bricks last 17 minutes third on motd

Was that the same liverpool manager on MOTD last night refusing to discuss a ropey penalty he hadn't seen that was recently bemoaning the fact that all decisions always go against liverpool? Pathetic lack of class there Kenny.

I've got a crazy idea. Why not re test people every 10 years. More employment, self funding, potentially a chance to re-educate people on how to drive on motorways. I'm on the motorway most days. It's the general lack of awareness and anticipation from pillocks in each and every lane that I find scary. Just to stereotype we've got: I know 2 lanes are empty but I'm staying out here, I've got a 3 series. I know 2 lanes are empty but I'm staying out here, I have an Audi. I'm a timid lady in an invisible neck brace. I will stay in the middle lane, it's what I always do. I'm a pensioner, the lorries will just have to go around my Micra. Sort out the economy and road safety before you start pricking about with populist Top Gear distraction tactics.

I was parked on the M4 just outside Bath for an hour a few weeks ago thinking 'I wish they'd raise the speed limit'. Bit of a pointless distraction.

not strictly poetry, an extract of Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now. Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glowworms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs. You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing. Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep. And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-beforedawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride. Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llaregyb Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood. Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's lofts like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is to-night in Donkey Street, trotting silent, With seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies. Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms. Time passes. Listen. Time passes. Come closer now. Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the coms. and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams. From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

great stuff, truly impressive self penned stuff. I think I'll keep working on mine having seen that! I did read it out loud, and yes, that does work really well. As for Mr Cooper Clarke, is he making something of a comeback? He's been on a couple of radio stations lately and seems to be on good form. I can't believe I'm alone in a hotel room and reading poetry! I should be half blind with a strained wrist by now. Slough by John Betjeman Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town— A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales.

Primal Scream - I'm 5 years ahead of my time Creation was an awesome label at its peek

don't know if it'll catch on, but thought I'd try a little poetry nice easy one to start, a bit of Larkin Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse They **** you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were **** up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.

A gastric band. photoshop!

Do you still get nudists? I remember in the 70s you'd always hear people talking about them, and nudist camps and beaches seemed quite popular. a quick use of the google suggests it's all still out there and I seem to remember a few months ago an episode of the one show did something on the subject (oh yes, I'm that cool). Personally I'd be worried about the twin threats of cold weather and nettles.

well I guess I fall into the Hug a Gypo camp for two reasons: 1) if people want an alternative lifestyle that doesn't unduly impact on me and mine I think that's fine 2) classing any whole group of people, be they travellers, Belgians, muslims or nudists or whatever as all being the same and worthy of blanket condemnation is just a bit immature As for 'having to deal with them', I guess having to live 100 metres from an unauthorised camp for 5 or 6 years probably qualifies me. Strangely, they must have been those nice middle class gypo's because they kept themselves to themselves and spent most of their time on their obsessive cleaning regime.

spiders are fantastic, and yes, seasonal. The garden is full of these guys at the moment and the green house is a no go area for Mrs chrisp65 having once lived next to the docks where the banana boats used to come in, I respect spiders

Paul McGrath has an album out on Friday.

Im reading this one too, bit of a chore TBH. I felt I had to read the third after the first two and its quite easy reading but Im a bit bored of it now. I think im going to move back to the classics after, I have my eye on ''The Count of Monte Cristo'. I've read the first two, really enjoyed them and felt I should complete the set, but yeah, bit of a chore sums it up for me too. Going to give Life and Fate by Vas grossman a go. Post war soviet union interests me and it's got some rave reviews.

good stuff, a fair few gulls around here but they just stand around waiting for chips. mine is Lilleshall Abbey, fairly close to Telford, found it by accident last Thursday...

Villa 0 Newcy 0 (35,555)

I really like that. Love people watching but not brave enough to take uninvited photo's of 'characters'. Well, not since that misunderstanding round the nurse's halls of residence anyway. Had a peep on the flickr site too, looks good to me, got a sense you enjoyed it more than you fretted about technicalities. Which is refreshing and not meant as a clumsy back handed compliment . I've got 4 photos on a flickr page so far and I'm hopefully aiming for a similar style eventually.

Too right...& that goes for the prawn sandwich brigade to boot! hey, don't diss the prawn sandwich brigade. I've persuaded my office they've needed to entertain people a couple of times. Mixed results, took somebody to the Spurs game and he died two days later (unrelated). Took someone to a Blackburn game, I ended up sat next to Jimmy Rimmer and spent the whole time with my back to my guest talking tactics with my new best mate Jimmy. Also did a sort of corporate for the famous 5-1. Luckily it was an internal thing with a few Director's. Having not heard me swear once in ten years they were clearly impressed when I broke the record for f words in 90 minutes.

hmmm, not a great shot. A combination of work finishing really late so all a bit rushed, sun inconveniently located, still haven't read the manual so still can't do much beyond auto setting, plus just didn't have my arty creative mojo on after 4 hours hours of discussing rubbish in a meeting that didn't even have coffee or water. So I'm also blaming dehydration. How can it be hard to find an interesting photo in the middle of London?

I felt it was the england top that made it funnier! I was going to do a whole load of stuff on being forced to wear something kinky and degrading, but thought better of it. There's always some numpty with his humour set to bypass mode (usually me). I'm out with the camera tomorrow, I'll try and get a proper mugshot.

I was tempted to pose naked with IN BEFORE THE LOCK written along my pride and joy, but there were technical difficulties (I ran out of space at in bef). A fascinating insight into a whole chunk of male behaviour and a shocking insight into people's gullibility on the interweb.

I couldn't resist, full credit to the guys running that thread, it's a work of genius and should be picked up by BBC 3. Your Scuba Steve photo is possibly one of the best interweb pictures ever.

Unless it's a JW :winkold: double funny

well, this is me, can't hang around, think I've pulled!