Xtraordinary

So it's that time of year again, when the clocks go back and we need something entertaining to brighten up our long winter evenings. Sadly, we're stuck with Strictly Come Dancing¹ and The X Factor².

On the one hand we have well-loved tunes being mauled by some half-wit who thinks it's a good idea to randomly cut out half the lines to fit the song into half the time and on the other hand, yep, exactly the same thing.

Strictly isn't terrible, with the exception of Brucie's jokes, but oh, deary me, what is it with Jedward on The X Factor? Instead of gradually improving week by week, under the careful supervision of their mentor, like any normal contestant, they seem to revel in sinking further and further into the mire of publicity-happy mediocrity. Like Jade Goody, Kerry Katona and Barrack O'Bama(sp?), they are famous simply for being famous.

I'll admit that at the start, I said I'd stop watching if the terrible twins made it onto the live show, but now there's a morbid fascination with the anticipation of which classic they're going to murder next. And last night they hit a new nadir with Queen's "We Will Rock You".

I'm not saying we should form vigilante squads armed with duct tape and ball gags. No, wait. That's exactly what I'm saying. We could replace them with a pair of shaving brushes and no-one would be the wiser. Well, Simon might comment on the massive improvement in their performance, but that's about it.

Boydrone and Westlifeless have a natural successor.

¹ Merkans read "Dancing With The Stars".
² Merkans read "American Idol".

Stuff and Nonsense

Sooooooooooo... out shopping, I couldn't help but notice this in my trolley:

Original. Improved. Now I'm not saying all marketing types are a bunch of coke-addled suits - no, wait. That's exactly what I'm saying.

Police in Glasgow are threatening to arrest anyone caught singing the Hokey Cokey, since it incites religious hatred. Whereas Uptown Girl just incites hatred of talentless Irish cover bands.

Donald Trump, or Donald Fucking Trump as I like to refer to him, has been nominated for the Scot of the Year Award. The usual requirement that nominees should be born on Scottish soil was apparently met by Trump digging up a million tons of fine Aberdeen coastline and exporting it to his New York birthplace.

It should be a close-run race, as he's up against such luminaries as Andy Torn-Face Murray, Gordon Greetin' Broon, Gordon Christhesugly Ramsay and Fred Loser Goodwin. Oh and David Phwoar Tennant.

Finally (for now) - the credit crunch is really taking its toll at Farty Towers. I arrived home early from work today to find Mrs F sewing a turkey's head onto a fish supper. Picture that if you can.

Toot toot!

Farty's Friday Chart

A nice international theme for you this week.





Name that tune.

News Drought

I was going to write a post about Father Ted being arrested for war crimes, but NewsBiscuit beat me to it, curse them!

And there isn't any other news, really. Except that Glasgow has come top of the Scotch licence dodgers' league. They prefer to splash out on expensive flat-screen TVs than spend money on a mandatory licence. Mind you, that does look impressive, don't you think?

The back view? Not so great.


Princess Camilla of Horseface was slated this month when she was spotted with a Golliwog in her car boot. It's a doll, FFS! I picked up one of these (only far, far better crafted) in Jo'burg airport and gave it to a black lady friend, Rachael Piggot. She adored it.

Chanteuse Amy Whinehouse has been tipped to play the next Dr Who. She's halfway there already, that sure as hell ain't human blood pumping through her veins and feck knows what planet she lives on.


And finally, sport. Celtic football club are looking to sign Romanian defender Gabriela Cheeky. Or was it Monika? All these footballers look the same to me, sigh.

Toot toot!

Indescribable

"It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train – a shapeless congerie of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter."
—H. P. Lovecraft



Have you ever seen something which literally defied description? I have.

It started out quite normally. A new girl had arrived in the Nodnol office; let's call her Laura. She was hella good at her job, but that's not what caught my attention. And what with those being the days of steam radio, before Al Gore invented t'internet, it certainly wasn't her appearance; I had no idea what she looked like. But I could figure it out from her voice.

Laura came from the Republic of Oireland, where leprechauns still leave crocks of gold at the end of the rainbow. Where the grass truly is greener. Ah, to hear her talk about her home town, 'twas a marvellous place indeed. Did you know, for example, that the Oirish had Clones long before Professor Wilmut stopped shagging sheep long enough to make a copy of one? (Fer feck's sake, why? Why make an identical copy of an animal from a species famous for looking exactly the same as each other?)

I digress. I used to phone Laura for the odd chat, and while she told me about the wonders of the Emerald Isle, I would listen to her silky-smooth voice, like Baileys Oirish Cream on the rocks, and build up a mental image of her. Let's see.

From the bottom up:
Impossibly high heels, definately FM shoes by anyone's standard.
Long, smooth, tanned legs going all the way up to her chin.
Tights Stockings with the tops just peeping out from under...
A really, really short skirt.
Bit of midriff showing. Slim waist, possibly a pierced belly-button. With an emerald in it.
Some kind of flimsy blouse revealing more than it covered.
Lots of cleavage.
Arms bare except for perhaps a fashionable bangle.
Long fingernails, highly varnished and bright crimson...
To match her glossy lipstick...
And long, flowing red hair, cascading down over her shoulders.
Flashing green eyes. (Can redheads even have green eyes?)
Blindingly white, perfect teeth.
A nose like a ski slope.

Nothing special, just a cross between Nadine off Girls Aloud and Jessica off Roger Rabbit.





All the blokes in Embra fancied her something rotten, so imagine my surprise and delight when she casually dropped into the conversation that some new piece of software was due to be installed, some kind of flexible rattlesnake, and she would have to come up to Embra to explain it to us geeks. As geek-in-chief, I was to get a one-hour session all to myself.

Really, really should have exchanged photos first.

The big day arrived. I spramped myself up, clean shirt, new tie, cut a couple of feet off the end of my beard, turned my underpants inside out. Checked the mirror - OMG I'm gorgeous! Off to work.

The phone call came - "someone in reception for you." Oh boyohboyohboy!

Looked around reception. And around again. Finally, an angelic voice came from somewhere near my waist: "Yew most be Fartee. Oim Laura. Hi."

My eyes tried to focus, but all I could see was a short, vaguely female shape dressed in tweed. I introduced myself and led her off to my lair desk. An hour later, we said our goodbyes and off she went to her next meeting. And an hour after that, I'd completely forgotten what she looked like.

The next time we spoke on the phone again, she was, of course, fantastic. Literally.

Am I a bad person?