Into English…
via Belarusian, by the looks of things.
This may well be the post that tips me over the edge into unforgivable narcissism. Wahey!
Check out my ‘translated’ photoshopdisasters post here:
Now, listen.
Bottled water is an inexcusable, irresponsible, vain, inane, shortsighted, wasteful, expensive and idiotic drain on the earth’s precious natural resources.
Plastic bottles are cloging up landfill sites, and burning through the ozone layer in their creation. Buying bottled water is the most astounding triumph of advertising manipulation over good sense.
And it should be banned.
But…..
Babies dancing around to Jurassic 5 is as good a way to start a Friday as any I can think of.
Nell Frizzell
Does it make me a hopeless market whore that I jumped in the air at the news that Gordon Brown had visited Kirkgate Market?
Probably.
But, you know, if politicians campaigned on saving actual pork-and-washing-up-liquid-with-a metre-of-lace-and-half-a-pound-of-potatoes markets, instead of solely concentrating on international trade markets, then I for one would find it a refreshing change.
Check out Gordon talking fish down by Pam’s Hosiery here:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/west_yorkshire/8130452.stm
Nell Frizzell
Earlier today the Delhi High Court ruled that consensual gay sex should no longer be classified as a “sex against nature” as defined by Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code.
Although the ruling only applies within Delhi, and may be appealed, it is being heralded by many campaign organisations as a victory for India’s LGBT community.
According to The Hindustan Times, the High Court ruled that Section 377 contravened human rights and certain articles of the Indian constitution. “It cannot be forgotten that discrimination is antithesis of equality,” the report is quoted to say, “and that it is the recognition of equality which will foster dignity of every individual.”
The decision was provoked, in part at least, by a petition put to the Delhi High Court in 2001 by Naz - an HIV and sexual health support organisation - after police Lucknow raided Naz’s offices and detained some of its staff for 47 days on suspicion of running a “gay sex racket”. HIV support workers in India have long argued that the criminalisation of homosexual sex made treating, counselling and helping those affected by the illness unfeasibly difficult and forced many sufferers ‘underground’.
The ’sex against nature’ clause was introduced during British colonial rule of India, in the 1800s, and Anil Bhanot, writing for The Guardian today, has argued that Hinduism does not condemn homosexuality.
I haven’t been able to find all the details on the decision, but many news sources are reporting that Section 377 will still govern “non-consensual penile non-vaginal sex and penile non vaginal sex involving minors”.
Now, I don’t know enough about the legal framework of India’s cities and states to measure how successful or groundbreaking this ruling really is. But I cannot help but feel that it is at least a small move in the right direction - especially if it gives a signal to the rest of the country about how gay men are to be viewed and treated by society and the law.
My brother-in-law has done several spectacular photo stories about HIV in India. If you wish to see his images, then many of them are available on his website.
Nell Frizzell
Now, a lot gets written about Tom Cruise.
That he is a crazed, beard-buying, talentless, Hollywood rent boy. That he periodically snorts coke off Will Smith’s buttocks. That he is a money-spewing quack attack who genuinely believes that aliens can cure gayness and that science fiction is a reasonable grounds for witholding medical help. That the crevices around his mouth are in fact hiding Osama Bin Laden and that he didn’t wear underwear throughout the entire filming of Magnolia.
But, what doesn’t often get mentioned is that when my hair starts to grow (and I am too lazy, far away, skint or busy to get it re-snipped) I start to look startlingly like the Cruisemeister.
A round of applause please, for the delighful, the frightful, the down right sherry trifle, Becky Barnicoat.
Becky, who is basically the woman I want to be but don’t have the energy to try, has just published a rather splendid comic called ‘Everyone Is Here Already’. Yes, you’re right, that does sound familiar. Probably because you’ve seen the link to her blog down there on the bottom right hand corner.
If you haven’t looked at it already then visit, post-haste at
http://everyoneisherealready.blogspot.com/
Also, at the party for the comic last night, the son of the bookshop owner found he had one of those 20p pieces that is worth £50 because some dumbdumb down at the royal mint forgot to press ‘date’ on his magnadoodle. So, check your shrapnel - you never know what it may be worth.
So, there you go. Shameless plug done. Well done Becksamillion.
nell frizzell
A noble and distinguished member of the gastronomic family has sadly gone beyond the mortal coil.
The Four Cousins, a grimly glamorous Greek greasy spoon cafe, hidden down a piss soaked alley off Briggate in Leeds, is no more. The writing is on the wall, or at least the door. As my friend Lawrence reported,
‘The Four Cousins has “seized trading” and all the fixtures and fittings have been removed. I think you’ll agree this is very sad. (Sad face).’
And agree I do.
Although my heart will always belong to that chalet of baked love, The Pine Cafe in Kirkgate Market, I was also partial to a spot of familial fun down at The Four Cousins. When I first moved to Leeds, I spent several happy afternoons sitting within its mirrored walls, drinking frothy coffees and smoking (for these, my friends, were back in the aeons of time, when you could still legally give waiting staff secondary cancer), while wondering just what the hell to make of this new city.
And, like book ends, one of the last, if not the last, meals I ever had in Leeds before upping sticks to the big smoke, was a greasy beige fry-up in The Four Cousins after a night of alcohol-fuelled mourning in our old top floor flat. At that moment, it seemed that I was leaving everything I loved about Leeds - my friends, my student life, my glory days of down-at-heel decadence, the cosy familiarity of a Northern town and the ability to eat a plate of entirely tinned and fried food for less that £4. It was sad. But gloriously so.
Now, let us not lose sight of The Four Cousins’ various shortfalls. The toilets were barely worthy of a second class Indian over night train. It was bizarrely expensive; mushrooms on toast cost more than £3 I seem to remember, whereas the infamous moussaka was so much more than a fiver I never knew anyone to order it. The geometric seating arrangements meant that any group of over four people would have to sit back-to-back or at a strange 90 degree angle from each other, forcing conversation to be held over an increasingly aching shoulder. And it was stuck in an alleyway only Jack The Ripper would love.
And yet. And yet.
I have never known such timeless, dim, creaking, Edward Hopper-style glamour in a cafe. The mirrors, the art deco lights, the shiny glass counter, the ‘wood’ panelling. The Four Cousins was made for film noir. If only one of us had had the time and means to have made it.
So, farewell Four Cousins. I’m sorry to have left you and I’m sorry you have left.
Nell Frizzell
p.s thanks to the James W Bell on Flikr who I have shamelessly stolen the above photos from. They are beautiful.
There is a ‘paranormal investigator’ and ‘ghost photographer’ sitting in reception.
She’s all in lilac and asking me about my ‘energy experiences’.
I hope she never leaves.
Nell Frizzell
A poem you say?
A poem indeed.
I just read it at the third Raconnaissance, woefully underprepared, alas. But at least it’s based on true inspiration and at least it rhymes.
A Sonnet To An Old Soldier
There he lies, floating on the surface
His swollen, hairy stomach glistening.
Partially submerged, with water on his tits,
Unaware that strokes are what his swimming’s missing.
The old soldier lies against the water,
As I, in truth, plough up the middle lane,
His rolling gait caused by one leg that’s shorter
Slowing down his bulky, care-worn frame.
The lifeguard sits above, his eyes hidden,
Mine are blinded by the early morning sun,
He doesn’t notice where my strokes are bidden,
We’re unaware of destiny’s bit of fun.
Sorry, old soldier, whose swimming my stroke abrupts
Sorry that I once again swam into your geriatric nuts.
Nell Frizzell
Heineken, it seems, have a rather strict idea of what their customer should look like.
First of all - no women.
Second of all - no fat women.
Thirdly - no fat women wearing ponytails.
I noticed this natty bit of marketing the other day, while having dinner with an old housemate.
But, perhaps I am being unfair to Heineken. Maybe, instead of banning fat ponytailed women from drinking their beverage they are merely warning thin women in ponytails that drinking too much beer may result in them having deeply regrettable, unprotected sex and ending up pregnant.
Or perhaps, as my friend suggested, it is a warning to men that consuming too much Heineken may result in them sleeping with pregnant women. Or fat women with ponytails.
Maybe I’m completely barking up the wrong tree here. Maybe it is simply a warning that drinking Heineken will encourage you to talk to the sock puppet on your hand like it is a real person:
Whatever the deeper meaning behind Heineken’s illustration, I think we’ve all learned a valuable lesson here today. Well done.
Nell Frizzell