The story people love, and love to hate, returns in July. This time, publishers of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows have opted to print it on recycled paper, presumably to better reflect the nature of the stories themselves. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to print it on toilet paper.
This entire blog entry was an attempt to shoe-horn those two jokes in. Pathetic, I know.
The witless wanderer walks over Blencathra in the second part of her four part pose across the Lake District. This time we are thankfully introduced to the man who, evident from his few minutes on camera, should have been presenting the series in its entirety. Hoorah for David Powell-Thompson. The weather today was reasonably clear but with annoying patches of Bradbury. These may clear up by the end of the series.
OK, so City lost to the mighty Wigan today and at least one side of the family is happy and the other in tears but god knows whose side he’s on because the scheduled eclipse came out on the blue side through my rather poor quality lens. The universe weeps for you lads.
Fresh from the trails around Grasmere, it seemed like fate to return home to find a series about Wainwright starting up on BBC4. Each week, a programme is devoted to one of Wainwright’s most loved walks. The opportunity to show the stunning landscape and hear the wit and observation of AW come through was not to be missed. Yet missed it was as Julia Bradbury – that well known travel correspondant – managed to drain the Lakes of all interest. Her witless observations attempted to place a modern spin upon Wainwright as she so aptly observed things such as “Wainwright believed the Lakes could take your mind off incessant worries – we all have incessant worries don’t we?” The depth of her analysis reached across the valleys in a way that would surely unite any person who would claim to love that land. The landscapes, dull as they are, were lifted by lingering close-ups of Julia’s blank face as the cameraperson cleverly contrasted those smooth lines with the ancient crags. Truly, a masterclass in documentary making.
I’d rather have watched Johnny Vegas drag himself up there. At least it would have been entertaining.
It’s not that I don’t care. I don’t, but that’s not the reason I loathe medical phone-ins on TV and radio. I just don’t see why Mary from Rochester can’t keep her problems to herself. Would she stand up in a waiting room and proclaim “I have the shits, can anyone help me” or “My vaginal running sores are beginning to smell”? It’s highly doubtful, yet that is exactly what they do in front of all those junior doctors with a lust for sharing their charisma with all the lepers in media-land.
Of course, the same applies to idiots who blog. Talk to your family for god’s sake.
As we’ve seen in recent years, the US presidential elections affect us all and it’s always worth following the candidates to see what the world will look like in a few years time. This article looks at Barack Obama, a black american who has hopes of winning and who has the crowds shouting “yes, we can”. Hopefully, this election won’t be fixed.
In the minutes between everything, I have managed to add more useless tips to what is fast becoming a global phenomenon in travel writing. Take that as you will but keep an eye on IVEBEENTHERE for many great things.
Mostly though, I have been yearning for the sweet writings of my sucrose enriched friend, the Binsey Blogger and had to get the rush from his travel writing.
But where have all the sweet things gone? Have your teeth fallen out?
OK, calm down. I’m talking about the travel sort of guide. This is a cookie-free site. I’ve been writing away in between waiting for my machine to finish compiling/rendering or rebooting and you can read some of my dribblings here.
And to cheer up this site with a little colour, here’s a photo:
Whilst feeding the ever-ravenous bile monster within, I came across an article on noise that managed to fill a corner. Confined by extensive legislative measures to public transport I am sorry to say I am at my worst whilst travelling due to the constant sound of ipods (I hope you notice how daring I am by mis-representing the standard spelling of that device) and mobile phones. It makes me yearn for an enclosure so soundproofed that I can murder an elephant without disturbing the mental processes of the Daily Mail reader sitting next to me. Mind you, most of them seem deaf and dumb anyway.
This morning I have been fingered by the po-lice. My declaration of love for the works of Mr Oscar Wilde were not enough to prevent me being escorted to somewhere more private.
The officers were very polite and informed me that they were conducting random searches because we are, y’know, still on a terrorist alert. I knew it was random because they told me they had decided to stop the first person wearing a woolly hat. Thankfully, section 44 of the Terrorism Act (2000) allowed them unreasonable grounds to stop and search anyone they should so choose. It is to reassure the general public, which, no doubt, they are. Certainly in the morning, on my usual train, they will be sitting face to face with me fully reassured that someone they have seen day in, day out, has been pulled aside by the police. Tomorrow I might carry a large, ticking clock with me. Or a dead ferret and some swarfega – just to confuse things.
Of course I did protest, making it clear that I disagreed with the powers they were using but I was reassured by the argument that if they found something on someone then I wouldn’t be complaining. How stupid did I feel after that? Here’s me standing in the way of preventing terrorism. Still, all’s well that ends and I have my official pink slip which means I can become a modern day Paddington Bear by wearing it pinned to my coat.
A watched peace is no peace at all.
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