mr. zilla goes to town

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

around the grounds

Barista links us to an ably captured and absolutely gutting post-Katrina photoblog & personal narrative. Start from the bottom and scroll upwards, I'm still working my way through it.

Tom 'the hammer' DeLay scores another two indictments, this time for money laundering. Man, I hope he gets the full perp-walk treatment.

On the same day, Bush demonstrates once again how the wafting stench from the rot of corruption in the GOP is the only oxygen he knows. With the nomination of Harriet Miers for the Supreme Court, Bush shows a passionate regard for the equality of the human rights of all people in his close personal orbit, regardless of gender, race, or demonstrated experience and ability in a role. (Come on, I'm sure poor Brownie is just a persecuted Incompetent-American!) Following through on his policy of abject cronyism at the highest levels, nominee Miers has in the past been Bush's personal lawyer, has spent most of her career hitched to the Bush family wagon, and has never been a judge. He's like a rat in a sewer. No, that's not right. He's like a turd in a sewer. Fortunately (?), hardline conservatives are also up in arms about the proposed appointment, albeit for different reasons.

Closer to home, former Tory MP, British diplomat and current Oxford University Chancellor Chris Patten has just released his memoir in which he reveals that Dutch Prime Minister Jan-Peter Balkenende "really does look like Harry Potter" and that US Ambassador to the UN John Bolton is "the Pavarotti of neo-conservatism". This delightfully slanderous prattle will no doubt make for amusing dinner conversation around town, but it must be juxtaposed with the brutal crushing of democratic counter-dissent on the streets of Oxford. The Pavarotti of pikey-bashing and Oxford University Not-chancellor Phil Mosley copped a caution for visually retorting to the recent Oxford bunny huggers' march:

In other Oxford news, Blind Freddie can tell the academic year is just beginning and its freshers' week. How's that you ask? Well the overpowering stench of vomit that pervaded the dancefloor at my Monday night gig would be an indication. Curiously, the smell disappeared unbidden about 10 minutes later - despite the bar staff searching high and low and failing to find anything to apply a mop to. It was like a Miss Marple mystery, the Strange Case of the Intermittent Dancefloor Whoopsie. I mean, WTF? Was it some plastered young fresher lass who felt that upholding Oxbridge etiquette required her to insert the contents of her stomach neatly into her handbag, and that decorum dictated a period of no less than 10 minutes to linger and finish her drink before heading out? If so, who was this girl, and did someone get her number to pass on to her college rowing squad captain?

Freddie might not have seen the fight that broke out between a couple of guys ten minutes before close though. I can't help feeling slightly responsible; I think the gents involved took me dropping Jet's 'Are you gonna be my girl' as the signal to decide who was going home with the two lasses in the corner, who had spent the preceding few hours grinding against each other, the walls, passers-by, and probably even the Dutch Prime Minister had he popped in. (The answer, of course, is neither.)

Fortunately there are salves out there for such late night shenanigans. Jazz Picante in Lisbon is my favourite new radiostream discovery. The 30 Sep show is true quality. Check it out.


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