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It's all hot and gooey today, my nice rose-scented body butter is slowly creeping down my legs. Annoyingly the weather forecast said it would rain, so I did my washing at midnight, during what I thought would be a brief reprieve from the downpour. Now my washing smells all funny and I still have no nice comfy knickers to wear. Maybe I should have requested M&S pants for my birthday. Or maybe I should just go without pants, after all, it is summer.
As it's Monday, I read Charlie Brooker with my tea:
"Whenever I hear the phrase, "And now a special news report", I automatically start scanning the room for blunt objects
to club myself to death with in case they're about to announce nuclear war."
He puts very well what I have been thinking myself. On Friday morning, when I woke up to the news, I clicked on the BBC link and was taken to a live streaming video feed, a first for the BBC website, which doesn't normally allow me to do anything except listen to Late Junction. I left it running, and 45 minutes later they were still going over and over the same thing, trying to goad the head of the MJ fanclub into tears by asking him repeatedly how he felt about seeing images of Jackson's body being taken from the helicopter to a van. "Surely there must be something else going on in the world," I thought. It was all rather obscene; like a car crash, no one could look away from it.
And in tradition of not knowing what you've got til it's gone, and I myself am slightly guilty of this, Jackson's record sales have rocketed, making him number 1 in the UK album chart for the first time in 6 years.
Right, I need to stop sweating. Somehow.
As it's Monday, I read Charlie Brooker with my tea:
"Whenever I hear the phrase, "And now a special news report", I automatically start scanning the room for blunt objects
to club myself to death with in case they're about to announce nuclear war."
He puts very well what I have been thinking myself. On Friday morning, when I woke up to the news, I clicked on the BBC link and was taken to a live streaming video feed, a first for the BBC website, which doesn't normally allow me to do anything except listen to Late Junction. I left it running, and 45 minutes later they were still going over and over the same thing, trying to goad the head of the MJ fanclub into tears by asking him repeatedly how he felt about seeing images of Jackson's body being taken from the helicopter to a van. "Surely there must be something else going on in the world," I thought. It was all rather obscene; like a car crash, no one could look away from it.
And in tradition of not knowing what you've got til it's gone, and I myself am slightly guilty of this, Jackson's record sales have rocketed, making him number 1 in the UK album chart for the first time in 6 years.
Right, I need to stop sweating. Somehow.