Literature and Latte

It's nearly 11pm uk christmas time, and I am turkey'd out and turning off all the buzzing electric goods that came on automatically in my office at 9am.

But I couldn't actually turn off the computer straight away, because Darcy Bussell's Grande Finale was on eyetv, and there is something so uncontrollably fascinating about men ballet dancers with just tights on. I am sure it's not just me whose eyes are explicably drawn to the crotch area and those tightly spun buttocks, never mind what they are supposed to be expressing.

It's just an excercise in weirdness to watch 7 men dance delicately, but slightly out of sync across a bare stage to operatic singing that doesn't gel with the orchestral melee. Modern dance has a subtle but distinct flavour, doesn't it. It's like a curry made from cabbage and a rock.

Then the ladies sashay in, but again - it's modern, and at best a juxtoposition of gawky arm flapping over trunctated traditional moves. The grace is lacking, but the wiry flatchested women still have bum's I'd kill happily for. (People have always said I've got dancers' legs, but that's just a polite way of saying that that my calf muscles are absurdly big.)

So that's the end of my christmas day - did anyone care to see the queens speech, or is royalism a bygone era?

Were sprouts on the menu?

Pink wrote

7 men dance delicately, but slightly out of sync across a bare stage to operatic singing that doesn't gel with the orchestral melee... a curry made from cabbage and a rock... a juxtoposition of gawky arm flapping over trunctated traditional moves... wiry flatchested women.............. and sprouts?

Good grief. And I thought I had a lacklustre holiday.

Phil

words fail me....just....fail me!

And that's pretty serious. I'd have thought some fit semi naked men would have loosened your tongue quite well!

I would have rather watched the Nutcracker, but I am wary of mentioning that in front of Vic.

Everyday, is a day closer to that inevitable, tap...tap...tapping on the Pearl Gates and I know I have a lot to answer for. I`m just hoping St.Peter is in a forgiving mood when I get there He couldn`t possibly condemn me for merely having cyber knowledge of a.....again, words fail me....fail...m....

I am sure he has a sense of humour. Who knows what he wears under that robe?

Oh jeeezz!
she`s started on the saints now I`m damned....and doomed

I understand that his sandals are buffed to a spit-shine, there being an incredible (well, I don't believe it anyway) superfluity of angels with nothing better to do. Probably if you stand close enough, or at just the right angle, you could see what was under the robe. Standing too close, of course, involves a level of incidental incendiary reprisal, while trying to get an angle on the old (are we sure it's a guy? I mean, what if god (or God) turned out to be... but I digress. As the old joke goes, when asked if anything was worn under his kilt, the Scotsman said, "Nay, lass, everything's just as good as it ever was."

Phil

Sheenan!

When you catch the final ferry, you`ll drop for the lot, and deserve every bit of it!! . With a name like yours, there`s gonna be a devil dodger at your side, offering you salvation and a chance to repent. But! Some things you won`t be allowed to repent. You`re as bad as she is! You`re just encouraging her and that`s the last thing she needs. She`s probably on the Vatican hit list already, and no doubt the lists of other faith based retribution squads:shock:

And as for Protestants like me, we`re on a loser anyway. God`s a Catholic!
I`m doomed...doo....