Last weekend I had to have a haircut, the crappiest of all the chores. I find the process so boring that I always put it off for several Saturdays beyond the point of no return, meaning I have to go to work with my wonky thatch plastered into a side parting and walk around at the weekend looking like Edward Scissorhands.
But as I sat in the squeaky leather chair, squinting at the mirror (I am very blind) and noting glumly that the pink blob seemed bigger than ever in comparison with the brown blob, I thought - well, at least I can do a blog on this. Imagine my distress the next day when David Mitchell's latest podcast popped into my iTunes on exactly the same subject, only funnier than I would have been. So rather than go through with a second rate version I may as well link to his:
No such chore trauma this weekend. Was lured to the Tate Modern yesterday by more culturally curious chums. It is obviously the reflex of a moron to look at modern art and say "Ha! A five year old could do that!" but I certainly felt my knee jerking at some points. Particularly at the video of hippies rolling around in their pants rubbing themselves with raw meat and the entirely orange painting that had the aim of making me, the observer, "completely aware that I am where I am". But, as my friend and I agreed, whilst we might not understand most of it and might even dislike a lot of it we're very glad it's there.
Now I'm pecking away at my laptop and trying to ignore the drivel oozing from the TV. The missus has found an episode of Sex And The City to goggle at. Horse-face has fallen out with the ginger lesbian, the tart is having a perplexing feud with a transexual, the brunette is having it off with the bloke from Showgirls and the guy in London on his laptop is wondering if he can pull the TV plug out with his foot without the missus noticing.
On the upside, the Divine Comedy are back and are still brilliant:
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