33rd over: England 102-1 (Cook 53 Bell 17) No, Ian Forth, that is not my problem ta. My problem is that it's 6.18 in the morning and I've been up for three hours already, my problem is that I've had three-and-half-hours of sleep, my problem is that I should have stayed out even later having Merry Christmas frolics but I had to go home to come here, my problem is that I spend my afternoons sitting staring into the middle distance of the wallpaper in my flat because of general sleep deprivation my problem is that the only thing to eat in this building before 8am is tobacco smoke, and to do that I have to go down six floors and stand in a carpark, my problem is that this game is meaningless and largely rubbish, my problem is that Alastair Cook is a singularly boring batsman to watch, my problem is that the coffee here comes out of plastic sachets and tastes of rubber my problem here is that somebody is walking around my chair hoovering the crumbs off the floor from the free pies and booze my colleagues tucked into yesterday afternoon after I'd left, my problem is that apart from the cleaner who growls at me there is no one to talk to in this 1980s monstrosity of an open-plan office my problem is that someone has decided now is a good time to tests on the fire alarm, my problem has absolutely sod all to do with the fact that I haven't emigrated to Australia, my problem is that I'm not on holiday, my problem is that I'm not in bed, my problem is that I haven't been fed, my problem is that I have to sit here listening to Ian "lots of things in society are appalling, like grannies getting beaten and raped for a fiver" Botham, my problem is many many things but it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm not an Australian. Thanks. And my solution is that it has started raining and play has stopped. Hopefully for a long time. Prod me when it's tea. And while I'm on this topic my problem is that the lift is excessively verbose and feels compelled to tell me that I've decided to go up and that I should stand back from the doors, my problem is that this computer works erratically and the phone by its side doesn't work at all, my problem is that I'm not in Sri Lanka, my problem is that I no longer have Rob Smyth to sit next to so I can at least take consolation in looking at him and thinking 'at least I don't drink Relentless out of a brown paper bag' my problem is that the milk in the fridge is off, my problem is that you can't interview a sportsperson any more without plugging somebody else's crummy product, my problem is that no one likes County cricket anymore, my problem is that the rain has stopped and the covers are coming off and play will start at 7.03 my problem is that somebody at Sky actually thinks that the likes of Dominic Cork may have something more entertaining and insightful to say about play than any number of more intelligent and articulate journalists, my problem is that there isn't John Arlott any more, my problem is that there isn't Brian Johnson any more, my problem is Mark Ramprakash's tie knot, my problem is the skin on the top of the scrambled eggs when they've been sitting under a heat lamp for two hours in the canteen, my problem is that the New Zealand tour is likely to be equally anti-social and also utterly bobbins, my problem is the Premier League, my problem is 12 pages of sports news brought to you daily, my problem is comedy side-bars, my problem is Wayne Rooney's metatarsal, my problem is that no one wants to pick Ian Blackwell any more, my problem is the Rail network. My problem is that I don't have a pillow.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Forty pilgrims braved the bitterly cold weather to walk eight miles in the footsteps of the monks who carried the body of St Cuthbert from Chester-le-Street to Durham. The march was organised by the Northumbrian Association as part of its campaign to have the Lindisfarne Gospels returned to the region from the British Library in London. The manuscripts were created by Eadfrith the monk on Lindisfarne and dedicated to St Cuthbert, Northumberland's patron saint, who died in 687. They were intended to stay in Durham cathedral with St Cuthbert's body, but were taken by Henry VIII in 1537 and have been kept at the British Library since the nineteenth century. Northumbrian Association treasurer John Danby told the Newcastle Journal: "The Gospels were written in the north-east and were meant to stay here. They're part of our history and heritage. "The British Library has claimed we wouldn't be able to look after the Gospels and have said scholars wouldn't be willing to travel to the north-east to visit them," he said. "But as one of our members pointed out, we invented the railway for them to travel here." The gospels were seen by 180,000 people while they were on loan in the north-east in 2001.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

"infringing foresters.sweating comrades regrouped Anatolian Berman miscarriage"

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

'I think the manner was quite deplorable really. I don't think one can endorse in any way that, whatever your views about capital punishment. Frankly, to get the kind of recorded messages coming out is totally unacceptable and I think whoever is involved and responsible for it should be ashamed of themselves.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Permalink | Leave a comment  »

Spanning the period between the Chicago World's Fair of 1893 and the years just after World War I, "Against the Day" moves from the labor troubles in Colorado to turn-of-the-century New York, to London and Gottingen, Venice and Vienna, the Balkans, Central Asia, Siberia at the time of the mysterious Tunguska event, Mexico during the revolution, Paris, silent-era Hollywood, and one or two places not strictly speaking on the map at all. With a worldwide disaster looming just a few years ahead, it is a time of unrestrained corporate greed, false religiosity, moronic fecklessness, and evil intent in high places. No reference to the present day is intended or should be inferred. The sizable cast of characters includes anarchists, balloonists, gamblers, corporate tycoons, drug enthusiasts, innocents and decadents, mathematicians, mad scientists, shamans, psychics and stage magicians, spies, detectives, adventuresses, and hired guns. There are cameo appearances by Nikola Tesla, Bela Lugosi, and Groucho Marx. As an era of certainty comes crashing down around their ears and an unpredictable future commences, these folks are mostly just trying to pursue their lives. Sometimes they manage to catch up; sometimes it's their lives that pursue them. Meanwhile, the author is up to his usual business. Characters stop what they're doing to sing what are for the most part stupid songs. Strange sexual practices take place. Obscure languages are spoken, not always idiomatically. Contrary-to-the-fact occurrences occur. If it is not the world, it is what the world might be with a minor adjustment or two. According to some, this is one of the main purposes of fiction. Let the reader decide, let the reader beware; Good luck - Thomas Pynchon.

Permalink | Leave a comment  »