No smoke without fire

It's an ill wind that grows no moss; (eh?), or something, and it's a cold wind that blows through the lives of everyone (come again?) and it was a long, hot and sultry night watching journalists (BBC, NME; surely ne'er the twain shall meet? Definitely ne'er the twain shall wear the same sort of clothes) and fan-club managers and other Muso intelligentsia seeking appropriate platitudes to deal with the momentous news of the death of the (very) young and (very) controversial, little MickeyJackson. When once the media were baying for blood, (or whatever would run through the body of such a man) now they are cauterising their howls with attempts to explain, through psycho-babble, the man and his relationship with children. Who knows, really, what drove the man?





The King of Pop is dead. Long live the brand(ed) new King. He being the one created right now through the annals of memory, by fans hostile to any examination, by any old bandwaggoners who seek power over a crazily publicised icon. That said, it will be interesting to see what truths venture beyond the power of money. And indeed, which lies mutate to lay claim to any putative money. The new King may well end up as quite a different shape from the one that died yesterday. Somehow, that would seem fitting.



Whether or not you liked his music you couldn't have avoided it. He certainly had a presence, too. And it may be that the cumulative Thriller will for ever now be seen as his swan-song. Rolling on a river.....or was that recorded by someone a tad more butch? Ah, yes, that's right, it was Tina.



One image that will stay with me, for some reason, is of Michael dangling his alleged child over a balcony.


Very positively, he is credited seriously with breaking down racial barriers through his music. And who can knock him for that?


Anyway, the one thing we can now be pretty sure of now is that choppy cosmetic surgery doesn't extend human life, unless he was previously programmed to die at fifteen.



Back to the title of the blog. Would you believe, just as I was coming to the pleasant end of a three year stint, a Boss raises a poised spade and starts digging himself a great big hole, yeah, truth, and then I slowly see him lowering himself into it. Poses the question: are all bosses thick, intransigent, rude, obfuscating men or is this just my experience of them? Do they somehow see themselves as being beyond the realm of normal discourse? This guy works in education for Heaven's sake. More as the story develops. Oh, tired.

The fall of Mrs T

Dear-oh-dear, she has gone down, and in doing so has broken an arm. Far be it from me to say that there is or is not a God, but when tumultuous news comes on one's own birthday, it seems that there may be a livelier, wider scheme.......

And so, fair Heavens to Magatroyd, the pendulum may slowly be swinging in a different favour. We'll keep a yellowing eye on this one.

Good days to you all.

No Twiglets yet, for those of you who know that we are awaitng the births of possible several pot-belly babies. Ahhhhhh. There will be pictures. When there are babies.

In it, innit.

In Blogsville, innit?

Now then. You may wonder about the title. I want you to know that I have met some very, very nice bosses. The ones who don't fall into that category are also some I have encountered along the way. I don't intend naming names here, the deeper would be the doggy doo-doo, but you know who you are and even though you tried to gag me I am back.