STOIC CHEESE.

Rivets in my spine. A long metallic grin.

This Tavener fellow and his Protecting Veil. I don't hear holy, I hear hole in the ground.

But their connection: woolly. Expound. Argufy. Give examples.

Project Objectify. Keepin' it light and oh-so-tight.

Look. I was gonna say stuff about, y'know, THE SPORT ITSELF, because even with my limited knowledge of skatesthetics/jargon I know Plushenko is hardcore brilliant. I was gonna try to pad and puff my post with absolutely scintillating trivia, such as the fact that, apart from being a superachieving ice star, he is also apparently in the Russian Army. I was gonna post pictures - naturally not the slightly scarring one where he's grinning at Vladimir Putin.

Then I thought, to hell with that shit! Ladies, laddies and all other gentlefolk of the world - I present Evgeni 'Sex Bomb' Plushenko.



Edit: barring the next Project Objectify post, all frothy frivolosity re footy will rest over at DLG.

the unimaginable zero summer

Dear October:


Please be quiet.

Hmm.

The local rickshawallahs are dragging out their Bishhokorma Pujo celebrations. Which include playing music really loudly. It's always Rabindrasangeet and classic Bangla film songs in the morning, and Hindi filmi hits in the afternoon. Really, it's like an unwritten rule. You know how specific ragas are associated with specific hours/periods of the day? Reminds me of that.

Last night after a weekend's worth of gnashed teeth and high blood pressure I ended up watching both English Premier League matches on tv - Chelsea-Liverpool and Arsenal-Man.Utd, each ending 1-0. I'll spare this little blog my match babble, except I am a goalie fan and I cannot lie even by omission. Petr Cech was wonderful, which made me root for Celsea even though I don't exactly support either team. See how complicated football fandom is? And in the other one, green (erm, literally, too) boy Tomasz Kuszczak did his 'mates proud. Of course Arsenal were once again criticised by the commentators for being slow starters, for not capitalising on all their chances, for their lack of Thierry Henry. I mean, I agree with the second one, but English footy seems to have this unhealthy obsession with madscramblethud!action. It makes for excellent dorkiness, of course, but I suppose I'm used to a slower, more Machiavellian oh did I just type that? scratch it more calculated style of play.

Oops, babbling despite myself. Jens Lehmann almost got his darling face broken while blocking from - was it Cristiano or Wayne Rooney? One of the brats, anyway. That was close. Over during Milan-Parma, though, poor ickle Gilardino's match ended in blood and stitches. It's not serious, but again. Close.

This morning, among the many appalling news stories I woke up to, this one gave me a bit of hope. Not the bit about the actual fact of the commercial, but the fact that Vasselli isn't taking this shit as the 'harmless joke' the men responsible for it so conveniently thought it was. You know how feminists are, always getting their knickers in a twist over yet another harmlessly jokey jab at their historical and innate incompetency at, well, everything including recognising 'irony'.

Two steps forward, three steps back: or, internalised misogyny is such a bitch (ooh, I was being ironic, don't you know). If that's depressing, have a non-sexist giggle over this!

Of bards, boys and birds.

We are studying 'Hamlet'. I am geeking out on the textual studies geekery of it.


I want. Not fond of this unhealthy obsession with the EPL, although so many of my favourite players are there. Butbut Scottish, Dutch and French league matches! I haff neffer seen those! Now if only someone would show some Bundesliga and Liga Argentina... Oh who am I kidding. I barely ever have time to watch anything, much as I'd love to. And it is frustrating to watch footer on tv anyway, imagine myopic eyes swimming in a sea of icklebickle pinpickle, and the camera whorishly following the ball even though it's almost as much fun to watch one of the goalies keep himself awake at the far end... And I still haven't decided whom to make that subversively fruity Project Objectify (a.k.a Hot Male Athletes Are Just That) post on. Aishwarya decided on Rafael Nadal, he-who-is-too-young, and Supriya on Thierry Henry, who is like an ice dancer except on grass not ice and with a ball not skates. Um.


Um. Yes. So. In my frivolous froufrouey way, the only news I will comment on has little to do with war, horror and woe, not because I don't care or have my head under sand or anything, but because this blog is now officially frothcentric. Until the next white-hot feminist rant, at any rate. The news is this: a new bird species has been discovered in India, specifically in Arunachal Pradesh. It has been named the Bugun Liocichla and it is most darling to behold, assertively coloured (guessing the picture in the paper is of a male) and spiky-capped. I read also that it has a beguiling song. How lovely is the loveliness. There doesn't seem to be too many of them, which is a situation that one hopes will change. If only there were incentive packages for the reproduction of birds, eh? (I think that rant is about to explode on to this blog very soon.)

WWJD? Whom would Jesus do? It could be... YOU!

So I rediscover an old song whose violiny bits I rather liked. Ah, it's 'Flames' by Vast. Slow and schmoopy and simple, good song for a not-yet-rainy afternoon. And ah, there are the angsty violiny bits. And ok, so the lyrics are utterly useless... 'Close the door, leave your fears behind, let me give you what you're giving me...' And then the guy goes, 'Just put me inside you, I will never ever leave.' Repeats this, more insistent now. Then crooning and violins. By now the song's spell, however cheap and brief, has been utterly broken.

I suppose the reason I collapsed into snickers has to do with a story a friend related this morning, from today's paper (I shall have to ask which one). Something about a group of nuns bringing in a hysterical rickshawallah. The rickshawallah moaned and writhed and rolled his eyes before his anxious audience - some of whom thought the poor man was going through a heart attack. But what was really happening? 'Jesus had come in him'.

Anyway, I'm going to listen to some nice Mahmoud Ahmad songs now and attempt to write something that resembles verse.

Hwæt!

My internet and computer both seem to be working, and, shockingly, in synchrony! Praise them with great praise. And I have rather neglected the blogosphere for a long time, haven't I? Have kept busy, though, with medieval texts on virginity (damned if you do, damned if you don't), trashy cable telly, and before I forget to underline this, league football

During the World Cup I remembered why and how much I'd loved the whole sprawling mess; by now, I'm keenly aware of the perilous state of my blood pressure. Because I realised: this is why I stopped watching. God, the corruption, the conflicting rumours of transfers and public statements, the conspicuous lack of any football beyond the bloody EPL on tv (rodeo boys, golfers and cricketers of the world, never have I hated you more)... But it is exactly this helpless and cynical excitement I seem to crave. I suppose I can live with the collateral damage - worrying over whether the bloodthirsty moneybags who run the business will tear Jesusboy Kaká away from AC Milan, or why Alessandro Nesta is selling Gatorade instead of spumante. Anyway, it is a beautiful game, and I'm touched by the vanity and the sublimity. Despite myself.

Regarding Steve Irwin, whose death prompted the Telegraph, my current Englang daily, to print two obituaresque articles in yesterday's paper. He seems either to be adored for his all-too-easily caricatured Australianisms and love of wildlife, or to be demonised for trying to feed his son to a crocodile and generally Disneyfying everything with teeth and scales. I actually thought immediately of Timothy Treadwell, alias the 'Grizzly Man', who got himself and his girlfriend killed by bears three years ago. Treadwell made the monumental mistake of thinking himself very like a bear, which bit of delusion proved fatal. On the other hand, people dying on the job - happens all the time, why bring convoluted notions of karma/ the animal world 'taking revenge' (Germaine, Germaine, you are not very germane) into it? What a singular connection to have made with a sea creature. Poor bloke.