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Fucking Aussie stalkers

Fri 25th October 2013

Reading a blog does not oblige anyone to comment on it; comments so made could sound forced. Some of the best things I read I am unable to comment on, because they make me think so much that I can only offer something banal which has already been done in the scroll upwards.

I've a pretty good idea of the identity of the great majority of my small group of regulars; and in the same way that acquaintances in a small city like mine can know each other by sight for decades without ever saying a word, I enjoy and appreciate our relationship of unspoken mutual acknowledgement.

However, I have two overkeen Antipodean readers I can't place. I would be grateful therefore, if these people could leave a comment or contact me offline. There is a point where silence is a breach of the social contract I consider you agree to by returning to my site so often.

First, there is a reader--although now, I suspect, a bot--using the University of Sydney's ISP. The other is a customer of TPG Internet in New South Wales. I realise every reload counts as a separate visit, but after over twelve hundred visits, I think it's time you left your card. I share my intimate life with you; this is a modest request for something less in return.

If you send me a little note soon, I will raise a glass in a vaguely southeasterly direction and we'll get on fine. Otherwise, I'll get your IP address range in its CIDR and banish it to the naughty step of my .htaccess file. I've had enough with Hong Kong Phoeey blanking me in my own house; I don't need it in my blog readers. I look forward to hearing from you both.

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 61 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
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