widg‧et /ˈwɪdʒɪt/ [wij-it] -noun: Pointless ramblings from the New Forest. Obviously complete & utter Rubbish. Why must I contibute to all this endless talk about me? My self-indulgent knees, spilling themselves all over the internet. Obviously i am Jon and his hair, I AM HIM!

Monday, April 23, 2007

Hymn Of Saint George

O ye liberator of captive toast,
And offender unto thy fiery teeth,
Physician of the mental,
And knee-er of groins,
O great goulash bearer,
And best matey, mighty & martyr George,
May that thou dost intercede with
Dave the inscrutable dragon that
Our most crumbly souls be saved (for a rainy day).

St. George, he be not just any Saint. He be a lightly braised, Turko-Palestinian, lance wielding, homo-erotic lizard prodding Saint; mythically glazed with the loving patronage of perfectly flaked skin disease, plagular buboes, sun-dried leprosy & the finest runny syphilis.


Currently listening: Now It's Time by Tarnation

Friday, April 20, 2007

No Good Breeder Goes Unpunished

As I was innocently & casually leafing through The Independent's Extra pages yesterday, I happened upon a couple of disturbing, yet juicy articles of faith & desire. Bypassing the first couple of stories, dedicated to Kate "can't design clothes for even the stickiest toffee, but boy can she look thin in a smock" Moss, and the newsworthy cat that spoons mice, I turned the page and found the story that would change my life forever (by 'change' I obviously mean 'keep exactly the same, but with an increased level of smugness at my consistent ability to be right').

Today, I bring you the message of The Voluntary Human Extinction Movement, or VHEMT for short, or Vehement if you like, or deranged weirdos to be more accurate. They seem to be a bunch of comedy, crackpot environmentalists who want to (save the cheerleader) save the world by ending the human race, hoorah. Not in some cultish murder-suicide pact, ah no, but by getting the chop, tying their tubes, spaying their loved ones, doing a eunuch, engaging in a riding "accident", wounding each other through the thigh, dancing the neuter, leaving nothing but a barren, plague-ridden and war-torn husk. In other words: no more breeding AND NO MORE BABIES!

Just wait for a minute, let me savour the flavour of that most delicious phrase for a touch longer. Let me imagine a world where grubby, little children will never again spill out onto the previously gleaming streets, tarnishing the golden paving with their green, sweating feet. Where their noxious fumes will not be smelt and their unearthly cries will have been silenced forever. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Sign me up, please. As they say in their glossy, recruitment brochure "May we live long and die out".

The second article that caught my thinning attention was a piece on the godlike Martha Wainwright, currently appearing in Kurt Weil's ballet-chanté thingy, The Seven Deadly Sins at The Royal Opera House in London's London. As my eyes skimmed the page, lingering a little too long on the photos of her glorious visage, my optrex enhanced globes of perception suddenly convulsed in spasms of horridity as I spied the evil words of doom that conveyed the offensive information that the fair maiden Martha is to be wed in not more than six months.

I now forswear my hitherto breeder-baiting stance, let the babies come, let them march from the four, heavily laden wombs of the apocalypse and lay waste to this hideous world where such cruel things can happen. The end is nigh.

Currently listening: Make Another World by Idlewild

Monday, April 16, 2007

Master Of Thumbs

Had I realised that even more tasty events were in store for me at work on Friday night, my previous entry may have taken on a whole new scatty dimension.


It all began with a bored policeman, popping in to tell us that he had seen an amusement of little children filled with booze-juice just half a mile away, but the next time he looked they had cleverly hidden their precious liquid behind their minds. Quelle suprise. His job now complete, he shimmied out the door and left us to our fate.


A couple of hours later, while I was tending to the whims & fancies of the wine trolley, in walked a little fella I like to call 'Rat Face: The Next Generation'. He loaded his stunted arms up with a suspicious amount of brightly coloured alcohol, prompting a surreptitious dash to the scene of the unfolding crime around the corner. They they were: an annoyance of 300 screeching kids.




Rat Face 2's purchases were duly confiscated with minimal skirmish. We were followed back to our safe haven by two delightful young ladies, they declared that they required more lubrication, despite the fact that they still carried two illegal cans of finest lager. I courteously asked them to bugger off, but was told to take a chill pill, daddio.


On their way out they thought it would be great larks to snaffle a wine, and thusly they did. We gave chase to their mysterious & dark premises, behind the curry garden, the scene of many a hideous eye-bleeder. The barely concious thief was sat on the ground, babbling "Who are you? Did they see me nick it?"

ding-dinger-ding-dinger-ding-dingadinga-ding ding-dingdinga-ding-dingdingding

"Yes, I think you'll find we did!" said I, to the delight of no-one but me. With half the bottle already lost to the throat in the two minutes since it was stolen, I took the remaining evidence back to the shop, all the while being lightly assaulted by a small, blonde nine year-old. The police were duly called, but as per usual, were about as much use as an imaginary spoon.


At the after show party we were treated to the spectacle of broken spectacles, or glasses if you will; nearly broken glass, of the coffee table variety; a dinner stealing interloper, kindly offering it to other people, leaving trails of random debris & bath wee; Wii-boxing fun and the next exciting instalment of the lap dance saga.

Hurbpty-burptly-girdugirdy-blaaah-bla-bla-bla-laa-laa Bee-Ay-eN-Ay-eN-Ay-eS

Currently listening: This Nation's Saving Grace by The Fall

Friday, April 13, 2007

All In The April Evening

This may be a short tale of woe and wonderment from the vale of Thresher, the place where wheat and chaff will be parted, but 'tis most authentic nonetheless.

I have truly seen the seven wonders.

'Twas naught but a humble Thursday that in appearance seemed a day too near. Whilst my allies were far away, snatching the last of the sun from the golden gardens of beer, I steeled myself against the brewing storm. And on they came, wave upon wave of oppugnant bushwhackers, they had come to tirelessly vex my patience and brutally vex me they did.

A kumquat in hand, a heavy bloom of spring falling from my person, I fended off the ancient fivers & fake ponies with my trusty tuberculean spatula.

I hid the cider from the bulbous grunties, with their rotary engine tits, behind the silken llama pyjamas of regret. I laughed in their hockeypuck faces, my vibrant retorts dripping with oodles of schm-reduplication.

The wannabe heathen thieves were thwarted by mine own bouffant restricted eye, I sent them on their way to the mythical land of Belgium in search of snu-snu.

The poor imbecilic wench that so presumptuously demanded precious coppers of me with lashings of deceit and obfuscation was rewarded with a sour galosh of cockles and mussels and winkles, alive-alive-ho.

Following up the rear were a trio of tiny antagonists belonging to this endless and most ridiculous clan of angries. They brought with them their shoes and guacamole drenched nasal fluff and shouted as one, "Come ye brothers, let us loot what we can and sow dissent where we may!" They did try, bless 'em, but my beguiling, yet also withering vibraphone smile put paid to even their most dastardly plans and the weasels ran with their very real tails between their legs.

Me - Seven, Customers (Ha!) - Nil.

Currently listening: Sensuous by Cornelius (It may be this that has addled my mind)

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Feel The Beet

Beware the vulgar beetroot.

Don't let her bedazzle you with her wily stems of colour. She lines her fiendish traps with sugar, and guilds them with mangold. She spends her lazy days in front of her icy mirrors preening her soiled roots and soaking herself in vast vats of bulls' blood in order to keep her scaly flesh moistened. She keeps her albino children locked away underground, their screams of disinterest haunt her foetid dreams; it is her one secret shame.

Her Greek cousin, Wurzel, will entice you with song into consuming vast quantities of forbidden garlic. Only then will she pounce, draining you of all your precious turnip blood, leaving you in a pool of your own feet. All you can do is watch her slither away, as everything fades to red, and off in the distance the only sound you can hear is a self-satisfied, golden burp.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

The Ballad Of The Steaming Fiddly-Pig

'Tis the season to be oval. Fa la la la la, la la la egg. Like an imaginary cat's egg, apparently.

I suffered through an interminably busy Eggy Sunday at work, since we were the only boozy shop open in town and the alcoholic inhabitants obviously cannot go without topping up their intoxication threshold for more than a minute and a half at a time. After a trip to London's London and two mid to heavy drinking sessions I was feeling a little fatigued, but there was no time to rest. Before even my precious egg had had time to melt in the afternoon sun, it was onward to Fareham for their (& Gosport's) very own Easter Folky Festival of Fun.

We disembarked from our Italian chariot just in time to partake of a few select slices of crunchy pig betwixt creamy, white baps; but it wasn't all healthy as we were encouraged to flood the hog sarny with dollops of unbearably fresh apple sauce. I took my pork-slimed fingers with me, in order to grease up the previously clean record stall. I picked up many musical treats, but they were all destined to slip through my moist digits; but soon my hands dried to a sticky consistency, and with a crack (crack!) my resistance failed and I was able to leave with a slightly clammier than intended CD. My hardening resistance held up to the constant onslaught of tie-dye memorabilia and, clutching my precious plastic cup of real ale, I took my place in the red brick surroundings of Ferneham Hall.

I've been here a few times, usually playing to the mainly dessicated crowd in their Sally Army bonnets, but here I was just a passive observer, only contributing a few odd noises and timely knee wiggles to the proceedings. First up was Middlesbrough duo, Megson, their slightly stilted between song banter only made their understated modern folk all the more endearing. Next up was the unknown to me, Scottish-based trio, Lau; although the mad, hairy, Bernard-Blackesque one had a distinctly English accent. Anyway, it turns out they're on the same record label as Joan As Police Woman (of Rufus Wainwright/Antony & the Johnsons/Tanya Donelly fame) and contain 2007 BBC Folk Awards Horizon winner, Kris Drever from Orkney. They gave an immensely enjoyable performance, prone to manic wig-out jams. Last on at Ferneham was Mr Steaming Fiddle himself, Seth Lakeman. A nice selection of new songs, a new drummer with a real rock drum kit (ooh) and a gooey-eyed mother next to me all made for a strangely satisfying evening.

After the steam had settled we popped across the road to the Lysses House Hotel to catch the end of Irish chanteuse, Heidi Talbot's set. I was aghast by the lack of cowbells, but the abundance of grandpapas more than made up for it. Suddenly the room was filled by a haze of water vapour, the members of the Seth-fancying persuasion tried to hold in their squeals as Mr Lakeman appeared at the back of the room, scalding those around him with his plumes of subconscious steam. Once the music stopped we all shuffled past, trying not to get caught up in his gaseous halo. When we were out of earshot my excited mum couldn't help but blurt out "Ooh, I could've touched him!" This was obviously what everybody was thinking, but I managed to keep my many, secret urges to myself.

Currently listening: Lightweights and Gentlemen by Lau

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Woogie Woogie

The weekend got off to a cracking start with a visit to Wembley's renowned building site, with it's dusty arch of doom beckoning us closer to Duncan from Blue's spangly pants. Yes, you are most correct, we were there to witness Empress Bonnie Langford's crowning achievement, "Torvill & Dean's Dancing On Ice The Live Tour Featuring Andi Peters And His Leg". Yes, you are again most correct, once more the evil genius of Andi Peters has usurped poor, elderly Pip Schofield from his highly skilled presenting duties; and in the process ousted simpering Holly 'Chase That Wolf' Willoughby from her place at the right hand of Robin Cousins. But once Minogue & Madeley (as my deluded flat-mate likes to think of them) took to the ice, all was forgiven.

As if I didn't already feel as camp as the nasty judge in the polo neck, I was soon witness to the spectacle of Torvill & Dean whizzing round the glacial floor to the manly sounds of Queen. My gutteral roars drew the attention of the pre-pubescent girls and arthritic denizens of the row in front, but soon their itzy-ditzy lady-attention was drawn to the subhuman, boy-band skating contingent. My brother cheered on the one out of 2.4 children, sarcasm oozing from every yelp, my mother opted for Bonnie. The crowd favourite appeared to be Kyran Bracken, but as always mother knows best and the be-gingered one went on to triumph over her earthbound underlings. It was all over in a flash of sequins, so we wiped ourselves down with our already soiled tissues and went on our way.

We returned to London's West End, the scene of the early morning's frenzied pressie buying. Like an extended Dale's Supermarket Sweep, we had scoured the golden streets for suitable birthday booty, but now all we longed for was a drink to sooth our craving throats. Once inside, I was bitterly disappointed by the inaccuracies I spied in the food directory of the famous public house, The Clarence, deep in the wilting heart of London's Mayfair. Under the entry for Toad in the Hole was such a monstrous list of wrongness & tragedy, it brought a tear to my aching eye: a round (!) Yorkshire pudding; an unecessarily large Cumberland sausage plonked on top; topped with evil mashed potato; and then, as if that wasn't enough to chill your soul, drenched in a travesty of instant gravy. Now, in my rotund experience, this poor excuse of a recipe, a holey toad does not make. One does not build it like a Lego ham sandwich. The glistening sausage is baked inside the gloopy batter to create an integrated dish of intrinsic & exquisite beauty. I could do nothing, but to flee the premises in floods of glee, and retire to London's Berkeley Square to be comforted by the hideous silence emanating from the circling flocks of extinct nightingales.

Before hailing our homeward carriage we stopped at the headquarters of London's Battlestar Galactica for a draught of London's finest mass produced coffee. We kept a flinching eye on London's two mysterious strangers who occupied the comfy seats, suspiciously not appearing to touch their oversized mugs, just in case they were planning a criminal raid on our precious bodies. London's toilets seemed to be a popular venue as there were never less than three people loitering outside the slowly moistening door. The Clarence's lowly boglet was no less popular, requiring a twenty minute wait for a very sniffy man to exit before I could loosen my stiffening bladder.

We returned home to the dying minutes of the day, just in time to celebrate another anniversary of womb escapology. Representations of frogs and dogs and octopodes were sacrificed to the impending matriarch, but no cows. The revelries continued well into the morning, with the smiling ghosts of Josh Rouse and Torvill & Dean watching over our swimming minds and keeping our livers nicely pickled.

Currently listening: She's Spanish, I'm American by Josh Rouse & Paz Suay

Sunday, April 01, 2007

I Pity The Fool

Welcome, my poor aphrilophobes to your very own day, I now count myself as one of your number. I have had a very frustrating morning hunting the gowk, and after two & a half hours of hair-ripping, speed-dialling & stress-clicking I was confronted by the horrifying message: "Glastonbury Tickets Sold Out".


I frantically checked my back for fish, but alas & alack, it was no April fool. Shirley Bassey will not be mine. Le Poisson d'Avril has foiled my festival dreams. My new status, conferred upon me just last night by a presumably disreputable internet site, as a Visionary Philosopher has proven itself to be of no help whatsoever. I will just have to console myself with my miniature raspberry fool style dessert for one and a plastic spoon.

Currently listening: Mr T's theme song, 'I Pity The Fool' by David Bowie, amongst other 'Fool' songs by such diverse acts as Cat Power, Deep Purple, Roxette & the humble Shakira.