'Sardines talk with a New York accent, I tells ya.'

Another

Go! obedient to my call,
Turn to profit thy young days,
Wiser make betimes thy breast
In Fate's balance as it sways,
Seldom is the cock at rest;
Thou must either mount, or fall,
Thou must either rule and win,
Or submissively give in,
Triumph, or else yield to clamour:
Be the anvil or the hammer.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832)

'It'd be great to do it in a vintage diving bell at the bottom of the ocean.'

There is nothing I hate more than a female journalist blathering on about modern day mating rituals and the numerous ways to get the cuirassier of your dreams. It is precisely for this reason that I have turned my attention to Lucy Mangan who’se Guide To Being A Girl begins with the following cunterratum: ‘...from the age of about eight onwards (later if you are posh and have ponies to obsess about and so can sublimate your sexual urges by competing in gymkhanas), the race is on to get a boyfriend.’ It is perhaps inconceivable to a woman like Mangan, with her pre-school house-frau aspirations, that while her prepubescence was spent building a reputation as the classroom slut the rest of us were trying to get to grips with math equations. But never mind that. It’s not her early forays in to tactical-man-trapping that turns me a darker shade of salmon. No. It’s her consummately moronic manual-guide that incites a certain urge to perforate any one of her organs with the sharp-end of a bradawl. Mangan’s wishy-washy ideas on dating and mating – with the same depth of judgment as those of a streetwalker – manifest themselves in monotonous stereotypical eructations about grooming, screwing and the like. I have little inclination to discuss her cuntcoctions at length or try to understand the mind-crippling nonsensical observations such as: ‘Dating may be the reason we (women) don't rule the world. Nothing saps a girl's will or zest for life like it’ or ‘Post-25, your relationships are defined by unrelieved anxiety about the present - could he be The One? Could I make him into The One?’ or better yet, the ways to prepare for a date:’Stop eating and take eight days off work to start exfoliating...Have cosmetic surgery to get rid of unsightly blemishes and noses...Apply make-up with all the proper brushes, puffs, sponges and curlers.’ and so on until eventually Miss Mangan writes herself completely out of relevance.
I do however wonder how this sort of spumous mullock gets in to print and more importantly who buys it. But perhaps I will never know…unless…I join some sort social club for prospective bunny-boilers with self-esteem issues, an inordinate penchant for vodka and Gloria Gaynor’s greatest hits. Then again, I think I’d rather not know. I think I’d rather just pronounce Miss Mangan and her ilk as certified cunts and be done with it.

That big nose of yours been goin' over me like a sheep in a vegetable patch.
Henry Fonda – The Grapes of Wrath

You can't eat the venetian blinds; I just had 'em installed on Wednesday.
Jack Nicholson – Chinatown

Waiter, will you serve the nuts? I mean, would you serve the guests the nuts?
Myrna Loy – The Thin Man

I want to be with you so much; my knees feel like...like they have knives in them.
Coleen Gray – Red River

You know I've always been a little soft in the head where you're concerned.
Jack Carson – Mildred Pierce

'When I open the cupboards hundreds of moths fly-out like out of some sort of surreal Russian play.'

If I had three wishes I’d use one of them to banish Kate Nash to another dimension. Not merely because her wailing-confabulations about lemons and bastard-boyfriends give me a fuck-off headache of Armageddon proportions but also because her lack of musical ability and skill as a lyricist is agitproped as ‘talent’ and rammed down our throats by the trifling crustaceans working in the music business. I wouldn’t mind this elephantine songstress so much if it weren’t for her chipper disposition, her chavbulous fashion-sense and her high-achievements in the field of female-neurosis…on second though, I think I’d still pray someone would stick a ballistic missile up her arseroon.

Oh and one more thing, if anyone was born-to-be in the cunt collective surely her.

‘She didn't seem the type to fuck on a treestump.’

'I don't get haircuts because I don't trust people with scissors behind me.'

'I always seem to end up with the cheap rubbish that has fallen off the back of a lorry from China.'

...does remind me of someone...hmm...I wonder who it could be?

I don’t cry easily, or very often, unless I hit my thumb with a hammer or injure myself in some other outlandish way which oddly enough doesn’t happen very frequently despite me being a total accident freak. This week, however, I’ve cried twice already. TWICE! And the week isn’t even over yet. Reading about Bergman’s death saw me weeping on to my keyboard in front of a handful of strangers who must have thought I’d been jilted via email or something in that vein. I snubbed the sympathetic glances with a few hushed fuck yous and carried on. The second weeping of the week transpired this morning after I learned of Antonioni’s death. I didn’t know either of these men personally, still I cried. I cried for Syd Barrett and Saul Bellow too. The tears came without warning galloping down my cheeks whilst I read the blurred obituaries failing to convey the true genius of either of these men.

A skull is more interesting than a naked woman.
Gunnar Olsson – The Seventh Seal

You always say and do the very right thing and it's always wrong.
Harriet Andersson – Through a Glass Darkly

Semen smells nasty to me, I have a very keen sense of smell and I stank like rotten fish when I was fertilized.
Ingrid Thulin – The Silence

You need to put a lot of effort into not caring.
Erland Josephson – Scenes from a Marriage

No punishment is too severe for those that love.
Stig Järrel – The Devil's Eye