Careful now!

A public service announcement. Exercise extreme caution. These bears are very, very naughty and should only be approached with care. They may be considered pawed and dangerous.

Spud Murphy and his moll Bluebell may be found in those disreputable corners of the interknit where loud music and strong liquor is enjoyed. Naughty. Naughty.

Innocent young stuffies may be lured from the path of righteousness into a loose life full of alt-country music and nice frocks. One of Mr Murphy's associates is allegedly involved in yodelling.

Cosy crime travel to Wainwright while dangerous blondes lurk

A quiet day. Madame has Wainwright tonight. She has been curled up reading some Evelyn Waugh. A selection of his travel writing.

I'm not that keen on travel books. I would rather be out and doing for myself. But Madame is fond of the quirkier, chattier books. One bloke's trip around the shipping forecast. That kind of thing.

She is also on a cosy crime spree. Working her way through a pile of pretty green and white Penguins. Full of frustrated maiden aunts poisioning curates and housemaids with arsenic filled muffins.

I prefer my crime hardboiled. Chandler. Hammett. Noir. Flickering neon. Neat bourbon. Dangerous blondes.

Bears know all about dangerous blondes.

It's true. No bowl of porridge, no shuggly chair, no freshly made bed is safe while blondes roam free.

back, after this message from our sponsor ...

Madame has been unwell and hanging about the house. I had stuff to do. Work on my moustache. Manic Street Preachers' lyrics to deconstruct. More holiday tales to blog.

Instead. Sit about being supportive and sympathetic.

Oh. The. Joy.

And yet. Old time radio fun! Yay!!

I think I've mentioned before that we are big vintage radio fans. Sometimes we get lucky and there will be something good on BBC Radio 7. Maybe some episodes of Paul Temple. And it's always bona to catch a bit of Round the Horne.

But Madame not well. Big comfy Radio Noir marathon required.

The Saint. Vincent Price as Simon Templar - sounding strangely gothic while blondes and gangsters shoot it out around him. Some of the episodes end with a sweet little lecture from Mr Price on love and peace and tolerance. Jolly decent chap.

Only seem to be a few surviving episodes of Dr Morelle but they are worth listening to for the sheer breathtaking grumpiness. Imagine The Man Who Came To Dinner fighting crime on the mean streets of Kensington and Chelsea. Makes that Morse bloke look like "Rebecca of Sunnybrooke Farm". Wonder as his dippy assistant Miss Frayle refuses to brain him with a paperweight. Gasp as she fails to fill a misogynistic taxi driver full of lead. A classic grouchy afternoon comfort.

We've just made a start on The Falcon ... "brought to you by Gem Blades - the blades that help you avoid five o'clock shadow ... the Falcon ... always ready with a hand for oppressed men and an eye for repressed women!" Quite. Oooooooooo, it's all so butch. Cough. Yeah, dollface. Real manly.

Meh. But she's feeling a bit better. Thinks she'll be back at work tomorrow. So back to the grind for me.

Sigh. So - The Manic Street Preachers. "Autumn Song". Is it their attempt to get in touch with their inner Trinny & Suzanna? Shudder. Are lyrics - which appear to be saying "What have you done to your hair, woman? Look, just stick it in some bunches, slap on some make up, and go out and ... er ... jump in a pile of leaves/play conkers/do something autumnal" - really going to be enjoyed by women up and down the land? Or are the Manics going to be responsible for a rash of door slamming and face slapping? Or is it a very clever comment on the October Revolution and the lessons that can still be learned from a study of Socialist economic theory?

Yup. Back to the grind.

chocolate, bears, and grumpy like it's 1953

Latvians, bears and chocolate

Latvians, bears, chocolate and Estonians

I was hoping to get some background information from Jomas on these two items. But he's sulking. How was I supposed to know that he felt like that about the Pet Shop Boys?

Anyway. Humpf. We do all know that polar bears are smug, annoying, and responsible for global warming - don't we? Oh, well. Here's that Knut. Now he might be an iceberg botherer but ... death threats ... that's not big or clever. Sounds like a job for Lawyerbear. A good mauling. It's the only language that these criminals understand.

She's just wandered past. She sniggered. "You're turning into Noel Gallagher, you are. Next you'll be demanding they bring back National Service and rickets." An excellent idea. National Service. Not rickets. Hum.

This'll be middle age then.

Blah. She's bitter. I'm keeping her off the puter and there are new, exciting pictures of that Rufus bloke to dribble over. Rufus in lederhosen. Truly. Unless I was hallucinating.

I could be. She's tapping my head with a teaspoon and singing.

"I'm a little teapot" since you asked.

Badly.

Right. I'm off to write letters to the Daily Mail in green ink about the decline in standards.

If you are free of sugared-up women then you might want to have a wander over to The Weekly - Mr. Nash and Mr. Millington's fine production. Cast out the pesky!