911 they killed Montgomery!

Here are a few pearls of wisdom I can share with you; some call it "hindsight".

When calling emergency services to report a car crash don't hysterically bleet down the 'phone "They killed Montgomery", unless of course Montgomery is a human being.  Because to them, the Coppers, in Los Angeles this usually signals a shooting.


I'm not sure the line "they've completely fucked him up the ass" helped to clarify matters either... 


And so it was to the scene, sirens blaring, that the police car pulled up to find a Los Angeles County public works truck and a rear ended black Mazda Miata, who goes by the name of Montgomery...


I suppose I could regale you with the tale of how I wailed to Officer Bonner (all it takes is a dropped 'n') on the corner of Hope Street whilst four Mexican municipal workers stood back for cover, but I won't.  I'll simply leave you with this, the full legal name of the Mexican that drove into the back of my precious:

CHRISTMAS SONG

Yes, that's right Ladies and Gentlemen, she's back, you can blame Jesus, and it's going to get nasty...

What would Serge say?

Driving at 100 top down on the freeway past midnight.  Serge would have approved.  He would probably have said non to the late night sugar coated doughnut that's currently gracing my ass, but so what, he's dead; let's live for the moment.

Talking of which, can we discuss the pleasure that were the people we were surrounded by at the Hollywood Bowl tonight?  The Serge Gainsbourg tribute concert (what else?) provided a spectrum of emotions generally confined to "The Real Houswives of Somewhere Real Estate Prices are Currently Falling".  To my left, a woman so obsessed by personal space that she rudely forced Frenetic out of his seat and onto my lap because we were crowding her.  No one's 'crowded" her since 1976, and that's her problem.  To Jill's left, a woman that frankly inspires one to set up a charity for the good rogering of human kind.  I know you want to listen to the music, so do I, but when it's being masacrered by an American singing a language she doesn't understand any wise man would defer to the cheese, wine and conversation.  This is an hommage to France, after all. (FYI, this was only one artist who will remain nameless, the rest were exceptional, especially Sean, Charlotte and Mike)

Anyway Jill's charming neighbour must have died a death when the entire population of women and gay men vocally threw their knickers at the stage in honour of Joseph Gordon-Levitt who sang in a French that would make the infamous interview with Bradley Cooper seem somewhat schoolboy.

Of course, this begs the question:  who was the Frenchest of them all?  She who man-handled a pre-game three shags in an afternoon whilst roasting a picnic chicken of course.  Serge would have said oui...

God is all around...

First, a warning:  god-squaders look away now.

Right, now that's done, hello how are you?  This all started because on Sunday Jill had to go jump for Jesus at some happy-clappy house of God.  There was hand-holding, crying, salvation.  I too have found Jesus. Everywhere. 

Look, here he is at the flea market selling wigs. 

And again, on a numberplate:

Of course, no outfit would be complete without this oh so chic but functional neckerchief...

 And of course, we are in Hollywood, so you need this...

But the piece de resistance is this:  

Jesus on a rug.

Yes.  This magnificant piece of craftsmanship led to an interesting if inappropriate discussion on facebook with the Evidence Maker regarding what exactly you would and would not do if that was staring up at you from the floor.  Wear knickers with a skirt for a start...

America, what's up with u?

Bear with me a moment while I, to use an American term, geek out, I have a confession to make. 

Ever since I got an ass-kicking from Simmy when we played Scrabble on the beach (I know, other people surf, whatever) largely due to his use of the two letter 'word' EM, I have been in training for the rematch.  This is assisted by the iPhone4 and a selection of random opponents, but that is not my point.  My point is, they can't spell.  As a purveyor of the Queen's English I object to, amongst other things, the incessant need to omit the use of the letter 'u' in words such as colour and neighbour.  I can only assume that this is due to the inherent laziness of the nation that invented the drive-thru; why after all use additional letters when you don't have to?  My bitching about these lexical shortcomings to La Bella Milanese resulted in her observation that as a non-native English speaker she finds English English speakers far harder to understand in conversation than American English speakers because, apparently, we use a much greater range of vocabulary.  This does not exactly come as a shock given that in this town only two adjectives are employed:  amazing and douchebag - you can use them together too, think about it - how much more eloquent do you want to be? 

Which gets me onto my second point, that I live in a land where political correctness has sailed so far beyond ridiculous nobody it seems is able to call a spade a spade.  For example, when you lose a game of Scrabble on the iPhone it doesn't tell you you lost, but that you came second.  Presumably just in case you decided to sue Scrabble for the psychological trauma you suffered when an inanimate electronic device told you you were a LOSER?

Which segways nicely to today's LA fuckery in the form of this:

Really?  It's a fucking car wash.

Back it up back it up like a Tonka truck...

Yes, we're still in LA, so clearly, it's still all about cars.  And because when you have two hands on the wheel your range of distractions is somewhat limited, I have taken to studying the lyrics of rap songs.

Jay-Z and Kanye released their new album 'Watch the Throne' (title: FAIL) this week so let's start with them shall we.  Song three, title: 'Ni**as in Paris', contains the delightful gem:

'She said yeah can we get married at the mall... Come and meet me in the bathroom stall; and show me why you deserve to have it all.'

Also known as an offer you can refuse.  Kanye West is the only rapper that could put Maison Martin Margiela in a rap and take himself seriously.

Next up:

'Back it up back it up like a Tonka truck'

Presumably this is because Tonka trucks are particularly well known for their reversing capabilities?

This shit's from Jennifer Lopez and a friend of her's named Pitbull (who would presumably eat Rabbit and Ping Ping for breakfast), and that's all you need to know.  But whilst searching You Tube to verify that the lyrics were correct and it wasn't just the roar of Montgomery's engine that had led me to mishear, I came across this hot mess:

For those of you that have not had the pleasure of seeing Brits on holiday this is pretty much the shame our nation inflicts on Spain every summer.  It's all about dancing with your top off but your socks still on...

And finally:

'Black car, black rims, black skirt, black skin'

I can't find out who exactly is responsible for this masterpiece, but is it me or isn't there something inherently strange about matching your girlfriend to your car based on skin colour?  If this catches on as a trend I am going to be left in a very difficult situation, because really, I would never date a man that drove a bronze car...