The egg gig with Annie Lennox

Wednesday 2 October 2013, 2.00am HKT

egg label via annie lennox

“I opened up my recent pack of eggs to discover a whole bunch of information inside the lid. Information that seems vital to all egg consumers. Information that reminds me of a university course. I had no idea that the egg men cared so much about the people who eat them! They WANT us to know exactly what we’re putting into our systems! They truly do… otherwise… Why would they go to all this trouble to explain?? I just thought eggs were simple affairs… You boil ’em, fry ’em, scramble ’em or poach ’em… Right? WRONG!! Eggs are complex and scientific! We must study them to understand them! Know your eggs folks. Know your eggs!”

Annie Lennox (the real one) on Facebook, 01 Oct 2013

(Image also from her too)


Here’s the rub, though…

It’s not so great when eggs come from caged hens. Eating eggs basically means we’re supporting the caged-chicken industry. Imagine spending our entire life slotted into tight quarters, with no room to turn round. We should be a tiny bit more interested than now about how we treat chickens and other livestock. We should know how we benefit from those livestock animals as much as they should benefit from us before we slaughter them for food. We talk about making our lives worth living. How about theirs?

Somebody said, “Ah, Annie, stop talking ’bout eggs and release another album!”

Yeah, but we still gotta eat, no?


Italy by law requires total trace of eggs from birth to the dining table. As far as I know, it’s the only country that requires 100% tracking; all others settle for partial tracking. So, in Italy if your eggs are crap, you know who to have a ‘cordial and frank’ discussion with.

The gods in heaven, I remember when we had nine planets and life was simple…



© The Naked Listener’s Weblog, 2013. (B13320)

Ahead? ‘A head’ up the Khyber more like

Sunday 18 August 2013, 6.11am HKT

Eyeroll fodder for today:—

smoking brain damage

(via True-Slant)

“Ahead of the new parliamentary term, French Ministers made predictions on how France will have evolved by 2025. The country will have no unemployment, little debt, housing for everyone and an industry that will be the envy of the world, they hope.”

— France 24 news service, 18 Aug 2013

Year 2025 is only 12 years away, by the by.

The Naked Listener’s prediction:—

  • France by 2025 will see their ministers fully involuntarily delusional.

Full story at for a fuller, more hilarious, sense of the ministers’ non compos mentis qualities.

Got 99 problems and this bitch pitch ain’t … choose the words you like best.



© The Naked Listener’s Weblog, 2013. (B13270)

Interlude: Fiction

Monday 17 December 2012, 3.00am HKT



THE FARAWAY MOUNTAINS decided to give Alexander the destiny he so yearned for.

Hair ruffling in the dusty morning breeze, he took just one sip from the waterbag, and matter-of-factly passed it on to the next person, a nobody among a phalanx of nobodies whose only motivation to push on was to share in Alexander’s dream.

Alexander’s eyes squinted ever so slightly at the mountains. The path beneath his boots parched under the sun and the breeze, with dust rising behind each step the men made as if to contradict them.

The waterbag came round to Alexander again. And he poured the remaining mouthfuls to the ground. He was making a choice for all to see — to be with, and for, his men.

caucasus mountain ufo 14296307 123rfdotcom

People around UFO landing in the Caucasus Mountains.

(Image by Youry Ermoshkin via


Oh, bloody hell!

I CAN’T do it.

This fiction stuff is just too bleedin’ hard to do!

How do others manage to write this crap esteemed genre anyway?

No sooner have I got that imagery in my head, it fizzles and fritters away. Whatever few abject ideas I could generate, it just goes away completely at the sight of my lovely black-pig Iberico ham (from Andalucia, Spain), semi-hard cheese, and chilled Terra Roja white wine (also from Spain).

food serrano ham 2012 1213

This IS a real distraction to my productivity



My very first job in the incestuous world of publishing was that of a ghostwriter for a London publishing house best remembered for their (trashy) romance novels. It also publishes scientific titles, but roman was the genre that made it the most money.

‘Write something readable for the sales to sell’

I got the job by accident.

The regular ghostwriter/editor went on maternity leave. I was cheap (in price, that is) and literate enough (being able to read and type addresses on envelopes). I was hired on the strength of having written some crap for my school magazine and good in layouts (a useless skill for novels, by the way).

The ‘novelist’ in question left a ‘manuscript’ (or a broad interpretation of one) with the publisher. It was just a bulletpoint plan of each chapter, actually. The editor in question was told to go crawl into a corner and “write something readable for the sales to sell.”

After two or three months of writing or typing furiously on bits of paper, index cards and probably toilet paper, my first and only romance ghostwriting effort came to a thankful end when my publisher told me I was crap at this game.

Still, the publisher thought I was good enough to keep around (especially for the envelope-writing part of the work), and transferred me to the Science Department to work on chemistry titles.

Cigarette ash and scum

The Chemistry Editor told me,

“You certainly have shown a flair for chemistry, just that it’s not the kind of chemistry they’re looking for in Romance [Department].”

The Romance and Fiction Editor was a right bitch of a Fag-Ash ’Lil sourpuss. Every day she came into the office wearing that soured-up poe-face of hers. The tea was always too hot, too cold, too bitter, too sweet, too something or other with her. She’s always making a mess of the place with her Mount Vesuvius-like cigarette ash and scum from pencil rubbers. She was around 40-ish, an ex-Beatle groupie type turned ex-punk, and was the most unnaturally unromantic — most romantically offputting? — woman ever.

I’ll give Fag Ash Lil this:— She was farkin’ brilliant churning out romantic scenes with heavy doses of sexual innuendos of the pseudo-lesbian-threesome-jackhammer-it-right-in-there genre. This woman knows how to ghostwrite shitty romance novels that SELL, baby! With her dyed jet-black hair and fairly decent cleavage, short Ra-Ra skirts, practically no underwear, fag on lips constantly, you could see why many of the publisher’s male authors were ‘in tune’ with her.

I’m sorry, peep’l, I just don’t have what it takes inside me to write fiction.

And much fun was had by all, and so to bed.


[You’re fired for not putting in more sexual innuendos.—Editor]



© The Naked Listener’s Weblog, 2012. Image by Youry Ermoshkin via (B12450)

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