NWR Silly little things that delight you

Something on Social Media had Debbi in LOL mode yesterday morning and when I enquired it seems that on a private group of Hair sector trade members a Salon proprietor from Coventry had shared a post from her local nextdoor type of site.
"Can anyone recommend a Vegan Hairdresser?"
The answers shared within the trade group were indeed hilarious.
 
Something on Social Media had Debbi in LOL mode yesterday morning and when I enquired it seems that on a private group of Hair sector trade members a Salon proprietor from Coventry had shared a post from her local nextdoor type of site.
"Can anyone recommend a Vegan Hairdresser?"
The answers shared within the trade group were indeed hilarious.
Dissing those of us who use pig grease to maintain our flowing locks...
 
Apparently:
“Ground frost forms when the air is still and cold, usually on clear winter nights. Water vapour in the air condenses on solid surfaces, and as the surface temperature drops below 0°C, ice crystals form.

Hoar frost requires slightly different conditions. It forms when the water vapour in the air comes into contact with solid surfaces that are already below freezing point. Ice crystals form immediately, and the ice continues to grow as more water vapour is frozen. “
 
Having read the Burgundy 2023 EP thread realising I’ve filled in vintages from 90s and 2000s at around a quarter of current asking prices.

My old boss, a genuine oenophile, gave me some great advice: “You won’t be able to drink every good bottle so make sure you don’t drink a bad one”. FOMO passes easily.
 
Clumsy, ungrammatical, repetitive and repetitive
There’s a new Dan Brown book coming out later this year, says Marina Hyde on The Rest is Entertainment. So what better excuse to dig out one of the all-time great pieces of criticism: Michael Deacon’s 2013 “appreciation of the author” in The Daily Telegraph. Below are the first three paragraphs.

“Renowned author Dan Brown woke up in his luxurious four-poster bed in his expensive $10m house – and immediately he felt angry. Most people would have thought that the 48-year-old man had no reason to be angry. After all, the famous writer had a new book coming out. But that was the problem. A new book meant an inevitable attack on the rich novelist by the wealthy wordsmith’s fiercest foes. The critics.

Renowned author Dan Brown hated the critics. Ever since he had become one of the world’s top renowned authors they had made fun of him. They had mocked bestselling book The Da Vinci Code, successful novel Digital Fortress, popular tome Deception Point, money-spinning volume Angels & Demons and chart-topping work of narrative fiction The Lost Symbol.

The critics said his writing was clumsy, ungrammatical, repetitive and repetitive. They said it was full of unnecessary tautology. They said his prose was mired in a sea of mixed metaphors. For some reason they found something funny in sentences such as ‘His eyes went white, like a shark about to attack.’ They even say my books are packed with banal and superfluous description, thought the 5ft 9in man. He particularly hated it when they said his imagery was nonsensical. It made his insect eyes flash like a rocket.”
 
Clumsy, ungrammatical, repetitive and repetitive
There’s a new Dan Brown book coming out later this year, says Marina Hyde on The Rest is Entertainment. So what better excuse to dig out one of the all-time great pieces of criticism: Michael Deacon’s 2013 “appreciation of the author” in The Daily Telegraph. Below are the first three paragraphs.
Michael Deacon is a great writer. His Parliamentary sketches were very funny and observant.
 
ChatGPT is getting better and better

The Ballad of the Burgundy Blues

(Verse 1)
Well, I walked into a tavern, down on old Saint-Denis,
Lookin’ for a bottle, somethin’ fine and Burgundy.
Asked the man behind the counter, "What’s your cheapest pour?"
He just laughed into his apron, said, "We don’t sell that no more."

(Chorus)
Oh, the vines still grow in the Côte d’Or sun,
But the price goes up, and the deals are done.
From old Marsannay to the Montrachet line,
I got the Burgundy blues and not a drop to call mine.

(Verse 2)
Sylvain Pataille used to pour for the poor,
Now the brokers grab the cases ‘fore they hit the cellar door.
PYCM’s got the white gold, crisp and bright,
But you need a king’s ransom just to sip it at night.

(Chorus)
Oh, the vines still grow in the Côte d’Or sun,
But the price goes up, and the deals are done.
From old Marsannay to the Montrachet line,
I got the Burgundy blues and not a drop to call mine.

(Verse 3)
Domaine Dujac, I once knew you well,
But now your juice is sittin’ high on a billionaire’s shelf.
DRC’s still standin’, grand as the moon,
But I’d have to sell my soul just to taste that perfume.

(Outro)
So I’ll drink to the days when the farmers still poured,
When a working man’s wage could unlock Grand Cru doors.
Now I raise an empty glass to the Côte d’Or sky,
Where the vines still whisper, but the poor man's dry.

[Harmonica fades into the distance...]
 
ChatGPT is getting better and better

The Ballad of the Burgundy Blues

(Verse 1)
Well, I walked into a tavern, down on old Saint-Denis,
Lookin’ for a bottle, somethin’ fine and Burgundy.
Asked the man behind the counter, "What’s your cheapest pour?"
He just laughed into his apron, said, "We don’t sell that no more."

(Chorus)
Oh, the vines still grow in the Côte d’Or sun,
But the price goes up, and the deals are done.
From old Marsannay to the Montrachet line,
I got the Burgundy blues and not a drop to call mine.

(Verse 2)
Sylvain Pataille used to pour for the poor,
Now the brokers grab the cases ‘fore they hit the cellar door.
PYCM’s got the white gold, crisp and bright,
But you need a king’s ransom just to sip it at night.

(Chorus)
Oh, the vines still grow in the Côte d’Or sun,
But the price goes up, and the deals are done.
From old Marsannay to the Montrachet line,
I got the Burgundy blues and not a drop to call mine.

(Verse 3)
Domaine Dujac, I once knew you well,
But now your juice is sittin’ high on a billionaire’s shelf.
DRC’s still standin’, grand as the moon,
But I’d have to sell my soul just to taste that perfume.

(Outro)
So I’ll drink to the days when the farmers still poured,
When a working man’s wage could unlock Grand Cru doors.
Now I raise an empty glass to the Côte d’Or sky,
Where the vines still whisper, but the poor man's dry.

[Harmonica fades into the distance...]
I think this should be delivered with the passion and to the tune of Brel's Amsterdam. Maybe Tom can start practicing for the next Christmas Wimps:
 
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