Thanks to your collective failure to purchase things from me, I've been forced to go to eBay, where I shall probably be fleeced for all that I have. You bastards.
In other news, it appears that there was no gossip from my Christmas party. I got drunk, but not dangerously so. I haven't been sacked. There was the rumour of the police being called, but I was long gone ('you can pin this one on me, pig') and I think it was just a lie to arouse interest.
Now I'm off to prepare for the World Cup draw, which will undoubtedly be more interesting than 75% of the games in the competition. Not that that will stop me watching them.
Ciao.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Best, boxed and buried
So I awake with a hangover, and what am I confronted with on BBC1 and Radio 5? Full commentary of a funeral. The queen? No. The Archbishop of Canterbury? No. A bloated, liver-wasting, wife-beating alcoholic who once kicked a football better than most other people. For fucks sake. They actually had someone on the radio describing 'children being hoisted onto their father's shoulders to view the cortege as it passes.'
As if this is news. The bastard died over a week ago. He had been dying for years beforehand, and would have gone sooner if some bright spark in the health service hadn't thought he was a suitable candidate for someone's liver. Would he have met the criteria if he was a tramp with the same drink problem? I sincerely doubted.
And now we all have to put up with the tedious rose-tinted agenda of those who sell us the news (i.e. a bunch of middle-aged men desperate to relive their youth). [Oops, that sentence was a bit Dave Spart.] I hope to God this will be the last of it (well, it's the last of him, but I'm sure the media can drag this tedium out for lonnger).
Juicy gossip later. (Actually not, but that would hardly engender continued readership, would it folks.)
As if this is news. The bastard died over a week ago. He had been dying for years beforehand, and would have gone sooner if some bright spark in the health service hadn't thought he was a suitable candidate for someone's liver. Would he have met the criteria if he was a tramp with the same drink problem? I sincerely doubted.
And now we all have to put up with the tedious rose-tinted agenda of those who sell us the news (i.e. a bunch of middle-aged men desperate to relive their youth). [Oops, that sentence was a bit Dave Spart.] I hope to God this will be the last of it (well, it's the last of him, but I'm sure the media can drag this tedium out for lonnger).
Juicy gossip later. (Actually not, but that would hardly engender continued readership, would it folks.)
Thursday, December 01, 2005
P45
It's Christmas party night tomorrow. I've been there less than five months. Free booze and minimal food, plus a disco, until midnight.
I must remember not to embarrass myself. Story to follow once the hangover has subsided...
I must remember not to embarrass myself. Story to follow once the hangover has subsided...
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Legal crack
I am an addict. I have become addicted to Mario Kart DS. For those of you who don't play computer games, this could seriously damage your life. It's a cartoon driving game, starring Mario, a famous Italian plumber.
Which is all well and good. Except you can play against other people - anywhere in the world - via the interweb. Wirelessly. For free. At last a reason to go to McDonald's. Or Coffee Republic. Fortunately, I just play it at home, but against people I've never met and never will. And they always beat me. Brilliant.
But you can also play against your friends (if you, unlike me, have any). So if you have it, play me. My Friend Code is below. If you really are a friend. Let me win one.
236283
251634
(My moniker is Friday - the handsome pup on the left. His pixellated visage (a la Crimestoppers) is my avatar.)
Which is all well and good. Except you can play against other people - anywhere in the world - via the interweb. Wirelessly. For free. At last a reason to go to McDonald's. Or Coffee Republic. Fortunately, I just play it at home, but against people I've never met and never will. And they always beat me. Brilliant.
But you can also play against your friends (if you, unlike me, have any). So if you have it, play me. My Friend Code is below. If you really are a friend. Let me win one.
236283
251634
(My moniker is Friday - the handsome pup on the left. His pixellated visage (a la Crimestoppers) is my avatar.)
Roll up, ladies an' gentlemen.
Anybody want to buy a snowboard? Or two? With bindings?
One is an Option Supercap Wide, 164cm, with Salomon SP3 bindings. Good for tall(ish) or fat men with size 10 feet or larger. £120
The other is a Salomon Driver 155, with Salomon SP2 bindings. Good for bird of bloke of normal footed proportions. £100
Otherwise, I'm going to have to brave eBay.
One is an Option Supercap Wide, 164cm, with Salomon SP3 bindings. Good for tall(ish) or fat men with size 10 feet or larger. £120
The other is a Salomon Driver 155, with Salomon SP2 bindings. Good for bird of bloke of normal footed proportions. £100
Otherwise, I'm going to have to brave eBay.
Out of my head, can't take it...
I'm back. *Rapturous applause* Like Take That (or a McDonald's chicken nugget), I have reformed to bring my musings back to an adoring public (actual levels of adoration may vary). I really have no excuses, so I shan't offer any. Instead, have a thought that did occur to me in the long period since I last wrote...
In Liverpool Street station, in London's money-infested terrorist-target City, is a sign that says, "Professional beggars operate in this station." Think about that for a minute. Professional beggars. That's as opposed to amateur beggars, is it? Beggars who do it for the skill, the fun, the excitement, but who only accept payment in milk-bottle tops. Or, like my Sunday morning amateur football status, do they pay for the privilege and still get nothing in return?
And why the sign? If I get accosted by a beggar, I'll know there are beggars there. It's not like I see the sign and think, 'oh, that tramp demanding money from me wasn't my bank manager. Thank God I knew that beforehand or I could have signed over all my savings*'. Jesus wept.
*Nil.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Pleasure [pause] Pain
Is it worth the wonderful feeling you have when you realise it's Friday, only for the plunge into despair when it dawns that it is, actually, only Thursday?
Discuss.
ps Note to comment spammers: fuck off
Discuss.
ps Note to comment spammers: fuck off
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Reprise
An addendum to my previous post; fear not, the wonderful Friday (pictured left, with First-Mate Fetch) is not being neglected as a result of my new-found virtual cannine addiction. In fact, he has been spoiled rotten, having been given some Pirate Plasters by The Girlfriend.
Communication ends
Communication ends
Nice puppies
Despite my promise that I was up and lively and raring to go, I actually have nothing to write about. However, this is entirely my fault, for I - like many other people - have become hopelessly addicted.
Of course, as is the wont of an addict, I am blaming someone else: The Girlfriend. If she had let me have a real puppy, I wouldn't have had to buy (and therefore become addicted to) a substitute. I could go on and on about the amazing realism and depth, but it's all been said before. And anyway, sitting here typing is wasting valuable time that I could be using teaching my puppy how to catch a frisbee or something.
So, I can only suggest, if you have a spare £100 (including the console, which I also recommend), that you purchase it. You will love it, even if you are a 30ish 6'3 booze-and-sport-loving bloke, like me.
Of course, as is the wont of an addict, I am blaming someone else: The Girlfriend. If she had let me have a real puppy, I wouldn't have had to buy (and therefore become addicted to) a substitute. I could go on and on about the amazing realism and depth, but it's all been said before. And anyway, sitting here typing is wasting valuable time that I could be using teaching my puppy how to catch a frisbee or something.
So, I can only suggest, if you have a spare £100 (including the console, which I also recommend), that you purchase it. You will love it, even if you are a 30ish 6'3 booze-and-sport-loving bloke, like me.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Looking old; feeling older
Hoorah: welcome to my triumphant return to the land of blog. I've been gone a while, lost in the nightmare that is Long Hours and Permanent Tiredness. And it's not about to end soon. And I'm getting more and more lines.
To be fair, I'm feeling a lot perkier, and I keep thinking of things to write. It's just that (i) I can't write anything at work, (ii) I have the magnificent ideas on my way home from work, which is now such a slog that I've forgotten by the time I get home and (iii) I just want to slump when I do get in.
Still, I'm playing football twice a week, making sure that I see my friends more, dragging myself out of the flat at the weekend (may I recommend this to those of you with children to entertain/shock) and generally Doing More (albeit not a lot more).
So I'm going to get writing more, to entertain all my faithful followers who have been starved of the word of Your Lord. Until then, worship me (etc.)
To be fair, I'm feeling a lot perkier, and I keep thinking of things to write. It's just that (i) I can't write anything at work, (ii) I have the magnificent ideas on my way home from work, which is now such a slog that I've forgotten by the time I get home and (iii) I just want to slump when I do get in.
Still, I'm playing football twice a week, making sure that I see my friends more, dragging myself out of the flat at the weekend (may I recommend this to those of you with children to entertain/shock) and generally Doing More (albeit not a lot more).
So I'm going to get writing more, to entertain all my faithful followers who have been starved of the word of Your Lord. Until then, worship me (etc.)
Monday, September 26, 2005
He's got a foot like a traction engine
Welcome to the first of an irregular feature: Match of the Day. (I can't be bothered to come up with anything novel at the moment.)
Yesterday was, for me, the beginning of a new season of top-quality (ahem) football. And what a start. I was almost worried as I got a lift to the 'ground' with my new manager. We picked up a young lad who was training with Charlton. Out of my depth, I thought. Still, back to that later.
Why a new team? Well, the creaking joints and Andy Capp-esque rolling-pin domestic set-up of my former team-mates has diminished the mighty Stonewood to a 5-a-side team. Rest assured, we are just as bad - and just as (un)succesful - as we ever were, only now I have 80% burns on my body thanks to the astroturf. So, I was traipsing off to Roehampton (via Golders Green, obviously) at the crack of a sparrow's fart on a Sunday morning.
And what a debut. In spectacular Sunday league fashion: (i) we arrived later, (ii) we had no ref and (iii) they only had ten men, so we had to lend them a player. Fortunately, we had changing rooms, so I was spared the indignity of changing in a car park.
On the pitch, I didn't disgrace myself. My strike partner may have been playing with Charlton, but apart from his pace (and this was only up against old men, as virtually all Sunday league defenders are; they were once lightning quick like he: now, they are slow but brutal) he was rather a disappointment. I was expecting fireworks - excitement, unbelievable skill, vision and all that jazz. Mais, non. Fair enough, he scored four. But his touch was good, but not great, and his vision was somewhat lacking. Without his pace, he would have been far less succesful. And, as with all players who have (or think they have) a modicum of skill, he (in the language of the playground) was a hogger.
But, I can't complain. Unlike last season - and the season before that - I had players around me willing to run and - get this - tackle. Fuck me, I didn't know other players did that... Anyway, I felt as if it wasn't going to be my day when I dinked the ball over the keeper from 20 yards only to have it rebound off the post. Having had him pull two great saves off my two fine shots in the first half. Added to a defender getting his sizable rump to a beautifully struck first-time volley from eight yards (hell, at least he felt it) and being clean through on goal and being given offside, despite being about five yards behind the defender (no ref, or linesmen, remember), it was all a bit frustrating.
Still, I did what all good Sunday-league strikers do, following an up-and-under towards the opposition keeper, and sure enough, he dropped it. I scored. We won 5-4. It's just a shame it took me 3 hours to get home.
And, dear God, I feel like shit today. I think I've been 12 rounds with Tyson...
Yesterday was, for me, the beginning of a new season of top-quality (ahem) football. And what a start. I was almost worried as I got a lift to the 'ground' with my new manager. We picked up a young lad who was training with Charlton. Out of my depth, I thought. Still, back to that later.
Why a new team? Well, the creaking joints and Andy Capp-esque rolling-pin domestic set-up of my former team-mates has diminished the mighty Stonewood to a 5-a-side team. Rest assured, we are just as bad - and just as (un)succesful - as we ever were, only now I have 80% burns on my body thanks to the astroturf. So, I was traipsing off to Roehampton (via Golders Green, obviously) at the crack of a sparrow's fart on a Sunday morning.
And what a debut. In spectacular Sunday league fashion: (i) we arrived later, (ii) we had no ref and (iii) they only had ten men, so we had to lend them a player. Fortunately, we had changing rooms, so I was spared the indignity of changing in a car park.
On the pitch, I didn't disgrace myself. My strike partner may have been playing with Charlton, but apart from his pace (and this was only up against old men, as virtually all Sunday league defenders are; they were once lightning quick like he: now, they are slow but brutal) he was rather a disappointment. I was expecting fireworks - excitement, unbelievable skill, vision and all that jazz. Mais, non. Fair enough, he scored four. But his touch was good, but not great, and his vision was somewhat lacking. Without his pace, he would have been far less succesful. And, as with all players who have (or think they have) a modicum of skill, he (in the language of the playground) was a hogger.
But, I can't complain. Unlike last season - and the season before that - I had players around me willing to run and - get this - tackle. Fuck me, I didn't know other players did that... Anyway, I felt as if it wasn't going to be my day when I dinked the ball over the keeper from 20 yards only to have it rebound off the post. Having had him pull two great saves off my two fine shots in the first half. Added to a defender getting his sizable rump to a beautifully struck first-time volley from eight yards (hell, at least he felt it) and being clean through on goal and being given offside, despite being about five yards behind the defender (no ref, or linesmen, remember), it was all a bit frustrating.
Still, I did what all good Sunday-league strikers do, following an up-and-under towards the opposition keeper, and sure enough, he dropped it. I scored. We won 5-4. It's just a shame it took me 3 hours to get home.
And, dear God, I feel like shit today. I think I've been 12 rounds with Tyson...
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Fear and Lothian
We were somewhere ouside Glasgow...when the drugs began to take hold...
No, that's just too lazy. And totally untrue. Let's do this chronologically; boring, but better.
The Glasgow public transport system is just the place to meet stereotypes. And the two lovely ladies who got on a few stops after us were neds - as the local vernacular has it - of the highest order.
Fourteen, maybe 15 years old. The eye-catching one at first was the taller of the two, for she had squeezed herself into a top about three sizes too small. She probably imagined, if she enough mental capacity for imagination - that she was displaying a fine bosom. The effect was more akin to someone shoving two small carrier bags full of half-congealed animal fat into a small bra - complete with ripple effects when she walked.
It was she who answered the phone. The conversation was unremarkable - at least, I paid it no attention - until the immortal line, "suck yer own fuckin' dick."
The small one took the phone. With an accent so thick it was difficult to follow, I caught the following: "I'll fuckin' kill the wee sprog you put in me;" "I'll slice yae from arse to elbow; and, "I'll give yae a tan line like Tony if yae don't delete my number from yer phone."
Unfortunately, the rest of the evening was not so entertaining. We went to see Mother and the Addicts, a beat combo from Scotland inspired by, get this, Gang of Four. I say inspired, but I really mean ripping it off. They didn't even add anything new, different or original. I was, however, introduced to the culinary delight of pakora. Like all Glaswegian food, it is deep-fried, but it wasn't instantly heart-attack inducing. Which must be a positive thing.
Is Edinburgh the least rock n' roll city in the UK? It certainly pushes Cambridge close. This was meant to be the evening of debauchery. Of messy, dreadful behaviour. It started promisingly: a bottle of liquid LSD; just a dab, a third of a dose each. To liven things up a little. And what did it do?
It woke me up, certainly. But it didn't turn weird. No. I got the fear; the paranoia; the queasy feeling in my stomach, prior to coming up. And then...
Nothing. Still, I wasn't really up for this. I'd geared myself up for dancing, and disco biscuits were, according to my host, to be order du jour. Mais, nothing. In fact, the nightclub had more bar staff than punters. And I'm only just joking. It was embarrasing. I retired to bed early, at 4am. Still, it was fun; just a little disappointing...
No, that's just too lazy. And totally untrue. Let's do this chronologically; boring, but better.
The Glasgow public transport system is just the place to meet stereotypes. And the two lovely ladies who got on a few stops after us were neds - as the local vernacular has it - of the highest order.
Fourteen, maybe 15 years old. The eye-catching one at first was the taller of the two, for she had squeezed herself into a top about three sizes too small. She probably imagined, if she enough mental capacity for imagination - that she was displaying a fine bosom. The effect was more akin to someone shoving two small carrier bags full of half-congealed animal fat into a small bra - complete with ripple effects when she walked.
It was she who answered the phone. The conversation was unremarkable - at least, I paid it no attention - until the immortal line, "suck yer own fuckin' dick."
The small one took the phone. With an accent so thick it was difficult to follow, I caught the following: "I'll fuckin' kill the wee sprog you put in me;" "I'll slice yae from arse to elbow; and, "I'll give yae a tan line like Tony if yae don't delete my number from yer phone."
Unfortunately, the rest of the evening was not so entertaining. We went to see Mother and the Addicts, a beat combo from Scotland inspired by, get this, Gang of Four. I say inspired, but I really mean ripping it off. They didn't even add anything new, different or original. I was, however, introduced to the culinary delight of pakora. Like all Glaswegian food, it is deep-fried, but it wasn't instantly heart-attack inducing. Which must be a positive thing.
Is Edinburgh the least rock n' roll city in the UK? It certainly pushes Cambridge close. This was meant to be the evening of debauchery. Of messy, dreadful behaviour. It started promisingly: a bottle of liquid LSD; just a dab, a third of a dose each. To liven things up a little. And what did it do?
It woke me up, certainly. But it didn't turn weird. No. I got the fear; the paranoia; the queasy feeling in my stomach, prior to coming up. And then...
Nothing. Still, I wasn't really up for this. I'd geared myself up for dancing, and disco biscuits were, according to my host, to be order du jour. Mais, nothing. In fact, the nightclub had more bar staff than punters. And I'm only just joking. It was embarrasing. I retired to bed early, at 4am. Still, it was fun; just a little disappointing...
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Cleaning out my closet
As you might have guessed from my previous post - and the general scarcity of news - there's not a lot going on in my life at the moment.
In fact, it has got so bad that The Boy & I were arguing via instant messenger about who had had the dullest weekend. I think it was me, but the ennui is so much, I can't be sure.
Work is obviously getting in the way far too much, but that is no excuse. I do think, however, that it is slowly sucking the humour out of me. I've not seen much recently that makes me smile in an offbeat way to write about; nor have I been so angry that I have had to vent my spleen. I'm sure my fire and bile will return once I've recharged by batteries.
Speaking of which (what a link, eh?), after a quick bevy with Miss Hazy Shade... for a gossip and a bitch, I'm off tae Glasgae for some heavy drinking and synapse abuse. Which means, sanity depending, I should have something to write about next week. Even if it is just the inane and self-absorbed rambling of a dull man.
We shall see. Watch this space...
In fact, it has got so bad that The Boy & I were arguing via instant messenger about who had had the dullest weekend. I think it was me, but the ennui is so much, I can't be sure.
Work is obviously getting in the way far too much, but that is no excuse. I do think, however, that it is slowly sucking the humour out of me. I've not seen much recently that makes me smile in an offbeat way to write about; nor have I been so angry that I have had to vent my spleen. I'm sure my fire and bile will return once I've recharged by batteries.
Speaking of which (what a link, eh?), after a quick bevy with Miss Hazy Shade... for a gossip and a bitch, I'm off tae Glasgae for some heavy drinking and synapse abuse. Which means, sanity depending, I should have something to write about next week. Even if it is just the inane and self-absorbed rambling of a dull man.
We shall see. Watch this space...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Any port in a storm
It's nice to spend a weekend by the seaside: the bracing sea breeze; the fresh fish; building sandcastles. I did none of these things. I was staying in a lovely modern development in Portsmouth. It really did have everything going for it: I stayed in a Holiday Inn Express, which is like a Holiday Inn, only less comfortable; it was only a complex of outlet stores; and it had numerous trendy (chain) gastro-bars and the like.
To be fair, the complex was OK, but only between 9am and 11am, and 6pm and 7pm. At all other times it was overrun by either chavs (families during the day, neanderthal men and slappers in ill-fitting miniskirts at night) and hen groups. It makes you proud to be British. Actually, it makes me glad that I live in London, where at least not everybody is dressed in tracksuit bottoms and Burberry headgear (and there is some racial diversity).
Still, I walked away with a leather jacket, a pair of shoes (reduced from £135 to £35 - what kind of man spends £135 on leather Camper clones?), a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts (one later found to have a slit in it; I'm sure it wasn't there when I bought it. Perculiar), a belt and a pair of football boots (reduced from £110; comment as before). For less than £300. And I walked around HMS Victory. Literally. I wasn't paying to actually go onto it. Hell, I've been on it before, about 20 years ago. (Jesus, that makes me feel old.)
So why was I in Portsmouth? Well, it was a wedding. The last of the season, unless i get a rush invite to another. And the one at which both the bride and groom actually seemed to enjoy it. Properly enjoy it, that is; not just walked around with a perma-smile and eyes saying 'get me away from all this...' Everything went without a hitch (well, apart from the obvious one) and, in a stroke of genius, the reception was held on another warship. In fact, the only disappointment of the whole evening was discovering that the cannons were made of fibreglass. And the cannonballs were not solid iron.
And, because we weren't invited for the meal, we got to hang around chav central suited and stylish, much to the confusion/amusement of the locals. We left before we got beaten up. What a wheeze.
To be fair, the complex was OK, but only between 9am and 11am, and 6pm and 7pm. At all other times it was overrun by either chavs (families during the day, neanderthal men and slappers in ill-fitting miniskirts at night) and hen groups. It makes you proud to be British. Actually, it makes me glad that I live in London, where at least not everybody is dressed in tracksuit bottoms and Burberry headgear (and there is some racial diversity).
Still, I walked away with a leather jacket, a pair of shoes (reduced from £135 to £35 - what kind of man spends £135 on leather Camper clones?), a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts (one later found to have a slit in it; I'm sure it wasn't there when I bought it. Perculiar), a belt and a pair of football boots (reduced from £110; comment as before). For less than £300. And I walked around HMS Victory. Literally. I wasn't paying to actually go onto it. Hell, I've been on it before, about 20 years ago. (Jesus, that makes me feel old.)
So why was I in Portsmouth? Well, it was a wedding. The last of the season, unless i get a rush invite to another. And the one at which both the bride and groom actually seemed to enjoy it. Properly enjoy it, that is; not just walked around with a perma-smile and eyes saying 'get me away from all this...' Everything went without a hitch (well, apart from the obvious one) and, in a stroke of genius, the reception was held on another warship. In fact, the only disappointment of the whole evening was discovering that the cannons were made of fibreglass. And the cannonballs were not solid iron.
And, because we weren't invited for the meal, we got to hang around chav central suited and stylish, much to the confusion/amusement of the locals. We left before we got beaten up. What a wheeze.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
No news is no news
Regular readers of this blog - and if you are one, in the words on Why Don't You, why don't you go out and do something less boring instead - will have noticed that I haven't updated for a while.
Well, nothing interesting has happened to me. Nothing I have noticed recently has tickled my fancy. Work is dragging on; busy busy:::but nothing actually important being done. The open-mouthed shock I registered when I saw the Back To School signs in WH Smith being advertised with Playboy stationery was similarly picked up pretty sharpish by the national press, so no point in writing anything about that. And the summer has, not to put too fine a point on it, been bollocks.
Still, I've made the effort to phone a friend I haven't spoken to since Christmas, I have a wedding to go to this weekend and I've booked tickets to go for a weekend of debauchery in Glasgow. So I'll have stories to tell soon...
Well, nothing interesting has happened to me. Nothing I have noticed recently has tickled my fancy. Work is dragging on; busy busy:::but nothing actually important being done. The open-mouthed shock I registered when I saw the Back To School signs in WH Smith being advertised with Playboy stationery was similarly picked up pretty sharpish by the national press, so no point in writing anything about that. And the summer has, not to put too fine a point on it, been bollocks.
Still, I've made the effort to phone a friend I haven't spoken to since Christmas, I have a wedding to go to this weekend and I've booked tickets to go for a weekend of debauchery in Glasgow. So I'll have stories to tell soon...
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Bongo and jazz
After last week's rather maudlin effort, I had to cheer myself up the only way I know how. Pornography.
Yes, I spent the weekend lookly through glossy magazines at beauty far beyond my reach. On the plus side, it made me smile and I saw what I fancied.
Yes. You've guessed it. It wasn't real pornography - airbrushed imbeciles with vacant smiles air-kissing the incredible pubic topiary (or lack thereof) of some other bimbo - but holiday brochures. Oh, how I wish (in all this sun and beautiful weather) that it was winter and I was up a mountain far away. Not - obviously - that I can afford it. But I have found the cheapest hotel and package in a place I want to go, and I'll be adding to my debt in the near future, no doubt.
I was also looking at a new mobile phone. Despite the fact that I don't use mine much, I want a new all-singing, all-dancing model. Hell, it's free, and I'll get free minutes to phone people on other networks, which might mean that I actually speak to them. Although it might turn out that I am just slack and it has nothing to do with counting the pennies...
And the new job is knackering me. I don't think it's necessarily the work - the hours are long and I'm using my brain more than usual - more than it is having to be out the flat by 8am. And then walking a mile and a half to the station. Which fails to wake me. Then the same walk home at the end of a day... La la la
Yes, I spent the weekend lookly through glossy magazines at beauty far beyond my reach. On the plus side, it made me smile and I saw what I fancied.
Yes. You've guessed it. It wasn't real pornography - airbrushed imbeciles with vacant smiles air-kissing the incredible pubic topiary (or lack thereof) of some other bimbo - but holiday brochures. Oh, how I wish (in all this sun and beautiful weather) that it was winter and I was up a mountain far away. Not - obviously - that I can afford it. But I have found the cheapest hotel and package in a place I want to go, and I'll be adding to my debt in the near future, no doubt.
I was also looking at a new mobile phone. Despite the fact that I don't use mine much, I want a new all-singing, all-dancing model. Hell, it's free, and I'll get free minutes to phone people on other networks, which might mean that I actually speak to them. Although it might turn out that I am just slack and it has nothing to do with counting the pennies...
And the new job is knackering me. I don't think it's necessarily the work - the hours are long and I'm using my brain more than usual - more than it is having to be out the flat by 8am. And then walking a mile and a half to the station. Which fails to wake me. Then the same walk home at the end of a day... La la la
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
No no, no no no no, no no no no, there's no limit (Texas hold-em)
I held my inaugural poker game on Saturday night. As these things should be, it was a boozy and raucous affair, with pop music and bongos a-plenty. The game itself was won my The Wigan Mouth, but there is actually very little to tell.
In fact, there is very little to tell about my life at the moment. Despite the new job, I still have no money, and I really am going to have to live frugally if I am ever to pay off my debts. It's depressing thinking about it. My social life is, by necessity, becoming extremely limited: in fact, the only thing for it is to play more poker (although drink less beer while I'm doing it).
Ah well. One day I'll be rich.
*ahem*
In fact, there is very little to tell about my life at the moment. Despite the new job, I still have no money, and I really am going to have to live frugally if I am ever to pay off my debts. It's depressing thinking about it. My social life is, by necessity, becoming extremely limited: in fact, the only thing for it is to play more poker (although drink less beer while I'm doing it).
Ah well. One day I'll be rich.
*ahem*
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The paedo files
I went to a christening last weekend (not the one just gone, the one before that). Apart from the immense tedium of one and a half hours of pious crap and the hypocrisy of the catholic church [Dear God-Botherers, want people to come to your church? Then why not try not boring them to tears on a Sunday when they could be sleeping!], it was a very strange sermon.
What would be an appropriate topic for a Sunday when a child is being christened in front of the congregation? Innocence? The wonder of life?
Or paedophilia?
Nice choice Father. How thoughtful. Funnily enough, though, he did not mention that centre for excellence in abusing young boys - the catholic church. It wasn't quite draw-droppingly inappropriate, but it was close, and it was noticed by - oh - everyone there.
So, I didn't find religion, and I lost even more respect for those who spread His word. Still, it was amusing in a dark, ironic way...
What would be an appropriate topic for a Sunday when a child is being christened in front of the congregation? Innocence? The wonder of life?
Or paedophilia?
Nice choice Father. How thoughtful. Funnily enough, though, he did not mention that centre for excellence in abusing young boys - the catholic church. It wasn't quite draw-droppingly inappropriate, but it was close, and it was noticed by - oh - everyone there.
So, I didn't find religion, and I lost even more respect for those who spread His word. Still, it was amusing in a dark, ironic way...
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Man's best friend
The platform at Liverpool Street was quieter than the main concourse; cooler, too, without the glass roof acting like a greenhouse. The train had not yet arrived, but the platform had been announced, and the platform edge was filling up with commuters on their way home. Karen walked to her usual position, where she knew the doors would be: glad to be out of the office. Next to her was a man, waiting patiently, his golden guide dog by his side. Karen looked briefly at her watch – needlessly, because she had seen the time on the platform indicators – and rested her summer jacket on top of her briefcase on the ground. The train was still a few minutes away.
“I haven’t seen you here before. I’d recognise your beautiful dog if I had.”
The man turned to face her. “No,” he said, “I normally go via King’s Cross, but obviously I have to get home another way.”
“That must be quite difficult for your dog, a change of routine and everything.”
“She’s a wonderful dog – very intelligent, even for a guide dog. In fact, I’m a bit sheepish because I owe her an apology.”
He paused, knowing that he had Karen’s undivided attention.
“I gave her quite a telling off last week. On Thursday we were waiting at the platform – at King’s Cross. It was quite busy, but we were at the front of the platform – being let through busy platforms is one of the benefits of having her – and ready to board the train. When the doors open, she started barking and pulling me around. She’s never done that before, always been as good as gold.
“Rather than let her cause a scene, I pulled her back and let everyone else on. While we waited for the next train… Well, I gave her a piece of my mind.
Of course, before the next train turned up, the service was suspended and we had to leave the station. I was furious.”
Karen nodded for him to continue, mumbling “u-hu” when realising the futility of her nodding. She was bending down, stroking the dog.
“I found out later that it was the carriage that the bomb went off in. She saved my life. I feel awful, thinking about how I told her off… I’m just glad that she stuck to her guns.”
Karen was wide eyed, “do you think she knew? Could she smell the bomb? Or the fear?”
“I have no idea. I guess so – dogs have an amazing sense of smell. But she must have known. I’ll not doubt her again. And I’ll keep spoiling her until my guilt goes”
He swallowed hard, laughed gently and stroked his dog. Karen smiled, and continued talking to him – both of them – as the train drew up.
“I haven’t seen you here before. I’d recognise your beautiful dog if I had.”
The man turned to face her. “No,” he said, “I normally go via King’s Cross, but obviously I have to get home another way.”
“That must be quite difficult for your dog, a change of routine and everything.”
“She’s a wonderful dog – very intelligent, even for a guide dog. In fact, I’m a bit sheepish because I owe her an apology.”
He paused, knowing that he had Karen’s undivided attention.
“I gave her quite a telling off last week. On Thursday we were waiting at the platform – at King’s Cross. It was quite busy, but we were at the front of the platform – being let through busy platforms is one of the benefits of having her – and ready to board the train. When the doors open, she started barking and pulling me around. She’s never done that before, always been as good as gold.
“Rather than let her cause a scene, I pulled her back and let everyone else on. While we waited for the next train… Well, I gave her a piece of my mind.
Of course, before the next train turned up, the service was suspended and we had to leave the station. I was furious.”
Karen nodded for him to continue, mumbling “u-hu” when realising the futility of her nodding. She was bending down, stroking the dog.
“I found out later that it was the carriage that the bomb went off in. She saved my life. I feel awful, thinking about how I told her off… I’m just glad that she stuck to her guns.”
Karen was wide eyed, “do you think she knew? Could she smell the bomb? Or the fear?”
“I have no idea. I guess so – dogs have an amazing sense of smell. But she must have known. I’ll not doubt her again. And I’ll keep spoiling her until my guilt goes”
He swallowed hard, laughed gently and stroked his dog. Karen smiled, and continued talking to him – both of them – as the train drew up.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Filthy Lucre
Here I am, four days into my new job, and I suppose I'd better get my first impressions down before they become general feelings and, subsequently, entrenched dogma. (I say here I am: please understand, I am not still at work; they've not been that harsh on me in my first week.)
Well, I certainly know I'm working. Unlike some jobs I can recall (the last one, notably), I'm actually occupied. All the time. With frequent deadlines.
"We have to get this out TONIGHT..."
Etc.
Unfortunately, most of my work thus far has been using the world's worst computer program. PowerPoint. It's not just that it is overused and makes people rely on flashy slides rather than fine oratory - although it clearly is. (One day, I dream of seeing a presentation by someone who can present - really create a good impression - without slides or pre-prepared overheads. My lecturers, back in the day, used to do it. The ones I remember best, and who were the clearest and whose information actually stuck, were those that didn't use projections. They merely drew anything vital on the white/blackboard. The use of slides - especially with handouts - is an invitation to fall asleep.) No, it's bad because it doesn't work. 'Can I change this colour?' Can I bollocks. 'I just need to align these.' Why won't you fucking align? God stike down this beastly machine.
The people? Well, everyone has been too busy. Which is odd, because if the company disappeared tomorrow, nobody would miss it. It's not like doctors or teachers or policemen, who would be missed if they all disappeared. Yet everyone seems to think their job is so important. You have to laugh at them (not out loud, though; that's a sure-fire way of making enemies). I'm going out tomorrow for someone's leaving do. It's not that I know them, but - as my new colleagues have said - it's a good time to meet everyone in a more relaxed environment.
The machine that makes tea and coffee actually just provides hot water with 'dark' flavour in it. I never thought I'd miss the FoulBrewCoffeePotStuff from the last place.
I do miss The Boy and Our Mysterious Ladyfriend. However, The Boy hasn't updated his blog for a while. I think he might be pining...
Or fucking. I'll believe what my ego wants me to...
Well, I certainly know I'm working. Unlike some jobs I can recall (the last one, notably), I'm actually occupied. All the time. With frequent deadlines.
"We have to get this out TONIGHT..."
Etc.
Unfortunately, most of my work thus far has been using the world's worst computer program. PowerPoint. It's not just that it is overused and makes people rely on flashy slides rather than fine oratory - although it clearly is. (One day, I dream of seeing a presentation by someone who can present - really create a good impression - without slides or pre-prepared overheads. My lecturers, back in the day, used to do it. The ones I remember best, and who were the clearest and whose information actually stuck, were those that didn't use projections. They merely drew anything vital on the white/blackboard. The use of slides - especially with handouts - is an invitation to fall asleep.) No, it's bad because it doesn't work. 'Can I change this colour?' Can I bollocks. 'I just need to align these.' Why won't you fucking align? God stike down this beastly machine.
The people? Well, everyone has been too busy. Which is odd, because if the company disappeared tomorrow, nobody would miss it. It's not like doctors or teachers or policemen, who would be missed if they all disappeared. Yet everyone seems to think their job is so important. You have to laugh at them (not out loud, though; that's a sure-fire way of making enemies). I'm going out tomorrow for someone's leaving do. It's not that I know them, but - as my new colleagues have said - it's a good time to meet everyone in a more relaxed environment.
The machine that makes tea and coffee actually just provides hot water with 'dark' flavour in it. I never thought I'd miss the FoulBrewCoffeePotStuff from the last place.
I do miss The Boy and Our Mysterious Ladyfriend. However, The Boy hasn't updated his blog for a while. I think he might be pining...
Or fucking. I'll believe what my ego wants me to...
Catalunya is not Spain (apparently)
Barcelona is full of people with terrible haircuts. The blame, I believe, lies squarely at the door of Fernando Torres. Last summer, Torres was officially in possession of the world’s worst haircut, parading it through Euro 2004 until the world’s scorn and his own shame led him to cut it off. The Spanish (or maybe just the Catalan) seem to have taken it to heart. There are awful feathered mullets everywhere; it looks like they have cut the fringes themselves, without the aid of a mirror, but couldn’t quite reach the back – at least not all of it. So they are left with a strangely layered front and a ratty mullet rear. Some have clearly tried to hide this by flushing their own heads down the loo, leaving a streaky badger bleach effect. They look – if possible – worse.
Neon pharmacy signs have been elevated to an art form in Barcelona, as if – like Las Vegas – each farmacia is trying to outdo the next. Of course, there might be an ulterior motive. The flashing red and green signs are quite hypnotic, but also cause headaches and nausea. And where can you find a cure for these ailments? Exactly.
The Girlfriend and I couldn’t be bothered to pay to go inside the Sagrada Familia. We can read about the history later, and neither of us was interested in climbing the towers. The older façade is particularly foul: impressive but gaudy. The newer façade is much better. Angular, stylised and almost threatening, with spires topped by berries of colour, exploding with contrast against the drabness of the concrete or worn stone colours of the church.
Plus, I’ve been in inside enough churches during the past two weeks; I don’t need to see another.
A respite
She was working a quiet shift. It was another typical Saturday before the season started. One family were on the terrace. Local, probably: the son was telling an animated story, and his parents – although engaged in their own separate conversation – were encouraging and laughing along with him. The locals sat inside, under the cool fans, watching the lottery numbers appear on screen and occasionally making comments across the bar to each other.
Outside, the hot air was thick with ladybirds. Thousands of them: flying, walking, fucking. Hundreds were crushed on the pavements, where they had stopped to rest. Or to mate. Ladybird landing is an imprecise art; many were landing on their backs, struggling to right themselves. The only way to do it was for them to open their wing cases and flip themselves over. It took them a long time to work this out. Each one that landed rolled and shook itself for seconds, nearly a minute, before it tried to use its wings. Then it flew off again.
The new customer at the bar was different. He was alone, but he was not local. He was relaxed, but hot. She walked out to him. Tourist, she thought. He ordered a coffee. She offered him water; he didn’t want it. He looks hot, she thought, I’ll take him some anyway. He thanks her. He tries to order food. His French is weak: it’s been 14 years since he learnt it, and it has been used once, briefly, since then. She doesn’t speak English. She could do without this; she could be sitting inside in the cool. But he’s friendly and he smiles and he’s no trouble. Sitting there, reading his book. And he’s covered in ladybirds, and seems to find it all amusing. They work out what he wants to eat. He speaks to her, “qu’est-ce que c’est, en Francais?” He’s pointing at a ladybird. She writes it in his notebook – coccinnelle – and she walks away.
On the road? I can't even get off the rails...
He continues writing in his notebook, deftly flicking coccinnelles off himself: if you flick them hard enough, they can open their wings and fly away; if not, they hit the floor with a light crack, before righting themselves and flying off.
He finishes his food and leaves money for the bill. She doesn’t see him go.
Outside, the hot air was thick with ladybirds. Thousands of them: flying, walking, fucking. Hundreds were crushed on the pavements, where they had stopped to rest. Or to mate. Ladybird landing is an imprecise art; many were landing on their backs, struggling to right themselves. The only way to do it was for them to open their wing cases and flip themselves over. It took them a long time to work this out. Each one that landed rolled and shook itself for seconds, nearly a minute, before it tried to use its wings. Then it flew off again.
The new customer at the bar was different. He was alone, but he was not local. He was relaxed, but hot. She walked out to him. Tourist, she thought. He ordered a coffee. She offered him water; he didn’t want it. He looks hot, she thought, I’ll take him some anyway. He thanks her. He tries to order food. His French is weak: it’s been 14 years since he learnt it, and it has been used once, briefly, since then. She doesn’t speak English. She could do without this; she could be sitting inside in the cool. But he’s friendly and he smiles and he’s no trouble. Sitting there, reading his book. And he’s covered in ladybirds, and seems to find it all amusing. They work out what he wants to eat. He speaks to her, “qu’est-ce que c’est, en Francais?” He’s pointing at a ladybird. She writes it in his notebook – coccinnelle – and she walks away.
On the road? I can't even get off the rails...
He continues writing in his notebook, deftly flicking coccinnelles off himself: if you flick them hard enough, they can open their wings and fly away; if not, they hit the floor with a light crack, before righting themselves and flying off.
He finishes his food and leaves money for the bill. She doesn’t see him go.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
The Secret Diary of The Circus Beyond, aged 29 and one-third
0430 (BST) – What the hell kind of time is this to be up in the morning? Shower. Final check. Final final check. Lock door. Reopen door. Final final final check. Lock door leave.
I do love being up early in the morning. I just don’t like getting up. Even at 5.30am, the sun is well up and people are out and about. Had the best drive of my life on the way to Stansted: music blaring, clear roads and sunrise.
0630 – No wonder Britain has such a bad reputation abroad. Apart from the odd businessman, the majority of Stansted seems to be taken over by Hen Night or Stag Weekend halfwits. I was lucky enough to share my flight with the gelatinous Sharon, Di, Ness and their shrieking harpy cronies. I knew their names because they were on their backs; I knew they were together because they all wore silver cowboy hats. Classy.
1100 (CEST) – There appear to be more dogs in the airport than in most parks back home. And everyone is smoking. Everywhere. The signage is bloody awful, and I eventually make it to the train. Is it this difficult for tourists arriving in London? (Probably.) Barcelona Sants station is full of beautiful (and firm) women, but appears to be in the middle of nowhere. I say appears, because I don’t want to battle through the taxi rank and bus station to go anywhere (much like Victoria, I imagine). However, I have a Bonka in the Ars – as everyone should do – and laugh at the Spanish girl signing the godawful Barney dinosaur song.
1400 – Find the baggage lockers, which I had assumed they would have got rid of after the Madrid bombings. Have a couple of hours to walk around Barcelona. Also find vending machines selling Actimel and printer cartridges (separate machines, obviously…).
An art gallery? That's just showing off
Walk up to Montjuic, for the fantastic views. Shows the contrast with the views of London from Hampstead Heath or Ally Pally. The architecture is flat (by comparison) and in vibrant reds and oranges. There are minimal grey and glass tower blocks, and it’s reminiscent of a shanty town. I get the feeling that if one building were taken away, the whole place would crumble.
It’s eerily quiet. None of the fountains is on, and there are very few people around: mostly Brits and Yanks. I realise that it’s siesta time, but surely there is money to be made; maybe it is out of season.
A statue and I enjoy the view
1630 – Now this is what Barcelona is famous for. A robbery, on a train, that was impressively carried out. A woman, who looked like John Candy but not quite as fat, was helped to put her case on the stand by a random man. About two minutes later, she realised that her purse had been taken, including her passport and credit cards. She handled it quite well, but had no idea what to do. She eventually cancelled her credit cards. She thought that two of them did it: one ‘helping’ her (as a distraction) and the other picking her pocket/bag.
I still have the niggling feeling that she was a grifter, getting cash off other people to help her through the tough times (and no doubt offering to send it on to them when she gets home)…
I do love being up early in the morning. I just don’t like getting up. Even at 5.30am, the sun is well up and people are out and about. Had the best drive of my life on the way to Stansted: music blaring, clear roads and sunrise.
0630 – No wonder Britain has such a bad reputation abroad. Apart from the odd businessman, the majority of Stansted seems to be taken over by Hen Night or Stag Weekend halfwits. I was lucky enough to share my flight with the gelatinous Sharon, Di, Ness and their shrieking harpy cronies. I knew their names because they were on their backs; I knew they were together because they all wore silver cowboy hats. Classy.
1100 (CEST) – There appear to be more dogs in the airport than in most parks back home. And everyone is smoking. Everywhere. The signage is bloody awful, and I eventually make it to the train. Is it this difficult for tourists arriving in London? (Probably.) Barcelona Sants station is full of beautiful (and firm) women, but appears to be in the middle of nowhere. I say appears, because I don’t want to battle through the taxi rank and bus station to go anywhere (much like Victoria, I imagine). However, I have a Bonka in the Ars – as everyone should do – and laugh at the Spanish girl signing the godawful Barney dinosaur song.
1400 – Find the baggage lockers, which I had assumed they would have got rid of after the Madrid bombings. Have a couple of hours to walk around Barcelona. Also find vending machines selling Actimel and printer cartridges (separate machines, obviously…).
An art gallery? That's just showing off
Walk up to Montjuic, for the fantastic views. Shows the contrast with the views of London from Hampstead Heath or Ally Pally. The architecture is flat (by comparison) and in vibrant reds and oranges. There are minimal grey and glass tower blocks, and it’s reminiscent of a shanty town. I get the feeling that if one building were taken away, the whole place would crumble.
It’s eerily quiet. None of the fountains is on, and there are very few people around: mostly Brits and Yanks. I realise that it’s siesta time, but surely there is money to be made; maybe it is out of season.
A statue and I enjoy the view
1630 – Now this is what Barcelona is famous for. A robbery, on a train, that was impressively carried out. A woman, who looked like John Candy but not quite as fat, was helped to put her case on the stand by a random man. About two minutes later, she realised that her purse had been taken, including her passport and credit cards. She handled it quite well, but had no idea what to do. She eventually cancelled her credit cards. She thought that two of them did it: one ‘helping’ her (as a distraction) and the other picking her pocket/bag.
I still have the niggling feeling that she was a grifter, getting cash off other people to help her through the tough times (and no doubt offering to send it on to them when she gets home)…
My last day at work
Well, well: What a drama.
I say drama, but most people – the media excluded – I saw or know took the events of Thursday morning with a large shrug. It might have helped that I had spoken to The Girlfriend just after the tube was shut down, so I wasn’t too worried: she was bitching about the bloody network; I was bitching about what a good advert this was the day after we’d won the games. Of course, we’d (all) been told that it was a power surge closing down the system, and everyone was searching alternative methods for getting to work. After 30 minutes waiting for a train into Liverpool Street, I was informed by RealSister that there had been a bomb at King’s Cross (the mobile network was holding up pretty well at this point), and then by the platform staff that no trains would be running ‘for the next hour or so’. So I tried the bus, until I was informed that no buses were going to central London.
I walked home, two and a half hours after I had left it, stopping in Curry’s on the way home to see the news. It was obvious at this point that it was rather big. Nobody was particularly put out, however. Most were still concerned with phoning the office or trying to make their way in.
What followed was a triumph of sensationalist news-casting and sensible humanity. All the news channels, and subsequently the papers, were giving it large: Drama; Tragedy; OhMiGod; Fear. Except, of course, that the pictures they were showing showed none of these (bar the images of the bus and the dead). The majority of the people in the pictures – hell, the majority of those involved directly in the incidents – weren’t looking shocked or scared or frantic. No, people were just getting on with it.
Interviewers tried their best to get an overblown emotional response from victims. They didn’t get it; instead, people who were within an inch of death were matter of fact, calm and rational. No doubt they were scared. No doubt they had witnessed atrocities few of us could imagine, but they didn’t lose their resolve.
Unlike the TV stations, who seemed to lose all sense of perspective, desperate for some emotional poster-boy or -girl to give a ‘real face’ to the story. Instead, they had to follow up with stories about how London is unbowed and will go on regardless. Well, how about getting out of our fucking faces and letting us.
Rolling news is almost always abysmal. Yes, it’s there when the story breaks, but when you haven’t had any new information for hours, it descends into cliché and desperation. Which it did rapidly. Why not just tell us what happened, and what is being done. Leave out the ‘human interest’; leave the victims alone. Starve the terrorists of publicity. And for fuck’s sake, let us get on with it; leave those unfortunate to grieve, in peace.
Personally, I got a couple of days off (the police asked me to stay out of the centre, and I always do as they ask). The Girlfriend discovered that the Piccadilly Line bomb was on the carriage of the train she normally gets, at the time she is normally on it (who says laziness leads to an unfulfilling life), but we aren’t taking part in What Ifs. A temporal gap is as good as being miles away (as she was, in Finsbury Park). We’ve been expecting this for years, and (as insensitive it is to say it when so many are mourning), 50 dead out of three million passengers a day is fair odds.
The best thing, though, was the phone calls from friends and family; people who you wouldn’t expect to be thinking about you. It makes you feel loved, really.
I say drama, but most people – the media excluded – I saw or know took the events of Thursday morning with a large shrug. It might have helped that I had spoken to The Girlfriend just after the tube was shut down, so I wasn’t too worried: she was bitching about the bloody network; I was bitching about what a good advert this was the day after we’d won the games. Of course, we’d (all) been told that it was a power surge closing down the system, and everyone was searching alternative methods for getting to work. After 30 minutes waiting for a train into Liverpool Street, I was informed by RealSister that there had been a bomb at King’s Cross (the mobile network was holding up pretty well at this point), and then by the platform staff that no trains would be running ‘for the next hour or so’. So I tried the bus, until I was informed that no buses were going to central London.
I walked home, two and a half hours after I had left it, stopping in Curry’s on the way home to see the news. It was obvious at this point that it was rather big. Nobody was particularly put out, however. Most were still concerned with phoning the office or trying to make their way in.
What followed was a triumph of sensationalist news-casting and sensible humanity. All the news channels, and subsequently the papers, were giving it large: Drama; Tragedy; OhMiGod; Fear. Except, of course, that the pictures they were showing showed none of these (bar the images of the bus and the dead). The majority of the people in the pictures – hell, the majority of those involved directly in the incidents – weren’t looking shocked or scared or frantic. No, people were just getting on with it.
Interviewers tried their best to get an overblown emotional response from victims. They didn’t get it; instead, people who were within an inch of death were matter of fact, calm and rational. No doubt they were scared. No doubt they had witnessed atrocities few of us could imagine, but they didn’t lose their resolve.
Unlike the TV stations, who seemed to lose all sense of perspective, desperate for some emotional poster-boy or -girl to give a ‘real face’ to the story. Instead, they had to follow up with stories about how London is unbowed and will go on regardless. Well, how about getting out of our fucking faces and letting us.
Rolling news is almost always abysmal. Yes, it’s there when the story breaks, but when you haven’t had any new information for hours, it descends into cliché and desperation. Which it did rapidly. Why not just tell us what happened, and what is being done. Leave out the ‘human interest’; leave the victims alone. Starve the terrorists of publicity. And for fuck’s sake, let us get on with it; leave those unfortunate to grieve, in peace.
Personally, I got a couple of days off (the police asked me to stay out of the centre, and I always do as they ask). The Girlfriend discovered that the Piccadilly Line bomb was on the carriage of the train she normally gets, at the time she is normally on it (who says laziness leads to an unfulfilling life), but we aren’t taking part in What Ifs. A temporal gap is as good as being miles away (as she was, in Finsbury Park). We’ve been expecting this for years, and (as insensitive it is to say it when so many are mourning), 50 dead out of three million passengers a day is fair odds.
The best thing, though, was the phone calls from friends and family; people who you wouldn’t expect to be thinking about you. It makes you feel loved, really.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
I dream of sleep
I'm shattered, but I have been a busy boy. Two days (and a little more) walking around the whole of Barcelona and two days in France. Mostly without sleep. I got in at 12.30 this morning, was up again for work (only two more days to go!) and soon I will be sleeping. It does mean that I have a travelogue to add over the next few days (having said that, I will be out for the next three nights, so when it all gets added, I cannot say). So a busy week of writing - fortunately I jotted down my travels as I went along - and a play review, a leaving do and a birthday party to add later.
I'd best get onto it...
I'd best get onto it...
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Man Bites Dog
Such excitement at work yesterday. I had to scream STOP THE PRESS. Well, I didn't excatly have to run into the print room, nor bawl down the phone at my deputy, but it was close. In that I sent an e-mail to the man who facilitates these things, and the effect was the same.
It turns out that there is a big drama, with a falling out and people suing each other, with us in the middle as an innocent (and wholly ignorant) party. So we pulled the piece in question and make all the right noises, and I had a laugh at the stupidity of it all.
And just over a week to go...
It turns out that there is a big drama, with a falling out and people suing each other, with us in the middle as an innocent (and wholly ignorant) party. So we pulled the piece in question and make all the right noises, and I had a laugh at the stupidity of it all.
And just over a week to go...
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Freak out in the pink room
Sunday morning. Hangover. No time for breakfast. Have to get The Girlfriend to Heathrow. M40. Fast. Too fast. Heathrow–North circular–home.
Then TheBoy comes round, bringing fungus. Columbian fungus. Not For Beginners. Well, at least one of us isn’t a beginner.
Even though it’s a psychedelic, you feel it first in your stomach. You know it’s coming. Impending doom. It rushes through your veins; a bolus in the blood of fear, anxiety, expectation, anticipation, excitement. Do the others feel it? Paranoia. Is it just me? Do they feel this? Are they playing with me? Laughing at me because I’m about to lose it?
And then the smiles start. Uncontrollable giggles. Laughter. It stops; you catch someone’s eye and start again. Nothing too hectic, just a relaxing feeling.
A music TV channel was on in the background. Things are becoming a little weird. Bros are more hilarious than usual. Is that video special effects, or is it me? My limbs are weak. My concentration is gone. TheBoy turns off the channel, puts on a film. The walls are vivid. More so than usual. Everything is breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly. Metronomically. The film plays in the background, drawing me in. My attention wanders. I laugh at the film.
TheBoy is looking at the fan. He’s confused. It’s giving him the come-on. She’s a minx, he says. You’re ceiling has pretty colours and shapes on it, he says. So it does, I say. We laugh. Are they normally this strong, he says.
Change the film, he says, the man is staring at me. I change the film. I put a cartoon on. Futurama. It’s funny. Time is very slow. We laugh. TheBoy can’t stand up properly. He crawls around. He sits behind the sofa, laughing. My head is heavy. The TV is making me laugh, but I’m only half watching.
TheBoy turns Darth Tater around. He was staring at me, he says. I go to the bathroom. It’s pure white. It’s vast. I stand there for a minute. I realise that it’s my bathroom. I’m confused. I leave.
TheBoy goes outside for a cigarette. The nature is strange, he says, there’s lots of it. I was out there for a long time, he says. He might have been, I think, but it didn’t seem like long. We talk. We laugh. He tries to draw me. He tries to draw the puppy. He can’t tell which of us is which, he says. Pets are supposed to look like their owners, I say. Not stuffed toy pets, he says. We could take it for a walk, I say. I’m not having my mum read about me being kicked to death in east London because I took a stuffed toy for a walk, he says. We laugh.
He goes outside for another cigarette. I join him outside. Nature seems mild compared to the living room. It’s not pink enough, I say. There’s not enough going on, I say.
We go for a walk to the park. We get bored on the way. We walk through the estate and laugh at the architecture. We go back to the flat. It’s weaker now. We watch TV. It’s the Simpsons. It’s funnier than it should be. We laugh. We talk. It’s wearing off.
It’s about 7pm and we’re both shattered. We order a pizza and watch the Incredibles. It’s a draining feeling, but a pleasant one. He goes home. I go to bed.
Then TheBoy comes round, bringing fungus. Columbian fungus. Not For Beginners. Well, at least one of us isn’t a beginner.
Even though it’s a psychedelic, you feel it first in your stomach. You know it’s coming. Impending doom. It rushes through your veins; a bolus in the blood of fear, anxiety, expectation, anticipation, excitement. Do the others feel it? Paranoia. Is it just me? Do they feel this? Are they playing with me? Laughing at me because I’m about to lose it?
And then the smiles start. Uncontrollable giggles. Laughter. It stops; you catch someone’s eye and start again. Nothing too hectic, just a relaxing feeling.
A music TV channel was on in the background. Things are becoming a little weird. Bros are more hilarious than usual. Is that video special effects, or is it me? My limbs are weak. My concentration is gone. TheBoy turns off the channel, puts on a film. The walls are vivid. More so than usual. Everything is breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly. Metronomically. The film plays in the background, drawing me in. My attention wanders. I laugh at the film.
TheBoy is looking at the fan. He’s confused. It’s giving him the come-on. She’s a minx, he says. You’re ceiling has pretty colours and shapes on it, he says. So it does, I say. We laugh. Are they normally this strong, he says.
Change the film, he says, the man is staring at me. I change the film. I put a cartoon on. Futurama. It’s funny. Time is very slow. We laugh. TheBoy can’t stand up properly. He crawls around. He sits behind the sofa, laughing. My head is heavy. The TV is making me laugh, but I’m only half watching.
TheBoy turns Darth Tater around. He was staring at me, he says. I go to the bathroom. It’s pure white. It’s vast. I stand there for a minute. I realise that it’s my bathroom. I’m confused. I leave.
TheBoy goes outside for a cigarette. The nature is strange, he says, there’s lots of it. I was out there for a long time, he says. He might have been, I think, but it didn’t seem like long. We talk. We laugh. He tries to draw me. He tries to draw the puppy. He can’t tell which of us is which, he says. Pets are supposed to look like their owners, I say. Not stuffed toy pets, he says. We could take it for a walk, I say. I’m not having my mum read about me being kicked to death in east London because I took a stuffed toy for a walk, he says. We laugh.
He goes outside for another cigarette. I join him outside. Nature seems mild compared to the living room. It’s not pink enough, I say. There’s not enough going on, I say.
We go for a walk to the park. We get bored on the way. We walk through the estate and laugh at the architecture. We go back to the flat. It’s weaker now. We watch TV. It’s the Simpsons. It’s funnier than it should be. We laugh. We talk. It’s wearing off.
It’s about 7pm and we’re both shattered. We order a pizza and watch the Incredibles. It’s a draining feeling, but a pleasant one. He goes home. I go to bed.
Monday, June 27, 2005
One wedding and no news
Weddings, eh? A big piss up, a massive opportunity for family rifts to surface and fights to take place. But mostly, tedium in the church, a meal and lots of booze and embarrassing behaviour.
Well, The Girlfriend and I were looking dapper – like a gangster and his moll, as we were described, which pleased The Girlfriend no end – our close friends were looking fine and people we vaguely knew were looking cheap and gave us something to be bitchy about. And lots of men in kilts. Lots. Still, although it was in Warwickshire, it was two Scottish families.
The service itself was as tedious as ever. I had the magnificent view of a pillar, which didn’t spoil much. The church, like the hotel, didn’t have air-conditioning. Then again, it wasn’t built in the past ten years, so I’ll let them off. The vicar, or whatever he was, failed to convince me that I should go there every Sunday. The bride, who conspicuously failed to smile throughout the whole day, had a dress that was the wrong colour, the wrong style and was covered in some drab-looking lace, which I am reliably informed cost a lot of money.
We were on the Lager and Curry table, which was a step up from the Cheap Plonk and Dairylea. The celidh that followed the food was good fun, and bloody exhausting, but rather poorly subscribed by the other miserable guests. Unfortunately, nothing particularly interesting happened during the evening. Still, I looked good, The Girlfriend looked good and we had fun. Balls to everyone else.
Well, The Girlfriend and I were looking dapper – like a gangster and his moll, as we were described, which pleased The Girlfriend no end – our close friends were looking fine and people we vaguely knew were looking cheap and gave us something to be bitchy about. And lots of men in kilts. Lots. Still, although it was in Warwickshire, it was two Scottish families.
The service itself was as tedious as ever. I had the magnificent view of a pillar, which didn’t spoil much. The church, like the hotel, didn’t have air-conditioning. Then again, it wasn’t built in the past ten years, so I’ll let them off. The vicar, or whatever he was, failed to convince me that I should go there every Sunday. The bride, who conspicuously failed to smile throughout the whole day, had a dress that was the wrong colour, the wrong style and was covered in some drab-looking lace, which I am reliably informed cost a lot of money.
We were on the Lager and Curry table, which was a step up from the Cheap Plonk and Dairylea. The celidh that followed the food was good fun, and bloody exhausting, but rather poorly subscribed by the other miserable guests. Unfortunately, nothing particularly interesting happened during the evening. Still, I looked good, The Girlfriend looked good and we had fun. Balls to everyone else.
Fawlty Towers
Damn, what a weekend. So much that I’ll have to split it into three parts. Starting here, with a hotel review.
I had the misfortune to stay in the Warwick Hilton this weekend. Frankly, given what I now know and my feelings for the girl in question, I’d rather enter Paris Hilton. And I’d rather stick my dick in a blender than in that air-headed tit-stand.
I’d like to find something good about the hotel, but really I can’t. The bar was uninviting and outrageously expensive; the gym and pool was closed over the weekend; the breakfast was appalling (how difficult is it to heat up some beans) and necessitated a long queue; the lift took longer to go from floor to floor than Concorde did to cross the Atlantic; the shower was louder than Concorde; the ‘luxury robe’ was thinner than a condom and rougher than a mail sack; and the carpets, as in all hotels, offended my eyes.
But the most annoying thing, and something completely unforgivable in this day and age – especially when you are paying £120 a night – was the lack of air conditioning in the room. Unbelievable. True, they had provided a fan, which was the only thing in the county louder than the shower, to circulate the hot air around. Quite where people get the idea that we don’t need it in this country, I don’t know. It may not be as hot as other places, but it’s hot enough during the summer, and it’s sticky and humid and sweaty. And everywhere else in the developed world, air-con would come as standard. Frankly, they are taking the piss.
So, I urge you never to stay in a Hilton hotel. Their service is shit and they charge you a fortune for it. And if you are desperate to stay just off junction 15 of the M40, stay at the Holiday Inn instead.
I had the misfortune to stay in the Warwick Hilton this weekend. Frankly, given what I now know and my feelings for the girl in question, I’d rather enter Paris Hilton. And I’d rather stick my dick in a blender than in that air-headed tit-stand.
I’d like to find something good about the hotel, but really I can’t. The bar was uninviting and outrageously expensive; the gym and pool was closed over the weekend; the breakfast was appalling (how difficult is it to heat up some beans) and necessitated a long queue; the lift took longer to go from floor to floor than Concorde did to cross the Atlantic; the shower was louder than Concorde; the ‘luxury robe’ was thinner than a condom and rougher than a mail sack; and the carpets, as in all hotels, offended my eyes.
But the most annoying thing, and something completely unforgivable in this day and age – especially when you are paying £120 a night – was the lack of air conditioning in the room. Unbelievable. True, they had provided a fan, which was the only thing in the county louder than the shower, to circulate the hot air around. Quite where people get the idea that we don’t need it in this country, I don’t know. It may not be as hot as other places, but it’s hot enough during the summer, and it’s sticky and humid and sweaty. And everywhere else in the developed world, air-con would come as standard. Frankly, they are taking the piss.
So, I urge you never to stay in a Hilton hotel. Their service is shit and they charge you a fortune for it. And if you are desperate to stay just off junction 15 of the M40, stay at the Holiday Inn instead.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Can't you help me, Dr Beat?
I’ve finally got around to registering for a new doctor, having lived in the area for a mere two years. Which, for me, isn’t too bad. I lived in Muswell Hill for three years without bothering to sign up. And I only had to fill in two forms, one of which was mostly concerned with determining whether I was an asylum seeker.
What can I say? I’m a man, and visiting the doctor is not a popular way of dealing with health issues. It’s rather ironic, of course. As all men know, they have very sensitive pain receptors: for example, waxing hurts a man far more than a woman. (Notably, there is a limit to this sensitivity; a punch directly to the face does not hurt, nor does an injury caused by negligence/incompetency at DIY or the like. Despite the swearing.) But the moment a serious health issue is encountered, men are particularly stoic.
“No, this lump on my testicle is not serious. No need to bother the doctor with it.”
“I’m sure this pox will clear up by itself very soon.”
Whether it is fear of being told something bad or because it’s seen as a weakness I don’t know. Unless it’s a sporting injury or something involving a scar – which has bragging rights in the pub – then there is a tendency to ignore it.
Personally, I’d go to the doctor if I needed to, but never as a prospective thing. I haven’t had a GP for years because if it’s serious I’ll go to A&E; if it’s not, I’ll self medicate; and if I get a chronic problem, then I can sign up and see the quack.
Now, however, I’m getting old and my body is slowly falling apart. And I’ll not want to be waiting too long when my health collapses under the massive weight of this hypochondria.
What can I say? I’m a man, and visiting the doctor is not a popular way of dealing with health issues. It’s rather ironic, of course. As all men know, they have very sensitive pain receptors: for example, waxing hurts a man far more than a woman. (Notably, there is a limit to this sensitivity; a punch directly to the face does not hurt, nor does an injury caused by negligence/incompetency at DIY or the like. Despite the swearing.) But the moment a serious health issue is encountered, men are particularly stoic.
“No, this lump on my testicle is not serious. No need to bother the doctor with it.”
“I’m sure this pox will clear up by itself very soon.”
Whether it is fear of being told something bad or because it’s seen as a weakness I don’t know. Unless it’s a sporting injury or something involving a scar – which has bragging rights in the pub – then there is a tendency to ignore it.
Personally, I’d go to the doctor if I needed to, but never as a prospective thing. I haven’t had a GP for years because if it’s serious I’ll go to A&E; if it’s not, I’ll self medicate; and if I get a chronic problem, then I can sign up and see the quack.
Now, however, I’m getting old and my body is slowly falling apart. And I’ll not want to be waiting too long when my health collapses under the massive weight of this hypochondria.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Community Service
I had a proper bit of Eastenders drama on the way home this evening. In fact, it contained all the necessary components for a proper TV row: a domestic (in public); a shouting man; an alcoholic; a wife-beater; a former (double) psychiatric patient; previous police involvement; finger pointing; and a dog. And there were only two people involved!
The row was audible quite a distance away, but until I turned the corner into the road, I couldn't be too sure what was going on. When I did turn the corner, I had that sickening feeling that I was going to have to Do Something. I stood nearby for a second or two, having removed my headphones, to see what was going on (before I walked away from a possible murder or waded into a harmless tiff).
Sitting on the floor, leaning against a short wall - the sort that separates a small patio from the pavement - was a woman, with a small(ish) dog on a lead in one hand and a black holdall on the pavement next to her. Standing over her was a man, screaming at her nose to nose and shaking his hand inches in front of her face.
Her age was difficult to make out. I'd guess that she was in her late 30s, but could have been any age between 25 and 40. She was thin-faced and sallow, with deep sunken eyes resigned to whatever life was going to throw at her next. She had the kind of weariness about her that heroin addicts or prostitutes have, and it wouldn't surprise me if she had been one, or both, at some time in her life. He was older, greying and receding: probably in his 40s.
I was still stuck in limbo; I wasn't going to wade in and risk a beating over someone I don't know. But I wasn't about to walk away and do nothing when this shouting match was going on (I say match, but that implies that both were shouting. He was shouting and threatening. She was being studiously meek, but clearly used to this). So far, I had established that they were married, she was (he claimed) drunk and an alcoholic, this had happened before (frequently) and that she was adept at ‘playing the victim’.
I was not alone in my viewing. A couple of neighbours were standing at their front doors, and some passers-by had also stopped. I guess (as all men in these situations do) that nobody wanted to go in alone. I clearly looked like a good option, because a man from one of the nearby buildings walked up to me and said, "we can't let this go on like this." Agreeing, he, his friend and I walked over and attempted to separate him from her.
To be fair, he was amenable to stepping back; then again, most people probably would be wary of three twenty-something men. It became clear that this was a familiar scene, well practised and oft repeated. She was an alcoholic who caused him trouble, although quite what she did to annoy him such was never made clear. He was a wife-beater with a penchant for strangling her. The police had been involved in their domestics 47 times. She had twice been a psychiatric in-patient. They both wanted the police to come so that they could sort this out. She, apparently, made everyone feel sorry for her by acting weak (but, with a brute threatening you, you can’t really blame her). And all this was established through the medium of shout.
Unlike Eastenders, both were very good at their roles. He was clearly a nasty piece of work, but he knew how far he could push it in public. He did not touch her once, but every jab of his finger or face was dripping with menace. She played meek and mild, but there was something underneath to indicate that she was probably just as unpleasant as him, albeit without the physical threat. Neither of them pushed it too far. Had he touched her, four of us (another having arrived as we moved in) would have flattened him and clobbered him. She kept her mouth shut and didn't retaliate, giving him no reason to attack nor us to stop defending her.
The police arrived within about five minutes; the officers probably knew the couple, and both were well versed in the routine. The police were happy that we were no longer needed, and we all went our separate ways, leaving him on one side of the road with one policeman and her still sitting on the floor with the other.
I bet they'll be at it again before the week is out.
The row was audible quite a distance away, but until I turned the corner into the road, I couldn't be too sure what was going on. When I did turn the corner, I had that sickening feeling that I was going to have to Do Something. I stood nearby for a second or two, having removed my headphones, to see what was going on (before I walked away from a possible murder or waded into a harmless tiff).
Sitting on the floor, leaning against a short wall - the sort that separates a small patio from the pavement - was a woman, with a small(ish) dog on a lead in one hand and a black holdall on the pavement next to her. Standing over her was a man, screaming at her nose to nose and shaking his hand inches in front of her face.
Her age was difficult to make out. I'd guess that she was in her late 30s, but could have been any age between 25 and 40. She was thin-faced and sallow, with deep sunken eyes resigned to whatever life was going to throw at her next. She had the kind of weariness about her that heroin addicts or prostitutes have, and it wouldn't surprise me if she had been one, or both, at some time in her life. He was older, greying and receding: probably in his 40s.
I was still stuck in limbo; I wasn't going to wade in and risk a beating over someone I don't know. But I wasn't about to walk away and do nothing when this shouting match was going on (I say match, but that implies that both were shouting. He was shouting and threatening. She was being studiously meek, but clearly used to this). So far, I had established that they were married, she was (he claimed) drunk and an alcoholic, this had happened before (frequently) and that she was adept at ‘playing the victim’.
I was not alone in my viewing. A couple of neighbours were standing at their front doors, and some passers-by had also stopped. I guess (as all men in these situations do) that nobody wanted to go in alone. I clearly looked like a good option, because a man from one of the nearby buildings walked up to me and said, "we can't let this go on like this." Agreeing, he, his friend and I walked over and attempted to separate him from her.
To be fair, he was amenable to stepping back; then again, most people probably would be wary of three twenty-something men. It became clear that this was a familiar scene, well practised and oft repeated. She was an alcoholic who caused him trouble, although quite what she did to annoy him such was never made clear. He was a wife-beater with a penchant for strangling her. The police had been involved in their domestics 47 times. She had twice been a psychiatric in-patient. They both wanted the police to come so that they could sort this out. She, apparently, made everyone feel sorry for her by acting weak (but, with a brute threatening you, you can’t really blame her). And all this was established through the medium of shout.
Unlike Eastenders, both were very good at their roles. He was clearly a nasty piece of work, but he knew how far he could push it in public. He did not touch her once, but every jab of his finger or face was dripping with menace. She played meek and mild, but there was something underneath to indicate that she was probably just as unpleasant as him, albeit without the physical threat. Neither of them pushed it too far. Had he touched her, four of us (another having arrived as we moved in) would have flattened him and clobbered him. She kept her mouth shut and didn't retaliate, giving him no reason to attack nor us to stop defending her.
The police arrived within about five minutes; the officers probably knew the couple, and both were well versed in the routine. The police were happy that we were no longer needed, and we all went our separate ways, leaving him on one side of the road with one policeman and her still sitting on the floor with the other.
I bet they'll be at it again before the week is out.
Hot town, summer in the city
On Sunday, The Girlfriend and I went to meet TheBoy in London's exclusive Hampstead, to celebrate the temperatures of over 30°C and to make our contribution to the presence of Beautiful People. Disappointingly, Parliament Hill was not full of Beautiful People, but drunk people (I was only jealous because I had no beer), so there was little eye-candy (ourselves excluded, of course). Bizarrely, despite being one of the largest sections of greenery in London, most people decided they wanted to be crammed together in a single part of the heath. Maybe they were practising for their beach holiday in Benidorm.
Apart from the silly proles, Hampstead was as fine as ever. As soon as The Girlfriend earns enough, I shall let her buy me a house there. We had a pleasant couple of pints in the Freemason's Arms before retiring to the Holly Bush for dinner (or a pint of prawns) - officially the darkest place in the universe. There is nothing quite like a lazy Sunday afternoon with friends, so I am going to start making a habit of it. At least while it is sunny (or until my cashflow runs out).
Vive l'été.
Apart from the silly proles, Hampstead was as fine as ever. As soon as The Girlfriend earns enough, I shall let her buy me a house there. We had a pleasant couple of pints in the Freemason's Arms before retiring to the Holly Bush for dinner (or a pint of prawns) - officially the darkest place in the universe. There is nothing quite like a lazy Sunday afternoon with friends, so I am going to start making a habit of it. At least while it is sunny (or until my cashflow runs out).
Vive l'été.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Ban this sick filth. Oh, they are. Shame
On Friday night I spent another corrupting evening in the presence of RealSister, continuing my investigation into brain-cell death and distortion. Also experimenting were DrummerBoy (the boyfriend of RealSister), a schoolfriend of RealSister called Wolfman and Wolfman's sister, whose name I didn't get all evening (or when I did, I promptly forgot it).
Overall, it was quite a success, once everybody had got over the unfortunate mental block of actually eating the foul things. And we convinced RealSister that she was unlikely to believe she was an orange and try and peel herself, or scoop her eyes out with a spoon or think she could fly and jump out of a window, and all the other scare stories from yesteryear.
I guess that the dose was lower than my previous attempt, because I was not quite as monged, although I still had some nice visuals. Generally, it was all a bit of a giggle. Only WolfmanSister and I were seeing lines and colours early on, although the others starting seeing them towards the end of the night. Mostly it was laughing like loons, standing under a tree in tranquility or trying to buy beer with great difficulty. And Wolfman claiming each successive thing we encountered was the Best Thing Ever.
It was, therefore, a little depressing to find out the next day that the government were being busybodies and making the whole thing illegal on the pointless premise that it can induce psychosis. Aside from the fact that it will only induce it in people who already have it, and many other things could trigger it (such as alcohol), it got me thinking about alternatives. If mushrooms are no longer available on street stalls, and are as illegal as LSD, cocaine or ecstasy, then people who want a trip are more likely to try one of those. Notably acid, which is far stronger and far more likely to have adverse psychological results than mushrooms, and can be easily concealed (i.e. it's a small tab of paper, not 15-odd grams of fungus). Of course, it's less likely to attract the casual user, but is it the casual user who is the most likely to have mental problems in the first place? I couldn't tell you for sure, but I'd doubt that a propensity for hard drugs (or, in more extreme cases, addiction) is entirely separate from the likelihood of being unbalanced. And these are the people who are going to be driven to harder drugs.
I still believe that the decriminalisation of all 'recreational' drugs - along with strict controls on quality, access and aftercare - is the most sensible option, but I doubt it'll happen. Not when we have hysterical interest groups, misinformation and little sensible discussion of the issues in an empirical and scientific manner (rather than just scare tactics and fear).
So, before the end of July, I will try and get a big group of people together for a big blowout, possibly an afternoon in the park with an ‘alternative’ picnic.
Overall, it was quite a success, once everybody had got over the unfortunate mental block of actually eating the foul things. And we convinced RealSister that she was unlikely to believe she was an orange and try and peel herself, or scoop her eyes out with a spoon or think she could fly and jump out of a window, and all the other scare stories from yesteryear.
I guess that the dose was lower than my previous attempt, because I was not quite as monged, although I still had some nice visuals. Generally, it was all a bit of a giggle. Only WolfmanSister and I were seeing lines and colours early on, although the others starting seeing them towards the end of the night. Mostly it was laughing like loons, standing under a tree in tranquility or trying to buy beer with great difficulty. And Wolfman claiming each successive thing we encountered was the Best Thing Ever.
It was, therefore, a little depressing to find out the next day that the government were being busybodies and making the whole thing illegal on the pointless premise that it can induce psychosis. Aside from the fact that it will only induce it in people who already have it, and many other things could trigger it (such as alcohol), it got me thinking about alternatives. If mushrooms are no longer available on street stalls, and are as illegal as LSD, cocaine or ecstasy, then people who want a trip are more likely to try one of those. Notably acid, which is far stronger and far more likely to have adverse psychological results than mushrooms, and can be easily concealed (i.e. it's a small tab of paper, not 15-odd grams of fungus). Of course, it's less likely to attract the casual user, but is it the casual user who is the most likely to have mental problems in the first place? I couldn't tell you for sure, but I'd doubt that a propensity for hard drugs (or, in more extreme cases, addiction) is entirely separate from the likelihood of being unbalanced. And these are the people who are going to be driven to harder drugs.
I still believe that the decriminalisation of all 'recreational' drugs - along with strict controls on quality, access and aftercare - is the most sensible option, but I doubt it'll happen. Not when we have hysterical interest groups, misinformation and little sensible discussion of the issues in an empirical and scientific manner (rather than just scare tactics and fear).
So, before the end of July, I will try and get a big group of people together for a big blowout, possibly an afternoon in the park with an ‘alternative’ picnic.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Pots, kettles and colour schemes
So the Archbishop of Canterbury has said that blogs indulge in 'paranoid fantasy, self-indulgent nonsense and dangerous bigotry'. As the head of a major religion, I hope that he is aware of the concept of irony...
Monday, June 13, 2005
A little piece of Switzerland
Just around the corner from where I live, and something that cheers me on my morning walk to work, is a porch in the style of an alpine chalet entrance. If, that is, you could buy alpine chalets in Argos.
What pleases me the most is the incongruity of the structure. I live in the netherworld between the urban and the suburban in London's trendy East End™. This particular appendage is unapologetically stuck on a early 20th century terraced house among a row of unassuming brick- or pebbledash-fronted family homes.
To add to my general pleasure, the front door is frequently open. Behind the Beware of the Dog signs (probably an aging pit-bull named Tyson) is an avocado shagpile carpet and an approximation of ostentatious furniture, clearly obtained within a budget of £20 per item. Including porcelain figurines.
I don't intend to mock it, despite what I say. I love that someone has thought hard enough about their house to want to decorate it in such a way; that they want to give the impression of garvitas and class with their teak-effect cupboards and exquisite mass-produced ornaments. But most of all I love it because they have added the porch they wanted, in the style they like, and to hell with the surrounding environment.
Am I being patronising? Hell yes, but I can't help smiling every time I see it. And, although I wouldn't want to live in something like that, I'm glad that someone does.
What pleases me the most is the incongruity of the structure. I live in the netherworld between the urban and the suburban in London's trendy East End™. This particular appendage is unapologetically stuck on a early 20th century terraced house among a row of unassuming brick- or pebbledash-fronted family homes.
To add to my general pleasure, the front door is frequently open. Behind the Beware of the Dog signs (probably an aging pit-bull named Tyson) is an avocado shagpile carpet and an approximation of ostentatious furniture, clearly obtained within a budget of £20 per item. Including porcelain figurines.
I don't intend to mock it, despite what I say. I love that someone has thought hard enough about their house to want to decorate it in such a way; that they want to give the impression of garvitas and class with their teak-effect cupboards and exquisite mass-produced ornaments. But most of all I love it because they have added the porch they wanted, in the style they like, and to hell with the surrounding environment.
Am I being patronising? Hell yes, but I can't help smiling every time I see it. And, although I wouldn't want to live in something like that, I'm glad that someone does.
We dream the same dream?
For some terrible reason, I was afflicted with the brain-bug on my Internal Jukebox of Belinda Carlisle's We Want The Same Thing. And it got me thinking. Do we? Do we really?
To wit: on one hand, I envisage a benign dictatorship, led by me, in which the ne'er do wells are cajoled and humanely treated into becoming responsible members of society; benefits and the welfare state are available to all those who need it and are a stepping stone back into contributing to society. Punishment for those who refuse to abide by these rules will be tempered by effective rehabilitation, and only persistent miscreants will be treated harshly. Everyone will realise that they have to put something into society to get something out of it. The Girlfriend, on the other hand, would like a malevolent dictatorship, led by her and enforced by crack military police units in black leather, in which all low-life fuckers were mercilessly executed.
Of course, this is not going to happen, but there are more realistic differences. I like to snowboard down pistes at great speed, and through dangerous tree-lined off-piste routes, in search of thrills, whereas she - inexplicably - likes to get to the bottom in one piece. I think a good evening in front of the television involves the unpredictable and magnificent drama of 22 men and a synthetic-leather pig's bladder substitute; she like car-crash TV in which fat and ugly Americans have plastic surgery to make them look like less-fat, ugly and facially stretched perma-smiling retards. I like computer games in which I can pretend to do someone else's job; she likes helping fluffy animals with their chores and to make a nice town. And so on...
The point of which is (apart from pointing out how wrong Ms Carlisle is), surely you don't want your partner to be a clone of you. Obviously, you want the broad interests to be the same: The Girlfriend and I both want rid of social parasites and like snowboarding, watching TV and playing computer games, but if you were too similar, what would you talk about? "Ooh, isn't xxx good?" "Yes." "Ooh, I don't like that, do you?" "No."
Actually, I'm not sure what my point is. Nor do I care. Hell, I was only trying to justify having a bad pop song in my head. And to point out that there is no excuse for wearing matching fleeces or the like...
To wit: on one hand, I envisage a benign dictatorship, led by me, in which the ne'er do wells are cajoled and humanely treated into becoming responsible members of society; benefits and the welfare state are available to all those who need it and are a stepping stone back into contributing to society. Punishment for those who refuse to abide by these rules will be tempered by effective rehabilitation, and only persistent miscreants will be treated harshly. Everyone will realise that they have to put something into society to get something out of it. The Girlfriend, on the other hand, would like a malevolent dictatorship, led by her and enforced by crack military police units in black leather, in which all low-life fuckers were mercilessly executed.
Of course, this is not going to happen, but there are more realistic differences. I like to snowboard down pistes at great speed, and through dangerous tree-lined off-piste routes, in search of thrills, whereas she - inexplicably - likes to get to the bottom in one piece. I think a good evening in front of the television involves the unpredictable and magnificent drama of 22 men and a synthetic-leather pig's bladder substitute; she like car-crash TV in which fat and ugly Americans have plastic surgery to make them look like less-fat, ugly and facially stretched perma-smiling retards. I like computer games in which I can pretend to do someone else's job; she likes helping fluffy animals with their chores and to make a nice town. And so on...
The point of which is (apart from pointing out how wrong Ms Carlisle is), surely you don't want your partner to be a clone of you. Obviously, you want the broad interests to be the same: The Girlfriend and I both want rid of social parasites and like snowboarding, watching TV and playing computer games, but if you were too similar, what would you talk about? "Ooh, isn't xxx good?" "Yes." "Ooh, I don't like that, do you?" "No."
Actually, I'm not sure what my point is. Nor do I care. Hell, I was only trying to justify having a bad pop song in my head. And to point out that there is no excuse for wearing matching fleeces or the like...
Isn't it ironic (no, Alannis, it's not)
I know I said I was going to write a review of Sin City, but I've kind of gone off the idea now. Suffice to say that it looks exactly like a graphic novel made into a film and could just as easily have been a cartoon. It's very stylish (and stylised) but ultimately completely vacuous and hollow. It all depends on what you're expecting; much as a graphic novel is a simplified novel for people with no imagination - or maybe just a throwaway story for light entertainment - the film is unencumbered by plot or depth. Still, it's better than most other action films in that it's not completely mindless...
Instead, I'd like to bitch about other peoples' weddings. Having already purchased my 70s Porn Star suit, I spent another small fortune on shoes, a shirt and a tie yesterday. Add to that the present - when I know damn well that they have a house full of these kinds of things, but are unwilling to do something gracious and ask for charity donations instead - the travel and the hotel, it becomes an expensive business. Fortunately, I'll be well dressed (although I'll have to keep away from anyone drinking red wine) and I'm going to have to make amends by drinking as much as possible at the free bar.
I'm not really sure of the point of weddings these days. Yes, it's a big piss up, but I could organise a far better night out (or in a marquee) for that sort of money, and it won't involve tantrums or tedious elderly relatives. And considering that many of these marriages will end in divorce (possibly not a comment I will actually be making at the weddings), it's all a bit of a palaver over very little. Perhaps I'm just too pragmatic and unromantic. I'm convinced that most men only go through with it because (i) they're desperate and feel that it's their last chance (or they are worried about losing out), (ii) there are significant tax reasons, (iii) because one or other of the sets of parents demand it or (iv) to stop the incessant nagging from the girlfriend (I suppose (v) some men are hopeless romantics, but that's just weird).
As for the women, I fear that they are all prey to childhood dreams of looking like a princess and having a perfect day. To be fair, all the weddings I've been to were conducted with enough humour and a considerable lack of worry from the brides that this wasn't the case. This next one...well, if it rains I imagine there will be much gnashing of teeth and wailing, and raging against God for how unfair it is on her special day.
I hope it rains...
Instead, I'd like to bitch about other peoples' weddings. Having already purchased my 70s Porn Star suit, I spent another small fortune on shoes, a shirt and a tie yesterday. Add to that the present - when I know damn well that they have a house full of these kinds of things, but are unwilling to do something gracious and ask for charity donations instead - the travel and the hotel, it becomes an expensive business. Fortunately, I'll be well dressed (although I'll have to keep away from anyone drinking red wine) and I'm going to have to make amends by drinking as much as possible at the free bar.
I'm not really sure of the point of weddings these days. Yes, it's a big piss up, but I could organise a far better night out (or in a marquee) for that sort of money, and it won't involve tantrums or tedious elderly relatives. And considering that many of these marriages will end in divorce (possibly not a comment I will actually be making at the weddings), it's all a bit of a palaver over very little. Perhaps I'm just too pragmatic and unromantic. I'm convinced that most men only go through with it because (i) they're desperate and feel that it's their last chance (or they are worried about losing out), (ii) there are significant tax reasons, (iii) because one or other of the sets of parents demand it or (iv) to stop the incessant nagging from the girlfriend (I suppose (v) some men are hopeless romantics, but that's just weird).
As for the women, I fear that they are all prey to childhood dreams of looking like a princess and having a perfect day. To be fair, all the weddings I've been to were conducted with enough humour and a considerable lack of worry from the brides that this wasn't the case. This next one...well, if it rains I imagine there will be much gnashing of teeth and wailing, and raging against God for how unfair it is on her special day.
I hope it rains...
Friday, June 10, 2005
Summer sun, something's begun...
Well, it might not be sunny but it was warm enough to have lunch outside for the second day in a row. Today was with The Girlfriend and yesterday with the Decent People I work with, and both were far better than reading the Guardian online at my desk. And it had the upshot of leaving me awake during the afternoon, which is a rare occurrence. Usually, I am ready for a quick kip by 2.30, but yesterday I was wide awake and able to work (I'm not saying that I actually did, but I could have). The coffee probably helped, too.
A review of Sin City, the film that occupied my evening yesterday, will follow later...
A review of Sin City, the film that occupied my evening yesterday, will follow later...
Monday, June 06, 2005
I admit it
Well, I'm man enough to admit it. The weekend wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. OK, it was actually enjoyable. GobShite sister was absent for most of it, and generous with presents when she returned (although I have my doubts as to how they were procured - she either gets too much poket money or she is an adept shoplifter). VeganZealot sister was good company, far more mature and less willing to try and start an argument with me. In fact, she even took it with good humour when I ordered venison and pigeon breast for dinner (and I was sitting next to her).
Hell, we even went to see art. Proper art.
Art? Or a sheep's toilet?
Real sister provided the entertainment, by appearing as shorn as a 1970s feminist (or Julia Roberts), much to everyone else's disgust, claiming that it was going to be waxed 'later'. In fact, the only real downer was the nagging guilt that I was a bit harsh on the Father, whose birthday it was, concerning his terrible memory and seeming obliviousness of the world around him. Not a nice feeling, but I hope he realises that there was no malice.
Still, I can't see the guilt lasting. Must be something I ate...
Hell, we even went to see art. Proper art.
Art? Or a sheep's toilet?
Real sister provided the entertainment, by appearing as shorn as a 1970s feminist (or Julia Roberts), much to everyone else's disgust, claiming that it was going to be waxed 'later'. In fact, the only real downer was the nagging guilt that I was a bit harsh on the Father, whose birthday it was, concerning his terrible memory and seeming obliviousness of the world around him. Not a nice feeling, but I hope he realises that there was no malice.
Still, I can't see the guilt lasting. Must be something I ate...
Friday, June 03, 2005
Arghhh! And Arghhh!
Lunchtime on Oxford Street is no place for a person like me. The tourists are out, hunting in packs of 20, stopping abruptly and meandering slowly in front of me. The schoolkids are on half-term and are cluttering up the place with their orange-glow Kilroy-Silk tans and cheap-looking jewellery.
I was there buying a birthday present for the Father, to whose house I will be going this weekend. Which will be yet more 'entertainment'. Still, at least I'll have the opportunity to bait VeganZealot sister about her soya-consumption-based destruction of the rainforests. That and try and fob off GobShite sister on Real sister (who will be trying to do just the same to me). I can hardly wait...
I was there buying a birthday present for the Father, to whose house I will be going this weekend. Which will be yet more 'entertainment'. Still, at least I'll have the opportunity to bait VeganZealot sister about her soya-consumption-based destruction of the rainforests. That and try and fob off GobShite sister on Real sister (who will be trying to do just the same to me). I can hardly wait...
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The toys are alive!
Being the intelligent, well-educated person that I am, I decided to spend Bank Holiday Monday in quiet reflection. By frying my brains with magic mushrooms. The Girlfriend had jetted off to the US that morning, for a two-hour work meeting, and I was bored at home. So, thanks to the ideas given to me by some of the finest minds of 20th Century literature, I conducted a little experiment. Or at least, I tried. My intention was to write - I don't know what exactly, but probably something that would appear on this blog - while Under The Influence.
However, ten minutes after taking the bloody things, before I'd had the chance to prepare my 'work space' and get some music and colourful things ready, I was lolling about on the floor tripping my tits off. I wasn't expecting this: I'd bought enough 'to be giggly' according to the saleswoman and I was counting on at least another ten minutes to prepare. Oh well. To ensure that I was in the right frame of mind, I was forced to watch Toy Story 2, which is genius at the best of times.
My recollections during the two or so hours:
THEY'RE FUCKING TOYS! TRYING TO CROSS A ROAD!
The pig is a comedy genius. Especially when he is reading the car manual.
My white ceiling has lots of pretty colours on it.
Thanks to the green clothes that were hanging up in the bathroom, my toilet bowl looked like Yoda's head.
Football is many things, but it is not funny on mushrooms.
The Simpsons is.
Invite someone around to laugh at next time.
The bonus was that it was all over by 6pm, although I felt wrecked for the next couple of hours...
However, ten minutes after taking the bloody things, before I'd had the chance to prepare my 'work space' and get some music and colourful things ready, I was lolling about on the floor tripping my tits off. I wasn't expecting this: I'd bought enough 'to be giggly' according to the saleswoman and I was counting on at least another ten minutes to prepare. Oh well. To ensure that I was in the right frame of mind, I was forced to watch Toy Story 2, which is genius at the best of times.
My recollections during the two or so hours:
THEY'RE FUCKING TOYS! TRYING TO CROSS A ROAD!
The pig is a comedy genius. Especially when he is reading the car manual.
My white ceiling has lots of pretty colours on it.
Thanks to the green clothes that were hanging up in the bathroom, my toilet bowl looked like Yoda's head.
Football is many things, but it is not funny on mushrooms.
The Simpsons is.
Invite someone around to laugh at next time.
The bonus was that it was all over by 6pm, although I felt wrecked for the next couple of hours...
Stayin' Alive
Being a man, shopping for clothes is rarely a happy experience. The majority of the time, I wear the same sort of clothes that I have worn for years (jeans/trousers and a shirt or T-shirt. Simple and effective). Often, I have them for years. They are thrown out when they wear out. I wouldn't want to give the impression that I wear dull unfashionable clothes, but jeans and a white T-shirt are going to look as good today as they did on James Dean in the 1950s and Nick Kamen in the 1980s (well, they might not look that good on me, but you get the point). I also have smart wear (1 suit, for weddings, interviews and funerals: now ten-years old), smart-ish wear (decent shirts & trousers), going out wear and an excessive collection of loud summer shirts.
Anyway, I digress. I have two weddings and a christening to attend in the next month or so, one being in the south of France. Not wanting to wear my rather tired old suit, I decided to buy a new one. Unfortunately, this involves going to The Shops. Now, I could easily attire myself quickly, happily and stylishly if it wasn't for the money. I often see clothes that I'd love to buy, only to be put off by the fact that without fail I have chosen the most expensive item in the store. Well, shopping in a state of poverty is difficult, because everything I like is out of my price range and everything I can afford is badly cut and cheap looking. Now, The Girlfriend had already decreed that I would be purchasing a light suit, to be summery and stylish, so I couldn't argue. I was also told that Zara had a fine example. An easy plan formed: into town; into Zara; purchase suit (and possibly shoes); escape. Simple.
Or not. You see, the jacket was fine, but did not come with matching trousers. Fine for a sports jacket n' jeans look (by which I mean not at all fine), but not a wedding or two. Fortunately, The Girlfriend had also seen one in Woodhouse. Unfortunately, it wasn't at Zara prices.
The upshot of which is: I now own a white linen suit that I can barely afford. I will have to buy a shirt and tie and shoe combo that doesn't make me look like Disco Stu. And I have to have the bollocks to wear it. Thank God I wear enough clothes normally in the summer that lead to my being called The Man from Del Monte anyway. I just have to make sure I match my other clothes in the style of Tom Wolfe rather than Tony Manero. Hell, if I get it right, I will look good. If I don't...
Anyway, I digress. I have two weddings and a christening to attend in the next month or so, one being in the south of France. Not wanting to wear my rather tired old suit, I decided to buy a new one. Unfortunately, this involves going to The Shops. Now, I could easily attire myself quickly, happily and stylishly if it wasn't for the money. I often see clothes that I'd love to buy, only to be put off by the fact that without fail I have chosen the most expensive item in the store. Well, shopping in a state of poverty is difficult, because everything I like is out of my price range and everything I can afford is badly cut and cheap looking. Now, The Girlfriend had already decreed that I would be purchasing a light suit, to be summery and stylish, so I couldn't argue. I was also told that Zara had a fine example. An easy plan formed: into town; into Zara; purchase suit (and possibly shoes); escape. Simple.
Or not. You see, the jacket was fine, but did not come with matching trousers. Fine for a sports jacket n' jeans look (by which I mean not at all fine), but not a wedding or two. Fortunately, The Girlfriend had also seen one in Woodhouse. Unfortunately, it wasn't at Zara prices.
The upshot of which is: I now own a white linen suit that I can barely afford. I will have to buy a shirt and tie and shoe combo that doesn't make me look like Disco Stu. And I have to have the bollocks to wear it. Thank God I wear enough clothes normally in the summer that lead to my being called The Man from Del Monte anyway. I just have to make sure I match my other clothes in the style of Tom Wolfe rather than Tony Manero. Hell, if I get it right, I will look good. If I don't...
Watching Dogs Die...
Here comes a big catch-up, considering that I haven’t added anything for a while. Being a new month, I’ll start a new colour, and tell you about my escapades in three sections, starting with a pop concert, followed by a potential fashion disaster and ending with a mind-expanding (hah) way of ending a bank holiday.
So back to last Thursday, when I ventured to Koko in Camden (or the Camden Palace as it will always be in my mind). This fine venue recently closed and reopened, and I am at a loss to see exactly what is different. The confusing maze of walkways, mezzanines and sublevels remains to help drunk patrons to get lost. The original old theatre styling hasn’t changed, and the mixing desk still juts bizarrely out of the balcony. Fortunately, the best thing about it – the fantastic sound system – is also just the same as ever. In fact, even the clientele was the same: not the specific people, of course, but the fact that absolutely everyone else in there was younger than me. By some considerable distance. As it was last time I was there. Ten years ago…
Anyway, I’d gone to watch Dogs Dies In Hot Cars, who sound like they should be a Norwegian black metal band but are actually a jaunty Gang of Four/1980s copyists, as is the current vogue. I don’t quite know what I was expecting: they’re hardly one of the leading lights of the new wave of new wave of … new wave scene; however, they were absolutely storming. I can’t recall going to a gig when the band sounded as accomplished as this. No doubt helped by the acoustics of the place, they were note perfect, without being sterile. After the disappointment of the diabolical Do Me Bad Things last month, this was a return to form for my gig going. Surely, if your full-time job is playing in a band, then getting it right shouldn’t be beyond you. And DDIHC gave a masterclass in Doing It Right.
Frankly, all I can do is suggest that you go and purchase the album. Well, go on then…
So back to last Thursday, when I ventured to Koko in Camden (or the Camden Palace as it will always be in my mind). This fine venue recently closed and reopened, and I am at a loss to see exactly what is different. The confusing maze of walkways, mezzanines and sublevels remains to help drunk patrons to get lost. The original old theatre styling hasn’t changed, and the mixing desk still juts bizarrely out of the balcony. Fortunately, the best thing about it – the fantastic sound system – is also just the same as ever. In fact, even the clientele was the same: not the specific people, of course, but the fact that absolutely everyone else in there was younger than me. By some considerable distance. As it was last time I was there. Ten years ago…
Anyway, I’d gone to watch Dogs Dies In Hot Cars, who sound like they should be a Norwegian black metal band but are actually a jaunty Gang of Four/1980s copyists, as is the current vogue. I don’t quite know what I was expecting: they’re hardly one of the leading lights of the new wave of new wave of … new wave scene; however, they were absolutely storming. I can’t recall going to a gig when the band sounded as accomplished as this. No doubt helped by the acoustics of the place, they were note perfect, without being sterile. After the disappointment of the diabolical Do Me Bad Things last month, this was a return to form for my gig going. Surely, if your full-time job is playing in a band, then getting it right shouldn’t be beyond you. And DDIHC gave a masterclass in Doing It Right.
Frankly, all I can do is suggest that you go and purchase the album. Well, go on then…
Monday, May 23, 2005
What Barry Norman didn't say next
I had the misfortune to see Star Wars: Revenge of the Shit yesterday. The salient points follow...
Lola Ferrari's breast implants* were more realistic than the computer-generated special effects.
Hayden Christensen's acting was more wooden than Jewsons.
Like. Nicholas. Cage. George. Lucas. Seems. To. Think. That. Important. Dialogue. Must. Be. Delivered. Slowly. And. In. Individual. Words. Unfortunately, he also thinks that every line must have Meaning.
The opening text could have been written by a five-year old with attention-deficit disorder.
With all the millions spent on the film, could they not afford someone to watch the first three films to check for continuity errors?
Still, it was better than the last two. But not much.
*I feel compelled to add that these did not appear in the film. It is merely a hyperbolic cultural reference point for how appalling the 'special' effects were. Special as in special school, I'd argue.
Lola Ferrari's breast implants* were more realistic than the computer-generated special effects.
Hayden Christensen's acting was more wooden than Jewsons.
Like. Nicholas. Cage. George. Lucas. Seems. To. Think. That. Important. Dialogue. Must. Be. Delivered. Slowly. And. In. Individual. Words. Unfortunately, he also thinks that every line must have Meaning.
The opening text could have been written by a five-year old with attention-deficit disorder.
With all the millions spent on the film, could they not afford someone to watch the first three films to check for continuity errors?
Still, it was better than the last two. But not much.
*I feel compelled to add that these did not appear in the film. It is merely a hyperbolic cultural reference point for how appalling the 'special' effects were. Special as in special school, I'd argue.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Best laid plans
Of course, it never works out the way it was supposed to. I didn’t get to go dancing on Friday night, which was probably a Good Thing considering just how knackered I am today, although that probably had more to do with the prodigious booze consumption over the past two nights.
The failure to go dancing was somewhat inevitable. A group of people who have been in the pub from 5pm and Not Eating are not going to be in the best of states by 8pm, let alone when the time comes to go to a club. And so it proved, with drunkenness abounding. Which is not usually great for group dynamics, and for reasons that I’m still not clear about, I slipped out of the pub like some kind of retreating ninja (albeit a loud and drunk one, in a wildly floral shirt) at some point around 11pm. I have sorted that pub under my mental file for Never Visit Again. It was absolutely abysmal. It was a Wetherspoons (natch), it was open until 2am and was playing some God-awful house music to an empty bar (except, obviously, for our party). Still, I was at home and in bed by half-past midnight and I hadn’t spent excessive amounts of cash.
Fortunately, I spent it all the next day on booze in Tesco (well, I wouldn’t want them going out of business: God knows they’re struggling) in preparation for the Eurovision extravaganza. I didn’t even watch the FA Cup in my pants, or while drinking (I still had a hangover at that point). It was such a dull game that I spent most of it tidying the flat. I need to reappraise my priorities.
Still, I did actually manage to invite people over and watch the Eurovision song contest, which was much the same as it is every other year. Bland and way-below-average pop songs, partisan voting and Terry Wogan getting more and more pissed. The highlight of the evening, however, was the genius that is Donkey Konga. Even for those who despise computer games, this is more addictive than crack mixed with heroin and KFC. Unlike, for example, Singstar or other karaoke-style games, if you have no musical talent (like me) then it is merely entertaining (and frustrating) without being excessively embarrassing. I’m sure the neighbours will have an ASBO on us by the end of the week – we were pounding the skins until the wee hours. But balls to the other residents: I’m going to buy more bongos for four-at-a-time multiplayer bongo carnage and invite even more friends around next time.
The failure to go dancing was somewhat inevitable. A group of people who have been in the pub from 5pm and Not Eating are not going to be in the best of states by 8pm, let alone when the time comes to go to a club. And so it proved, with drunkenness abounding. Which is not usually great for group dynamics, and for reasons that I’m still not clear about, I slipped out of the pub like some kind of retreating ninja (albeit a loud and drunk one, in a wildly floral shirt) at some point around 11pm. I have sorted that pub under my mental file for Never Visit Again. It was absolutely abysmal. It was a Wetherspoons (natch), it was open until 2am and was playing some God-awful house music to an empty bar (except, obviously, for our party). Still, I was at home and in bed by half-past midnight and I hadn’t spent excessive amounts of cash.
Fortunately, I spent it all the next day on booze in Tesco (well, I wouldn’t want them going out of business: God knows they’re struggling) in preparation for the Eurovision extravaganza. I didn’t even watch the FA Cup in my pants, or while drinking (I still had a hangover at that point). It was such a dull game that I spent most of it tidying the flat. I need to reappraise my priorities.
Still, I did actually manage to invite people over and watch the Eurovision song contest, which was much the same as it is every other year. Bland and way-below-average pop songs, partisan voting and Terry Wogan getting more and more pissed. The highlight of the evening, however, was the genius that is Donkey Konga. Even for those who despise computer games, this is more addictive than crack mixed with heroin and KFC. Unlike, for example, Singstar or other karaoke-style games, if you have no musical talent (like me) then it is merely entertaining (and frustrating) without being excessively embarrassing. I’m sure the neighbours will have an ASBO on us by the end of the week – we were pounding the skins until the wee hours. But balls to the other residents: I’m going to buy more bongos for four-at-a-time multiplayer bongo carnage and invite even more friends around next time.
Friday, May 20, 2005
We'll have a gay old time
This weekend I shall mostly be camping it up. Tonight, I will be disco dancing to Irene Cara and the like in King's Cross. Tomorrow night I will be hosting a Eurovision party. Classy, eh?
However, to immunise myself against gay*, I will spend tomorrow afternoon watching the FA Cup final, drinking beer. Probably in my pants. While the Girlfriend is out shopping with a friend. How unreconstructed-man is that?
* What do you mean it's not a communicable disease!
However, to immunise myself against gay*, I will spend tomorrow afternoon watching the FA Cup final, drinking beer. Probably in my pants. While the Girlfriend is out shopping with a friend. How unreconstructed-man is that?
* What do you mean it's not a communicable disease!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Arse, my elbow
With overprotective parents and institutions wary of being sued for any injuries, I'm surprised that school playgrounds are covered in asphalt rather than, say, marshmallows or inflated balloons. I'd like to think that grazed knees and hands from playing overly violent games during school breaks as a young boy toughened me up and taught me a little about risk.
However, now that the age of 30 is rapidly approaching, the need for toughening up and learning risk is less important. And, sadly, I appear no longer to have the miraculous youthful ability to regenerate skin rapidly and without scars or, more importantly, exercise without my muscles seizing up for days afterwards. Unfortunately, every Tuesday evening I play football on a concrete 'pitch' that by day is a school playground and by night is hired out by Camden council, seemingly to cause injury to my foolish co-workers.
Normally, I tend to limit the amount of effort I put into these games. On a Sunday morning, I'll throw myself around and in the way of the ball as much as is necessary, safe in the knowledge that I'll land on (relatively soft) grass (or, in most cases, mud). Hence, on Tuesdays I don't tackle with any venom and won't divert a goal-bound shot with a selfless leap in front of the ball. This strategy has frequently paid off. Whereas other players have suffered gashes, grazes and cuts that are present for weeks afterwards, I have remained relatively unscathed. Until last night.
For some reason that I have yet to fathom, I tried to clear a ball that was about six feet off the ground. With my right foot. While another played was running in to challenge for it. He was sensible enough to duck out of my matix-esque (only without the grace or slo-mo bullet-time camera work) kick, leaving me to gracelessly fall over his shoulder and onto the concrete below. Elbow first. I would have felt bad about hurting him if I wasn't so concerned with my own arm. The tingling feeling in my fingers wasn't a good start, but I quickly realised that nothing was broken. That didn't stop it hurting like hell.
The moral of this story is (apart from not playing on concrete like you are still 10 when you are three times that age: you no longer bounce), don't underestimate how important your elbow is. Sleeping, leaning on tables and sitting on the tube all require far more attention than should be necessary when you are trying to avoid knocking off a huge scab and bleeding everywhere. Next week, I'm going to play at walking pace and not tackle at all.
However, now that the age of 30 is rapidly approaching, the need for toughening up and learning risk is less important. And, sadly, I appear no longer to have the miraculous youthful ability to regenerate skin rapidly and without scars or, more importantly, exercise without my muscles seizing up for days afterwards. Unfortunately, every Tuesday evening I play football on a concrete 'pitch' that by day is a school playground and by night is hired out by Camden council, seemingly to cause injury to my foolish co-workers.
Normally, I tend to limit the amount of effort I put into these games. On a Sunday morning, I'll throw myself around and in the way of the ball as much as is necessary, safe in the knowledge that I'll land on (relatively soft) grass (or, in most cases, mud). Hence, on Tuesdays I don't tackle with any venom and won't divert a goal-bound shot with a selfless leap in front of the ball. This strategy has frequently paid off. Whereas other players have suffered gashes, grazes and cuts that are present for weeks afterwards, I have remained relatively unscathed. Until last night.
For some reason that I have yet to fathom, I tried to clear a ball that was about six feet off the ground. With my right foot. While another played was running in to challenge for it. He was sensible enough to duck out of my matix-esque (only without the grace or slo-mo bullet-time camera work) kick, leaving me to gracelessly fall over his shoulder and onto the concrete below. Elbow first. I would have felt bad about hurting him if I wasn't so concerned with my own arm. The tingling feeling in my fingers wasn't a good start, but I quickly realised that nothing was broken. That didn't stop it hurting like hell.
The moral of this story is (apart from not playing on concrete like you are still 10 when you are three times that age: you no longer bounce), don't underestimate how important your elbow is. Sleeping, leaning on tables and sitting on the tube all require far more attention than should be necessary when you are trying to avoid knocking off a huge scab and bleeding everywhere. Next week, I'm going to play at walking pace and not tackle at all.
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