No future...

Jesus. I don't think my liver can take much more of this. Although, having said that, I think my physical constitution is considerably stronger than my financial one. So, after a week and a half of schmoozing, catching up and generally drinking, I think I'll spend the rest of October sober and resolutely not in the pub.

A week ago on Thursday I was out with Miss Disco, during which time we discussed nothing much in particular, achieved nothing of substance and had a good time. Then on Friday, I went to Northern Mark's leaving do, for he is leaving the grown-up world of work and returning to university to study for a Master's. The last I saw of him, he was swaying unsteadily on his feet at 3am in Club NME in Koko (formerly, and forever in my mind, the Camden Palace). I knew I was old, but not recognising the songs and shaking my head at the badly dressed indie kids just showed me how far I've progressed into old age... Plus, yet another night bus home. Note to self: Get Rich Quick. On Saturday, I slept. On Sunday, I recovered further with red wine.

Then: Monday – consoling a friend, with gin; Tuesday – boozing with The Boy and JoJo (and The Girlfriend); Wednesday – night off; Thursday – took The Girlfriend for dinner to celebrate Five. Long. Years together; Friday – beers after work; Saturday – Mother down, England match viewed in pub. All too much...

By contrast, this week has been much quieter.

No offence

It's all gone Fast Show. I've just been patronised to within an inch of my life by a South African sales assistant in Molton Brown. "No sir, you don't want to use that. What you need is this. No offence."
Needless to say, her slick sales patter worked perfectly on me. I left without spending anything, although I do now smell like an tart's party...

The Copenhagen Choir

So I've done my first work trip away. A lack of sleep and beer on the company expense account; all in all, quite a success and good fun. There wasn't a lot going on that I didn't expect: too many people fretting over minor points; I work well with late nights and very badly in the morning; beer tastes better after a long day's work; free minibars are brilliant; air conditioning leaves your eyes drier than a desert. The best night out – the last (obviously) – involved everyone in the team embarrassing themselves in the karaoke bar. Not that we all sung, just that some of us (clearly not me) revealed rather too much of their knowledge of Meat Loaf, Britney and Take That lyrics. Still, if you have no shame it doesn't really matter.

The week before that, I was embarrassing myself in Duckie thanks to The Boy. It's all well and good, but going south of the river, with its feral population and smell of decay, is always a worry. And almost two hours home on the night bus just spurs me on further to pay off my debts and be able to afford a cab. Having said that, it was a rare pleasure to have a long night out on less than £20 (expense accounts notwithstanding). I'll try and do the same this Friday when I have a considerably less camp night out at Northern Boy's leaving do in London's Drug (and Tourist)-Addled Camden (home, unsurprisingly, of The Boy).

The further emptiness of my life is shown by the fact that the only other thing I've done in the past couple of weeks is start another season of 11-a-side football, for which I am woefully underprepared and unfit. But we won, so I can get fit before the next match. Meh.

Sex and drugs and rock and roll (without the sex. And more 'pop' than rock and roll)

It's all so long ago now, but here is a little précis of what I can remember from the trip to Amsterdam. Which, admittedly, isn't much.

Morning, mushrooms and madness

In hindsight, catching a 7am plane wasn't wise. Sure, we had a whole day in Amsterdam, but we were knackered. Thanks to the terror overreaction, sorry – threat – we arrived suitable early and checked in with plenty of time to allow the halfwits to work out exactly what they could and couldn't take as hand luggage. I didn't realise that halfwit would, in fact, be The Boy. First, he pulled some lipsalve from his bag – when it was pointed out that this was covered in the verboten list. Quickly followed by the moisturiser. I'll allow him to pass it all off for being early, but I'm not entirely convinced.
So we arrived in Amsterdam, went to the hotel, dropped our bags off and had a walk around, lunch and all that yadda yadda. We then bought some mushrooms (Philosopher's Stones, for the aficionados) and retired to the hotel for a shower and preparation for the afternoon/evening. I was mildly entertained by the shops on the way to the supermarket – Kwik Fit, Fitness First and Domino's, one after the other. What is this globalisation of which you speak?
And off to Vondel Park for some mind expansion. Of course, the trouble with psychedelics is that it doesn't translate afterwards to the written page (if you want that, try this or this). But, the first two hours were entertaining; the fountain and trees and clouds were diverting. I sat like a slack-jawed yokel staring at things. And then the trip went on. And on. And on. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed it – the hilarity of a young girl having a tantrum (a proper stamping feet, thcreaming until I'm thick one) was too much. But The Boy was having a less good time of it – not enjoying at all, to be fair. It's probably the first time I've been on the 'up' side of a bad trip. And there's not a lot you can do. So we went back to the hotel, and vegged in front of the TV (the BBC): Porridge, a good programme at the best of time, was possibly the funniest thing I'd ever seen. (It seems less so now.)
We didn't do any more hallucinogens for the rest of the trip.

I want to break free

Thursday was much more sedate. We got up at a sensible time. We wandered around town. We stopped for frequent coffees and beers. We smoked a fat one. Later we went out for the evening.
I'm not sure what I was expecting from a sex show. Ping Pong balls, I think. To be honest, I've never seen as bored a bunch of people as those on stage. In fact, the only person who seemed to be having fun was the male stripper, who seemed to be there as a sop to the females in the audience (about 30%, to be fair). As an anthropological study, it was entertaining; as erotica, it failed miserably. And no Ping Pong balls. So that's still on my to-do list.
And onwards to the funky new gay bar. I say funky, but I actually mean camp as you like. The fine selection of music ranged from Elton John and the Spice Girls to musicals to a fine Dutch Eurovision entry with moves that everybody in the bar danced along to. Except for us. Still, I proved I'm still a fine prick tease – almost scarily so. I went to the gents, as you do, and as I turned around afterwards, I found my way blocked by a young man with a glint in his eye. He was so disappointed – and disbelieving for a moment – when I told him he was talking to the only straight man in the place. So we both left the gents, but he held no grudge, and we danced and drunk until the early hours. Upon which he came back to our hotel with us and talked more bollocks. Then he and The Boy took a long time saying goodbye at the front door (and I went to sleep).

Dykes on bikes

And so we did what they do in Rome, or rather Amsterdam, and hired bikes. We took a marathon route (8km out – the same back) to go and see a windmill (we saw two) and have a meal in another village. And we saw a goat sitting on a stick. Oh yes.


He looks innocent, doesn't he. I don't trust him

And boy did my arse hurt after that. And we finished off by going to the Rijksmuseum (drastically reduced in size at present) and the van Gogh museum. What can I say about them? I don't know a lot about art, but both museums were badly lit, and van Gogh was crap at perspective and anything approaching realism. Nice colours, mind.
And so, we ended the evening knackered, and smoked until we slept.

Vice

Not much to say about Saturday. We went home, obviously. And did some proper shopping. And because the Dutch are so tall (and, by God, I felt 'average'), I bought trousers: ones that won't be too short.

All in all, good fun. And something to repeat next year. With more sleep beforehand, and more mushrooms. But without the tiredness beforehand.

Shouting at pies

So I've been to the first match for my adopted team, the mighty Orient. It was all meticulously planned and carried out, bar the crucial detail regarding pubs in Leyton to go to before and after the match. Still, we found a particularly unpleasant place for two swift ones, sat in the cheap seats, had a half-time pie and retired afterwards for another couple of looseners. The highlight was, having abused TV unfunny-man Bob Mills while looking at his column in the programme, realising he was sitting behind us. Next time we'll talk louder so that he hears.

Anyway, we won, and I'll be going back next time.

In worse news, The Boy and my trip to Amsterdam is looking rather shaky, thanks to the massive overreaction to the terrorist plot. Not that I want to be blown up, and I'm sure there is good reason, but do we really need this amount of hysteria? I doubt it. I don't have a problem with the hand luggage rules; I do have a problem with the extent of searching - I think Ryanair are on the money when they say checking a random 25% of passengers would work. Anyway, carry on like this and we can enjoy the collapse of the economy and no more cheap flights - that'll show the terrorists how we'll carry on as normal. Plus, the government - not the most open of organisations at the best of times - are sounding more and more like a fascist junta everyday, ruling by fear...

I just hope our flight isn't cancelled. The equivalent tomorrow is, and it's not looking good.

There goes the one-month plan

This month was supposed to be frugal, to ensure that my forthcoming trip to Amsterdam with The Boy is sufficiently funded. It hasn't got off to a great start, but my argument for this is as an investment. Ahem...

So on Tuesday, I was off talking science (no, really) with someone I hadn't seen in ages. It's very difficult to teach science - in a pub - to a layperson and try not to sound like the dullest person in the world. Mind you, ScienceTalk only lasted about 30 minutes, by which time we had drunk enough to spend the next few hours until closing talking crap about boys, girls, relationships and general bollocks. Thoroughly entertaining; and I would be embarrassed, but if I was really bothered I'd have learnt to keep my gob shut by now.

Then, on Friday, I accidentally fell in to the pub with The Boy. For a swift half. Until kicking out time. And, again, we spoke bollocks (albeit without the science) and much fun was had by all. And we were inexplicably popular with the ladies (although they were very, very drunk). I got home (at midnight) to find myself in the doghouse; fortunately, I was drunk so I didn't really care. Not, perhaps, the best tactic, but... meh!

And now I've done nothing all weekend. Bliss.

As predicted

So, England went out in a blaze of apathy, blaming everything for their failure except themselves. Although I didn't think Rooney's bollock stamping was a sending off - if I was tackled as he was, I'd kick my foot in every direction to free it, and if I tackled someone like that, I'd fully expect them to swing their boot into every available part of my anatomy to escape it - we didn't look like we were going to win it anyway.

Anyway. I have been strangely deflated by this World Cup. Nobody has grabbed the chance to prove themselves a star. Following the England game last Saturday, ITV's commentators were wanking themselves into a frenzy about France and Zidane, in particular. All I saw was an immensely talented player given the time and space to play by a woeful Brazil side who didn't seem interested. Yes, France were good; but they were allowed to be. And that has been true for much of this tournament. Many, many average teams - a limited Portugal in the semis! - abysmal sportsmanship (Ronaldo, not for the England thing, Robben, Henry. Fucking cheats), too few exciting game (exlcuding the wonderful Italy v Germany semi, the Mexico v Argentina second-round match and the WWE Royal Rumble laugh-fest Holland v Portugal) and Blatter coming up with his usual game-destroying drivel have left me wanting more. Well, there's always 2010.

There have been high points. Italy, despite a dodgy penalty versus Australia, have often been magnificant to watch. Cannavaro, in particular, has been magnificent: far and away the player of the tournament. Argentina in their pomp. Some thumping goals. Those two Swedish girls kissing.

And on a more personal note, I'll be free to not watch football in the evenings; for a while, at least. And I'm hoping that I have recovered from surgery enough to actually go out and play (albeit in goal) on Wednesday. Which could hurt, but will be worth it.

Forza Italia

As predicted

So, England went out in a blaze of apathy, blaming everything for their failure except themselves. Although I didn't think Rooney's bollock stamping was a sending off - if I was tackled as he was, I'd kick my foot in every direction to free it, and if I tackled someone like that, I'd fully expect them to swing their boot into every available part of my anatomy to escape it - we didn't look like we were going to win it anyway.

Anyway. I have been strangely deflated by this World Cup. Nobody has grabbed the chance to prove themselves a star. Following the England game last Saturday, ITV's commentators were wanking themselves into a frenzy about France and Zidane, in particular. All I saw was an immensely talented player given the time and space to play by a woeful Brazil side who didn't seem interested. Yes, France were good; but they were allowed to be. And that has been true for much of this tournament. Many, many average teams - a limited Portugal in the semis! - abysmal sportsmanship (Ronaldo, not for the England thing, Robben, Henry. Fucking cheats), too few exciting game (exlcuding the wonderful Italy v Germany semi, the Mexico v Argentina second-round match and the WWE Royal Rumble laugh-fest Holland v Portugal) and Blatter coming up with his usual game-destroying drivel have left me wanting more. Well, there's always 2010.

There have been high points. Italy, despite a dodgy penalty versus Australia, have often been magnificant to watch. Cannavaro, in particular, has been magnificent: far and away the player of the tournament. Argentina in their pomp. Some thumping goals. Those two Swedish girls kissing.

And on a more personal note, I'll be free to not watch football in the evenings; for a while, at least. And I'm hoping that I have recovered from surgery enough to actually go out and play (albeit in goal) on Wednesday. Which could hurt, but will be worth it.

Forza Italia

Where's my football?

The inevitable has happened. I've returned home from work and - shock, horror - there is no Guatemala vs Azerbaijan to watch. (Well, there might be the International Tiddlywinks Final between the two on Sky Sports Xtra 7.) But, no football... So, having had, erm, some days of solid football, here are my (entirely unoriginal and blogged a million times elsewhere) thoughts:


Weak manager syndrome
I wonder who I'm referring to here? I'm always wary of managers who appear too chummy with their players. Why would you want the opinion of an overpaid moron who spends his spare time roasting witless chavs in hotel rooms?

There are two types of managers in this FujiMcDonaldsMoneyGrabbingCorruptBastardsFifa World Cup: those who know who is in charge and one that is too scared to take control. Pekerman for Argentina? Happy to leave aruguably the most naturally talented player at the tournament (Messi) and one of the finest prospects (Tevez) on the bench. Aragones? Dropping the Spanish talisman of the past few years (Raul, and rightly so). Lippi? Totti's been left out more than once.
Which brings me to Sven. Sven Sven Sven. Are you watching the same games as the rest of us? How on earth are Beckham and Lampard getting into the starting line-up? Lampard, as good as we know he can be, is just not performing. Being too similar to Gerrard, they are incompatible in the same team - both will aim to make the same runs, meaning the either they have to curb their natural game to allow the other to make the run (meaning that sometimes, noone will make the run) or they will try to run into the same space. It. Won't. Work. Hell, play him and Gerrard for alternate halves. I don't care.

But Beckham? How little effort can one man put in to a game? To those who would argue, "but he's contributed to three of England's six goals." Well, if we had 11 players on the pitch actually playing (for example, Lennon), we could (and should) have put three past Paraguay, six past T&T and beaten Sweden (speaking of which, defensively: Becks, what are you doing? How many tackles can you jump out of?). Free kicks? Gerrard can do that. Lampard can (not that he'd be on the pitch, of course). Beckham just isn't worth it. And finally, to all those other Beckham apologists ("if Lennon starts, who will be our impact player?") - why in God's good spunk would we need an impact player if we did our jobs properly and went 2-0 up in the first 30 minutes, then kept the ball and pushed for a third?

So what is Sven's problem? Why won't he drop the right sided parasite? Are the FA really putting pressure on Sven not to drop him? (Just how much cash does the preening twat bring in? Are the FA really so timid as to reject O'Neil and Hiddink because they'd be their own men, rock the boat and upset the sponsors? Why the fuck does Tony Blair think that dropping Beckham would adversely affect team morale? From what I can gather, the rest of the team would love it (really love it) if he was left out - even for one game to shock him.)

Anyway, back tomorrow (probably) with Blatter, referees and not much else.

Wail song

I had my annual dose of culture last week (excluding my visit to the wonderful Pixar exhibition at the Science Museum), watching Kabuki at Sadler's Wells.

Ignoring the dreadful theatre itself (I only paid £12 for a ticket, so I wasn't expecting much), the show was - to say the least - odd. To be fair, this was mostly my own fault. I bought neither a programme nor an audio loop to help my understanding of the show, so - inspired by Homer Simpson - I made up my own plot. From what I could figure out, a white-faced Zoe Wannamaker had an affair with a white-faced Timothy Dalton (albeit both Japanese men), who then killed here. Intermingled with some form of dancing and out-of-tune wailing from an off-stage extra. I can't really pass comment on whether it was a good exhibition of the art, but I was mildly entertained and thoroughly confused & amused.

In other news: the World Cup. Note to everyone - England are not that bad. Nor are they that good. Rooney is not a panacea. TV pundits - dire. All of them (nearly). Linekar: present the effing shows, don't make shite puns. And let O'Neill, Strachan and Dowie talk at length; their contributions are intelligent, inciteful and balanced. And someone please kill Ian Wright-Wright-Wright.

How many Primary Care Trusts does it take to change a bandage?

I believe the other day I may, in a moment of drug-induced dedmentia, praised the NHS briefly. A tad premature, I think. Today, I was left in a festering pile of my own bitter, impotent fury thanks to some moronic bureaucratic decision to improve the service.

Admittedly, I haven't ended up having 20-times the lethal dose of a drug cocktail injected directly into my spine or my healthy kidney removed, but I am still amazed that - following on from its best year ever - incompetence in the name of the progress is considered an improvement.

Thanks to my toe's adventures in surgery, I needed to have my bandages removed and my dressings changed (nice). Of course, I was told while waiting to be released from the hospital that I would receive an appointment for two weeks' time for a post-surgery consult and removal of bandages, etc. I didn't. So I phoned up for one; and was offered one a further two weeks later. So, a foul-smelling bandage for another fortnight? I think not. Thus, I booked an appointment with my GP. Which brings us to this morning.

What do you think they do in a GP's surgery? A surgery? Well, in mine they don't have any dressings. Seriously. My patronising, decrepit idiot of a GP (but that's just my personal opinion, solely based on all my consultations with the fool) told me, "we cannot do that here." As I picked up my jaw from the floor and refocused my lost-to-incredulity eyes, I asked him - in slightly more polite tones - what the fuck he did actually do.

The upshot being? I have to book another appointment with the district nurse - a central surgery for the whole of the trust, where they change bandages... How the hell is this better than your local GP doing it? Not that my GP seemed to agree with me; he looked at me as if I was mad not to know that I had to book elsewhere.

Did I book? Did I bollocks. I went to the walk-in NHS centre in town, was seen within 10 minutes and was out in 20, fully re-dressed. Now that is progress...

Best foot forward

So, here I sit, 'working from home', with my mummified foot raised and in pain thinking, "I really ought to update my blog." I haven't touched it for months; not through a lack of anything to say, just through laziness. So, for the x-millionth time, I promise to update this bloody thing more frequently. Not that I will.

So what have I been up to? Well, skipping the last few months - honestly, if I remember later, I'll write about it. Short-term memory is where it's at - here's the potted history.

The wondrous Dresden Dolls played the Astoria the other day. Last time I saw them, at the Scala, there were about 50 people there. Now the place was full of Nine Inch Nails fans. Still, spread the gospel according to Amanda & Brian. And they were fabulous. The new album is more genius, and the whole show was spectacular. And they are happy for their shows to be filmed and stuck on that there interweb.

Since the gig, I've not been able to do a lot, owing to an operation on my foot that has left me hobbling around in an orthopaedic shoe and - last night - in considerable pain. Until yesterday, I was impressed with the NHS. Following a tedious and oft-transferred telephone call to the hospital yesterday, I've somewhat changed my mind. I may get into that at another time. Thus, I spent a week sitting on my sofa, popping painkillers (the one time I didn't take the drugs, while hosting a party to enjoy Lordi's magnificent Eurovision win, I awoke the next morning with the worst hangover since I was a student). I made the mistake of going back to work on Monday - I may get a seat on the tube, but it took hours to get in and hours to get back; which leads me rather un-neatly back to working from home. Where we began...

You're all going to DIE!!!!

The BBC kindly reminded me of a memory I had repressed for years. And with good reason. For I lived in fear for years.

The release of the classic public-service films has allowed us all the nostalgia of Charly miaowing his way to tell us to tell our mummies before we go anywhere. But today, the beeb put on the slightly less friendly Protect and Survive, possibly the most specious and ridiculous of all the films. And the scariest...

Watch and cower in fear...

Way back in the 70s and 80s, while he still lived with us, my father was an active supporter of CND. Which is, of course, a noble and correct thing. The thing to remember is that, at the time, nuclear war was just a button push away. The insane and truly foul Reagan was in charge of enough nukes to kill us all many times over, and was just about stupid enough to use them. We weren't to know that the USSR was so poor that it's collection of weapons was held together by sticky tape and powered by vinegar and baking powder. So Armageddon was going to happen, and it was going to happen to us.

And my home was filled with leaflets containing pictures of burnt corpses and images of people reminiscent of the nuclear bomb scene in Terminator 2. I was taken on marches, where we were all made to lie down and pretend to be dead, presumably to shock the lovable softy Thatcher into destroying all our Tridents. People marched in gas masks, officially the scariest looking things in the world. More leaflets were handed out, with even more mutilated and charred corpses on them. I lived within a couple of miles of an Air Force base, which periodically - when there were no low-flying jets thundering overhead - would let of the air raid siren. Just to test them, I imagine.

And I was seven years old. Seven.

Now the BBC brings all these memories flooding back. Fortunately, of course, it seems a little less scary now. Mostly because the narrator is now doing the LOUD COMEDY TRAILERS FOR CHANNEL 4 in a Tommy Vance-esque voice. And for the fact that the instructions were so ridiculous, you can't help but laugh. But inside, I'm scarred...

Out here in the fields...

TheGirlfriend: iPod turned up; ready to rip

Oh Dear

I'm not doing very well with my unresolution, am I?

And now, for my own interest...

Happy new year

2006 eh?
I have now returned from a tour of the families, which has left me with just a couple of days of peace and quiet before a return to work (tomorrow). I shan't be doing all that again. All I've done this year is tidy the flat - something that I could have spread over a full week if I hadn't had to fill in the contractual family obligations.
Still, I've made no resolutions to break this year. Instead, I shall be pledging to get fit for my holiday (16 days and counting) and my fast-approaching 30th (60 days, but I'm not counting). Hell, I've already been running this morning.
And I intend to update this blog twice a week. Unless I'm really busy, in which case...