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.

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...

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

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*

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...

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.