Pepper's Progress

Google+ comes to town

2011-07-05T13:09:00.001+01:00

I started with my first Gmail address back in late 2004. It was a very exciting time - I had a job I loved, great friendships were being made, I was drunk almost every night and the sun never stopped shining. Since then many things have come and gone; many vibrant friendships have faded, my body doesn't suffer good times as well as it once did and I'm currently without a job. Don't worry though, the point of this intro is simply to point out that as time passes us all by, some things keep on coming around. I am of course refering to Google+, or ExtraGoogle, or GoogleAndThenSome. Call it what you will (and you will call it Google+) the company which brought to the masses a strangely liberating sense of freedom in a Microsoft and Yahoo! dominated online world is back with the next step. Are you ready yet? It appears to be quite a commitment.

Google's clean interface was its most attractive feature. Users were becoming irritated by the clutter on MSN and Yahoo! search engines. Oddly, Netscape users were left to die alone and sadly not enough other users had their own butlers at home to really justify Ask Jeeves.com becoming a reality.
The company's clever use of Google Doodles to remind everyone of certain days of celebration or tributes to significant moments in time or people gave the brand another edge over its competitors; it was almost as if Google really cared about us.
When the time came to push Google email out, the invitation-only system gave flight to a flurry of excitement amongst users and those of us who had already tired of a Yahoo address or simply wanted the chance to get the username we really wanted via an alternative provider (and one which sounded cool). Who has an invite? Where can you get one? You know someone? Can you send me one?

Google was really running now. Not a sprinter but a worthy athelete charged full of stamina and ready to reckon with the world as it pounded the path towards the holy grail of our time; our personalities.

You know how this commentary continues so I shan't labour the point. Instead here's a brief look into how Google+ is presenting itself to users.

Summary of key features

Circles: at first glance this appears to be a method of sorting your contacts into pre-defined groups, in a way I used to on my old Nokia 6210i about a 130 years ago. The main difference being it was controlled by me, seen by me alone and my grouping choices never influenced any of my friends lives via spam and 'taylored advertising'. I feel both those elements will result from this idea.

Hangouts: the most curious of all the new features. It appears to provide online users with an opportunity to contact anyone within their 'circles' via any online medium shared between each user. As if we don't all have enough ways to get under each others skin already.

Instant upload: this feature will delight many, particularly those who voted Boris Johnson into office because he's funny on the telly.
I see this as the biggest step towards 'personality aquisition' since Facebook asked us for our holiday photos, children's birthday pictures and videos of some of the best times of our lives.

Sparks: this is the culmination of years of fine tuning AdSense and other such devices. A similar technology on Facebook has now become a point of ridicule - users are deliberately adding keywords to their status updates to see if the advertising software will bounce back a suitably mismatched and insensitive piece of product information, which in turn becomes an ironic follow-up status.

Huddle: Finally there's the 'Huddle' service which appears to be offering group messaging, such as that used in the BBM service by RIM on Blackberry handsets. WhatsApp never had it so good! Interestingly WhatsApp was designed by a couple of chaps from Yahoo! - looks like the old dogs have jumped one step ahead once more with this one. However now Google has become a real brand in its own right I'm curious to see how these two elements will compete. This is where Google's Android platform brings a Gustav to a gun fight.

So there we have it, a peep into the forthcoming world of Google+

Make of it what you will. I think it's a culmination of a great deal of ideas that've been around for some time now packaged together in what seems to be quite a brutal and forceful campaign. I see why the 'invitation only' route was taken for this one. Eddie Izzard once joked on stage that advertising is far more intelligent now, tricking us into asking questions of the advertisement and the product and being reassured that whatever happens the product will make us sexy! This new offering appears to be wielding a large club and appears to have a doped up chain gang wearily following in its wake.

Personally I'm reluctant to give everything away to Google - I particularly don't want to automatically upload every photo and video I create on my phone; there are some things I want to keep to myself. I don't want Google to know how I group my family and friends into categories, if I do at all. As a Google Latitude user I'm not adverse to sharing personal data but I don't like the way companies are expecting us to provide so much personal information as a matter of course.

Our personalities have been earmarked as trading commodities for some time and this latest offering from Google shows how serious they are in putting a price on everyone. The question is how long will it be before you sell out yourself and your loved ones?

Egypt's Lost Cities: BBC1 Bank Holiday Monday evening telly

2011-05-31T13:40:00.002+01:00

The BBC spent more than a week airing a trailer for what appeared to be a new programme exploring brand new cutting edge technology linked to archaeology. What they didn't say was that it was the same technology the west used to identify Osama Bin Laden's weapons of mass destruction, which failed, which had been adapted to identify areas of historical significance across Egypt's vast and desert-ridden landscape. By pointing satellites down into the open sandscapes, and using infrared filtering, Egyptologist Sarah Parcak claimed she was able to point out undiscovered buildings, roads and harbours underneath the surface of the sand. This was the most exciting bit of telly I'd heard about in months and I waited eagerly for its transmission, saved up for a Bank Holiday evening on BBC1 primetime.
Brian Viner, from The Independant, writes of the BBC's recent Egypt's Lost Cities programme that thanks to Tony Robinson's absence the viewing public was saved from his "excitable high-pitched shouting". Instead of Robinson's apparent vase-smashing powers of what must only be telekinesis, Viner claims viewers were instead treated to the supposedly enhanced sexed-up presenting prowess of Dallas Campbell and Liz Bonnin.
Now I'm as much for change as the next black President of the USA, but in this case I can't help but feel confused and distanced from the Big British Castle. Where Robinson would have taken time to direct his excitement straight into the camera lens loaded with factual reference, objective speculation and informed opinion, his new slinky replacements proved themselves bone idol to the point of simply cooing at the site of four thousand year old graffiti. Without too much trouble you could easily work out the BBC has seen how popular Brian Cox is, and thought it should use Cox's cutesie bedside manner in this show too. What they clearly overlooked was that although Cox comes across as a softly spoken mild-mannered boffin who charms the pants off all the world's MILF, he's also one of the brightest of sparks and knows his ox-bow lakes from his longshore drift. Campbell and Bonnin burst out of the traps without the faintest idea of why they were in Egypt - their voice over narration betrayed the simple fact that they added all the substance and fact when they were back in the studio, surrounded by Wikipedia and a team of researchers.
It wasn't just the presenters that failed to hit the mark either. The BBC has decided to go all Radio 1 on its viewers and force us all to put up with an overbearing and over-dramatic musical score in all its latest productions. Not only does this prompt me to anticipate the arrival on screen of Gene Hackman and Denzel Washington, but it reminds me that no I'm not watching something with a nourishing intellectual content, I'm watching something for children suffering from ADD. I would dread having to be a fly on the wall in the production meeting; having to listen to some idiot pursuade a room full of executives and creatives that the programme's too boring without a Hans Zimmer-esque score filling every single moment of what was once quiet. It was in those moments of quiet that a viewer could once make his or her own mind up about a show without being spoon-fed the appropriate emotion the director was desperate to put across. Why aren't we allowed to think for ourselves anymore??!
The scientific content put across by Parcak was touched upon lightly, but in no real depth. No doubt so as not to offend the supposedly low-brow BBC1 audience of today. But why oh why not make a decent show and get some real substance going with the presenters and voice-overs? Take a chance and put it out on BBC4 - leave the prime channel to Graham Norton and give new scientific ventures a chance to find their audience elsewhere.
Akin to the British and American reporting of the effects of Japan's recent tsunami (news crews were more concerned with finding a Japanese resident who was actually distressed than they were in reporting how calm and mayhem-free the people were), more effort appeared to be put into showing Sarah's dismay at not discovering a hidden pyramid than all the work that went into making the discovery in the first place.
Sadly it seems likely that by snipping the purse strings of the best television production establishment in the world, we've unwittingly paved the way to joining our American cousins at the firey gates of entertainment hell.

No doubt soon enough we'll all be sat in front of the telly of a Bank Holiday evening to hear Les Dennis say, "And so for final jeopardy can you answer this question? This is the state of British cultural entertainment since its own public complained the flagship provider was over-financed".
On-the-ball-contestant: "What is dumbed down to the point of dribbling?"

Slowly but surely

2011-05-10T14:26:00.000+01:00

Yes the current state of my job search is 'in tatters'. It's official. I'm rapidly running out of time to find a regular and reliable income - it looks like I may have to actually start working really hard for myself.
Self promotion is something I've never really struggled with in my adult life; I can hold my own in any social situation and I'm happiest when I'm talking face-to-face with other people no matter the situation. But lately I've been finding it really difficult to promote myself and my business.
A friend said of me recently that I'm over-analyzing everything. I suppose this is right. It's a pain in the ass because there's no need for it, but it does explain why I'm not out there everyday flogging my wares until the police are called to lock me up for breaching the peace.
It's time to stop and press on with what's important. If I don't start making money soon I'll not only be homeless but most likely wifeless too. Now there's a starter for ten.

Repairs and stares

2011-03-16T23:51:00.000Z

There's a great deal of nothing going on when you're on the sausage. But in my case there's three counts of something going on, both left right and centre.
Today I took my unemployed self to Boots to order some prescription drugs. That's living.
It was the middle of the afternoon so the place wasn't too hectic (Faversham's hectic once a week; Saturday morning. At all other times it's quiet, peaceful and medieval).
I handed over my papers and waited a while. The chemist, meanwhile, stepped out of the back door to go play cricket for half an hour. I knew he did. We know they do. We knew that before Stupid and Stupidder showed us on their unfunny tv show.
When the pin roller returned he asked if I'd be paying for my prescription. This had slipped my mind - BONUS! That's £21.30 back in my pocket!
I had to mask my glee because another customer had approached. Made my day though, who'd have thunk it?

Rockin' the sausage roll

2011-03-03T12:48:00.008Z

For the past four and twenty years I've been a loveable employee of the government. Quite a considerable way down the food chain mind, but a local government employee all the same. I never planned to end up on such a heap of corduroy and knitted jumpers, things just panned out that way - coupled with my instinct to be lazy and settle in where I'm comfortable.
Throughout my time collecting a wage slip from the employer of the greatest concentration of insecure over-sensitive and compliant union-worshipping backstabbers I pointed my aspirations at crime and disorder. Not the making of it, personally, but the theoretical reduction of it. This meant I worked closely with community plod, groovy right-on leaders of local groups designed to see the greater good in everyone and, of course, members of the many and varied churches across London. On that last point I say 'varied churches' but, I think we all know, churches is churches; it's just the same old bobbins dressed in suitable and culturally sensitive clothing.
Anyway - Mr Cameroon and his other biscuit-faced chums, as part of their nonsense-parade they call Big Society, have elected to remove the majority of local government crime and disorder assistance from the nation’s rozzas. This is because we're all supposed to muck in and save our own communities from crime. Or, as it used to be called, 'kill anyone what don't come from around here'. This has left a large hole in crime curtailment across Britain; a hole which will undeniably manifest itself as a significant reported rise in crime. The people of Britain will then undoubtedly panic and The Daily Mail will point a finger at cultural cross-over and suddenly everyone’ll be out in the street massacring groovy right-on community workers.

Still, perhaps this is what we all want? If violence is to hop on the exponential increase train, let's jump aboard and let loose some of that inherent Tory-fuelled frustration by kicking the shit out of each other in a Buckfast Abbey monk-manufactured cider-fuzzled rage?

So now I'm unemployed. To celebrate I called up the Jobseeker's Opportunity and Knowledge Emporium line on 0800 055 6688 to register my intentions.
My man Jamie answered the call. He wasted no time in explaining that he had a series of questions that he had to ask me, and from which under no circumstances was he going to deviate, hesitate or repeat anything. Parsons would be proud. I was to pay attention and this part of the call should last about 25 minutes. Christ in 25 minutes I could drive to my nearest TK-Max and be halfway into a new pair of redundancy trousers.
Still this was for free money right? Free money I'd paid my dues over the years to gain such expedited entitlement to. I wanted to jump through every hoop Jamie would hold up in front of me until this sorry little segment of my life was through.

The questions came in like an action movie about an undercover cop who somehow infiltrates an underworld subculture of Los Angeles street racers looking to bust a hijacking ring, and soon begins to question his loyalties when his new street racing friends become the prime suspects. Subtle.
We thrashed through them, Jamie and me. Although I was nervous I could tell Jamie thought I was doing really well; he even shared a laugh or two with me at the inane structure and barefooted wanderings of what he was actually asking me. Bless.
Before long we were done. The first section completed in less than fifteen minutes! It must be a record? I was so pleased and thrilled; especially upon learning that Jamie felt proud of me.
He told me to wait. Just wait for a while as he went to prepare the next section. Just wait, he said, “Wait there and keep the phone to your ear so you can hear when I come back”. Ok. I thought nothing of it - after all why would Jamie want to do anything to hurt me?
Time passed. It passed like a turgid stool with jagged edges. I felt abandoned; my mind wandering back to being kept waiting in the queue in Boots while the ‘doctor’ goes to sort out your prescription - back to when I thought they were outside playing swing ball while I was left to wait. That in turn reminded me I'd had that thought way before Armstrong and fucking Miller slapped it up on their ruthlessly smug and unnecessarily bloody jolly comedy show. Comedy Airmen? I shat them when I was eleven years old.
Time passed and I remained in place, sat like a schoolboy waiting for the parent of a girlfriend to fetch her from her room where she's kissing one of the older boys, and from such a game she won't be disturbed.
Time passed and I was so alone. The phone in my hand became a slender mechanical object; a small semi-automatic hand gun, held to my temple. I moved the end of it so its muzzle rested in my mouth and squeezed the grip hard as my finger stroked the smooth face of the trigger - Jamie spoke, "Sorry to keep you, not too long I hope?”

The rest of the interview proved to be as hassle-free as I'd suspected. If, for one moment, I'd challenged any element of the script and the absurdity of the patter, I'd still be there now.
My application was processed - wooo I'd made it through the first round. Next up: The Eliminator. That final stage is booked and will take the form of a one-to-one face-off with the Jobseeker Panel, or end-of-level-guardian as they're known within the circles I now sink.

Sadly for Jamie the recent wave of cuts in local government will bring him and his colleagues a factor of pure time-warped and institutionalised dumbass never encountered before. A tsunami of self-loathing hard done by beige folk who know nothing of the world outside their once beloved Council. The telephone script is being re-worked as I type this. March sees the reform of benefits and the like. A streamlining process is being cascaded across the country - sounds familiar. They're going to shed the expendable parts to make room for better processes and automation. If your needs don’t fit the template pack your bags. Exile is looming. Re-watch Judge Dredd to see how to get back to the city once you’ve been canned.

Let’s not forget too that even after his four and twenty years helping job seeker types back to work Jamie shall end up phoning in to see if he's eligible to hold a metaphorical gun to his head while the computer at the other end of the line goes outside to arrest some drunk and disorderly Brits for bashing the next nationalist media target.

nerd of 1 herd

2009-11-30T00:44:00.004Z

The end of a weekend draws near. It's now the bit where I should be at slumber, topping up my charge in readiness for a full-on assault on Monday morning.
It's not the case. I'm sat here typing this, whatever this is. At present I'm also rather delightfully coughing my innards up with a repetition Newton's baby basket would be proud of. I shan't be long for this game, not this evening/morning, but I felt it foolish to waste an opportunity to reveal something fine from the interweb.
This evening I felt a substantial 'nerd-on' welling up in my personal trouser patch. A scratch I simply had to itch, the other round way. I needed to go and look up some classic telly sounds effects to stick on my mobile to make me appear colourful and interesting; perhaps a little zany and most certainly as wacky as possible, at work, in my local government worker standard issue low expectation brown cords, no hoper edition s-belt, non-ironed (but not by design) yellowing grimy-collared shirt and moth-eaten nylon stripy v-neck.
I'd been thinking lately that yeah the lighting's bad in the office, the air's bad in the office, overall the mood is way beyond Par...close to St Austell - so what I should get is a snazzy ring-tone for my phone. That'd inject a little un-beigeness. That, I'm sure, would place a sparkle on the suede of a Swede's semi-brogue.
Anyway, far too absorbed by the Matrix effect of my 'groovy sound effects for my mobile' quest to remember that actually my preferred v-neck is woolen not nylon, I don't wear stripes and that I don't own an s-belt, my shirts are clean and my cords are plush, my shoes are made from Italian leather and my specs are by Gucci. Blindly I Percy Veared until I stumbled across a link which proudly pointed the way to 'The Hunters Lair' - thankfully without misplaced apostrophe.
Here I knew found the Golden Fleece, J-man's grail, the last proud but wrinkled Rizla in the box because here and only here was the forum for people who dress up, rather seriously, as Predator.
Flicking through a series of posts looking for a sound effect of the beast itself 'clicking' as it does so convincingly in the movie, I realised I'd found a bedroom of nerds (that’s the recognized collective noun, I promise) more focused and pedantic than ever before. More insistent than the Nokia natives, more argumentative than the Nikon numpties and far more curious than the Crackberry blands - they whinged and moaned, bitched and bullied throughout their entire forum. These people, not that I think it's at all bizarre, or juvenile, for grown folk to meet up now and again all dressed as Predator, complete with sound effects, engineered weaponry and no doubt fully intergalactic underpants, these people are the sole reason I stopped. I caught sight of myself, for a split second, as one of them. Movie inspired phone sounds??? Seriously? Nope. No sir. Not me. No way. Not yet, anyway.
After that single point in time everything changed. I returned to the sofa (I’d completely fallen off it and was sprawled on the floor, dribbling and calling for a referendum), shook myself firmly by the face and cursed my imagination, the interweb and the time all at once. Now it seems my good friend the weekend has gone. “...she says the jungle…it just came alive and took him.”

4 years in

2009-11-19T18:07:00.004Z

It's Thursday. I've been at home for most of this week with a stinking cold. It's November and the run-up to Krismus has already started. Not that I'm annoyed by it this year, in fact it's pleasing to be ahead of the game for once. I've used the interweb to preorder several gifts already; the family being prime recipients. This is expected to change, but I wouldn't want to put out any suggestion to further establish any possibility that I'm an Ebeneza at the festive season. This year I reckon I'm up for it big time!
Did I mentioned it's November? November 2009 no less! November 2009 and a good long while since I previously stuck down any thoughts or waffling here. Many things have changed since my previous visit: I'm married, although strictly speaking I was, of two months, when I tapped out my rant about my boss. I have a new boss now and a far more rewarding job to boot. I own a car. I'm sat in a living space that now houses no less than seven speakers, now that's really something. I'm thirty four years old, looking ahead to the middling thirty five in July next year. I've visited New York, Sicily and Barbados - NY was a special; my wife and I travelled with my parents which was an absolute treat. Sicily was Lex and I at our camping and ruining the hire car best and 'Bados was a magical trip to attend a wonderful couple's wedding. My new boss is also my pal - he sent me on a specific training course that I'd wanted to attend for nigh on five years, added to which my line manager is a proper sort who has already enriched my work life beyond past imagined limitations. I'm happy after a long time of, after looking back, what seems like a long spell of a lack lustre grey plateau. I must have grown a little inside myself over past couple of years; I'm a lot less cynical but just as arrogant. I'm very much in love, without irritation, reservation or uncertainty. I'm sat on an expired period of contract with my mobile phone provider, but have yet to rush headlong into another contract to get the latest handset - a trivial point but one that glows with significance as I sit here pondering my existance. I feel I have choices. I'm earning enough money now to be able to save a little, or spank a lot. My iPod's broken and my push bike sits untouched in the garden with resident weeds wound around its spindles - but I'm not phased by it. There are other things to be getting on with. I love cooking. I have things to tinker with at home. The bathroom floor took forever but the toilet seat took less time. Things are beginning to come together nicely. I am, for the first time and in a good way, comfortably numb.

red_card_mother...minus4

2007-08-16T18:24:00.000+01:00

There comes a time in everyone’s life where they have to make a decision based upon a speedy assessment of two or more possible outcomes to a given situation. Yesterday it was my turn.

I chose not to extend my fist rapidly towards the face of my boss with the sole intention of acquainting my knuckles with the innermost portion of her frontal lobe, via the right eye socket or perhaps the nasal passages.

This was a decision based not only on whether it would hurt my hand or not, the answer to which was a sure fire “yes”, but also on the ensuing consequences that would affect not only mine but my wife’s state of rationale too. Which would be selfish, unfair and would cost me dear.

Those of you who know me, and those of you who may’ve read various things I’ve penned in the past (not pigs) will understand that I often seem faster than most when it comes to finding fault in aspects of my superiors – particularly when they’re women. This isn’t something I chose to ignore either; I feel I should try to work out why these feeling persist to a point where any relationship I may want to establish at work with a senior colleague is blighted if they’re female. I can’t for the life of me think of anything that may’ve drawn my attention to the fact that all female senior managers (FSMs) are nonses, other than perhaps where I’ve chosen my career path – aha! Yes that must be it! At last – realisation…could it be??

I’ve worked in the public sector for a while now – perhaps too long, in fact. I have a vague memory of….oh no….no that’s not the case – hang on! No there’s no way I can believe what I was about to say…I was about to waffle on about how women in senior roles within the private sector seem to have a much more masterful cut on things, compared to those at a similar level in the public sector, but I just realised that’s all bollocks; those women are just better at bitching. They earn more money than their public sector counterparts so there’s even more need to try to out-dress all colleague, or rather all “threats from out of the blue who really don’t stand a chance, especially with that hair which is soooo last season and those tits; my God sometimes I really don’t know if androgyny is a dietary failing or just used as a fashion statement for the one time (Wyclef) victims of school bullies” as is how the word “colleague” translates in the mind of the FSM.

Anyway – before I forget the reason for writing this I should aim to get to the point. Or at least open a door and lean in just enough so you can see the point, but not necessarily grasp it.

Yesterday my FSM and I disagreed on a particular point whilst discussing the best solutions to a problem. We agreed that the third party involved had a right to make suggestions that we should consider, but my point was that we shouldn’t necessarily feel obliged to go with whatever the third party thought best. In this case we had the upper hand in expertise relating to the problem we were discussing and I couldn’t understand why that hadn’t been dragged out to support the notion of us not following the suggestion made by our less informed partners. I saw it as more of an opportunity to thank our partners for their contributions, but to illustrate that although they had the right idea, the consequences of following their ‘idea’ would bury us up to our necks in much more of the same shit we're in already.

But no – my FSM couldn’t handle that. She suggested I was missing the point of ‘partnership’ working, as if she was stating that in order for a partnership to work you don’t necessarily discuss ideas, you simply pick up something that a partner says and run around with it for a bit, waving it about like a mental, before sitting down and telling everyone else in the partnership what a great new idea this suggestion is.

Well that was it. I propounded such madness was like nothing I’d previously heard. And then came forth the greatest, and oldest, bluff-whammy ever. She protested that I had offended her. Right there and then. By using a description of one of the key elements of this particular branch of the ‘partnership’ in one particular way, a way often used by members of the same particular partnership themselves…I said, beware now, I said h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l.

Yes homosexual. That’s the word, there it is and here it is again – HOMOSEXUAL – in caps.

Now, I know for a fact that me saying homsexual wasn’t offensive to the FSM or she would have certainly made it clear to the rest of the team that out of a matter of respect to her, nobody used the 'h' word. No, instead she just decided, rather clumsily, that the only way to get out of the discussion she had brought on herself, and taken away from the rest of the team and tucked away into her own little office, herself, was to suddenly pull out the ‘offence card’ at a moment when my argument was really gaining momentum.

This was insane. I didn’t know what to do. When a FSM pulls the offence card out you know, unless you’re another FSM, in which case the message is simply that it’s gloves off and hair pulling time and that girly grunting sound effects making can begin. However if you’re a member of the club for boys, the man machine, the brotherhood, well you’d be better off sticking her biro in your eye and rushing into the nearest room full of colleagues, screaming and waving your arms in the air as you profess to claims of assault and wounding!

I chose not to extend my fist rapidly towards her face with the sole intention of acquainting my knuckles with the innermost portion of her frontal lobe, via the right eye socket or perhaps the nasal passages.

I announced that I couldn’t continue the discussion. I left the room. I’ve been sulking ever since. I know she feels it – I also know she wants me out of my job. I shall spend the rest of my time in this pit working on bettering myself, purely that.

I'm growing tired of this game...I need a change.

93_tid >>> & 5andwich3s

2007-04-12T13:31:00.000+01:00

It’s another fine and sunny day in the CAPITAL. My lunch is a sandwich and soup combo and all is very well in my world.

While cycling to work this morning I pondered whether cycling to work was in fact a good thing – why did I do it?

Along the middle bit of Kew Road, I decided that it was something that, in the main, brought pleasure into my life. I’ve always enjoyed riding my bike – fortunately I was rarely without a bike as a kid; it’s just in adult life I’ve never crossed over to becoming a fully paid up member of the owning my own car fraternity.
I’ve been on cycling holidays with my Dad, cycling holidays with school, I’ve cycled significant distances on my own and so I suppose the main reason why I choose to cycle to work is because I enjoy it.
Many people take the bus, or the tube, the train or their own car (or a car they’ve nicked) or a combination of many modes of mobility to make their way from wherever they live to wherever they work – but I can’t be badgered with it, not in the sunshine. When you’re under your own steam to get home at the end of the day, there’s nothing like it.

If you’re anything like me, the mere thought of just being at work fills you with dread, despair and a feeling of oppression. It’s as if you choose each morning to leave your bed and voluntarily walk into the same prison where you spend all day long doing something that helps a manager (Gordon) somewhere tick a little box on something that really doesn’t benefit anyone but themselves (new legislation) and the overall greatness of the machine (Aunty). That greatness is measured by a bigger machine (Uncle), one which justifies itself by simply answering to the main machine (Tony) that, ultimately, thinks it knows the people at which it aims its good intentions, but all along drives itself further and further from what’s important…much like your boss dancing at a works Christmas bash. In fact, much like your boss actually being at the works Christmas bash!

So, anyway, what I was getting at was that after yet another day in the asylum, it’s often that moment where you take off your shirt and tie and jump into your manky old cycling clothes (no really, both legs at the same time – try it!) that life suddenly seems back in your hands again. You’re finally free at the end of the day to leave and ride home just as you like it – you can stop wherever you want, have a look down which ever street you feel curious about. If you’re up for it and need to blow out some cobwebs you can do just that too, and feel superfly good for it afterwards!

• It takes less time to cycle home than it does to take public transport
• It costs next to nothing to cycle home compared to taking public transport
• It improves your fitness and helps to j-j-j-jack your brain as well as your body
• It reminds people that there is an alternative to congestion, wheelies and cheers!

But there is a draw back to cycling on London’s roads. The Saab 93 TiD.

Cyclists if you see one of these cars heading your way, and you’ll know when one is because it’ll be on your side of the road and the wanker driving it won’t be so much as looking at the road - they’ll most probably be applying face paint while shouting at their kids (her) or bluetoothing something from a mobile phone to a palm pilot (him), beware and scarper quicksmart! These people are part of the new breed of motorist. Puretit. The essence of dumbassity captured in human form. Captain Chaos and his wife Claire sit in these cars, and move them about in a random way. They’re made from bad soup and rotten sandwiches.

little reds in a TIN 461bc

2007-04-11T13:17:00.000+01:00

Just how long has it been since I previously wrote on this blog? A very long time indeed. Still, I’ve been busy – busy doing nothing and busy doing bits and pieces that when lumped together result in very little.

I almost left my job, but didn’t because I’m caught up in a bit of a “is it comfortable here?” kind of argument with myself which I can’t seem to resolve, not at least without doing something irrational to prove it one way or another. And if I do decide to dive off into the void, I don’t particularly want to be caught up in a drowning not waving situation that I could have quite happily avoided by just biding my time a little longer where I currently am. God this is dull.

My lady and I went to the super last night to try and pad out our mealtime options a little. It seemed like months and months since we last spent a moment blasting around the big shop (the one we’re not supposed to support because of the impact our actions have on local, organic fresh produce). I relish a visit to the super though. And so does m’lady. Maybe it’s partly because I know it’s bad – but in the main it’s because you can wander and look at so many variations on one thing. For instance I walk in and think to myself I’ll go find some tomatoes for a sauce….so I instinctively go over to the stripey tomatoes section and see which tin I can reach that isn’t battered beyond the extent of the Easyjet managed Boeing 737 flight that ended up veering off into a hail storm somewhere over Geneva. As I’m checking out the tins for evidence of being used as projectiles in adverse weather my eyes roam free over the remaining contents of the shelf…there’s Farquoire and Hemsley’s vine hosted, sun dried, rain washed, wind blown variety. Produced since 461BC and a steal at £8.99 per tin. But you know you’re getting a bargain because it clearly states that each tomato was picked up from amongst the windfalls by Roger the blind drunk Springer who was, at the time, looking for a ball he’d failed to retrieve from the vineyard sometime in the spring of 1996. Before him, of course, trained elephants were instructed to fetch the tomatoes from the jaws of starved and depraved tigers, who had already stolen the harvest from a small lad called Jack, who everyone beat up at school because he had a wooden leg and spoke in a dialect not too dissimilar to that of them there folk from zomerzet. Jack later grew up to become a pioneer. This only lasted a short while; the need for men and women to be able to entertain the masses by wandering about with mathematical formulae tattooed on their ears soon wore off.
It took Jack a further 12 years to painstakingly remove the 592654 section of pi from the tattoo on his right lobe, by which time he had been recruited into retail by his long lost cousin Arthur Mound of Tuppennyrice, near Cleethorpes. Arthur and his wife, Fanny, were delighted with Jack’s progress and the fortune he helped to bring in through some very tough times…tougher than Mr T but not very often ‘cause that’d be too tough. It was 27 (Donna) summers later that circumstances began to change, and with the arrival of Jeesis onto the scene, the son of Godfrey and heir to the international chain Ballsmart, there opened up a niche in the market to really push the sale of tomatoes. Jack seized the opportunity with his last remaining finger and tucked it away up his left nostril for 20 minutes before leaving to simmer until brown. This was only possible because of a sacrifice Jack had made ten minutes previously – he donated his soul to Tim Rice, who was stumped for a line that would rhyme with Macavity. Tim’s whole career would’ve come crashing down from a very high cliff into the ground, no, into rocks at the edge of the sea…like at Beachy Head, and he would’ve been unable to pen such ditties as Evita and Starlight Express had Jack not sold him his soul for all his fingers, bar one.
But then he made stripey tomatoes and all was very good until he stubbed his toe and died.

rise of the machines...t>H_40_econ_super

2007-01-22T18:08:00.000Z

The washing machine in our flat is a pile of pap!

The man we contact when it relapses is a bigger pile of pap!

If we subtract the man from the machine, things are ok...but only if I add a shoe…

Imagine, if you will, a design centre, say, in Bracknell, where some beardy blokes gather with empty clip-boards and Parker ball point pens, chomping on ketchup sandwiches and bruised fruit, all the while dropping crumbs into their chin wigs. This is the kind of place where washing machines are taken from the conceptual drawing stage, through mock-up build stage, into trial and tribulation stage and finally into wrap in plastic and send to Rumbelows stage.

It would seem that, as used to be the case with cars (mainly Rovers), the "Monday morning/Friday afternoon" scenario has applied itself to the washing machine currently sat in our, rather aptly named, "room with the washing machine in".
Our washing machine, called Kevin for the duration of this scrawl, is, without a doubt, a Friday afternooner.
Load Kevin with clothing that needs a wash and he’ll gratefully receive all your fabric’n’threads, gratefully receive the washing powder, even go as far as gratefully receiving water from the mains…but then, upon the first drum revolution the whole process fails and he discards his belt drive. The speed controller immediately freaks out and sends the motor into a 230,000rpm screaming fit. I jump out of my skin, spill my tea down my Spiderman suit and lunge into the “room with the washing machine in” to cut the programme and save the flat from fire damage…or just fire, in general.

I’ve tried umpteen (does anyone actually know how many “umpteen” is? In Turkish it’s written “sayısız, pek çok”, which I find amusing) times to, firstly, contact the Plummer, then get the Plummer, Arsefeck, to agree to an appointment, then get Arsefeck to return my calls, then ask Arsefeck why he refuses to contact us when he’s unable to keep an appointment…

Anyway, Arsefeck’s away – so I’ve taken it upon myself to become the plummer. I figure the washing machine’s knackered anyway, so what harm can it do for me to have a go at fixing it? Besides I’ve grown a ‘tash especially and I’ve been working on my Dutch accent for weeks. Just need to get the camcorder set up and I reckon we’re all set for a career in modern journalism – fly on the wall style reality home movies, guv’nahh.

So, I removed the cover. I had a look inside. I went to fetch a torch from the other room and came back for another look. I went to the kitchen and dug out some batteries for the torch and went back to the “room with the washing machine in”. I peered inside the white cube’s innards:

Overall Assessment: drive belt missing, crap springs, me overloading the machine.

Recommendations: find belt and re-apply to drum rim and motor, leave springs alone, don’t overload the machine.

All of this should’ve taken a minute. But after locating the drive belt inside the casing, curled up on the floor of a sealed metal box containing a big drum, a set of bongos and a cymbal, I realised that reaching in to try to reach the bottom of the casing was something that was unlikely to happen in my lifetime without resulting in some kind of “kid falling into chest freezer” –esq nightmare.
I remember reading about such things a lot when I was younger. Quite a peril. When I was a kid you didn’t worry about pedder-ass pervs running about trying to grab you and take you away to do stuff to you and your friends, you simply worried about falling headlong into a chest freezer and the lid coming down on top of you – ‘cause we all know once that door closes it’s absolutely impossible to open from the inside. Oh yes. Remember those kids who were playing on a rubbish heap (let’s face it they were doomed from the start really) who randomly became locked inside a fridge?
Yeah, they were there for weeks before they were found…by an old man out walking his dog. Isn’t it a shame that all horrible things are discovered by old men walking their dogs? It’s tough being a bloke.

So anyway, I reached inside the casing and immediately electrocuted myself.

After rather enjoying that odd “shduff” sound effect that takes over your ears and then your head when you take volts, and the moonwalk airiness with which you take your next few post zap steps, I decided upon a new course of action.
Because the “room with the washing machine in” is the room where all manner of outdoor pursuit clothing and equipment is left, normally to go mouldy, it wasn’t long before I located a bungee.
Bungees are probably one of the best inventions ever to, um, have been invented. They can do all sorts, loads of stuff really; it’s just unbelievable how much stuff a bungee can do, considering they look so daft. I often can’t personally believe what I see when a bungee is involved. No really. Staggering.
Something they’re particularly good at is fishing for drive belts in the abyss that is the bottom of washing machine casings.
After no further electrocution and a little under-breath cursing, I scored a good bite and retrieved the belt.

Next job was to reacquaint it to the place from whence it came, herein and thus.

Having previously built up a few thousand hours flying time in a Mk 1 Ford Fiesta (X reg), I felt fully qualified to replace this drive belt. A couple of grazed knuckles and perhaps a few expletives later all appeared to be back in order. I span the drum to make sure, then I spun the dram. Then I drank it and then had a sleep.
There came a sound from deep within the washing machine casing…it was the sound of something rubber landing on the inner floor of a metal box. It wasn’t a jumping gimp; we don’t have one anymore. No, the drive belt was off again.
This process repeated itself until I was dry in the throat and sought liquid refreshment – it was during that tea-break that I was able to see clearly what was wrong. Alignment.

I discovered, having never previously devoted any time to pondering the inner workings of a washing machine, that because of the sheer might of the wobble undertaken by the drum as it spins, the motor had literally shaken itself off its housing and now sat on the drum clamps in a fashion most commonly referred to as “on the piss”.
This is why my girlfriend and I pay rent instead of buying our own. If it was our flat and our washing machine….well for starters I’d have used Calgon and we’d never be in this mess.
Actually – if washing machines were installed in walls, instead of just being placed in a box and plonked in the “room with the washing machine in”, none of this would happen. Things in walls don’t go wrong. Yes, that’s why we have tombs. Ever see one of them go wrong? Aha no you haven’t. I win.

I forcibly persuaded the motor to become realigned with the drum rim, re-attached the belt and prepared for a test run. Everything appeared to be fine. The belt stayed in place on the manual run through. Just a quick click of the on/off switch and soon some washing can actually take place….oh no it can’t. Because there’s no power coming through the device anymore. Oh no!
I couldn’t work it out and tried all manner of tweaking, tilting and tapping. Then I left my girlfriend alone and went back to the washing machine.

Because our Hotpoint (not-point, rather) was seized by bailiffs from The Ark shortly after Noah declared himself up to his eyeballs in debt to several zoos and finally agreed to accept bankruptcy, the connections which were once considered sound are now more likeable to those connections often missed when travelling by rail in the UK, or indeed by tube on the Piccadilly Line when it gets a bit windy in the winter months. You would’ve thought…”win”ter….”win”dy…. I don’t know how they missed that one.

Anyway – I belted (with open palm, not fist nor in fact belt) the front door of the machine, which in turn responded exactly as the Millennium Falcon does when they really need light speed. Everything lit up (a lone LED) and ran perfectly – hoorah!

No it didn’t.

The wash never completed….no because at about 92% through the programme, the belt came off again. I cried and spent four days at the Priory clinic with severe depression.

When I returned, my beloved had managed only to wash one sock – for her stresses had been almost intolerable too. But not quite so, because she is indeed a fine woman and made of stern stuff, more sterner than the stern beams that support bridges, more sterner than indeed the huge girders that line cargo ships, even more sternerer than a sweet smile from John Prescott (the MP not the man who “goes the distance” in my links section).
I gathered myself, like a sheep dog would gather its thoughts before settling down to sleep…yes that’s how I gathered myself, not wanting to be defeated by a Hotpoint Aquarius 1400LX, ABS, SIPS, ESP, DOHC turbo.

The problem, it would seem, was down to the level of “wobble” experienced every time the max rpm was hit on the spin cycle. So to solve this I came up with an ingenious plan. I’d use an old shoe.
Incorporating the lid of the machine’s casing as a stay, I managed to wedge an old trainer inside the housing of the machine, between the edge of the casing and the motor. The shoe was then bent against it’s own natural flex, and fastened in place by the lid of the machine. This fastening then forces the shoe to press firmly against the motor, countering its natural lunge under the pressure from the spin cycle, thus holding it on the right line to keep the belt from slipping off the rim of the drum, and also to counter the violence of the spin when it’s going for it at the end of a programme. Utter brilliance.

So all we have to do now is find a way to fix the fact that the water comes straight from the mains supply, runs hot off the gas water heater we have, and then remains bloody cold throughout the duration of a wash. I’m sure, as a child, I remember the glass feeling at least warm after a wash had completed. Or is 40 degrees really quite cold? No it can’t be, can it?

Or, we simply wait for Arsefeck the Plummer to return from his holidays to fit us a new machine.

I wonder if I’ve damaged it?

9"_blow_me...UB40

2007-01-18T15:46:00.000Z

Today I was awoken by the sound of my girlfriend being awoken by the sound of the people in the flat above ours being awoken by the wind outside our bedroom window. As it raced around in cyclones, its own paroxysm multiplying by the second, we could hear empty flowerpots tumbling and splitting as they were thrown against stone surfaces and rigid fencing.
Then, as if listening to a concerto, the rain picked up the banner and ran with it; dancing in and out of the veering wind as together these two tempestuous elements sought breach points in any weakness in window and door, guttering or roofline.

Travelling to work was made a slow and laborious process, partly due to signal failings, but other-partedly due to the weather…having just checked TFL for a clue as to whether (hahaha!) or not I’ll be sleeping at work or at home tonight it appears that the former of the two choices is looking likely. I’d rather eat curry and watch Bollywood with Jade Goody than sleep at work. Actually I’d rather sleep at work after eating curry than watch Bollywood and sleep with Jade Goody. I’m not even going to mention eating Jade Goody.

I’ve recently discovered it’s likely I’ll be looking for a new job soon. It appears somebody’s finally realised the prolixity of “Community Safety” and the decision has been made to gradually outsource the function of the team. So with a skip in my step I race to work each day and scan the internet with a furtive eye – ever hopeful that the fruits of my labours will reward me with a ticket out of here and on to greater things…

…it’s not all bad though…Top Gear returns to the telly on 28th January – now there’s a job!

Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

2006-12-31T17:51:00.000Z

Good luck to you all for the coming year!!!

"s"p"a"r"k"l"e"r"s"

2006-12-21T01:04:00.000Z

Whoever stumbles on this post, whoever you are, go have a squiz at "One Man And His Doris" from Pepper's Pointers on the right...footage from Mt Yasur in Vanuatu, coughing up a few hairballs.

lunched out

2006-12-21T00:54:00.000Z

virtually stopped, 19a

2006-11-14T12:38:00.000Z

Today there are two windows.
One reveals another person, sat in another room, another building, doing other things.
The other shows me the outside of whatever is on its inside.
I’ve thought about the inside of that particular outside for a few months.
Not constantly, just now and again.
Now I look out and see the outside of the inside, and between it and I falls the rain.
It’s not heavy, just a drizzle, but you know as soon as you step out into it you’ll be soaked through in minutes.
If I look at the drizzle, from within my space with no lighting and sounds all of its own, I long to be outside soaking up the wet and the grey with my clothes and hair.
I remember looking outside when I was a school child, gazing across the hockey field at the church; all wrapped up in garments of trees and bushes and swirls of leaves.
I remember seeing the rain, between it and I.
The lights were off in the classroom too.
It had its own sounds; I never really heard them...

...some things never change.

Monday Morning 5:19

2006-11-07T13:30:00.000Z

So, it’s been a long while since I last wrote anything up here. I’ve been very busy doing many things and I’ve just moved house, so it’s all been quite nutty of late. Also I dread getting a reputation at work for being an internet liability, so posting needs to be done secret squirrel style or not at all.

As I write this, I feel I must point out, one of the management team here is sat (sort of) over the table from me with her feet up on the shelves, crashed out asleep! I can hear faintly the peaks from Mozart’s Night Music from her earphones – ooop – and as if suddenly becoming possessed she just leapt from her chair coughing like a loon! Perhaps I should’ve offered her some water or even checked to see if she’s alright – but it all happened so fast the moment had passed by the time I considered it as being an option.
The music’s now changed to something I recognise but can’t name at this time. But it’s lively, loud and far from the kind of tune you’d imagine a colleague should be listening to when trying to snatch a moments kip on company time. Bless her.

Anyway, I’m not here to write about the chosen slumber patterns of my work colleagues. Far from it. I’d like to talk about reality checks.
I’ve recently relocated to a part of London I lived in many moons ago, when I first came to London in fact. On Saturday I took a wander, with my wife to be, about the streets of our new neighbourhood.
It was one of those beautiful crisp, dry winter days. Everyone was dressed in hats and scarves, protecting themselves from the wind that cut through the streets. It was a good day though, and as we were just out to wander we were able to soak up what there was of the town’s personality.
It was great!

Where we used to live, the streets would be awash with American housewives, or their Italian nannies, and various babies they’d agreed to look after for the day. If you saw a bloke wandering about he’d be the sort who wouldn’t know a screwdriver from a lump hammer; he’d be on his way to Waterstones to look up the name of a local mechanic to help him change the light bulb in the fridge. He’d look like one of those public school-types, permanently surprised by life and utterly incapable of working out how “the poor” can know so much about how things work.

Anyway, now the picture in our local town is much more gritty. The look on people’s faces doesn’t seem to say that time is of no importance, that money is of even less – the people we saw on Saturday were different. They were making the most of their time. Hard shopping and precise leisure. No nonsence. No numpties. No Americans and no babies!!

Pretty soon we’ll be able to go to a pub on Sunday and not be faced with bloody babies everywhere, being carried about by adults who all stink of nappy cream. The seats won’t have little bits of food in the seams and the tabletops won’t feel like they’ve been polished with spit and bogies.

Of course we’ll have to maintain our visits to Sainsbury’s where we used to live, because the supermarket we have on our doorstep is quite simply frightful. So many people with sour faces and the staff don’t even speak English. Shocking.

1. Push the button

2006-08-17T12:35:00.000+01:00

I was watching the telly last night, as you do (but I don't very much). There wasn't much on, until I found that the Proms was being shown and last night they were screening a Mozart night. So I thought to myself, "I'll have some o'that".

It wasn't long before I realised I had no idea which movement I was listening to (or watching) of whatever piece was being played...so I sort of grumbled for a bit, supped at my wine, rolled a fag and pondered...

Do I wait until it finishes and then try to remember to pay attention when the suited person appears and tells us what we were watching, and how good it was, and how the musician has done so well, and how good they are with their instrument etc. Do I grab my mobile and punch in the old Shazam numbers (er, 2580 I think) or do I just give up?

Or.....!!!

Do I press the red button?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!

Woooooooooooooooooooooohaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! Finally!!!!
A use for the red button!!!
I couldn't believe it - the songs of angels raptured about my head (that's an odd way of trying to get across the point that it was one of those "Alleluihhya" moments)! Pennies could be heard dropping from five miles away! It was a happening I never thought I'd be able to share....the red button coming into its own!

So I pressed it.......nothing happened........then something did........then it appeared, disappeared, switched screen format and finally settled down.

I sat back and smiled, feeling all warm inside.

The title and movement of the piece was displayed neatly across the bottom of the screen.

Bloody brilliant!

Punk (o_v_e_r) Ture 101.4/second

2006-08-15T17:28:00.000+01:00

I left work and walked back to the cycle shop, it didn't rain and I made good time. The guy in the shop took a while to realise I was a customer. I think perhaps he thought I was a window shopper who'd actually taken the plunge and walked inside, for the first time, not really knowing what to do or where to look.

Anyway, I asked for some assitance and explained I'd returned to collect my bike, the one with the puncture from this morning, the Carrera, the old one, the heavy one ?
That was the key word. "Heavy".

He wheeled the bike out, and appeared covered in a fine sweat from the effort taken to wheel it from the workshop all of 18 feet to where I was standing beside the till.
I checked the work. They'd put the tyre on "the other way around". I shan't explain in great detail, it's important though. Basically when I leave anything of mine in someone else's charge I expect to be reunited with it in the same state. Especially down to tyres being fitted as they originally were. So I felt instantly miffed and all my thoughts of the shop began to stink of the same turdy-mire and fugg...I'm such a self destructive consumer. I'm not dumb enough to accept my goods in an unsatisfactorily altered state. I'm crap at saying to myself, "Oh well, never mind" when it concerns my stuff.

So I'm about to leave and he says, with a very metallic German twang, "Hew shood veally sink abawt gettink yar bayke sarveest, ya?". (Ok I added the "ya" bit there, but that's because I'm still sore.)

I asked him what he would recommend, and how much it would cost. He explained that after considering all the service costs, replacement parts and of course the labour I'd be looking at over a hundred pounds, which in his opinion is daft and a waste of time on a bike such as mine, which is heavy.
I asked what he'd recommend, and while doing so began to apply lip gloss and eye-liner, dye my hair blonde and start to inflate little cushions under my shirt to enhance my bust. I swapped my shorts for a sexy pink and glittery crotchless number and proceded to spread myself over the counter. Just so he could completely fuck me, you understand?
He concluded that if I handed over £500 to him, he could find me a decent bike that would help to reward me for the effort I put in to my daily commute and the hardship that entails.

I picked myself up off the counter and left the shop. I gave a nod to my good friend Dave, who was sat in the cab of the mini crane just over the road, and left the wrecking ball and its master to do its job while I cycled happily off into the sunset.

Everyone was left alone to enjoy cycling around on crap bikes and we all lived happily ever after.

Punk (o_v_e_r) Ture 101.4

2006-08-14T17:11:00.000+01:00

I punctured my rear tyre this morning on the way to work. Felt a bit pistoff 'cause it made me late - my boss asked if I had enough "flexi" to cover my lateness...yep, another boss with a fixation for time keeping. I thought I should point out that I didn't want a puncture, I just sort of inherited one from someone else and their glass breaking/littering habits (cue secondary location for installation of mini cranes and grand pianos).

Anyway, I just left it. She wouldn't have understood. She's a boss with a time fixation.

So, I left my veloceped with a cycle technician from a purveyor of pedal cycles in the town near to which I work. He said it'll cost a tenner. I smiled, left him my bike, telephone number and inner lining of my stomach over his shoes.

Hopefully my trusty steed'll be ok when I go to pick it up in half an hour. But now I'm concerned that I might be entering a period of my life when all those punctures I've avoided are on their way to come and get me. I just told a fib. I'm not concerned at all because this is my second puncture in six years! Maybe I'm due some flat tyre action? Maybe I'm ready for it? Maybe it's time. Hmmmmmmmmm...

=SUM(v@n)*b@5t@rd5

2006-07-11T17:13:00.000+01:00

I was sent flying from the comfort of my pushbike this morning by some twat in a transit van!

Scared the poop from within my most private chamber, no word of a lie. One minute, cycling happily through Kew, keeping within the white line of the cycle lane, when suddenly out of knowhere (well, from behind me, technically) comes this van and passes me so close the nose of the beast clips my bar end! I'm sent sprawling into the curb, the back of my bike leaves the road and begins its epic journey through an arc of approximately 180° with me sitting just forward of the centre, inevitably landing a foot in advance of the arc radius, upside down with a face full of first grass, then pavement. My bike is a loyal beast and has the decency not to land on top of me, but crashes down beside me instead, wedging its chain firmly between the top cog and the fixing bolt for my rack.

Did he stop? Did he badgers!

Left me for dead, the stinky little see you next Tuesday.

Anyway, I'm about to brave the road again. Hopefully this little scrote is already at the bottom of a river, sorry, I mean hopefully he's somewhere else in his van...with an Alsatian ripping through his nadgers!!

I've had me brew. I'm ready.

...work, work, work 29

2006-06-23T16:34:00.000+01:00

I went out last night to The Montagu Pyke on Charing Cross Road to watch Japan/Brazil.
The night was put on by Logosgate who had hired the pub and sold tickets on the night. Japanese food was available, as well as beer, and everyone was given a novelty fan to wave - BONUS! (Jer blagged a t-shirt too, the lucky badger.)

After a lengthy spell in the queue we were allowed inside and took up residence at the bar. The match started shortly after, amid screams and shrieks and the pounding of various drums.

My ears weren't ready for the noise, it was shrill to the point of meltdown. Every time a Japanese player ran for more than three strides with the ball everyone went and screamed until my eyes hurt!

If England supporters were as mad as the Nipon's I'd love football all year round, no really I would! Sitting in an English pub with lots of English people, all hoping for a team win but reluctant to cheer their lads on. (Just in case the inevitable happens and they lose.) The thought of it depresses me...

So from now on I'm watching the rest of the world cup in fancy dress, in non-English pubs, where the party's more important than winning the game!

LITT3RIN6 - eye h8 it

2006-06-21T12:38:00.000+01:00

"London in the summer time, cuss me out an' it'll feel alright..."

That's what Anthony Kiedis said, and although he was probably referring to something to do with ladygardens, I'm going to use his lyric as the basis for my lunchtime rant.

Me mate Jer and I like to lounge in the park of a Saturday, when it's sunny. It's a perfect way to relax and soak up the sun, to spend a few hours watching the world go by, to moan about the yoof of today and to consider money-spinning possibilities for the future.
All of this adds up to a high quality of life which keeps stress levels down and chipperness right up there - I'm sure happiness is good for all sorts of other bodily functions too, like pooing.
Still, all these benefits are pointless when it comes to lazing in London's parks and gardens as soon as they're graced by the presence of yoofs.

Yoofs turn up, fine.
Yoofs hang out, fine.
Yoofs play footy, fine.
Yoofs have a drink and a smoke, fine.

But then yoofs suddenly decide to up and leave. This is where the problem lies, or rather scatters, scatters itself across the park actually. It's their litter.

London's local authorities, and in some cases local residents, place litter bins all across the city for everyone's benefit.
Some of them are used by terrorists to plant berms, although that was mainly the Eire Ay back in the eighties.
Some people use them for stuffing newspapers into, adding a little lighter fluid and then chucking in a match for a bit of an "Osama Bin Lighting" sesh.
But on the whole, most people use them for dropping off their unwanted wrappers and packaging, and dog poo, and cakes and unwanted socks, and goldfish, envelopes and mockable garden furniture...like gnomes.

In the park in which I like to hang out with me mate, and drink a few beers, the local authority has provided a bin - it's the size of a kennel that might have housed Schnorbits at one time, probably not when he was a pup because it's quite large. This bin is placed slap-bang (quite an odd expression that one - possibly derived from cowboy times back in the wicki-wicki-wah-wah-wez when a lady of profitable multiple penis accommodation might raise her hand to a cowboy, only to be shot in the head for being a woman, or not another cowboy, or even being another cowboy like in Brokeback Mountain where those cowboys "...weren't no queers!" at least, or something) in the middle of the park where there really isn't an excuse not to use it. Pretty much everybody chucks their crap from the day in the bin when they leave. Jer and I often pick up random bits of newspaper or the odd carrier bag as we leave and chuck it in along with our own rubbish, and we've not died from doing so!

So why do the yoofs not bother? Who told them that if they put their litter in the bin their genitals'll drop off, or turn into vegetables or just pieces of spaghetti? Why can't they see that purely by their large numbers they create such a large amount of litter that it immediately impacts on the environment for days? And which c*nt was it that said to someone ages ago, who then told someone else and so on and so on, that if there's someone employed to pick up litter, why shouldn't everyone just drop theirs to help keep this person in work?!?!?! How fucking stupid is that?!?!

So anyway. This weekend Jer and I are heading out to lounge in the park and have a few beers in the sun, and we've arranged a little surprise for the yoofs and their littering followers and friends...hahahaha!! Yeah - we've hired some mini tower cranes! Yeah!!
Attached to each of the twelve cranes we've going to hang a grand piano. As soon as a gang of yoofs turns up, we'll manouvre the cranes into position just above whichever gang we see as having the most potential to litter...basically if they're holding anything that resembles a bag they're targeted.
Then, as the afternoon wears on and the yoofs get restless, at the first sign of littering - and I'm talking about a stray Rizla paper - we hit the button and drop a tonne and a half of the voice of Richard Clayderman's fingers straight down on 'em!
Yeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaa!!! SPLAT!!! (Kkkkllllaaaannnnnngggggggggggggrrrrgggrrgrrgrrr)

And then we'll leave.

Um, after clearing up the mess...and putting it neatly into a bin.

f451_it's_a_hotty

2006-06-09T12:31:00.000+01:00

It's a hot hot day today!! I love it!!

The World Cup starts today and I'm excited about that, which is great 'cause I generally think football's a bag of arse. Loads of stupid kids running about a field chasing each other, falling over deliberately so they get a free kick (low down cheats), crying when they don't (spoilt basts), swearing at the referee and arguing with his decision (spoilt basts), openly swearing and spitting on the pitch (ignorant pikey thugs) and then they become role models and heroes - um - clearly for people who go on to blossom as social misfits in later life, people who fight strangers in pubs and mug old ladies for cash to feed their loser drug habits. *pah!* Football?? Rubbish.

Oh, but the World Cup's a larf, right? And if we win, all the thugs and chavscum what watch football'll be all proud, innit.

Perhaps they'll be so busy crying and hugging each other, like girlies, that they'll forget to be complete tossas out in public?? What if...? What if by winning the World Cup all antisocial behaviour falls to the wayside as we become a nation of proud sportsmen and women, leaving behind stale fags and drunken brawls?? What if...?

Football?? Rubbish.

Win the World Cup?? Cure the nation in one go!

Time for a brew.

tickingawaythemomentsthatmakeupadullday1509-12

2006-06-09T03:11:00.000+01:00

Shed

A click-point from Leo...

a_8_i_5_n_23_s_7_l_3_i_6_7_e

2006-06-09T02:37:00.000+01:00

Tonight's post is all about a great night I spent with "B", as she'll be known... from now.

Unfortunately, I want to write about the side of the evening that I'm not really ready for in blogging - I want to write about how she made me complete > on a great night out with some mates...

...but that story'll have to wait...

Tonight was about spending an evening with "Oinze", the last one in fact, for a good while.

*I'll miss her when I realise she's not going to be part of the gang anymore (that's still not sunken in).
*I'm already missing her at impromtu meetings at a random pubs.
*I know I'll miss her comments and pisstakes forever, much like I do M-Arse...

I'm glad we met.

machinewashable4stains

2006-04-28T15:25:00.000+01:00

It's gorgeous and sunny.

I've taken a days leave to recover from any lingering effects following last nights drinking at a mate's leaving do. It was fun last night - seeing so many people I used to work with. It was also weird. The classic realisation that so many people you think you had affiliation with, who suddenly find it impossible to ask about anything but the new job.
It's a moment not to dwell on, but to understand quickly.
When you leave a job, even after three years, by no means does it grant you passage to a selection of good friends who you'll stay in touch with. I suppose if you're liked at work it's a bonus, but at the end of the day your real friends are the ones you don't need to formally update in the pub, almost in a competitive way - they're the people you meet up with now and again, and everything's the same as it always was....

I'm parched. Tea in the garden I think, seeing as it's gorgeous and sunny.

15.226

2006-04-26T20:00:00.000+01:00

By the way - the Bush Counter has hit the 'hundreds' - pop those corks....!

jobbyjobbyjobbyjobbynumber2oooohs

2006-04-26T19:52:00.000+01:00

My girlfriend recently went to Paris and brought me back a gert chunk of brie from a market.
It stinks ! But it's bloody lovely!!!

"Two Shags" John Prescott? Fool.

Tracey "Top Porno Name" Temple? ...bless.

timewellspent741?

2006-03-16T16:15:00.000Z

On Tuesday I left my job. I've never felt happier, apart from when I finally had the stabalizers taken off my bike when I was a kid and felt the exhilaration of leaning into a corner for the very first time.

I've granted myself a few days off to reflect, spend some quality hometime and look forward to starting my new job on Monday. I had plans, nothing severe - maybe a haircut, get out and about looking for the most appeasing route to cycle to work, experimental cookery, improving my juggling, moving some furniture, chasing leaves in the park.......but so far I've managed very little. I don't care. For the first time I've left a place of work with the next step in place, therefore leaving no guilt to have to quash by pretending that carrying out some menial tasks at home will save me from recognising I'm really just wasting my time. I love it!

I'm heading out into the cold to brave the shops and buy some ingredients for tonight's supper - and that's it. A homely feel to my day as darkness draws in, the warm delight of my girlfriend's company later on and the promise of more carefree living tomorrow.

Change. It's good!

whycycle my bicycle.....12

2005-11-30T13:34:00.000Z

Cycling to work...it's something that lightens my mood, enhances my day and gives me pretty much the only form of (blogable) exercise I seem to be able to find the time for.
So - imagine my heartache this morning when, upon arriving at work in the manner to which I'd become accustomed over the past two years, I discover the "flaps are closed" and my "entry refused"! I couldn't believe it!
Thankfully I'd left home in good time, so such a fuckup wasn't necessarily going to result in me being scalded (yet again) by my timekeeper extraordinaire boss.
But the crux is that instead of leaving my beloved horse tucked away nice and safe in the stables below our offices, I have to chain him up to a bar in what can only be described as a cycle graveyard in the carpark of the building around the corner!!

I've just been out and checked the sitch...my bike's still there...but there are three and a half hours of the working day left - and in an hour and a half the little bastards, or school children as they're also called, will be out and roaming the streets - looking for bikes to steal, old ladies to stab and concrete to eat...jesus...I might need to get a babysitter...

deathbug rampant 49er

2005-11-08T13:50:00.000Z

My weekend has proved more troublesome than it was really worth.

I'm suffering frequent liquid exits ever since enjoying the barf-bee-queue at a communal fireworks display on Sunday. I pushed a burger past my lips, a potato, some cheese and onions, a sausage and then some chicken - where I believe the blame lies.
Being a fireworks party it was dark, dark enough to enjoy the warm glow from the bonfire and the sparkle and flash of the fireworks as they took their turns to dazzle and crackle off up in the night sky. It was also a perfect opportunity for me to unwittingly pick out the most gloopey uncooked piece of poultry I could've...and then to stuff it down into me belly where it would fester, battling with the alcohol already in residence. The war seemed to rage on through the night - booze obviously holding it back for some time, until I'd absorbed all the sugar. Then the chicken took flight and darted off into my system, kicking my guts firmly in the metaphorics.

Monday was tricky...sporadic bouts of chucky and anal fling. By the evening I thought I'd sorted myself out, but then came slumber...and with it the chance for my body defenses to once again become the target for a most horrendous attack!
Up half the night with a gurgling gut, reminiscent of the Wampa ice monster in Empire.
Trekking to and fro between my pit (now stinking rancid from parps born of the most evil and putrid of gasses) and the bathroom (stinking pretty much the same...apologies owed to flatmates for days to come...joy), finding what little temporary entertainment I can throughout the early hours before finally settling down to some snooze.

No work again today - this week is proving expensive...

So I guess I'll go and try to make myself something to eat. Dry toast was what people who knew best always told me to eat when suffering so. Dry toast sucks though! I want some nice food!
More tea vicar? Yeah, yeah sure - let's have another cup, why not?!

Jesus.

There isn't even any snooker on.

threehundredandfortyLUNCHthirteenTIMEseventytwo

2005-09-06T13:16:00.000+01:00

I'm knackered. My body's suffering from something I'm not entirely sure I know the cause of. I feel run down; tired and hungry - but I'm sleeping...and eating...

My girlfriend's away...

...I'm empty

677731567.04andsleep

2005-06-14T23:35:00.000+01:00

...the midnight hour is close at hand...and grizzly ghouls from every tomb are closing in to seal your doom...

Mr Jackson may have taken a moment to reflect on some of his lyrics of late, and rightly so. He told us in 1987 that he's bad, he's bad, shamowwwwwn! - but we didn't listen.
After four months of 'trial' we now know that, according to the jury at least, he is a completely innocent sideshow-bob freak-fest kiddy-fiddler of a pedder ass-pest who embedded doubt and uncertainty into the minds of all who laid eyes upon him, and we know that he's toast in the States.
So what now?
He's leaving the U(nder) S(tatement) of A(ll time) to 're-launch' his career in Europe and the Far East.

Hmmmmmmmm...

Is he?

Me think not.

Anyway - I don't want to write about the Neverland Perv. I was intent on trying to lay down some waffle about sleep (again). Previously I wrote about insomnia, something that doesn't seek me out quite so much these days. It's almost as if the deprivation-demons of doze have found someone else to pester; like when a gent suddenly finds himself without the baton (the mysterious bringer and taker away of success, mainly in the realm of romance and rascality) the spell, it would appear, has been broken.
Thing is, no sooner does the sun take leave of its sentry post for the day, my mind slowly begins to wurr into life. At this time of day (er, night) I want to take my time relaxing and leaving the drudgery of the day behind me. But I can't. I can't because my flatmate can hear my music through the wall in her room. She's trying to sleep - it's not even half eleven! No matter how low I turn the volume on my anti-social behaviour making equipment, she can still bloody hear it!
There's a reason for this, and it's nothing I can work around. At night, your house gets 'turned up'. A force is at work here which amplifies every sound that would normally slip past unnoticed, transforming them all into the kind of din normally associated with small children and brightly coloured plastic trumpets. Infact, if you smoke enough, you can sometimes see the very creatures responsible for these changes...sneaking about the skirting boards, carrying little backpacks full to the brim with tools, making adjustments to the entire acoustic set-up of your house. It's staggering just how many rotating thumb switches there are throughout the average four-bedroomer. Each one controls a different aspect of the soundstage in each room, which of course has to be tuned to an omnidirectional state of perfection, so as not to confuse and disorientate the occupier as they travel from room to room - for instance you don't want to hear the fridge buzzing when you're scratching about in the loft looking for your old football boots do you?

Oh. I think I've lost my thread.

fullup5tart

2005-06-06T12:25:00.000+01:00

I've had a very boozy weekend. It's been a journey...traversing the peaks of drunkenness and hangoverdry...and I think I'm still out there...a'wandering...it's lunchtime on Monday and I'm still up to my eyes in blur and fuzzle...my skin's a mess from too many late nights and an extremely poor diet of late (I say poor, but I could swap that for liquid), my poomaker's forgotten how to produce solids and everytime I take a stroll to another office I find the walls in the corridoor seemingly determined to leap out at me, as if they're all trying to GET ME!!!

Somehow I managed to ride to work this morning - on a very empty stomach, and a pair of rather overly flat tires too. That added to the misery of my pounding head; the way I might as well have been cycling through the mature stages of a great river, a river of soup, or rice pudding, or Tennants Super, or mushroom stroganoff, or gloopey guey (man) sauce you get on your salad in dodgy overpriced Italian restaurants along James Street W1...

I can no longer put words together to make, um, sentences, yeah, sentences...screen...wash...my...apricot...bungee...

Badgers - will someone please make me a nice cup of tea?? Anyone? Hellooooo??

8Cheesecake?

2005-04-08T12:58:00.000+01:00

The weather's been a bit iffy lately here in ver saaf. It's gone from a sweaty t-shirt dreching (well almost) sun-fest last weekend, to grey skies, hail, snow (and now rain) and knacker-numbing cold. It's depressing and degrading and that's why...

...I couldn't have pudding today.

Our staff canteen is frequently slapped about the chops by its visitors because of one thing or another, someone once claimed to have found a wood chip (floodgates to pun-city are now officially open) in amongst his pie and chips. He complained to the resident health & safety team and had the canteen's chops slapped. Now had he not been poking about in his lunch, blatantly looking for something to whine about, he would have enjoyed his nosh along with the rest of us...and anyway at what age exactly is it no longer rude to "play with your food"?

Anyway - every Friday it's Funtime Friday, and in the true spirit of lowering one's barnet and really letting go, our superior chefs throw on a feast of fish and chips, with a choice of mushy peas, beans and fried onion rings. You can have lemon on your cod piece and tartar sauce dollopped neatly on your rim should you so desire, or just take the soft option and "go veggie" with a lasagne or something equally ladylike. Basically, they cater for all, pop on a fab spread on a daily basis and even go as far as to include a rather homely and practical sponge cake-based pudding, drowned in a sea of sweet lump-free custard (made with man's milk and none of yer bloody light weight diet nonsense skimmed malarky neither). These puddings are baked by angels, delivered by the ghosts of dead popes and smack of good old fashioned home crafted baking by the ultimate master baker...

...until today. Nope - today something went wrong. Today, on the day the country was wrapped in an April freeze, the day I'm staring a bleak cycle ride home in the cold, the day Dave Steele found he couldn't upload the latest chapter in his genius work "ICON" because of unknown technical issues with Blogspot.com, our dinner ladies thought "stuff it", the result of which was realised in the form of fecking cheesecake. CHEESECAKE!?!?!

Tonight some of our elderly and frail are going to perish because it's so damn cold, and we're offered cheesecake.

I love my staff canteen, dearly, but when things like this happen I have to take a moment to weigh up what's really going on...is it a glitch in the matrix? Is it a wormhole? Is Sam Beckett going to come crashing through the serving hatch (sending splinters of wood flying in all directions....woah....think about it) with that carefully crafted gaze of despair and confusion planted firmly on the space between his rosy cheeks???

I'm not sure, but one thing that's certain is that without a pudding to warm the soul, especially on such a grey and miserable afternoon, there's only one substitute worth considering...I think it's time I made some tea.

17easy riser

2005-02-08T22:41:00.000Z

It's that time of year...

I'm notorious at the best of times when it comes to getting out of bed in the morning, especially if it's for something I'm not immediately excited about. My bosses, over the years, have so far failed to understand the difficulty I face each day with this exercise - some of them have even suggested I seek employment elsewhere because of this very reason - but I try not to let that get me down, afterall it's them at fault isn't it? I can't prevent them for thinking they should stir at the first hint of daybreak, I can't go around telling everyone that that's simply to let us know that the world's completed another turn, I can't reach everybody...just to explain that getting up early isn't really that clever either.

As the prospect of getting up on time perplexes me everyday, perhaps I should consider night shift work? Maybe then I'd finally be relaxed in my 'daily' routine, albeit at night, in the dark, when most people are snoozing...
But then I could legitimately watch all that late night telly...the Korean Snooker Open and the world championship radio controlled helicopter finals amongst other favourites.

Late sleeping is a disease that affects not only myself but many others. Indeed those of you who laugh in the face of early morning lethargy should take heed, at least, from (some of) the points laid out on Drue Miller's pages for the snooze-needy. Here lie the pleas and cries of some of the bravest 'easy risers' on the planet. Well, those with internet access and a desire to go looking for excerpts concerning the inability of some of us to clamber out of bed, only to be told we're late by someone who, not just at the end of the day, doesn't get it.

Some jobs require personel to be punctual, 'landlord' forinstance. If a publican is late opening, punters are likely to wander off, head held in hands, (and more importantly in a monetary sense, 'heads held in hand') seeking somewhere else to drown their wavering strands of emotion (I know, I used to arrive late at my local, and I was acting licensee!!). It's not something to be taken lightly - very much like sleep itself.

As I browsed the wonderweb for something else to bore you (yes YOU, you're the only one reading this!) with, I stumbled across the professed genius of Sue Cunningham, certified senior advisor.

Sue states quite clearly that, "In a survey of 1,200 allergy sufferers, 25% said nasal congestion kept them up at least five nights a week." Imagine that! A quarter of all gloopy faced sniff-suffering individuals, questioned on what prevents them snoozing, said they thought it was their blocked honkers! Well I'm not sure about you, but that's certainly hydrolic nail-gunned the tail firmly on farthest end of a mule for me...astonishing Sue, astonishing.

Seriously though, Sue's no fool. She's written (but forgotten to translate from her preferred professional lingo) a rather useful article on how to combat snoring, which as I can only imagine (having never slept with a bison) must be traumatic for many a'sleeper world-wide. Actually, come to think of it, I did share my bed with a mate once...his girlfriend has had gromits fitted...after one night, post pub session, they were both asleep in bed. He rolled over to face her mid-snooze and proceeded to spend the following 4 hours snoring into her ear. Point-blank range was in use at the time.

I'm still searching for a god to thank for saving me the same ordeal. Although that doesn't seem possible within the remit of
Christi(e Ins)anity...

Anyway, I'm parched...better head off and make some tea, and properly this time.

7a

2005-02-07T02:38:00.000Z

Woah

I can't post...it's too late...I'm tired.

...oh so close...

cr3Amy d1sH

2004-12-21T13:24:00.000Z

I've just popped out for lunch. I don't know why there's any need for people to say things like "popped" or "dipped" when they make a reference to a shop dash, but they do, so I just did.
Anyway - this was a rare treat. I feel quite rough today...had a few sherberts last night and the effects are still wearing off. So I thought I'd best go find a dish of pure quality with which to ease my suffering.
I had too many food options on Baker Street today, so I took a deep breath and strided into Tescos to make, unknown to me at the time, the proudest purchase of a lunchtime treat I could possibly have ever imagined...

...a Ham & Mushroom Tagliatelle, from the prestigious "Italiano" range of Tesco's own products.

I whisked it back to the office (in a similar style to that adpoted by someone who might "pop" to the shop) and ripped off the outer casing. The plastic film that seperated me from my lunch lay glued tightly across the tub - like the skin across a snare drum...with the snare engaged...
With the co-ordination of a teenaged lad on his first date with a lass he doesn't really dig, I removed the plastic cover with ease. It was later that the matter would become more difficult.

Upon returning to the kitchen, and the microwave, to remove my tv dinner (is it still a tv dinner when you're going to eat it at your desk, instead of on your sofa in front of the telly?), I found that not only had my lunch been scoffed by someone else but that the little swines had also made off with all the tea!!!

NO TEA!!!!!!

Holy shit!

I awoke with a start - looked at the clock on the video and realised I was about four and a half hours late for work! There was nothing for it...

I got up.....and made some tea.

2fronTTeeth

2004-12-15T13:44:00.000Z

I've not been to the dentist for more than a decade, and thought I was doing quite well on my own. I was hoping to get away without forking out for dental health bills until I was father to my own child, and had decided that perhaps my kid should enjoy the benefits of regular check ups...and stickers (do they still do that?).

So I was having this conversation with a mate recently, and went off to consider signing up with a local dental practice. As is often the way with me I clean forgot, and promptly went home instead to busy myself with anything I could to prevent the outcome of actually doing something to help myself.

And now as the afternoon wears on, the back of my mouth is beginning to throb...I'm not reaching for the Ibuprofen just yet - I'll wait until I start murmuring and chanting with the pain, the way a distressed animal will whimper...ooooooooooooooaaahhh I really should have sorted out a dentist...

I shouldn't think about it. If I'm not aware of the pain there can't be any. Right? So now there's no pain, no pain, not the firstest tiniest littlest hint of any kind of sensation that might not even be related to the farthest-flung thing from anything ever recorded in the history of science and nature along the lines of pain, no way, not on your Nelly, your life, or your Nan.

Right. So now there's no pain there's nothing for me to blether on about. I should leave this, the 'others' will be back soon......I think it's time for some tea....

9newhoMe

2004-10-17T18:15:00.000+01:00

So I've moved into my new home. I've been living here for two weeks now and it's great; the rooms don't shake anymore when trains go past and the view from the windows is one of a park with trees where people walk their dogs.

It was about time we all moved out from the last place. The mould had begun to take hold of what it deemed its own, so the windows were beginning to fur up, the walls were beginning to crumble and the ceiling in the kitchen (or the floor of the bathroom) was clearly audible in its deliberation about whether or not to stay standing. I think most of us learned something from living there - how to adapt to conditions beyond those revelled in by The Young Ones.

So now with our new found 'qualifications' we're all feeling at a bit of a loose end in the new place; so far it's still clean and comfortable.
My laziest flatmate has, however, already managed to "create" a special aqua-expressway of her own from the bathroom into the kitchen below. It was mostly down to her that in the previous place the floors of the upstairs bathroom, and downstairs kitchen, were becoming so well aquainted that at times the rest of us would have to brace them apart with beams and pillars. The novelty of walking into the kitchen on a Saturday morning to make some tea and toast, and finding the units on the other side of the room approaching with great velocity and blur as you skid headlong forwards, after inadvertantly placing one foot in a puddle the length and breadth of the room, soon wore off.
To continue (and get some of the agro off my chest) her time of rising grew later and later in the day - until ultimately I'd return home from work to find that favourite Saturday morning water-ski facility set up and ready to go at six o'clock at night. I chose that point in time to "have a chat with her" about her state of mind, lifestyle and how she intended to develop from a complete bum to semi-low end order of peasant. I wanted to know if I could begin to document her life - my day job wasn't (and still isn't) paying well and I could use the extra cash from selling snippets of her self-destruction to a lifestyle suppliment in one of the broadsheets. Of course she'd have to kick the bucket at some point, not horribly, just tragically. Looking back it was probably some of my suggestions about how best she could destroy herself that might've prompted the door, leading simply to her inner personality, to be slammed shut in my face...how it remains to this day, unfortunately...no really, such a shame...still, she's out and about looking for work now. You never know, after 3 years of hanging around in a perfectly habitable house, until she'd flooded it out so completely it began to develop gills and flippers of its own, she may well take this opportunity to start again. Imagine...not feeling like you're raising an infant each day you listen to her drivel, but actually talking to someone and appreciating what they say and do...*bliss*

Ooh I feel better - thank you Blogspot!

Best go and make some tea...

7phonecalls

2004-09-10T14:54:00.000+01:00

The phone rang the other day. I was at home and nobody else was. Normally I leave the phone if it rings and I'm at home, with nobody else...I didn't though, nope, the other day I changed my mind and answered the phone.
It was our landlord, or rather it was a message being delivered by someone else on behalf of our landlord. But it was being delivered by someone who I know knows our landlord, so it was effectively a message straight from our landlord. That's irritating. But anyway, the message didn't change, no, the message remained the same - it had to be delivered and no matter who delivered it the message would always remain the same.

Leave, all of us, in 30 days.

Don't get me wrong, there's no mental scar...infact I answered the phone again yesterday evening. Someone called from Barclays Bank, they seemed to think there was someone living in our house, someone I didn't know...I tried to reason, but they knew more than me. So I quietly put the phone on the side and went to make some tea...

13First steps

2004-07-22T13:19:00.000+01:00

So, this is my first ever blog entry...woah. I thought I'd better grab a blog while they're still reletively new - somewhere to encourage myself to be expressive in words and pictures before all my creative juices dry up and crumble into nowt - which is unfortunately something we're all in for at some point.

Anyway - no more doom!!

This is my blog, these are my thoughts...I think I'll go make a cup of tea...