Good luck to you all for the coming year!!!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
"s"p"a"r"k"l"e"r"s"
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.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
virtually stopped, 19a
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday Morning 5:19
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.
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.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
1. Push the button
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Punk (o_v_e_r) Ture 101.4/second
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.
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.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Punk (o_v_e_r) Ture 101.4
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...
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...
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
=SUM(v@n)*b@5t@rd5
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.
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
...work, work, work 29
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!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
LITT3RIN6 - eye h8 it
"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.
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
f451_it's_a_hotty
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.
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.
a_8_i_5_n_23_s_7_l_3_i_6_7_e
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.
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.
Friday, April 28, 2006
machinewashable4stains
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
jobbyjobbyjobbyjobbynumber2oooohs
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.
It stinks ! But it's bloody lovely!!!
"Two Shags" John Prescott? Fool.
Tracey "Top Porno Name" Temple? ...bless.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
timewellspent741?
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!
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!
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