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!
Thursday, August 17, 2006
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)