I went to pick up some parcels from the sorting office this morning - five in all. When the guy came back to the desk with them he shouted out to the entire room, "Oi, Mr Ebay!" Realising he meant me, I went to pick them up upon which he said, "you wanna stop spending so much time on the pc mate, get yourself a different hobby".
Made me chuckle - they're normally a right bunch of miserable bastards but it got the day off to a nice start. I'm taking him up on his advice and heading out in an hour. Only to the pub to watch sport, mind, but it's a start.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Pregnant pause
Offered my seat to a pregnant woman on the tube this morning, in a rare act of spontaneous chivalry. She looked quite surprised as I bounded from my seat, before saying "no, thanks". I sat down again, shooting sly, smug glances at my slower male neighbours, the ignorant bastards. I wondered why she'd said no, and shot a glance back at her stomach, which she spotted. Suddenly it wasn't so clear anymore whether she was up the duff or just had a reasonably prominent gut. I buried my head in my copy of ShortList and tried to look nonchalant. The seat next to me became free a few stops later and she sat down, covering her stomach with her bag and grappling with a newspaper to focus on. Worst fears confirmed, I continued to be fascinated by articles in my magazine - engrossed despite the fact I'd read it all and was now leafing backwards through it. You can never read the male grooming section too many times. Sorry love, if I made you feel like crap on the way to work. I'll ensure I never try to be polite in the future - it stands to reason that any attempt by me to so will only end in offence and embarrassment.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tasty
My San Miguel tasted different tonight. Sort of 'fruity' in a way. I'm no Oz and James when it comes to this sort of thing.
I'm not sure what the cause was - either the beer was incredibly fresh, or perhaps a bit off. Surely - surely - my taste buds can't have already recovered sufficiently to open up a smörgåsbord of new taste sensations attached to the familiar staples of my diet? I'm definitely avoiding the new Chilli Chocolate Walkers. But that's nothing to do with the taste buds or lack of. Just wrong.
I'm not sure what the cause was - either the beer was incredibly fresh, or perhaps a bit off. Surely - surely - my taste buds can't have already recovered sufficiently to open up a smörgåsbord of new taste sensations attached to the familiar staples of my diet? I'm definitely avoiding the new Chilli Chocolate Walkers. But that's nothing to do with the taste buds or lack of. Just wrong.
Patch my bitch up
Have successfully made it through two whole days without smoking. Well, I will have once I make it to bed without running, screaming, from the flat in my slippers to claw at the fag display in the local off licence. All going as expected so far - the patches are doing their job in removing the irrational cravings of withdrawal, leaving me to focus solely on the habitual aspect. Which, for someone who smoked as a means of breaking my day into manageable chunks, is proving a little difficult. I find myself coping completely fine - not even thinking about fags for large chunks of the day. But come 10.30am, lunchtime, 3.30pm, 5.30pm and after dinner the sudden urge to have a fag comes rushing back. It's not so much a desperate need for one - more that I start to get up out of my chair in the office, or look towards the living room window, before remembering that I'm trying not to smoke and feeling a little bit deflated inside.
I get over it reasonably quickly - probably in about the time it would take me to smoke the bloody thing - and am consoling myself with thoughts of just how bloody healthy and rich and attractive I'm going to be in the long run. I also know that in time the habits will dissipate and I won't even think about it anymore; it's a comfort to realise that and gives me the will to carry on. Sod it for a game of soldiers if I'm going to spend the rest of my life daydreaming about the good old days when I was able to lie in the park with a Regal king size.
So, all on track, although as J reminded me tonight, it has obviously only been two days. I passed the test of some pints tonight with no real problem, but the very fact I'm writing this in praise of myself after less than 48 hours shows that it has been a bit of a struggle. Onwards and upwards etc. Two days without is better than none. And apparently some of my workmates have a bet on when I'll quit. So tomorrow's not an option.
I get over it reasonably quickly - probably in about the time it would take me to smoke the bloody thing - and am consoling myself with thoughts of just how bloody healthy and rich and attractive I'm going to be in the long run. I also know that in time the habits will dissipate and I won't even think about it anymore; it's a comfort to realise that and gives me the will to carry on. Sod it for a game of soldiers if I'm going to spend the rest of my life daydreaming about the good old days when I was able to lie in the park with a Regal king size.
So, all on track, although as J reminded me tonight, it has obviously only been two days. I passed the test of some pints tonight with no real problem, but the very fact I'm writing this in praise of myself after less than 48 hours shows that it has been a bit of a struggle. Onwards and upwards etc. Two days without is better than none. And apparently some of my workmates have a bet on when I'll quit. So tomorrow's not an option.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Booyah
One day off the tabs
First run since September last year.
One "getting lost" moment whilst running round Clapham Park (dodgy estate in South London. Sounds much nicer).
5.5 km "run" in 33 minutes.
That's what I'm talking about.
This non-smoking malarkey is turning me into a frickin' superman! Another month of tar free breathing and I'll reckon I'll be up for the Olympics.
First run since September last year.
One "getting lost" moment whilst running round Clapham Park (dodgy estate in South London. Sounds much nicer).
5.5 km "run" in 33 minutes.
That's what I'm talking about.
This non-smoking malarkey is turning me into a frickin' superman! Another month of tar free breathing and I'll reckon I'll be up for the Olympics.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Squeaky floorboards.
There's a loud, rhythmical squeaking coming from the floorboards of the flat above, interrupting my enjoyment of a BBC4 documentary about football. I hope they've bought a trampet.
Sibling rivalry
Had an outraged phonecall this evening from sis-of-tattie. Apparently, I've stolen her thunder. She has come to an arrangement with her son that she'll try and give up fags for lent if he gives up chocolate. It was his idea to enter into the bargain - pretty savvy negotiating skills for a 5 year old. Well, he'll be 6 in just over an hour, but you know what I mean.
It's yet another example of how my sister is hard done by - as I said before, it was the bain of her adolescence that every time she got to do something, I'd end up doing it at the same time. Getting a stereo, going to discos, and now trying to give up the tabs. Sorry sis.
Mind you, I've managed to double-gazump you by quitting a day earlier. As long as I don't start again, I'll always be a non-smoker for at least a day longer than you.
As long as I don't start again.
It's yet another example of how my sister is hard done by - as I said before, it was the bain of her adolescence that every time she got to do something, I'd end up doing it at the same time. Getting a stereo, going to discos, and now trying to give up the tabs. Sorry sis.
Mind you, I've managed to double-gazump you by quitting a day earlier. As long as I don't start again, I'll always be a non-smoker for at least a day longer than you.
As long as I don't start again.
I'm going on a journey...
It involves saying goodbye to some old friends. I probably won't make it, but I'm gonna try.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Not to bore you to tears or owt....
But discovered I could add my Twitter updates to the side bar of the blog. Not about to suggest you've any interest in it, but I tend to post 'tweets' when having fag breaks at work so in the lengthy periods between blog posts, at least something of interest may pop up here. You never know.
Twaverage
When I was growing up, blessed with a slightly odd-shaped nose and a shy, retiring demeanour, I was open to the whims and piss-taking of the school bullies. Their opinion of me seemed to fluctuate almost daily - sometimes they wanted me to be their mate, other times they'd incessantly rip the piss out of me. I was never threatened with violence or anything - it was more just the usual schoolboy pack mentality of picking on someone who was a tiny bit different.
It did, however, result in me dreaming (and, if I'm honest, even praying) that I could simply be average - nothing for anyone to take any notice off, just blend into the background, be just like everybody else. Of course, with age comes an appreciation of individuality and I think I'm pretty comfortable with myself these days, but back then I just wanted to be bog-standard and unremarkable.
And - thanks to a handy link that Craig posted - I can now say that, in one small corner of the internet at least, I am.
Yes, the average age of a Twitter user is 31. Go me. I am at the peak of my 140-character opinion-spreading powers. Lucky I've only got 3 followers then, isn't it?
It did, however, result in me dreaming (and, if I'm honest, even praying) that I could simply be average - nothing for anyone to take any notice off, just blend into the background, be just like everybody else. Of course, with age comes an appreciation of individuality and I think I'm pretty comfortable with myself these days, but back then I just wanted to be bog-standard and unremarkable.
And - thanks to a handy link that Craig posted - I can now say that, in one small corner of the internet at least, I am.
Yes, the average age of a Twitter user is 31. Go me. I am at the peak of my 140-character opinion-spreading powers. Lucky I've only got 3 followers then, isn't it?
Found myself actually feeling sorry for Coldplay tonight
4 Brit nominations, no awards. I must be getting old.
reminiscing
watching American Pie 2 on the telly. I still love cheesy American teen comedies. Even caught myself having my usual daydream that one day I'd spend summer by the beach and have wild beach parties with my mates. Then I realised I'm 31 and have only to look forward to potentially waving my son off on his rite of passage instead. I'm so gonna live vicariously when I grow up.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
ryan giggs maltese puppies
The latest bizarre Google search term to lead someone to my blog.
Quite what it's all about I'm not sure.
Surely the nicest man in football doesn't have a Mediterranean canine-related scandal lurking in his boot room?
Perhaps there's a dark, unmentionable secret behind his record-breaking longevity in the Manchester United team? This could be huge. All this time, the authorities have been testing for performance-enhancing drugs, but have they even considered performance-enhancing dogs?
It all makes sense when you think about it - Giggs' boundless enthusiasm; the way he never tires of scampering after footballs in the park; his loyalty to Alex Ferguson.... It's so obvious!
The main potential arguments against this are the fact that he's been playing for 20 years, probably way beyond the life span of the dog even if it wasn't caught up in this horrific practice (although note the use of the plural "puppies" in the search term - goodness only knows how many of the little balls of fluff have been sacrificed over the years) and the fact that the things seem to be about 6 inches high. But let me ask you this - how many times does Ryan Giggs rise like a salmon to power a header past the opposition goalie? I rest my case.
It all makes sense when you think about it - Giggs' boundless enthusiasm; the way he never tires of scampering after footballs in the park; his loyalty to Alex Ferguson.... It's so obvious!
The main potential arguments against this are the fact that he's been playing for 20 years, probably way beyond the life span of the dog even if it wasn't caught up in this horrific practice (although note the use of the plural "puppies" in the search term - goodness only knows how many of the little balls of fluff have been sacrificed over the years) and the fact that the things seem to be about 6 inches high. But let me ask you this - how many times does Ryan Giggs rise like a salmon to power a header past the opposition goalie? I rest my case.
If I suddenly go quieter than normal on the blogging front, you'll know they've got to me. Search for me first in Valletta.
Explore
I am fast becoming an avid armchair traveller. I'm not sure if I am different to most, in that it is fully my intention to eventually get out of the bloody thing and go visit the places I dream about, but for now I am obsessively watching travel documentaries in the name of research and planning. I imagine every armchair traveller begins that way, before responsibilities, kids and so on take priority. That 3 month tour of Europe in a Fiat Panda is still going ahead next year though, at least in my head.
Simon Reeve has been one of my favourite presenters since Meet the Stans in 2003, which tapped into my weird desire to visit the ex-Soviet Republics along the silk road, connecting Europe to Asia. Part of the reason I want to do the London-Mongolia rally at some point is so that I can plot a route directly through Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and all the rest.
His latest series for the Beeb is Explore - the tag line reading "don't just visit, explore". It should be engrossing. But for some reason, I'm just not that into it. The show is built around several presenters all highlighting little 5-10 minute stories which are the "unreported" tales of wherever it may be. Maybe I'm not paying enough attention, but it just feels like the time devoted to each issue is too short, and as a result I don't feel any more educated about it. I'm probably missing something. My powers of focus are somewhat diminished at half 9 on a Sunday evening.
Simon Reeve has been one of my favourite presenters since Meet the Stans in 2003, which tapped into my weird desire to visit the ex-Soviet Republics along the silk road, connecting Europe to Asia. Part of the reason I want to do the London-Mongolia rally at some point is so that I can plot a route directly through Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and all the rest.
His latest series for the Beeb is Explore - the tag line reading "don't just visit, explore". It should be engrossing. But for some reason, I'm just not that into it. The show is built around several presenters all highlighting little 5-10 minute stories which are the "unreported" tales of wherever it may be. Maybe I'm not paying enough attention, but it just feels like the time devoted to each issue is too short, and as a result I don't feel any more educated about it. I'm probably missing something. My powers of focus are somewhat diminished at half 9 on a Sunday evening.
Home alone
J is out baby sitting this evening so am in the flat on me tod, and making the most of it: drinking a beer, watching the Milan derby on TV and absentmindedly scratching myself. Marvelous.
Snow devil
I forgot to post this picture a couple of weeks ago when snow brought London to a standstill. Ah, the memories. This time 14 days ago I was sheltering in the cosy warmth of a local hostelry watching the blizzard outside, debating whether or not to have another warming ale or brave the outdoors.
The snow-beast is the handiwork of "Dave" from our local pub. Pretty cool. No pun intended.
So, entry to NYC 09 is open...
Got an email yesterday from the charity through which I was hoping to get an entry for the New York Marathon in November.
The basic package, covering race entry and flights, comes in at £600 deposit and a minimum commitment to raise £1650 in sponsorship. Alas, in these lean times, I think that is a bit beyond my means. Today I had to count out the shrapnel in my wallet to make sure I could buy enough electricity to last us until payday on Wednesday.
Obviously if the bonus I earned last year was likely to be paid, it probably would have covered the deposit. But, thanks to the media outcry in recent weeks, it looks highly unlikely that I'll see any of it. I think I may, perhaps, content myself with getting into half-marathon-ish shape for no reason other than I want to, and try to afford tickets to NYC anyway for later in the year. I'm sure my visit would be much more enjoyable without the thought of 26 miles of pain to look forward to anyway!
The basic package, covering race entry and flights, comes in at £600 deposit and a minimum commitment to raise £1650 in sponsorship. Alas, in these lean times, I think that is a bit beyond my means. Today I had to count out the shrapnel in my wallet to make sure I could buy enough electricity to last us until payday on Wednesday.
Obviously if the bonus I earned last year was likely to be paid, it probably would have covered the deposit. But, thanks to the media outcry in recent weeks, it looks highly unlikely that I'll see any of it. I think I may, perhaps, content myself with getting into half-marathon-ish shape for no reason other than I want to, and try to afford tickets to NYC anyway for later in the year. I'm sure my visit would be much more enjoyable without the thought of 26 miles of pain to look forward to anyway!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Schoolboy error
Having signed up to Twitter, I decided the best course of action was to start following only people who I liked or thought were clever or witty. Big mistake. Whilst it's very interesting getting their updates on their exciting lives and amazing japes, it has left me paralysed by feelings of inadequacy when it comes to providing my own "tweets". Yes, there are only 3 people following me, but I keep feeling like I need to somehow compete with the nuggets of genius that are listed on screen. Not being going well so far - my one contribution today being that I accidentally set my hair on fire whilst attempting to light a cigarette. Nothing serious. Hardly likely to set the world alight either.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Welcome. To Disco Polo.
Allow me to take you on a brief, late-night journey through the mystical, musical wilds of Eastern Europe. What you are about to witness is the inbred, bottom-feeding, country cousin to the Gypsy Punk that Eugene Hütz and his followers rightly feel is deserving of its place at the top table of world music.
I feel it is time that the uninitiated are introduced to the orgasmic delights....
....of Discopolo.
Words cannot describe this genre, it simply "is".
The video below is an appropriate way to start our musical adventure, featuring a young lady who has nothing more to offer than a keen eye for the adaptability of an Ace of Base sample and an unhealthy interest in condors and their eggs (I have it on good authority that this is what the lyrics are about. "One egg, two eggs, three eggs...." Then apparently the condor dies and she starts comparing herself to an alcoholic beverage. I imagine it makes more sense in the mother tongue).
She has admirably also not let a complete lack of singing or dancing ability stand in the way of a rise to the upper echelons of the Discopolo tree.
Not much else I can say, by way of introduction. Except that it is real.
I feel it is time that the uninitiated are introduced to the orgasmic delights....
....of Discopolo.
Words cannot describe this genre, it simply "is".
The video below is an appropriate way to start our musical adventure, featuring a young lady who has nothing more to offer than a keen eye for the adaptability of an Ace of Base sample and an unhealthy interest in condors and their eggs (I have it on good authority that this is what the lyrics are about. "One egg, two eggs, three eggs...." Then apparently the condor dies and she starts comparing herself to an alcoholic beverage. I imagine it makes more sense in the mother tongue).
She has admirably also not let a complete lack of singing or dancing ability stand in the way of a rise to the upper echelons of the Discopolo tree.
Not much else I can say, by way of introduction. Except that it is real.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I have a confession to make.
I danced to this "song" at a wedding a few years ago.
In my defence:
This video is a much more lavish affair than the majority of other Disco Polo efforts, incorporating a degree of choreography, multiple locations and even the use of more than one camera. It also seems to have been cobbled together using something more professional than Windows Movie Maker. I imagine the coffers may have swelled thanks to some corporate sponsorship for the subtle plugging of a well-known American sportswear brand. It kicks in around the 0:52 mark - there's a prize for the first person who can spot it*.
*not really
In my defence:
- I was trying very hard to blend in, in a strange land where I hadn't a clue what was going on.
- I was still reeling from being hand-picked by the Bride's mother during "ladies choice" to career around the dance floor in a tangle of uncoordinated limbs and language barriers.
- Everyone else seemed to like it.
This video is a much more lavish affair than the majority of other Disco Polo efforts, incorporating a degree of choreography, multiple locations and even the use of more than one camera. It also seems to have been cobbled together using something more professional than Windows Movie Maker. I imagine the coffers may have swelled thanks to some corporate sponsorship for the subtle plugging of a well-known American sportswear brand. It kicks in around the 0:52 mark - there's a prize for the first person who can spot it*.
*not really
O-dear
My girlfriend professes to having no knowledge of music.
What she actually means is "no knowledge of decent, western music".
As soon as Rhianna's recent hit "Live Your Life" was released, she instantly spotted the sample. Lifted, apparently, from the seminal Romanian hit, Dragostea Din Tei, by 'so camp as to make the Vengaboys seem like Cradle of Filth' boyband, Ozone.
I'm concerned. But amused.
What she actually means is "no knowledge of decent, western music".
As soon as Rhianna's recent hit "Live Your Life" was released, she instantly spotted the sample. Lifted, apparently, from the seminal Romanian hit, Dragostea Din Tei, by 'so camp as to make the Vengaboys seem like Cradle of Filth' boyband, Ozone.
I'm concerned. But amused.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Babelfish doesn't do Teuchter
Worse luck.
I was looking back at the early days of the blog this evening, reminiscing about being a young 20-something whippersnapper on the cusp of something marvellous, when I noticed 3 comments attached to my very first "thank you" post. Now, I've noticed that 'Dave Kenicer' is consistently one of the top ranked phrases that leads people to my blog, but I assumed that it was just the man himself checking out my glowing tribute. It is, after all, awfully well written, and I know from experience how dark and lonely it gets "up north" at this time of year. If I have somehow provided even a crumb of comfort from the cruel outside world, then it is worth it.
Imagine my surprise, however, when I clicked on the comments link to discover some kind of colloquial discussion of Mr Kenicer between "Davie Dicks", "Auld Bob" and "Rab Doig". Having only ever paid no more than passing attention to Monarch of the Glen, I'm afraid I haven't a bloody clue what they're on about. Or who they are. Answers on a blog post to the usual address.
I was looking back at the early days of the blog this evening, reminiscing about being a young 20-something whippersnapper on the cusp of something marvellous, when I noticed 3 comments attached to my very first "thank you" post. Now, I've noticed that 'Dave Kenicer' is consistently one of the top ranked phrases that leads people to my blog, but I assumed that it was just the man himself checking out my glowing tribute. It is, after all, awfully well written, and I know from experience how dark and lonely it gets "up north" at this time of year. If I have somehow provided even a crumb of comfort from the cruel outside world, then it is worth it.
Imagine my surprise, however, when I clicked on the comments link to discover some kind of colloquial discussion of Mr Kenicer between "Davie Dicks", "Auld Bob" and "Rab Doig". Having only ever paid no more than passing attention to Monarch of the Glen, I'm afraid I haven't a bloody clue what they're on about. Or who they are. Answers on a blog post to the usual address.
Pure viewing pleasure
Thank you British Eurosport, for you have finally provided me with some justification for spunking £25 a month on a Sky subscription. Some aimless channel surfing this evening saw me land on BE2 - ordinarily the home of luge and modern pentathlon, but tonight playing host to the magnificence that is "Red Bull Crashed Ice".
The premise: build a cross between a bobsleigh track and a downhill ski slope through the middle of a Canadian City. Get some people kitted out in ice-hockey gear. Give them a shove. Sit back and watch as hilarity and carnage ensues.
It's much like the equally inspired downhill inline skating that used to be on the telly, but with added spectacular falls and general arse-over-tittedness.
Genius.
The premise: build a cross between a bobsleigh track and a downhill ski slope through the middle of a Canadian City. Get some people kitted out in ice-hockey gear. Give them a shove. Sit back and watch as hilarity and carnage ensues.
It's much like the equally inspired downhill inline skating that used to be on the telly, but with added spectacular falls and general arse-over-tittedness.
Genius.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Thought it was time for a new image....
Have been trying to find a suitable new layout on the web, not possessing the necessary skills or talent myself to create one. It's tougher than I thought it would be, partly because I'm quite attached to the generic, ramshackle template I've been using since I started blogging over two years ago.
So, I thought I'd switch to this one to see how it feels - let me know what you think. Or, if you know of any decent options out there, feel free to point me in the right direction.
So, I thought I'd switch to this one to see how it feels - let me know what you think. Or, if you know of any decent options out there, feel free to point me in the right direction.
The Evils of Modern Technology
Met up with a mate after work on Friday for a couple of pints. Nothing new there. Two beers turned into 7, followed by a drunken meander home with a stop off at the chicken shop. Most definitely no news to report on that one.
Imagine my surprise, however, upon logging into Facebook at lunchtime on Saturday to discover that at some point during the course of the evening I had updated my status to read: "Am drunk with a narcissistic, melodramatic arsehole".
Now, all pretentious eloquence aside, I have no idea what prompted me to post that. I'm not even sure if it was about me or my mate (although given the flowery prose I would guess it's definitely more applicable to me than him). I do recall feeling like my mouth was spouting verbal diarrhea at points, as I used words with far too many syllables when a simple "yes" or "no" would have sufficed. I also remember having a minor heated debate about something with said mate, but am as sure as I can be that it was all resolved amicably without too much fuss. I can only guess that I perhaps took a drunken 'time out' fag break in the middle and decided to share my unerring judgement with the world.
I'm a bit of a cock, obviously. It might be time to revert to my basic Nokia to avoid alienating anyone else.
Imagine my surprise, however, upon logging into Facebook at lunchtime on Saturday to discover that at some point during the course of the evening I had updated my status to read: "Am drunk with a narcissistic, melodramatic arsehole".
Now, all pretentious eloquence aside, I have no idea what prompted me to post that. I'm not even sure if it was about me or my mate (although given the flowery prose I would guess it's definitely more applicable to me than him). I do recall feeling like my mouth was spouting verbal diarrhea at points, as I used words with far too many syllables when a simple "yes" or "no" would have sufficed. I also remember having a minor heated debate about something with said mate, but am as sure as I can be that it was all resolved amicably without too much fuss. I can only guess that I perhaps took a drunken 'time out' fag break in the middle and decided to share my unerring judgement with the world.
I'm a bit of a cock, obviously. It might be time to revert to my basic Nokia to avoid alienating anyone else.
Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep
I've belatedly jumped aboard the good ship Twitter in recent days, in an attempt to keep up to speed with what's "now" and "media". My good friend Murray, who is unashamedly both of these things, has kindly pointed me in the direction of some handy explanatory links, but I have to admit that as yet I have no idea what all the fuss is about.
Stephen Fry certainly seems rather obsessed with it, which surely means it's "a good thing", but I fear it may be a technological step too far for me... It does, however, appear to be a very useful way of getting a first person perspective of lives of the vaguely famous; looking at Danny Wallace and Richard Bacon's 'simul-tweets' from a long lunch at The Ivy on Friday made me feel like I was in a low budget sequel to "Being John Malkovich". Still, gives me another way to entertain myself on fag breaks, whilst dreaming of building up a cult following through my pithy and astute comments on modern life.
Stephen Fry certainly seems rather obsessed with it, which surely means it's "a good thing", but I fear it may be a technological step too far for me... It does, however, appear to be a very useful way of getting a first person perspective of lives of the vaguely famous; looking at Danny Wallace and Richard Bacon's 'simul-tweets' from a long lunch at The Ivy on Friday made me feel like I was in a low budget sequel to "Being John Malkovich". Still, gives me another way to entertain myself on fag breaks, whilst dreaming of building up a cult following through my pithy and astute comments on modern life.
manky
got a bit of shock when I glanced at my elbow today. Looked a very strange yellow colour. Took me a few seconds to realise it was just bruising from my acrobatics the other day. If it gets more impressive I'll post a photo.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
ITV has been stuck on its Station Ident for the last minute
Either this is their feeble attempt to somehow make up for playing an advert at the worst possible moment, or angry scousers have stormed the station.
I'm guessing the work experience kid won't be left in charge of the night shift again any time soon.
I'm guessing the work experience kid won't be left in charge of the night shift again any time soon.
The FA Cup
The Merseyside derby
208 minutes without a goal.
2 minutes until penalties.
ITV somehow take an unscheduled commercial break.
The nation watches half a Tic Tac advert whilst Dan Gosling scores a winner out of nothing.
ITV realise their mistake and switch back to the action just in time to see him celebrate.
Nice one ITV. Wouldn't recommend visiting the Capital of Culture any time soon.
Never let a commercial station do the BBC's job.
208 minutes without a goal.
2 minutes until penalties.
ITV somehow take an unscheduled commercial break.
The nation watches half a Tic Tac advert whilst Dan Gosling scores a winner out of nothing.
ITV realise their mistake and switch back to the action just in time to see him celebrate.
Nice one ITV. Wouldn't recommend visiting the Capital of Culture any time soon.
Never let a commercial station do the BBC's job.
Frosty, the bastard.
So this is the thanks I get.
Since Sunday, I've been waxing lyrical about the joys of the cold snap, watching the snow with the wide-eyed excitement of a 6 year old on Christmas morning. I even posted comments on the BBC website berating grumpier contributers for focusing on the boring aspects of unusually wintry weather - transport chaos, closed schools and the like - rather than just bloody enjoying a day off work with nothing more pressing to do than go outside and get numb fingers frolicking in the white loveliness.
I first suspected that my love was unrequited on Monday evening, as it became clear that the ungrateful weather type wasn't going to hang around, or at least not invite any more of its mates, meaning a return to work the following day was on the cards. This, I could just about handle. After all, you either love London or you hate it, and many before have taken the decision to relocate up north after a comparatively short time in the capital.
But, like a dodgy council tenant, Snow wasn't content just to cut his losses and move on. Oh no, he was straight on the phone to his Asbo wielding cousin, "Ice", no doubt just out of prison for attacking defenseless hobos in their sleep. "Alright Ice mate? How's tricks? You looking for somewhere to stay for a bit? Thought so. Listen, I'm down in London but buggering off to Yorkshire tomorrow - got a nice wee place down here if you fancy taking it over?"
I've lived in Brixton for long enough to know a wrong 'un when I see it and avoid interaction as much as possible, so the past two days I've been keeping myself to myself, picking my way carefully along the streets whilst all too aware that Ice had its beady, glistening eyes on me at every corner.
Unfortunately, in this world, it is not always your fault when trouble finds you.
I was walking to the tube this morning, minding my own business, trying to affect the confident and purposeful stride I hope to convey at such times whilst at the same time being sure to tread carefully on patches of the white stuff on the ground. Just as I reached the crossing in front of the underground, the lights turned to red. With the deft skill of a wily pro, I decided to cut through the static traffic, thus shaving a precious 10 seconds off my journey time. The footpath was clear of all but slush, and my guard was down.
Next thing I knew, I was suspended horizontally in mid air.
It's funny how long that split second seems to last, or rather how much thought you manage to get through whilst it's happening. "I'm parallel to the footpath. Bugger, I've slipped. How the hell did that happen? I'm sure there was no ice there. This is going to be embarrassing. And it's probably going to bloody hurt. Maybe I should just stay down when I land. No, but it's all wet and people will be staring at you. Best to just jump up then as if nothing's happened and be on your way. Nice one. OOOFFF, F@$#!!!!"
"Are you ok?" asked a girl.
"Heh heh, yeah, fine thanks", I replied, in my best nonchalant, gruff, 'happens to me all the time, hard as nails me', voice.
As I was saying this, I registered the sharp, burning pain in my arm and was momentarily unsure of what to do. Run? Cry? Have a little sit down next to the Big Issue man? I then became all too aware of the faces staring at me, and the fact I was covered in shit from head to toe. So I did what every British gentleman would do - tutted loudly as I tried to brush the slush of my jacket with my good arm, whilst simultaneously scuttling towards the tube.
As I got inside, my arm got more painful, and I started to think it must be broken. I've never experienced a huge amount of real pain in my life, so like every other bloke I instantly imagine whatever's wrong with me to be the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone. Obviously people need to take painkillers all the time for stuff, but I'm probably just a lot more stoic and masculine than them. Don't like to complain.
But if it was broken?! Well, provided I got to work without fainting from the pain, I would be a hero! I'd be packed off to the nearest A&E, leaving a trail of concerned yet impressed colleagues gossiping amongst each other about my amazing courage at coming the whole way to the office. And, having never broken a bone before, it actually wasn't as horrific as I'd imagined it might be. Plus it would get me out of hosting that 10am meeting I wasn't looking forward to. Yep, apart from the fact I looked like a homeless man and was whimpering slightly, this was a starting to look pretty positive. Even the humiliation of my public acrobatics paled into insignificance. People always want to know the outcome of nasty accidents. The South London Press would want to do an article from my hospital bed. I might get fan mail. Up and down the A23, people would be claiming "I was there when it happened, you know".
Roughly around the time we reached Elephant and Castle, I realised that I was holding the paper with my bad arm, and concluded that unfortunately it probably wasn't broken - well, unless I was even more hard than I had given myself credit for. Upon arriving at work, I prepared myself for the worst when I took my coat off, and was somewhat disappointed not to see the remnants of a perfectly adequate elbow sticking through my shirt. I did manage to graze it slightly, which only served to irritate me as I was wearing one of my new Marks & Spencer shirts that now has blood on the sleeve.
As the day progressed, I was encouraged to notice that as my arm improved my side got more painful, probably as a result of me landing squarely on it when I fell. It's probably a strained muscle, but I do have the faint hope that it might be a broken rib or something. It certainly hurts when I move and as we speak has started a weird burning sensation.
So here I sit, battered and bruised, my love affair with winter weather well and truly over. Roll on the summer, when all I've got to worry about are mosquitoes. Thanks Ice. You bastard.
Since Sunday, I've been waxing lyrical about the joys of the cold snap, watching the snow with the wide-eyed excitement of a 6 year old on Christmas morning. I even posted comments on the BBC website berating grumpier contributers for focusing on the boring aspects of unusually wintry weather - transport chaos, closed schools and the like - rather than just bloody enjoying a day off work with nothing more pressing to do than go outside and get numb fingers frolicking in the white loveliness.
I first suspected that my love was unrequited on Monday evening, as it became clear that the ungrateful weather type wasn't going to hang around, or at least not invite any more of its mates, meaning a return to work the following day was on the cards. This, I could just about handle. After all, you either love London or you hate it, and many before have taken the decision to relocate up north after a comparatively short time in the capital.
But, like a dodgy council tenant, Snow wasn't content just to cut his losses and move on. Oh no, he was straight on the phone to his Asbo wielding cousin, "Ice", no doubt just out of prison for attacking defenseless hobos in their sleep. "Alright Ice mate? How's tricks? You looking for somewhere to stay for a bit? Thought so. Listen, I'm down in London but buggering off to Yorkshire tomorrow - got a nice wee place down here if you fancy taking it over?"
I've lived in Brixton for long enough to know a wrong 'un when I see it and avoid interaction as much as possible, so the past two days I've been keeping myself to myself, picking my way carefully along the streets whilst all too aware that Ice had its beady, glistening eyes on me at every corner.
Unfortunately, in this world, it is not always your fault when trouble finds you.
I was walking to the tube this morning, minding my own business, trying to affect the confident and purposeful stride I hope to convey at such times whilst at the same time being sure to tread carefully on patches of the white stuff on the ground. Just as I reached the crossing in front of the underground, the lights turned to red. With the deft skill of a wily pro, I decided to cut through the static traffic, thus shaving a precious 10 seconds off my journey time. The footpath was clear of all but slush, and my guard was down.
Next thing I knew, I was suspended horizontally in mid air.
It's funny how long that split second seems to last, or rather how much thought you manage to get through whilst it's happening. "I'm parallel to the footpath. Bugger, I've slipped. How the hell did that happen? I'm sure there was no ice there. This is going to be embarrassing. And it's probably going to bloody hurt. Maybe I should just stay down when I land. No, but it's all wet and people will be staring at you. Best to just jump up then as if nothing's happened and be on your way. Nice one. OOOFFF, F@$#!!!!"
"Are you ok?" asked a girl.
"Heh heh, yeah, fine thanks", I replied, in my best nonchalant, gruff, 'happens to me all the time, hard as nails me', voice.
As I was saying this, I registered the sharp, burning pain in my arm and was momentarily unsure of what to do. Run? Cry? Have a little sit down next to the Big Issue man? I then became all too aware of the faces staring at me, and the fact I was covered in shit from head to toe. So I did what every British gentleman would do - tutted loudly as I tried to brush the slush of my jacket with my good arm, whilst simultaneously scuttling towards the tube.
As I got inside, my arm got more painful, and I started to think it must be broken. I've never experienced a huge amount of real pain in my life, so like every other bloke I instantly imagine whatever's wrong with me to be the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone. Obviously people need to take painkillers all the time for stuff, but I'm probably just a lot more stoic and masculine than them. Don't like to complain.
But if it was broken?! Well, provided I got to work without fainting from the pain, I would be a hero! I'd be packed off to the nearest A&E, leaving a trail of concerned yet impressed colleagues gossiping amongst each other about my amazing courage at coming the whole way to the office. And, having never broken a bone before, it actually wasn't as horrific as I'd imagined it might be. Plus it would get me out of hosting that 10am meeting I wasn't looking forward to. Yep, apart from the fact I looked like a homeless man and was whimpering slightly, this was a starting to look pretty positive. Even the humiliation of my public acrobatics paled into insignificance. People always want to know the outcome of nasty accidents. The South London Press would want to do an article from my hospital bed. I might get fan mail. Up and down the A23, people would be claiming "I was there when it happened, you know".
Roughly around the time we reached Elephant and Castle, I realised that I was holding the paper with my bad arm, and concluded that unfortunately it probably wasn't broken - well, unless I was even more hard than I had given myself credit for. Upon arriving at work, I prepared myself for the worst when I took my coat off, and was somewhat disappointed not to see the remnants of a perfectly adequate elbow sticking through my shirt. I did manage to graze it slightly, which only served to irritate me as I was wearing one of my new Marks & Spencer shirts that now has blood on the sleeve.
As the day progressed, I was encouraged to notice that as my arm improved my side got more painful, probably as a result of me landing squarely on it when I fell. It's probably a strained muscle, but I do have the faint hope that it might be a broken rib or something. It certainly hurts when I move and as we speak has started a weird burning sensation.
So here I sit, battered and bruised, my love affair with winter weather well and truly over. Roll on the summer, when all I've got to worry about are mosquitoes. Thanks Ice. You bastard.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Snow Day.....!!!!!
Woohoo!! God bless London's complete inability to cope with a dump of the white stuff.... For perhaps the second time in my life, I've got a free day off!! The only time I can ever remember it happening before was once at school, when my sister and I spent the day trying to build an ill-thought out igloo in the garden. Alas, today I have no garden and no sister, so am going to content myself with Fifa on the Playstation and a bottomless cup of coffee instead.
To be fair, the weather last night was the worst I've seen it since moving to London nearly 6 years ago - I would say it probably qualified as a blizzard. It meant I got stranded in the pub, with one pint turning into four, but I'd rather have a hangover than get lost in a snow drift in Herne Hill.
I took the slightly spooky picture above just before going to bed at midnight last night - the ambient light of London made the outside look like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust. It was, I imagine, what it might be like trying to go to bed in the far north of Norway, with perpetual light streaming through the curtains.
The buses were still running last night, but the snow continued and by this morning they were all cancelled - again, this is only the second time I remember this happening, the previous being in the aftermath of July the 7th 2005. Thankfully the whole atmosphere this morning was much happier than then.
Admittedly, and in response to all the "rubbish south east" bashers I've noticed on the bbc website, the roads were pretty minging this morning - for whatever reason the roads hadn't been gritted (or the grit hadn't had a chance to work) and I dread to think what would have happened had a bus got into a slide coming through - for example - a busy junction like Brixton.
I did make it to work, on a very empty tube train, only to find all the lights off and a lone co-worker fielding calls. She's Northern Irish too - takes a bit more than a bit of powder to stop us. The big boss had apparently made the call that we should all take the day off, which is very nice of him - am used to being the one having to hold the fort just because I happen to live in central London and don't have the excuse of non-running trains.
So the PS2 is fired up, the kettle is on, and an afternoon of indulgence awaits. Magic!
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Snowbound in the pub...
Gotta love it. It's the worst i've ever seen it in london, an actual blizzard. I feel there should be a clause built into the smoking ban for occasions such as these though. At least i've got another pint.
And so this is february
and what have we done? Another month over, a new one just begun....
hard to believe we're already a full month into 2009, eh? How are those resolutions coming along? As it stands, I still can't take photos for toffee, still smoke, still can't speak Polish and haven't been for a run since September. So, everything as expected then....
I have made tentative steps towards all of my goals for the year - I have played football twice (although was described as "shit" last night so I may beat a hasty retreat back into retirement), have looked at my photography book and the manual to try and make sense of the various settings on my camera (although have singularly failed to replicate the desired effects), have had an initial look at my polish dvd (realising that I knew the four most basic phrases, which seemed like enough for the first attempt) and went until lunchtime without a cigarette on at least 2 occasions the week before last.
Think these are going to be what are known as "slow burners"....
hard to believe we're already a full month into 2009, eh? How are those resolutions coming along? As it stands, I still can't take photos for toffee, still smoke, still can't speak Polish and haven't been for a run since September. So, everything as expected then....
I have made tentative steps towards all of my goals for the year - I have played football twice (although was described as "shit" last night so I may beat a hasty retreat back into retirement), have looked at my photography book and the manual to try and make sense of the various settings on my camera (although have singularly failed to replicate the desired effects), have had an initial look at my polish dvd (realising that I knew the four most basic phrases, which seemed like enough for the first attempt) and went until lunchtime without a cigarette on at least 2 occasions the week before last.
Think these are going to be what are known as "slow burners"....
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