Rocking out Aussie style

so many high points to this performance by Aussie John.... The temporary sheepishness following his stumble to check if anyone noticed and to regain composure - quickly replaced by the inate rock god within, the head banging that's so fast the camera can barely keep up, and the finishing touches of discreet rock horns and polite applause for the band... All the time ably assisted by wingman Paul, as an entire row of semi-comatose pensioners wonder what the hell's going on in the background.

John, I salute you. You are the master, and I a mere pupil.

Helen and Lee's wedding

So, back in London town after a lovely week back at home... On Saturday we attended the wedding of what I can now refer to as "The Goudies"... It's only the second wedding of a friend I've been to, thanks in part to our refusal to grow up and assume adult responsibilities, and it was a fantastic day. They got the mix just right, in that the wedding service lasted all of 20 minutes and the drinking 9 hours....

Helped in no small part by the band, who are normally fixtures at the Limelight in Belfast rather than weddings/bar mitzvahs, there were some spectacular moves being pulled on the dancefloor. I managed to capture two of the highlights - John rawking out to "Last Night" by the Strokes, and Lee facing down a challenge to a dance off towards the end of the night. It says a lot for the man that he still had it in him to pull of some pretty good shapes at almost 1am - although on this day of all days, there was never any doubt that he would get the girl at the end. I particularly like the way that Helen, having wafted in from Stage Left to greet her all conquering hero like a demure angel, then flashes a little rock horn at the very end to give her man the respect he deserved.

Cheers for a great day guys, and congratulations.

I'm daydreaming about travelling

by moseying about on Google Earth... I keep reading things about the far north of Norway and really want to travel by boat up to see the Northern Lights. But then when I get to Kirkenes I'd have to go across to Russia to check that out too.... In fact, I'd love to travel round the entire coast of Russia. Ever since I read one of those adventure books (you know the type - if you want to make 'x' decision turn to page 127, if you want to make 'y' decision turn to page 450) based in the USSR - and Vladivostock in particular - at the age of about 12 I've been fascinated by what it must be like. Flying over Siberia on my way from Japan back to the UK a few years ago just made me want to be on the ground even more - hundreds and hundreds of miles of nothing, punctuated by foreboding concrete buildings in the middle of nowhere... I'm not normally accused of having the most active imagination, but every childhood daydream and romantic notion I have about far flung spots seems rooted in the remote wilderness of Siberia. Conveniently there is also a range of active volcanoes down near the Chinese border, so with my lovely girlfriend in tow it is marginally more likely to happen than it has been in the past. Marginally.

Irn Bru Snowman

I only saw this for the first time today on quality time-wasting channel "Dave". There just aren't enough Scottish adverts on English telly (sod Carling - I want Tennents!)

Somehow this puts me in the Christmas mood more than most things, whilst simultaneously making me want to buy tooth-rottingly sweet garish soft drinks

Now that's what I call.....

.....Christmas!!!

Currently downloading a raft of tunes to provide suitable ambiance for our Christmas dinner tomorrow. It's become a bit of a tradition for my group of mates to meet up near Christmas and celebrate the festive season/get hideously drunk in a safe and comfortable environment.

As my starting point, I have downloaded just about every song from the original "Now that's what I call Christmas" cassette, which is still just about going strong back at my mum's house and has provided the soundtrack to Christmas for as far back as I can remember. I just need to hear Wings or John and Yoko and am instantly transported back to the build up to the big day in the late 80s/early 90s, as the excitement built up for what seemed like an eternity, with more and more presents arriving under the tree and my sister and I trying to "subtly" find out which were ours and work out what could be inside.

These days of course, technology has progressed a little from the good old cassette and this year's selection is going to be on my Ipod (due to CDs only holding 24 tracks - rubbish). I've gone for some classier stuff along with the cheese so we'll have a bit of Frank and Dean and a bit of Louis Armstrong as well to while away the wait for dinner - which seems to take as long to cook these days as Christmas day did to arrive when I was a kid.

I just hope I don't get mugged on the way to Helen's house - the shock and feeling of injustice would only be outweighed by embarrassment as the mugger stuck on my tunes to discover Slade and Cliff Richard blaring out.....

As a further reason to celebrate, J found out today that she has got her dream job! She starts as a lab assistant in a Geotechnical consultancy on the 2nd of January. She bloody deserves it.

Mistletoe and Wine

ah, Christmas.... a mere fortnight away no less. Wasn't it only last Thursday we were having our annual moan about how the shops are starting to sell Christmas cheer earlier every year?

Christmas this year in the Chomper household is going to be a quiet affair, and all the better for it - we've limited ourselves to one present each and are instead going to focus on chilling out and getting drunk. Initially I thought this would take all the stress out of the pre-Chrimbo run in, with fewer present ideas to bandy about. Alas, it has proven otherwise, as now all the pressure is on choosing the right gift from the range of options available. Normally, due to my fortuitous monthly pay day on the 18th, I am relatively flush with cash in the last week before the big day, and thus can afford to run about buying everything on people's wish lists, saving myself the hassle of making any decisions whatsoever, whilst simultaneously covering every base and looking downright generous to boot.

My own present list - which my mum insists on - is looking decidedly more mature than in previous years, no doubt connected to my passing the crest of the hill in October and cultivating more grey hairs than is possible to count on my head these days. Previous years saw a range of cds by popular beat combos, stupid books, gadgets and a variety of other stuff place themselves firmly at the front of my brain screaming "you need me!". This year, all I would like is (one of) a new bag for work, a teach-yourself-Polish CD, a new wallet, or a lead to connect my PC to my telly. Rock, and indeed, roll. It reminds me of the year I couldn't think of anything to buy my dad for Christmas and ended up buying him a belt.

All this Christmas present thought reminds me of when I was a kid, and a gullible kid to boot - I firmly believed in the presence of the big man until I was at least 11 or 12. Old enough, at any rate, to enter secondary school still too scared to waken up in the middle of the night for fear of disturbing him. Of course, things were simpler back then, and kids didn't grow up as fast as they do now, although I think perhaps I grew up a bit slower than most. But then, there was the proof - the mince pie eaten and whisky drunk; the muddy boot prints leading up to our back door on Christmas morning (given the lack of snow in those pre-Global warming days).

I remember once coming downstairs to my parents at some ungodly hour (probably about 9.30pm) on Christmas Eve, totally stressed that I couldn't get to sleep. What would happen if Santa came and I was asleep? Pretending wouldn't fool him - if he could communicate with Robin Redbreasts to find out if you were behaving, he could sure as hell tell if you were pretending to be asleep when he squeezed his fat belly down the chimney. Thankfully my mum, who I think was friends with Santa or at least had met him, had the solution, and my stocking was removed from the end of my bed and placed in the living room, at the opposite end of the house to me.

Poor old Santa got a rough deal from me on more than one occasion - and my parents were the ones who had to sit there, consoling their only son on Christmas morning and I wailed about the unfairness of it all that Santa hadn't got me exactly what I wanted. I mean, to me he was something like first cousin once removed from Jesus, and therefore should be telepathic as well as capable of commandeering 6 reindeer and a sleigh big enough to carry presents for all of the Western world.

So, one year I asked for a radio. I got a radio. I cried. What I actually wanted was a radio with a cassette player on it like my sister's - I mean, surely Santa would have realised that? My parents were there to console me. As they were the year I asked for a guitar. Santa bought me a guitar - a very beautiful child's size acoustic guitar, that would no doubt have cost an absolute fortune if it had been bought in a local shop rather than manufactured in an elven sweatshop at the North Pole. Again, I was gutted. I wanted an electric guitar, not an acoustic one. Surely Santa would have realised that? Again, my parents were there to comfort me and explain that, from what I'd written in my letter, Santa probably thought that he'd got me the right thing. Poor old Santa - I'm just glad he wasn't there to hear me whinge and moan and be genuinely distraught that these lovingly bought presents hadn't gone down as well as he no doubt thought and hoped they would when he chose them. And I want to take this opportunity to apologise for being such an ungrateful, naive little shit for not appreciating them the way I should - they were amazing presents and I was incredibly privileged to grow up in an environment where I could act like such a little snotrag over the "wrong type" of very expensive present.

Of course, the fact these two episodes came to me years later as I thought back and cringed about them only goes to demonstrate how wonderful all my Christmases were growing up. I was one of those kids who were fortunate enough to be in a position where, if I asked Santa or my parents for a "big" present, I generally got it. I still have all my Christmas presents from over the years - from my Scalextric, to my remote control car, to my "Manta Force" (an early and disgraceful example of marketing to kids via their classroom which I shall explain at some point), my Amiga, my Nintendo - even my stereo, which I got (I think) when I was 11 years old, and is still pumping out the tunes in my bedroom as I speak. I loved them all, even the radio and the guitar, and with hindsight wish I'd made that more clear.

I'm waiting for payback when I have kids.

and, erm, have to give feedback to Santa.

I'm having a beer

Normally on a Sunday I would be stressing at this moment, as it would no doubt have been my 6th of the day and 20-somethingth of the weekend. But thanks to a lack of funds and a new found sense of boringness that has manifested itself since October, it is my 3rd. Something much nicer about relaxing on my bed, beer in hand and watching the football, than forcing pint after pint of water down my neck in a desperate attempt to avoid waking in the middle of the night with sweats, dehydration and heart palpatations... Being old and boring rocks.

Wouldn't it be funny if Poland and Northern ireland were drawn in the same World Cup Group....

.....I said to my girlfriend on Saturday evening....

World Cup Draw - Sunday afternoon:

FIFA World Cup European Qualifying : Group Three Table

25 November 2007 16:35

		P	W	D	L	F	A	GD	PTS
1	Czech Republic	0	0	0	0	0	0	0	0
2	Northern Ireland	0	0	0	0	0	0	0	0
3	Poland	0	0	0	0	0	0	0	0
4	San Marino	0	0	0	0	0	0	0	0
5	Slovakia	0	0	0	0	0	0	0	0
6	Slovenia	0	0	0	0	0	0	0	0

Bloody typical! Now it's gonna be a struggle for us both to qualify, although the games should be entertaining to watch. We initially thought of attending both games, until I remembered some clips of Polish football "fans" on You Tube, and given I'm the kind of guy who gets intimidated at a Charlton game, maybe I'll stick to trying to get some tickets for Windsor Park....

Congratulations to DH

Yes, another victory over a traditional European powerhouse team, and another goal for St David of Kilkeel. That's his 13th of the qualifying campaign, ensuring he is now the record scorer in Euro Championship qualifying history - taking the record from no less a luminary than Davor Suker of Croatia. If only we hadn't developed a tendency for scoring own goals in September, I'd be joining the scramble for flights to Austria next summer. As it is, the spineless Swedes did us no favours by folding against Spain last night, and the longest of shots will see me glued to the telly on Wednesday hoping Latvia pull off a shock and we somehow rediscover the spirit of '82. Hmmmm.

I'm off to see Arcade Fire this evening

Have to confess I don't know a huge number of their songs but I'm reliably informed by just about anyone with their finger on the musical pulse that it'll be a fantastic gig. And it's up the Ally Pally, which I've never been to, so I'm really looking forward to it. Of course, being 30 now, I'll probably end up stood at the back grumbling about not being able to have a nice seat for three hours.

T to the Chizzle steps out

yes, due to my being tied to the most rubbish and expensive tariff vodafone have to offer, coupled with a girlfriend in another city and no landline and resulting in a phone bill this month of a mere £160, I have taken my first step towards becoming a hustla.

I'll now have one phone for my everyday use, and one for my bitches (i.e. my girlfriend and my mum). J's on O2 meaning I can get a pay as you go sim card and 500 mins free to O2 and landlines for a mere tenner a month. Pity I didn't think of it, oh, about 30 days ago?

Welcome to the Slaughterhouse....

On return from my birthday tour of the northern United kingdom (of which more to follow), we were thrust straight back into London life with an invite to Helen's house's halloween party. We were both tired and fragile after two weeks on the go, so imagine our consternation as we wandered into deepest Nunhead to be confronted by a sign saying "welcome to the Slaughterhouse". Inside was like some kind of mass murder had taken place, except from what I could gather it seemed to be humans vs beasts. Good old London town, where pigs feet are available from all good corner shops...




The full pics are available here

If you're bored tomorrow evening

And are not irritated in the extreme by Graham Norton, why not watch "Who do you think you are" at 9pm on BBC1? He ends up in my mum's home village and visits the church where I was baptised and our local pub (in fact there's now a picture of him hanging on the wall in the pub, right next to one of Prince Charles pulling a pint).

How to be a writer

I was reading an interview with Douglas Copeland yesterday, and he was explaining how he got into writing... He'd been out in Japan being an illustrator for a magazine but got ill and had to return home to his bedsit in Vancouver. Whilst he was in Tokyo, he'd written his mate a postcard which she'd then stuck on her fridge - this happened to be read by a "magazine editor friend" of hers who immediately called him and asked him to write for his rag.

No disputing the guy's a talented writer, but really - how jammy is that? And what the hell did that postcard say?

"Hi Mavis, saw this postcard of a Japanese man in a giant nappy and thought of you. Hope the kids are well. Wish you were here."

Not exactly the voice of Generation X, is it?

Expect a flurry of postcards from London to arrive in the post over the next few weeks. Obviously only those of you with contacts in the industry need check your letter box.

Click on this

You could win the contents of a page of Woolworths' new Big Red Book, simply by firing a real live catapult at a target. Kind of like Ant & Dec's Saturday night Takeaway, but better....

Anyway, what you do is register for the launch (geddit) of the catalogue, then if you're lucky enough you get to fire a real catapult, somewhere in a field in Rutland or somewhere, whereby you choose your numbers of catapulters, direction etc - then if you hit a target you win whatever's on it - if you hit the one with the catalogue on it then that's where your page number comes in. There's a handy link here to premium page numbers here....

Give it a shot (ha ha! see what i did there?!)

I'm going for page p487 - 6 laptops....

Big red book launch



PS - sorry about the talking sheep - maybe better with the sound off, eh?

Happy anniversary

As I sit here polishing off my second can of lager and stubbing out my 6th fag, it's hard to believe that this time last year I was the healthiest I've been since being a stalwart (i.e. occasional substitute) of the most mediocre rugby team my school had seen for years.

Yes, last Sunday marked the first anniversary of "the 10K". The reason for the blog, the proof that even a couch potato can drag himself round Hyde Park if the notion takes him. It all seems very long ago - the hot summer and routine of jogging.... I kind of miss it as I sit here shivering, wheezing and still drying out from being caught in the pissing rain this afternoon....

Just noticed I only posted 5 times in September

Rubbish.

To be fair I was moving house, but this time last year I don't think that got in the way. So to my army of two readers, I apologise. It won't happen again.

So, err, here's another post. Just to get the numbers up.

Poland

So, Poland....






Unfortunately my camera is currently knackered, so the only photos I managed to take myself whilst behind the iron curtain were these two - summing up how grim the place really is. I truly felt like a spy as I sat on the terrace, eating fish and chips and looking out at ships sailing past on the Baltic.... I'm starting to think that during the Cold War, all the leaders of the Western nations were actually coming to places like Prague and Gdansk for their holidays, and just making up shit about them to stop the tourist hordes descending and shattering their tranquility...

The main reason for our visit was to attend the wedding of Justyna's schoolfriend, and as previously mentioned I was kind of pooing myself at the prospect.

But, of course, I shouldn't have worried. The first part of the day was a bit weird, what with me never having been at a catholic church service before, never mind one in Polish with a priest who was so old, when he stopped mid-sentence at one point, I thought he might have had a funny turn. After an initial bit of confusion right at the beginning when everyone crossed themselves and I, taken by surprise, tried to do the same before realising my only knowledge of what to do comes from "nuns on the run" (spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch) and looking round at Justyna panicking - only to be told that it "wasn't compulsory" - I settled back to sit, stand, sit, stand, mumble along to some kind of incantation, sit, stand, repeat for an hour. It was all very cool though - the fact that it was in a foreign language meant I didn't get the usual cold sweats i normally do in church and just observed the whole thing like some kind of low budget Michael Palin. It helped that everyone was pre-warned that i was the "British person" and therefore they probably assumed I was a heretic, thereby excusing me from even having to pretend to get involved in the proceedings. But, as with all weddings, it was all very lovely and emotional at the vital moments, and we stepped outside into the sunshine to queue up and pay our regards to the happy couple.

This involved lining up with your gift outside the church and taking it in turns to go up, give your present, offer your congratulations etc etc.... I spent the entire wait trying to learn the correct number of times to kiss the bride on the cheek, how to say "congratulations" in Polish and trying desperately to stop my hands sweating profusely. All of which, of course, went out the window as we reached the front and I mumbled "hi" before kind of stumbling sideways and out of the way....

Onto the reception, in an amazing stately home next to the chapel. I thought perhaps I could just sit there and be silent and eat my dinner, but it's not that simple when you can't even react appropriately to what everyone else is saying due to the language barrier. We were at the table with the friends of the bride and groom, so there was a fair bit of banter, and guests were actually rolling with laughter at times.... whilst I sat there stoically prodding at my pate looking like the least fun person in the world.

Thankfully, vodka came to my rescue, as the rest of the table realised how much fun it would be to make the Irish guy drink as many shots as possible. To be fair, it's not so much they were deliberately trying to make me drink lots, it's just that they seized any opportunity to toast the bride and groom. Still, gave me an opportunity to use my one word of Polish (or is that two words?) - na zdrowie!

Ahh, the disco - a merciful respite from the vodka.... The bride and groom had their first dance, which they'd obviously practised, as they swirled around in perfect harmony. I retired after that to the safety of the front hall to observe everyone else taking the floor. Except, of course, the next dance was "ladies choice", and the next thing I know I have the Bride's mother staring at me before leading me out into the middle of the dancefloor. The only thing I do less well than drinking vodka or speaking Polish is dance, and so it was that we stumbled around for a few minutes, not saying a word, with me making quizzical expressions at her in an attempt to communicate interspersed with looks of desperation at Justyna who was pissing herself and watching the whole thing....

We got to watch a sketch show by some famous comedians in the garden, which again seemed very entertaining - I was chuckling away, even if only at the visual gags....

After that it was karaoke all the way baby, although I missed out by a matter of seconds on popping my warbling cherry after they decided we didn't have time to perform our song (me and my new mate - I think it's probably a good thing the guests were spared a Polish-Irish collaboration on Wham's seminal hit "Wake me up before you go go").

And so it was, after 12 hours, 12 (ish) vodkas, and a bloody good time, I hit tipping point - the fabled shot that, despite downing them one after the other for hours and feeling fine, causes you to go over the edge. I think I did my people proud by lasting until 3am.... Unfortunately it was 4.30 by the time my still sober-ish girlfriend peeled me off the sofa I'd passed out on and helped me to a waiting taxi....

Greetings to my friends in Libya

And in Romania

Yes, bizarrely, I have had hits on my blog from such far-flung exotic locations as Tripoli, Bucharest and, erm, Brentford.

Speaking of football....

Had the pleasure of visiting the Emirates stadium last Tuesday for the Carling cup game between Arsenal and Newcastle. The Arsenal juniors destroyed the opposition without ever actually scoring a goal, at least until the final 10 minutes when they stuck two in right in front of us. The stadium is easily the best I've ever been in - it looks like a squat UFO as you approach it, and inside it's so compact it's hard to believe that you're sharing it with over 60,000 people. 60,003 on that particular evening, in fact.