The Other Obsessions
Yesterday's realisation that blogging could become an obsession for me, has prompted a self-analysis of my other obsessions.
Vicster would claim that I am obsessed with:
Pipping my car horn - unnecessarily (and aggressively) at innocent motorists
Zombies
Magic - the silly card game
I cannot agree with the first two suggestions: Whilst I admit that I do enjoy a good honk now and again, and love the pure comedy value of zombies, I am not obsessed with them. I can't argue with the magic obsession - I'm just surprised it's taken me 8 days to mention it in this blog.
[Side-note: I enjoy zombie movies, zombie comics, zombie books, Resident Evil zombie computer games and minced beef lasagne and cottage pie. I also do a mean zombie impression. One day I would quite like a zombie as a household pet - there must be "101 Uses for a Zombie" around the home]
But magic isn't the only obsession I have. Rather embarrassingly, I am a SPOTTER. Not a train spotter, but a spotter of the following items:
Hubcaps
Neville Trays
The Ikea Snake
Before you disconnect in disgust, please allow me to explain.
Hubcaps: Our flat in Maidenhead was on the main road into the town. On my short walk to work I would always see one or two hubcaps littering the curbside. Every week they would disappear and be replaced by new hubcaps that had bounded off the wheels of some motor vehicle. Over the course of our three year stint in Maidenhead, I must have seen close to 150 hubcaps discarded along our road. For some reason I never picked them up. I did consider collecting them and then flogging them at a car boot sale for a fiver a piece, but never quite had the guts or magpie spirit in sufficient volume to swipe them. I clearly could have made a mint selling second-hand hubcaps, and now look back with some regret on passing by a such golden opportunity. The legacy of passing by the tempting silver discs day after day, is that when I'm walking along the street, or driving in the car, and I spot an abandoned hubcap, I cannot stop myself from pointing at it and shouting "Look! A hubcap!"
Neville Trays: Stasher makes trays, we spot them. Whether it's at your restaurant at work, a National Trust property tea room or a M&S cafe, if you look closely, you might spot a Neville UK tray. We're looking to turn our little hobby into a national fad. It's incredibly addictive. Stay tuned for further details.
Ikea Snake: This is already the third mention of the legendary Ikea soft toy in this blog. My obsession has its roots in Vic's refusal to let me buy one of these snakes, but has now gone far beyond this. I am paranoid that Ikea plan to take over the world, and the snake image is the first stage in their evil plan. A bit like the McDonalds Golden Arches, the Ikea Snake is an image that is invading our popular culture. Films, TV shows and adverts for random products all feature the damned serpent. This week I spotted it in BBC's My Family programme. The psychiatrist had one peering demonically over her sofa.
Don't tell me that I didn't warn you...
Thursday, September 19, 2002
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
The Visa Comes Through
The best news we’ve had in ages came through last night: Mark called us to say his visa has been approved. He should be flying back to Chicago in about ten days.
I am delighted for him. We obviously don’t want to see him go *, but after 15 months of being cast drift from Rob, his house, his cats, his clothes, his gadgets, and a proper job – in other words his whole life – it’s a huge relief that he can put his world back on track.
Mark didn’t know whether to laugh or cry on the phone: he was ecstatic but also on the verge of a tearful blubbing. Not surprising considering how stressed and pessimistic he’s been since the visa application went in. I don’t think he could dare to believe that he’d get it. Silly sausage!
I look forward to the kiss goodbye! ;)
* Who will we turn to for computer hardware and software assistance, incisive football commentary, booming laughter, and crazy birds nest hair?
An Obsession Lurks
Being new to the blog game, I didn’t really know what to expect.
It’s bloody addictive that’s what it is.
And the addiction works on two levels: I NEED and WANT to update my blog each day. I also want to do a good job, so as part of my research into what makes a good blog, I foolishly took a quick look at some random blogs that had been freshly posted to via blogger.com.
Fatal error! Don’t do it! Reading other people’s blogs should come with a government health warning. Either they are quite interesting, so you end up wasting your time reading the whole thing, and then go looking for another one; or they are incredibly bad, so you waste some time reading it and then go looking for another.
Whatever I write, I am determined not to fall into one of the apparently standard blog moulds. After randomly looking at just half a dozen blogs, I’ve encountered the following genres:
Single American Urbanite Woman Looking For A Date – Site Includes “Photo of My Cat” And Quotes From “Sex in the City”
Teenage Angst – Nobody Loves Me (But I Haven’t Met A S.A.U.W. Yet)
Iranian Student Studying English – And Not Doing Too Well In His Studies Apparently
I Am A Computer Nerd – Kill Me
My Blog Is A Radio Link From God
I Type Out Stories From Newspapers And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Copy Text From News Sites And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Am A Crazy Freak
Of course, if you’re a stranger who’s reading this after a random net trawl, you already know that you’re addicted…
The best news we’ve had in ages came through last night: Mark called us to say his visa has been approved. He should be flying back to Chicago in about ten days.
I am delighted for him. We obviously don’t want to see him go *, but after 15 months of being cast drift from Rob, his house, his cats, his clothes, his gadgets, and a proper job – in other words his whole life – it’s a huge relief that he can put his world back on track.
Mark didn’t know whether to laugh or cry on the phone: he was ecstatic but also on the verge of a tearful blubbing. Not surprising considering how stressed and pessimistic he’s been since the visa application went in. I don’t think he could dare to believe that he’d get it. Silly sausage!
I look forward to the kiss goodbye! ;)
* Who will we turn to for computer hardware and software assistance, incisive football commentary, booming laughter, and crazy birds nest hair?
An Obsession Lurks
Being new to the blog game, I didn’t really know what to expect.
It’s bloody addictive that’s what it is.
And the addiction works on two levels: I NEED and WANT to update my blog each day. I also want to do a good job, so as part of my research into what makes a good blog, I foolishly took a quick look at some random blogs that had been freshly posted to via blogger.com.
Fatal error! Don’t do it! Reading other people’s blogs should come with a government health warning. Either they are quite interesting, so you end up wasting your time reading the whole thing, and then go looking for another one; or they are incredibly bad, so you waste some time reading it and then go looking for another.
Whatever I write, I am determined not to fall into one of the apparently standard blog moulds. After randomly looking at just half a dozen blogs, I’ve encountered the following genres:
Single American Urbanite Woman Looking For A Date – Site Includes “Photo of My Cat” And Quotes From “Sex in the City”
Teenage Angst – Nobody Loves Me (But I Haven’t Met A S.A.U.W. Yet)
Iranian Student Studying English – And Not Doing Too Well In His Studies Apparently
I Am A Computer Nerd – Kill Me
My Blog Is A Radio Link From God
I Type Out Stories From Newspapers And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Copy Text From News Sites And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Am A Crazy Freak
Of course, if you’re a stranger who’s reading this after a random net trawl, you already know that you’re addicted…
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
The Song That Rots Your Brain
Sometimes it can be the first tune on the radio-alarm clock, listened to through sleepy dust and the final frames of a dream. Sometimes it is the tune that Random Guy At The Bus Stop is singing along to on his mini-disc. Whatever the source, sometimes you get hit by a tune that you just can’t get out of your head for the rest of the day. Sometimes the song might be a classic by Marvin Gaye or Frank Sinatra, but usually the world conspires against you and locks in something a little less community-friendly.
For example,
“I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves…
I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get, get, get on your nerves!”
[Repeat until people kill you]
…is the ultimate, kids-spawned, mind rotter.
Today’s verse - that has clamped onto my head like a parasitic Alien – was implanted earlier this morning in the staff canteen:
“There is a circus in the town, in the town!
[Insert name] is a clown, is a clown!”
It’s doing my nut in, and what’s worse is that I’m trying to find the best name – from all my friends and associates – in order to make the thing flow and rhyme at it’s optimum level. I can’t help myself, and now I’ve passed on the affliction to you.
Sing it with me.
Sometimes it can be the first tune on the radio-alarm clock, listened to through sleepy dust and the final frames of a dream. Sometimes it is the tune that Random Guy At The Bus Stop is singing along to on his mini-disc. Whatever the source, sometimes you get hit by a tune that you just can’t get out of your head for the rest of the day. Sometimes the song might be a classic by Marvin Gaye or Frank Sinatra, but usually the world conspires against you and locks in something a little less community-friendly.
For example,
“I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves…
I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get, get, get on your nerves!”
[Repeat until people kill you]
…is the ultimate, kids-spawned, mind rotter.
Today’s verse - that has clamped onto my head like a parasitic Alien – was implanted earlier this morning in the staff canteen:
“There is a circus in the town, in the town!
[Insert name] is a clown, is a clown!”
It’s doing my nut in, and what’s worse is that I’m trying to find the best name – from all my friends and associates – in order to make the thing flow and rhyme at it’s optimum level. I can’t help myself, and now I’ve passed on the affliction to you.
Sing it with me.
Monday, September 16, 2002
The Visitation
In his new movie Signs, Mel Gibson is visited by aliens.
This weekend we were visited by Sara and Stasher.
Rather disappointingly, Stasher’s Legendary Pistachio Pants did not accompany them on their journey from Blackheath. Perhaps Stasher was joshing around and pulling our legs when he informed us that The Pants had been consigned to the Great Laundry Bin In The Sky, but I have the funny feeling that these most famous of undergarments really have now been lost to history. This day of dread has been coming for some time, but for some reason I’m gutted: The Pants – technically boxer shorts - were a nasty colour and slightly threadbare, but they were unusual, a great source of entertainment for onlookers, and most importantly, they were ICONIC.
My head tells me they’ve been burned, but my heart hopes that Stasher has them neatly folded away in his pant drawer.
I should make a joke here about pistachio-coloured pants and little green men, but I can’t think of one…
The Game of Golf
It was Josella’s Hen Do on Saturday, and therefore the primary reason Sara and Stasher came to visit. While the girls hired punts from the Cherwell Boat House and drank champagne on their lazy river cruise, Stash and I hit the golf course.
Venue: Waterstock Golf Course. Known locally by members of other clubs as the “Dogtrack”. Stash called it “characterless”. I called it ideal for a hacker like me.
Scores: Stasher, a fine 99. Neil, a rather mediocre 114.
Result: An enjoyable afternoon of fresh air and gossip, unspoilt by the final scores. Stasher wins the “Stag Classic” trophy at the first attempt. The accolade earns him bragging rights and the honour of taking home said trophy – a magnificent plastic man with a big bendy wood – and place prominently on his mantle piece. He also gets to give me 15 shots next time we play.
Unfortunately, on his departure on Sunday, Stasher “forgot” to pick up the trophy. Perhaps a mere oversight on his part - rather than Sara’s orders – but whatever the reason, every time I look at the little plastic chap I shall be reminded of the bitter taste of defeat…
“I shall have my revenge!”
An up-turned coffee mug on the landing carpet - for putting practice purposes - beckons.
The Diet Rules To Be Enforced
Vicster tells me yesterday that Stashboyslim makes me look fat.
Therefore the diet needs to be reintroduced and the rules posted here for easy reference and enforcement purposes. My reasoning is that if I see them published on the net – and I can refer to them at a click – I will be more inclined to obey them and not give into temptation.
Here are the rules:
1) One can of coke or other fizzy sugar drink per day.
2) No chocolate, cakes, biscuits or sweets.
3) Smaller portions at dinnertime.
4) No bad lunches – full meals in the staff canteen are out.
5) No alcohol midweek *.
6) I should be doing some moderate exercise.
I should be below 12 stone in no time. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Bridget Jones. Break out the rice cakes!
* unless there are emergency circumstances, e.g. a bottle of wine has been opened and the cork carelessly discarded in the dustbin…
The Selection Box
Tina was right: (You Can’t Beat) Asda does indeed have Christmas fodder on sale in its stores. Selection Boxes are currently on display at Asda, Wheatley. There are 92 days to Christmas. For the record, Julian went shopping to “MK” this weekend. He almost went to The Great Maw of Hell shopping centre, Swindon, instead, but MK won out in the end.
In his new movie Signs, Mel Gibson is visited by aliens.
This weekend we were visited by Sara and Stasher.
Rather disappointingly, Stasher’s Legendary Pistachio Pants did not accompany them on their journey from Blackheath. Perhaps Stasher was joshing around and pulling our legs when he informed us that The Pants had been consigned to the Great Laundry Bin In The Sky, but I have the funny feeling that these most famous of undergarments really have now been lost to history. This day of dread has been coming for some time, but for some reason I’m gutted: The Pants – technically boxer shorts - were a nasty colour and slightly threadbare, but they were unusual, a great source of entertainment for onlookers, and most importantly, they were ICONIC.
My head tells me they’ve been burned, but my heart hopes that Stasher has them neatly folded away in his pant drawer.
I should make a joke here about pistachio-coloured pants and little green men, but I can’t think of one…
The Game of Golf
It was Josella’s Hen Do on Saturday, and therefore the primary reason Sara and Stasher came to visit. While the girls hired punts from the Cherwell Boat House and drank champagne on their lazy river cruise, Stash and I hit the golf course.
Venue: Waterstock Golf Course. Known locally by members of other clubs as the “Dogtrack”. Stash called it “characterless”. I called it ideal for a hacker like me.
Scores: Stasher, a fine 99. Neil, a rather mediocre 114.
Result: An enjoyable afternoon of fresh air and gossip, unspoilt by the final scores. Stasher wins the “Stag Classic” trophy at the first attempt. The accolade earns him bragging rights and the honour of taking home said trophy – a magnificent plastic man with a big bendy wood – and place prominently on his mantle piece. He also gets to give me 15 shots next time we play.
Unfortunately, on his departure on Sunday, Stasher “forgot” to pick up the trophy. Perhaps a mere oversight on his part - rather than Sara’s orders – but whatever the reason, every time I look at the little plastic chap I shall be reminded of the bitter taste of defeat…
“I shall have my revenge!”
An up-turned coffee mug on the landing carpet - for putting practice purposes - beckons.
The Diet Rules To Be Enforced
Vicster tells me yesterday that Stashboyslim makes me look fat.
Therefore the diet needs to be reintroduced and the rules posted here for easy reference and enforcement purposes. My reasoning is that if I see them published on the net – and I can refer to them at a click – I will be more inclined to obey them and not give into temptation.
Here are the rules:
1) One can of coke or other fizzy sugar drink per day.
2) No chocolate, cakes, biscuits or sweets.
3) Smaller portions at dinnertime.
4) No bad lunches – full meals in the staff canteen are out.
5) No alcohol midweek *.
6) I should be doing some moderate exercise.
I should be below 12 stone in no time. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Bridget Jones. Break out the rice cakes!
* unless there are emergency circumstances, e.g. a bottle of wine has been opened and the cork carelessly discarded in the dustbin…
The Selection Box
Tina was right: (You Can’t Beat) Asda does indeed have Christmas fodder on sale in its stores. Selection Boxes are currently on display at Asda, Wheatley. There are 92 days to Christmas. For the record, Julian went shopping to “MK” this weekend. He almost went to The Great Maw of Hell shopping centre, Swindon, instead, but MK won out in the end.
