A Valuable Lesson
I still have some of my professional exams to pass and as a result, I am always on the look out for inspirational stories of learning to help motivate me in my studies.
My ears therefore picked up on the conversation on the other side of my work pen. Julian was telling Mandy about taking his driving test.
Julian: "The first time I took the test I was over-confident and blew it. I thought I knew what was needed, but I didn't and failed...
The second time was different. I was so determined to pass. The adrenaline was really flowing. I was absolutely focussed. One hundred and ten percent. I blocked everything else out beforehand, and went into the test thinking I am going to do this!"
I'm pleasantly surprised: Julian has managed to vocalise something that I can not only use to kick-start my exam revision, but pass on - via this blog - a valuable lesson in life that might inspire others to greater things. Managment speak at its best. If he'd have cried "Once more unto the breach, dear friends!", Henry V himself would have whooped and hollered in appreciation.
Mandy: "So you passed then Julian?"
Julian: "Erm... No..."
Thursday, September 26, 2002
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
The Devil Has My Tongue
Mandy has just got back from a two week holiday to Arizona. She bought the office back some american sweets: Hershey's milk chococlate bars and Reese's milk chocolate peanut butter cups.
I don't like peanut butter.
My boss Graeme is very religious. He is an elder, and very active member, of a Gospel church in Wallingford. He takes his religion seriously, and I therefore wouldn't dream of sending him the link for pinstruck.com - where you can send someone you love a voodoo curse - for example. I have to be careful what I say around Graeme.
It was therefore a mistake when I responded to Graeme's question "would you like a peanut butter cup?" with:
"Urgh! No thanks... peanut butter is the devil's work!"
Whilst most people might retort with a smile and a throw-away "I feel the same about Marmite" comment, Graeme immediately countered with a demanding "why do you say that?"
I would like to have said "it's because it looks like demon poo, smells like demon poo and tastes like demon poo!", but having been put on the spot - and desperate to avoid any sort of religious discussion about fiery depths of Swindon and its denizens - I lamely said:
"Eating too much peanut butter can give you a heart attack..."
Mandy has just got back from a two week holiday to Arizona. She bought the office back some american sweets: Hershey's milk chococlate bars and Reese's milk chocolate peanut butter cups.
I don't like peanut butter.
My boss Graeme is very religious. He is an elder, and very active member, of a Gospel church in Wallingford. He takes his religion seriously, and I therefore wouldn't dream of sending him the link for pinstruck.com - where you can send someone you love a voodoo curse - for example. I have to be careful what I say around Graeme.
It was therefore a mistake when I responded to Graeme's question "would you like a peanut butter cup?" with:
"Urgh! No thanks... peanut butter is the devil's work!"
Whilst most people might retort with a smile and a throw-away "I feel the same about Marmite" comment, Graeme immediately countered with a demanding "why do you say that?"
I would like to have said "it's because it looks like demon poo, smells like demon poo and tastes like demon poo!", but having been put on the spot - and desperate to avoid any sort of religious discussion about fiery depths of Swindon and its denizens - I lamely said:
"Eating too much peanut butter can give you a heart attack..."
The Breakfast TV Shock
It’s very rare for me to be shocked by anything on TV these days *.
Today was one of those days.
I’m eating my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, flicking the channels from one breakfast TV programme to another. Channel 4’s Rise is running an “entertainment” story about an independent US video entitled Bumfight. Bearing in mind it’s 7:48 am, my cornflakes go soggy as I watch snippets of the video slack-jawed. They’re showing graphic scenes of homeless guys beating the crap out of each other and images of the film-makers kidnapping homeless people, snatching them off the street, binding their hands and feet with tape, gagging them, etc. Apparently the bums featured were encouraged to fight each other with offers of cash, food and clothing. The homeless guys in the video have clearly been abused and exploited.
It doesn’t look funny or entertaining. Normally Crunchy Nut Cornflakes leave a sweet taste, but today I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.
The first thing I did when I got into work was to check it out on the net. You can find the official site here. A decent review and commentary on the video – with critical attacks on the filmmakers by homeless help organisations – can be found here (note the date, it’s clearly old news in the US).
The images were violent, graphic and shocking. The activities in them looked highly illegal. But that’s the key word: “looked”. I’m now thinking how much of it was staged in advance? Were the kidnapping scenes set-up and the bums look of terror put on for the camera? As an (allegedly) intelligent person, I should be able to spot the difference, but having only seen just a few seconds of footage – over-dubbed by the Rise presenter – I could not, and this makes me feel uncomfortable.
Which is probably precisely the reaction the filmmakers were hoping for…
* The last time it happened was watching a late-night showing of Jackass, where one of the guys – dressed in chefs outfit – was eating the following raw food stuffs: Red onion, cheese, ham, tomatoes, milk and a large slab of butter. The butter really made him gag. He then jumped up and down for a minute and then spewed up his raw ingredients into a hot pan, adding eggs to make an omelette. Once cooked, the omelette was devoured.
And you thought I was a sick puppy…
It’s very rare for me to be shocked by anything on TV these days *.
Today was one of those days.
I’m eating my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, flicking the channels from one breakfast TV programme to another. Channel 4’s Rise is running an “entertainment” story about an independent US video entitled Bumfight. Bearing in mind it’s 7:48 am, my cornflakes go soggy as I watch snippets of the video slack-jawed. They’re showing graphic scenes of homeless guys beating the crap out of each other and images of the film-makers kidnapping homeless people, snatching them off the street, binding their hands and feet with tape, gagging them, etc. Apparently the bums featured were encouraged to fight each other with offers of cash, food and clothing. The homeless guys in the video have clearly been abused and exploited.
It doesn’t look funny or entertaining. Normally Crunchy Nut Cornflakes leave a sweet taste, but today I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.
The first thing I did when I got into work was to check it out on the net. You can find the official site here. A decent review and commentary on the video – with critical attacks on the filmmakers by homeless help organisations – can be found here (note the date, it’s clearly old news in the US).
The images were violent, graphic and shocking. The activities in them looked highly illegal. But that’s the key word: “looked”. I’m now thinking how much of it was staged in advance? Were the kidnapping scenes set-up and the bums look of terror put on for the camera? As an (allegedly) intelligent person, I should be able to spot the difference, but having only seen just a few seconds of footage – over-dubbed by the Rise presenter – I could not, and this makes me feel uncomfortable.
Which is probably precisely the reaction the filmmakers were hoping for…
* The last time it happened was watching a late-night showing of Jackass, where one of the guys – dressed in chefs outfit – was eating the following raw food stuffs: Red onion, cheese, ham, tomatoes, milk and a large slab of butter. The butter really made him gag. He then jumped up and down for a minute and then spewed up his raw ingredients into a hot pan, adding eggs to make an omelette. Once cooked, the omelette was devoured.
And you thought I was a sick puppy…
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
You'll have to keep your card board box time machines ticking over for another day or two, as when I went to upload Friday's blog entry last night, Freeserve refused my request: Vicster tried to install Tesco as our new IPS two weeks ago, failed, and now our connection is as flaky as a Cadburys Flake.
In truth I couldn't remember our log in ID and password, but blaming it on Vic - at the risk of getting a clip round the ear from her - makes me sound less of a technofool.
The Crowbar, Ultimate Tool Of The Universe
Home Improvement Project (HIP) #1: The refurbishment of the bathroom is still unfinished. The cupboard is yet to be built, and the carpet is unchosen and unlaid. The ceiling needs another coat of paint. Our four day completion window expired 12 months ago.
HIP #2: The refurbishment of the kitchen is now on hold until next year.
HIP #3: The stripping and redecoration of the small spare bedroom was completed - bar a little glosswork - on time and on target.
HIP #4: The stripping and redecoration of the front reception / living room has now begun. Vicster stripped off the majority of the wallpaper on Sunday, whilst I went to work on the skirting boards and the door frames. The plaster covings were attacked last night: The second assault on the buggers is due to commence this evening at sundown. The room needs to be gutted by Friday, as Paul the Plasterer is coming in to patch and skim the joint. Before he can go to work, we have a number of DIY issues that need addressing: a small patch of rising damp needs injecting, a snake basket of pipes need boxing in and assorted electrics need attention.
Once Paul has done his magic, we'll be painting, installing new woodwork, and laying a new wooden floor. In other words we're going to be busy for a couple of weeks. Our dining room - with two rooms worth of furniture in it - is cozy.
So what's the secret weapon in the fight against DIY hell? What implement makes light of the hardest deconstruction work? What tool can justifiably claim to be the Ultimate Tool in the Universe?
It is the humble crowbar.
I was surprised at its POWER during HIP #1. So far in HIP #4 it has continued to prove its immense worth, ripping off the skirtings and knocking off the coving like a knife through hot butter.
If you do not own a crowbar, you do not know the void you have in your life. Take my advice: go and buy one.
Not only is it a pleasure to use, but it makes me feel like a MAN. I am the hunter and it is my club. "Bring forth the dinosaurs!".
Bring forth the prehistoric plasterwork. "Rah!"
In truth I couldn't remember our log in ID and password, but blaming it on Vic - at the risk of getting a clip round the ear from her - makes me sound less of a technofool.
The Crowbar, Ultimate Tool Of The Universe
Home Improvement Project (HIP) #1: The refurbishment of the bathroom is still unfinished. The cupboard is yet to be built, and the carpet is unchosen and unlaid. The ceiling needs another coat of paint. Our four day completion window expired 12 months ago.
HIP #2: The refurbishment of the kitchen is now on hold until next year.
HIP #3: The stripping and redecoration of the small spare bedroom was completed - bar a little glosswork - on time and on target.
HIP #4: The stripping and redecoration of the front reception / living room has now begun. Vicster stripped off the majority of the wallpaper on Sunday, whilst I went to work on the skirting boards and the door frames. The plaster covings were attacked last night: The second assault on the buggers is due to commence this evening at sundown. The room needs to be gutted by Friday, as Paul the Plasterer is coming in to patch and skim the joint. Before he can go to work, we have a number of DIY issues that need addressing: a small patch of rising damp needs injecting, a snake basket of pipes need boxing in and assorted electrics need attention.
Once Paul has done his magic, we'll be painting, installing new woodwork, and laying a new wooden floor. In other words we're going to be busy for a couple of weeks. Our dining room - with two rooms worth of furniture in it - is cozy.
So what's the secret weapon in the fight against DIY hell? What implement makes light of the hardest deconstruction work? What tool can justifiably claim to be the Ultimate Tool in the Universe?
It is the humble crowbar.
I was surprised at its POWER during HIP #1. So far in HIP #4 it has continued to prove its immense worth, ripping off the skirtings and knocking off the coving like a knife through hot butter.
If you do not own a crowbar, you do not know the void you have in your life. Take my advice: go and buy one.
Not only is it a pleasure to use, but it makes me feel like a MAN. I am the hunter and it is my club. "Bring forth the dinosaurs!".
Bring forth the prehistoric plasterwork. "Rah!"
Monday, September 23, 2002
The Time Machine
I wrote my Friday blog entry at home, but forgot to upload it, so I'm all out of sync.
I'll load it up into blogger later, so the below makes more sense. As a bonus, it will allow us to take part in a little bit of harmless time travel ala Back to the Future, Terminator and countless other top cheesy sci-fi films.
So fish out your cardboard boxes and marker pens and join Hobbes and I as we travel back in time to September the 21st, 2002...
[A freaky Steven Hawkins style wormhole appears. Electricity cackles. Purple pyroclasmic clouds rage overhead. Ghostly clocks appear from the aether, their hands racing backwards at crazy speeds. Random images of a man, a teenage boy, a baby and then a monkey flash across our collective consciousness. The sound of something cardboardy getting stuck in the spokes of a moving bicycle reverberates. Our bodies and cardboard box time machine are stretched Mr. Fantastic like into the wormhole. White screen. Silence]
Welcome to the Kassam Stadium, Oxford. The date is 21st September 2002. The time is 14:40.
Your hair is smouldering - put it out - and whatever you do, DO NOT bump into yourself: The Timecop rules of time travel suggest that both of YOU will implode and turn into strawberry jelly.
As a quick aside here, it's worth pointing out that this "rule" is of course complete tosh: if you kill your present-past self, then your present-future self will not exist in the future and therefore your future self will not be around to travel back in time, and won't then be able to kill your present-past self. A Catch 22 situation then arises where your present-past self survives so your future self IS able to travel back in time to kill your present-past self. Oops, we're in a loop. Search the net if you really want to know what is likely to happen, but I reckon instead of you and you turning into jelly, the whole universe will unravel and it'll be game over for everyone and everything. For ever. No pressure then.
So if we (ie. my present-future self and you) see me (my present-past self), please don't do a comedy "let me accidently bump you into yourself" move...
And speaking of me, there I am, sitting in my car with Gramp Y, patiently awaiting the start of Oxford United versus Hull City.
We have already been sat there for an hour: we needed to get to the ground early to ensure a disabled parking space, so that Gramp would only have a short hobble into the stadium. With the car journey as well, we have enjoyed an hour and a half of chat, and as promised in my Friday blog [Time Travel Jelly Warning!], I have indeed asked him about Monte Cassino. Turns out he wasn't there: the MoD pulled his unit out of Italy just before Monte Cassino and shipped them back to Blighty ready for the Normandy invasion. With some gentle probing and questioning on my part, Gramp tells me a few decent stories I haven't heard before. Very interesting and enjoyable.
Our quality time together continues into the big match itself, with just a brief break before the kick-off, where I pop into the bar to have a stiff pint with Scott [Careful Scott, don't touch yourself!]. Gramp and I sit together to watch the U's totally dominate a very entertaining match.
Final score: A nil - nil draw that Oxford should have won by a large margin.
On the way home Gramp states that he's really enjoyed it, and the afternoon has made him forget all about his myriad of aches and pains. He's a sweety.
Time to power-up your cardboard box...
I wrote my Friday blog entry at home, but forgot to upload it, so I'm all out of sync.
I'll load it up into blogger later, so the below makes more sense. As a bonus, it will allow us to take part in a little bit of harmless time travel ala Back to the Future, Terminator and countless other top cheesy sci-fi films.
So fish out your cardboard boxes and marker pens and join Hobbes and I as we travel back in time to September the 21st, 2002...
[A freaky Steven Hawkins style wormhole appears. Electricity cackles. Purple pyroclasmic clouds rage overhead. Ghostly clocks appear from the aether, their hands racing backwards at crazy speeds. Random images of a man, a teenage boy, a baby and then a monkey flash across our collective consciousness. The sound of something cardboardy getting stuck in the spokes of a moving bicycle reverberates. Our bodies and cardboard box time machine are stretched Mr. Fantastic like into the wormhole. White screen. Silence]
Welcome to the Kassam Stadium, Oxford. The date is 21st September 2002. The time is 14:40.
Your hair is smouldering - put it out - and whatever you do, DO NOT bump into yourself: The Timecop rules of time travel suggest that both of YOU will implode and turn into strawberry jelly.
As a quick aside here, it's worth pointing out that this "rule" is of course complete tosh: if you kill your present-past self, then your present-future self will not exist in the future and therefore your future self will not be around to travel back in time, and won't then be able to kill your present-past self. A Catch 22 situation then arises where your present-past self survives so your future self IS able to travel back in time to kill your present-past self. Oops, we're in a loop. Search the net if you really want to know what is likely to happen, but I reckon instead of you and you turning into jelly, the whole universe will unravel and it'll be game over for everyone and everything. For ever. No pressure then.
So if we (ie. my present-future self and you) see me (my present-past self), please don't do a comedy "let me accidently bump you into yourself" move...
And speaking of me, there I am, sitting in my car with Gramp Y, patiently awaiting the start of Oxford United versus Hull City.
We have already been sat there for an hour: we needed to get to the ground early to ensure a disabled parking space, so that Gramp would only have a short hobble into the stadium. With the car journey as well, we have enjoyed an hour and a half of chat, and as promised in my Friday blog [Time Travel Jelly Warning!], I have indeed asked him about Monte Cassino. Turns out he wasn't there: the MoD pulled his unit out of Italy just before Monte Cassino and shipped them back to Blighty ready for the Normandy invasion. With some gentle probing and questioning on my part, Gramp tells me a few decent stories I haven't heard before. Very interesting and enjoyable.
Our quality time together continues into the big match itself, with just a brief break before the kick-off, where I pop into the bar to have a stiff pint with Scott [Careful Scott, don't touch yourself!]. Gramp and I sit together to watch the U's totally dominate a very entertaining match.
Final score: A nil - nil draw that Oxford should have won by a large margin.
On the way home Gramp states that he's really enjoyed it, and the afternoon has made him forget all about his myriad of aches and pains. He's a sweety.
Time to power-up your cardboard box...
