You Get Less For Manslaughter

It was our 11th (first date) anniversary last night. We reminisced about the Oxford Polytechnic Bop and the drink Vicster ordered at the bar.

“Cinzano and lemonade please!”

It was her sophistication that appealed to me *.

I was under orders (pain of death or divorce) to cook something yummy for dinner. I resorted to a tried and tested recipe that I knew would be a winner: Rick Stein’s Spanish style Squid and Chorizo **.

For 2 people:
150g Squid – prepared, hoods cut into rings, tentacles cut into bite-sized bits.
100g Chorizo sausage – thinly sliced.
1 red pepper – roasted until blackened, skin removed, seeded and diced.
2 good handfuls of new potatoes (about 8 oz) – boiled until tender, then thinly sliced.
1 plum tomato – seeded and diced.
1 garlic clove – crushed.
1 red ‘finger’ chilli pepper – seeded and chopped small.
½ teaspoon of hot red chilli powder.
A cup of fresh flat leaf parsley – roughly chopped.
Freshly ground salt and black pepper.
1 ½ tablespoons of olive oil (about 2 big glugs).

Cook the new potatoes and roast the pepper.
Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan or wok.
Stir-fry the squid over a high heat for 1-2 min – don’t over do it otherwise they’ll go like rubber bands.
Add the chorizo, chilli and garlic, fry for 1-2 min – this gets the chilli working and some colour out of the chorizo.
Add the potatoes, red pepper and chilli powder. Give it another minute or so to let the potatoes heat through.
Add the tomato and parsley, season with plenty of black pepper and salt to taste.
Serve with some French bread (to mop up the juices) and a green salad.
Scrum-diddly-umpious!

Top tip: Put the tentacles in your mouth, let the ends pop out between your lips, and then scare the kids by waggling the tentacles with your tongue so they look alive. Rah!



* She doesn’t even like Cinzano. It’s just like Stashboy ordering himself half a pint of Pernod whilst we were on holiday in Spain, and then remembering he didn’t like Pernod after the first sip.

** with black fuel oil.

Cutting Costs In The Workplace Bond Style

Our purchasing manager asked the company grunts for any cost cutting ideas today. Instantly we had the predictable response of someone popping their head up over the pen and suggesting that the company "gives us all a sweater so they can cut the heating bills!".

Never one to let an opportunity such as this go by, I replied to the purchasing managers request will this email:

Suggestion: Switch off the lights when nobody is working. Should reduce the lighting costs by 100% in Purchasing.

On second thoughts you could buy everyone some nightvision googles:

http://www.ticketsofrussia.ru/store/lomo/nightvision/png2.html

Large one off cost, but would cut lighting costs to a minimum.

In a similar vein to the "sweaters" suggestion, just more James Bond.

Hopefully he won't read the suggestions before he presents them to his manager...

Wot No Updates?!

Were you starting to think that TWWOND had gone the way of many a blog and died a death? Or perhaps I myself had dropped off a cliff *?

Well do not fret dear readers, for Nobby lives and so does his blog. You just forgot that I had my CIMA Business Taxation exam yesterday and that I've been busy revising. How did it go? "OK" pretty much sums it up. Professional exams like these are notoriously difficult to predict how you've done, and the best I can say it that I might have passed. I'm not unhappy, but not happy either, if that makes sense.

Results are due at the end of January, so I'll just forget about it until then: No point in sweating on it or getting excited / depressed - what's done is done.

[Crack - tinkle, rattle]

That's the sound of my chains breaking. No longer a prisoner of revision, I am released back into the community.


* What do you call a man with a seagull on his head?


Falling Head Over Heels Into The Chamber of Secrets

Friday evening was Harry Potter 2. Read some amateur review of it here. Dark and sinister and great fun. Much better than the first one - which was 2 hours of character introduction and 1/2 of plot - and it actually featured Harry "Greatest Wizard Ever and he's only 13" Potter doing some magic. I recommend watching it in a cinema full of kids too: Their excitement rubbed off and the gasps, shrieks, wails, cheers and clapping made it feel interactive. Seeing the target audience react so positively to it upped the enjoyment and value of the film. And yes, despite Vic telling me off, I did clap and cheer too. I'm so down with the kids.

The shrunken heads, giant man-eating spiders, and pecked out eyes were cool.


Blade 2

...was watched alone on DVD on Saturday night, as Vicster had left me to do my revision earlier in the day and travelled into London to see Sara and Stashboy. She was very brave considering the threat of dirty bombs and poison gas. They always seem to do the best things when I'm not with them, and Saturday was no exception as they did a walking tour of Jack the Rippers East End haunts. Free piece of spleen with every ticket.

Anyway, Blade 2 is crap. If you're writing a book or screenplay about vampires or characters who play with swords (and who have the word "blade" in their names), watch this film to see what not to do. It was like watching MTV for 2 hours. Bad CGI, terrible plot, rip-off of Aliens, 2D characters, just awful. It sucked big time ;)

I loved the first Blade - very cool film, great atmosphere, nicely paced, depicted vampires as they should be. I was expecting more of the same, but like so many sequels - whether film or music or novels - it was a real let-down.

However, the DVD extras disk featured not only an immense Roni Size / Cypress Hill "Child of the Wild West" music video, but also a little story from the director about Michael Jackson:

Apparently MJ approached them about a cameo role in the film as he'd seen Blade and really liked it. So the director writes this little scene in where one of the Reaper Hunters opens a door deep within the heart of the vampire nightclub and discovers this weird drug-dealer type guy who is taking littlebags of entrails out of a suitcase. There is a dentists chair, strings of razor-blades and various surgical implements on show in the background.

For some reason MJ turned it down.


Darren Popstar

Darren Hayes is apparently "the voice of Savage Garden". Not only do I not care about this, but as Vic says "That's not right! Darren isn't a name for a pop star!".


Eye Test Voucher

I've got one and I'm going to use it on Friday. Unfortunately I can't read the small print.

Christmas Jumper

Friday is dress-down day at work. Today someone has come in wearing a "christmas" jumper. The sort of sweater your great aunt thinks would suit you. This person is surprisingly not Julian (the someone is just a Blog Extra). My double-take at the nasty knitted garment caused me to walk into the door.

Julian is wearing a sweatshirt with an Aylesbury duck on the front. As usual he has made the fashion faux pas of tightly tucking his sweatshirt into his trousers.

I am starting to agree with stick-in-the-mud management who believe casual Fridays are a bad thing.

After Six O'Clock You Risk Incineration

So the national fire strike kicked off last night. Doomgoblins will be happy. Three burning-building deaths last night (that's up on the average of 1.63 deaths per day when the firemen are working normally). No doubt the Daily Mail will blame the frefighters for all three.

Vic is paranoid about going up in flames at the best of times, so last night saw her making a few special preparations before bed time:

1) She checked that both of our smoke alarms were operational and in optimal locations.
2) She unplugged the TV, as they are apparently at risk of randomly exploding into balls of plasma even when switched off.
3) She checked the torch that is kept at the side of the bed.
4) She donned her asbestos pyjamas, welders mask, motorcycle crash helmet and divers lung.

She did forget to fish out an axe from the shed, so I shall remind her to do so tonight. I will also prompt her to uncoil the emergency escape ladder that is still in its box in the cupboard.

Better to be safe than sorry.

We're Off To See The Wizard

Vicster has booked us in to see Harry Potter on Friday. I can't say that I'm really looking forward to it, as I didn't think the first movie was much cop (didn't do the book any justice), and this will be much of the same. To make matters worse, we are apparently sitting in row B, which is about six feet away from the screen. I cannot sit that close to the screen for three minutes, let alone the three hours that Chamber of Secrets will run for. My eyes will fall out. A few months back when we went to watch Attack of the Clones and were ushered into row A (four feet from the screen), I kicked up such a fuss (i.e. I politely asked the Duty Manager if we could change seats), that we were moved into the "House Seats" - the best in the cinema.

I am practising my "Kicking up a Fuss" spell.

Muggles and Duty Managers beware!


Help

How can I get comment boxes on this blog?
Suggestions, html code or whatever to nobby_dobscrub @ hotmail.com please!

A Cruel Design Fault

Our toilets here at work suffer from a distressing design fault. When you flush after use, any toilet paper floating in the bowl balloons up as the flushing water forces air underneath it. The wet paper then traps little pockets of air, which in turn prevent the paper from flushing away: it dances and spins on the top of the water in all of its sh*tty glory and doesn't get sucked away through the pipe.

It is embarassing when you're in the cubicle flushing for the second or third time. They must think King Kong's in there.

More distressing though is when you jump into a cubicle and discover that the previous occupant didn't bother to wait around for a second (or sometimes even first) flush.

I face this every day. Please rescue me.

The Name's Bond. Sticky Bond.

I'm writing this entry through red eyes. Although not quite "welled-up", there has been sufficient moisture generated that I've had to blink back the emotional mists. The reason?

You know how you have just a handful of friends who you really connect with. People who share the same sense of humour, enjoy the same things, and have a similar out-look on life as you do. Brightly coloured shiny fish in your personal pond. People who you love spending time with, love seeing - no matter how short the time, and indeed usually love full stop.

When your connections with these special people are broken, it can be very upsetting. For example, having my best mate (and best man) Rob living out in Chicago means I just don't see him anymore. We used to be like brothers, as thick as thieves, even closer than the Mitchell family. A few short trips, quick telephone conversations and email lines can never make up for the lack of quality time spent together. As time passes, it naturally becomes harder and harder to instantly "reconnect" when we do see each other. Seeing and feeling the strong bonds that tied weaken is sad and traumatic.

These feelings normally arise from friends within your first Circle of Friends. The Inner Sanctum of people you see regularly and are very close to. Sometimes they arise with those outside of this group.

Yesterday I got melancholy when I began thinking about how I hadn't seen Tony Boydell for a while. Tony and I are friends from Magic. We share the same sense of humour, enjoy the same things, share a similar-ish out-look on the world. We shouldn't be that close, and on paper aren't - Tony has never met my wife or visited my home, I haven't met Tony's wife and small army of children or visited his home - but for some reason I LOVE TONY, and would trade much to spent a hour in his company.

But Tony has given up Magic, and my interest isn't what it was. The realisation dawned that I'm unlikely to see much of Tony in the future. Our big connection - meeting up at Magic tournaments and playing our silly games - is broken. Our regular email correspondence - poked along by Magic sticks - has petered out to a few lines now and again.

I was beginning to mourn the demise of our short friendship. I was getting sentimental and foolish.

It was therefore very exciting and uplifting * to discover a new referral to my blog from www.tonyboydell.blogspot.com this morning. I can now catch up on what Tony is doing and thinking every day to my hearts content. A thread of the bond has been reconnected. I'm a happy bunny and now realise the true power of blogs.

The power to (re)connect people. Whether friends or strangers.


If you're a stranger to Tony, I'd recommend keeping an eye on his blog. He's a fab writer - his legacy to Magic is being the best internet writer the hobby has ever known (he always pushed the envelope). He's a sensitive soul and a cuddly family man. He's also extremely funny once he gets his humour engine up and running...

Happy Birthday Tony and start your engine please!


* no, not uplifting (or exciting) in THAT sense!

No Dead Dog On The Road

My prayers were answered: the little dog wasn't converted to road pizza [phew!]. My wife told me that what I'd written was "terrible". I thought she meant terrible as in "you should have rescued that poor little doggy!", but she actually meant "your grammar and spelling was awful!".

The joys of living with an editor...


The Goose Is Getting Fat

The shops - including the Sainsburys garage at the end of our road - are already decked out with the full load of Christmas decorations and piping out the usual array of Christmas tunes. It's a pet hate of mine: Christmas stuff should not be seen or heard until December, and even then, 3 weeks of it is 3 weeks too many. It is my opinion that the earlier Christmas tat goes up, the more it devalues the meaning of Christmas and dilutes the excitement of the Christmas holiday itself. Down with decorations is what I say.

That being said, I spent some of the weekend burning copies of my favourite Christmas CDs - including the complete Maddy Prior and The Carnival Band back catalogue (essential listening) - whilst Vic went into food-preparation overdrive: Christmas Day canapes, a big fruit pie, etc, etc. However, the cake wasn't baked because the supermarket ran out of glace cherries, claiming that the second weekend in November was apparently the weekend on which EVERYONE bakes their Christmas cakes and steams their puddings...

It's obviously not a disaster - the glace cherries can be bought next week - but in order to test Waitrose's explanation for their lack of stock, I took a quick straw-poll in the office.

Of 6 people asked, not one had made their Christmas cake at the weekend. So either Waitrose were lying in an attempt to disguise their stock mismanagement, or someone somewhere is stockpiling huge quantities of glace cherries.

Perhaps when David Blunkett warned us about a possible Dirty Bomb attack on London, he really meant a possible Glace Cherry ice cream Bomb instead.

Actually, that's stupid. Much more likely is:

[al-Qaeda Terrorist Man #1 in Tora Bora cave]: "How can we disrupt the Christmas celebrations of those stupid, evil, christian, western fools?!"
[al-Qaeda Terrorist Man #2 in Tora Bora cave]: "We could use Osama's billions to buy up all of their glace cherries... so they can't make any cakes, pies and puddings. That would wipe the festive Ronald McDonald smiles off their foolish western faces!"

Be vigilant. Sinister plots lurk everywhere.

Good Dog, Bad Man

I did a bad thing this morning. Something I feel absolutely terrible about. I have a nasty feeling at the back of my mind that my inaction may have resulted in a fatality, and assoicated heartache, for a family.

On my way to work through the village of Postcombe, the traffic came to a sudden halt in the rain. A little doggy was scampering in the middle of the road. It was clearly young, excited and confused - it looked as if it had just escaped from its owners house or car and didn't know what it was going to do next.

I should have stopped, gathered the little pup up in my arms and delivered it to the local village shop / garage, where it would have been safe. The shop owner might well have known who the doggy belong to. This is what the dog's owner would have wanted me to do. It would have been the right thing to do.

Instead I did the wrong thing. Someone behind me in the queue of traffic pipped their horn - either to get the dog out of the road or to hurry us drivers up. Whatever the reason, it jolted me along, and I followed the car in front like a sheep.

For the next ten minutes, every turning I passed, I felt I should be swinging the car around to go back and find the dog. But I didn't. I just kept on driving.

I feel disappointed in myself. I've let the dog and its owner down. I've let myself down. I just hope the dog's ok and reunited with its family. I feel guilty enough already, but if I see a dead dog on the road going home this afternoon, I don't know want I'm going to...

I'm literally praying for that doggy and I'm vowing never to drive on past ever again.

The World's A Stage

We're back from the Inlaws. I could give you a full report on things, but Scott's already posted up his take on things (nicely done too), so I'll skip the details.

I will say that although I spent the majority of the time up there locked in a tiny room with my head in my books, it wasn't until I strolled into work this morning that I realised how energising a few days away from the office can be. I feel refreshed and full of spunk. I give it two days before this Well of Chi is drained by the leeches here at work.

As Scott points out, Emma has foolishly asked me if I'd like to write her a school play about WWII. Taking Sheila Starline's advice that one should never turn down such an opportunity, I've jumped at the chance, especially as the Second World War is one of my specialist subjects. I can't decide to go for the epic approach - a complete run through of all the major events of the conflict - or focus in on a single, smaller episode, with a human story / tragedy - i.e. a more humanistic approach.

The epic route has its appeal. Having a dozen kids running about on stage, with their arms flung horizontal to their bodies, screaming "neeeee-owwwww" and "badda badda badda!", could be a cheap and very effective way of recreating the Battle of Britain.

Problems that we may need to overcome:
1) Political Correctness: Dangerous ground getting kids to dress up as Nazis. Add in the Final Solution and how to deal with it sensitively and appropriately, and we have a cocktail of extremely difficult issues to contend with.
2) Parental Response: I will probably need to cast a Hitler and a Stalin. As a parent, how would you feel about Little Johnny playing HItler in the school play?

I will want to add some songs too. Classic war songs should do the trick. If you know any - other than "...the other is in the Albert Hall!" - let me know.

This project is on ice until December.


Setting A Trend

Simon's posted up the best referral search to his blog. He is number one for "gay beefeaters in uniforms" apparently. A good effort at trying to usurp the crazies who have found my Wonderful World through nutty searches, but it crumbles to dust in the face of this little gem:

"I had a dream last night that someone cooked a dog and put the whole dog on a plate with scramb[led eggs]"

A nice short concise search that one...

We also have:

Ikea Snake (possibly a reader testing me out)
Email Ikea
Table tennis twiddling learning
Optician Halloween (?)
Halloween image lady table window soldier (??)
Wonderful pregnancy
What do you predict may happen in the High Street over the next ten years
Giant chimney sweeps website

Clearly I am now a great source of information for those who are pregnant, those who need retail investment advice, people with massive chimneys, and Koreans.

The Training Camp

No updates for a few days because I've been residing at my training camp (aka The Inlaws) up in Carlisle, revising and preparing for my CIMA exams. Scott has this image that its like the forest-dwelling shack in Rocky 4, and I'm focussed like the big Rocky man himself.

Funnily enough, I'm writing this blog entry in a wooly hat after hours of sit ups and running miles through the trees. Sweat's pouring off of me, but I'm ready to crush those Commie exam invigilator bastards if its the last thing I do... Their defeat could well be the catalyst in breaking the whole Soviet-style CIMA global state apart.

Just stop Apollo from taking the exam before me.


The Prediction Was 66% Correct

The prediction was:

"We're bound to lose 1-0 to a last minute penalty, after a terrible game, and thoroughly lacklustre Oxford performance. It will rain and be bloody chilly too."

1-0 loss. Terrible game. Lacklustre Oxford performance. It pissed it down too. I should do horoscopes.

My Mind Resides In A Pumpkin Lantern

It took a while for Jacob (nephew) to get to bed last night. Like all kids at that age (3), he didn't want to go to sleep as he felt he was missing out on what the adults were doing downstairs. He came up with a whole host of excuses to try and get out of bed: he was afraid of the dark, there was a monster in the backgarden, he wasn't tired, etc. It was quite difficult to convince him that he was not actually missing out on any "play" - we were only talking and eating downstairs, that I'd have liked him to be downstairs just as much as he would, but unfortunately sleep came first. After a little ten minute one-on-one chat, he eventually admitted that he wasn't afraid of the dark, that there wasn't a monster in the garden, and he just wanted to rejoin the party (in the end I convinced him to accept a cuddle from his mummy instead). It's ironic that when he hits my age, he'll want to leave parties as soon as the clock strikes bedtime...

Jacob did manage to escape from his bedroom Colditz for five minutes, which was cool and well timed, as I was putting the final touches to my pumpkin lantern. I'd forgotten how much of a simple pleasure something as crude as carving a stupid face into a vegetable can be. I don't do much art or tangible creativity these days, so I really relished the chance to make the lantern. Bottomline, pumpkin lanterns are basic primitive artwork, and I think I've got a basic primitive need to create things running through my mind, body and soul.

I think this blog is a sad manifestation of that need.


The Yellow and Blue Army Strikes North!

After cancelling the planned trip last season, Scott and I (and the ladies) are making the big road trip up North today in order to see the mighty Oxford United play away at Carlisle. The trip represents a bit of a pilgrimage, and I'm looking forward to joining the rest of the away fan nutters who have made the ten hour round trip to watch football. Being an away fan at the best of times can induce a feeling of camaraderie, but Saturday should be quite a special Yellow and Blue Army atmosphere.

We're bound to lose 1-0 to a last minute penalty, after a terrible game, and thoroughly lacklustre Oxford performance. It will rain and be bloody chilly too.

I've not had much time over the last couple of days to write, so here is some cheapskate cutting, pasting and ripping off of other people's emails instead...

Potter Totter

Is what the internet bookie Blue Square calls its latest special betting opportunity. JK Rowling (author of the Harry Potter books) is apparently pregnant and due to pop in the Spring. You can gamble on what you think she will name her bonny new arrival. All the names you'd expect are there including:

Harry, at a generous 33-1

and

Voldemort, at 200-1


Larry's Good News - Update

Background Info: See my last post. Larry is 40 going on 22. He looks like an East End villian, but is a big softie. I emailed him to get the news straight from the horses mouth. His response (slightly edited) was as follows:

"Gonna get married in Scotland next September/October. There has been no great announcement and the news is just getting round. As for the proposal - top brownie points for me! I am now viewed in a completely new - and thus, favourable - light by all the women on the planet, or the ones that have spoken to Carole in the last week or so at least. The long version of events is ..... [and it is really long before I get to the point] .... Carole was away on a pampering week in a Scottish castle and I was at home on my Todd. For a couple of weeks I had a really annoying bunged up nose and I was sniffing, snorting and clearing my throat all the time and as a consequence I got only a couple of hours sleep for two nights running. So, I went to the doctor and he gave me some goo to settle me down and some penicillin to clear up the throat problem. Unfortunately by about 7pm I was climbing the walls. I've never had anything like this before but I was sweating, had a dry throat, my arms were flapping, I wanted to run out into the street, basically I was having a panic attack. I had enough wherewithal to phone for a doctor who spoke to me and told me what was happening and to blow into a bag, etc, etc. Anyway, a couple of days later Carole comes home and I'm still not sleeping properly (in fact I'm still not and am on double tamazipan, but I hope it's all clearing up), I wake up at 4:30am and decide to make the most of being up at that hour. I had planned how to propose for some time and it involved being up at that time of day so, I thought that there really was no time like the present - and the lack of sleep was clearly interfering with my reasoning processes. I woke Carole, told her not to argue and to just trust me this once, bundled her into the car, wrapped her in a blanket and drove into central London. She was well behaved considering the unreasonable nature of my actions and just thought that we were going for a walk down the Thames as I couldn't sleep. So, when we got to the middle of the Millennium (wobbly) Bridge and the dawn was rising behind Tower Bridge, I asked her. No audience, just me, her and the dawn over London. Romantic, huh?"

As I said, a big softie.
Congratulations Lazza.


Halloween Update

It's my mum and dad's wedding anniversary.
I bought a pumpkin to make a lantern - I haven't sculpted one since I was about six.
Vic has banned me from wearing my hobgoblin mask in case it scares the crap out of my 3 year old nephew (who we're seeing tonight). She reminded me that he freaked out in a farm shop when his dad tried on an innocent plastic sheep mask. My life-like goblin visage could permanently scar him.

James sent me an email earlier today relating a Halloween-themed story that seems very close to my own kid-scaring fantasties (related a few postings ago):

Read a funny interview with George Romero (director of night of the Living
Dead, etc) recently. He said he was preparing for his annual halloween party which he invites all his industry friends to. He says none of them dress up except for Tom Savini, who is a special effects wizard working primarily in the horror industry.

Have you seen from Dusk Till Dawn?

That film was developed as a showcase for Tom's company's work - he also
played Sex Machine in the film.

Apparently every year Tom goes all out to put himself in the scariest
costume he can create and spends all evening terrorising the children in
George Romero's neighbourhood!

How cool is that!"

If I was a special FX wizard, that's exactly what I would do too.

Great Coleman Balls Of Fire

Top quote from Radio 5 last night. News lady is reporting on the latest IVF mix-up story (Lady 1 has four eggs removed, the two bad ones are put back inside her and the two good ones are put inside Lady 2. Lady 2's two good eggs are put inside Lady 3. The doctors involved clearly shouldn't be playing God - they can't even play Doctors without f*cking things up...)

The presenter asks the reporter: "Should all people currently having IVF treatment be worried by this story?"

Reporter replies - totally deadpan: "Well we don't want to put the willies up people having IVF, but..."

Classic.


The Latest Poor Sucker...

...searched for "Guy Fawkes face masks".


A Bit Of A Teaser

Something which always conjures up a range of emotions and excitement, is when someone sends you an email with the final tag line of:

"Trust you've heard [so and so's] good news."

And you have no idea what they are talking about and cannot immediately email - or phone - them back to find out what this good news is. You're left in this limbo of not knowing, where your imagination goes to work dreaming up all of the possible good news options available. You're naturally happy that [so and so] has had some good news (if they are a friend and you care), but this joy is offset by the feeling that you've been left out of their loop: How come the guy who emailed you knows and you don't?! What makes it worse is that he expects you to know, hasn't given you a clue, and therefore you risk a loss of face having to email him back asking "What good news?". What if it's a wind-up?

Darren emailed me this morning with "Trust you've heard Larry's good news."

Having not yet been able to verify the facts, my imagination has come up with the following options:

1) Larry's going to be a daddy.
2) He's won the Lottery.
3) He's starring as a villian in the new James Bond film.
4) He and Carol are getting married.
5) They are moving to a huge house in France and he is planning to make wine.
6) His hair has spontaneously starting growing again.
7) His new teaching career is being accelerated and he has a headmastership of some top school lined up.
8) The rugby team he coaches - Burnham D team - has won some cup or something and he has been offered the job of head coach of his beloved Saracens.

As soon as I get the result, I'll let you know. It's quite exciting isn't it!

Home Is Where The Hearth Is

HIP #4 is coming along quite nicely now. The new fireplace hearth is bedded down in cement, and the wooden flooring is shaping up around it. Once Tony the Werewolf boxes in the pipework, we'll be able to finish lying the floor and the skirting boards.

The hearth was eventually purchased from Site 77 - a reclaimation yard in Aston Clinton - on Friday. It is a reproduction - a single piece of black granite polished to a beautiful shiny surface. It catches and reflects the light, and if you gaze upon it, you can see your face looking back from its dark depths. If you stood it on its side, it would look like the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

After putting the floor down, we crashed out on the sofa and sat open-mouthed, gazing upon the granite hearth like primitive apemen. Vic even picked up a large thigh bone, bashed the granite with it, and roared with primal rage.

"Rah!"

You probably don't realise how frustrating it is getting these things straight and level...


Spelling Correction

There's only one L in cassoulet.


Signs

Watched the movie Signs on Friday night. Pretty good. Well-acted, nicely paced, understated, and apart from the rather obvious Sixth Sense style twist, just unpredictable enough to keep you guessing. It was also notable in that it managed to make me jump - something very few films do. The poor skewered doggy now finds himself on a short-list with:

The head in the small boat with the hole in its hull in Jaws.
Something stupid - perhaps a squeeling cat - in the original Halloween.
The zombie that jumps out of the bedroom cupboard in the first Resident Evil PS1 game.
Vic when telling me to pick up my dirty socks and pants and put them in the washing basket.

Cane Rat Cassoullet

It gets worse. I'm 5th on Yahoo if you search for "Cassoullet". Bizarre isn't it...

The person from South Africa who did the search was presumably looking for a recipe to use their Cane Rat meat in. These big rodent fella are farmed for their juicy bush meat all over Africa, and are particularly good in spicy curries (according to the South African guy I used to work with at Entranet - his family are farmers).


Great Britons ?

The BBC are running their search for the Greatest Briton at the moment. Go cast your vote. Like all UK public votes, the results are laughable: tabloid attitudes, lack of historical knowledge and short-term memories combine to produce truly bizarre and embarassing top ten and 100 lists.

Diana is in the top ten, currently in 5th place behind Brunel, Churchill, Darwin and Shakespeare. The Peoples Princess is ahead of Newton and Elizabeth I. That's right, Diana - who did nothing for Britain except a few charity gigs and get our sympathy for a foolish broken marriage - is ahead of Queen Elizabeth the First. It beggars belief. Diana shouldn't even be in the top 50.

But it's the top 100 that really blows:

17 Michael Crawford
29 David Bowie
30 Guy Fawkes (anarchist vote #1)
33 David Beckham (ahead of the late great Bobby Moore at 69th - captain of our 1966 World Cup winners and a supreme gentleman)
40 King Henry VIII (surprisingly low in the ratings)
43 John Peel
46 Boy George
56 Sir Cliff Richard
58 Freddie Mercury (he wasn't even British)
76 The Unknown Soldier (unexpected but I can see where people were coming from)
77 Robbie Williams
83 JK Rowling
87 John Lydon (anarchist vote #2)

Can someone please explain how Michael Crawford weighs in on the chart in 17th place?!


Halloween Lunch Cancelled

Our canteen run theme days at strategic points of the year. Valentines Day will see a special Valentine Menu. So does Burns Night, Chinese New Year, and Gandhi's Birthday. Normally we have a special Halloween Menu, but this year's has been cancelled because our devoutly Seven Day Adventist Facilities Manager thinks it will promote paganism here at work. The place feels like hell, and we already have plenty of witches, so I can't see how serving up Ghoul-Lash and Stake and Kidney Pie is going to make things any worse...

A Clean Sweep

Firstly, hello to Kelly at Lilac Senses. She's the second alien blogger to link to me. My excitement at being linked to is probably a source of great amusement to veteran bloggers, but as this stuff is all new to me, I can't help but get a warm rosy feeling inside at the thought that at least two net trawlers have liked my ramblings enough to come back for more. I'm really looking forward to getting my first "blogs to avoid" link though. That will be cool.

One of Kelly's recent postings gives a dire warning about the dangers of open fires and the importance of having your chimney swept by a qualified professional. Taking her terrifying story of exploding oil burners and chimney fires to heart, we had our chimney swept yesterday by our local sweep. Actually it was pure coincidence, but I'm thanking my lucky stars we've had it done.

What was a slight disappointment was the fact he didn't look as if he was in Mary Poppins - no flat cap, no sooty face, no black hands and no dancing on rooftops. He didn't even have a team of small street urchins with him to run up the stack and distract old ladies while he pockets the family silver. He looked like a van driver and just had a big industrial-sized hoover which sucked all the soot down the chimney. Clean as a whistle guv'nor.


Renaming The Blog For Financial Gain

I told you I was obsessed with them, and now I'm thinking of renaming the blog "The Unofficial Ikea Snake Website" and changing the colours to a lurid lime green.

I will then email Ikea's Marketing Manager, point out the fact that if you search for Ikea+Snake on Google you find this blog, and attempt to blag not just a crate of free snakes to give away to Thame's street urchins - who cannot even get jobs as chimney sweep monkeys - but a whole new Ikea-funded kitchen makeover as well!

I will of course retain all rights to Unofficial Ikea Snake Website merchandise. Mugs, T-shirts, pens, giant inflatable Ikea Snakes to wave at football, sex toys and Ikea Snake halloween masks. I'm going to make a mint.


All Hallows Eve

Halloween is just a week away. The americanism that is Trick or Treat has breached Britain's defenses and the whole "let's go and scare the crap out of old folks by dressing up as demons and knocking on their doors begging for sweets and money" thing grows exponentially each year. Ten years ago, the best masks you could buy here were of the rubbish 99p flimsy plastic variety that would cut your face or gouge out your eyes if you put them on wrong. These days we can get hold of the life-like soft rubber masks dead-easy and I love 'em!

I have a goblin mask that freaks Vic out, and last year I wore it to greet little tricksters at the door. I did the full goblin act - hunched over, lurching about, stupid voice, etc. Three eleven year old boys who came a knocking didn't know what to do or say apart from a nervous "but we're the ones who are meant to be dressed up!".

They were disturbed, but not quite enough for my liking, so this year I'm going to do things properly. I'm going to make a pumpkin lantern and pop his evil grinning head in the front window. I will wear my mask again, but this time in unison with a butchers apron splashed with a bucket of pigs blood from top-sausage makers Newitts. If anyone has a chainsaw I could borrow to top off the outfit, I'd be much obliged. Otherwise I'll have to make do with using a garden fork or spade from the shed.

That should impress the neighbours.

Google Is Great

Sitemeter lets me see what site referred you to my Wonderful World. Go check out the link at the bottom of the page.
Mostly it's "unknown", but some are via Google.
Some poor German games freak searched for Coppertwaddle and found me. Not a surprise as there's only a handful of sites that may have commented on this top game.

More worrying is if you had searched for Ant and Dec at the NTA awards. I'm listed second on the results.

Or for Ikea Snake. I'm listed first - that's my CEC article - and second. Cue writ from Swedish corporate giant...

I'd like to apologise to those who searched for these links. It's a crazy world and I'm not helping.

Mister Magoo

I need to get my eyes tested. Last time they saw an optician was 12 years ago, before we had to pay for the privilege. A lot can go wrong in 12 years, and as some helpful lady said on the telly, visiting your optician is more important than visiting your dentist: they can replace your teeth with synthethics, but you only get one chance with your eyes.

I need glasses of course. I've known this for the last 2 years. The realisation came at the inlaws when trying to read Teletext - the text was all blurred and fuzzy. Since then I've noticed how much quicker Vic reads road signs than me, how I struggle to read the overhead projector on my CIMA courses, and how much longer it takes me to change focus from long to short vision. I've also noticed a difference when playing golf and table tennis. Reading the football scores on Teletext last night - through my wine glass - kicked off the "I'm going" blind panic again.

I'm not surprised that my eye-sight has deteriorated, as both of my parents, all of my grandparents, and now my brother, all wear glasses. I don't have a problem with me wearing glasses: Not only will I be able to see the world as it is again, but I reckon they'll add an extra 20 points to my IQ, and with the right pair I might look as sexy as Sara. What does depress me though is the inescapable truth that my failing eys are another indication that I'm getting old. My youthful atheletic body is gradually turning into a decrepid husk.

I'll look more like Smithers than Harry Potter.


The Bells Toll

An alarm went off at 3:30 am this morning on the industrial area across from our house. Alarms have been going off virtually every night for the last few weeks. The noise pollution and lack of sleep is driving me mad. I will be psycho within a week if they continue. What can you do about them at 3:30 in the morning?! A second call to the police today resulted in a friendly chap advising me to "phone the council" aka "the police have better things to worry about". They'll soon change their tune when I go loco in Thame's High Street, dancing like a monkey with my imaginary Ikea Snake...

The Snake Basket

The Ikea Snake was in the shopping basket for just under 10 minutes, before Vic discovered it and threw him out. Next time I'll stick it down my trousers. Didn't buy any large items of furniture - it all looked a bit cheap. Why did I expect anything different? It's Ikea! Bonus though was the A40 into London. It should be renamed Hubcap Row.


Friday's Sweepstake

Julian asked the question at 11:02 am Friday morning.


Scott and Emma Come For Dinner

I'd been looking forward to it all day: Scott and Em coming over for dinner on Saturday night. It was one of those "I want to spend some time with friends" days. I have to say that, as usual, I really enjoyed it (Scott reads this and will tell Em if I say anything otherwise. I could've had some fun at Emma's expense and said that I didn't enjoy it, but that would be a lie and result in a clip round the ear from Em AND Vic).

Dish of the Day - apart from Scott and me - was Jamie Oliver's Quick Sausage Cassoullet with mash potatoes, followed by sticky toffee pudding. Emma, in an attempt to avoid using our toilet (she presumably has an image of me pissing all over the seat), drank all of half a cup of ginger beer whilst Scott put the lager away in his typically boisterous fashion.

As this blog is a result of me copying Scott's, it was natural that some of the evening was spent discussing blogs. By the end of the evening we had concluded that Emma should have her own blog, as the stories she tells would grace the best of the best. "Confessions of a Primary School Teacher" - with its tales of gypsy kids cursing one another and ripping each others faces off - would top many a "blogs I read" bookmark list. Add in Emma's glamour photography stories and it would rip through the internet, leaving rubber Scaryducks bobbing in its wake...


Political Sentiment Of The Day

British firemen are going ahead with their strikes in an attempt to force through a 40% pay-increase demand. I have every sympathy for them - £21K for a qualified firefighter is hardly sufficient remuneration (images of Septemebr 11th jump to mind) - but their plan to strike on Bonfire Night does seem a little irresponsible...

Plus, please avoid getting trapped in a car wreck over the next few weeks: Specialist cutting equipment won't be made available to the spotty 17 year-old soldier, who will turn up too late to save you, in a 1960's Green Goddess firetruck. Presumably he'll have to use an old tin-opener to prise you out of the twisted metal and pop you in the bodybag.

People will die because of this strike. Whose fault will it be? The firemen or their paymasters? As soon as this happens, public support for the strike action will drop like a rock.

The Games We Play

We a title like that, this post should be about how I screwed over some poor fool or something. However...

Forgot to give the link to Snatch yesterday. If you like word games, you'll love Snatch. Although they've ripped off an old english palour game, Portobello Games deserve congratulations for sticking their necks - and own cash - on the line to produce this version. I highly recommend the game. It can be played casually or competitively. Really nice look to the game, high quality pieces, and it looks good on your coffee table too. Simple rules, no frills, classic game. Educational too. We have our own copy and bought one for Sara for Christmas. The fact that Portobello sold out of stock at the start of the year says it all really. It also won The Times best game of the year award for 2001. Go buy it!

And in case you're wondering, no the makers aren't my friends.

If you want to buy a great card game that IS produced by one of my friends, try Coppertwaddle. One-on-one card game, medium complexity, high quality production, stupid name.

End of the commercial break.

Must Do More Together

After Tuesday nights exciting evening in front of the telly, Vic and I have decided to do a few more things together midweek.

Vic watches a little too much telly, and freely acknowledged this last night. Her idea is to cut down on the brain-rotting activity and start doing more things together. The original plan of me going to the gym with her has predictably collapsed, and my membership has been cancelled from November (I've been about once in the last 12 months). Jogging after work - as we did for a few weeks in the built up to her sponsored cancer charity run - is not something I enjoy in the dark, cold and wet. Realistically - as Vic is unlikely to want to come with me to Monday night table tennis and Wednesday night Magic - we're talking about games of Scrabble and Snatch in front of our new fireplace (if it ever gets ordered).

Which is cool.

We may even catch up on some old classic movies on DVD that we've never seen - although this is cheating, as watching a DVD isn't really that different from just watching the telly. We'll have our own little film club.

And perhaps a book club too, as I've not been reading as much recently and have a stack of books I need to catch up with: I'm halfway through Redcoat, and have Northern Lights, A New History of the Third Reich, HP Goblet of Fire, More What If? and Colditz all ready to go. I've also got to get registered at our local library asap.

We are also determined to do more walks on a Sunday, and up our National Trust usage to a more acceptable level.


Progress Report: HIP#4

One thing we are doing together, but in shifts, is HIP#4. Current situation is: Vic is off work for a couple of days painting the ceiling and newly plastered walls. The colour is a light and airy Ivory Cream. We've chosen the fireplace hearth: natural Cotswold stone, that a full mantlepiece can be built up from at a later date (when we have some cash - anyone want to advertise on this site? Cheap rates!). Unfortunately the store we're trying to order it through is useless, and it looks as if, when finally ordered, it won't arrive until the 4th of November. The floor, skirting boards and woodwork cannot be fitted until the hearth goes down. Another two weeks of living in the kitchen and dining room with all the furniture. Joy. Off to Ikea to find some low cost storage solutions tomorrow. The big goal for me is of course getting an Ikea Snake in the trolley and through the tills without Vicster spotting it.

As I'm likely to shout with glee, wave it around, pretend it's alive, attack Vic and scare random children with it in the shop, it's a fair bet to wager that the snake won't get successfully smuggled out...


Stuff Of The Day

Science article OTD: Learn what an Event Horizon is and why there is a big void in your life.

Bad joke OTD:

Me - "Fancy a date Julian?" [Offering a packet of the glistening dried fruits]
Julian - "No thanks!"
Me - "What about one of these then?" [Waving the packet of dates]

And The Winner Is...

Last night's telly was utter crap.
Normally I'd switch off and do something less boring instead, but last night I just wanted to veg out. Unfortunately there was NOTHING on the box of any note, and we ended up watching The National Television Awards *. It was like watching a car crash. Horrible, but hypnotic. Twice I leapt off the sofa and began pacing the room like a freaked-out psycho monkey trapped in cage.

It was TV of gutter life. The lowest common-denominator. The show should have been called "TV What Sun Readers Enjoy Most".

We played a guessing game: Predict the four or five programmes, or peeps, who would be on the short-list for the "best soup opera newcomer with blonde hair and a nice pair" award. Then predict the winner.

It was actually really easy in the end. You just picked anything and everything with David Jason in it. Best actor, best drama, best comedy. If David Jason wasn't in it, then you picked Ant and Dec, and if they weren't in the running, you picked the lady - especially if she appealed to the male Sun readers. It'll be exactly the same next year too.

The most exciting moment for me - apart from the size of Trevor McDonald's huge dickie - was seeing Bargain Hunt pick up Best Daytime TV show. David D was magnificent. He even thanked all those Bargain Hunters out there. I was overcome with emotion, and if I could have spoken through the tears, I would have phoned Scott up (DD's other fan) to celebrate.

The only real surprise is that Tina and the gang haven't mentioned it once today.

* Abbreviated to NTA. Considering television is normally abbreviated to TV, surely it should have been NTVA?

Wrong Spelling, Wight Idea

They were discussing Bali this morning and to quote Tina (slightly - only slightly - out of context):

"Bali is like the Isle of Wight"

Remember, Tina's most exotic holiday was in Devon.

Ironically, if you subtly change the spelling of Wight to White, Tina's accidently hit the nail on the head: If they were Islamic terrorists who perpetrated the attack, then this is probably exactly what they viewed Bali as.

The Isle of White.

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Grey

It's not that I don't like autumn: Who doesn't love the changing of the leaves from green to gold? And it's not like I hate the winter either: Crisp frosty mornings, and Christmas-card dustings of snow, make me feel alive just as much as they do anyone else. I even enjoy a little occasional mist. And I certainly get spellbound by fallen leaves, picked up in an eddy, and spun and danced by the breeze.

It's just the darkness and the short days that get me down. I think - and I've been told this many times by friends and family - that I'm a bit SAD.

I'm fortunate to have a window seat at work. In the spring and summer it's a godsend. The sun comes through so brightly we had to tint the windows this summer to ensure our eyeballs didn't poach in our skulls. Unfortunately the tints have now come back to haunt us: They make an already dull and grey day even darker. There's nothing better than gazing out onto a dull and grey industrial estate, on a dull and grey Monday morning, to get you motivated and stoked-up for work.


The Wedding

Josstick and Enda tied the knot on Saturday. Great day - really enjoyed it. You'd expect everyone at an Irish wedding to be drunk, but the only person there who was apparently "dancing like a monkey" was me. No Danny Boy. No Riverdance. No fighting. They didn't even have Guinness on tap either!

I recovered at 2 p.m. Sunday afternoon.

I was in trouble for:

a) Embarrassing myself - being drunk, dancing like a monkey, and talking about Oxford United to Mickey Aiya Napa from Fox FM. I may or may not have called him a twat.
b) Snoring (after the wedding, not during).
c) Losing someone's jacket.
d) Phoning my brother and brother-in-law (from the Gentlemen's toilet) in a desperate bid to get a live update on the Slovakia v England match.

I also managed to drip hot sausage grease down my best tie, but my plan to switch it with someone else's - he was wearing the same tie - was foiled because he never took it off or went to the Gents on his own...

Highlight of the ceremony was hymn number two: Jerusalem, that stirring, patriotic English anthem... that the majority of the groom's Irish contingent refused to sing.


Julian Returns From Cyprus

Today's conversation between Jo and Nobby regarding Julian:

Jo - "He's a treasure isn't he."
Nob - "Oh yeah, he's a real treasure alright. He should be locked in a chest and buried six feet under on a desert island!"
Jo - "But what if a pirate discovered him and dug him up?!"
Nob - "With any luck the pirate would put the spade though his neck..."


Kefei and Chestor Experience The Welcome

I played magic in Oxford last Wednesday night.

A new set - "excitingly" entitled Onslaught (Yawn) - has just been released. Apparently even seasoned old hands like me are meant to get excited by a new set and get caught up in the buzz. I couldn't be more underwhelmed than if you poked me with a Rod of Underwhelming.

[Insert bad random magic joke]

Rod of Underwhelming
Artifact
Common
2 casting cost
Tap: Target player is underwhelmed by new cards - especially Rod of Underwhelming.
"It's a stick..."

Anyway, there were 17 guys there at the Donnington Arms pub, a reasonably impressive number of players for a midweek draft event. However, it transpired that 9 of them were only there to collect boxes of the new product from Rob and cleared off immediately on receiving the goods.

I can't understand this: They travel into Oxford, wait for an hour for the cards to turn up, are willing to pay over £100 for 2 boxes of cardboard junk, but don't actually want to PLAY the game they quite clearly love. It's bizarre.

The other thing about last night was the continued total lack of welcoming reception for new attendees at the group. Two Japanese guys (one with girlfriend in tow) turned up to play and were met by the usual Oxford Arena League greeting: Silence. They were ignored. Except by me. I yet again had to try and disprove the fact that the vast majority of UK magic players are boring runts with zero social skills.

As usual I failed ;)

I just hope I did enough to ensure they felt welcomed sufficiently to return in the future.

Won't be there this week though: England play Macedonia.

So Solid Crew Stole My Wallet

Vic's just phoned me to ask me to ask if I've seen her purse: It's not in her bag and she's worried that she's lost it. "Did I see it on the kitchen table this morning?". Unfortunately I can't remember, and as we left the house at the same time, I certainly didn't have an opportunity to recon the kitchen and spot it after she'd driven off.

As there has been a spate of thefts at Vic's work, she's obviously concerned that it might have been pinched. The purse is probably sat in the fruit bowl at home, but that won't stop Vic - and me - imagining that it is in the hands of a member of So Solid Crew on a fraudulent shopping sweep of Oxford Street.

Losing your wallet is a cold-sweat inducing experience. Feelings of helplessness, foolishness and the nagging worry that a crim is taking a ride on your credit, mean that I for one cannot concentrate on anything else until my huge wad of crisp fifty pound notes and gleaming gold cards is rediscovered.


The Tories Shoe Shop

Coming back from table tennis last night - we lost and I failed to win a single set - I was tuned into Radio 5 Live. They were broadcasting from the Conservative Party Conference in Brighton, and running a little phone-in competition: "If the Tories ran a shoe shop, what would the store be named?"

I can't find the results on their website, and switched off before my suggestion was aired (if at all). Therefore I don't know if my entry was a winner.

Judge for yourself:

"Lost Soles"

It has suitably dark and demonic undertones. Perhaps "Lost Soles & Jackboots" would have introduced a sufficiently fascist element too, but I only thought of that after I'd managed to get through - first time - on the phone.

At least it was better than "Down At Heel"...

Fifty Pence Might Buy A Mars Bar

This is the email I received from Lynn this morning regarding Jamie's collection:

"I cannot f*ckin believe it. £2.50 between V,M,T & L."

I guess V put in £1, but considering her circumstances, that's fine. M, T and Lisa therefore managed to donate a grand total of £1.50 towards the leaving collection of their boss.

Jamie has looked out for them for the last two years, protected them from themselves, developed them, and held their hands when they've been bitching to him. Most bosses would have slapped them down after about 10 minutes. We all know that they don't like him very much - for no good reason btw. But fifty pence each is an insult. Lynn and I are disgusted. They couldn't even be bothered to write anything nice in his card either. Mandy wrote "It's been interesting!". WTF does that mean?!

It's not even as if he's chosen to leave of his own accord: he's been forced out through redundancy. He's been cast adrift with no job, and at 53 he is understandably concerned at what the future now holds.

Fifty f*ckin pence.

This is another chalk mark on the "Reasons to Leave" blackboard for me. I'll be lucky to get 20p each out of them.

F*ck em as Lynn would say.

He's Only Gone and Published It

Life can be full of surprises...

is the sort of thing insurance salesmen say. There is a fine line between insurance and bookmaking, and just as a bookie is never wrong, you can bet your bottom ten pence piece that life really can be full of surprises.

Unfortunately they're not always pleasant.

Justin Ruffles has finally told the rest of the world his Metropolitan Line story (dated October the 5th). Read it and generate the same feeling as if Audrey the cat deposited a little surprise for you in your slippers.


When I Grow Up, I Want To Be

A rag and bone man.

Vic and her mum depressed me last night by pointing out my current total lack of ambition and drive. They asked me what direction I'd like to travel when reaching my next career crossroads.

After much deliberation, I've decided to allow myself to be influenced by Bargain Hunt and the Brazilian kitchen helper here at work. I will make my fortune from buying tat at car boot sales - or picking it off a rat infested Sao Paulo rubbish tip - and reselling it on ebay for a tidy profit. This is the best thing I could come up with.

I should have collected those hubcaps.

The Dog Reads This

Like most normal people, I occasionally snore.

Last night I was not only snoring, but according to my wife, I was softly wimpering in my sleep - just like the dog does when he's having forty winks. This is weird, as I had a number of bizarre dreams last night, including quite a graphic one where I was chasing rabbits...

The dog's name is Nelson btw. As in Admiral Nelson. A mighty fine name for such a noble creature as my dog *. If SAUW can link to a photo of her cat, I can link to a photo of Admiral Nelson.

Sally and David have apparently got themselves a new kitten. Whilst my dog is named after our great British Naval hero Nelson - a name that stirs the blood and conjures up images of courage, sturdiness and honour - Sally and David have named their kitten Audrey. The name Audrey justs conjures up images of Coronation Street for me.


* When I say "my" dog, I mean my in-laws dog of course, but it's common knowledge in our family that he loves me the most. As a result, he is, for all intents and purposes - apart from vet fees and food costs - my dog. He is probably reading this blog - and preparing to email me (again) - right now too.

The Awareness Course

An announcement has just come over our telephone tannoy system to inform us that the "Property Awareness Training Course" is about to begin.

Presumably, if it is a Basic Property Awareness Training Course, the tutor is going stand next to his wall-projected PowerPoint presentation saying "This is a door... this is a window... and this is an internal wall."

The Advanced Course deals with lifts, stairways and water-coolers.

Our storeman, Victor, reckons he's been on a Shelf Awareness Course.

Bob's Big Coconuts Gag

Vicster has always been a bit paranoid about her health.

A bang on the head, or a mild headache, is an indication that she probably has a brain tumour. A gammy toenail means she will probably have her leg surgically removed by the Doctor. A wasp sting will probably induce an allergic reaction severe enough to swell her head to twice its normal size and kill her.

I love my wife.

So a report in The Sunday Times about the increased risk of breast cancer for daughters of mothers who were given anti-miscarriage drugs in the early 1970's pushed the usual paranoia button. Thankfully Vic's mum and dad are staying with us this week, so Vic was able to ask her mum about it and have it confirmed that there was no additional risk to her.

During this conversation, Bob managed to comment - under his breath - on Ann's boobs during her pregancy with Vic.

"They were like a big pair of coconuts..." said Bob.

"Hard and hairy!"

It's Bob's best ever joke.

Another Giant-Killing

Oxford United continued their run of glory with their fifth away win on the trot. A fine giant-killing Worthington Cup second round victory at Premiership Charlton. With no score after 120 minutes of play, it went to the dreaded penalties, and up popped the mighty Jefferson Louis to put the winner into the net. 6-5 was the final tally. Considering Jefferson was playing for Thame just a few months ago, his goal must rank as the most exciting football moment for Thame since the "Thame Boys" St. George flag was seen draped over the advertising hoardings on the halfway line at the England versus Argentina World Cup match.

Jefferson was quoted on Radio Five Live this morning as saying it could be "the start of The Jefferson Louis Era".

That would make a great blog spot name.

The Result

Final score of 9 – 1 in Sports favour. John and Dave Junior surprisingly picked up the doubles with some unorthodox play. I struggled as predicted, losing all three games in straight sets. I didn’t disgrace myself and it was a good exercise, but it was a little frustrating: Sports put out a weakened side against us, and five years ago I’d have easily won all three of my games. I’m just not the player that I was, and until I get nearer to my old standards, it’s going to be a very frustrating time for me.

Last night also reminded me of some of the reasons why I retired from the sport in the first place:

Mickey Mouse organisation – the league secretary had forgotten that there were matches on at our home venue and therefore nobody turned up to unlock the premises until 7:50 (matches should start at 7:30 – we were stood outside from 7:15).

Length of matches – we managed to play the match on two tables last night, reducing the evening’s play time by 50%. We still didn’t finish until 10:15. The thought of away matches with 11:30 finishes, with half an hour’s travelling time back home on a chilly January night, fills me with dread.

Blisters – I have a corker on my twiddling finger. My poor soft skin.

Cheerless players – any night out should be entertaining or rewarding, but the majority of table tennis players in the UK seem to have had personality bypasses. Two of my opponents last night even had pudding bowl haircuts and looked as if sunlight would disintegrate them. Visualise the nice Thermian aliens from Galaxy Quest. Playing against wooden stakes would have been more enjoyable.


Bad News

We’ve just had a company meeting. 14 people from our office are being made redundant. Surprisingly, I’m not one of them, but my colleague Jamie – who I would put behind me in the chopping block order – is. As Jamie is a) a nice guy and b) a rock of sanity for me in the face of J M T, he is going to be sorely missed.

I am in some shock.

http://www.alicia-logic.com/capspages/caps_viewall.asp?criteria=Title&term=Galaxy_Quest

The Return of The Twiddler

Bashing the nasty brickwork to bits has left me with an injury akin to that resulting from too much Uncle Hanking *.

It's not the sort of handicap you need when you are about to relaunch your table tennis career after five years away from the sport.

On top of the tightness in my right arm, I'm also struggling to walk after playing paintball on Saturday with the guys from work (see below for Paintball Report).

Best to get my excuses in first as I am going to get thrashed tonight. Our league match is against the Manchester United of the Aylesbury and District TT Premier League, Sports 'A'. I'll be lucky to get to 15 points against any of my opponents and I confidently predict a ten-nil match score against us.

However, even if the clock was turned back five years ago and I was at the top of my game, I'd still be lucky to pick up one out of three singles, so I'm not too worried about tonight. As long as I don't embarass myself too much, I'll try to enjoy it and use it as a decent practice match for future league games.

I shall also take great pleasure in lying to the Sports A captain that my little brother - who was unbeatable in this league for years, and robbed said opponent of many a trophy and tournament title - is also going to make a comeback later this season. He's not of course, but the look of fear in their eyes should be priceless...

Returning to my opening theme, I'm likely to be very stiff tomorrow.


The Paintball Report

I get to play paintball probably once every two years. When the sun is out, as it was on Saturday, it is an activity that is hard to beat in terms of exercise, excitement, rush and plain good fun. I don't know anyone who has played the game and not enjoyed the experience. My play of the day was taking out five blue team enemies - including the blue team captain in a fearless bum rush attack - in a single defend the village scenario, before having my ass shot in a friendly-fire incident.

I have the blue team captain's head stuffed and hanging on the wall above my desk.


* Tony Boydell would say that you can never over Uncle Hank.

The Fireplace

Our house is a typical Victoria terraced property. Built at modest cost in the 1890’s for local railway workers, compared to many modern builds, our house has a reassuring feeling of solidity: Nice solid brickwork and proper plaster. Much of this aura of solidity is of course just an illusion, as we are slowly discovering to our cost.

Friday should have seen Paul the Plasterer patching up the blown plaster in our living room (as per the schedule of works for HIP #4), and then skimming the whole joint on the Saturday. Unfortunately - as is always the case with building work - things are never as simple as they first appear. Paul called me up at work to inform me that there were more patches of blown “bad” plaster than “good”, and he was recommending that the whole lot should be stripped off. He wasn’t taking us for a ride. The bad news was firstly the cost – a doubling of his fee from £300 to £600 – and secondly the fact that he didn’t have sufficient materials or manpower to do the job until a week on Monday.

That’s another week of living in a mess and another week closer to my exam. It also means that our new stairway carpet (being laid on Thursday) will be in severe danger of getting trashed by plaster-encrusted workmen’s boots.

The only good news resulting from this delay is the fact that we now have time to deal with the fireplace. And by “deal with” I mean using a 1 kg lump hammer to pulverise it to dust. The previous occupants – supreme idiots that they were – decided to build a thoroughly nasty brick and tile hearth and decorative shelves around the existing fireplace. We don’t know what possessed them to construct such a tasteless monstrosity in such a small room. The room is 12 foot by 11 foot and the fireplace was taking up at least 10 to 15 percent of the available space.

Not anymore though: the brick hearth and shelves are now taking up the space of 12 rubble bags and are ready to join Stashers Pistachio Pants in the Great Skip in the Sky.

Vicster is extremely happy with the result. We have suddenly expanded our living space and the room, once finished, is going to look so much better than it did. As a big bonus, the removal of the shelves has uncovered a little patch of damp that can now be sorted and prevented from coming back to haunt us and our new plaster.

A very shiny silver lining.


A Random Shout-Out

One of the benefits of writing under a stupid pseud like Nobby Dobscrub is that nobody else in the entire world shares the name, so tracking what you’ve said, or what other people have said about you, is relatively easy.

Last week I typed “Dobscrub” into google expecting the usual magic newsgroup postings and articles to pop up in the results. I was slightly surprised to discover The Wonderful World Of at the top of the list (that means random visitors are linking to it – “Hello Random Visitor!”) and in the second slot, another blog entitled Star Lines.

What is cool about the Star Lines link is the fact that the blog’s author is a professional writer. Not only does this give me some much needed writing kudos [wink] but is my first piece of positive feedback from a stranger. Go check out her writing tricks for some solid advice with a smile.

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..."

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..."

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…

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!"

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...

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...

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 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.

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.