Ear We Go, Ear We Go, Ear We Go!

No scalpel and no Van Gogh profile. The strains of Little Green Bag are not playing. It's something to do with the cartilage, rather than a cyst, or cancer, or cauliflower ears. The Doc said to leave it -- the growth will either disappear or grow to the size of a pea. If it gets pea-sized, they'll whip it off, anything smaller isn't worth the mess and risk of infection.

I look like a freak.



The School Play Review

I didn't get round to blogging up my review of the WWII epic put on by Emma's school. I was truly amazed by their talents. We had laughed beforehand about what I would have written for them to act -- a full blown reconstruction of the whole war -- but I've got to say that they could have coped with anything.

As it was, the play was the usual "what was it like for the children of London during the Blitz?!" affair. We got excited at the scene listing in the programme -- "The D-Day Landings" & "Pearl Harbour" -- which seemed to promise papermache arms and legs being blown-off Saving Private Ryan style, but unfortunately Emma's glue budget must have dried up so the Special FX were restricted to radio announcements and sounds of The Mysterons / Cybermen attacking.

Best line (apart from the one below) was:

"Frank, meet Hank... Hank, meet Frank..."

Here's the PC email I sent to Emma the next day (for reading out to the kids). Typically she has failed to respond.

"Hello Emma / Miss C

Just a quick note to tell you how much I enjoyed last night's school play.

I thought the acting, dancing and singing was of an excellent standard. So too, the costumes and set design.

The rousing finale was particularly passionate and moving. Gareth and I sang along with the chorus of "There will always be an England". Cracking, patriotic, stuff.

My favourite line of the play was:

"Let's 'ava cuppa tea!" -- it summed up all that is great about Britain and captured the spirit of the East End of London during the Blitz. People supporting each other in the country's darkest hour.

The hall looked great too: I loved the painted aeroplanes -- they gave the hall the right atmosphere.

Two slight disappointments for me:
1) The homemade lemonade ran out before I got a glass.
2) You didn't sing the "Spam, spam, spam, spam!" song.

Never mind...

I'm really looking forward to the next play. Well done everyone!

All the best

Nobby

(Not Scott)"

Ear Today, Gone Tomorrow

On Friday I noticed that I've got a growth on the top of my ear. It looks like a blister but is hard and making the rest of the ear red. It's probably just a cyst, but it's freaking me out -- I'm obviously thinking the worse. I've booked an appointment at the doctors for an hour's time. Hopefully they will take a scalpel and whip it off.

The cyst, not the ear.

I'm hoping the disfigurement will not be as great as Evander Holyfield's.

Who Do You Think You Are Kidding?

You may remember that I was up for writing and directing Emma's (primary) school play about WWII.

She dropped me, in favour of some random teacher, without even a word in explanation*.

Oh the fickle world of the theatre.

Tonight is opening night and Emma has invited us along. Although I had considered boycotting the red carpet, I'm not bitter, so we will be attending.

I'm taking along a notepad and camera to record the show, and aid my full and frank review of it tomorrow. If it's not up to scratch, she'll get both barrels, Winner's Dinners style.

I'm just worried that the parents might think I'm a pervert, photographing and making notes on their children...


* She probably feared that I would have the kids dressed up in replica SS uniforms.

Baby Blog Boom

You want to know how the pregnancy is going. Am I right?!

Then you need to keep tabs on Vicster's new blog. She's finally succumbed to the lure of the Blog. And its pretty darn good too. Fat Ladies Club online. BTW, the pink colours are not a clue to the sex of our baby. No siree.

Action Cow

A cow that attempts to wipe out your car and pregnant wife by lurking in its field, until the very last moment, and then leaping up over a stone wall inches from your front hood. Native to single track roads in Cornwall. Highly dangerous. Once their attack is foiled by ABS and a screaming wife, they look at you blankly -- whilst you reprimand them for a couple of minutes -- trying to act as innocently as possible.

I love cows, but these blighters make even me swing towards dairy intolerence.

Heave Tally Ho

JT is a fox, so he must be happy at the news that the House of Commons has at last voted to ban fox hunting in England. I know I am. Unnecessary, barbaric and cruel, it serves no purpose other than to provide toffs with a leisure pursuit.

I've heard arguments such as "We need to hunt foxes to protect our lambs and chickens.... if you've ever seen what a fox does to a coop of chickens, you'll know what we mean!".

My retort: "Instead of spending all that money on purchasing and maintaining a horse, its gear and your fancy riding boots and red hunting jackets, why don't you protect your chickens by investing in a new fox-proof fence."

"But's its traditional!"

"And so was bear-baiting, denying women the vote, stoning people to death, and persecuting Jews."

"But hunting supports the whole economy of rural life!"

The pro-hunt protesters and Chessex Girls lobbying outside Parliament undermined themselves on TV by flashing their Harvey Nichs bags. They were clearly all from Chelsea and Knightsbridge, and the only time they'd ever been near a chicken was at The Ivy or Harrods foodhall.

Congratulations to our MPs: Welcome to the 21st Century.

New Blogger, Old Dog

I'm still getting used to this New Blogger set-up.
None of last weeks stuff was published.
I'm now in mega catch-up mode.

Starlines has dropped me too :(

"Update or Stagnate" - Me

jt

OK I admit it. I think Justin Timberlake is a fox. Forget Jackson or Prince ever existed. Justin is the new King of Pop.


Holiday Report

We were away on holiday in Cornwall last week. I didn't tell you before we left, as I have a fear that burglers scan blogs, spot where people live from clues -- intentional or otherwise -- written in those blogs, and then raid the empty homes whilst the bloggers are away.

A little paranoid perhaps, but I have images of Ruffles dressed in blue stripey shirt and black eye mask, holding a swag bag, circling our house like a vulture. The vision is completed with Simon -- in a Motty sheepskin coat -- lurking in the shadows ready to fence the goods.

In actuality the house was untouched.

Here's the holiday summary. Apologies if it's a bit "postcardy" or sounds like Kirk's Log:

Friday 13th

We travelled down to Bath in the afternoon. Glorious sunshine greets us -- we are clearly blessed by Minera, the Roman sun goddess. Bath is a beautiful city, the Regency stonework reflecting the light and providing a dignified and graceful atmosphere. We took a cheesy open-top bus tour of the city, seeing all the tourist sites: The Royal Cresent, the Abbey, Jane Austen's house, Charles Dickens' house, and the rows and rows of classic Georgian properties -- currently being filmed for the Hollywood version of Vanity Fair. I didn't spy that hot blonde american chick Alicia Sliverstone though.

We toured the ancient Roman baths and spa by foot. Rich in history and well worth a visit. The warm waters still bubble up from the sacred spring, and although you can partake of a cup for 50p, we were advised by our tour bus guide not to taste it: It's like rusty bath water.

Our hotel was average.

We were treated to a performance by the worlds worst street "entertainer": after irritating a whole square full of people for an hour, not one single person threw a penny in his hat. He was reduced to begging people to give him some money. That always works: irritated people for an hour with shit music and humourless "comedy" and then -- once they are ready to kill you -- ask them for money.


Saturday a.m.

Sunshine. A trip to Cheddar Gorge and its caves. I wouldn't bother again: it's full of gift shops selling tat. The smaller of the cave networks was apparently Tolkein's inspiration for Helms Deep. In their wisdom, the local people have therefore turned this cave into a REALLY BAD Lord of the Rings-esque walk-through for kids, complete with red-eyed goblins, wraiths and demon lord. Incredibly naff and -- this is the best bit -- frightening for their target market. The little boys who were in front of us were TERRIFIED by it and wanted to leave.


Saturday p.m.

Up to Bristol, we stayed overnight at the contemporary Hotel du Vin. Very swish and comfortable apart from the lack of air-con: it was one of the hottest evenings of the year and it felt like it in our room. We had to make do with an open window, a fan, and sweaty pants.

Wandered around the redeveloped dock area of the city and had a pint by the river. Lots of trendy young people.


Sunday

Travelled down to Cornwall in sunshine. As far as Lands End. [For my american readers, grab a map of the UK -- its the far SW tip of the country. Hence Lands End]. We were accommodated in Sally's cottage near St Just. The cottage was damp, due to its location next to its own stream, but ideally located for exploring from, and only a short walk from the coast. Most importantly, it was quiet and out of the way, exactly what we wanted for our week of "getting away from things".


Monday

We were woken up at 5.30 a.m. by someone knocking at the front door. Twice. By the time I'd got downstairs they'd disappeared. Freaky. We reckoned it was either an early bird from the Youth Hostel up the road messing about or a ghost.

With hindsight I think it might have been an Action Cow.

Another day of sunshine and a visit to St Michael's Mount at Penzance. When the tide is out you can walk across the sands to the Mount and its harbour, when the tide is high, it is surrounded by the sea. We walked across and took a boat ride around the island later. A steep climb to the fortifications and house at the top rewarded us with a magnificent 360 view of the area and a glimpse of the Giant's Heart.

Legend has it that a giant built the Mount and protected it from harm. But he got a bit too big for his already sizeable boots, so the locals sent a clever kid to kill him. The boy dug a pit, then teased the giant, who lumbered into it and was killed. The giant's heart dried as hard as stone in the sun, and was incorporated into the stone pathway that leads to the top of the Mount.

I don't know what happened to the kid.


Part 2 tomorrow, including an explanation of what an Action Cow is.
[Moooo!]

Party Poopers

Went to Sara & Stasher's party at the weekend. A disappointing turn-out of E List celebrity media people were in attendance. Nina was there, but Lucy Alexander wasn't. Greg was back from his 5 weeks of embedded reporting in the Gulf. Thankfully his only war wound was a touch of sunburn. I cooked my usual raspberry and almond torte. Giant garden Jenga and pick-up sticks were played. Sara drank enough to be sick the next day. We were going to stay over, but as a result of pregnancy and hay fever, Vic and I were both knackered, so we drove back from Blackheath to Thame at 1 a.m.

Pleased we did too, as the party ended at 4 a.m. -- far too late for me these days.


Pass Me The Hole. The Big One.

Went down the pub with some of Vic's work mates on Friday evening, to the Goose in Gloucester Green, Oxford. The pub used to be called the Brewhouse, and I remember it as being fitted out with its original features, tiny tucked-away old rooms, and saturated with atmosphere.

The company who now own the place, have ripped all that out and replaced it with tasteless identi-kit new pub decor. Another part of Oxford's pub hertitage has been consigned to the dustbin and replaced with soulless tat.

So we're sat outside in the pub garden, enjoying the evening sunshine. I'm talking to Catherine. She keeps asking me to repeat myself. Vic always says that I mumble and don't speak loud enough, so I think it's me. Eventually I get frustrated at having to repeat myself and -- rather aggressively -- ask Catherine "are you deaf or something?!".

And as the last word exited from my lips, I remembered that the last time we met, Catherine explained that she was deaf in one ear.

Pass me the hole so I can hide in it.

It was on par with Emma [Vic's bridesmaid] -- rather aggressively -- telling Tam [my sister-in-law] "it's not as if your parents have died in a car crash or something!"

Ummm... yes they did Emma...


Amsterdamned

Keir and Adam were in 'Dam over the weekend. I'll give you the stories tomorrow.

Blooming Outrage

We bought a flower cone from Habitat a few weeks ago. It's a hanging basket, but shaped liked a big metal ice cream cone. We planted some pansies in it and positioned the cone outside our front door. Remember, our house is a Victorian terrace, so it's right on the street. To deter the casual thief, we screwed the cone onto the wall. The pansies really brightened the street up.

Of course it was only a matter of time.

And last Friday, in the wee small hours, our cone was ripped from the wall by a couple of drunken fools and carried off into the night.

We were dismayed to discover the theft on Saturday morning. We'd half expected it to get pinched since putting it up, but the act of mindless vandalism still managed to upset. I had a wander up the road, away from the town centre -- thinking the drunks were walking home from the pub --in the vain hope of finding and reclaiming the cone.

Despite peering into every garden and over every fence, I could not locate it. I even put myself in their shoes, thinking if I'd had nicked it, what would I have done with it. Launching it from the old railway bridge was a strong contender, but only a pair of broken stolen bicycles lay in the nettlebeds below.

We resigned ourselves to having lost our little piece of street improvement and cursed those responsible all weekend.

On Sunday evening we had a walk into town. And what did we discover discarded against a fence? The cone, minus flowers, bent and buckled out of shape. It's a shame, but it won't be going up again outside the front door. Retirement in the back garden beckons for it.

The drunks must of been coming home from the rugby club...

Summer's Here At Last

March was a false weather dawn. It was a beautiful month weather-wise, with sunshine and temperatures well above the norm.

April and May were wash-outs.

However, Monday saw a turnabout in the UK's weather fortunes, and summer has arrived at last. I've got the David Beckham-esque sandals and linen trousers on. I didn't have time to gloss my toenails though. I'm looking forward to a weekend of BBQs and cool beers. The heady heights of 26 degrees in the sun.

We were out in the garden last night, grilling some sausages and sweetcorn, listening to a summer Ibiza CD, and just enjoying being outside after the days work.

BTW, Vicster gives the thumbs up to alcohol-free Becks. Unlike most other alcohol-free beers, it actually tastes like beer. No nasty aftertaste either.


Digital Cameras = Fun

I'm getting into our digital camera now. They are so much fun. I feel that I can afford to take frivolous shots of random things now, as if they don't work, I can just delete them. I'm not wasting film on duff photos and my shots are getting increasingly adventurous. A couple of the photos from our Brighton trip have really worked: Some ugly old fishing boats and tackle, and a stack of pebbles on the beach.

Having read an article about an artist who creates and photographs natural objects that he has manipulated in their natural environment, I thought I'd try the same. We were sat on Brighton Beach, next to the pier, so I stacked up half a dozen pebbles into a tower and photographed them at close range (with the pier in the background).

I'm naming it "Brighton Rocks".

Vicster reckons its good enough to print out, frame and display for sale in her mum and dad's gallery. It isn't that good, but I'm game for a laugh, and it might sell for 20 quid. That would be a towering achievement.

I'm tempted to upgrade to Blogger Pro so I can start posting some images up.

Welcome Back

It's been a while.

Exams and the revision they required, plus a Financial Year-end at work, have meant that blogging has been cast aside.But with the exams out of the way, the rickety Blog Bandwagon can restart its one manpower engine and chug gently into the summer.


What Exams?

My final stage CIMA exams. Business strategy papers. Masters-level. Four exams, each of three hours, over the course of two days. 100+ A4 pages of hand-writing. Highly stressful and a real test of time management. Of the four exams, I'm hopeful of passing two of them, but have little confidence in the others. With baby due in September, and retakes scheduled for November, I really need to have passed at least half of them, as revising with a newborn in the house will not be easy.

Results come out at the end of July. Keep your fingers and toes crossed.


Baby

We had the 20 week scan. Everything checked out normal. All the boxes were ticked. We came away with a freaky scan photo, a copy of which is sat on my desk at work. You can see the lenses in baby's eye sockets.

Vic is showing quite nicely now. She's suffering a little discomfort -- from the stretching -- and complaining of a lack of fitting trousers.


Dates

I turned 32. Vic turned 29. We had our 2nd wedding anniversary.


Jacob

Had his eyes tested. He was worried beforehand as he thought the doctors were going to take his eyes out in order to test them.
After the doctors explained that they wre only going to ask him to look at things to make sure he could see OK, Jacob said:

"It's OK... Mummy cut my hair last week and I can see fine now!"


Events

We went to Oxford's hot air "Balloon Festival". It was too windy. As a result, no balloons. Scott rechristened it the great Balloon Fiasco. We saw the world-famous Oxford Inbred Terrier Racing Display Team instead. Seeing those little pups jump through rings of fire made up for the zero balloons. I kept expecting to see a black van pull up... with armed RSPCA SWAT team guys leaping out.

We went to Brighton for Emma's 30th birthday. A cracking weekend. Brighton is great. Unlike most English seaside towns, it's a nice place to visit. I'd expected a nasty cross between Blackpool and Margate, but discovered a clean, trendy and beautiful seaside town, with super shops and a cafe culture. Remove the traffic and it's a place I'd like to live.

"Oh we do like to be beside the seaside..."


Greyhounds

My work sports and social club are off the the greyhounds tonight. Using this as an excuse, I've put trap numbers -- in authentic greyhound colours -- on each of the cubicle doors in the gents toilet.

They look great and offer a saucy gambling opportunity: I just need to install a web cam in there and I could make $millions from gambling internet punters.

"Who will finish first?! Bet now!"

Beth Orton Gig Review

We went to see the glorious Beth Orton at the Royal Albert Hall the week before last: As Beth may well end up reading this, I must let her know that she was excellent.

For someone with so much talent, it amazes me how nervous she is on stage. We saw her a few years back at Shepherds Bush Empire, and between the magnificent music, she appeared to find it difficult to engage with her audience -- she was timid and like a little lost lamb in the lions den.

She was still nervous at the RBH for the first couple of tracks, but soon got into it, putting on a great show and managing to generate an intimate atmosphere (no mean feat considering the vastness of the hall's globe).

We were treated to the usual 9:00pm to 10:30pm main show, with Beth missing out a few crowd favourites so that she could come on for the standard first encore and play them.

Some foolish people left just before the end of this first encore, so missed the best section of the night: the second encore.

Whether it was because it was the last night of the Daydreamer tour, or because it was the Royal Albert Hall, Beth came on for a second, acoustic encore, which thrilled the audience and was worth the admission price on its own. Beautifully sung.

Add in our free parking, easy drive in and out of the city, and smashing dinner at Wagamama's in Kensington, and we had a great night out.

Nobby's recommendation: If you don't own a Beth Orton CD, you can get hold of both of her first albums for less than a crisp five pound note. You have no excuse not to treat yourself to some sublime tunes from the best female singer-songwriter in the UK.


Norwich

Beth is from Norwich. Sara used to live there during her Anglia TV days.

Dean and Nigel live there too. They were in the Times magazine last Saturday. Their brand of comedy consists of dressing up in props and impersonating ordinary people in the street. They call it "blending".

I love that sort of thing. Check out their website. The later galleries are the best -- the early ones are a bit crap.

Apparently Norwich offers them a wealth of blending opportunities, as the town (according to Dean and Nigel) is full of people with no dress sense.

That would account for Sara's new poncho then...

A Little Flutter 1

My horse came second in our work Grand National sweepstake. The £14 winnings offset the loses from my proper bets on the race: those nags finished 5th and fell five fences from home.

I do like the Grand National. As a pure horse race it's not very good -- it's more like a cavalry charge than a race -- but it has enough grandeur and English eccentricity to make it a marvellous spectacle. With over 500 million people watching it live worldwide, it ranks as one of the world's great annual sporting occasions.

Aintree ignored this fact for many years, but I've noticed over the last couple of outings that the race course organisers have been making more of an effort to promote the race and make it feel more "British" for the 400m Chinese madly gambling on it: They have employed some awful opera singers to sing God Save the Queen and a miltary brass band -- full monty red uniforms with white feathers in their caps -- to trumpet the start of the race.

There's also the glamour factor: this year the Celebrity Tent included the cast of Hollyoaks and John Parrot.



A Little Flutter 2

Far more exciting was what happened last night.

Let's try an experiment:

Put your right hand flat -- and palm face-down -- onto the table.
Place your left hand over the right, so that the middle joint of your right index finger sits beneath the centre of your left hand palm.
Now try to flex your right index finger.
The slight pressure and movement is remarkably similar to what I experienced last night when Louis squirmed and wriggled about in Vics tummy.

It was the first time (externally) that we could feel him moving around.

Very cool and very exciting!

Freedom Fries

Lynn's just got back from her Florida and the Bahamas wedding & honeymoon. She reported that the Americans are so disappointed with the stance of the French on their Iraq campaign, that they are not only boycotting French products, but have also renamed "French Fries"...

..."Freedom Fries".

Good for the Yanks, that what I say. It's about time the pesky French had a taste of their own medicine, having illegally boycotted perfectly good (and safe) British beef for years.

Perhaps the good old Yanks would like some of our prime BSE-free beef-burgers to go with their Freedom Fries?

Shrink-wrapped Choppers

Replacement Black Hawk helicopters were shipped into Umm Qasr yesterday. They were shrink-wrapped in transit to protect them from the elements.

It's a good thing they weren't bubble-wrapped as the air crew engineers would have take ages to get them assembled...


Ikea Snake Update

It clicked for the first time last night that with Louis on his way in September, I have a valid excuse to finally purchase an Ikea Snake.


Pregnancy Diary

Vicster has been worried that her bump isn't as big as it should be at this stage (16 weeks) of the pregnancy. She's been getting freaked out by the number of people telling her she's "not putting much weight on", etc.

She got it into her head that something might be wrong with Louis.

I've been very cool about it: no worries as everyone develops and shows at a different pace.

Thankfully a quick chat to my brother and his wife -- who have been through the whole thing twice now -- managed to allay Vic's fears.

It's all perfectly normal.

Blue-On-Blue

The general public here in the UK seem to have no idea about what war is really like. Listeners to BBC Radio 5 Live keep phoning / texting in to voice their dismay over the "friendly fire" incidents that seen to strike British troops every day in Iraq.

Blue-on-blue fire is not a new phenomenon. Desert Storm, The Falklands, Korea and Vietnam, WWII... every modern conflict has had its share of accidents.

If you go back further -- to the Napoleanonic Wars or American Civil War -- there are records of whole infantry units being cut down by their own artillery or fellow infantry. The literal fog of war in these conflicts contributed to the tragedies.

When the men who pull the trigger are in combat, they are pumped on adrenaline, full of fear and excitement, scared of death and acting on instinct and programmed responses from repetitive training. When the thunder and confusion of battle arrives and they are forced to make split-second decisions on matters of life and death -- to ensure their own, and their comrades, survival -- mistakes in target indentification are impossible to prevent.

Modern warfare has its own fog of war. In Iraq our troops do not distinguish themselves from the enemy by wearing redcoats -- friend and foe look alike. The blood and thunder of artillery and gunfire is still present. The dust, smoke and black of night, concealing the people in the field, are still there. Adrenaline and fear still pump through the veins.

The people who have contacted Radio 5 Live, insinuating that the MoD and the US military are gung-ho, negligent idiots, who should be brought to account for the disgraceful "avoidable" blue-on-blue casualities, need to get themselves a reality check.


I recommend a few games of paintball, where you will soon discover that you are just as likely to be tagged by your own side as by the enemy.

It is a testament to the training, bravery, responsibility and restraint of both UK and US forces, that more "friendly-fire" incidents haven't happened.

Going Loco In Blackheath

We had a great weekend. On the Friday I caught up with my old workmates in Marvellous Maidenhead. On Saturday we travelled into London... and then straight out again -- with Sara and Stasher -- down to the beautiful Bodiam Castle.

Draw a picture of a medieval castle with a moat. That's what Bodiam looks like.

On Saturday night we headed out to "BBC TV Celebrity Chef" Tony Allan's new restaurant in Blackheath called Loco. Amateur review time:

Food: Italian. Good value (£4 starter, £10 main course). I had goats cheese encrusted in walnut, pan-fried and served on a bed of baby spinach, followed by a pumpkin, leek and fontina cheese risotto. The goats cheese was excellent, the risotta a little cold.

Service: Poor. Our waitress forgot to give us any cutlery for the main course and over-charged us for two beers. The service staff were clearly getting used to the whole set-up. Early days and all that. Worse though was the fact that they had managed to "lose" our table booking and the place was packed. Some discreet prodding from Stasher ensured we got seated after a half hour wait. Not impressed by it though.

Atmosphere: Intimate decor, lounge bar, rich colours and dark wood. Busy, noisy and smoky. Open kitchen area and moody lighting. Pretty good on the whole.

Quick Round Up

Vic and I are both Pro-War. As this is a quick round up, I'll keep it at that for now: go read the 100,000 new "The Madness of [King] George" blogs that will have undoubtably appeared over the last two weeks if you want war coverage.

We've bought a digital camera so (a) Vic can use it in her web design projects and (b) I can take some "flick-book" style photos of her growing bump. A visual diary of our pregnancy.

Vic wants to take up knitting.

We've ripped the kitchen out. Back to the brickwork. I managed to saw through a pipe whilst the mains water was still on. It was pressurised and a HOT water pipe. You don't know how much fun it is sticking your hand over the end of a hot pipe, feeling the water get hotter and hotter and watching the bucket below filling rapidly. I confess that I did indeed shout at Vic to go and turn the stop-cock off...

The plasterers have made good. I need to damp-proof the floor, level it with compound and fit some sort of flooring -- either quarry tiles or lino -- before the fitters arrive in two weeks time. That's two weeks of salads, one-pot meals and take-aways.

In the meantime we're off to Sara and Stashers for the weekend: to catch up, give them their Christmas present (!) and escape the dust.

Prang Goes The Membership

The dent in the Rover's boot was entirely my fault. It was caused by a scaffold pole sticking out the back of a van. The rear window of the car doesn't have a wiper. It was wet and the sun was shining on it, meaning I couldn't see a thing out the back of the car. I used the wing mirror to reverse out of my parking space at the garage and saw the van but not the pole.

Result: A good sized dent in the boot and my membership of the Rover Club revoked. The Club's Grand Master has written to me in disgust.

"You have been found guilty of willfully neglecting your beautiful luxury motor. By the power invested in me by The Walnut Trim, I hereby black-ball you from our secret society."

And I don't wear a tie to work either.


Nostrildamus

I still have sinusitis. The antibiotics I had a few weeks back were weak and only cleared the problem up for a few days. Last week I was worse than ever. A return trip to the doctors has provided me with a second course of antibiotics, this time much stronger. I am also inhaling Olbas oil through a £50 note.

The medicine seems to be working though. After three days of treatment, my nostrils are finally seeing some movement. Rather disturbingly I found what looked like a black watermelon pip in the usual yellow mucus after this mornings "first blow". A bead of ancient blood, from the depths of my infected sinuses. Sweet.


Red Nose Day

What with the sinusitis its been red nose day for me for the last 12 weeks, but tomorrow is the big comedy charity day. As a taste of what might happen here at work, three of the ladies from Customer Service today dressed up as:

A cow - with rubber udder
A pumpkin - with scary Halloween face
A tomato

For this they expected some sponsorship. It took me a little while to get the joke.

Meat and two veg.

We're Having A Baby

Vic's 13 weeks pregnant. How cool is that... I'm going to be a daddy!
She saw the midwife last week and everything seems OK - Vic heard the baby's heartbeat.
We get our scan in 7 weeks time: I can't wait.
Vic's been feeling very tired and a little queasy, but hasn't been chucking up the morning sickness.
Current names are Louis (but not in recognition of Jefferson Louis) and India.

Possible middle names include Ryan, David, Paul, Sebastian, Nicky, Michael, Gary, Phil, Wes, Roy, Rio, Ruud and Fabian.

The reason for my silence over the last few weeks should now be apparent: This has been the only thing on my mind. I didn't have anything else to think or write about. Its all consuming in an exciting way. There was no way I was going to announce it on this blog before the danger 12 week period was up, so my silence has literally been golden.

The clues have been there of course: the new big car (already dented btw) for example.

Join us in a celebratory toast.

Not So Disenfranchised After All

Watched the Brits - a tepid and manufactured affair. Thank goodness I'm not a teenager anymore: I'd have to pretend to like Bovril Lasagne and her fake rock chick performances. However, I'm not as disenfranchised as I thought: of the ten CDs we took up to Carlisle with us for the weekend, seven were nominated awards.

Still don't get the Urban category though, nor the reason why it had double the nominees of any other award...


Postmans Graveyard

Nelson The Dog loves his animal bones. They tend to end up sucked dried of all edible matter in Mop & Bob's front garden. He also loves visitors: he'll chase his tail, retrieve a cushion, jump up, salivate and bash his tail against you.

Ann was telling us the story of a recent visitor (we'll pretend he was a postman) coming to the door. Ann asked him to hold on a minute so she could put the dog away in the kitchen - so Nelson wouldn't go for the postman (i.e. lick him to death). When she opened the door to the postman, he motioned to the piles of bones in the garden and said:

"Are these the remains of people who you didn't put the dog away for?!"


Colditz

Started reading the definitive history of Colditz, 14 months after Daz & Tine bought me it: At last I'm starting to catch up with some outstanding reading. The book's a blast and really captures the spirit of the "game of escape". It reads like a work of fiction and it is therefore easy to forget that the death-defying feats and escape attempts of the prisoners really did happen.

The first Brit to escape was smuggled out in a straw mattress. He dressed up as a Hitler Youth, and via the train and a 50 km lift from two Gestapo officers, he managed, over the course of 23 days, to get to the American Consulate in Vienna. With no money, food, clothes or papers he asked the Americans not for a safe-haven or safe-passage back to England, but for a 20 mark note.

The generous Americans gave him nothing and turfed him out into the cold. He was picked up a few hours later by the Germans and returned to Colditz for a 28 day stay in solitary.


Footballing Lessons

It's not often that an Italian club is given a lesson in football, but Juve were on the end of one last night. Lippi described Man Utd as "world class". He wasn't wrong. Although Utd rode their luck in the first half, they were so impressive and in control, that the result didn't flatter them one bit. Veron and Butt gave Davids a masterclass in controlling the midfield. A 3-nil loss at home is about the biggest beating an Italian side has ever suffered in Europe. Roll on the quarterfinals.

The Dirge Awards

The Brits used to be an important date in the music calendar for me, but not anymore: I no longer work in the industry, am old and disenfranchised with pop music, and listen to Radios 2 and 5.

There was a great article in the Sunday Times at the weekend (copying one in the Observer from the week before) about the death of the British music industry. Our new "big UK acts" are actually small-fry and increasingly localised in popularity within the UK, let alone with any international appeal. Ms Dynamite, for example, has sold virtually all her records in the SE & London. She has zero appeal in Scotland, Wales and parts of the north of England.

Imagine the members of The Who - inflated to a giant size by a mad scientist's experiment - stood over the British music industry and wielding electric guitars like axes.

"Napster and free pirated MP3 downloads!" CHOP! - a giant Pete Townsend smashes his guitar onto the heads of the EMI, BMG and Sony CEOs...
"CD-Burners on home PCs!" CHOP!
"Illegal blackmarket, made in China, CD copies flooding the international markets!" CHOP!
"Supermarkets discounting CDs to £9.99 reducing record company margins, devaluing the product, killing independent retailers and ultimately limiting consumer choice" CHOP!

This year's Brits is alcohol-free: they can't afford the champagne and have nothing to celebrate anyhow...


Badly Drawn Darren [Kerr] will be there though.

Emma's Lovely Big Chest

Scott and Em have new bedroom furniture: a hulking great standalone wardrobe which takes over their bedroom in a "man-eating plant in a dentists surgery" kind of way (I assume - I haven't seen it yet). As we need the storage space, we have gratefully accepted secondhand ownership of their old fixtures and fittings: one large chest of drawers. Scott dropped them off before footie.

At last I can get my mucky hands on Emma's chest without fear of reprisals from Gareth!


Badly Drawn Darren

If you know Darren and have a copy of Badly Drawn Boy's new "Have you fed the fish?" CD, take a look at the bloke in the nun outfit on the front cover and tell me it isn't him.

If you don't know Darren, at least you now know what he looks like...


Going Loco

Vicster went a little crazy last night: She totally freaked out at 16 year old boy next door playing his records past 9 pm. She was seriously threatening to kill him by ten. At bedtime she had us transferred downstairs to bedroom 2, and then an hour later at 11:45 back upstairs to bedroom 1. This was just after Hell froze over. Her complaints might seem slightly irrational to outsiders, but are completely understandable to me after our "adventures" with the noisy ****s upstairs at our old flat.

Normally I would be going out to Weds Night Magic tonight, but I have decided to cancel: I'm worried that I'll get home to find Vic on the doorstep wearing a hockey mask and holding a butchers knife and severed teenagers head.

Hopefully she managed to get hold of some ear plugs at lunch time.

And The Ripper Was...

It took me a few more days to finish the book than originally expected.

Of the 140 suspects listed by Mr. Eddleston, he narrows the candidates -- who he believes have a "strong possibility" of being Jack the Ripper -- down to just two:

An unknown individual - i.e. the killer has yet to be identified by a writer.

George Hutchinson - a man who fits the numerous physical descriptions of Jack, who lived at the epicentre of the murder locations, who was spotted loitering outside the property where Mary Jane Kelly was butchered, came forward as a witness to this murder only after reading that he had been spotted by the other witness, whose witness statement was ludicrously detailed, and who disappeared from London at the time the murders stopped.

With the detail, John Eddleston puts forward a well-researched, convincing and non-sensationalist case for George Hutchinson. No crazy Masonic Conspiracy, no tenuous royal connections, no occult rituals, just one plain and simple serial killer. Well done Mr. Eddleston!


College Starts Again

They seem to start earlier and earlier each time: my final set of CIMA courses began last Thursday. It was Business Strategy. Surprisingly it wasn't half as tough as I'd expected it to be. The step up from stage 2 to stage 3 was pretty steep, and I was expecting the same from stage 3 to 4, but it was linear. The material itself was all stuff we had seen before. From what I could tell, it is only our application of that material -- in a far more strategic manner than before -- that has changed. I have nothing to fear.


Bumperty Bump Bump Bump

Went over to Windsor on Sunday. The idea was to have a pleasant stroll around town and scoot down to the river for a walk. It was bloody freezing, so we managed all of half an hour. The sun was out making Windsor Castle look fantastic, but it was just too frosty to enjoy it. Best time of the year to visit the town though: no hordes of tourists to get under your feet.

Everytime a jumbo jet flew overhead I found myself fighting an urge to hoist a pretend S2A missile launcher onto my shoulder. Bizarrre and disturbing, but true.

On the way back home we stopped in at the Sainsburys in Taplow. It's about 1/2 from Larry's house and I had the sneaking suspicion that we might bump into the Big Fella in the supermarket.

When we turned into the soap powder aisle I spied Larry's better-half, Carole, selecting her bleach (the toilet cleaning variety as opposed to hair / collar and cuffs), and got rather excited that Larry himself was hiding round the corner. Poor Carole - who was confused by my new glasses disguise and a weird answer to a straight-forward question - explained that Lazza was at home with his feet up: He had bullied Carole into doing the shopping whilst he watched the rugby on the telly and listening to a looped repeat of some Radio 4 comedy show...

Disgusted at Larry's behaviour, we decided not to pop round for a nice cuppa tea after the shopping.


Nobby Cheese

I forgot to mention that someone found this blog through a google search of "nobby cheese". It had to happen at some point I suppose [sigh].


Rip-Off Britain

I'm also shocked to discover a rip-off writer who has not only stolen my name but also ripped my blog title. Tosser.
Of course it could be an infinite monkey coincidence, but nobody would call themselves "Knobby" AND title their page "Wonderful..." would they?!

I Know Who Didn't Do It

You may remember me getting in a grump over Vic walking the Jack the Ripper tour with Sara and Stasher, whilst I had to stay at home revising.

In order to answer some of the questions posed by the tour, I bought her John J. Eddleston's Jack the Ripper An Encyclopaedia for Christmas.

True Crime is not a genre I'm really interested in, and thought this Ripper book would be -- like most media on the subject -- rather sensationalist and tabloid.

I was wrong. I've been reading the book for the last couple of weeks (it's the sort of book you can pick up and put down, rather than having to blitz read it in one session), and have been really impressed by it. The author has gone back to the original source material -- much of which is reproduced in the book -- and structured the analysis as a critical case review of the kind that is now used to scrutinise unsolved crimes. His aim is to clear up a century of misinformation and myth surrounding the subject, and he's very successful, pouring scorn on the majority of the half-baked theories out there.

From a "historian" point-of-view, I acknowledge that the author has summarised the facts, conjectures and eyewitness reports -- subjective intrepretation on his part - but as he keeps his own views on whodunnit to a minimum, he comes over as a credible writer.

A favourite passage from the book (with my scene setting):

Elizabeth Stride was murdered on Sunday the 30th of September 1888 at around 12.58 a.m. Her throat was cut, but Jack was disturbed before he could mutilate the body. Elizabeth was discovered at 1.00 am, but in that time had bled to death. An Inspector Edmund Reid arrives on the scene much later at 1.45 a.m.

At 4.30 a.m. Elizabeth's body was moved to the mortuary in Cable Street, and Reid followed it there to take down a description. According to his notes, the dead woman was about 42 years old, 5 feet 2 inches tall with curly dark-brown hair. Her complexion was pale.

She had bled to death Inspector - of course she looked pale!

Tomorrow I shall reveal who Mr. Eddleston believes was Jack the Ripper (I'm just getting to his conclusion).

And don't ever bother watching the Jonny Depp Ripper movie From Hell on DVD: The plot is complete fantasy and the Hollywood depiction of Victorian London is woeful. As is Depp's english accent.

Another Clue For Simon

The second-hand car market is quiet at the moment. I guess it's like the housing market: nobody is interested in buying a car in January and February because there are Christmas credit card bills to pay, and life in general troughs at this time of the year.

Two weeks ago I put my Clio -- a "nice little runner" [said in my best Mockney accent] -- in the local paper at a very reasonable price. I got the grand total of three phone calls from prospective punters who all asked me for more information and then, when I asked them if they would like to view the vehicle, hung up after saying that they would get back to me. Predictably, none of them did get back to me, and my Clio sat unsold outside my house.

You could see in her headlamps that she felt unloved and unwanted.

Determined to sell the pretty motor, I placed a new advert in the Thames Valley Autotrader magazine -- a 200 page booklet of classifieds for serious used car hunters -- and renewed the ad in the Thame Gazette, this time dropping the price by a hundred quid.

Thankfully I got a fish biting on the bait immediately, and seeing what a class motor my Clio was, she paid in cash for a price satisfactory to us both. I got my money, she got a nice little runner at a bargain price.

As I waved Clio off, I hoped she would forgive me for selling her. I loved that car, but a good home and a fresh new start await her.

Today I invest the cash from the Clio deal in my new car: a Rover 620 Sli Auto bought from work. It's an ex-company car. It's a "luxury" motor. It's twice the size of the Clio and will drink twice the petrol, but the comfort factor -- and the difference it will make driving up the M6 to Carlisle -- make up for that.

In an effort to undermine the Rover's image of an old man car, I will be donning my driving gloves, flat cap and walnut pipe at lunch time.

It p*sses on Simon's Lotus.

My MJ Story 2

I used to enjoy working at Sony Music. Apart from the VP of Finance, Martin Blaksted (a buffoon who managed to wring the life blood out of the department and destroy a few peoples lives in the process), it was a nice place to work.

I was therefore upset to be made redundant.

It wasn't just the act itself, it was the manner of how I was told that bit deep.

Michael Jackson was on the UK leg of his History tour. It was the one where he left the stage at the end of the gig in a rocket-powered jumpsuit. Everyone at Sony Music had been told that they were getting a pair of free tickets to the Wembley performance. It was to be a company day out.

A month before the gig the envelopes containing the tickets were deposited on employees desks. I came back from lunch to discover that I didn't have an envelope. Aggitated, I went to see my boss, to query the ticket oversight.

His had been caught out: he hadn't expected the tickets to be delivered so early. There an envelope of tickets for me. There was an envelope with my P45 in it instead.

"I'm sorry, the industry recession has meant we are closing the video production facility with the loss of 60 jobs. Some support staff are being made redundant too... You're one of them."

Blaksted - the c*nt - was behind my selection. I saw him two years ago in Maidenhead town centre looking lost. He didn't see me and I had the opportunity to kick him from behind. I should have given him a good slap, but resisted the urge. After all, I'm not bitter. Much.

Anyway, through my tears, I managed to throw away my last ounce of honour and pride by asking my boss...

"Will I still get the Michael Jackson tickets?"

And the b*stard said "Yes"... but never sent them.

[Sometimes I dream that at the end of the gig, the rocket-powered jumpsuit develops a sudden fault and the Michael Jackson double -- it wasn't really MJ (imagine the insurance!) -- goes spiralling out of control, crashing into the evil Sony Music Finance Dept Bosses. I then step into the management breach, and like a modern-day Sir Francis Drake, steer the good record company ship through the seas of cut-throat pirates. "Haha! Hoist the Jolly Napster!"]

My Michael Jackson Stories

As the fallout from the Living with MJ documentary continues to rain down, I thought I'd share my two MJ stories with you.

Wacko Story 1

I used to work at Sony Music, MJ's record company. In our UK finance office we had a life-sized poster of MJ, on which our Financial Controller had scrawled a fake Michael Jackson signature in permanent black marker pen. He included a little smiley face as the dot of the i of Michael -- a clever artistic touch that gave the work an aura of authenticity. It may or may not have resembled MJ's true signature, but as we never managed to get hold of a copy of his Recording Contract (to check it against), we will never know.

What was cool was how when anyone new came into the office, they would spy the framed MJ poster and remark "Wow! Was Michael here?! Did he sign that for you?". We'd always respond with a smile and a knowing wink and nod. Of course, with the host of Wombles gold disks and signed Bros photographs also adorning the walls, visitors would have had no reason not to believe it wasn't genuine.

George Bush probably has a framed Map of the World on his White House office wall, with "X marks the spot" crosses and comments like "I must have this oil" and "evil commies" written on it in black marker pen. No doubt fools -- such as visiting German and French foreign ministers -- think its the genuine article too.

Colin Powell's UN presentation was a Wombles gold disc.

Freak Like Me

Last night's documentary on Michael Jackson was a paradox. Nothing that we saw was a shock. Comedy and tragedy.I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A broken man and lost soul. Is he harmless and child-like, or dangerous and deluded? Naive and seemingly ignorant of the real world, Michael is cocooned not just by his Neverland, but also by the minders and assistants around him. Clearly traumatised by abuse suffered at the hands of his father in childhood and adolescence, he now seems to believe his own concocted stories that his face has been disfigured not through plastic surgery, but through disease, and that it is perfectly natural for a 44 year old man to share his bedroom with 12 year old boys.

You have to fear for his children -- who he insists go out in public wearing masks -- as they are dragged through the media rugby scrums, dangled over balconies, and prevented from seeing their natural mother.

It was a freak show that will be turned into a media circus.

He needs help.

Cleric My Arse

Despite the fact that NASA irresponsibly sent them up in a twenty year old death trap, I have nothing but sympathy for the brave pilots of Columbia and their friends and families.

The Muslim "cleric" Sheikh Abu Hamza today described the loss of the space shuttle and all seven astronauts as a "sign from God". According to Hamza, the crew had been punished with death by Allah for being a "trinity of evil" -- there was an Israeli, Ilan Ramon, a Hindu Indian-born Kalpana Chawla, and Americans onboard.

I'm all for free speech and religious diversity, but Hamza is a terrorist supporter and hate-monger, and his brand of extremism has no place in British society. His recent activities at the Finsbury Park mosque unfortunately means he now gets media coverage. Thankfully most other British Muslim leaders have rallied against his comments. If I was in charge at the Home Office, Hamza would be on the next plane back to Yemen.

With his hook firmly shoved up his arse.

Its people like Hamza who make decent, law-abiding, citizens vote Conservative.

You and me, me and you, lots and lots for us to do

Apologies -- I've not been writing recently. I'll explain fully next week. I've had lots to do and plenty to think about, and just haven't had the urge or inspiration to write. After having written virtually every day for three months, the wheels have apparently fallen off my blogwagon. I'll check it into Kwik Fit over the weekend.

Exam Result

My CIMA exam result for Business Taxation came through the post this morning. I much prefer getting an envelope than an email - you are in control of when you open it and the piece of paper in your hand makes the result more tangible. Coming out of the exam hall, I thought I'd just done enough to scrape a pass (50% pass mark). I've become increasingly better at accurately predicting my CIMA results and the spread bet in my head was 50-55%.

I passed and it was within the spread.

I'm relieved more than happy. The amount of time and emotional energy that we invest in these trials is a drain on my karma. To fail is to waste a good six months of your social life. Vic and I really needed me to pass. It sets me up for my Finals this May, hopefully after which I'll be a fully qualified management accountant. From a purely monetary point-of-view it is very important for our future.

I think we'll celebrate today with a nice quiet night on the sofa.

No Sausages

You can imagine our intense disgust at being told that the Rising Sun's new menu didn't start until next Friday. Sausages hot out of the pan, no. Toys tossed out of the pram, yes.


No Bulbs

The garden is my domain, as Vic is too scared of bugs and creepy crawlies to venture into it. I was therefore amazed last autumn when she planted a host of tulip and daffodil bulbs without my supervision. She planted bucket loads. I've been looking forward to the carpet of flowers that should shoot up in the spring.

On our Sunday walk with Dazza and Tina we noticed many wild flowers and bulbs were already shooting, and Vic was disappointed that our bulbs show no signs of activity.

Dazza -- knowing his sisters gardening talents -- innocently asked if Vic had "put them in the right way up?".

"Eh? Bulbs have a right way up?!"

It looks as if our carpet of flowers is going to be a threadbare rug....


No Original Content

Picked up the latest issue of Total Film magazine in You Can't Beat yesterday. The Hollywood production and release schedules for this year and next seem to be dominated by sequels and nothing else.

We all know about LotR, Star Wars episode 3, and the third instalment of Harry Potter, but we can also look forward to:

X Men 2
Final Destination 2
Spiderman 2
Batman
Superman
Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (and possibly T4)
Die Hard 4 (Bruce has agreed to do it - he had his arm twisted by Fox)
Mad Max 4 (Mel has decided the time is right to return to the dark future)
Indiana Jones 4 (Both Harrison Ford AND Sean Connery have signed up!)

However, Alien 5 is still in the balance.

Take out Final Destination from those and do you notice the pattern? Action. Heroes. A reaction to September 11th and the Gulf War 2?

I've got to say that I'm excited at the prospect of MM4 and IJ4... Cool!

[Indiana slides the stone slab to one side. His sidekick Ali peers down into the darkness.]

Ali: "Indy! There's something down there!"
Indy: "Please, not snakes... anything but snakes. I hate snakes!"

[Indy throws a torch down into the gloom, and there beneath them -- writhing and hissing in their thousands -- is a host of bright, lime green, soft toy snakes]

Ali: "Oh no Indy! They are the deadly Ikea! You go first..."

As I said, no original content.

Sausage Links

Tonight sees us venturing to the new refurbished Rising Sun pub, for a few drinks with the fragrant Emma & Scott. We have been tempted by their food advertisement proclaiming they have 50 different types of sausage available in house. It makes a change from pubs claiming they have 50 different single malts in stock.

I love sausages and I'm salivating profusely. Like Nelson gets when he goes sniffing around other doggies. If I shake my head I'll spray the screen. You get the picture. You can't beat a good meaty sausage, bursting with fat, flavour, and the butchers secret mix of spices, saw dush, blood and gristle.

Scott emailed us this morning to sort out the details. I'm too lazy to write anything else today -- apart from noting how poetic Saddam's speech was this morning -- so here are those emails:

From: Scott
What time is the sausage love in?

From: Vicki
That sounds very rude. I don't mind really. How about 7.30/8? We can meet you in the pub.

From: Nobby
It made me gag on my apple. We'll have to eat quickly so that Scott & Em can come back to ours -- so Scott can check out GTA Vice City...

From: Vicki
Whatever ... (he's not at all addicted)

From: Scott
The day Neil starts eating quickly, is the day I know there's some serious problems.

I'm a slow eater.

Oyster Source

This morning a bright and breezy Blog Extra told me that the "world is your oyster".

Thanks, but I am allergic to shellfish.

Hotter Than The Sun Mail.com

Apologies to all spammers who might have emailed me over the last four weeks: Because I didn’t check my Hotmail account for 30 days, Microsoft mercilessly nuked it. All contacts and messages from Nigerian Bank Presidents, Norton Systemworks resellers, doctors prescribing growth hormones, and bandits revealing the secrets of online marketing for just $1, have been lost to the void. As have all my porn links.

If you sent me something and a reply wasn’t forthcoming, now you know why…
Nobby underscore Dobscrub at hotmail dot com is reactivated.


Looking Sheepish

I bought myself a real bargain at the weekend: A sheepskin deerstalker-style hat with fold-down ear protectors for just £6.99 in the Gap sale. I look a complete dork in it, but it is incredibly warm. I shall wear it to the football this evening and laugh in the face of icy cold gales that are due to hit. It is another chalk mark on the “I am getting old” board: I am prepared to sacrifice what I look like for comfort and warmth.

I also managed to pick up some matching gloves too.

Unlike my woollen gloves – that make no sound – the sheepskin makes a satisfying “whoompf!” noise when clapped together, so I shall have no problems clapping the heroic performance of Oxford United this evening.

Side story: My sheepskin hat won’t be the stupidest hat ever worn by a member of my family at a football match. A few years back my dad wore an Oxford United cap complete with giant yellow horns to a televised game. The cameras – as they always do when someone looks like a twit – picked him out from the crowd and his ridiculous headwear was seen by the nation.

What is really interesting about the hat is the fact it was owned by Robert Maxwell: Mrs. Maxwell dropped it into and charity shop after her husband’s death, and my mum purchased it for all of 20p.

It’s probably worth a fortune on ebay.


GTA: Vice City Update

After finally nailing the psycho – a 7’ tall rugby player in drag / Baby Spice clone - who was threatening to wipe out my rock band Lovefist, my in game character retired to the local pizza joint. Who should walk in but Michael Jackson in full Thriller album get-up!

He even did a moonwalk when I pointed my gun at him. Unfortunately I then pressed the wrong button and accidentally shot him dead before I’d fully appreciated who he was.

“Eee-Ow!”

I am hoping Michael randomly spawns again soon. Jokes on a postcard please.

Perch

When Vic came home on Friday evening she reprimanded me for being horrible to Julian. She had read this blog and the black tie wind-up was, in her words, "nasty".

Ironically, when we arrived at the dinner on Saturday night, there were a number of gentlemen in black tie present. And they weren't waiters. The majority of chaps were in lounge suits. Only a handful - including myself - were in "smart casual" attire. Despite my trendy new designer shirt and pants, I felt a little under-dressed. The huge collars on the shirt made me look like the mutant hybrid love child of Harry Hill and Graham Norton.

I should have taken my own advice.

After being sat at the dinner table for two minutes though, Vicster seemed to change her mind about my bullying of Julian: He managed to stick his elbow in her face when pouring the wine, bore her to tears about the state of parking at B&Q Aylesbury, and sit with his legs so open that he almost knocked her off her chair. All in two minutes.

No punches were thrown. No demons exorcised. Everyone was well behaved. Grinned and bore it.

Lisa even managed to say more than two words to me as well.

She managed five:

"Hello, this is Simon."
"Bye!"

On the way home Vic kept telling me that, for my own sanity, I have to get a new job.

Or a snipers rifle.

There is a tall chimney stack that overlooks the car park.

Show The Dog The Rabbit

My company Christmas / New Year "do" is on Saturday night at a local hotel. Vic and I have been seated by Mandy - who is organising the event - on a table consisting of:

Mandy and her husband.
Lisa and her husband.
Julain and his granny.
My director and his wife.

Considering Lisa refuses to speak to me, and my general contempt for Mandy and Julian, it could be an interesting evening. Vic is especially looking forward to it. Hopefully she will be sat next to my director - who is a nice & normal chap - otherwise we may not get to the starters...

I don't know why Mandy has put me on their table. Either she wants to punish me and make my evening as miserable as possible, or she mistakes my gentle teasing of Julian as "entertaining" - as opposed to the overt bullying that it really is.

The teasing has continued this week with an Office-esque wind-up concerning Saturday evening's dress code. The official dress code is "smart" - so I shall be wearing my new John Roche "designer" shirt and trendy flared cord pants.

As far as Julian is concerned though, I am wearing Black Tie.

This week Mandy - whose husband is also "probably going to wear his dinner jacket" -and I have been feeding Julian little titbits of bait, along the lines of:

"I've had my DJ dry cleaned."
"The front panels on my dress shirt are a devil to iron."
"I've only got one pair of suitable cufflinks to wear."

I even practised tying a bowtie with a napkin prop at lunch time.

Finally Julian took the hook and asked us - with a look of panic in his eyes - if people were wearing Black Tie on Saturday.

"Well the dress code is smart Julian, so I think I might. It's always better to be overdressed than underdressed at these things."

"Oh. I haven't got a dinner suit. I wore one once when I went to a ball somewhere. I think I'll just wear a lounge suit."

Childish I know, but the predictable look of panic was worth it. You could see he was worried that he was going to have to spend £30 on hiring one. In fact he'd been worried all week, but hadn't had the nerve to ask us. I'd almost got to the stage where I thought after being shown glimpses of the rabbit all week, the dog wasn't going to run after it.

I'm going to steal his stapler and set it in wibbly-wobbly jelly.

Honk Honk

I've already become addicted to GTA Vice City. The more I play, the bigger and better it gets. It's a thing of beauty.

Vic's starting to regret giving it to me. She's had to switch off the PS2 and drag me up to bed the last three nights. Last night I slept fitfully: I dreamt of car jackings, assault rifles, pastel coloured suits with the jacket sleeves rolled up, and the strippers in my new Pole Position gentlemen's club.

According to Vic, on Sunday night I made the noise "HONK HONK!" twice in my sleep.

That's the sound of a stolen construction truck's horn...


Our Postman's Wife Is Having An Affair

Paul the Plasterer came round last night to give us a quote on the kitchen walls (we ordered our new units from MFI on Sunday). He's a nice guy and after our hour of smashing the fireplace apart (in the living room back in September), feels comfortable enough to have a gossip with us. He can talk too.

Anyway, when Paul did the job for us in September, our postman came to the door and it turned out Paul had done the work on his newly-built extension. Paul told us last night that the builder who constructed that extension is now knocking the postman's wife off on the side.

Fascinating stuff, but I don't quite understand why he told us about it.

Furthermore, I feel obliged to tell our poor Postman Pat about his wife's playing away from home.

I won't of course - I've seen too many soap operas for that.


Snow Fall

We had a dusting of snow overnight. Like caster sugar. The result is travel chaos here in the UK. We also had about 10 minutes worth of light snow fall this morning at work. It's fantastic to watch the reactions of grown men and women to a touch of snow: people were rubbing their hands in glee and hoping that there would be enough to build a snowman and toss a few snowballs around at lunch time.

Our South African kitchen hand - Colin - had never seen snow before, and described the wintery scene as "a dream".

That's why I love snow: it helps adults get back in touch with the inner child.

[I won't be saying that when I'm defrosting the car tomorrow morning]

Welcome to 2003, Tommy - Part 2

Vicster took the decorations off Trevor (the tree) yesterday, so Christmas is officially over at our house. Only mountains of leftover food - cheese, chocolates and a great chocolate & chestnut torte dessert - remain as evidence.

On Christmas Day I breathed a sigh of relief after Nelson had finished regurgitating his breakfast and we'd opened our gifts: I had avoided receiving a "Windy Miller" and was pleased and grateful for the presents received.

Especially my new Playstation 2...

...with Grand Theft Auto: Vice City game.

Quite simply, its awesome. Vice City is more a work of art than a console game. It looks like Miami. It feels like Miami Vice meets Scarface. The plotting is slick and the production amazing. The characters are voiced by Hollywood greats - Ray Loita, Dennis Hopper, Burt Reynolds, and all those guys who play guys in gangster flicks. The radio stations - that you tune your car into - churn out classic 80's hits by the original artists. The attention to detail is supreme, the atmosphere heavy, and the vast 1980's Vice City a terrifically flavourful - and adult - backdrop. And its great fun.

If ever a video game deserved recognition as a true classic and great piece of entertainment, GTA:VC is that game.


Julianism of the Week

More words of wisdom from Julian, regarding skills you never lose:

"It's like falling off a bike... you never forget it..."

Welcome To 2003, Thora - Part 1

Happy New Year everyone and welcome to a revived blog. I've been away from a PC over Christmas, hence the zero updates over the last two weeks, and I've got to say that I haven't missed the net one bit.

Vic and I had a smashing Christmas and New Year. Here's the abbreviated version:

I picked my new glasses up and have been shocked and amazed at life's little details ever since.

We went to Emma & Scott's for a party the weekend before Xmas. Simon brought along his Dreamcast and Samba Des Amigos game - you shake your maracas in time to the cartoon South American Ricky Martinesque mouse. Gav, Tam, Jacob (3 year old nephew) and Holly (6 month old niece) stayed with us that weekend, and although we didn't see much of them due to the party and early start on the Sunday, Jacob's excitement - and stonker of a cold - rubbed off on us.

We were up at the crack of dawn on the Sunday for our trip to Carlisle via North Wales. Our little detour to pick Vic's nana Beryl up from Colwyn Bay added a mere two and a half hours to the journey time. Her first words to me were not "Hello... how are you... nice of you to come and pick me up...", but "put my suitcase in the car". When we arrived at Vic's mum and dad's Beryl then told me that I was "looking old and fat". In between she attempted to crush me to death with her car seat.

The week we spent up in Irthington was very relaxing. Dazza joined us on the Monday. Walks with the dog were the main feature. I managed to watch the Two Towers in full New Specs-o-vision on Xmas Eve morning. We had duck for Xmas dinner. We played lots of family games.

The dog was sick twice - in the middle of the present opening.


The highlight though was this Christmas Day chestnut:

Beryl struggled up off the sofa and announced to us all that she "really needed a Thora Hird", before disappearing off to the toilet.
The rest of us sat in stunned silence for a minute before I built up enough courage to ask if what she'd said was Cockney Rhyming Slang.

While we were killing ourselves with laughter, Ann explained that Thora Hird apparently advertises chairs for the old and infirm that tip up and help their occupants out of the seat.

No matter, we now have a new catchphrase.

I'll give you part 2 and New Year later, but right now I'm off for a Thora...

Heracles and the Hot Pudding

We've just had our Christmas Lunch here at work. A rather tepid affair in the staff restaurant. We have two sittings, so are herded through like lightning with no real opportunity to relax and socialise. Mediocre pate or french onion soup, followed by roast turkey (or veggie bake) and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding, mince pies and coffee. A single glass of wine. All downed in under 45 minutes.

My cracker "present" was a plastic moustache - the sort that pinches your nose between the nostrils. I really am wearing it as I write this.
My paper hat was green with square "battlements" around the crown.
My "joke" was "What do you call a penguin in the Sahara desert?... Lost!"

However, the highlight was Julian being dared to eat his whole Christmas pudding in one mouthful. Only an idiot would accept the challenge: the pudding was steaming with heat, covered in hot and sickly brandy sauce, and clearly just too big to fit in one's mouth.

Julian accepted the task, and with some help from my boss - who initiated the dare - managed to crush the pudding in his great maw. Within microseconds his eyes were red and bulging. They began to water. His cheeks were flushed and rosy. Bits of pudding and sauce residue were caked about his gob. He gagged slighty and had the haunted look of a man frantically trying not to be sick. His twisted visage put me right off my pudding.

It took him two minutes to finally gulped down the stodge, but all credit to Julian, he didn't vomit or spit it out.

He smiled like he'd completed one of the Twelve Labors of Heracles.

Although he's a fool, you can't help but admire his child-like simplicity at times.

We'll have him cutting off Gorgan heads and taming wild winged horses in no time.

Jingle Jangle

I was on an Access training course yesterday. Whist the tutor was demonstrating a little trick on my PC, one of my colleagues - Blog Extra Man - came and stood next to me. His pocket was level with my ear, so when he started jangling the loose change in his pocket, I was irritated. After two minutes of "jingle, jangle" I was getting pissed off, so was happy when the tutor announced a coffee break.

Sipping my cup of coffee in the reception area, I spied a little book perched on top of a book shelf. The Little Book of Chaos. I opened it at the following page / suggestion on how to get people to kill you:

Jingle Jangle
When talking to people, continously jangle the loose change in your pockets.

I did my best put-on-laugh and passed the book - straight faced - to Blog Extra Man. Unfortunately he didn't get it, and the rest of the afternoon was interspersed with the soft jingle of fifty pence pieces in grey slacks.





The Wedding

Loch Awe should be renamed Loch Awe Some. As should the beautiful Loch Lommond. Quite why people are flying halfway around the world to go and see Lord of the Rings scenery in New Zealand when there is equally stunning scenery in Scotland, I don't know... Our drive from Glasgow Airport up to Taynuilt was spectacular, and we are likely to return in the future. People say that the Lake District is the most stunning countryside in the UK - I'm not so sure.

Nina and Craig's wedding was fantastic. The ceremony was great, the setting was amazing, the food top-notch and the company excellent. I shall return to it in more detail for you over the coming days.

A cool teaser shall have to suffice for now:

The two violinists who played the Christmas carols (sung in the ceremony) were on tour with Moby.

Fly Me To The Moon

...was Sara and Stashers first dance at their wedding. We're flying to Glasgow with them tomorrow for Craig and Nina's wedding at the rather splendid Ardanaiseig Hotel on Loch Awe. Whilst I'm viewing the flight as just a quick bus ride north, Vicster's fear of flying started to kick in last night, and she asked me if 10 o'clock in the morning was too early for a gin and tonic. It will be interesting to see if her summer visit into the cockpit - secured with tears - on our way back from Portugal has any positive effect.


A Windy Miller Moment

Last night before bedtime I checked myself in the bathroom mirror for blackheads, pimples, grey hairs and in-growing beard hairs. I also had a pluck at my nasal hairs and bushy eyebrows. All preparation for the wedding.

Whilst extracting a particularly wiry specimen, I had a dizzying "Windy Miller Moment": I was overcome with a fear of what presents might await me on Christmas morning. The fear comes from genuine trauma suffered two years ago:

Mum had gone on and on about how she had found the "perfect gift" for me. As we left for Vic's mum & dad's, she presented me with the gift-wrapped package and the words "and this is your main present... it's very special... I think you'll love it!". She was really excited at the thought of her son opening it, and was disappointed that she wouldn't see my face as the gift was unwrapped. She kept going on and on about it.

I left the box until last on Christmas morning, in the anticipation that it was going to be a special and treasured gift.

It was a "collectable" ceramic Windy Miller figure on his tricycle.

I was gutted.

Not because it was a) crap and b) clutter and c) had no meaning for me. But because it showed how out of touch my mum had become from me.

I'm an ungrateful sod.

Suits You Sir!

Julian was wearing his favourite tie yesterday: the one with the pink and blue flowers that was trendy in 1986. As tradition now dictates, I pointed the fact that he was wearing his favourite tie out to him, in order to extract a comedy response.

He surpassed himself.

Julian spent the next ten minutes detailing his favourite attire from his business wardrobe. Turns out he once wore a purple suit to an interview at John Lewis.

He didn't get the job.

And he used to wear, until quite recently, a red suit with a matching red shirt, red tie and, to complete the outfit, red shoes.

But his confessional didn't end there. He used to wear, until quite recently, a bright green suit with a matching green shirt, green tie and, to complete the outfit, green shoes.

A living, breathing, Joker look-a-like.


Oh Christmas Tree

Trevor the tree went up on Sunday afternoon. He was bought from the wonderfully festive tree barn at Christmas Common, and is a no-drop Nordic Fir. We always buy from Cristmas Common, as due to it being the best tree farm in the country, you are guaranteed a good fresh premium tree that has been looked after and renewed. There's something magically about dressing the tree and this year was no expection. A glass of wine, Bing Crosby's White Christmas playing on the stereo, and the scent of pine as you decorate. All of a sudden I feel Christmasy!

Only thing is, it takes up a quarter of the room. There seems to be a universal X File factor with Christmas trees that mean they look small in the shop but spontaneously grow to epic proportions in the car on the way home. Our 'small' Trevor - now that he's settled himself into the living room - looks rather like a giant redwood with tinsel on...

Gran’s Out Of Theatre

She came out at about 2 p.m., is “comfortable”, so it’s now wait and see. I think we’ll go and see her tomorrow evening.


Oxford United 1 – 0 Swindon Town

Scumdon Town were crushed by the Mighty U’s live on BBC1. It was a great day for the club.

Nobby was seen adjusting his scarf, grinning like a Cheshire cat, clapping, and bobbing up and down like a small child, live on BBC1. As the players ran out of the tunnel, the TV cameras panned around the ground, picking out fans from the crowd. And there I was, sat slightly forward of everyone else, on the edge of my seat, clearly excited by the prospect of the match. I looked like a retard.

And you couldn’t miss me: My Gramp phoned me immediately I got home to tell me he’d seen me. Scott said the same. A number of guys here at work – who I don’t even know the names of – have pointed at me this morning and exclaimed “Hey! Saw you on the telly yesterday!”

It gets worse. If you missed it on the BBC, but live in the Meridian TV region, you get the chance to see me again tonight! Our friend at Meridian, sports reporter Enda, has apparently included me in his edited report on the match, scheduled to go out this evening.

Set your videos!

If you missed me on telly, there was always the chance that you heard me on the radio. I was interviewed at half time by Radio Oxford on the touch-line (most people shirked away from the microphone, but not bashful me) - I actually made a number of excellent points – and then managed to get on the phone-in straight after the game. In high spirits, my “point” was complete tosh – the crux of it was “we looked really sharp today, especially Peter Rhodes-Brown [Oxford United Community Officer], whose suit was very dapper and gave David Dickinson a run for his money…”

I probably sounded like a complete twit, but Scott said it was actually quite funny. You probably had to be there.

Anyway, I’m going to add “TV’s” to my name – as in “TV’s Nobby Dobscrub” – and I am now available for football programme punditry, local radio commentary and children’s parties.


The Jefferson Louis Era II

Even if you can’t stand football, have a look at Jefferson “King” Louis celebrating the news Oxford United are playing Arsenal in the next round…

One Pint Lighter

The fact that gran is going into hospital next week was the final push I needed to go and give blood. I was anxious right up to the last minute – the blood pressure gauge on my arm freaked me out (its embrace is not a sensation I enjoy) – and even when prone on the trolley, almost wimped out and declined the chance to donate.

Of course, it was over in just 5 minutes in the end, with no side effects or reaction. I feel much better for doing it. A little heroic even. If it doesn’t help my gran, it will hopefully help someone in a similar situation.

Plus I’ve got some great Christmas “Give blood” stickers for my nephew.


Crazy Google Search of the Week

Snatching boobs for milk

Freak.

Off Balance

In my usual style, I shall start with something irrelevant and trivial - to lull you into a false sense of security – and then move into the real post of the day.


Retro Con

I purchased a PC CD compilation of retro-games on Sunday from HMV. The old classic video games are still great, and although you can download most of them off the net (via the MIME system), I thought it would be easier (and would avoid any copyright issues) if I spent a few quid on a proper disk. The front cover features Pac-Man (being chased by ghosts), Donkey Kong, Space Invaders, Galaxians, Asteroids, Defender, Missile Command and Centipede. The back of the box tells me that the CD contains the original versions of all these classic games and many more.

It’s a con.

The CD is just a bad collection of terrible shareware files from 1992. Most of the files don’t work. Those that do work run at quirky speeds and look shit. To cap it all off, the clunky versions of Space Invaders and Galaxians - that actually bear some resemblance to the originals – end after level three. I get a screen message telling me that I need to send $10 to some bedroom computer programmer in California, who will email me the full version.

The CD will be returned to HMV with a tongue-lashing.

I am practising aggressively jabbing my finger at the box and uttering the words “Trade Descriptions Act”…


Gran Has Cancer

Her biopsy results came back yesterday. She has cancer of the womb lining. She goes in for a scan tomorrow and then into hospital on Sunday, for an operation on Monday. I guess it’s a full hysterectomy. I am feeling hollow, scared and upset. I’ve already lost one gran through cancer, and the spectre of losing another is frightening. I’ve been dreading this sort of news for years, and despite thinking I was prepared for it last week, it’s a hammer-blow.

Gran of course is putting her usual brave face on things and seems relatively positive about it. She just wants to get the operation over with and “things sorted out”.

I am praying that the cancer has been caught early enough and there are no secondaries.

My Clementine Point Was

Not so much that they give me bad guts, but rather that I play a little game with myself when peeling them: I attempt to remove the peel in a single snaking piece. The curly wurly pithy helix then makes a handy projectile to toss at Julian.


Steeleye Spam

We went to the gig of the decade at Aylesbury's Civic Centre on Friday night: The Steeleye Span reunion tour.

Unfortunately one of the founder members of the legendary folk-rock outfit has a heart condition and is currently unable to tour, making the "reunion tour" tag seem foolish and undermining their groovy sound. Not a bad gig, but Maddy Prior was off her usual pace and it was lacking a certain something. After seeing them three or four times now, I can safely say that I'm prepared to pass on the tickets the next time they hit the road. They do the same act every time.

However, the excitement level of gig was improved no end by the sight of the fat man sat behind us. When he sat down it looked as if he was hiding a Space Hopper up his shirt. It wasn't natural. At the risk of losing your arm, you just wanted to prod it.


A Pigs Head Fixture

Football hooliganism is alive and kicking in Europe. Last Saturday saw the feisty contest between Barcelona and Real Madrid featuring Barca fans throwing plastic and glass bottles at their former favourite (and now Real Madrid player) Luis Figo. Someone - presumably they forgot to bring a bottle with them - lobbed a whole pigs head onto the pitch.

The Match of the Day boys, attempting to lure neutrals into viewing next Sunday's MATCH OF THE CENTURY between Oxford United and Swindon Town, sniggeringly suggested that there was "some local rivalry between the two teams" and the Oxford v Scumdon clash was a "bit of a pigs head fixture" too.

I don't think anyone will be laughing about it come Sunday afternoon.

According to the lady in the Oxford United club shop, a large number of tickets in the home stands have been sold to travelling Scumdon fans. There will be insufficient segregation. There will be fighting on the terraces. And it will all be shown live on BBC1.

The good name of Oxford United is going to be blackened across the country because somebody's messed up on the ticket sales. I despair.

A Shotgun Isn’t Subtle

Emma’s taste in music is melancholy to say the least. Her idea of an uplifting party tape is a mix of Radiohead, Joy Division, Nirvana’s most introspective moments, and the Manic Street Preachers. Music to slit wrists by is what Scott and I call it.

It was therefore a little surprising to discover that the Samaritans are promoting their new “email your problem to us” campaign with an exclusive Radiohead track that you can download from their site.

Bet Now!

Is the tune a cover version of music hall classic “The Sun Has Got His Hat On” or the Manic’s “Suicide Is Painless”?

Disclaimer: The Samaritans do great work in the community. As do Radiohead. And Emma.


My Clementine

My favourite seasonal fruit – clementines – are in the shops and selling like hot cakes. They’re at their best at this time of year and I’m addicted to them. I’ve eaten over a 1kg of them over the last 3 days – that’s 6 or 7 a day. The flip side of their juicy sweet flesh is a stomach that aches and growls like a bear in a trap.


Nelson Dislikes the Floor

The dog is staying down with us (with Bob and Mop in-law). He was confused by his surroundings yesterday and really doesn’t like our new laminate flooring. The poor mutt can’t get a grip on the surface, and so skitters and slips about. The sound of his own claws - tapping gently when he walks - freaks him out. He also struggles to lay down on it and get up off it. All in all, laminate flooring doesn’t seem very dog-friendly.

It’s great to watch though.

Lord of the Flies

One thing I failed to mention yesterday for all you Lord of the Rings fans was this:

Vic forgot to pack me any clean underpants for Sunday, so when we got down to Canterbury, we popped into Asda to pick up some cheap George pants. Lo and behold, you can actually buy official LotR branded underpants with "Two Towers" and "Lord of the Rings" printed on them.

[Think about it]

I chose plain pants...


Blood Drive

...would make a smashing address for "Spooky Manor" in an episode of Scooby Doo.

All of us at work have been invited to give blood to the National Blood Service next week. It gives me the willies. Every time the invitation comes round (normally every three months), I balance the fact that I really should give blood against the fact I'm a chicken. Ultimately the chicken wins out, but right up until the mini-bus (that the NBS send to pick up the donors) leaves, I'm pacing back and forth, one minute saying "yes I will!", the next minute "no I can't!".

I'm pathetic. I really should give blood. It could save a life. Or allow an athelete to cheat.

I'm not sure why I wimp out either. It's not the needle going in, but rather the thought of being strapped up to some sort of diabolical milking machine that's going to suck the life-juice out of me until I'm a grey and broken husk. I've seen too many vampire movies.

And they might try and force-feed me tea afterwards. [Blurgh!]

Perhaps I should get people to sponsor me...

Speccy Four Eyes

I'm shortsighted. My right eye was so bad that I didn't even recognise that the first set of opticians "symbols" were actually letters... U R B L I N D


The Show Must Go On

Britain's longest-running West End production - Mousetrap - celebrates its 50th anniversary this week. Pity the poor fellas who bought the film rights in 1953 for £5000, with the clause that they couldn't start filming until six months after the West End stage came to an end...

They're dead now. Hard cheese?


Talking Of Cheese

We made it down to my brother''s on Saturday. We went for a walk through Canterbury's European Food Fair, which was just an excuse for people to steal bits of food from French farmers. Hot spiced olives, Biddeton's Monk's spiced cider, and an assortment of speciality cheeses were the top titbits of the day, and it was really fun watching Jacob's facial expressions as he tasted new flavours.

Emma's sister Sarah, and her husband-in-waiting Gareth, would have had kittens. They work in Waitrose and believe people who pinch a grape off a bunch should be incarcerated at Her Majestys pleasure. Captial punishment should be introduced for those who give their children bananas or cookies - to keep them happy round the aisles - before paying for them at the check-out. Sarah and Gareth do not seem to understand the value to a supermarket of allowing customers to try the goods before buying. If they were in charge, they'd have a line of spiked heads outside Waitrose as a warning to others.

We didn't buy anything at the Food Fair.


I Was A Fool

We all know that I need my beauty sleep. I was therefore a little worried about the promise of a Sunday morning 6:45 wake up from my full of beans nephew. I was a fool to worry, as he was as dozy as we were at that time of the day, and it was ace that he felt comfortable enough to share our blow-up bed. Thankfully Daddy talked him into watching his Monsters Inc video rather than Bananas in Pyjamas. A close thing though.


Julian's Back From Holidaying in MK

Tina: "I watched that Doctor Zhivago last night"
Julian: "You can't beat those classic old films. My mum loves it [Doctor Zhivago]. That and Shirley Valentine..."


Churchill Wins Vote Of Being Our Greatest Briton

My faith in the British public has been restored, even though over 14% of people voted for Diana.

My Duvet Weighs a Ton

Is how Chuck D would have described this morning’s attempts at crawling out of bed.

I had about two weeks of poor sleep prior to my exam, but how it’s been and gone, I’m sleeping like a log.

In the mornings I wake up with lichen covering my trunk, and wood lice in my crevices.


My Ship Anchors in E Bay

Just as I’ve been a relative newcomer to blogging, so I have only just discovered the joys of shopping on ebay.

It’s fantastic isn’t it: Every thing you could ever want at knockdown prices. A Bargain Hunters dream. And everyone seems so friendly and helpful too. It’s great!

So far I’ve bought an old board game and two books that I’ve wanted for years (lost treasures from my youth).

Everyone who knows me, knows I love games. Board games, card games, computer games, bedroom games (joke), roleplaying games (especially in the bedroom – nudge, nudge, wink, wink), games of chance, games of skill. You have a game, I’ll play it.

My love of games comes from when I was very little, but the move into fantasy and sci-fi came a little later. I was introduced to the world of fantasy gaming by the classic – and ground-breaking – Warlock of Firetop Mountain, the first book in the hugely successful Fighting Fantasy series of “if you want to do this, turn to page such and such” adventure game books.

I’ve been riding the geek rollercoaster ever since.

Anyway, the FF writer Steve Jackson decided to compose a set of classic FF game books, called Sorcery! with two twists: The story / game played out over the course of all four books in the set, making it an epic – like Lord of the Rings – and you could use magic, with a very clever code system.

So my mum bought me the first book, and when I’d finished it, the second.

Unfortunately I never saw the third or fourth episodes in the bookshop and my quest was never finished…

I’ve been keeping an eye out for them ever since at jumble sales and charity shops, but had no luck until ebay came along… But with a two minute search and a couple of small cheques, I’ve now got my missing chapters.

Wish me luck as I set forth to reclaim the Crown of Kings!

A Stitch In Time

And we had Marks & Spencers very tasty strawberry-flavoured Squeelingly Fizzy Piglet sweets for afters.

I've just realised that with the recent spate of recipes and film & book reviews, this blog is starting to resemble a women's magazine rather than a man's diary. My Wonderful World is becoming a Woman's World. I'll be sewing quilt covers next!

The last piece of sewing I did - apart from stitching up my gaping imaginary war wounds with a fish hook, by myself, macho Rambo style - was at school in Needlework, a good 18 years ago.

I made a fabric pencil case with a picture of a lion on it. The lion was made of felt: Yellow face, brown mane and nose, big white eyes with little round black pupils. Antelope carrion hanging from blood-stain gob.

It took me ten weeks to make it and was crap.

But it wasn't as bad as my brother's attempt at knitting a 2 foot tall penguin.

He managed to knit all of two inches of orange beak in his ten week Needlework stint, and my gran had to finish it off for him. It took her all of a morning to whip up the Woolly Emperor.

Gran goes into hospital next week for an exploratory Op.

As usual I didn't know where this blog entry would end up when I started writing it - you just go with the flow. But how its ended, with the prior talk of stitching up wounds, makes me feel uncomfortable. I'll leave as is for now, as if I start getting sentimental, it'll ruin the tough macho elements of the post...