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"...
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, October 07, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, October 04, 2002
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.
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.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
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
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
Monday, September 30, 2002
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 26, 2002
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..."
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..."
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
The Devil Has My Tongue
Mandy has just got back from a two week holiday to Arizona. She bought the office back some american sweets: Hershey's milk chococlate bars and Reese's milk chocolate peanut butter cups.
I don't like peanut butter.
My boss Graeme is very religious. He is an elder, and very active member, of a Gospel church in Wallingford. He takes his religion seriously, and I therefore wouldn't dream of sending him the link for pinstruck.com - where you can send someone you love a voodoo curse - for example. I have to be careful what I say around Graeme.
It was therefore a mistake when I responded to Graeme's question "would you like a peanut butter cup?" with:
"Urgh! No thanks... peanut butter is the devil's work!"
Whilst most people might retort with a smile and a throw-away "I feel the same about Marmite" comment, Graeme immediately countered with a demanding "why do you say that?"
I would like to have said "it's because it looks like demon poo, smells like demon poo and tastes like demon poo!", but having been put on the spot - and desperate to avoid any sort of religious discussion about fiery depths of Swindon and its denizens - I lamely said:
"Eating too much peanut butter can give you a heart attack..."
Mandy has just got back from a two week holiday to Arizona. She bought the office back some american sweets: Hershey's milk chococlate bars and Reese's milk chocolate peanut butter cups.
I don't like peanut butter.
My boss Graeme is very religious. He is an elder, and very active member, of a Gospel church in Wallingford. He takes his religion seriously, and I therefore wouldn't dream of sending him the link for pinstruck.com - where you can send someone you love a voodoo curse - for example. I have to be careful what I say around Graeme.
It was therefore a mistake when I responded to Graeme's question "would you like a peanut butter cup?" with:
"Urgh! No thanks... peanut butter is the devil's work!"
Whilst most people might retort with a smile and a throw-away "I feel the same about Marmite" comment, Graeme immediately countered with a demanding "why do you say that?"
I would like to have said "it's because it looks like demon poo, smells like demon poo and tastes like demon poo!", but having been put on the spot - and desperate to avoid any sort of religious discussion about fiery depths of Swindon and its denizens - I lamely said:
"Eating too much peanut butter can give you a heart attack..."
The Breakfast TV Shock
It’s very rare for me to be shocked by anything on TV these days *.
Today was one of those days.
I’m eating my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, flicking the channels from one breakfast TV programme to another. Channel 4’s Rise is running an “entertainment” story about an independent US video entitled Bumfight. Bearing in mind it’s 7:48 am, my cornflakes go soggy as I watch snippets of the video slack-jawed. They’re showing graphic scenes of homeless guys beating the crap out of each other and images of the film-makers kidnapping homeless people, snatching them off the street, binding their hands and feet with tape, gagging them, etc. Apparently the bums featured were encouraged to fight each other with offers of cash, food and clothing. The homeless guys in the video have clearly been abused and exploited.
It doesn’t look funny or entertaining. Normally Crunchy Nut Cornflakes leave a sweet taste, but today I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.
The first thing I did when I got into work was to check it out on the net. You can find the official site here. A decent review and commentary on the video – with critical attacks on the filmmakers by homeless help organisations – can be found here (note the date, it’s clearly old news in the US).
The images were violent, graphic and shocking. The activities in them looked highly illegal. But that’s the key word: “looked”. I’m now thinking how much of it was staged in advance? Were the kidnapping scenes set-up and the bums look of terror put on for the camera? As an (allegedly) intelligent person, I should be able to spot the difference, but having only seen just a few seconds of footage – over-dubbed by the Rise presenter – I could not, and this makes me feel uncomfortable.
Which is probably precisely the reaction the filmmakers were hoping for…
* The last time it happened was watching a late-night showing of Jackass, where one of the guys – dressed in chefs outfit – was eating the following raw food stuffs: Red onion, cheese, ham, tomatoes, milk and a large slab of butter. The butter really made him gag. He then jumped up and down for a minute and then spewed up his raw ingredients into a hot pan, adding eggs to make an omelette. Once cooked, the omelette was devoured.
And you thought I was a sick puppy…
It’s very rare for me to be shocked by anything on TV these days *.
Today was one of those days.
I’m eating my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, flicking the channels from one breakfast TV programme to another. Channel 4’s Rise is running an “entertainment” story about an independent US video entitled Bumfight. Bearing in mind it’s 7:48 am, my cornflakes go soggy as I watch snippets of the video slack-jawed. They’re showing graphic scenes of homeless guys beating the crap out of each other and images of the film-makers kidnapping homeless people, snatching them off the street, binding their hands and feet with tape, gagging them, etc. Apparently the bums featured were encouraged to fight each other with offers of cash, food and clothing. The homeless guys in the video have clearly been abused and exploited.
It doesn’t look funny or entertaining. Normally Crunchy Nut Cornflakes leave a sweet taste, but today I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.
The first thing I did when I got into work was to check it out on the net. You can find the official site here. A decent review and commentary on the video – with critical attacks on the filmmakers by homeless help organisations – can be found here (note the date, it’s clearly old news in the US).
The images were violent, graphic and shocking. The activities in them looked highly illegal. But that’s the key word: “looked”. I’m now thinking how much of it was staged in advance? Were the kidnapping scenes set-up and the bums look of terror put on for the camera? As an (allegedly) intelligent person, I should be able to spot the difference, but having only seen just a few seconds of footage – over-dubbed by the Rise presenter – I could not, and this makes me feel uncomfortable.
Which is probably precisely the reaction the filmmakers were hoping for…
* The last time it happened was watching a late-night showing of Jackass, where one of the guys – dressed in chefs outfit – was eating the following raw food stuffs: Red onion, cheese, ham, tomatoes, milk and a large slab of butter. The butter really made him gag. He then jumped up and down for a minute and then spewed up his raw ingredients into a hot pan, adding eggs to make an omelette. Once cooked, the omelette was devoured.
And you thought I was a sick puppy…
Tuesday, September 24, 2002
You'll have to keep your card board box time machines ticking over for another day or two, as when I went to upload Friday's blog entry last night, Freeserve refused my request: Vicster tried to install Tesco as our new IPS two weeks ago, failed, and now our connection is as flaky as a Cadburys Flake.
In truth I couldn't remember our log in ID and password, but blaming it on Vic - at the risk of getting a clip round the ear from her - makes me sound less of a technofool.
The Crowbar, Ultimate Tool Of The Universe
Home Improvement Project (HIP) #1: The refurbishment of the bathroom is still unfinished. The cupboard is yet to be built, and the carpet is unchosen and unlaid. The ceiling needs another coat of paint. Our four day completion window expired 12 months ago.
HIP #2: The refurbishment of the kitchen is now on hold until next year.
HIP #3: The stripping and redecoration of the small spare bedroom was completed - bar a little glosswork - on time and on target.
HIP #4: The stripping and redecoration of the front reception / living room has now begun. Vicster stripped off the majority of the wallpaper on Sunday, whilst I went to work on the skirting boards and the door frames. The plaster covings were attacked last night: The second assault on the buggers is due to commence this evening at sundown. The room needs to be gutted by Friday, as Paul the Plasterer is coming in to patch and skim the joint. Before he can go to work, we have a number of DIY issues that need addressing: a small patch of rising damp needs injecting, a snake basket of pipes need boxing in and assorted electrics need attention.
Once Paul has done his magic, we'll be painting, installing new woodwork, and laying a new wooden floor. In other words we're going to be busy for a couple of weeks. Our dining room - with two rooms worth of furniture in it - is cozy.
So what's the secret weapon in the fight against DIY hell? What implement makes light of the hardest deconstruction work? What tool can justifiably claim to be the Ultimate Tool in the Universe?
It is the humble crowbar.
I was surprised at its POWER during HIP #1. So far in HIP #4 it has continued to prove its immense worth, ripping off the skirtings and knocking off the coving like a knife through hot butter.
If you do not own a crowbar, you do not know the void you have in your life. Take my advice: go and buy one.
Not only is it a pleasure to use, but it makes me feel like a MAN. I am the hunter and it is my club. "Bring forth the dinosaurs!".
Bring forth the prehistoric plasterwork. "Rah!"
In truth I couldn't remember our log in ID and password, but blaming it on Vic - at the risk of getting a clip round the ear from her - makes me sound less of a technofool.
The Crowbar, Ultimate Tool Of The Universe
Home Improvement Project (HIP) #1: The refurbishment of the bathroom is still unfinished. The cupboard is yet to be built, and the carpet is unchosen and unlaid. The ceiling needs another coat of paint. Our four day completion window expired 12 months ago.
HIP #2: The refurbishment of the kitchen is now on hold until next year.
HIP #3: The stripping and redecoration of the small spare bedroom was completed - bar a little glosswork - on time and on target.
HIP #4: The stripping and redecoration of the front reception / living room has now begun. Vicster stripped off the majority of the wallpaper on Sunday, whilst I went to work on the skirting boards and the door frames. The plaster covings were attacked last night: The second assault on the buggers is due to commence this evening at sundown. The room needs to be gutted by Friday, as Paul the Plasterer is coming in to patch and skim the joint. Before he can go to work, we have a number of DIY issues that need addressing: a small patch of rising damp needs injecting, a snake basket of pipes need boxing in and assorted electrics need attention.
Once Paul has done his magic, we'll be painting, installing new woodwork, and laying a new wooden floor. In other words we're going to be busy for a couple of weeks. Our dining room - with two rooms worth of furniture in it - is cozy.
So what's the secret weapon in the fight against DIY hell? What implement makes light of the hardest deconstruction work? What tool can justifiably claim to be the Ultimate Tool in the Universe?
It is the humble crowbar.
I was surprised at its POWER during HIP #1. So far in HIP #4 it has continued to prove its immense worth, ripping off the skirtings and knocking off the coving like a knife through hot butter.
If you do not own a crowbar, you do not know the void you have in your life. Take my advice: go and buy one.
Not only is it a pleasure to use, but it makes me feel like a MAN. I am the hunter and it is my club. "Bring forth the dinosaurs!".
Bring forth the prehistoric plasterwork. "Rah!"
Monday, September 23, 2002
The Time Machine
I wrote my Friday blog entry at home, but forgot to upload it, so I'm all out of sync.
I'll load it up into blogger later, so the below makes more sense. As a bonus, it will allow us to take part in a little bit of harmless time travel ala Back to the Future, Terminator and countless other top cheesy sci-fi films.
So fish out your cardboard boxes and marker pens and join Hobbes and I as we travel back in time to September the 21st, 2002...
[A freaky Steven Hawkins style wormhole appears. Electricity cackles. Purple pyroclasmic clouds rage overhead. Ghostly clocks appear from the aether, their hands racing backwards at crazy speeds. Random images of a man, a teenage boy, a baby and then a monkey flash across our collective consciousness. The sound of something cardboardy getting stuck in the spokes of a moving bicycle reverberates. Our bodies and cardboard box time machine are stretched Mr. Fantastic like into the wormhole. White screen. Silence]
Welcome to the Kassam Stadium, Oxford. The date is 21st September 2002. The time is 14:40.
Your hair is smouldering - put it out - and whatever you do, DO NOT bump into yourself: The Timecop rules of time travel suggest that both of YOU will implode and turn into strawberry jelly.
As a quick aside here, it's worth pointing out that this "rule" is of course complete tosh: if you kill your present-past self, then your present-future self will not exist in the future and therefore your future self will not be around to travel back in time, and won't then be able to kill your present-past self. A Catch 22 situation then arises where your present-past self survives so your future self IS able to travel back in time to kill your present-past self. Oops, we're in a loop. Search the net if you really want to know what is likely to happen, but I reckon instead of you and you turning into jelly, the whole universe will unravel and it'll be game over for everyone and everything. For ever. No pressure then.
So if we (ie. my present-future self and you) see me (my present-past self), please don't do a comedy "let me accidently bump you into yourself" move...
And speaking of me, there I am, sitting in my car with Gramp Y, patiently awaiting the start of Oxford United versus Hull City.
We have already been sat there for an hour: we needed to get to the ground early to ensure a disabled parking space, so that Gramp would only have a short hobble into the stadium. With the car journey as well, we have enjoyed an hour and a half of chat, and as promised in my Friday blog [Time Travel Jelly Warning!], I have indeed asked him about Monte Cassino. Turns out he wasn't there: the MoD pulled his unit out of Italy just before Monte Cassino and shipped them back to Blighty ready for the Normandy invasion. With some gentle probing and questioning on my part, Gramp tells me a few decent stories I haven't heard before. Very interesting and enjoyable.
Our quality time together continues into the big match itself, with just a brief break before the kick-off, where I pop into the bar to have a stiff pint with Scott [Careful Scott, don't touch yourself!]. Gramp and I sit together to watch the U's totally dominate a very entertaining match.
Final score: A nil - nil draw that Oxford should have won by a large margin.
On the way home Gramp states that he's really enjoyed it, and the afternoon has made him forget all about his myriad of aches and pains. He's a sweety.
Time to power-up your cardboard box...
I wrote my Friday blog entry at home, but forgot to upload it, so I'm all out of sync.
I'll load it up into blogger later, so the below makes more sense. As a bonus, it will allow us to take part in a little bit of harmless time travel ala Back to the Future, Terminator and countless other top cheesy sci-fi films.
So fish out your cardboard boxes and marker pens and join Hobbes and I as we travel back in time to September the 21st, 2002...
[A freaky Steven Hawkins style wormhole appears. Electricity cackles. Purple pyroclasmic clouds rage overhead. Ghostly clocks appear from the aether, their hands racing backwards at crazy speeds. Random images of a man, a teenage boy, a baby and then a monkey flash across our collective consciousness. The sound of something cardboardy getting stuck in the spokes of a moving bicycle reverberates. Our bodies and cardboard box time machine are stretched Mr. Fantastic like into the wormhole. White screen. Silence]
Welcome to the Kassam Stadium, Oxford. The date is 21st September 2002. The time is 14:40.
Your hair is smouldering - put it out - and whatever you do, DO NOT bump into yourself: The Timecop rules of time travel suggest that both of YOU will implode and turn into strawberry jelly.
As a quick aside here, it's worth pointing out that this "rule" is of course complete tosh: if you kill your present-past self, then your present-future self will not exist in the future and therefore your future self will not be around to travel back in time, and won't then be able to kill your present-past self. A Catch 22 situation then arises where your present-past self survives so your future self IS able to travel back in time to kill your present-past self. Oops, we're in a loop. Search the net if you really want to know what is likely to happen, but I reckon instead of you and you turning into jelly, the whole universe will unravel and it'll be game over for everyone and everything. For ever. No pressure then.
So if we (ie. my present-future self and you) see me (my present-past self), please don't do a comedy "let me accidently bump you into yourself" move...
And speaking of me, there I am, sitting in my car with Gramp Y, patiently awaiting the start of Oxford United versus Hull City.
We have already been sat there for an hour: we needed to get to the ground early to ensure a disabled parking space, so that Gramp would only have a short hobble into the stadium. With the car journey as well, we have enjoyed an hour and a half of chat, and as promised in my Friday blog [Time Travel Jelly Warning!], I have indeed asked him about Monte Cassino. Turns out he wasn't there: the MoD pulled his unit out of Italy just before Monte Cassino and shipped them back to Blighty ready for the Normandy invasion. With some gentle probing and questioning on my part, Gramp tells me a few decent stories I haven't heard before. Very interesting and enjoyable.
Our quality time together continues into the big match itself, with just a brief break before the kick-off, where I pop into the bar to have a stiff pint with Scott [Careful Scott, don't touch yourself!]. Gramp and I sit together to watch the U's totally dominate a very entertaining match.
Final score: A nil - nil draw that Oxford should have won by a large margin.
On the way home Gramp states that he's really enjoyed it, and the afternoon has made him forget all about his myriad of aches and pains. He's a sweety.
Time to power-up your cardboard box...
Thursday, September 19, 2002
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...
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...
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
The Visa Comes Through
The best news we’ve had in ages came through last night: Mark called us to say his visa has been approved. He should be flying back to Chicago in about ten days.
I am delighted for him. We obviously don’t want to see him go *, but after 15 months of being cast drift from Rob, his house, his cats, his clothes, his gadgets, and a proper job – in other words his whole life – it’s a huge relief that he can put his world back on track.
Mark didn’t know whether to laugh or cry on the phone: he was ecstatic but also on the verge of a tearful blubbing. Not surprising considering how stressed and pessimistic he’s been since the visa application went in. I don’t think he could dare to believe that he’d get it. Silly sausage!
I look forward to the kiss goodbye! ;)
* Who will we turn to for computer hardware and software assistance, incisive football commentary, booming laughter, and crazy birds nest hair?
An Obsession Lurks
Being new to the blog game, I didn’t really know what to expect.
It’s bloody addictive that’s what it is.
And the addiction works on two levels: I NEED and WANT to update my blog each day. I also want to do a good job, so as part of my research into what makes a good blog, I foolishly took a quick look at some random blogs that had been freshly posted to via blogger.com.
Fatal error! Don’t do it! Reading other people’s blogs should come with a government health warning. Either they are quite interesting, so you end up wasting your time reading the whole thing, and then go looking for another one; or they are incredibly bad, so you waste some time reading it and then go looking for another.
Whatever I write, I am determined not to fall into one of the apparently standard blog moulds. After randomly looking at just half a dozen blogs, I’ve encountered the following genres:
Single American Urbanite Woman Looking For A Date – Site Includes “Photo of My Cat” And Quotes From “Sex in the City”
Teenage Angst – Nobody Loves Me (But I Haven’t Met A S.A.U.W. Yet)
Iranian Student Studying English – And Not Doing Too Well In His Studies Apparently
I Am A Computer Nerd – Kill Me
My Blog Is A Radio Link From God
I Type Out Stories From Newspapers And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Copy Text From News Sites And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Am A Crazy Freak
Of course, if you’re a stranger who’s reading this after a random net trawl, you already know that you’re addicted…
The best news we’ve had in ages came through last night: Mark called us to say his visa has been approved. He should be flying back to Chicago in about ten days.
I am delighted for him. We obviously don’t want to see him go *, but after 15 months of being cast drift from Rob, his house, his cats, his clothes, his gadgets, and a proper job – in other words his whole life – it’s a huge relief that he can put his world back on track.
Mark didn’t know whether to laugh or cry on the phone: he was ecstatic but also on the verge of a tearful blubbing. Not surprising considering how stressed and pessimistic he’s been since the visa application went in. I don’t think he could dare to believe that he’d get it. Silly sausage!
I look forward to the kiss goodbye! ;)
* Who will we turn to for computer hardware and software assistance, incisive football commentary, booming laughter, and crazy birds nest hair?
An Obsession Lurks
Being new to the blog game, I didn’t really know what to expect.
It’s bloody addictive that’s what it is.
And the addiction works on two levels: I NEED and WANT to update my blog each day. I also want to do a good job, so as part of my research into what makes a good blog, I foolishly took a quick look at some random blogs that had been freshly posted to via blogger.com.
Fatal error! Don’t do it! Reading other people’s blogs should come with a government health warning. Either they are quite interesting, so you end up wasting your time reading the whole thing, and then go looking for another one; or they are incredibly bad, so you waste some time reading it and then go looking for another.
Whatever I write, I am determined not to fall into one of the apparently standard blog moulds. After randomly looking at just half a dozen blogs, I’ve encountered the following genres:
Single American Urbanite Woman Looking For A Date – Site Includes “Photo of My Cat” And Quotes From “Sex in the City”
Teenage Angst – Nobody Loves Me (But I Haven’t Met A S.A.U.W. Yet)
Iranian Student Studying English – And Not Doing Too Well In His Studies Apparently
I Am A Computer Nerd – Kill Me
My Blog Is A Radio Link From God
I Type Out Stories From Newspapers And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Copy Text From News Sites And Make A F*cking Stupid Comment About Them
I Am A Crazy Freak
Of course, if you’re a stranger who’s reading this after a random net trawl, you already know that you’re addicted…
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
The Song That Rots Your Brain
Sometimes it can be the first tune on the radio-alarm clock, listened to through sleepy dust and the final frames of a dream. Sometimes it is the tune that Random Guy At The Bus Stop is singing along to on his mini-disc. Whatever the source, sometimes you get hit by a tune that you just can’t get out of your head for the rest of the day. Sometimes the song might be a classic by Marvin Gaye or Frank Sinatra, but usually the world conspires against you and locks in something a little less community-friendly.
For example,
“I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves…
I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get, get, get on your nerves!”
[Repeat until people kill you]
…is the ultimate, kids-spawned, mind rotter.
Today’s verse - that has clamped onto my head like a parasitic Alien – was implanted earlier this morning in the staff canteen:
“There is a circus in the town, in the town!
[Insert name] is a clown, is a clown!”
It’s doing my nut in, and what’s worse is that I’m trying to find the best name – from all my friends and associates – in order to make the thing flow and rhyme at it’s optimum level. I can’t help myself, and now I’ve passed on the affliction to you.
Sing it with me.
Sometimes it can be the first tune on the radio-alarm clock, listened to through sleepy dust and the final frames of a dream. Sometimes it is the tune that Random Guy At The Bus Stop is singing along to on his mini-disc. Whatever the source, sometimes you get hit by a tune that you just can’t get out of your head for the rest of the day. Sometimes the song might be a classic by Marvin Gaye or Frank Sinatra, but usually the world conspires against you and locks in something a little less community-friendly.
For example,
“I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves…
I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get, get, get on your nerves!”
[Repeat until people kill you]
…is the ultimate, kids-spawned, mind rotter.
Today’s verse - that has clamped onto my head like a parasitic Alien – was implanted earlier this morning in the staff canteen:
“There is a circus in the town, in the town!
[Insert name] is a clown, is a clown!”
It’s doing my nut in, and what’s worse is that I’m trying to find the best name – from all my friends and associates – in order to make the thing flow and rhyme at it’s optimum level. I can’t help myself, and now I’ve passed on the affliction to you.
Sing it with me.
Monday, September 16, 2002
The Visitation
In his new movie Signs, Mel Gibson is visited by aliens.
This weekend we were visited by Sara and Stasher.
Rather disappointingly, Stasher’s Legendary Pistachio Pants did not accompany them on their journey from Blackheath. Perhaps Stasher was joshing around and pulling our legs when he informed us that The Pants had been consigned to the Great Laundry Bin In The Sky, but I have the funny feeling that these most famous of undergarments really have now been lost to history. This day of dread has been coming for some time, but for some reason I’m gutted: The Pants – technically boxer shorts - were a nasty colour and slightly threadbare, but they were unusual, a great source of entertainment for onlookers, and most importantly, they were ICONIC.
My head tells me they’ve been burned, but my heart hopes that Stasher has them neatly folded away in his pant drawer.
I should make a joke here about pistachio-coloured pants and little green men, but I can’t think of one…
The Game of Golf
It was Josella’s Hen Do on Saturday, and therefore the primary reason Sara and Stasher came to visit. While the girls hired punts from the Cherwell Boat House and drank champagne on their lazy river cruise, Stash and I hit the golf course.
Venue: Waterstock Golf Course. Known locally by members of other clubs as the “Dogtrack”. Stash called it “characterless”. I called it ideal for a hacker like me.
Scores: Stasher, a fine 99. Neil, a rather mediocre 114.
Result: An enjoyable afternoon of fresh air and gossip, unspoilt by the final scores. Stasher wins the “Stag Classic” trophy at the first attempt. The accolade earns him bragging rights and the honour of taking home said trophy – a magnificent plastic man with a big bendy wood – and place prominently on his mantle piece. He also gets to give me 15 shots next time we play.
Unfortunately, on his departure on Sunday, Stasher “forgot” to pick up the trophy. Perhaps a mere oversight on his part - rather than Sara’s orders – but whatever the reason, every time I look at the little plastic chap I shall be reminded of the bitter taste of defeat…
“I shall have my revenge!”
An up-turned coffee mug on the landing carpet - for putting practice purposes - beckons.
The Diet Rules To Be Enforced
Vicster tells me yesterday that Stashboyslim makes me look fat.
Therefore the diet needs to be reintroduced and the rules posted here for easy reference and enforcement purposes. My reasoning is that if I see them published on the net – and I can refer to them at a click – I will be more inclined to obey them and not give into temptation.
Here are the rules:
1) One can of coke or other fizzy sugar drink per day.
2) No chocolate, cakes, biscuits or sweets.
3) Smaller portions at dinnertime.
4) No bad lunches – full meals in the staff canteen are out.
5) No alcohol midweek *.
6) I should be doing some moderate exercise.
I should be below 12 stone in no time. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Bridget Jones. Break out the rice cakes!
* unless there are emergency circumstances, e.g. a bottle of wine has been opened and the cork carelessly discarded in the dustbin…
The Selection Box
Tina was right: (You Can’t Beat) Asda does indeed have Christmas fodder on sale in its stores. Selection Boxes are currently on display at Asda, Wheatley. There are 92 days to Christmas. For the record, Julian went shopping to “MK” this weekend. He almost went to The Great Maw of Hell shopping centre, Swindon, instead, but MK won out in the end.
In his new movie Signs, Mel Gibson is visited by aliens.
This weekend we were visited by Sara and Stasher.
Rather disappointingly, Stasher’s Legendary Pistachio Pants did not accompany them on their journey from Blackheath. Perhaps Stasher was joshing around and pulling our legs when he informed us that The Pants had been consigned to the Great Laundry Bin In The Sky, but I have the funny feeling that these most famous of undergarments really have now been lost to history. This day of dread has been coming for some time, but for some reason I’m gutted: The Pants – technically boxer shorts - were a nasty colour and slightly threadbare, but they were unusual, a great source of entertainment for onlookers, and most importantly, they were ICONIC.
My head tells me they’ve been burned, but my heart hopes that Stasher has them neatly folded away in his pant drawer.
I should make a joke here about pistachio-coloured pants and little green men, but I can’t think of one…
The Game of Golf
It was Josella’s Hen Do on Saturday, and therefore the primary reason Sara and Stasher came to visit. While the girls hired punts from the Cherwell Boat House and drank champagne on their lazy river cruise, Stash and I hit the golf course.
Venue: Waterstock Golf Course. Known locally by members of other clubs as the “Dogtrack”. Stash called it “characterless”. I called it ideal for a hacker like me.
Scores: Stasher, a fine 99. Neil, a rather mediocre 114.
Result: An enjoyable afternoon of fresh air and gossip, unspoilt by the final scores. Stasher wins the “Stag Classic” trophy at the first attempt. The accolade earns him bragging rights and the honour of taking home said trophy – a magnificent plastic man with a big bendy wood – and place prominently on his mantle piece. He also gets to give me 15 shots next time we play.
Unfortunately, on his departure on Sunday, Stasher “forgot” to pick up the trophy. Perhaps a mere oversight on his part - rather than Sara’s orders – but whatever the reason, every time I look at the little plastic chap I shall be reminded of the bitter taste of defeat…
“I shall have my revenge!”
An up-turned coffee mug on the landing carpet - for putting practice purposes - beckons.
The Diet Rules To Be Enforced
Vicster tells me yesterday that Stashboyslim makes me look fat.
Therefore the diet needs to be reintroduced and the rules posted here for easy reference and enforcement purposes. My reasoning is that if I see them published on the net – and I can refer to them at a click – I will be more inclined to obey them and not give into temptation.
Here are the rules:
1) One can of coke or other fizzy sugar drink per day.
2) No chocolate, cakes, biscuits or sweets.
3) Smaller portions at dinnertime.
4) No bad lunches – full meals in the staff canteen are out.
5) No alcohol midweek *.
6) I should be doing some moderate exercise.
I should be below 12 stone in no time. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Bridget Jones. Break out the rice cakes!
* unless there are emergency circumstances, e.g. a bottle of wine has been opened and the cork carelessly discarded in the dustbin…
The Selection Box
Tina was right: (You Can’t Beat) Asda does indeed have Christmas fodder on sale in its stores. Selection Boxes are currently on display at Asda, Wheatley. There are 92 days to Christmas. For the record, Julian went shopping to “MK” this weekend. He almost went to The Great Maw of Hell shopping centre, Swindon, instead, but MK won out in the end.
Friday, September 13, 2002
Thursday, September 12, 2002
The Friday Sweepstake
I have the pleasure of working with Julian, Tina and Mandy.
They are our accounts payable and accounts receivable team, and there is a Tina and a Mandy in every AP department in every company in the UK.
Imagine Patty and Selma from The Simpsons.
Julian is thirty going on fifty five. People mistake the photo on his desk of him and his girlfriend for a photo of him and his mum. That's because his girlfriend is old enough to be his mum. He even gives Aylesbury a bad name.
J, T & M's world revolves around The Mirror, BBC TV's Animal Hospital, Asda chicken kievs and the lowest common denominator.
A typical exchange would be:
"Why are you reading that Harry Potter book?" says Mandy to me. "It's for kids! You should read a proper book for adults... like Jackie Collins."
[Cock the imaginary pistol]
However, the daily chit-chat oftens throws up some real classics, and I will bring you these occasional Julianisms as and when they happen. For example:
We are discussing the Israeli - Palestinian conflict. There have been weeks of terrible bloodshed and atrocities against civilians on both sides. Tina's take on it all is "We should bang their 'eads together... that'd sort it."
Todays little gem is:
Julian received a direct mail Christmas catalog through the post this morning. He and Tina couldn't believe it had arrived so early in the year, and began discussing what the shops - Asda and Woolworths - would be full of over the next few months. "They'll be full of Christmas stuff, but before that they'll have Halloween and then Bonfire Night things for the kids..." remarks Tina.
Julain's response: "Yeah, you're right... they always market these big events towards the kids don't they. Halloween, Bonfire Night, Christmas...
and Ski Trips."
[Cock the imaginary shotgun.]
Tomorrow we shall play our regular Friday Morning Sweepstake game. We all guess at what time Julian will first ask someone his buzzword bingo catchphrase of "So what are your plans for the weekend then?"
Experience shows it will either be over our cooked breakfast, or between 11:00 and 11:30 am.
We sit praying that he won't ask us, as if you're the lucky individual who gets asked the question, it's damn hard to suppress the giggles. And you don't want to be spraying half-munched fried egg over the breakfast table.
It's not that he doesn't care what you're up to - he is genuinely interested most of the time. He just then uses it as a gateway to tell you - in graphic monotone detail for ten mind-numbing minutes - what he and mum are up to. I really don't need to know how many square-foot of retail space the Woolworths in MK (why the f*ck can't he call it Milton Keynes) has.
You'll have to email me before 9:00 am if you want a piece of the Sweepstake action.
I have the pleasure of working with Julian, Tina and Mandy.
They are our accounts payable and accounts receivable team, and there is a Tina and a Mandy in every AP department in every company in the UK.
Imagine Patty and Selma from The Simpsons.
Julian is thirty going on fifty five. People mistake the photo on his desk of him and his girlfriend for a photo of him and his mum. That's because his girlfriend is old enough to be his mum. He even gives Aylesbury a bad name.
J, T & M's world revolves around The Mirror, BBC TV's Animal Hospital, Asda chicken kievs and the lowest common denominator.
A typical exchange would be:
"Why are you reading that Harry Potter book?" says Mandy to me. "It's for kids! You should read a proper book for adults... like Jackie Collins."
[Cock the imaginary pistol]
However, the daily chit-chat oftens throws up some real classics, and I will bring you these occasional Julianisms as and when they happen. For example:
We are discussing the Israeli - Palestinian conflict. There have been weeks of terrible bloodshed and atrocities against civilians on both sides. Tina's take on it all is "We should bang their 'eads together... that'd sort it."
Todays little gem is:
Julian received a direct mail Christmas catalog through the post this morning. He and Tina couldn't believe it had arrived so early in the year, and began discussing what the shops - Asda and Woolworths - would be full of over the next few months. "They'll be full of Christmas stuff, but before that they'll have Halloween and then Bonfire Night things for the kids..." remarks Tina.
Julain's response: "Yeah, you're right... they always market these big events towards the kids don't they. Halloween, Bonfire Night, Christmas...
and Ski Trips."
[Cock the imaginary shotgun.]
Tomorrow we shall play our regular Friday Morning Sweepstake game. We all guess at what time Julian will first ask someone his buzzword bingo catchphrase of "So what are your plans for the weekend then?"
Experience shows it will either be over our cooked breakfast, or between 11:00 and 11:30 am.
We sit praying that he won't ask us, as if you're the lucky individual who gets asked the question, it's damn hard to suppress the giggles. And you don't want to be spraying half-munched fried egg over the breakfast table.
It's not that he doesn't care what you're up to - he is genuinely interested most of the time. He just then uses it as a gateway to tell you - in graphic monotone detail for ten mind-numbing minutes - what he and mum are up to. I really don't need to know how many square-foot of retail space the Woolworths in MK (why the f*ck can't he call it Milton Keynes) has.
You'll have to email me before 9:00 am if you want a piece of the Sweepstake action.
