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!"]
Thursday, February 06, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, February 03, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, January 31, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, January 17, 2003
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.
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.
Thursday, January 16, 2003
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, January 13, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, January 10, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
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]
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]
Monday, January 06, 2003
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..."
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..."
Thursday, January 02, 2003
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...
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...
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 12, 2002
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.
...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.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
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...
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...
Monday, December 09, 2002
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…
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…
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
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.
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.
