+++ACTIVATE LIE-TO-DOCTOR MODE+++
DVLA medical examination = tomorrow morning at ten thirty.
£132 pounds, it will cost me. £132 to apply for a possibility of a job.
but
sometimes
in life
you just have to bend over and take it...
anyway. early to bed tonight to ensure maximum vital-signage tomorrow morning. no alcohol, no caffeine, just a respectful manner and an empty wallet...
May 31, 2005
May 30, 2005
r(ed-t)ape alarm
oh for the love of god.
friday was day of furiosity. so much so that i am only just capable of writing about it now.
friday was a day when i was an ace away from turning green and bursting out of my clothes and then running in slowwww mooooootion towards the camera. god damn fuck fuck fuckers!
i fear a little context may be in order, dear reader, lest i lose you.
january 2003 - i apply to join the london ambulance service but am spurned, because i need a C1 category on my driving licence, which i do not have. ambulances are classed as heavy goods vehicles because they weight more than 3,500 kilograms for reasons, two - a., they're packed with equipment and b., they have a large lead sheet in the floor to stop them flipping over whenever they go round a corner at speed, top-heavy beasties that they are. i can't get a C1 licence because it costs between £1000 and £1500 depending on which greasy fuckwit porklord you choose to instruct you in the secret lorry-driver arts of how to plaster your cab with porn, how to short-circuit your tachometer, and how to navigate a roundabout whilst eating a pot noodle with one hand & rolling a cigarette with the other.
may 2004 - i start applying for my C1 licence again so i can have another bash.
july 2004 - i finally get a cunting doctor's appointment. the DVLA, see, make you jump through a multitude of hoops to get this bastard thing, the worst of which is a half-hour-long medical examination in which they test everything from your piss to your pulse and then charge you £75 for the privilege. it has to be YOUR doctor who has known you for X years. for some reason, no other doctor is allowed to do it, otherwise i'd've pulled some strings in the health authority and switched GPs to somewhere a little less restrictive. i find the doctors at the surgery to be uniformly excellent but the system is just purest paper-based cock-juggling. i pass the medical with, luckily, no need for coughing.
august 2004 - still can't afford the course, not that it matters, because hampshire ambulance don't have any fecking vacancies anyway
october 2004 - medical expires. +++TACTICAL ERROR+++TACTICAL ERROR+++TACTICAL ERROR+++
three days ago, 2005 - i see an advert in the jobs pages which damn nearly makes me gibber with joy. it is for a trainee paramedic programme for the hampshire ambulance service. basically, if you can get on it, they pack you off to university for half a week and then you spend the rest of it learning on the job. and three years later, bang, you're a qualified paramedic. AND THEY PAY YOUR C1 COSTS.
There are many reasons why this is the most utterly perfect thing, in that they pay you to do it, it's local, and i'd actually end up being a paramedic instead of what i'd applied to be in London, aka., a Qualified Ambulance Technician; the difference is akin to that of being a teacher or being a learning support assistant...
anyway, it was all a flurry of inquiries to HR departments, the DVLA and the interchangeable, formidable harridans who guard the gates of the surgery reception-desk.
the practical upshot is that i have two weeks to get something done that took me two months last time. i am flailing against the bureaucracy and the brain-dead administratums like a quadraspaz against a PULL door. i have had the juiciest carrot of my life dangled in front of me and i may well be denied because i haven't passed a medical that i've already cunting passed.
since i'm in the mood to rant (i do not care if anyone is bothering to read, i need the release like a trucker down the Docks), here are other factors about this that have wound me up:
1. had i passed my driving test a year earlier i wouldn't even have to bother cunting about with this shit, because you used to get the C1 entitlement automatically until they moved the goalposts in 1998. ambulance services across the country have yet to care about this, because their applicants have, until now, always been of the age when they did qualify for this. but now they - fucking short-sightedly - demand that you get this off your own back before you even apply for a job with them. the practical upshot of all this is that you're effectively paying a grand to train for a job they might not even offer you.
this is akin to a wannabe piano-tuner being told that they must buy their own piano before anyone bothers to find out if they're tone deaf or not.
2. this whole programme is for 18-25 year-olds. which is odd, because - due to the change in 1998 - nobody in this age group will have a C1 licence, unless they had to get one for their job. so why is hampshire ambulance service limiting the scope of their recruitment exclusively to removal men and lorry drivers?
3. i'm just pissed off. i've never been this angry at anything before in my life.
time to do some weights and try and relax that way.
anger will make you strong, my....young...apppprentith!
friday was day of furiosity. so much so that i am only just capable of writing about it now.
friday was a day when i was an ace away from turning green and bursting out of my clothes and then running in slowwww mooooootion towards the camera. god damn fuck fuck fuckers!
i fear a little context may be in order, dear reader, lest i lose you.
january 2003 - i apply to join the london ambulance service but am spurned, because i need a C1 category on my driving licence, which i do not have. ambulances are classed as heavy goods vehicles because they weight more than 3,500 kilograms for reasons, two - a., they're packed with equipment and b., they have a large lead sheet in the floor to stop them flipping over whenever they go round a corner at speed, top-heavy beasties that they are. i can't get a C1 licence because it costs between £1000 and £1500 depending on which greasy fuckwit porklord you choose to instruct you in the secret lorry-driver arts of how to plaster your cab with porn, how to short-circuit your tachometer, and how to navigate a roundabout whilst eating a pot noodle with one hand & rolling a cigarette with the other.
may 2004 - i start applying for my C1 licence again so i can have another bash.
july 2004 - i finally get a cunting doctor's appointment. the DVLA, see, make you jump through a multitude of hoops to get this bastard thing, the worst of which is a half-hour-long medical examination in which they test everything from your piss to your pulse and then charge you £75 for the privilege. it has to be YOUR doctor who has known you for X years. for some reason, no other doctor is allowed to do it, otherwise i'd've pulled some strings in the health authority and switched GPs to somewhere a little less restrictive. i find the doctors at the surgery to be uniformly excellent but the system is just purest paper-based cock-juggling. i pass the medical with, luckily, no need for coughing.
august 2004 - still can't afford the course, not that it matters, because hampshire ambulance don't have any fecking vacancies anyway
october 2004 - medical expires. +++TACTICAL ERROR+++TACTICAL ERROR+++TACTICAL ERROR+++
three days ago, 2005 - i see an advert in the jobs pages which damn nearly makes me gibber with joy. it is for a trainee paramedic programme for the hampshire ambulance service. basically, if you can get on it, they pack you off to university for half a week and then you spend the rest of it learning on the job. and three years later, bang, you're a qualified paramedic. AND THEY PAY YOUR C1 COSTS.
There are many reasons why this is the most utterly perfect thing, in that they pay you to do it, it's local, and i'd actually end up being a paramedic instead of what i'd applied to be in London, aka., a Qualified Ambulance Technician; the difference is akin to that of being a teacher or being a learning support assistant...
anyway, it was all a flurry of inquiries to HR departments, the DVLA and the interchangeable, formidable harridans who guard the gates of the surgery reception-desk.
the practical upshot is that i have two weeks to get something done that took me two months last time. i am flailing against the bureaucracy and the brain-dead administratums like a quadraspaz against a PULL door. i have had the juiciest carrot of my life dangled in front of me and i may well be denied because i haven't passed a medical that i've already cunting passed.
since i'm in the mood to rant (i do not care if anyone is bothering to read, i need the release like a trucker down the Docks), here are other factors about this that have wound me up:
1. had i passed my driving test a year earlier i wouldn't even have to bother cunting about with this shit, because you used to get the C1 entitlement automatically until they moved the goalposts in 1998. ambulance services across the country have yet to care about this, because their applicants have, until now, always been of the age when they did qualify for this. but now they - fucking short-sightedly - demand that you get this off your own back before you even apply for a job with them. the practical upshot of all this is that you're effectively paying a grand to train for a job they might not even offer you.
this is akin to a wannabe piano-tuner being told that they must buy their own piano before anyone bothers to find out if they're tone deaf or not.
2. this whole programme is for 18-25 year-olds. which is odd, because - due to the change in 1998 - nobody in this age group will have a C1 licence, unless they had to get one for their job. so why is hampshire ambulance service limiting the scope of their recruitment exclusively to removal men and lorry drivers?
3. i'm just pissed off. i've never been this angry at anything before in my life.
time to do some weights and try and relax that way.
anger will make you strong, my....young...apppprentith!
Strange Events in the Outside World
A rash of blogs upon you. I've been writing them and have then not had the opportunity to upload them, hence the sudden spate. Anyway.
I note with interest from the strange glowing box in the corner of the room that a group of people have been institutionalised, apparently for displaying delusional levels of self-obsession. I'd like to extend my sympathies to the thirteen villages across the country that woke up on Saturday morning to find that someone had pinched their idiot.
I note with interest from the strange glowing box in the corner of the room that a group of people have been institutionalised, apparently for displaying delusional levels of self-obsession. I'd like to extend my sympathies to the thirteen villages across the country that woke up on Saturday morning to find that someone had pinched their idiot.
itunes surprise
Dicking around with some setting somewhere yesterday I was shocked to see that I have never played about 40% of the songs in my itunes library. This equates to 2.8 days worth of songs that I've never listened to from beginning to end. Accordingly I have set up a smart playlist containing these tracks in random order and am now addressing my awful negligence systematically.
There's some great shit in here too. 'Glory Box' from Portishead at the moment. Fantastic. Sonically beautiful, lyrically intelligent and a great performance. Pity about the name. Yet unplayed since at least september last year when I got my mac. It's almost like going through someone else's record collection. Perhaps there's some cunning way of getting itunes to post my most recently played list of songs to this blog? Would be a reasonably good way of tracking my mood. Tinker Tinker Tinker.
There's some great shit in here too. 'Glory Box' from Portishead at the moment. Fantastic. Sonically beautiful, lyrically intelligent and a great performance. Pity about the name. Yet unplayed since at least september last year when I got my mac. It's almost like going through someone else's record collection. Perhaps there's some cunning way of getting itunes to post my most recently played list of songs to this blog? Would be a reasonably good way of tracking my mood. Tinker Tinker Tinker.
On Flying
By my count, I got on 25 planes last year. This is less than many people, but is quite enough for me. Flying used to be a novelty but is now a pain in the arse. I do it just infrequently enough for valuable lessons to be forgotten, but frequently enough for those lessons to be valuable (if only I could remember them). Here, more for my benefit than yours to be honest, is a list of a few things that made me think "must remember that" on the way up to Islay the other day.
1. Consider not flying. Why bugger around getting from Home to Winchester, Winchester to Reading, Reading to Heathrow and then waiting around, then flying to Glasgow when you could have got a train to Glasgow from Winchester? Roughly same overall journey duration, much less arsing around with luggage, more comfort, better food (I shit you not) and actually free thanks to some amusing reward card I have.
2. Always join the reward club. Being a member of a frequent flier scheme is useless but for two important factors: lounge access or you're at the front of the queue for an upgrade. Forget all that bollocks you hear about smiling nicely at the person at check-in: hardly ever works. Spend lots of money with the airline. Then they'll give a crap about you.
3. Always get to the airport early. Mainly because of point 4, but also because you'll likely be more productive than you are in the office (no interruptions) and because it'll help you relax.
4. Aisle Seat, exit row. For those of us mortals who are required to fly standard / economy on short haul trips, the holy grail of seats is the aisle seat in an exit row. For those of us that top six feet, every centimetre of leg room counts and there's more of it in an exit row. Some people value window seats highly. These people are idiots. An aisle seat affords you the ability to stand up when you want to which is much more valuable than the 5 second long vision of some grey airport getting rapidly further away before being obscured by cloud. Your chances of getting your chosen seat are enhanced by turning up at checkin on time and / or by checking in online (sometimes only available to reward scheme members, or available to them earlier).
5. Beating jet lag. Many will tell you that getting drunk on a long haul flight is dangerous (because of things like DVT) and will leave you with a worse hangover. They may well be right. However, nothing disrupts sleep like getting drunk so it's the ideal option for beating jet lag if cunningly employed to keep you awake. If the opposite effect is called for then I personally find nothing is more effective than a cocktail of sleeping pills and a quantity of vodka. This is also highly dangerous in that it can result in kidney or liver problems or can get you so high you do a Peter Buck and feed your CDs into the stewardess's trolley, throw yoghurt around first class and then try to open the doors to get some air. From personal experience, however, it works a treat. And most people don't mind about the yoghurt in their hair if you send them a letter afterwards.
6. Hand Luggage. I tend to adopt a zen posture here and accept that I'll spend half an hour in front of a hypnotic baggage carousel. Others will stop at nothing to get all their luggage on the plane in order to get out of the airport quicker at the other end. The people that I see doing this always seem to be red in the face, super stressed and once they get to their destination tend to be in dire need of something that they had to leave out of their slimline case in order to close it. It's your decision, but I prefer to go with a bigger suitcase and to let the conveyor do its thing. Don't be an arsehole and stand at the beginning of the carousel. Let's be honest, If 30 seconds of your time was that important you'd have your own jet.
7. Airport Hotels. Think about it. The most stressful part of your journey is likely to be getting to the airport in the first place. Why not get there the night before, go for a swim, eat some nice food and catch a film. Also, early morning flights are often cheaper so the hotel might even pay for itself...
8. Caffeine. All the dehydrating, jetlag-prolonging effects of alcohol with none of the benefits. Avoid.
9. Food. Like Hannibal Lecter, I will sometimes pack my own. But more along the lines of crisps / fruit / orange juice / chocolate than brain fried in butter. Particularly if flying with a low cost carrier. Always have some chewing gum with me to help with the ear popping.
10. Entertainment. I used to think I'd use my laptop on short flights. I was wrong. There's never enough room. Instead, I'm now sure to pack a book and / or a couple of magazines and my ipod hooked up to some noise cancelling headphones.
The right headphones can be a godsend if you're stuck in a metal tube at 35,000 feet with a pair of screaming babies, which leads me on to my idea. My biggest gripe with flying is not the absence of glamour but the presence of screaming babies. Surely I am not the only person to feel this way? It only takes one baby to make three hundred people or more miserable for hours.
Surely then here's a competitive advantage for an airline to break ranks and ban children under, say, seven years old? I'd happily pay a premium for the pleasure.
1. Consider not flying. Why bugger around getting from Home to Winchester, Winchester to Reading, Reading to Heathrow and then waiting around, then flying to Glasgow when you could have got a train to Glasgow from Winchester? Roughly same overall journey duration, much less arsing around with luggage, more comfort, better food (I shit you not) and actually free thanks to some amusing reward card I have.
2. Always join the reward club. Being a member of a frequent flier scheme is useless but for two important factors: lounge access or you're at the front of the queue for an upgrade. Forget all that bollocks you hear about smiling nicely at the person at check-in: hardly ever works. Spend lots of money with the airline. Then they'll give a crap about you.
3. Always get to the airport early. Mainly because of point 4, but also because you'll likely be more productive than you are in the office (no interruptions) and because it'll help you relax.
4. Aisle Seat, exit row. For those of us mortals who are required to fly standard / economy on short haul trips, the holy grail of seats is the aisle seat in an exit row. For those of us that top six feet, every centimetre of leg room counts and there's more of it in an exit row. Some people value window seats highly. These people are idiots. An aisle seat affords you the ability to stand up when you want to which is much more valuable than the 5 second long vision of some grey airport getting rapidly further away before being obscured by cloud. Your chances of getting your chosen seat are enhanced by turning up at checkin on time and / or by checking in online (sometimes only available to reward scheme members, or available to them earlier).
5. Beating jet lag. Many will tell you that getting drunk on a long haul flight is dangerous (because of things like DVT) and will leave you with a worse hangover. They may well be right. However, nothing disrupts sleep like getting drunk so it's the ideal option for beating jet lag if cunningly employed to keep you awake. If the opposite effect is called for then I personally find nothing is more effective than a cocktail of sleeping pills and a quantity of vodka. This is also highly dangerous in that it can result in kidney or liver problems or can get you so high you do a Peter Buck and feed your CDs into the stewardess's trolley, throw yoghurt around first class and then try to open the doors to get some air. From personal experience, however, it works a treat. And most people don't mind about the yoghurt in their hair if you send them a letter afterwards.
6. Hand Luggage. I tend to adopt a zen posture here and accept that I'll spend half an hour in front of a hypnotic baggage carousel. Others will stop at nothing to get all their luggage on the plane in order to get out of the airport quicker at the other end. The people that I see doing this always seem to be red in the face, super stressed and once they get to their destination tend to be in dire need of something that they had to leave out of their slimline case in order to close it. It's your decision, but I prefer to go with a bigger suitcase and to let the conveyor do its thing. Don't be an arsehole and stand at the beginning of the carousel. Let's be honest, If 30 seconds of your time was that important you'd have your own jet.
7. Airport Hotels. Think about it. The most stressful part of your journey is likely to be getting to the airport in the first place. Why not get there the night before, go for a swim, eat some nice food and catch a film. Also, early morning flights are often cheaper so the hotel might even pay for itself...
8. Caffeine. All the dehydrating, jetlag-prolonging effects of alcohol with none of the benefits. Avoid.
9. Food. Like Hannibal Lecter, I will sometimes pack my own. But more along the lines of crisps / fruit / orange juice / chocolate than brain fried in butter. Particularly if flying with a low cost carrier. Always have some chewing gum with me to help with the ear popping.
10. Entertainment. I used to think I'd use my laptop on short flights. I was wrong. There's never enough room. Instead, I'm now sure to pack a book and / or a couple of magazines and my ipod hooked up to some noise cancelling headphones.
The right headphones can be a godsend if you're stuck in a metal tube at 35,000 feet with a pair of screaming babies, which leads me on to my idea. My biggest gripe with flying is not the absence of glamour but the presence of screaming babies. Surely I am not the only person to feel this way? It only takes one baby to make three hundred people or more miserable for hours.
Surely then here's a competitive advantage for an airline to break ranks and ban children under, say, seven years old? I'd happily pay a premium for the pleasure.
Oysters
Oysters are yummy. But I know, somewhere in Essex, Ewan is reaching for his bin to be sick in just at the sight of them.
You, sir, are a food fascist!
You, sir, are a food fascist!
Organising a Piss-up in a Distillery
Providence: my visit to Islay coincides precisely with the week long whisky festival. Yesterday we went to the Brucladdich (sp?) distillery's open day. Cheap whisky, fine food and some pretty good live music was in abundance. I hear the weather has taken a turn for the worse elsewhere, but yesterday we stood in the yard guzzling locally caught oysters and 10 year old malt with the sun on our backs. I shall post some pictures.
May 27, 2005
Benny With No Trousers On
I was trying to find the cat to take a photo to test my shiny new flikr account. On my search, I found Benny ironing a shirt for tomorrow in his boxer shorts. Feline photography plans abandoned, I tried to take a photo with my phone but he was too quick.
I found him cowering in the dark in the living room with a rug wrapped around him. Bless.
I found him cowering in the dark in the living room with a rug wrapped around him. Bless.
May 26, 2005
Laphroaig
Laphroaig is a brand of single malt whisky distilled on the island of islay in the inner Hebrides. My dad lives on Islay. Last year I went up to see him and we spent a very pleasant morning at the distillery learning how it works. Last night, Laphroaig made a fool of me in a hotel bar in Basingstoke. I'm flying to Islay tomorrow to put things straight.
Incidentally, benny tells me that you spell it 'whiskey' if you're referring to the irish stuff, 'whisky' if you're referring to the scottish stuff. I was going to ask him how you spell it if you're talking about the american stuff, but benny is of the view that americans don't produce whisky. Benny is a whisky snob.
After I got back from the island last year my then flatmate had a party to which a complete tosser he vaguely knew turned up. I don't remember much about the evening but found said tosser pouring himself large glass after large glass of the precious whisky I'd brought back and holding court with some pretty girls in the kitchen. He pronounced the name "Lafrog" which I gleefully corrected him on - "Lafroig" is how ya say it. He said I was wrong and tried to dismiss me by saying people often made the mistake. I told him he was mistaken and that I had been talking about this with the manager of the distillery in the still room only two days previously. Game set and match Harvey. How satisfying.
In a recent comment (thankyou!) Natasha mentioned a cunning marketing trick they have. If you buy a bottle you can claim a free square foot of the distillery's land on islay. They then lease this back from you. The rent is a shot of whisky per year, collectable in person from the distillery. When we visited there were about fifteen people on the tour. Dad was the only resident. Of the others, 5 were from Japan, a couple from america and the remainder from various bits of europe. I guess it's a trick that works.
Personally, I prefer beer or wine. Especially red wine. I do not share Ewan's view that Irn Bru is good for you and should be bottle fed to children from a young age to bolster their immune system.
I'm off to pack. And set up a photo thingy so I can post pictures of my holiday on here.
Incidentally, benny tells me that you spell it 'whiskey' if you're referring to the irish stuff, 'whisky' if you're referring to the scottish stuff. I was going to ask him how you spell it if you're talking about the american stuff, but benny is of the view that americans don't produce whisky. Benny is a whisky snob.
After I got back from the island last year my then flatmate had a party to which a complete tosser he vaguely knew turned up. I don't remember much about the evening but found said tosser pouring himself large glass after large glass of the precious whisky I'd brought back and holding court with some pretty girls in the kitchen. He pronounced the name "Lafrog" which I gleefully corrected him on - "Lafroig" is how ya say it. He said I was wrong and tried to dismiss me by saying people often made the mistake. I told him he was mistaken and that I had been talking about this with the manager of the distillery in the still room only two days previously. Game set and match Harvey. How satisfying.
In a recent comment (thankyou!) Natasha mentioned a cunning marketing trick they have. If you buy a bottle you can claim a free square foot of the distillery's land on islay. They then lease this back from you. The rent is a shot of whisky per year, collectable in person from the distillery. When we visited there were about fifteen people on the tour. Dad was the only resident. Of the others, 5 were from Japan, a couple from america and the remainder from various bits of europe. I guess it's a trick that works.
Personally, I prefer beer or wine. Especially red wine. I do not share Ewan's view that Irn Bru is good for you and should be bottle fed to children from a young age to bolster their immune system.
I'm off to pack. And set up a photo thingy so I can post pictures of my holiday on here.
A reliable sign that it's going to hurt tomorrow
Thinking "I wonder why I don't seem to be getting drunk"
There's no Laphroaig Whiskey left in Basingstoke. Don't bother checking. I've looked everywhere.
There's no Laphroaig Whiskey left in Basingstoke. Don't bother checking. I've looked everywhere.
May 25, 2005
is there such a thing as being too stupid to live?
for those who haven't heard of this yet, allow bbc news to educate you:
for fuck's sake. for fuuuuuucccccck's sake.
quite frankly, the fact that they both managed to live as *long* as 17 is surprising - anyone feckless enough to consider swinging delicate glass-tubes full of burning petrol at each othera good idea would, i should've thought, have died off earlier of something equally fun, like pissing on the middle rail of the Underground or trying to stop a lawnmower blade with their tongue.
but i guess luck catches up with every gambler eventually...
as some wag said on slashdot, a fool and their eyebrows are easily parted
i mean, don't get me wrong. severe burns is not something i think they deserve, in terms of deserve/fate or deserve/justice or deserve/deserve. in fact, i'm trying to think of anyone in the world who i think does deserve third-degree burns over their face and hands, and i can't. but it is a logical consequence of fucking with matches.
another logical consequence is getting burned far more seriously because you've squirted washing-up liquid into the petrol to regulate its combustion. however, this, kids, is a basic recipe for napalm, so instead of the petrol vapourizing instantly, like lit lynx deoderant off a bullied schoolboy, the flames stuck like tomato-sauce in a carpet. which, for those of you who are wondering, is why the USAF spent so much time and effort dropping napalm onto the vietcong instead of simply posting a zippo-lighter and a can of Afrika to ho chi minh. possibly alongside some Agent Orange eau de toilet and snazzy pair of depleted-uranium cufflinks.
but once again, i feel i have digressed slightly.
personally, in my unhumble opinion, this is displaying both ends of the bell-curve. to borrow a line from the matrix, this is just the equation trying to equal itself - i point in evidence to a mr. daniel tammet, the Pi-muncher i mentioned in a previous post, a man who's rampant genius and mental ability more than makes up for two cretins who can't figure out which is the happy-end of the fire extinguisher.
a little harsh of me, admittely.
but. oh well. the gene pool needs a little chlorine every once in a while, non?
...and since i finally picked up some photos of me & the ex from the chemist today, who is to say, i may be starting a little fire of my own this evening also...keep checking those bulletins, eh?
Two Star Wars fans are in a critical condition in hospital after apparently trying to make light sabres by filling fluorescent light tubes with petrol. A man, aged 20, and a girl of 17 are believed to have been filming a mock duel when they poured fuel into two glass tubes and lit it.
The pair were rushed to hospital after one of the devices exploded in woodland at Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire. A third person present at the incident had been questioned, police said. A videotape was found nearby by police called to the scene on Sunday.
A police spokeswoman said the pair were taken to West Herts Hospital before being transferred to the specialist burns unit at Broomfield Hospital, Chelmsford, in Essex. They are both said to be in a critical condition.
"At this stage we are unable to confirm the exact circumstances, but glass tubes and traces of accelerant (flammable substance) were found at the scene."
for fuck's sake. for fuuuuuucccccck's sake.
quite frankly, the fact that they both managed to live as *long* as 17 is surprising - anyone feckless enough to consider swinging delicate glass-tubes full of burning petrol at each othera good idea would, i should've thought, have died off earlier of something equally fun, like pissing on the middle rail of the Underground or trying to stop a lawnmower blade with their tongue.
but i guess luck catches up with every gambler eventually...
as some wag said on slashdot, a fool and their eyebrows are easily parted
i mean, don't get me wrong. severe burns is not something i think they deserve, in terms of deserve/fate or deserve/justice or deserve/deserve. in fact, i'm trying to think of anyone in the world who i think does deserve third-degree burns over their face and hands, and i can't. but it is a logical consequence of fucking with matches.
another logical consequence is getting burned far more seriously because you've squirted washing-up liquid into the petrol to regulate its combustion. however, this, kids, is a basic recipe for napalm, so instead of the petrol vapourizing instantly, like lit lynx deoderant off a bullied schoolboy, the flames stuck like tomato-sauce in a carpet. which, for those of you who are wondering, is why the USAF spent so much time and effort dropping napalm onto the vietcong instead of simply posting a zippo-lighter and a can of Afrika to ho chi minh. possibly alongside some Agent Orange eau de toilet and snazzy pair of depleted-uranium cufflinks.
but once again, i feel i have digressed slightly.
personally, in my unhumble opinion, this is displaying both ends of the bell-curve. to borrow a line from the matrix, this is just the equation trying to equal itself - i point in evidence to a mr. daniel tammet, the Pi-muncher i mentioned in a previous post, a man who's rampant genius and mental ability more than makes up for two cretins who can't figure out which is the happy-end of the fire extinguisher.
a little harsh of me, admittely.
but. oh well. the gene pool needs a little chlorine every once in a while, non?
...and since i finally picked up some photos of me & the ex from the chemist today, who is to say, i may be starting a little fire of my own this evening also...keep checking those bulletins, eh?
May 24, 2005
the single life - an itinerary
17:45 - arrive home, have a cup of tea, feed the cat
17:50 - start playing Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic
18:59 - stop playing, yank some running trousers on, leave house
19:14 - arrive at Scott's house for our Tuesday run through the Bere Forest
19:55 - arrive back at Scott's covered in mud and bracken due to all-day rain
19:56 - cooling down period
20:00 - quick go on the punchbag
20:10 - commence ingestion of bottle of stella #1
20:25 - commence ingestion of bottle of stella #2
20:40 - leave scotts'
20:55 - arrive home
20:56 - toast bread
20:57 - open beans
20:57:10 - cook beans
21:07 - season beans
21:07:10 - consume beans + toast
21:09 - tell cat to go away
21:10 - tell cat to fu*k off
21:11 - tell cat to fu*k off, you've already been fed
21:12 - throw cat
21:13 - yank curtain rail from wall to defend self against frenzied and inexplicable cat-attack
21:14 - start playing Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic
22:00 - stop playing, yank running trousers off
22:01 - pick suitably loud music for workout
22:02 - commence situps
22:10 - commence pressups
22:20 - commence extending curls
22:30 - commence dumbbell presses
22:40 - commence asymetric curls
22:50 - commence attempting to peel self from carpet
22:55 - commence talking to strange women on the internet
01:00 - wipe self down and wander upstairs
01:01 - iron
01:15 - shave
01:20 - shower
01:35 - dry
01:36 - ask cat to get off bed
01:37 - tell cat to get off bed
01:38 - demand cat get off bed
01:39 - throw cat
01:40 - search desperately for any handy curtain-rails
01:41 - fail
01:42 - lock self in airing cupboard, cower
01:43 - commence sleep
03:38 - commence nightmare
17:50 - start playing Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic
18:59 - stop playing, yank some running trousers on, leave house
19:14 - arrive at Scott's house for our Tuesday run through the Bere Forest
19:55 - arrive back at Scott's covered in mud and bracken due to all-day rain
19:56 - cooling down period
20:00 - quick go on the punchbag
20:10 - commence ingestion of bottle of stella #1
20:25 - commence ingestion of bottle of stella #2
20:40 - leave scotts'
20:55 - arrive home
20:56 - toast bread
20:57 - open beans
20:57:10 - cook beans
21:07 - season beans
21:07:10 - consume beans + toast
21:09 - tell cat to go away
21:10 - tell cat to fu*k off
21:11 - tell cat to fu*k off, you've already been fed
21:12 - throw cat
21:13 - yank curtain rail from wall to defend self against frenzied and inexplicable cat-attack
21:14 - start playing Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic
22:00 - stop playing, yank running trousers off
22:01 - pick suitably loud music for workout
22:02 - commence situps
22:10 - commence pressups
22:20 - commence extending curls
22:30 - commence dumbbell presses
22:40 - commence asymetric curls
22:50 - commence attempting to peel self from carpet
22:55 - commence talking to strange women on the internet
01:00 - wipe self down and wander upstairs
01:01 - iron
01:15 - shave
01:20 - shower
01:35 - dry
01:36 - ask cat to get off bed
01:37 - tell cat to get off bed
01:38 - demand cat get off bed
01:39 - throw cat
01:40 - search desperately for any handy curtain-rails
01:41 - fail
01:42 - lock self in airing cupboard, cower
01:43 - commence sleep
03:38 - commence nightmare
i needed today like a hole in the head
good god.
what a wonderful start to the week - i woke up, and, swinging myself out of my warm little pile of rags, i fell back again fearing that a sniper in the forest outside had blown off the top of my head. the searing pressure was unbelievable and unnatural.
in fact, i believe i clutched my skull to ensure it was all there.
god damn you, stella artois! worst headache of my life. and on a monday morning! compounding it all was quite a lot of blood in my mouth. initial paranoia was that i'd had some sort of stroke, so i mentally tested myself with a quick math question (47+48=?) but thankfully i was exactly as stupid as i was before bedtime and put it down to the occasional popping of my inordinately weak nasal-tubage; too much charlie, obviously...
hah! i've just remembered that i used to deliberately widdle on the tops of toilet cisterns in pubs & clubs where coke-snorters had been annoying me...but then again, i've been widdling rather strangely anyhoo, recently, due to a persistent case of the Serpents' Tongue. i wonder if it's like Ghostbusters - don't cross the streams! waaaaaaagh!
I hope it fixes itself soon or i shall have to start bonking twins.
anyway. i believe i have digressed.
so tell me why i don't like mondays...
as i believe i may have been harping on down the pub last night - in between using the Force to slide pints of beer off of tables, being latched onto by a grade-A freak from college and french-kissing a rottweiler - i would, if given the opportunity, completely re-arrange the working week. at the moment, see, it goes like this:
monday: unproductive. people are hungover, or tired, or unorganised
tuesday: unproductive. the week stretches endlessly in front of you
wednesday morning: productive! shock horror.
wednesday lunchtime: humpday celebratory drinkies
wednesday afternoon: unproductive (see above)
thursday: unproductive - everyone's planning the weekend
friday: unproductive. P.O.E.T's day.
saturday: enjoyable
sunday: not enjoyable - dreading monday.
Thus, for a seven-day investment, only half a day is productive for industry and only one day of the weekend is enjoyable.
MY SOLUTION!
We take the current 52 week year, and fuck it. we change it! so instead of five working days and then two off we have TEN working days in a row and then FOUR days off. Thus! ten days is a long, unbroken run. you can do anything in ten days - build a house. complete a project. anything. and then you have four whole days off in a row, which is enough to go somewhere, do something, not just potter around the place putting shelves up and drinking down the fun-pub. imagine having 26 holidays a year instead of two. awesome. again, i am astounded at my own cleverness.
i think it's a perfect idea. there is one teeny problem though - currently any calendar using my scheme would go:
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Benday, Benday, Benday, Benday, Benday, Saturday, Sunday, Benday, Benday. Which would be a little confusing when it came to scheduling meetings, funerals, etc. Any ideas for renaming the extra days are most welcome.
i have had a run of good ideas recently, including how life began on Earth (i call it the Harvey Theory of Causal Chemical Inevitability. one of my friends is a mathematical modeller and another is a chemist - i must get them together and win some of that lovely Nobel cash [an interesting side-effect is that {because, given the right set of starting rock/mineral formation on a planet, the creation of life is unstoppable} it drastically improves the chance of extraterrestrial life having developed]) and how to send samples of whisky through the post without them smashing.
i am a genius! hear me roar!
but god, saw a bit of a documentary on a fellow who might even be almost as clever as me - he memorised Pi to 25,000 places and read them all out. took him five hours. no notes, no help, got them all right. and - in a move rather frightening for anyone else who has seen the film "Pi" - a broker's firm in Yankland is paying him to predict which way the Dow Jones will move.
and in a wonderfully circular link, that film ends with the protagonist getting a quite frightful headache...
...great minds drink alike...
what a wonderful start to the week - i woke up, and, swinging myself out of my warm little pile of rags, i fell back again fearing that a sniper in the forest outside had blown off the top of my head. the searing pressure was unbelievable and unnatural.
in fact, i believe i clutched my skull to ensure it was all there.
god damn you, stella artois! worst headache of my life. and on a monday morning! compounding it all was quite a lot of blood in my mouth. initial paranoia was that i'd had some sort of stroke, so i mentally tested myself with a quick math question (47+48=?) but thankfully i was exactly as stupid as i was before bedtime and put it down to the occasional popping of my inordinately weak nasal-tubage; too much charlie, obviously...
hah! i've just remembered that i used to deliberately widdle on the tops of toilet cisterns in pubs & clubs where coke-snorters had been annoying me...but then again, i've been widdling rather strangely anyhoo, recently, due to a persistent case of the Serpents' Tongue. i wonder if it's like Ghostbusters - don't cross the streams! waaaaaaagh!
I hope it fixes itself soon or i shall have to start bonking twins.
anyway. i believe i have digressed.
so tell me why i don't like mondays...
as i believe i may have been harping on down the pub last night - in between using the Force to slide pints of beer off of tables, being latched onto by a grade-A freak from college and french-kissing a rottweiler - i would, if given the opportunity, completely re-arrange the working week. at the moment, see, it goes like this:
monday: unproductive. people are hungover, or tired, or unorganised
tuesday: unproductive. the week stretches endlessly in front of you
wednesday morning: productive! shock horror.
wednesday lunchtime: humpday celebratory drinkies
wednesday afternoon: unproductive (see above)
thursday: unproductive - everyone's planning the weekend
friday: unproductive. P.O.E.T's day.
saturday: enjoyable
sunday: not enjoyable - dreading monday.
Thus, for a seven-day investment, only half a day is productive for industry and only one day of the weekend is enjoyable.
MY SOLUTION!
We take the current 52 week year, and fuck it. we change it! so instead of five working days and then two off we have TEN working days in a row and then FOUR days off. Thus! ten days is a long, unbroken run. you can do anything in ten days - build a house. complete a project. anything. and then you have four whole days off in a row, which is enough to go somewhere, do something, not just potter around the place putting shelves up and drinking down the fun-pub. imagine having 26 holidays a year instead of two. awesome. again, i am astounded at my own cleverness.
i think it's a perfect idea. there is one teeny problem though - currently any calendar using my scheme would go:
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Benday, Benday, Benday, Benday, Benday, Saturday, Sunday, Benday, Benday. Which would be a little confusing when it came to scheduling meetings, funerals, etc. Any ideas for renaming the extra days are most welcome.
i have had a run of good ideas recently, including how life began on Earth (i call it the Harvey Theory of Causal Chemical Inevitability. one of my friends is a mathematical modeller and another is a chemist - i must get them together and win some of that lovely Nobel cash [an interesting side-effect is that {because, given the right set of starting rock/mineral formation on a planet, the creation of life is unstoppable} it drastically improves the chance of extraterrestrial life having developed]) and how to send samples of whisky through the post without them smashing.
i am a genius! hear me roar!
but god, saw a bit of a documentary on a fellow who might even be almost as clever as me - he memorised Pi to 25,000 places and read them all out. took him five hours. no notes, no help, got them all right. and - in a move rather frightening for anyone else who has seen the film "Pi" - a broker's firm in Yankland is paying him to predict which way the Dow Jones will move.
and in a wonderfully circular link, that film ends with the protagonist getting a quite frightful headache...
...great minds drink alike...
May 23, 2005
...we salute you
Saturday night also saw the Eurovision song contest. We missed the show but caught the results on the radio on the trek back down the M27. I had a wager on the Norwegian entry which failed to do terribly well. Curses!
Norway's entry was a Darkness style rock act. On our return home we caught a BBC3 after party thing. Norway's lead singer hijacked the show for 5 or 10 minutes, groping the (clearly smitten) female presenter, guzzling champagne and screaming the word "rock" at everything that moved. He was having a fantastic time. It was a joy to watch. Live TV is a beautiful thing when literally no one knows what's going to happen next.
Norway's entry was a Darkness style rock act. On our return home we caught a BBC3 after party thing. Norway's lead singer hijacked the show for 5 or 10 minutes, groping the (clearly smitten) female presenter, guzzling champagne and screaming the word "rock" at everything that moved. He was having a fantastic time. It was a joy to watch. Live TV is a beautiful thing when literally no one knows what's going to happen next.
Those of you about to rock...
Saturday night and it's over to Romsey to see Joe play his first ever gig. On stage first, with a temporary singer (who kept forgetting her words) and in front of an older crowd he did us all proud. Not in serious contention to win the competition, he said he didn't feel it went very well but that he would be more confident next time. That's the spirit.
The other three bands were all fairly typical angry-at-mummy teenage shouty efforts that left me a bit cold. There was Ramones cover in there somewhere but otherwise fairly dull. The second act had a singer who also played a five string fretless bass. No mean feet and she did a stunning job. Couldn't quite believe it. It was like watching School of Rock unfold in front of me. Impressive to see someone so talented so young and, if we're being honest, slightly demoralising as well.
Perhaps if I'd kept up those piano lessons...
The other three bands were all fairly typical angry-at-mummy teenage shouty efforts that left me a bit cold. There was Ramones cover in there somewhere but otherwise fairly dull. The second act had a singer who also played a five string fretless bass. No mean feet and she did a stunning job. Couldn't quite believe it. It was like watching School of Rock unfold in front of me. Impressive to see someone so talented so young and, if we're being honest, slightly demoralising as well.
Perhaps if I'd kept up those piano lessons...
Wrap me up in cotton wool
For the first time in a month I have emerged from a weekend without developing an illness or a serious injury. I say 'serious' because while serving as goalkeeper in a garden penalty shoot-out (following Arsenal's win in the cup on Saturday) I appear to have bruised my wrist while punching one over the imaginary bar. A famous save, however.
May 20, 2005
Not Noddy's Nuts
Word reaches me that two Independent Financial Advisors have decided to set up a national financial advice organisation. However, they will only hire women (as both advisors and administrators) and will only take on female
clients.
[at this point, a less disciplined writer would segue into a hackneyed chauvinist snipe (possibly involving offices being paralysed by spider infestations or open corporate warfare breaking out at certain points in the lunar cycle) but not I, dear reader, not I]
This is quite interesting. From what little I remember from both of the law classes that I attended while neither drunk nor hungover, some racial / sexual discrimination is permissible under law (e.g. Indian restaurants refusing to recruit Caucasian staff) but most is not. The justification for their single sex recruitment policy is that the founders have noted that women often prefer dealing with women; that men are not always interested in building relationships. Interesting (and not entirely false) - but is it legal? And how would the story have played if it was a men-only firm?
Not an isolated event on the Harvey radar this week. Discussing vasectomies with an acquaintance earlier in the week (to my surprise - we started off talking about the football) I found out that most doctors will not perform the snip on a man without the consent of his wife if he is married, and sometimes his partner if he is not. I found myself quite shocked by this, for reasons that I still can't completely articulate. Surely, at the end of the day the responsibility is upon the man concerned to have theconversation with his wife, and not for the medic to play Jerry Springer?
Presumably this safeguard is to stop men having sterilisations on the sly. Obviously to have the op without a conversation would be morally wrong, but I believe the responsibility for that should end with the chap whose nads are (almost literally) on the block.
The argument (which I fully agree with) used to support a woman's exclusive right to decide whether to continue with or terminate a pregnancy is that it's the woman's body so it's her choice. Surely (although they're enormously different things) the same reasoning applies to male self-jaffa-isation?
In the sage words of Noddy Holder, hands off my nuts!
May 18, 2005
Godrichless
Good: Radiohead are back in the studio working on 15 new songs
Bad: Long time producer Nigel Godrich isn't currently with them
Ugly: Because he's working on Paul McCartney's new album
Good: Interestingly, Godrich worked on the recent Hitchhikers movie in some capacity or other
Bad: Thom Yorke et al are known to be fans (hence 'Paranoid Android' and the 'you will be first against the wall' lyric) but don't seem to be involved in the film
Ugly: The guitarist and drummer are, instead, featured in the new Harry Potter where they play in a band with Jarvis Cocker
Good: I have just rediscovered my MP3s of their legendary Glastonbury 97 set and a stunning acoustic performance of some Hail to The Thief stuff in the states
Bad: But I can't listen to it because I've put myself on a Radiohead diet after playing them incessantly for a few months
Ugly: Instead, itunes has randomly served up 'Band Aid 20'....also featuring a certain liverpudlian on violin bass, a certain squinty eyed genius on piano and my personal axe hero on rhythm....also produced by....Nigel Godrich
Home Tucker
Last night I ate a poor imitation of fish and chips with an oily linguine to start. The night before I had an over-dry steak pie with something that was advertised as cheese and biscuits but in reality turned out to be cheese and biscuit (presumably owing to some poorly implemented portion control).
There's nothing quite like hotel food to sharpen your appetite for home cooking. Will I sit down with a still-hot saucepan of pasta and chilli on my lap when I return home tonight? Or will I griddle a steak or two and wolf them down with a glass of wine at the table? Will I, has become custom, take benny down the pub for 'hump day' supper? To normal folk, I expect this all sounds quite pedestrian but cooking for myself (or indeed, good honest pub food) is the gastronomic highlight of my life at the moment. Yummy.
Hump Day
Friends and colleagues have started referring to Wednesday as 'Hump Day'. Presumably this is because at 1pm Wednesday one is officially over the hump of the week and descends giggling towards the big warm arms of the weekend. What a wonderful feeling. Weekends are precious things that slip through your fingers too quickly unless you make the most of them.
This one I'm especially looking forward to. A number of friends (where 'a number' is no less than two and no more than six) are coming down from the smoke to visit. One of them has never met a cow before. High time they were introduced. Rude not to.
The weekend after (specifically the Friday) I'm off to see my dad. For reasons that require more extensive documentation than I presently have time for, I've not seen my dad in over a year. Time flies when you're neglecting your parental duties. I'm looking forward to spending a week with him (not to mention my first proper [i.e. > 2 day] holiday in 9 months).
So, hump day has a special significance this week. Next week it will fall on Tuesday at 1830. Synchronise watches etc.
May 17, 2005
Philosophical Differences
hmmn. I read Tom's post on "intelligent design" with interest - i hadn't credited my sibling with that much interest in the workings of the world. i blame that Bill Bryson book he's reading, A Short History of Nearly Everything.
personally, i find the malfunctions of the world far more engrossing. destruction is a form of creation, rah rah rah...
myself, i used to be curious about the bible, but that was only ever really in a forget-the-god-business-and-take-it-as-an-instruction-manual-for-life way; as in, all the rules about trade, sanitation, the value of writing and just generally how to get on without turning a orderly society into a lawless gangfuck. in many ways the bible, (as a document, assembled by subsequent generations), is akin to a diary for the western world, and so i was idly curious about where one epoch started and another ended, and how, and why, and what the successors thought about it.
so - i'm one of those people who just needs proof. but i think that anything that gives countless millions of people hope, and guidance, and comfort cannot be a bad thing. it's just not for me.
but...then i have days where religious hate, and extremism, and even theocratical politicking (i.e., proscribing against homosexuality [gayers saved the world, dontchaknow {if you want to hear a rant, ask me about Alan Turing*}]), and just inhumanly-stupid papal doctrine (against contraception/AIDS/ad-fucking-infinitum), makes me want to conduct a global retro-passover, aka, get the people who DON'T believe in religion to paint a red cross on their door and then butcher everybody else...
just be glad that the pheasants are ablatively taking the edge off my psychopathic urges...
ANYWAY
from a single subject of most serious import to 30 subjects of purest triviality - one of my friends forwarded me one of those here-is-a-list-of-questions-to-answer emails. i used it to kill some time at wurk, but then it occurred to me that it may also serve well for readers of this blog, not all of whom will be equally familiar with me. also, this quick cut n'paste job will let me get out running in the light of the evening, instead of sitting here arguing the intricacies of existence and then go running in the dark, with all the stamping-in-horseshit joy that that brings...
so be it .
1. What time did you get up this morning?
I woke up four times this morning; at 7:04, at 7:13, at 7:22 and at 7:21. I despise my snooze-alarm. It screeches and shrieks like a Dalek having one off the wrist.
2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds! How else am I meant to focus the beams of my giant death-ray...? A stupid answer for a stupid question - diamonds are superior in looks, value, usefulness, fashionability, variety and, actually, thinking about it, everything. They are also rather better bred, being slowly caressed into being in the roaring heart of the Earth, as opposed to just being vomited up by some slimy, grit-choked mollusc. No ta.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It was rubbish. On the upside, though, twill substantially reduce the financial-outlay of the next fancy-dress party that I go to, as I can just wear my dressing-gown...
4. What is your favourite TV show?
Third Watch. And anything with Ray Mears in. There should be a crossover episode where he gets washed up in NYC in his little pigskin canoe and has to get Boscoe, Faith, etc. out of jams with his little wilderness tricks, like a biodegradable MacGyver. Oh yes.
5. What did you have for breakfast?
Toast, cup of tea, accidentally-swallowed toothpaste.
6. What is your middle name?
William. Which I use so inoften that I had to think how to spell it just now.
7. What is your favourite cuisine?
Italian normally, my own barbequed meat-overdoses right now. But sometimes the body craves a good curry. And I am very bad at denying my own urges...
8. What foods do you dislike?
Bulgarian cuisine has nothing to recommend it, apart from comic dysentery anecdotes years afterwards. I despise most fast-food, burger-joints in particular. Cheap Chinese I think is a crime against humanity. Stir-fry is a waste of my valuable time & stomach capacity. And any intensive, factory-reared meat from supermarkets, etc., is just plain wrong, and I will not buy it. Thank you, Hugh F-W...
9. What is your favourite crisp flavour?
Marmite. Plain but delicious. I always celebrate winning the Bowman pub quiz with an armful of marmite crisp packets for my team, so it has connotations of smug superiority alongside its unimpingible savouryness. A killer combination, as I think you will agree.
10. What is your favourite CD at the moment?
Having recently burnt all of my music onto iTunes, I'm still not sure - current favourites are Lullabies to Paralyze (Queens of the Stone Age), The First Blood Mystery (Carina Round) and Antics (Interpol).
11. What kind of car do you drive?
One completely inappropriate to where I live (zero ground-clearance + rutted farm track = scrunch). Am currently eyeing-up ex-services land-rovers so that I can fix-em-up. This will also appeal to my diesel fetish.
12. Favourite sandwich?
All depends. Sometimes, if you get it just right, a fried-egg sandwich with plenty of ketchup is just awesome. But the eggs have to be good. Whereas a crispy, grilled-bacon sandwich is rather like sex - even if it's the worst you’ve ever had, you'd still rather have it than not.
13. What characteristics do you despise?
Judgmentalism. Everyone has their crosses to bear. Everyone has their story -nobody alive can truly judge anyone else, no matter how tempting it may be, or how easy it may seem. Nothing's ever that simple.
14. Favourite item of clothing?
Lefty and Rightly, my trusty army-boots. currently encrusted salt from a recent fishing expedition...
15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would it be?
I'd motorcycle across the States in a big N, from New York to Florida, to Seattle to California. May take a while...
16. What colour is your bathroom?
Techni. There is also a fetching patch of red on a curtain-rail which i pulled off the wall last night, for the purposes of bashing in the heads of burglars. Sorry, Mr. Mousey...
17. Favourite brand of clothing?
For casual wear, Diesel or Reiss. For suits, Gieves & Hawkes - I used to stand outside their shop (No. 1, Saville Row, no less) like a child outside a toystore at Christmas. There is no finer tailor in the world. I frequently fantasise about walking in there, slapping a pile of £50 notes down and saying "DO me". Followed by going into Madame Zanzibar's Palace of Pleasure (No. 38, Pie Street, Soho) and doing exactly the same...
18. Where would you retire?
My own private Idaho
19. Favourite time of day?
Sunset. Down the Bowman.
20. What was your most memorable birthday?
My 21st. Started off drinking the night before, finished at 3am, cycled home through burning, silver fields, fell into a trench, went and bled on the stones of Stonehenge surrounded by 50,000 baying, heaving hippies as we watched the sun come up, then back home for presents, whisky, party, sunshine, friends, CAKE!
21. Where were you born?
Into a cruel, cruel world.
22. Favourite sport to watch?
England football matches. There is no higher emotional state...
23. Who do you least expect to email this back to you?
They already have...
24. Person who you expect to send it back first?
n/aaaaaaathisgettingborrrrringnow...
25. What fabric detergent do you use?
Blue Generic
26. Coke or Pepsi?
Neither - they rot your teeth and then the phosphoric acid in them leaches the calcium from your bones. Not a smart choice, drink-wise. But I do have to concur that cold Vanilla Coke is just mmmmmmmmmmn
27. What makes you happy about the world?
That it's here in the first place. The odds of being exactly the right distance from the sun, exactly the right planetary makeup, exactly the right iron core to shield us magnetically, exactly the right volcanic activity, and yet to *not*have been squished out of existence by asteroid, are just...well. astronomical...
29. What do you order at a coffee shop?
The staff around, usually.
30. What's the last book you read?
Have just finished The Throwback, by Tom Sharpe. Am currently embarking(again...) on Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson - just plain genius. And a big jokebook to read on the pot...all that meat has consequences...
*Tom, remember that, every time you stare at your laptop. the apple, with the bite out of it...?
personally, i find the malfunctions of the world far more engrossing. destruction is a form of creation, rah rah rah...
myself, i used to be curious about the bible, but that was only ever really in a forget-the-god-business-and-take-it-as-an-instruction-manual-for-life way; as in, all the rules about trade, sanitation, the value of writing and just generally how to get on without turning a orderly society into a lawless gangfuck. in many ways the bible, (as a document, assembled by subsequent generations), is akin to a diary for the western world, and so i was idly curious about where one epoch started and another ended, and how, and why, and what the successors thought about it.
so - i'm one of those people who just needs proof. but i think that anything that gives countless millions of people hope, and guidance, and comfort cannot be a bad thing. it's just not for me.
but...then i have days where religious hate, and extremism, and even theocratical politicking (i.e., proscribing against homosexuality [gayers saved the world, dontchaknow {if you want to hear a rant, ask me about Alan Turing*}]), and just inhumanly-stupid papal doctrine (against contraception/AIDS/ad-fucking-infinitum), makes me want to conduct a global retro-passover, aka, get the people who DON'T believe in religion to paint a red cross on their door and then butcher everybody else...
just be glad that the pheasants are ablatively taking the edge off my psychopathic urges...
ANYWAY
from a single subject of most serious import to 30 subjects of purest triviality - one of my friends forwarded me one of those here-is-a-list-of-questions-to-answer emails. i used it to kill some time at wurk, but then it occurred to me that it may also serve well for readers of this blog, not all of whom will be equally familiar with me. also, this quick cut n'paste job will let me get out running in the light of the evening, instead of sitting here arguing the intricacies of existence and then go running in the dark, with all the stamping-in-horseshit joy that that brings...
so be it .
1. What time did you get up this morning?
I woke up four times this morning; at 7:04, at 7:13, at 7:22 and at 7:21. I despise my snooze-alarm. It screeches and shrieks like a Dalek having one off the wrist.
2. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds! How else am I meant to focus the beams of my giant death-ray...? A stupid answer for a stupid question - diamonds are superior in looks, value, usefulness, fashionability, variety and, actually, thinking about it, everything. They are also rather better bred, being slowly caressed into being in the roaring heart of the Earth, as opposed to just being vomited up by some slimy, grit-choked mollusc. No ta.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It was rubbish. On the upside, though, twill substantially reduce the financial-outlay of the next fancy-dress party that I go to, as I can just wear my dressing-gown...
4. What is your favourite TV show?
Third Watch. And anything with Ray Mears in. There should be a crossover episode where he gets washed up in NYC in his little pigskin canoe and has to get Boscoe, Faith, etc. out of jams with his little wilderness tricks, like a biodegradable MacGyver. Oh yes.
5. What did you have for breakfast?
Toast, cup of tea, accidentally-swallowed toothpaste.
6. What is your middle name?
William. Which I use so inoften that I had to think how to spell it just now.
7. What is your favourite cuisine?
Italian normally, my own barbequed meat-overdoses right now. But sometimes the body craves a good curry. And I am very bad at denying my own urges...
8. What foods do you dislike?
Bulgarian cuisine has nothing to recommend it, apart from comic dysentery anecdotes years afterwards. I despise most fast-food, burger-joints in particular. Cheap Chinese I think is a crime against humanity. Stir-fry is a waste of my valuable time & stomach capacity. And any intensive, factory-reared meat from supermarkets, etc., is just plain wrong, and I will not buy it. Thank you, Hugh F-W...
9. What is your favourite crisp flavour?
Marmite. Plain but delicious. I always celebrate winning the Bowman pub quiz with an armful of marmite crisp packets for my team, so it has connotations of smug superiority alongside its unimpingible savouryness. A killer combination, as I think you will agree.
10. What is your favourite CD at the moment?
Having recently burnt all of my music onto iTunes, I'm still not sure - current favourites are Lullabies to Paralyze (Queens of the Stone Age), The First Blood Mystery (Carina Round) and Antics (Interpol).
11. What kind of car do you drive?
One completely inappropriate to where I live (zero ground-clearance + rutted farm track = scrunch). Am currently eyeing-up ex-services land-rovers so that I can fix-em-up. This will also appeal to my diesel fetish.
12. Favourite sandwich?
All depends. Sometimes, if you get it just right, a fried-egg sandwich with plenty of ketchup is just awesome. But the eggs have to be good. Whereas a crispy, grilled-bacon sandwich is rather like sex - even if it's the worst you’ve ever had, you'd still rather have it than not.
13. What characteristics do you despise?
Judgmentalism. Everyone has their crosses to bear. Everyone has their story -nobody alive can truly judge anyone else, no matter how tempting it may be, or how easy it may seem. Nothing's ever that simple.
14. Favourite item of clothing?
Lefty and Rightly, my trusty army-boots. currently encrusted salt from a recent fishing expedition...
15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would it be?
I'd motorcycle across the States in a big N, from New York to Florida, to Seattle to California. May take a while...
16. What colour is your bathroom?
Techni. There is also a fetching patch of red on a curtain-rail which i pulled off the wall last night, for the purposes of bashing in the heads of burglars. Sorry, Mr. Mousey...
17. Favourite brand of clothing?
For casual wear, Diesel or Reiss. For suits, Gieves & Hawkes - I used to stand outside their shop (No. 1, Saville Row, no less) like a child outside a toystore at Christmas. There is no finer tailor in the world. I frequently fantasise about walking in there, slapping a pile of £50 notes down and saying "DO me". Followed by going into Madame Zanzibar's Palace of Pleasure (No. 38, Pie Street, Soho) and doing exactly the same...
18. Where would you retire?
My own private Idaho
19. Favourite time of day?
Sunset. Down the Bowman.
20. What was your most memorable birthday?
My 21st. Started off drinking the night before, finished at 3am, cycled home through burning, silver fields, fell into a trench, went and bled on the stones of Stonehenge surrounded by 50,000 baying, heaving hippies as we watched the sun come up, then back home for presents, whisky, party, sunshine, friends, CAKE!
21. Where were you born?
Into a cruel, cruel world.
22. Favourite sport to watch?
England football matches. There is no higher emotional state...
23. Who do you least expect to email this back to you?
They already have...
24. Person who you expect to send it back first?
n/aaaaaaathisgettingborrrrringnow...
25. What fabric detergent do you use?
Blue Generic
26. Coke or Pepsi?
Neither - they rot your teeth and then the phosphoric acid in them leaches the calcium from your bones. Not a smart choice, drink-wise. But I do have to concur that cold Vanilla Coke is just mmmmmmmmmmn
27. What makes you happy about the world?
That it's here in the first place. The odds of being exactly the right distance from the sun, exactly the right planetary makeup, exactly the right iron core to shield us magnetically, exactly the right volcanic activity, and yet to *not*have been squished out of existence by asteroid, are just...well. astronomical...
29. What do you order at a coffee shop?
The staff around, usually.
30. What's the last book you read?
Have just finished The Throwback, by Tom Sharpe. Am currently embarking(again...) on Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson - just plain genius. And a big jokebook to read on the pot...all that meat has consequences...
*Tom, remember that, every time you stare at your laptop. the apple, with the bite out of it...?
Trouble with IT Support?
Not a bit of it.
There's a great chap in Limerick who looks after IT for the company I work for all by himself. He looks after the email, the website, the phone system and supports every laptop we have everywhere in the world, every application running on them from Office to some highly specialist number crunching stuff and every mobile phone we have as well. Quite apart from being a really nice guy to deal with, he's also incredibly good at his job and really good with users.
Transgressions that would normally get me in some seriously hot water (like refusing to use a PC) are regarded as minor eccentricities. He's even sorting me out with a new copy of the Mac Operating System (Tiger) and when I was having a touch of trouble with Orange he fixed it in an instant. Tech support can be a horrible job to do and sometimes are terrible people to work with, but this guy is a king. Stuff like this makes it much easier to do what we do. What a hero.
There's a great chap in Limerick who looks after IT for the company I work for all by himself. He looks after the email, the website, the phone system and supports every laptop we have everywhere in the world, every application running on them from Office to some highly specialist number crunching stuff and every mobile phone we have as well. Quite apart from being a really nice guy to deal with, he's also incredibly good at his job and really good with users.
Transgressions that would normally get me in some seriously hot water (like refusing to use a PC) are regarded as minor eccentricities. He's even sorting me out with a new copy of the Mac Operating System (Tiger) and when I was having a touch of trouble with Orange he fixed it in an instant. Tech support can be a horrible job to do and sometimes are terrible people to work with, but this guy is a king. Stuff like this makes it much easier to do what we do. What a hero.
May 16, 2005
Intelligent Design
Got a mail from The Grauniad about “Intelligent Design” earlier and it got me thinking after all the death and destruction wrought by Benny over the weekend. Intelligent Design is basically a compromise view between Creationism and Atheism. It states that there might be a god but that he/she doesn’t intervene directly, but was responsible for setting up the parameters for the universe and then set us off on our merry way.
This is quite interesting (compared to being in Basingstoke and buggering around with pie charts at least). There are a number of constants in the universe which, if tinkered with, would make the place look very different. For example if you made gravity fractionally stronger then the universe would only last a couple of days, but if you made it weaker you’d never get planets forming. Mess about with the way that atoms are attracted to each other and you’d stop complex molecules like DNA getting together. There are lots of other variables like this and all of them, suspiciously enough, are set exactly right to give us a universe in which life can exist.
Some people think it’s all too much of a coincidence that this highly complex grid of variables all came together at precisely the right values to make our kind of life possible (hence all this god business). Others think it’s a case of self-selection, that there have been loads of other universes but that this is the only one that’s worked out for us. Personally, I’d be happy with a universe without Basingstoke or pie charts, but this argument appears to have been largely overlooked by the scholars concerned.
The Intelligent Design people go on to say that God manipulated the universe billions of years ago so that Jesus would be born etc. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found the whole fate business slightly offensive. It’s an argument you can’t win. But now the fatalists have technology and some iffy looking science on their side.
Consider a glass of vodka and coke in a room. If you knew everything about the drink, the glass it was in, the room that the glass was in (temperature, air flow, dimensions) etc. then with several large computers and a bunch of clever people you could simulate precisely how the drink will behave: how warm it will be at any given moment in the future, how much alcohol will evaporate over time, when the ice will melt etc. This is because everything in the room is following immutable laws. If you can totally capture the state of something and understand all the laws that apply to it then you can simulate with certainty how it will behave. It is, of course, far simpler to barge your way into the room and neck the drink but this tends to upset the computers and the bunch of clever people.
In a sense then, there is such a thing as fate and predetermination but understanding it is far beyond our current abilities. If we knew everything about you right at this instant – the precise electrical patterns in your head, the present chemical makeup of your blood and everything about everywhere you’d ever go and every interaction you’d ever make then we could accurately tell you everything about how your life will go. Predict every conversation you’ll ever have. Foretell every thought that will ever occur to you. Theoretically, we could simulate the whole universe. We’d need a computer larger than the universe to do it and a hugely improved understanding of all kinds of tricky theories and rules, but it’s not impossible.
Navel gazing aside, Basingstoke’s still here and Benny’s pheasant is still decapitated in a plastic bag in the bin. So I’m off to fiddle with my pie charts as it is fated.
This is quite interesting (compared to being in Basingstoke and buggering around with pie charts at least). There are a number of constants in the universe which, if tinkered with, would make the place look very different. For example if you made gravity fractionally stronger then the universe would only last a couple of days, but if you made it weaker you’d never get planets forming. Mess about with the way that atoms are attracted to each other and you’d stop complex molecules like DNA getting together. There are lots of other variables like this and all of them, suspiciously enough, are set exactly right to give us a universe in which life can exist.
Some people think it’s all too much of a coincidence that this highly complex grid of variables all came together at precisely the right values to make our kind of life possible (hence all this god business). Others think it’s a case of self-selection, that there have been loads of other universes but that this is the only one that’s worked out for us. Personally, I’d be happy with a universe without Basingstoke or pie charts, but this argument appears to have been largely overlooked by the scholars concerned.
The Intelligent Design people go on to say that God manipulated the universe billions of years ago so that Jesus would be born etc. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found the whole fate business slightly offensive. It’s an argument you can’t win. But now the fatalists have technology and some iffy looking science on their side.
Consider a glass of vodka and coke in a room. If you knew everything about the drink, the glass it was in, the room that the glass was in (temperature, air flow, dimensions) etc. then with several large computers and a bunch of clever people you could simulate precisely how the drink will behave: how warm it will be at any given moment in the future, how much alcohol will evaporate over time, when the ice will melt etc. This is because everything in the room is following immutable laws. If you can totally capture the state of something and understand all the laws that apply to it then you can simulate with certainty how it will behave. It is, of course, far simpler to barge your way into the room and neck the drink but this tends to upset the computers and the bunch of clever people.
In a sense then, there is such a thing as fate and predetermination but understanding it is far beyond our current abilities. If we knew everything about you right at this instant – the precise electrical patterns in your head, the present chemical makeup of your blood and everything about everywhere you’d ever go and every interaction you’d ever make then we could accurately tell you everything about how your life will go. Predict every conversation you’ll ever have. Foretell every thought that will ever occur to you. Theoretically, we could simulate the whole universe. We’d need a computer larger than the universe to do it and a hugely improved understanding of all kinds of tricky theories and rules, but it’s not impossible.
Navel gazing aside, Basingstoke’s still here and Benny’s pheasant is still decapitated in a plastic bag in the bin. So I’m off to fiddle with my pie charts as it is fated.
May 15, 2005
A few words on burgers
Burgers can be anything from pedestrian to the best meal you've ever had until the next one. I have experimented over a period of weeks and am happy to share the following results of my research:
1) Grill = good. Griddle = better. Barbecure = best
2) Charcoal, not gas
3) Beef. Not Venison. Or chicken (yuck!).
4) Floury baps
5) Use leanish mince. Watch out - too lean and you'll need to use egg white to bind them together.
6) Ketchup: Kneed in quite a lot with the patty mixture
7) French's American Mustard. Not optional. No substitutes.
8) Pink in the middle or don't bother
1) Grill = good. Griddle = better. Barbecure = best
2) Charcoal, not gas
3) Beef. Not Venison. Or chicken (yuck!).
4) Floury baps
5) Use leanish mince. Watch out - too lean and you'll need to use egg white to bind them together.
6) Ketchup: Kneed in quite a lot with the patty mixture
7) French's American Mustard. Not optional. No substitutes.
8) Pink in the middle or don't bother
A day of bloodshed. BLOODSHED!!!!!!!!111111
First of all a note, this is not written by me, this is written by my good friend Chesty La Rue. Who i now see is using a psyuedonym. And who can also not spell psuedonme. Anyway, the reason I am not typing is that i am unable to, because my fibgers are still shaking with stress and guilt and i also do not want to spread blood all over the keyboard. Or leave any more fingerprints around than absolutely necessary.
Today started horribly, with a heart attack in a barn. Being roused from a wonderful slumber by the horrific shrieks and wails of Peter, the older farmer, I let from my warm cot thinking that the poor old goat's quadruple bypass had finally ruptured, but no! it was just him flushing something out of aforementioned barn; into the waiting fire arch of his shotgun wielding son Shane, who promply shot the enormous flushed fox right up the arsehole. It turned a somersault in the air. All of this i watched from the bathroom window, but i missed the coup de grass because, by this time the bottomless fox was lying in a thick patch of 150lb gas canisters and i didn't think letting off live firearms in such an environment was such a smart thing to do, and so my view was rather obscured by the toilet and my slightly shaking, cowardly hands.
I don't think Chesty is doing such a bad job of being a secretary. Apparently Chesty La Rue is a Simpsons reference, but i am unaware of this particular episode, unfortunatly Chesty keeps replecing her own name with Chesty and so her real identity will never be revealed until at least my fingers sober up enough to type. Finish vodka, is a beautiful, terrible master.
All that Star Wars shit, keeps putting the willies up me, particularly the clip they've been playing repeatedly on Radio 1 of Emperor Palpatine asking Darth Vader to"risssssssse". Beautiful terrible masters are enjoyable but tricky. I would cast the vodka bottle down the Death Star's plasma conduit but i think that would be a fearsome waste of good, 3 day old potato distillate...
I want a light saber like burning.
Or is that, "i want a penis substitute like burning"?
Anyway, today has bee bookended with the most dreadful termination of life. To start, the fox. To finish, the pheasant. i did not know his name, i did not know his dreams, i did not know if he had children, the thing that reaps my morality the harshest, are chicklets asking, endlessly "where is my daddy, where has he gone?" For their daddy is no more. For their daddy has met their maker and in this case, God was a rapidly descending axe.
My axe.
Held by me.
Correct!
I have terminated my first sentinent being, my life can either go two ways now; either i will develop into a serial killer and end up burying nuns under my patio or i shall become a militant vegan considering the killing of any lifeform be it cow, carrot or carp an act against nature and a travesty against decency.
Jolly good thing for the patio industry that i adore hamburgers eh?
Anyway! i was just putting it out of it misery! it was the only honourable thing to do. it was suffering. it was hurting. how on earth could i live with myself allowing a maimed, crippled, suffering creature to live out the rest of its days in indescribable agony? I could not. I stepped up. i did my duty as every Englishman should. and so i chopped the silly twat's head off.
Now, politics is a funny old game. and the golden rule of politics is that you must get your news out first, and you must get your news out on your own terms. so, you may hear reports from dubious sources about how the misery, suffering, hurting, maimedimity and crippledness of this particular creature were actually my fault, that a harmless, fun, innocent pastime had turned sinister and malevolent instead of the *truth* of the matter,<>, but that will be the propaganda of an interested party, whose word you may not trust.
i mean, its not *my* fault that the laws of gravity guided the half brick into the pheasants ribcage is it Chesty? no, i don't think so, what an understanding secretary you are. my morals hurt. be an angel and pass the whiskey will you?
it looked me right in the eye
anyway! i go to my well rested sleep knowing that 60 million years of evolution have honed me to the flawless hunetr-gatherer that you see before you and that vampiric wounds caused by the National BLOOD Service on a gentleman's throwing arm heal rather quicker than one would anticipate wouldn't yo say Chesty?
right in the fucking eye i tell you, it knew what was about to happen
and then i calmly went and barbequed some dead cow
a word on post traumatic stress disorder: no
Today started horribly, with a heart attack in a barn. Being roused from a wonderful slumber by the horrific shrieks and wails of Peter, the older farmer, I let from my warm cot thinking that the poor old goat's quadruple bypass had finally ruptured, but no! it was just him flushing something out of aforementioned barn; into the waiting fire arch of his shotgun wielding son Shane, who promply shot the enormous flushed fox right up the arsehole. It turned a somersault in the air. All of this i watched from the bathroom window, but i missed the coup de grass because, by this time the bottomless fox was lying in a thick patch of 150lb gas canisters and i didn't think letting off live firearms in such an environment was such a smart thing to do, and so my view was rather obscured by the toilet and my slightly shaking, cowardly hands.
I don't think Chesty is doing such a bad job of being a secretary. Apparently Chesty La Rue is a Simpsons reference, but i am unaware of this particular episode, unfortunatly Chesty keeps replecing her own name with Chesty and so her real identity will never be revealed until at least my fingers sober up enough to type. Finish vodka, is a beautiful, terrible master.
All that Star Wars shit, keeps putting the willies up me, particularly the clip they've been playing repeatedly on Radio 1 of Emperor Palpatine asking Darth Vader to"risssssssse". Beautiful terrible masters are enjoyable but tricky. I would cast the vodka bottle down the Death Star's plasma conduit but i think that would be a fearsome waste of good, 3 day old potato distillate...
I want a light saber like burning.
Or is that, "i want a penis substitute like burning"?
Anyway, today has bee bookended with the most dreadful termination of life. To start, the fox. To finish, the pheasant. i did not know his name, i did not know his dreams, i did not know if he had children, the thing that reaps my morality the harshest, are chicklets asking, endlessly "where is my daddy, where has he gone?" For their daddy is no more. For their daddy has met their maker and in this case, God was a rapidly descending axe.
My axe.
Held by me.
Correct!
I have terminated my first sentinent being, my life can either go two ways now; either i will develop into a serial killer and end up burying nuns under my patio or i shall become a militant vegan considering the killing of any lifeform be it cow, carrot or carp an act against nature and a travesty against decency.
Jolly good thing for the patio industry that i adore hamburgers eh?
Anyway! i was just putting it out of it misery! it was the only honourable thing to do. it was suffering. it was hurting. how on earth could i live with myself allowing a maimed, crippled, suffering creature to live out the rest of its days in indescribable agony? I could not. I stepped up. i did my duty as every Englishman should. and so i chopped the silly twat's head off.
Now, politics is a funny old game. and the golden rule of politics is that you must get your news out first, and you must get your news out on your own terms. so, you may hear reports from dubious sources about how the misery, suffering, hurting, maimedimity and crippledness of this particular creature were actually my fault, that a harmless, fun, innocent pastime had turned sinister and malevolent instead of the *truth* of the matter,<>, but that will be the propaganda of an interested party, whose word you may not trust.
i mean, its not *my* fault that the laws of gravity guided the half brick into the pheasants ribcage is it Chesty? no, i don't think so, what an understanding secretary you are. my morals hurt. be an angel and pass the whiskey will you?
it looked me right in the eye
anyway! i go to my well rested sleep knowing that 60 million years of evolution have honed me to the flawless hunetr-gatherer that you see before you and that vampiric wounds caused by the National BLOOD Service on a gentleman's throwing arm heal rather quicker than one would anticipate wouldn't yo say Chesty?
right in the fucking eye i tell you, it knew what was about to happen
and then i calmly went and barbequed some dead cow
a word on post traumatic stress disorder: no
May 14, 2005
Speed of Sound
If you think that the new Coldplay single is not terribly good then I'm happy to tell you that you're wrong. I was a bit disappointed by it - a bit of a confusing mixture of bits and bobs thrown together - but I've just seen the error of my ways. It simply demands a good pair of speakers or some top-spec headphones so that the different parts are distinguished from one another.
I've just been converted and now I'm happy again.
I've just been converted and now I'm happy again.
May 13, 2005
Wakeup Call
Benny appears to have developed a pathological hatred of my cat which he attempts to communicate to her by swearing at her, ‘accidentally’ locking her in airing cupboards, engaging her in games of ‘throw the cat’ and denying her food. I believe this might be rooted in his recent discovery that mum loves the cat more than either of us. Anyhow, textbook Oedipus impersonations aside, this has resulted in some rather unpleasant vengeance tactics from the cat.
Riley (the cat) is really only after four things from life: food, warmth, interesting things to chase and some company. Her evenings generally consist of being fed, heading out at sunset to kill something, stalking around the farm until after midnight and then then finding somewhere to sleep. If she’s especially cold she’ll scratch one of our doors until she’s allowed in to curl up on the bed. For this reason I have started leaving my bedroom door open so as not to be disturbed when she returns from her nocturnal prowling. Benny has also started leaving his bedroom door open, but this is because he is usually drunk to operate the handle, usually as a result of drinking too much of my alcohol. But I digress.
Both Benny and I neglected to leave our doors open last night. This morning at 0625 the cat started meowing outside my door. Now you might think that dolphins are pretty clever, but my cat has clearly determined that Benny is a drunk sloth and thus targeted me exclusively for her feline alarm calls. Over the years, she has developed a meow that is somewhere between an infant’s scream and a personal alarm. Benny – safely huddled in the dark sensory depravation provided by my brandy’s afterglow – was able to ignore her. I tried to, but it was all too much so I relented and let her in. I tried to get back to sleep, but the cat had other ideas, jumping on my back and clawing at the duvet. Then she started jumping on and off the bed. Then she started meowing again.
A combination of these evil techniques led me downstairs, into the kitchen and into the cupboard. Riley picked out what she wanted for breakfast by rubbing her head against some lamb cat food which I duly served up for her. She then indicated that I should feel free to return to bed by ignoring me. But by then it was time to get up anyway. I am thinking of investing in one of those automatic cat feeders.
Riley (the cat) is really only after four things from life: food, warmth, interesting things to chase and some company. Her evenings generally consist of being fed, heading out at sunset to kill something, stalking around the farm until after midnight and then then finding somewhere to sleep. If she’s especially cold she’ll scratch one of our doors until she’s allowed in to curl up on the bed. For this reason I have started leaving my bedroom door open so as not to be disturbed when she returns from her nocturnal prowling. Benny has also started leaving his bedroom door open, but this is because he is usually drunk to operate the handle, usually as a result of drinking too much of my alcohol. But I digress.
Both Benny and I neglected to leave our doors open last night. This morning at 0625 the cat started meowing outside my door. Now you might think that dolphins are pretty clever, but my cat has clearly determined that Benny is a drunk sloth and thus targeted me exclusively for her feline alarm calls. Over the years, she has developed a meow that is somewhere between an infant’s scream and a personal alarm. Benny – safely huddled in the dark sensory depravation provided by my brandy’s afterglow – was able to ignore her. I tried to, but it was all too much so I relented and let her in. I tried to get back to sleep, but the cat had other ideas, jumping on my back and clawing at the duvet. Then she started jumping on and off the bed. Then she started meowing again.
A combination of these evil techniques led me downstairs, into the kitchen and into the cupboard. Riley picked out what she wanted for breakfast by rubbing her head against some lamb cat food which I duly served up for her. She then indicated that I should feel free to return to bed by ignoring me. But by then it was time to get up anyway. I am thinking of investing in one of those automatic cat feeders.
May 11, 2005
shiny happy person
i just can't stop adding layers of varnish to the picnic-table we made over the weekend. it's so shiny and smooth!! i shall have to stop, though, soon, for two reasons - a., i'll run out of Ronseal quick-dry Ben-stain and b., if it gets any slicker any plates or glasses (or arses) placed on it will meet with zero friction and just slip and slide and glide right off, fracturing messily.
anyway. enough tales of DIY-OCD. But if you do ever come round my house for a barbeque, just remember to dust your arse with road-grit, lest the patio claim yet another coccyx.
today has been a strange day - i gave blood yesterday, see*, and i swear my blood-pressure has been a bit off today; the way a landed fish will flollop and spasm and thrash pathetically, well, that's my heart, that is. combined with a job that is just mindless in its entirety - useless people enacting useless processes for useless purposes - and the emotional equivalent of radiation-sickness bought on by my now-ex girlfriend emailing me about 4000 words of purest never-want-to-see-you-again-vitriol (in which she blamed me for everything wrong in the world, including [BUT NOT LIMITED TO] relationship failures, widespread psychological trauma, third-world debt, North Korea's nuclear-program and the Crazy Frog ringtone), and life has all conspired to produce a slightly off-kilter mental-state on my part.
...to the extent that, getting back this evening, i spent a happy half-hour chasing a pheasant around the garden with the sole intention of smashing its pea-sized cranium in and sucking the marrow from its living bones. ha ha! the surrounding countryside, see, is filled with the sounds and smells of fucking - horse poo that’s fuming with pheromones. cows hooto-screeching with lust. even the cunting plants are at it like knives, having twisted clusterfuck thousand-somes with bees**. but anyway, pheasants - which the surrounding fields and forests are thick with - are cretinously stupid normally but now, drunk with birdy testosterone, they’ve sunk to such a level of idiocy that they just sit there squawking at each other for bonking rights.
sitting duck-wits.
this means that instead of running away when they see me, they cluck and preen and wonder whether they're macho enough to take me on or not, all of which gives me *just* enough time to hurl a four-foot-long garden-fork at them.
i would've got the feathery little twat as well, were it not for the vampyric-wounds the national blood service inflicted on my throwing-arm.
oh well.
...time to buy a crossbow...
*it's not altruism - i'm just in it for the biscuits
**spot the blogger who isn't getting any
anyway. enough tales of DIY-OCD. But if you do ever come round my house for a barbeque, just remember to dust your arse with road-grit, lest the patio claim yet another coccyx.
today has been a strange day - i gave blood yesterday, see*, and i swear my blood-pressure has been a bit off today; the way a landed fish will flollop and spasm and thrash pathetically, well, that's my heart, that is. combined with a job that is just mindless in its entirety - useless people enacting useless processes for useless purposes - and the emotional equivalent of radiation-sickness bought on by my now-ex girlfriend emailing me about 4000 words of purest never-want-to-see-you-again-vitriol (in which she blamed me for everything wrong in the world, including [BUT NOT LIMITED TO] relationship failures, widespread psychological trauma, third-world debt, North Korea's nuclear-program and the Crazy Frog ringtone), and life has all conspired to produce a slightly off-kilter mental-state on my part.
...to the extent that, getting back this evening, i spent a happy half-hour chasing a pheasant around the garden with the sole intention of smashing its pea-sized cranium in and sucking the marrow from its living bones. ha ha! the surrounding countryside, see, is filled with the sounds and smells of fucking - horse poo that’s fuming with pheromones. cows hooto-screeching with lust. even the cunting plants are at it like knives, having twisted clusterfuck thousand-somes with bees**. but anyway, pheasants - which the surrounding fields and forests are thick with - are cretinously stupid normally but now, drunk with birdy testosterone, they’ve sunk to such a level of idiocy that they just sit there squawking at each other for bonking rights.
sitting duck-wits.
this means that instead of running away when they see me, they cluck and preen and wonder whether they're macho enough to take me on or not, all of which gives me *just* enough time to hurl a four-foot-long garden-fork at them.
i would've got the feathery little twat as well, were it not for the vampyric-wounds the national blood service inflicted on my throwing-arm.
oh well.
...time to buy a crossbow...
*it's not altruism - i'm just in it for the biscuits
**spot the blogger who isn't getting any
May 10, 2005
Tuesday Roundup
Feeling very sleepy today, probably due to lovely warm drugs circulating and calming the neck pain. Doubt, however, that a midmeeting siesta would go down very well with the chief. ZZZZzzz. Where was I?
The Indy is leading with a campaign for PR (http://news.independent.co.uk/uk/politics/story.jsp?story=637189) - good to see but the realist in me knows it's unlikely to happen unless we get a hung parliament. Turkeys don't vote for christmas etc.
My ipod is proving that life is random by going from jeff buckley to the hives and back through a german heavy metal star by the name of Ywengie Malmsteen performing a classical guitar medley at the Budokan. There is, surely, a point at which randomness becomes undiluted madness.
The Indy is leading with a campaign for PR (http://news.independent.co.uk/uk/politics/story.jsp?story=637189) - good to see but the realist in me knows it's unlikely to happen unless we get a hung parliament. Turkeys don't vote for christmas etc.
My ipod is proving that life is random by going from jeff buckley to the hives and back through a german heavy metal star by the name of Ywengie Malmsteen performing a classical guitar medley at the Budokan. There is, surely, a point at which randomness becomes undiluted madness.
May 09, 2005
Alma Mater
UCL lost to some toffs from Oxbridge in the final of University Challenge tonight. During my time there we didn't even get past qualifying, so this is a great improvement.
I was alerted to their progress by a text from Jim. We commiserated afterwards - Jim compared one of the chinless wonders from Corpus to Dr No unfavourably and reinforced his verdict with a flourish: "GEEK!!!" - you can always rely on jimbo for some objectivity.
I was alerted to their progress by a text from Jim. We commiserated afterwards - Jim compared one of the chinless wonders from Corpus to Dr No unfavourably and reinforced his verdict with a flourish: "GEEK!!!" - you can always rely on jimbo for some objectivity.
Aging Rapidly
Woke on Sunday morning with a slight pain in the neck. By lunch I was unable to turn my head to the right and by dusk I couldn't nod. Must have slept funny - get some rest and you'll be fine I thought.
Woke this morning and felt much better. An hour later I was back to the way I felt when I went to sleep and by lunch was in fairly serious pain - random spasms caused tourettes style outbursts. Not handy in meetings.
Found an osteopath in Winchester after being instructed to do so by my Project Manager. A nice massage, several loud skullclicks and £30 later I felt a lot better. You know those bits in action films where the hero breaks a disposable enemy's neck? It was a bit like that. Elbow round neck, other arm on chest. Twist and sickening bonecrunch. Nice.
Swaggered down St Cross swinging my head here and there with reckless abandon, in fact. No worries - just an inflamed joint or something. Loaded with ibuprofen and have an appointment to return for more hot clicking action on Friday.
Best £30 I've ever spent; well, this week.
Woke this morning and felt much better. An hour later I was back to the way I felt when I went to sleep and by lunch was in fairly serious pain - random spasms caused tourettes style outbursts. Not handy in meetings.
Found an osteopath in Winchester after being instructed to do so by my Project Manager. A nice massage, several loud skullclicks and £30 later I felt a lot better. You know those bits in action films where the hero breaks a disposable enemy's neck? It was a bit like that. Elbow round neck, other arm on chest. Twist and sickening bonecrunch. Nice.
Swaggered down St Cross swinging my head here and there with reckless abandon, in fact. No worries - just an inflamed joint or something. Loaded with ibuprofen and have an appointment to return for more hot clicking action on Friday.
Best £30 I've ever spent; well, this week.
May 08, 2005
what a load of shit
so, according to that quiz on BA.com, apparently "half-four" actually means it's "4:30!"
shock horror.
just what sort of customer is that quiz aimed at? because i didn't know that BA flew to Mars...
...i was desperately hoping that half-four would be a type of american golfing trouser, but no, it appears that there really are people that stupid out there...
anyway
this will be a short blog entry, because i am very, very tired; the happy, bone-tiredness of someone that's done an awful lot today, including (but not limited to), carpentry, football, lots of walking through woods, lots of beer-consumption (cheriton's Beltane - 4.5%. lovely, lovely stuff...), and accidently shutting the cat in the airing-cupboard for eight hours.
a happy day, full of friends and interesting things.
well, it was for me, anyway. the cat's day was full of underwear and the need to piss. haw haw!
...try evolving thumbs...
shock horror.
just what sort of customer is that quiz aimed at? because i didn't know that BA flew to Mars...
...i was desperately hoping that half-four would be a type of american golfing trouser, but no, it appears that there really are people that stupid out there...
anyway
this will be a short blog entry, because i am very, very tired; the happy, bone-tiredness of someone that's done an awful lot today, including (but not limited to), carpentry, football, lots of walking through woods, lots of beer-consumption (cheriton's Beltane - 4.5%. lovely, lovely stuff...), and accidently shutting the cat in the airing-cupboard for eight hours.
a happy day, full of friends and interesting things.
well, it was for me, anyway. the cat's day was full of underwear and the need to piss. haw haw!
...try evolving thumbs...
May 07, 2005
Take a squiz
The airline that used to be the world's favourite has posted a lingual guide to london on the interweb, presumably so that our american friends will know what the word 'quid' means when their taxi driver demands sixty of them after the journey from heathrow to the hotel. How very public spirited of them.
I've had a look through the list and some of them appear to originate from Dick Van Dyke's 'Cor Blimey' guide to London. For example: What would you have received if someone gave you the gen? What is laughing gear? And what is the minimum jail term for taking a squiz in a public place?
More hot Mary Poppins action here.
I've had a look through the list and some of them appear to originate from Dick Van Dyke's 'Cor Blimey' guide to London. For example: What would you have received if someone gave you the gen? What is laughing gear? And what is the minimum jail term for taking a squiz in a public place?
More hot Mary Poppins action here.
it's all about the egg/cheese/heat ratio, you know
lots of decent cheese
two free-range eggs - warmed to room temperature, otherwise it'll mess with the timings
dijon mustard
worcestershire sauce (if you ever need to annoy an american, ask them to pronounce that)
bread
toast bread, medium on one side, lightly on the other (beat your fag thoroughly if they get this wrong). grate cheese. lots of worcestershire sauce, medium amounts of mustard. mix. add eggs. mix saucéd-cheese/egg mixture thoroughly.
(a word on consistency - it should be plastic. not solidish, or liquidious, just plastic, as in, it should move gracefully when you push it but stay there. this is important because a., it means that you have got the right egg/cheese ratio correct and b., that you can cover all available toast-surface to avoid getting Carbonised Corner Syndrome.)
plonk mixture upon toast, grill quickly under a medium/high heat. this is important! if you toast it too slowly then the egg will bake and you'll be eating a fecking cheddar-cake. if you toast it too quickly then the cheese furthest from the grill will not have time to melt. the end result should, like the Earth itself, have a deliciously golden-brown crust on top and a happy liquid magma underneath that ejaculates creamily into your cheeks when bitten.
obviously that is where the planet/food analogy breaks down slightly. but the overall theory is sound.
and that is how you make welsh rarebit.
(not suitable for the very young, very old, pregnant individuals or those with egg, cheese, bread or worcestershire-sauce allergies...)
in my traditional post-feasting digestational stupor i am now listening to Ignoreland, by REM, and reading this article, and hoping that the first thing she spends her money on is some orthodontic work; i set off a firecracker in a tin-can once, and the results, i have to say looked pretty similar to her gnashing maw...
god, i'm *such* a bitch...meeeEE-owwwwwwwwwWWWW...
oddest thing i'd buy if ever i had that much cash? titanium teeth, i think. rip all my originals out and replace them with solid titanium ones, crowns, roots and all; titanium grafts and melds into human bone, you see. so apart from never having to worry about toothache for the rest of my life i would also never be caught short for a bottle-opener ever again. or hell, even a nut-cracker...
i may well have to take not biting my nails slightly more seriously though. my fingers are stumpy enough as it is...
anyway! time to put some clothes on. 1pm is far too late for dressing-gowns, unless your name is arthur dent.
or hugh heffner.
two free-range eggs - warmed to room temperature, otherwise it'll mess with the timings
dijon mustard
worcestershire sauce (if you ever need to annoy an american, ask them to pronounce that)
bread
toast bread, medium on one side, lightly on the other (beat your fag thoroughly if they get this wrong). grate cheese. lots of worcestershire sauce, medium amounts of mustard. mix. add eggs. mix saucéd-cheese/egg mixture thoroughly.
(a word on consistency - it should be plastic. not solidish, or liquidious, just plastic, as in, it should move gracefully when you push it but stay there. this is important because a., it means that you have got the right egg/cheese ratio correct and b., that you can cover all available toast-surface to avoid getting Carbonised Corner Syndrome.)
plonk mixture upon toast, grill quickly under a medium/high heat. this is important! if you toast it too slowly then the egg will bake and you'll be eating a fecking cheddar-cake. if you toast it too quickly then the cheese furthest from the grill will not have time to melt. the end result should, like the Earth itself, have a deliciously golden-brown crust on top and a happy liquid magma underneath that ejaculates creamily into your cheeks when bitten.
obviously that is where the planet/food analogy breaks down slightly. but the overall theory is sound.
and that is how you make welsh rarebit.
(not suitable for the very young, very old, pregnant individuals or those with egg, cheese, bread or worcestershire-sauce allergies...)
in my traditional post-feasting digestational stupor i am now listening to Ignoreland, by REM, and reading this article, and hoping that the first thing she spends her money on is some orthodontic work; i set off a firecracker in a tin-can once, and the results, i have to say looked pretty similar to her gnashing maw...
god, i'm *such* a bitch...meeeEE-owwwwwwwwwWWWW...
oddest thing i'd buy if ever i had that much cash? titanium teeth, i think. rip all my originals out and replace them with solid titanium ones, crowns, roots and all; titanium grafts and melds into human bone, you see. so apart from never having to worry about toothache for the rest of my life i would also never be caught short for a bottle-opener ever again. or hell, even a nut-cracker...
i may well have to take not biting my nails slightly more seriously though. my fingers are stumpy enough as it is...
anyway! time to put some clothes on. 1pm is far too late for dressing-gowns, unless your name is arthur dent.
or hugh heffner.
May 06, 2005
told you so...
well
a majority of 60 instead of 160. haw haw! reminds me of me & my cat; when i have finished devouring a delicious bacon sandwich i condescendingly toss the rind to my furry little nemisis.
as it is with tony & gordon. here you go, gordon. i'm full up now, have the leftovers...
highlight of the election coverage was seeing Gorgeous George Galloway carried shoulder-high down brick lane. i used to live off brick lane and the only people *i* ever saw bourne off the pavement were women who'd freaked out at the malicious ratty thrashings inside of curry-house bin-bags and needed to be physically lifted away from the rodenty tide, lest they shit out their ribcage in fear. honestly...some people...
current drink is brandy, current music is Take You On A Cruise, by Interpol.
this brandy really is *super*. so fragrant! so sweet! makes me wonder why i bother with whisky.
but
you know...like a desperate middle aged couple, me and whisky will always get back together, no matter what the argument...
and the one thing that makes this brandy taste even sweeter is
it's not even mine :P
a majority of 60 instead of 160. haw haw! reminds me of me & my cat; when i have finished devouring a delicious bacon sandwich i condescendingly toss the rind to my furry little nemisis.
as it is with tony & gordon. here you go, gordon. i'm full up now, have the leftovers...
highlight of the election coverage was seeing Gorgeous George Galloway carried shoulder-high down brick lane. i used to live off brick lane and the only people *i* ever saw bourne off the pavement were women who'd freaked out at the malicious ratty thrashings inside of curry-house bin-bags and needed to be physically lifted away from the rodenty tide, lest they shit out their ribcage in fear. honestly...some people...
current drink is brandy, current music is Take You On A Cruise, by Interpol.
this brandy really is *super*. so fragrant! so sweet! makes me wonder why i bother with whisky.
but
you know...like a desperate middle aged couple, me and whisky will always get back together, no matter what the argument...
and the one thing that makes this brandy taste even sweeter is
it's not even mine :P
Landlords are Sharks (and other revelations)
I moved out of a flat in London two months ago. Since this time my former flatmate Greg and I have been trying to retrieve the large deposit from the letting agency (Foxtons) and the landlord. Without really co-ordinating, we've been doing a good cop / bad cop number on the dude at Foxtons which culminated on Tuesday with South African Greg threatening to take a pick axe to the letting agent's car and me apologising a lot.
Of course, it's not foxton's fault (or indeed, problem). It's the sloth of a landlord's responsibility. And now - after months - our money's coming back our way.
Minus some deductions: £50 for cleaning the windows and £175 for cleaning the flat.
In my catatonic state after today's exertions at work I've been trying to work out how to spend £175 cleaning a medium sized flat in the middle of london. I have come to the conclusion I could only match them by paying supermodels to clean the flat naked using uncut cocaine as an abrasive powder and this season's couture as rags.
Moral? If you want to make money, become a cleaner, window cleaner or better yet, a filthy blood sucking landlord.
In Australia, the deposit (or 'bond' in the local parlance) is held effectively in escrow by a government agency. The consent of both parties or an appeal is required before funds can be released in either direction.
I'm feeling dangerously vengeful and irrational about this. Would it be worth the satisfaction of pursuing the bastard? £1k in costs to retrieve £200?
As it stands, the landlord has promised to call me back but has not yet done so. Perhaps he's trying to work out how to remove the pick axe from his car / irate south african from his house.
Of course, it's not foxton's fault (or indeed, problem). It's the sloth of a landlord's responsibility. And now - after months - our money's coming back our way.
Minus some deductions: £50 for cleaning the windows and £175 for cleaning the flat.
In my catatonic state after today's exertions at work I've been trying to work out how to spend £175 cleaning a medium sized flat in the middle of london. I have come to the conclusion I could only match them by paying supermodels to clean the flat naked using uncut cocaine as an abrasive powder and this season's couture as rags.
Moral? If you want to make money, become a cleaner, window cleaner or better yet, a filthy blood sucking landlord.
In Australia, the deposit (or 'bond' in the local parlance) is held effectively in escrow by a government agency. The consent of both parties or an appeal is required before funds can be released in either direction.
I'm feeling dangerously vengeful and irrational about this. Would it be worth the satisfaction of pursuing the bastard? £1k in costs to retrieve £200?
As it stands, the landlord has promised to call me back but has not yet done so. Perhaps he's trying to work out how to remove the pick axe from his car / irate south african from his house.
Beyond the Comfort Zone
What is it about typing stuff in this form that reminds me of the bit at the end of every episode of Dougie Howser where the good doctor tells his computer why he failed to woo Wanda this week and what great lessons he learnt about life in the process?
Anyway, today I ran a workshop at work. This meant standing up for a few hours trying to get a bunch of people to talk about problems with a process and develop solutions so that they can save money. Cue lots of powerpoint, facilitation and flipchart action.
For reasons lost in my childhood I get nervous when I have to talk in front of groups of people. I also feel like I'm a bit of cheat for doing my job when most of my colleagues are significantly older and came to consulting with more experience. I was very apprehensive about today but it seemed to go fairly well and I got the result I was after. I always feel drained after doing presentations - a bit like I used to feel after exams - everything builds up to a moment where you're totally ready for whatever comes your way and then it's over in a blur.
So ends another week. The farm's looking good in the sunshine so might go and purchase some garden furniture tomorrow with Benny so we can make the most of the coming months. I can feel an outdoors summer coming on.
Anyway, today I ran a workshop at work. This meant standing up for a few hours trying to get a bunch of people to talk about problems with a process and develop solutions so that they can save money. Cue lots of powerpoint, facilitation and flipchart action.
For reasons lost in my childhood I get nervous when I have to talk in front of groups of people. I also feel like I'm a bit of cheat for doing my job when most of my colleagues are significantly older and came to consulting with more experience. I was very apprehensive about today but it seemed to go fairly well and I got the result I was after. I always feel drained after doing presentations - a bit like I used to feel after exams - everything builds up to a moment where you're totally ready for whatever comes your way and then it's over in a blur.
So ends another week. The farm's looking good in the sunshine so might go and purchase some garden furniture tomorrow with Benny so we can make the most of the coming months. I can feel an outdoors summer coming on.
May 05, 2005
up the ziggurat, lickety-split...
well fuck me sideways, i've got a fucking job!!
i must now celebrate.
TO THE PUB!
i must now celebrate.
TO THE PUB!
None of the above
In contrast to Benny's well thought out arguments and considerations below, I shall not be voting because:
1) Having recently moved I'm not registered
2) Nor am I registered for postal voting and I'm staying away from home tonight
3) Even if 1 and 2 weren't true, I still wouldn't be buggered
Reason? There's no big debate, no real difference between the three parties. The differences are basically about presentation. No one has any big ideas.
No one, for example, is advocating a single flat rate of tax with no deductions - as is being mooted in some quarters in the US and has been implemented to great success in central europe. Not one of the big three parties is talking about the wholesale privatisation of the NHS, wholeheartedly embracing the EU, really shaking up the justice system, sorting out the railways or expanding education in anything like a meaningful sense. I don't necessarily advocate any of these arguments - but where are the big ideas?
The last time there *was* a big idea in this country (largely handing monetary policy to the BoE back in 97) Labour actually kept it secret from the voters until after the election.
I don't feel engaged at all by any of the parties or indeed the process. We're told that the right to vote is sacred - but until we've got an electoral system that's more representative and, while I'm knocking out crazy concepts, some kind of constitution, I'll remain turned off by the whole thing.
1) Having recently moved I'm not registered
2) Nor am I registered for postal voting and I'm staying away from home tonight
3) Even if 1 and 2 weren't true, I still wouldn't be buggered
Reason? There's no big debate, no real difference between the three parties. The differences are basically about presentation. No one has any big ideas.
No one, for example, is advocating a single flat rate of tax with no deductions - as is being mooted in some quarters in the US and has been implemented to great success in central europe. Not one of the big three parties is talking about the wholesale privatisation of the NHS, wholeheartedly embracing the EU, really shaking up the justice system, sorting out the railways or expanding education in anything like a meaningful sense. I don't necessarily advocate any of these arguments - but where are the big ideas?
The last time there *was* a big idea in this country (largely handing monetary policy to the BoE back in 97) Labour actually kept it secret from the voters until after the election.
I don't feel engaged at all by any of the parties or indeed the process. We're told that the right to vote is sacred - but until we've got an electoral system that's more representative and, while I'm knocking out crazy concepts, some kind of constitution, I'll remain turned off by the whole thing.
it doesn't matter who you vote for...
...the government always gets in...
today is my first general election. i am going to vote liberal democrat. for the following reasons:
1. i trust Tony Blair about as far as i could spit a dead rat. over iraq he either misled us or he was misled himself; so, basically, on the biggest decision Britain has made in the last quarter-century he's either a liar or he's incompetent. take your pick, tony...
2. i disagree vehemently with the following policies: home detention without arrest. ID cards. part-privatisation & PPF. the hunt ban. the european constitution. any single one of those issues would be enough for me to shun labour; to have a poker-hand full of them is sheer fucking lunacy.
3. i do concur that labour's monetary policies have been sound (and fiscal policies acceptable). but let's face it - the strength of the global economy is out of the hands of any politician. for them to campaign on a strong economy is like campaigning on the 100% record of the sun coming up every day. i do give Gordon Bown enormous credit for handing control of interest rates to the bank of england but fuck, that was eight years ago now. talk about resting on your laurels...
4. Alistair Campbell. i want to pull this man's spine out through his arsehole with a pair of pliers. nobody else has done so much to pervert our parliamentary system into a presidential system for which it is grievously ill-suited. and remember Dr. David Kelly, anyone...?
5. although i am a natural tory, i do not consider their current shadow cabinet to be effectual. they simply do not appear to me to be fit to lead; Howard's stance on iraq is also cretinous. if the man doesn't even have the wit to go for the jugular in an election, how can he possibly have the wit to govern? the tory candidate for this area is also remarkably feckless. nice enough, of course, but feckless.
6. our incumbent liberal democrat is effective, does good work for the area and can't be faulted on anything except his dentistry. despite wider concerns i still put more emphasis on having a parliamentary *representative* for your area that you want as your voice in westminster, as opposed for voting for a power-hungry berk just because you prefer their party.
7. did i mention home-detention without arrest, ID cards, PPF, the hunt ban and the european constitution...?
anyway. i think i shall buy a box of chocolates for the nice volunteers who have to sit in dingy church halls all sodding day... or would that count as perverting the electoral code...?
so. my predictions are, labour will get in with a rather-largely reduced majority. which sets us up nicely for regieme-change in 2009...
frost pist! ...man, that sounds south-african...
so. a little background for our viewing public. this is a joint blog between me (ben) and my brother (tom), joint because neither one of us could - individually - maintain the high degree of regularity or quality of blog-posts that our audience requires, nay, demands :P
we're going to try it for a month and see if it's viable. or merely fucking worth it ;)
a little bit about myself; i like getting muddy, barbeques, dinky bottles of cold beer, dinky bottles of cold vodka and yelling along to songs whilst cycling back from the pub.
my life is not all that complicated.
you'd be amazed at how much effort it takes to keep it that way.
we're going to try it for a month and see if it's viable. or merely fucking worth it ;)
a little bit about myself; i like getting muddy, barbeques, dinky bottles of cold beer, dinky bottles of cold vodka and yelling along to songs whilst cycling back from the pub.
my life is not all that complicated.
you'd be amazed at how much effort it takes to keep it that way.
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