Or, more precisely, my present from Riley was a shit.
Or, to zoom in even further, I found a small pile of faeces and a little pool of wee waiting for me on the bathroom floor this morning.
And all because some arse closed the kitchen door last night thus denying her access to the catflap and thus the 'toilet' (which you may know by the name 'outside world' if you are sans tail). So I've - yuck - cleaned up and disinfected everything and everyone.
Now I have to prepare christmas dinner. This year we're having a multi bird roast, kindly prepared for us by the local pub. It's the other bits that are going to occupy most of my time, I think: gravy, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, stuffing balls, sausages wrapped in bacon and all manner of vegetables. It's going to be a 3 or 4 hour slog to the finish line I reckon.
There's supposed to be a pub break at 2pm but there's fat chance of me getting to that. This is a bit of a worry as I left my car down there last night due to excessive consumption, which I am now suffering for. There's a beer on at the moment called Turkey's Delight which from memory weighs in at 6.2% or 6.7%. The dangerous element is that it tastes like a regular beer. So today I'm a little under the weather. But I set out to get drunk last night - it just feels like I've been driving every time we've gone to the pub recently and last night was a golden opportunity to sort that out. Perhaps I could leave Benny in charge while I collect my motor. Hmmm. What would I rather do: put Benny in charge of a feast or put him behind the wheel of my car with no insurance? Decisions, decisions, decisions.
A dark thought occurs about boxing day. Everyone remembers the tsunami, but very few people have an active memory of the Bam earthquake which happened on boxing day the year before. My point is that this god chap everyone keeps banging on about seems to think boxing day is a good day for some smiting action. My advice: stay indoors and turn on CNN.
Hope you have a very merry christmas, whoever you are.
Tom
December 25, 2005
December 23, 2005
something something something
i was going to blog about something...what the fuck was it...
errrr
ah yes!
i was going to blog about the fantastically secular nature of this christmas holiday. there isn't even lip service going on to the godly nature of it all! i've not heard jesus' name mentioned once outside of carol.
bah.
i fear for this. although not religeous myself, it's a question of tactics - i like christmas as is, and don't want it gayed around with by those who want it tured into "winterval". the removal of any god-bits will remove the anchor that binds the holiday to my kind of worldview; to totally secularlize Chrismtas (Xmas...Winterval...Yuletide...Season's Greetings...The Holiday Season) would be a horrendous turn of events.
like when the victorious Yanks first introduced Christmas to Japan in 1945l; some forward-thinking but slightly-confused department stores had, as their window-displays, crucified santas.
hahahahaaa...
errrr
ah yes!
i was going to blog about the fantastically secular nature of this christmas holiday. there isn't even lip service going on to the godly nature of it all! i've not heard jesus' name mentioned once outside of carol.
bah.
i fear for this. although not religeous myself, it's a question of tactics - i like christmas as is, and don't want it gayed around with by those who want it tured into "winterval". the removal of any god-bits will remove the anchor that binds the holiday to my kind of worldview; to totally secularlize Chrismtas (Xmas...Winterval...Yuletide...Season's Greetings...The Holiday Season) would be a horrendous turn of events.
like when the victorious Yanks first introduced Christmas to Japan in 1945l; some forward-thinking but slightly-confused department stores had, as their window-displays, crucified santas.
hahahahaaa...
a purely red pie-chart
productivity in this office is rather minimal.
we're all too busy singing along to Band Aid. i am doing the harmonies, just so that when i do finally bump into Joss Stone in the street i am able to impess her with my beautiful soul stylings.
also, half-hour trips to the café to get bacon sandwiches for EVERYBODY sort of eat into one's working time.
also, i am slightly hungover.
also, i my body is too shattered to move much - i ran to the pub last night and cycled there the night before, thus my legs are buggered. a drunken weights-workout at dark o'clock last night has put paid to my abdomen, torso and shoulders ("warming up is for LOSERS!") and my forearms are covered in bruises from Carla, who was vexed by my kazzoo playing (Fanfare for the Common Man went down a bomb) and attempted to cease my tootling by giving me chinese burns and pinching my bingo-wings...
also, i have been too busy wanking over the new sugababe.
damnnit! someone's replaced the christmas carols with Jack Fucking Johnson! I HATE JACK FUCKING JOHNSON!!! banal, banal banal banal. unthreatening dinner-party twunt, is he. vileeeeee...
ah well. time to get back to pretending to work.
we're all too busy singing along to Band Aid. i am doing the harmonies, just so that when i do finally bump into Joss Stone in the street i am able to impess her with my beautiful soul stylings.
also, half-hour trips to the café to get bacon sandwiches for EVERYBODY sort of eat into one's working time.
also, i am slightly hungover.
also, i my body is too shattered to move much - i ran to the pub last night and cycled there the night before, thus my legs are buggered. a drunken weights-workout at dark o'clock last night has put paid to my abdomen, torso and shoulders ("warming up is for LOSERS!") and my forearms are covered in bruises from Carla, who was vexed by my kazzoo playing (Fanfare for the Common Man went down a bomb) and attempted to cease my tootling by giving me chinese burns and pinching my bingo-wings...
also, i have been too busy wanking over the new sugababe.
damnnit! someone's replaced the christmas carols with Jack Fucking Johnson! I HATE JACK FUCKING JOHNSON!!! banal, banal banal banal. unthreatening dinner-party twunt, is he. vileeeeee...
ah well. time to get back to pretending to work.
December 22, 2005
tri-disaster
my axe is broken! my axe is BROKEN! my AXE is broken! MY AXE IS BROKEN!!!!
what a crock of shit.
a perfect artifact, made by a group of skilled hippie scandiwegian articifers out of purest polar hickory & molecularly-correct Swedeish steel and the fucking thing gets futtbucked by an obese delivery driver who dumps a washing-machine on it and snaps the helve!!!
i am full of riotous disbelief. i would compare it to da Vinci's sunflowers or Van Gough's Mona Lisa being shredded for use as hamster-litter, or Raphael's David being ground-up for use as pool-cue chalk, but that would do the axe a dis-service because it's a tool as well as a work of art instead of just expensive wallpaper.
ho hum.
so no hot-chopper action for me for a while. a shame, really - would have come in most handy when i was out theiving a yule-log from the forest or theiving a christmas-tree from Shane the Farmer's pheasant enclosure; it was easy enough to pull out of the groud, it's just that if i'd had an axe with me i could have hacked my leg off at the ankle instead of biting it off. fucking farmers and their fucking bear-traps!
ho fucking hum.
it's been a bad time for me recently - other disasters include today at work, where as part of a training thing i put myself forward as a guinea-pig for psychometric testing. it is only a matter of time until the results come back and i am exposed as the passive-agressive bi-polar chronic festering sociopath that i know myself to be, and that it can only be a short interval before the men with white coats and benny-sized butterfly-nets come looking for me.
was a strange test. it was a yes/no/maybe test, which i thought would prove to be riotously inaccurate, but i guess over 200 questions they can form at least a rough average...
my favourite question: "SOMETIMES I THINK I DID SOMETHING WRONG"
(yes/?/no)
what a crock of shit.
a perfect artifact, made by a group of skilled hippie scandiwegian articifers out of purest polar hickory & molecularly-correct Swedeish steel and the fucking thing gets futtbucked by an obese delivery driver who dumps a washing-machine on it and snaps the helve!!!
i am full of riotous disbelief. i would compare it to da Vinci's sunflowers or Van Gough's Mona Lisa being shredded for use as hamster-litter, or Raphael's David being ground-up for use as pool-cue chalk, but that would do the axe a dis-service because it's a tool as well as a work of art instead of just expensive wallpaper.
ho hum.
so no hot-chopper action for me for a while. a shame, really - would have come in most handy when i was out theiving a yule-log from the forest or theiving a christmas-tree from Shane the Farmer's pheasant enclosure; it was easy enough to pull out of the groud, it's just that if i'd had an axe with me i could have hacked my leg off at the ankle instead of biting it off. fucking farmers and their fucking bear-traps!
ho fucking hum.
it's been a bad time for me recently - other disasters include today at work, where as part of a training thing i put myself forward as a guinea-pig for psychometric testing. it is only a matter of time until the results come back and i am exposed as the passive-agressive bi-polar chronic festering sociopath that i know myself to be, and that it can only be a short interval before the men with white coats and benny-sized butterfly-nets come looking for me.
was a strange test. it was a yes/no/maybe test, which i thought would prove to be riotously inaccurate, but i guess over 200 questions they can form at least a rough average...
my favourite question: "SOMETIMES I THINK I DID SOMETHING WRONG"
(yes/?/no)
December 21, 2005
The Producers
Ew4n has poo-poo'd The Producers on his blog (do try to avoid the main page, unless you like the music from the christmas coke ad).
I for one am really looking forward to seeing it. Nathan Lane played his role on Broadway and in London. Uma Thurman looks like sex on a stick. Broderick is a man who always looks like he's being overtaken by events (and is thus perfect here); all the more perfect in fact because his god awful wife is nowhere to be seen.
Trailer here - very good.
I for one am really looking forward to seeing it. Nathan Lane played his role on Broadway and in London. Uma Thurman looks like sex on a stick. Broderick is a man who always looks like he's being overtaken by events (and is thus perfect here); all the more perfect in fact because his god awful wife is nowhere to be seen.
Trailer here - very good.
Gay Weddings
From the guardian / grauniad:
That's pretty fucking amazing isn't it? I mean, you hear all the time about inflexible jobsworths in councils (coughBennycough) making life miserable for people through inaction, but imagine how much it must have meant to Roche and Cramp to have cemented their relationship before he died. Hats off to the imaginative pen pusher concerned!
Thirteen couples have already formed civil partnerships in England and Wales under special arrangements since the law permitting them came into force on December 5.
The first was lung cancer sufferer Matthew Roche and Christopher Cramp, of Brighton, who received special permission to go ahead with the service at St Barnabas Hospice in Worthing, West Sussex on December 5. Mr Roche died the next day.
Wee Willie Benny
This big old house is cold cold cold in the winter apart from three spots:
1) Next to / on top of the stove in the kitchen
2) My bed (owing to the cunning impoundment of an electric blanket early on in my tenure when it was still warm outside)
3) The lounge when a fire is roaring.
The combination of fire, food and lo-brow entertainments on the tellybox often mean I doze off in a chair, especially after a hard day adding value and a 60 mile commute. However, Benny has taken this one step further and over the last two months, as far as I can make out, has yet to go to bed. Instead, he has co-opted the sofa where he can often be found after 11pm, sprawled with his eyes pinched shut and his mouth wide open. Occasionally, Riley will mistake him for a particularly ugly cushion and sit on him.
This is a little bit concerning. What in god's name is wrong with your bed? Are you pining for the glory days of clapham?
When conscious, he will sometimes say "Don't let me sleep on the sofa - throw water over me or something". He will also moan about his back / neck hurting. Yet when I try to rouse him he expresses different opinions, rather often forecfully.
Hyprocrite that I am, last night I passed out on the sofa after an especially draining day. Surely this would coax him to bed? Hell no! When I woke in the night, Benny was asleep on the floor. Perhaps he's in love with my TV.
1) Next to / on top of the stove in the kitchen
2) My bed (owing to the cunning impoundment of an electric blanket early on in my tenure when it was still warm outside)
3) The lounge when a fire is roaring.
The combination of fire, food and lo-brow entertainments on the tellybox often mean I doze off in a chair, especially after a hard day adding value and a 60 mile commute. However, Benny has taken this one step further and over the last two months, as far as I can make out, has yet to go to bed. Instead, he has co-opted the sofa where he can often be found after 11pm, sprawled with his eyes pinched shut and his mouth wide open. Occasionally, Riley will mistake him for a particularly ugly cushion and sit on him.
This is a little bit concerning. What in god's name is wrong with your bed? Are you pining for the glory days of clapham?
When conscious, he will sometimes say "Don't let me sleep on the sofa - throw water over me or something". He will also moan about his back / neck hurting. Yet when I try to rouse him he expresses different opinions, rather often forecfully.
Hyprocrite that I am, last night I passed out on the sofa after an especially draining day. Surely this would coax him to bed? Hell no! When I woke in the night, Benny was asleep on the floor. Perhaps he's in love with my TV.
December 20, 2005
yet more evidence...
...if needs be, that human rights lawyers are the most fundamentally pointless creatures in all of creation...
i mean god, it's such a scandelous waste - that a mind brilliant enough to be a QC could have been subverted to the dark side of adolescent rebellion, grasping at headlines in a piss-warm attempt to BAN THE BOMB!
i'm charmingly magnanimous enough to forgive people when they occasionally lose their grasp of the ugly realities of life, when they can't quite get a grip on the pespective of necessary evils (in this case, nuclear weaponry) but, but but but, when they're blinkered enough to actually attempt to bring down the frameworks that protect the rest of us, then *that* is when they need to be taken for a small diving lesson whilst wearing concrete Reeboks.
anyway. i am now going home to gay-up my brother's important conference-call by practicing my kazzoo playing; it is the inaugral performance of the Bowman Philharmonic Kazzoo Symphony on thursday night and as such i need to nail our repertoire:
Tequilla (our signature tune)
Fanfare for the Common Man
Happy Birthday (traditional version, with harmonies)
Gino (Dexi's Midnight Runners)
And that thing from 2001: A Space Oddysysyi (ambitious, but Duncan wants
to do it)..."Sprach Zarathustra"...?
just call me Bleeding Lips Harvey, eh?
i mean god, it's such a scandelous waste - that a mind brilliant enough to be a QC could have been subverted to the dark side of adolescent rebellion, grasping at headlines in a piss-warm attempt to BAN THE BOMB!
i'm charmingly magnanimous enough to forgive people when they occasionally lose their grasp of the ugly realities of life, when they can't quite get a grip on the pespective of necessary evils (in this case, nuclear weaponry) but, but but but, when they're blinkered enough to actually attempt to bring down the frameworks that protect the rest of us, then *that* is when they need to be taken for a small diving lesson whilst wearing concrete Reeboks.
anyway. i am now going home to gay-up my brother's important conference-call by practicing my kazzoo playing; it is the inaugral performance of the Bowman Philharmonic Kazzoo Symphony on thursday night and as such i need to nail our repertoire:
Tequilla (our signature tune)
Fanfare for the Common Man
Happy Birthday (traditional version, with harmonies)
Gino (Dexi's Midnight Runners)
And that thing from 2001: A Space Oddysysyi (ambitious, but Duncan wants
to do it)..."Sprach Zarathustra"...?
just call me Bleeding Lips Harvey, eh?
...it was a graveyard smash...
now, there have been many surreal moments in my life, but seeing a friend being lowered into their forest grave accompanied, musically, by The Monster Mash must take the cake.
his favourite song.
what a strange day that was. lots of emotion, and lots of memories, and lots of people, too - 110? 120, maybe? packed the little hall out, it did. we listened to tales of his life, and of his effect on others, and then his utterly-biodegrable wicker casket was bourne down to the grave on a carriage pulled by an immacculate black horse, and then we said goodbye.
no church, no vicar, no hymns to mime wordlessly along to. no god-botherer recruiting-drive. no darkness of stone or bored organ drone. just a glade in a forest and a hole in the ground and more friends than he knew that he had.
and some bob dylan.
Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an' cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse
An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
his favourite song.
what a strange day that was. lots of emotion, and lots of memories, and lots of people, too - 110? 120, maybe? packed the little hall out, it did. we listened to tales of his life, and of his effect on others, and then his utterly-biodegrable wicker casket was bourne down to the grave on a carriage pulled by an immacculate black horse, and then we said goodbye.
no church, no vicar, no hymns to mime wordlessly along to. no god-botherer recruiting-drive. no darkness of stone or bored organ drone. just a glade in a forest and a hole in the ground and more friends than he knew that he had.
and some bob dylan.
Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an' cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse
An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
December 19, 2005
Jack Johnson
Great tunes. My personal experience: buy it, browse it, love it, listen to it on walk to bar, arrive in an excellent mood and fine form, proceed to make beautiful women fall in love with you.
Cracking.
Cracking.
Matters of the Heart
It's never easy, is it?
1) Going on dates is interesting. If nothing else, it's good practice. It also helps me to try to understand what I want, what works and, most importantly, how much I cna drink before I stop being entertaining company.
2) Walker has broken up with his girlfriend. The man is 27 and has been single for 5 months out of the last 10 years, a period that covers 4 relationships (including one marriage). Each to their own. We had a long talk about things.
3) He has also moved to Finchley Central while work on his flat is completed. He bumped into an ex girlfriend of mine a couple of weeks ago. She's supposed to be off travelling. Knowing she's around rather than thousands of miles away gave me a bit of a shock. We went drinking in a place called The Dignity, which is where I went with her a couple of times. It seemed strange to be there again. Of all the bars in all the world...
4) Prior to all this hilarity we met up for a drink in Highgate where something most peculiar happened. A beautiful, interesting and funny woman asked me out for dinner. I was dumbfounded. Okay, so she was 36. Ok, so she has 3 children. Ok, so she might have had a bit to much to drink as evidenced by a large drink spilling incident a few minutes later. But hey: in vino veritas, right? She was very insistent that I call her. I've been trying to decide whether it's a good idea or not. I found her very attractive. Head says no, instinct says do it. So, froth of indecision.
5) I'm told I've mistreated someone who felt that a relationship that we had meant more than it did. Sorry, but I have to reject that. I was always honest with her but it turns out she wasn't being honest with herself. I sympathise, I'm going to give her space but I don't think I've treated her badly. She's a nice enough girl. But give me the yummy mummy any day.
1) Going on dates is interesting. If nothing else, it's good practice. It also helps me to try to understand what I want, what works and, most importantly, how much I cna drink before I stop being entertaining company.
2) Walker has broken up with his girlfriend. The man is 27 and has been single for 5 months out of the last 10 years, a period that covers 4 relationships (including one marriage). Each to their own. We had a long talk about things.
3) He has also moved to Finchley Central while work on his flat is completed. He bumped into an ex girlfriend of mine a couple of weeks ago. She's supposed to be off travelling. Knowing she's around rather than thousands of miles away gave me a bit of a shock. We went drinking in a place called The Dignity, which is where I went with her a couple of times. It seemed strange to be there again. Of all the bars in all the world...
4) Prior to all this hilarity we met up for a drink in Highgate where something most peculiar happened. A beautiful, interesting and funny woman asked me out for dinner. I was dumbfounded. Okay, so she was 36. Ok, so she has 3 children. Ok, so she might have had a bit to much to drink as evidenced by a large drink spilling incident a few minutes later. But hey: in vino veritas, right? She was very insistent that I call her. I've been trying to decide whether it's a good idea or not. I found her very attractive. Head says no, instinct says do it. So, froth of indecision.
5) I'm told I've mistreated someone who felt that a relationship that we had meant more than it did. Sorry, but I have to reject that. I was always honest with her but it turns out she wasn't being honest with herself. I sympathise, I'm going to give her space but I don't think I've treated her badly. She's a nice enough girl. But give me the yummy mummy any day.
December 17, 2005
John Spencer Dead at 58
Spencer played Leo McGarry, the chief of staff, in the west wing. At the risk of turning this blog into a rolling obituary column, I'm saddened by this news. He was one of the elements that leant the whole thing a slice of craggy wisdom and a bit of gravity; all the more difficult when you're surrounded by optimistic bright young things.
December 16, 2005
Currently making me chuckle to myself
Random, but hey:
"Housemates you are now live on Channel 4, please don't say fuck or bugger."
"Housemates you are now live on Channel 4, please don't say fuck or bugger."
How to break the news?
Benny wrote about the passing of our good friend Mr Duke. It's slowly sinking in for me. It really hit me when I bought a black tie for the funeral yesterday. I think it's slowly becoming more of a reality. I saw him last about a week before he died when I took a day off to do some Christmas shopping and called in at the pub on the way home. I took the economist along to read just in case no one was around. We sat and talked about the economy, the cricket, Christmas, cooking and all sorts. I'm going to miss him quite badly I think. But of all lives, his is one where the supreme memory should be one of celebration rather than mourning. This was a man who - and Benny put it perfectly - had truly lived his life.
Now, I found out he was dead before Benny did. It fell to me to tell Benny the news.
I agonised about how to tell him; really agonised. Never had to do it before. Do you start with ambiguous preparation: "I've got some bad news to tell you"? A broad hint "I've got some bad news about xxxxxxx"? Wimp out with an indirect reference "Were you very fond of xxxxxx?" or just get stuck in there and say "xxxxxxx is dead".
Does it even matter? I mean, the news is of such significance that perhaps the medium it's conveyed in is irrelevant?
Now, I found out he was dead before Benny did. It fell to me to tell Benny the news.
I agonised about how to tell him; really agonised. Never had to do it before. Do you start with ambiguous preparation: "I've got some bad news to tell you"? A broad hint "I've got some bad news about xxxxxxx"? Wimp out with an indirect reference "Were you very fond of xxxxxx?" or just get stuck in there and say "xxxxxxx is dead".
Does it even matter? I mean, the news is of such significance that perhaps the medium it's conveyed in is irrelevant?
King Kong's First Dump of the Day
The line "King Kong's First Dump of the Day" was, I believe, once used in the seminal work Red Dwarf. I can't recall the context, but presumably it was employed to describe something very large or very noxious or very both. Last night I went to see the King Kong the movie and, conveniently for purposes of my opening gambit, the film itself is also both rather large and rather smelly. We went to the 9 o'clock show and got out of the cinema at half past midnight.
It's about one hour and one act too long. The effects were absolutely incredible. I thought I was immune to eye candy but this stuff's jaw dropping. The performances were pretty good as well, but the story sucks. For a 12A it was a bit shocking. One guy has his head swallowed by a giant worm. I might get it out on DVD, but only to skip past the talking bits and enjoy the set pieces.
It's about one hour and one act too long. The effects were absolutely incredible. I thought I was immune to eye candy but this stuff's jaw dropping. The performances were pretty good as well, but the story sucks. For a 12A it was a bit shocking. One guy has his head swallowed by a giant worm. I might get it out on DVD, but only to skip past the talking bits and enjoy the set pieces.
New Object of Affections
You may have seen this lady in a recent Renault ad.
I certainly did.
Yummy.
Very expressive, great smile, lovely voice. And what eyes. Phone numbers and stalking injuctions to the usual address please.
Apparently she's in Alexander too. But that's not enough to make me want to rent it. Oh no.
I certainly did.
Yummy.
Very expressive, great smile, lovely voice. And what eyes. Phone numbers and stalking injuctions to the usual address please.
Apparently she's in Alexander too. But that's not enough to make me want to rent it. Oh no.
December 15, 2005
owwwwwwwww
my neck hurts.
perhaps i should not have fallen asleep on the sofa...i was lulled to sleep by a nice warm fire, see, which went out (as fires do...) and thence left me a-shivvrin. the cat clawed me most viciously at about 5:40 am demanding food and i responded by roaring at her and flipping my legs - upon which she was sat - rather abrupwards uptly, thus kittenpulting her into the ceiling.
well, almost. there wasn't much in it. the way her eyes went from greedy petulance to bulging airborne terror was most amusing...
my neck still hurts...
today is our departmental christmas lunch. it is scheduled from 12:00 to 14:30, which is remarkably honest of them...i am having the salmon, eschewing the turkey & sprouts with the simple logic that if turket was actually nice, as a meat, then surely we'd eat it more than once a year?
i think beef to be the perfect christmas fodder - nice warm, nice cold, far more versatile than that dryest of birds and also you don't have to defrost the fucker in the bath, the price isn't outrageous and you actually enjoy eating it. how 'bout that!
anyway. i've just formed a wine cartel with neil at work. so prepare for comedy afternoon alcoblogs...
perhaps i should not have fallen asleep on the sofa...i was lulled to sleep by a nice warm fire, see, which went out (as fires do...) and thence left me a-shivvrin. the cat clawed me most viciously at about 5:40 am demanding food and i responded by roaring at her and flipping my legs - upon which she was sat - rather abrupwards uptly, thus kittenpulting her into the ceiling.
well, almost. there wasn't much in it. the way her eyes went from greedy petulance to bulging airborne terror was most amusing...
my neck still hurts...
today is our departmental christmas lunch. it is scheduled from 12:00 to 14:30, which is remarkably honest of them...i am having the salmon, eschewing the turkey & sprouts with the simple logic that if turket was actually nice, as a meat, then surely we'd eat it more than once a year?
i think beef to be the perfect christmas fodder - nice warm, nice cold, far more versatile than that dryest of birds and also you don't have to defrost the fucker in the bath, the price isn't outrageous and you actually enjoy eating it. how 'bout that!
anyway. i've just formed a wine cartel with neil at work. so prepare for comedy afternoon alcoblogs...
December 14, 2005
it must be Christmas...
...because i heard Fairytale of New York on the radio this morning for the first time :D
you scumbag
you maggot
you cheap lousy faggot
happy christmas my arse
i thank god it's our last
...fucking geeeeeeeeeeeeeeenius...
you scumbag
you maggot
you cheap lousy faggot
happy christmas my arse
i thank god it's our last
...fucking geeeeeeeeeeeeeeenius...
December 13, 2005
Man Wins Pie Dish
Who's this I find grinning back at me from the latest UCL alumni newsletter? Why, if it isn't our very own Ew4n, holding a shiny piece of kitchenware!
Dude, in all seriousness (and for the last time), well done!
Dude, in all seriousness (and for the last time), well done!
Mr Peter Duke
was an incredibly nice man. we got the news yesterday that he had died. before his time - a terrible accident when he was doing some tree surgery in his garden.
we were all really looking forwards to having him over for Christmas dinner. it was really set up to be a good one, you know?
it's traditional, when someone dies, to wax lyrical about how good a man they were, but such sugar-coating isn't neccessary with Peter, because he was a perfect gentleman. always had a smile, did that man. when you walked into a room and saw him there it'd be like winning the conversation-jackpot. he'd been places and he'd done things (i.e., head broker at lloyds insurance...) and it's not so much a sense of grief that's got me now so much as it's the dull ache of the waste of it all, when someone you think will be around forever suddenly isn't and the reason, the way he was taken seems so random as to be implausible.
am pretty worried about mum and fred. mum adored Peter and fred had known him for years. they both seemed pretty numb about it last night and i can't help but feel there's more pain coming their way when they get the time to think about it. that cheque's in the post.
a good thing has gone and it's not coming back.
we were all really looking forwards to having him over for Christmas dinner. it was really set up to be a good one, you know?
it's traditional, when someone dies, to wax lyrical about how good a man they were, but such sugar-coating isn't neccessary with Peter, because he was a perfect gentleman. always had a smile, did that man. when you walked into a room and saw him there it'd be like winning the conversation-jackpot. he'd been places and he'd done things (i.e., head broker at lloyds insurance...) and it's not so much a sense of grief that's got me now so much as it's the dull ache of the waste of it all, when someone you think will be around forever suddenly isn't and the reason, the way he was taken seems so random as to be implausible.
am pretty worried about mum and fred. mum adored Peter and fred had known him for years. they both seemed pretty numb about it last night and i can't help but feel there's more pain coming their way when they get the time to think about it. that cheque's in the post.
a good thing has gone and it's not coming back.
December 12, 2005
the worst thing about Space Cadets is...
...that there isn't actually any chance of the shuttle exploding upon launch immolating them all into gargling, ashy instadeath which is surely what they deserve, what with them being such a bunch of utterly, comprehensively useless motherfuckers.
HONESTLY!
i hope they are all destroyed, mentally, when the rug is pulled out from under them. they deserve it, such fecultent wastes of skin that they are, such shell-like, empty, thoughtless beings. such grasping, vain, stupid, unilluminated little insects.
it just goes to show that imagination = personality.
anyway.
i'm wondering how they'll actually go about revealing that it was all a trick - if i was in charge, i'd fake an alien encounter in space; a luminous 1950s flying saucer wobbling past the shuttle cockpit, on a bit of fucking fishing-wire...see if you can catch a cretin...
HONESTLY!
i hope they are all destroyed, mentally, when the rug is pulled out from under them. they deserve it, such fecultent wastes of skin that they are, such shell-like, empty, thoughtless beings. such grasping, vain, stupid, unilluminated little insects.
it just goes to show that imagination = personality.
anyway.
i'm wondering how they'll actually go about revealing that it was all a trick - if i was in charge, i'd fake an alien encounter in space; a luminous 1950s flying saucer wobbling past the shuttle cockpit, on a bit of fucking fishing-wire...see if you can catch a cretin...
respect the email-swear-filters of others!
-----Original Message-----
From: Rob [mailto:rob@yahoo.co.uk]
Sent: 07 December 2005 15:14
To: Jim
Subject: hi
Hey Jim.
How are you? Ed's just given me your email address. Can't really write much now because I've got shitloads to do today, but do drop me a line and tell me how you're doing. Will you be in Winch over the New Year? Hope so. It's been over a year for fuck's sake.
Rob
-----Original Message-----
From: Jim [mailto:jim@hants.gov.uk]
Sent: 07 December 2005 16:45
To: Rob
Subject: RE: hi
Hi Rob,
Will answer properly when I have 5 mins.... good 2 hear from u man!
ps, pls do not swear in your emails!!!!!!
-----Original Message-----
From: Rob [mailto:rob@yahoo.co.uk]
Sent: 07 December 2005 18:40
To: Jim
Subject: RE: hi
Dear Mr Edminstoke,
First, may I apologise most sincerely and profusely for the ill-mannered language in my last electonic epistle. I should have known that as I was writing to you at your place of paid occupation and I should have moderated my uncouth vocabulary.
Although I seek not to excuse my rough ways, I hope I may be allowed to elucidate the reasons for them. I was brought up, as you know, on a West Country farm, a fairly "rough and tumble" place to grow up, as you might imagine. My mother tried to shield me from the coarse farm labourers, with their horny hands, rippling muscles and colourful language, but this only added to the mystique of these sons of toil. Many were the nights when I crept from my bedroom window, tip-toeing to the big barn to watch these men drinking, gambling and carousing into the small hours. I was entranced by these strange creatures - barely human, they seemed to me in the half-light, like some sort of hairy mythical beast - and my mother's obvious disapproval of them only added to the frissant of danger I felt whenever I was near them.
When my mother caught me one night, crouched at the spyhole in the side of the barn, panting like a knackered horse, she seized me by the hair and dragged me back to the house. On finding the cane split, and the slippers missing, she beat me unconscious with grandpapa's old service revolver. The next day she packed me off to boarding school.
St Cuthbert's School for Small Pale Boys was, I admit, an education, and not a very nice one at that. I had the misfortune to be allocated to the house of the Catholic chaplin, Paddy O'Phile, who took an instant dislike to me. While he treated all the other boys with such tenderness - tousling their hair, enveloping them in manly hugs and the like - I was scorned, sneered at because of my lowly background. Crying myself to sleep every night, I counted the days until the end of term, and the beginning of the summer holidays.
Ah, the summer holidays! How my heart leapt on leaving St Cuthbert's, my soul singing to the rhthym of the rails as the train trundled down the track, heading homeward! My summer of fishing in limpid pools, boating and shooting, making dens and torturing small woodland animals with my hacksaw and magnifying glass was about to begin! But there was another reason for my gay humour - soon, soon I would be near the objects of my fascination.
But my mother had other ideas. Immediately upon my return, she warned me that if she caught me down by the big barn again, she would tie Bonzo, my faithful Border Collie, in a sack with a couple of bricks and throw him in the mill pond. I loved my Bonzo more than anything so, with a heart heavy with sorrow, I resigned myself to a lonely summer.
And so it proved to be. Until, that is, one special day, early in September, when the corn was just beginning to brown and the hedgerows hummed with insect life. I was fishing in my favourite secluded spot, idly dozing, when all of a sudden I heard a twig snap close by. I thought nothing of it and continued to drowse - continued, that is, until I was roughly awakened by two giant hands, picking me up in a vice-like grip. I uttered a choking scream, struggling impotently to try to shake from out this crushing grasp. And then, my lungs exhausted, I began to see what man or beast had trapped me. I gasped - it was one of the farm labourers, Silas Otway, a mountain of a man, ten foot high and eight across (or so it seemed to me). I had often seen him swinging the axe, hefting a barrel or killing a goat, and I had marvelled at his brute strength. Now, I looked into his eyes, and I will never forget the gleam in them....they burned with love.
That long, drowsy summer afternoon, Silas taught me many things. He surprised me with his patience, his knowledge, he surprised me with his willingness to teach and with Sam, his pet snake. He taught me many words, and tested me on them again and again to make sure that I had them right. Whenever I slipped up, he helped me to memorise them again by making me act out the meaning in considerable detail. He was a coarse man, and used coarse words for the acts of love - that was his nature. He is the reason why I use language that the rest of the world deems foul - yet to me, reminding me as it does of Silas, it sounds like the sweetest symphony.
Silas died in a bizarre threshing accident later that year. Before his tragic end, we managed to meet again a few more times, but oh! never enough for me. Farewell, sturdy Silas - I shall never again hear the words *****, *****, *****-********** or **** without thinking of you!
So there it is, Mr Edminstoke, my sad story is at an end. I seek not sympathy but understanding for my vulgar ways. Forgive me, dear friend, forgive me. I have suffered too much loss already without losing you.
With my very deepest and most sincere best wishes,
I am, sir,
Robert A. Thrumpingston
From: Rob [mailto:rob@yahoo.co.uk]
Sent: 07 December 2005 15:14
To: Jim
Subject: hi
Hey Jim.
How are you? Ed's just given me your email address. Can't really write much now because I've got shitloads to do today, but do drop me a line and tell me how you're doing. Will you be in Winch over the New Year? Hope so. It's been over a year for fuck's sake.
Rob
-----Original Message-----
From: Jim [mailto:jim@hants.gov.uk]
Sent: 07 December 2005 16:45
To: Rob
Subject: RE: hi
Hi Rob,
Will answer properly when I have 5 mins.... good 2 hear from u man!
ps, pls do not swear in your emails!!!!!!
-----Original Message-----
From: Rob [mailto:rob@yahoo.co.uk]
Sent: 07 December 2005 18:40
To: Jim
Subject: RE: hi
Dear Mr Edminstoke,
First, may I apologise most sincerely and profusely for the ill-mannered language in my last electonic epistle. I should have known that as I was writing to you at your place of paid occupation and I should have moderated my uncouth vocabulary.
Although I seek not to excuse my rough ways, I hope I may be allowed to elucidate the reasons for them. I was brought up, as you know, on a West Country farm, a fairly "rough and tumble" place to grow up, as you might imagine. My mother tried to shield me from the coarse farm labourers, with their horny hands, rippling muscles and colourful language, but this only added to the mystique of these sons of toil. Many were the nights when I crept from my bedroom window, tip-toeing to the big barn to watch these men drinking, gambling and carousing into the small hours. I was entranced by these strange creatures - barely human, they seemed to me in the half-light, like some sort of hairy mythical beast - and my mother's obvious disapproval of them only added to the frissant of danger I felt whenever I was near them.
When my mother caught me one night, crouched at the spyhole in the side of the barn, panting like a knackered horse, she seized me by the hair and dragged me back to the house. On finding the cane split, and the slippers missing, she beat me unconscious with grandpapa's old service revolver. The next day she packed me off to boarding school.
St Cuthbert's School for Small Pale Boys was, I admit, an education, and not a very nice one at that. I had the misfortune to be allocated to the house of the Catholic chaplin, Paddy O'Phile, who took an instant dislike to me. While he treated all the other boys with such tenderness - tousling their hair, enveloping them in manly hugs and the like - I was scorned, sneered at because of my lowly background. Crying myself to sleep every night, I counted the days until the end of term, and the beginning of the summer holidays.
Ah, the summer holidays! How my heart leapt on leaving St Cuthbert's, my soul singing to the rhthym of the rails as the train trundled down the track, heading homeward! My summer of fishing in limpid pools, boating and shooting, making dens and torturing small woodland animals with my hacksaw and magnifying glass was about to begin! But there was another reason for my gay humour - soon, soon I would be near the objects of my fascination.
But my mother had other ideas. Immediately upon my return, she warned me that if she caught me down by the big barn again, she would tie Bonzo, my faithful Border Collie, in a sack with a couple of bricks and throw him in the mill pond. I loved my Bonzo more than anything so, with a heart heavy with sorrow, I resigned myself to a lonely summer.
And so it proved to be. Until, that is, one special day, early in September, when the corn was just beginning to brown and the hedgerows hummed with insect life. I was fishing in my favourite secluded spot, idly dozing, when all of a sudden I heard a twig snap close by. I thought nothing of it and continued to drowse - continued, that is, until I was roughly awakened by two giant hands, picking me up in a vice-like grip. I uttered a choking scream, struggling impotently to try to shake from out this crushing grasp. And then, my lungs exhausted, I began to see what man or beast had trapped me. I gasped - it was one of the farm labourers, Silas Otway, a mountain of a man, ten foot high and eight across (or so it seemed to me). I had often seen him swinging the axe, hefting a barrel or killing a goat, and I had marvelled at his brute strength. Now, I looked into his eyes, and I will never forget the gleam in them....they burned with love.
That long, drowsy summer afternoon, Silas taught me many things. He surprised me with his patience, his knowledge, he surprised me with his willingness to teach and with Sam, his pet snake. He taught me many words, and tested me on them again and again to make sure that I had them right. Whenever I slipped up, he helped me to memorise them again by making me act out the meaning in considerable detail. He was a coarse man, and used coarse words for the acts of love - that was his nature. He is the reason why I use language that the rest of the world deems foul - yet to me, reminding me as it does of Silas, it sounds like the sweetest symphony.
Silas died in a bizarre threshing accident later that year. Before his tragic end, we managed to meet again a few more times, but oh! never enough for me. Farewell, sturdy Silas - I shall never again hear the words *****, *****, *****-********** or **** without thinking of you!
So there it is, Mr Edminstoke, my sad story is at an end. I seek not sympathy but understanding for my vulgar ways. Forgive me, dear friend, forgive me. I have suffered too much loss already without losing you.
With my very deepest and most sincere best wishes,
I am, sir,
Robert A. Thrumpingston
kerPOW!
blimey.
60 million gallons of fuel. enough petrol to get my little Ka to alpha centuri! sheeeesh...
interesting how rapidly they ruled out "anything other than an accident". from the second the story broke the official line was in place with no room for misinterpretation or wiggly speculations - so either one of the survivors babbled instantly about having a sly cigarette in the wrong place orrrr they knew from the off that Dark and Evil Forces were Afoot.
i am struck by the similarity between these events and bits of both Red Storm Rising, Flood and, especially, The Stand. where is trashcan-man when you need him...
pretty...so pretty...
wonder how nervous the boys down Fawley Oil Refinery are...
December 09, 2005
do the shake and crap/and put the freshness back...
i drive about 14 miles to work every day, through the rolling backroads of this glorious county. unfortunately, where i live is not an urban area (or even an urbane area) and as such these twisty, seculuded, secret tunnels of tarmac are about as likely to encounter a road-gritter as Gary Glitter is to worry about buying a 2006/7 diary.
this is bad news at this time of year, because things have a tendency to get mildly slippery. ice is evvvvverywhere, though today it came within an ace of me having a ghastly accident. i live one side of the meon valley, and winchester is on the other side - therefore i have to cross a bridge; the bridge is at the bottom of the valley, only a tiny wee thing, but the valley sides go down very, very sharply and then up very, very sharply - uncommonly heavy traffic (five cars? awh, man, eets tothal greedlock!) plus ice = trauma.
the big transit van in front of me jammed on its brakes and promptly fishtailed out into the road, accompanied by that wonderful sound of sliding rubber and crunching gravel. i'm about eight or nine meters behind it, trundling down the hill in 2nd, already cagey because i've driven in ice, along these roads, long enough to know that it's better to be very safe rather than very sorry. so i apply my brakes too, and nothing happens. not a sausage, apart from a gentle skid forwards. i stop applying them and then apply them again, gentler, and skid again (five meters). i stop applying them and then apply them with a touch so gentle that it wouldn't even make a botty-virgin wince and skid again (three meters). and then i just pump them rabidly and yank the handbrake up like an ejector-seat lever, fishtail a touch myself and - bless'ed be - stop.
and it's a good job i did fishtail, because had i not yawed a touch to the left i would've rear-ended the tranny. it was that close.
aaaaaaaanyway. there's that brief moment of utter stillness & silence which accompanies any near-miss as you check that a., you're OK and b., your car's OK and c., that there isn't a policeman marching up to the side-door ready to rap smartly on your window with a truncheon and a pithy comment.
so anyway, we all regain our de-railed composure and trundle up the hill. although the hill start at the top is slightly difficult because my left leg is shaking rather badly. how about that! i've never had that level of fright before, that level of scare that bits of me start shaking. i couldn't control it, it was *very* strange - i thought that getting the shakes must denote a lack of grip, a lack of moral fibre, a lack of sufficient stiff-upper-lipness but lo and behold, the body does it all by itself!
how perculiar.
anyway. i'm now increasing me icey tailgating-distance to 8.5 meters so nothing like that will ever happen again.
ha!
this is bad news at this time of year, because things have a tendency to get mildly slippery. ice is evvvvverywhere, though today it came within an ace of me having a ghastly accident. i live one side of the meon valley, and winchester is on the other side - therefore i have to cross a bridge; the bridge is at the bottom of the valley, only a tiny wee thing, but the valley sides go down very, very sharply and then up very, very sharply - uncommonly heavy traffic (five cars? awh, man, eets tothal greedlock!) plus ice = trauma.
the big transit van in front of me jammed on its brakes and promptly fishtailed out into the road, accompanied by that wonderful sound of sliding rubber and crunching gravel. i'm about eight or nine meters behind it, trundling down the hill in 2nd, already cagey because i've driven in ice, along these roads, long enough to know that it's better to be very safe rather than very sorry. so i apply my brakes too, and nothing happens. not a sausage, apart from a gentle skid forwards. i stop applying them and then apply them again, gentler, and skid again (five meters). i stop applying them and then apply them with a touch so gentle that it wouldn't even make a botty-virgin wince and skid again (three meters). and then i just pump them rabidly and yank the handbrake up like an ejector-seat lever, fishtail a touch myself and - bless'ed be - stop.
and it's a good job i did fishtail, because had i not yawed a touch to the left i would've rear-ended the tranny. it was that close.
aaaaaaaanyway. there's that brief moment of utter stillness & silence which accompanies any near-miss as you check that a., you're OK and b., your car's OK and c., that there isn't a policeman marching up to the side-door ready to rap smartly on your window with a truncheon and a pithy comment.
so anyway, we all regain our de-railed composure and trundle up the hill. although the hill start at the top is slightly difficult because my left leg is shaking rather badly. how about that! i've never had that level of fright before, that level of scare that bits of me start shaking. i couldn't control it, it was *very* strange - i thought that getting the shakes must denote a lack of grip, a lack of moral fibre, a lack of sufficient stiff-upper-lipness but lo and behold, the body does it all by itself!
how perculiar.
anyway. i'm now increasing me icey tailgating-distance to 8.5 meters so nothing like that will ever happen again.
ha!
December 08, 2005
naaaaaaaaaaaaaaasty
i just had my hair cut by fattest woman ever. honestly, she looked like Veruca Salt in Chocolate and the Charlie Factory. like a small moon with arms & legs.
anyway, her bingo-wings flapping at eye-level were bad enough but the feel of her cold, hard paunch slow-mo-airbag-bumping into my shoulder like icecubes butting together in a drink? fucking horrible.
when someone who's dangerously, anti-socially drunk asks for another drink in a pub, the barman'll go "I'm sorry, sir, but I think you've had enough". so why don't they do that with pork-pies?
anyway, her bingo-wings flapping at eye-level were bad enough but the feel of her cold, hard paunch slow-mo-airbag-bumping into my shoulder like icecubes butting together in a drink? fucking horrible.
when someone who's dangerously, anti-socially drunk asks for another drink in a pub, the barman'll go "I'm sorry, sir, but I think you've had enough". so why don't they do that with pork-pies?
December 07, 2005
how 'bout dat
the graudinard does a fantastic little section - and has done for years now - called notes and queries where readers send in questions and other readers answer them. the questions are often odd ("how are maltesers made?") or just plain random ("what good is a fez?").
in today's guardian someone asked "if i ran on electricity instead of food, how many AA batteries would i have to put in my back?" to which someone answered with the following:
an adult at rest requires, to keep respirating/metabolizing etc., the equivilant of 100 watts of power an hour, which equates to 2.4 kilowatts a day.
however, humans aren't at rest all the time, and moving around, exercise, that sort of thing, and that all raises this total to between 3 and 4 kilowatts a day.
now, one AA battery can kick out 800 milliamp hours, which at 1.2 volts is one watt hour. so to keep going for 24 hours i'd need 3000 or 4000 AA batteries.
three thousand!!!
madddddness. i had no idea the human body was so...efficient...
in today's guardian someone asked "if i ran on electricity instead of food, how many AA batteries would i have to put in my back?" to which someone answered with the following:
an adult at rest requires, to keep respirating/metabolizing etc., the equivilant of 100 watts of power an hour, which equates to 2.4 kilowatts a day.
however, humans aren't at rest all the time, and moving around, exercise, that sort of thing, and that all raises this total to between 3 and 4 kilowatts a day.
now, one AA battery can kick out 800 milliamp hours, which at 1.2 volts is one watt hour. so to keep going for 24 hours i'd need 3000 or 4000 AA batteries.
three thousand!!!
madddddness. i had no idea the human body was so...efficient...
December 06, 2005
i am a GOLDEN GOD!
base problem: house is very cold
specific problem: house is very cold because (due to the age of the place) there is no insulation in the walls or roof, the boiler & radiators aren't up to the job of heating an area this size and the vast number of windows - which let the vista of the beautiful farmland in in the summer - leach all of the heat out quicker than dracula suckling down on a gerbil. hence i freeze. and the cat freezes. and i'm buried in a layer of shawls like a hypothermic spinster.
base solution: burn stuff to keep warm
but disaster! shit build of house includes stupidly large inglenook fireplace which is fundamentally flawed; the grate, hearth & chimney structure combine to form a vast hoover that inhales all the heat straight up and spunks it out of the roof, whence it is no good to nobody. so it's a great fire to look at - very pretty, but the amount of heat it radiates isn't enough to warm the place. shawls still needed, in other words. all fur knickers and no coat.
thus! brianwave.
i have wrapped the headstone-sized bit of black metal immediately to the rear in, get this, tinfoil. stretched taunt, it's now serving as a reflector, bouncing out (small blog break whilst i gaze at the fuckwit going to absolute pieces on Dragons Den. ha ha!! pretending that advertising on courier bikes is worthy? balls. i wonder just how far out of shot the security-guards are...) the energy from the fire horizontally instead of vertically.
now i guess that the heat-output is - conservatively - about 150% or 200% greater. how 'bout that. i now have the cat, the ka, the laptop, my shoes, the roof of the house, the bird-bath* and my head wrapped in this magic substance. it's lovely and warm. and no CIA mind-control!
it goes stone-age, iron-age, space-age, information-age, and now the mighty tin-age!
GET in...
*mental note - must stop widdling in this whilst drunk
specific problem: house is very cold because (due to the age of the place) there is no insulation in the walls or roof, the boiler & radiators aren't up to the job of heating an area this size and the vast number of windows - which let the vista of the beautiful farmland in in the summer - leach all of the heat out quicker than dracula suckling down on a gerbil. hence i freeze. and the cat freezes. and i'm buried in a layer of shawls like a hypothermic spinster.
base solution: burn stuff to keep warm
but disaster! shit build of house includes stupidly large inglenook fireplace which is fundamentally flawed; the grate, hearth & chimney structure combine to form a vast hoover that inhales all the heat straight up and spunks it out of the roof, whence it is no good to nobody. so it's a great fire to look at - very pretty, but the amount of heat it radiates isn't enough to warm the place. shawls still needed, in other words. all fur knickers and no coat.
thus! brianwave.
i have wrapped the headstone-sized bit of black metal immediately to the rear in, get this, tinfoil. stretched taunt, it's now serving as a reflector, bouncing out (small blog break whilst i gaze at the fuckwit going to absolute pieces on Dragons Den. ha ha!! pretending that advertising on courier bikes is worthy? balls. i wonder just how far out of shot the security-guards are...) the energy from the fire horizontally instead of vertically.
now i guess that the heat-output is - conservatively - about 150% or 200% greater. how 'bout that. i now have the cat, the ka, the laptop, my shoes, the roof of the house, the bird-bath* and my head wrapped in this magic substance. it's lovely and warm. and no CIA mind-control!
it goes stone-age, iron-age, space-age, information-age, and now the mighty tin-age!
GET in...
*mental note - must stop widdling in this whilst drunk
bulging sacks of joy
oh, the joys of Hampshire County Council's internal classified-ad system...
==================================
Wanted: Male and Female Anatomically Correct Dolls
Am wanting to buy 2 anatomically correct dolls in good condition (they used to be sold in a set as twins, one boy one girl) if you do not have the twins single dolls will do.
Please contact Peewee Hermann Goering*
==================================
*names have been changed to protect the guilty
yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh...hope she's not my secrete santa...
it's this line: "if you do not have the twins single dolls will do" that intruiges me - what if she ends up with two dolls of the same gender?
...when mummy and mummy love each other very much they do a special hug...
==================================
Wanted: Male and Female Anatomically Correct Dolls
Am wanting to buy 2 anatomically correct dolls in good condition (they used to be sold in a set as twins, one boy one girl) if you do not have the twins single dolls will do.
Please contact Peewee Hermann Goering*
==================================
*names have been changed to protect the guilty
yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh...hope she's not my secrete santa...
it's this line: "if you do not have the twins single dolls will do" that intruiges me - what if she ends up with two dolls of the same gender?
...when mummy and mummy love each other very much they do a special hug...
when the going gets tough...
...the weaklings like me berate themselves for not going round in a fucking land-rover...
behold! (type 1491 in the race number box) behold the power and glory of the natural athlete! this adonis amongst men!
see his grace! see his easy, lazy abilité! his supernatural stamina! how it all looks as if no effort is being expended!
how he's really glad to be there!
i washed my kit from the race last night, and fuck me sideways did i bring a lot of mud home with me. i had to wash my trainers three times before the runoff changed from brown to vaguely clear...they're now sat on the aga, steaming gently and confusing the cat, who is wondering why her nose is telling her that there's an incontinent sheep in the kitchen.
ah well.
those last two photos were right at the very end. who'd've thought it...i wasn't actually conscious at that point, i was in a little shock-concussed bubble, hallucinating about bacon-sandwiches and swimming in a warm lake of hot, sweet tea...
behold! (type 1491 in the race number box) behold the power and glory of the natural athlete! this adonis amongst men!
see his grace! see his easy, lazy abilité! his supernatural stamina! how it all looks as if no effort is being expended!
how he's really glad to be there!
i washed my kit from the race last night, and fuck me sideways did i bring a lot of mud home with me. i had to wash my trainers three times before the runoff changed from brown to vaguely clear...they're now sat on the aga, steaming gently and confusing the cat, who is wondering why her nose is telling her that there's an incontinent sheep in the kitchen.
ah well.
those last two photos were right at the very end. who'd've thought it...i wasn't actually conscious at that point, i was in a little shock-concussed bubble, hallucinating about bacon-sandwiches and swimming in a warm lake of hot, sweet tea...
December 05, 2005
today, in the office...
...i have mostly been singing along to Sweden, by the Divine Comedy.
ahem.
I would like to live in Sweden
When my work is done
Where the snow lies crisp and even
'Neath the midnight sun
Safe and clean and green and modern
Bright and breezy, free and easy
Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, in Sweden
I am gonna live in Sweden
Please don't ask me why
For if I were to give a reason
It would be a lie
Tall and strong and blonde and blue eyed
Pure and healthy, very wealthy
Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, in Sweden
I'll grow wings and fly to Sweden
When my time is come
Then at last my eyes shall see them
Heroes every one
Ingmar Bergman
Henrik Ibsen
Karin Larsson
Nina Persson
Sweden, Sweden,Sweden
In Sweden
i've always wanted to go to Sweden - some destructive urge to gay-up their otherwise perfect gene pool, probably...
ahem.
I would like to live in Sweden
When my work is done
Where the snow lies crisp and even
'Neath the midnight sun
Safe and clean and green and modern
Bright and breezy, free and easy
Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, in Sweden
I am gonna live in Sweden
Please don't ask me why
For if I were to give a reason
It would be a lie
Tall and strong and blonde and blue eyed
Pure and healthy, very wealthy
Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, in Sweden
I'll grow wings and fly to Sweden
When my time is come
Then at last my eyes shall see them
Heroes every one
Ingmar Bergman
Henrik Ibsen
Karin Larsson
Nina Persson
Sweden, Sweden,Sweden
In Sweden
i've always wanted to go to Sweden - some destructive urge to gay-up their otherwise perfect gene pool, probably...
an ordeal. an or-motherfucking-deal.
yesterday, between the hours of 10:30 and 11:54am, i was in a vast amount of pain. horrid chills & shocks wracked my body like a typhus victim. my joints cracked. my temperature rocketed. my breathing was ragged & laboured - i gasped for air but could never get enough.
my heart hammered against my ribs, so fast i thought that i may die.
and they say running is good for you...?
jesus.
anyway! yesterday morning i did the grim challenge, which is a race up in the sprawing armyscape of aldershot. i think it started as a sadomasochistic army cross-country run, then got commercial. what is it about the military and painful rituals? tsk. given the choice i'd rather have wrestled on camera with fifty naked royal marines* but that was not to be. so into purgatory i went. you may have seen part of the route yourself, actually - in the Bond film Die Another Day they filmed the korean hovercraft chase there. aaaaaaanyway...
physically, with the possible exception of being born, it was the toughest 84 minutes of my life. it was just so permanently demanding; i knew the terrain was going to be rough but i really didn't expect it to be quite so three-dimensional. i knew it was going to be muddy but i didn't know it was going to be like running on oil for eight miles. i knew we'd have to run through the occasional puddle but i didn't expect us to have to wade through five or six fucking canals.
an awful lot of fun though. apart from the bits when i nearly died. these potentiotermnial events occured pretty regularly, but the highlights must've included skiing on mud down the side of a hill, lunging across a ravine and - my personal favourite - not being able to see how deep a puddle was and suddenly going from ankle-deep to nipple-deep, and then someone deciding then was a good moment to use me as a supporting post and then my left hamstring deciding to throw its toys out of the pram and cramp most painfully. god only knows how i made it out of that murder-hole alive; i suspect my 2,499 fellow competitiors would happily have left me there to drown just so long as they could use my body as an ad hoc bridge...
i mean, it was only eight miles but it felt like at least twice that - it's the concentration. running along a nice predictable road you can just switch off, mentally; get into your rhythm and before you know it you've arrived. however - no dice this time. you're constantly on a knife-edge tactically, as to where to put your feet. quite apart from the rocks, hidden dips and tree-trunks (and the madly flailing feet of your fellow masochists) the range is, predictably, also liberally sown with the detritus of a thousand dying land-rovers. it's where the army teach its soldiers to drive 4x4 vehicles, see, which is why it's such a mishmash of challenging terrain - it's been specifically engineered to be a mothefucker to get round. and so the risk of stepping on one of the rusty bits of ripped-off chassis added the soucon of tetanus-landmine terror to the event.
which was nice.
aaaaaaaaaanyway. my legs hurt. or at least they will hurt when they regain their ability to feel anything - for some reason, dunking them repeatedly in december-cold water whilst running up the side of fucking muddy fucking mountains as fast as i could doesn't seem to have done much for my naturally lithe & graceful locomotion...
oh well. you live and learn.
stand by for comedy photos :P
*but what else is new...
my heart hammered against my ribs, so fast i thought that i may die.
and they say running is good for you...?
jesus.
anyway! yesterday morning i did the grim challenge, which is a race up in the sprawing armyscape of aldershot. i think it started as a sadomasochistic army cross-country run, then got commercial. what is it about the military and painful rituals? tsk. given the choice i'd rather have wrestled on camera with fifty naked royal marines* but that was not to be. so into purgatory i went. you may have seen part of the route yourself, actually - in the Bond film Die Another Day they filmed the korean hovercraft chase there. aaaaaaanyway...
physically, with the possible exception of being born, it was the toughest 84 minutes of my life. it was just so permanently demanding; i knew the terrain was going to be rough but i really didn't expect it to be quite so three-dimensional. i knew it was going to be muddy but i didn't know it was going to be like running on oil for eight miles. i knew we'd have to run through the occasional puddle but i didn't expect us to have to wade through five or six fucking canals.
an awful lot of fun though. apart from the bits when i nearly died. these potentiotermnial events occured pretty regularly, but the highlights must've included skiing on mud down the side of a hill, lunging across a ravine and - my personal favourite - not being able to see how deep a puddle was and suddenly going from ankle-deep to nipple-deep, and then someone deciding then was a good moment to use me as a supporting post and then my left hamstring deciding to throw its toys out of the pram and cramp most painfully. god only knows how i made it out of that murder-hole alive; i suspect my 2,499 fellow competitiors would happily have left me there to drown just so long as they could use my body as an ad hoc bridge...
i mean, it was only eight miles but it felt like at least twice that - it's the concentration. running along a nice predictable road you can just switch off, mentally; get into your rhythm and before you know it you've arrived. however - no dice this time. you're constantly on a knife-edge tactically, as to where to put your feet. quite apart from the rocks, hidden dips and tree-trunks (and the madly flailing feet of your fellow masochists) the range is, predictably, also liberally sown with the detritus of a thousand dying land-rovers. it's where the army teach its soldiers to drive 4x4 vehicles, see, which is why it's such a mishmash of challenging terrain - it's been specifically engineered to be a mothefucker to get round. and so the risk of stepping on one of the rusty bits of ripped-off chassis added the soucon of tetanus-landmine terror to the event.
which was nice.
aaaaaaaaaanyway. my legs hurt. or at least they will hurt when they regain their ability to feel anything - for some reason, dunking them repeatedly in december-cold water whilst running up the side of fucking muddy fucking mountains as fast as i could doesn't seem to have done much for my naturally lithe & graceful locomotion...
oh well. you live and learn.
stand by for comedy photos :P
*but what else is new...
December 01, 2005
hot tom sex
i think my brother has a girlfriend - because he didn't come home last night even though he knew there are juicy steaks in the fridge.
ergo, i think he has a strumpet in Basingstoke. or is perhaps being peeled off a road somewhere, or something, but i like my strumpet theory better...
there are no advent calendars left in Winchester :(
whilst we're on the theme of members of the Harvey family getting fucked, i was informed today that the team i am a member of (the greiviously overworked & overstretched Hire & Contacts team) is to be disbanded (due to sue [33% of our manpower] retiring) and me & neil are to be folded into the other parts of the HR family.
hmmm. i don't know what to make of this. quite frankly i think it's going to be a gangfuck. oh well. may you live in interesting times...
ergo, i think he has a strumpet in Basingstoke. or is perhaps being peeled off a road somewhere, or something, but i like my strumpet theory better...
there are no advent calendars left in Winchester :(
whilst we're on the theme of members of the Harvey family getting fucked, i was informed today that the team i am a member of (the greiviously overworked & overstretched Hire & Contacts team) is to be disbanded (due to sue [33% of our manpower] retiring) and me & neil are to be folded into the other parts of the HR family.
hmmm. i don't know what to make of this. quite frankly i think it's going to be a gangfuck. oh well. may you live in interesting times...
do not read whilst drinking liquid
Mr. T speaks only when necessary. His main form of communication is folding his arms and slowly shaking his head. And regardless of the situation, he is always understood.
There are only four horsemen of the apocalypse, because Mr. T is going to walk.
Mr. T invented fools. Realizing the magnitude of his folly, he then created Pity.
You have only seen Mr. T in human form. In Narnia, he is a T. Rex with a lion's tail hanging out of his mouth.
Mr. T's pity for fools is used by mathematicians as a demonstration of the concept of infinity.
Mr. T once rocked the Casbah. Which explains why there is no longer a Casbah.
Mr.T once punched Chuck Norris at the exact moment he roundhouse kicked Mr.T in the chest. the result was the 80's.
23. That's the number of people Mr. T has pitied in the time it has taken you to read this sentence.
Mr. T's edition of the VH1 show 'Where Are They Now' was the shortest in the show's history. It was 10 seconds long, and consisted of a black screen with the words "Right Behind You" written on it.
Mr. T is allergic to doorknobs. That's why he can only kick through doors.
In 1995, Mr. T was diagnosed with B-cell lymphoma but he pitied his own fool cells until the disease turned into T-cell lymphoma. Upon closer inspection by doctors, the cancerous T-cells now had mohawks, gold chains around their nucleus and were tired of the other cell's jibba-jabba.
Mr. T once pitied the sun. An ice age followed.
The last time Mr. T went to McDonald's, Ronald McDonald greeted him. What occurred next proved to be the most violent beating of a clown ever recorded in human history.
Behind every great man, there is a great woman. Behind that woman is Mr. T.
They say when a bear is chasing a group of people, you don't have to outrun the bear, but only have to be faster than the slowest person. If Mr. T is chasing you, you're dead no matter what.
Despite popular belief, if there is a fool in the woods, and nobody is around to hear his jibba jabba, Mr. T is still able to pity him.
Mr. T's sperm is so strong it could impregnate a man.
In 1989, Mr. T systematically killed every member of the band "MR. MISTER" for stealing his first name.
Mr. T's incredible greatness has been attributed to the fact that his genetic code doesn't have any A, G, or C. His genetic code is in fact, nothing but T's.
On all 3428 instances it occurred, when Mr. T and Chuck Norris both 'deflower' the same woman, the resulting spermal battles have caused the woman's uterus to explode in a flurry of pity and roundhouse kicks.
Mr. T is not black. It's just that the sun is to afraid to shine on him.
Sticks and stones may break your bones but Mr T. will also crush your internal organs.
Before Mr. T, the alphabet only had 25 letters.
It took five women 2 years to give birth to Mr. T.
Why does Mr. T wear still have his mohawk? Cause his reflection pities the fool who don't!
Mr. T doesn't feel pain; pain feels Mr. T
Every time Mr. T pities the fool, a pornstar regains her virginity. Then proceeds to lose it to Mr. T.
Mr. T was originally cast to play Arnold Jackson on Diff'rent Strokes. Unfortunately every time he said, "whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?" Willis shit himself.
Mr. T was fired from the Psychic Friends Network for always predicting pain.
There are only four horsemen of the apocalypse, because Mr. T is going to walk.
Mr. T invented fools. Realizing the magnitude of his folly, he then created Pity.
You have only seen Mr. T in human form. In Narnia, he is a T. Rex with a lion's tail hanging out of his mouth.
Mr. T's pity for fools is used by mathematicians as a demonstration of the concept of infinity.
Mr. T once rocked the Casbah. Which explains why there is no longer a Casbah.
Mr.T once punched Chuck Norris at the exact moment he roundhouse kicked Mr.T in the chest. the result was the 80's.
23. That's the number of people Mr. T has pitied in the time it has taken you to read this sentence.
Mr. T's edition of the VH1 show 'Where Are They Now' was the shortest in the show's history. It was 10 seconds long, and consisted of a black screen with the words "Right Behind You" written on it.
Mr. T is allergic to doorknobs. That's why he can only kick through doors.
In 1995, Mr. T was diagnosed with B-cell lymphoma but he pitied his own fool cells until the disease turned into T-cell lymphoma. Upon closer inspection by doctors, the cancerous T-cells now had mohawks, gold chains around their nucleus and were tired of the other cell's jibba-jabba.
Mr. T once pitied the sun. An ice age followed.
The last time Mr. T went to McDonald's, Ronald McDonald greeted him. What occurred next proved to be the most violent beating of a clown ever recorded in human history.
Behind every great man, there is a great woman. Behind that woman is Mr. T.
They say when a bear is chasing a group of people, you don't have to outrun the bear, but only have to be faster than the slowest person. If Mr. T is chasing you, you're dead no matter what.
Despite popular belief, if there is a fool in the woods, and nobody is around to hear his jibba jabba, Mr. T is still able to pity him.
Mr. T's sperm is so strong it could impregnate a man.
In 1989, Mr. T systematically killed every member of the band "MR. MISTER" for stealing his first name.
Mr. T's incredible greatness has been attributed to the fact that his genetic code doesn't have any A, G, or C. His genetic code is in fact, nothing but T's.
On all 3428 instances it occurred, when Mr. T and Chuck Norris both 'deflower' the same woman, the resulting spermal battles have caused the woman's uterus to explode in a flurry of pity and roundhouse kicks.
Mr. T is not black. It's just that the sun is to afraid to shine on him.
Sticks and stones may break your bones but Mr T. will also crush your internal organs.
Before Mr. T, the alphabet only had 25 letters.
It took five women 2 years to give birth to Mr. T.
Why does Mr. T wear still have his mohawk? Cause his reflection pities the fool who don't!
Mr. T doesn't feel pain; pain feels Mr. T
Every time Mr. T pities the fool, a pornstar regains her virginity. Then proceeds to lose it to Mr. T.
Mr. T was originally cast to play Arnold Jackson on Diff'rent Strokes. Unfortunately every time he said, "whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?" Willis shit himself.
Mr. T was fired from the Psychic Friends Network for always predicting pain.
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