Guys and Gals,
It took 12 hours, 18 minutes and 31 seconds (if you're interested it was 1:02:35 for the swim, 6:29:26 for the bike and finally 4:31:27 for the marathon from hell).
The weather was atrocious and the Pros were posting times 20 minutes slower than normal. It was extremely windy, churning up the lake in one direction so I kept swallowing water (this must have kept me hydrated - every cloud....??). The swim course was very long and narrow, which had the psychological effect of making it look a very long way. And the very real physical effect of channelling 1600+ swimmers into a narrow space resulted in the entire first lap (about 30 minutes) spent being kicked, punched and swum over. Is the correct past tense swum?, it always sounds funny to me.
Anyway the winds meant the energy was sapped out of my legs by about 90 miles round the bike and the magic healing power of pepsi cola had to carry me the last 22 miles of the bike course. Oh yeah did I mention the course was hilly? The bike course was hilly. The course seemed to me to be morphing spontaneously as the race went along, hills got exponentially more frequent, steeper and longer as I progressed over the second and then third laps.
The run course was great. I don't even like running! It was a miracle I found I could actually run off the bike. In fact I was very glad not to be in the saddle as I just been 6 and a half hours in that position. The first 10 miles of the run were a dream, it seemed so easy. I was not going fast but I wasn't hurting as I imagined I would. The course took us through Sherborne town centre past crowds and through the castle grounds past more crowds - seeing people really lifted the spirits when the going got tough towards the end.
I kept eating and drinking disgusting sports gels, water, pepsi and pretzels at the aid stations. Miles 10 to 16 things started to hurt. I could tell I had been awake since 3:30am and I started to brood over all the rubbish little things that I tend to brood over. What they really need is someone at the aid stations to slap people round the face. This is what I picture as you go past....
Water?
"er, no thanks..."
Gatorade?
"er, no thanks..."
Slapping?
"yeah baby"
Anyway this is just a passing thought.
Between miles 10 and 16 I had to have a little walk as my energy started to fade. I would go past the aid stations but that pepsi buzz could not quite carry me to the next one.
The final 10 miles were surreal. I had to walk and jog whenever I had any mental/physical energy left. This was when seeing the official Oxford Tri Club Support Squad in the crowd each lap really helped. A big thanks for showing up. Really.
Anyway with two miles to go I thought to myself something like
"two miles to go"
which lead to this rather foolish thought
"I'll try and jog this last bit and ignor my body. Yeah."
which lead to my left calf going
"Oi mate!! What do you think you're playing at? Thats it I've had it. Go find yourself a new leg"
my calf was very stubborn about this. I had to walk the last two miles.
The finish was amazing. It was so loud. Everyone was going absolutely nuts. It was great. I tried a smile at the finish and found my face muscles were still obeying me. I got the medal, a photo and was pleasantly surprised to find the good people at Ironman provide beer and curry in the athletes area.
Next year I think I will stick to half IM (or under) distance races . The way I see it is you can do half as much training. I'm pretty sure that most coaches and sporty types differ from me on this opinion. Or I might try something different altogether. Who knows.
A VERY BIG THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO SPONSORED ME. THE PEOPLE AT BRITISH HEART FOUNDATION WILL BE CHUFFED WITH THE CASH AND USE IT TO HELP PEOPLE N THAT. YOU CAN STILL SPONSOR ME AT www.justgiving/jamescurrie IF YOU WANT TO.
xx James xx
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
The Pang
It has been said that humans have five senses - touch, taste, smell, hearing and seeing. A recent episode of QI (actually its probably 10 years old as I saw it on Dave) informed me that we had many more. Some estimate that we have up to 21 senses. I won't list them all because I can't.
Here are a few I do remember, hopefully not so many that you get bored, loose interest, look out the window, chew your finger nails and finally begin to gnaw at your own fleshy bits just to see what it feels like.....
'Proprioception' refers to the ability to know the position of your limbs when your eyes are shut. Some think that more abstract senses exist - like hunger. There are senses that human physiology utilises but are not thought of in the classic, original five. Like heat or thermoception as it is known. Or balance.
Then it occurred to me that the brain is part of the body and capable of some very strange things. Do emotions count as senses? They guide our actions like smells and colours.
It has since occurred to me that most but not all the senses I can think of can be explained or described mathematically. E.g. hearing - sound has the Decibel unit; touch - pressure has the Pascal and PSI, vectors to describe movement, calories quantify hunger (tenuous as this really describes the cause of hunger but go with it).
This is heading somewhere. Promise. I think it is time we decimalise the sense of guilt. The unit I propose to achieve this completely irrelevant goal is the 'Pang'. We need to invent a sort of sliding scale. Possibly an exponential one like the Richter scale that describes earthquakes, where 2 is ten times as big as 1, 3 is ten times as big as 2 and a hundred times as big as 1, etc, etc.
Here goes:
1 Pang; would describe the general background guilt involved with living this far into the 21st century. It is an interesting fact that some people deal with this with ease and others don't. In fact some people deal with it too well and buy Hummers to pose in.
2 Pangs; try and think of you own now that I've got you started. I find being creative very time consuming and tiring. You could probably get some good 'your mum' stuff going on.
3 Pangs; see above
10 Pangs; ending up at something like how the blue whale felt at the end of its life when it discovered in its dying moments that contrary to widespread popular belief plankton are actually conscious sentient beings and did not think being digested along side hundreds of thousands of their close relatives was a favourable or satisfying way to spend an afternoon.
Here are a few I do remember, hopefully not so many that you get bored, loose interest, look out the window, chew your finger nails and finally begin to gnaw at your own fleshy bits just to see what it feels like.....
'Proprioception' refers to the ability to know the position of your limbs when your eyes are shut. Some think that more abstract senses exist - like hunger. There are senses that human physiology utilises but are not thought of in the classic, original five. Like heat or thermoception as it is known. Or balance.
Then it occurred to me that the brain is part of the body and capable of some very strange things. Do emotions count as senses? They guide our actions like smells and colours.
It has since occurred to me that most but not all the senses I can think of can be explained or described mathematically. E.g. hearing - sound has the Decibel unit; touch - pressure has the Pascal and PSI, vectors to describe movement, calories quantify hunger (tenuous as this really describes the cause of hunger but go with it).
This is heading somewhere. Promise. I think it is time we decimalise the sense of guilt. The unit I propose to achieve this completely irrelevant goal is the 'Pang'. We need to invent a sort of sliding scale. Possibly an exponential one like the Richter scale that describes earthquakes, where 2 is ten times as big as 1, 3 is ten times as big as 2 and a hundred times as big as 1, etc, etc.
Here goes:
1 Pang; would describe the general background guilt involved with living this far into the 21st century. It is an interesting fact that some people deal with this with ease and others don't. In fact some people deal with it too well and buy Hummers to pose in.
2 Pangs; try and think of you own now that I've got you started. I find being creative very time consuming and tiring. You could probably get some good 'your mum' stuff going on.
3 Pangs; see above
10 Pangs; ending up at something like how the blue whale felt at the end of its life when it discovered in its dying moments that contrary to widespread popular belief plankton are actually conscious sentient beings and did not think being digested along side hundreds of thousands of their close relatives was a favourable or satisfying way to spend an afternoon.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Pointless ramblings of a lunatic
Have you missed me?
I have been drunk and dazed for four days and for some unknown reason everything in the middle of summer has made me tired and glum and grey. Pizza, a feeling of sweat and a strange sweaty-pizza-kind-of-a-smell is permeating my inner being.
Just the time to write a blog to confuse, amuse, and generally distract me from myself. How gorgeously pretentious.
Marmite in squeezy bottles. Sucks. Because I like Marmite. And because I like Marmite I like to be able to access the stuff. Once I have exchanged my hard earned dollar pounds for the happy, sticky, black, succulent devil-tar I want to eat it in mind-bogglingly huge quantities. I like it on toast, half an inch thick, so when you chew the skin of your soft pallet burns. The squeezy jars just don't work for me. After about two thirds of the way through the plastic jar starts farting and dispensing air. And happy, sticky, black, succulent devil-air on toast is not nice.
Now for the science bit. When you have a squeezy ketchup bottle you can give it a shake and ketchup will always obey the force you apply. It is sent obediently down to the bottom of the bottle, ready to be emptied over your low grade meat and rusk sausage. Marmite is an altogether smarter enemy. It is like it doesn't want to be eaten. You shake the squeezy bottle and the Marmite reacts with a stubborn amount of inertia and stays put. In the bottle. Not on your toast. The result is margarine on toast and a single tear running out of the corner of my eye at half past seven in the morning.
Boo the Marmite design engineers. Its not even like their glass jars were best shape anyway! How about tubes like toothpaste?? Huh?? You could even do the gimmicky push-button-style toothpaste tubes if you want to charge loads of dollar pounds. Brand identity blah blah blah. You suck. I wish you could still buy imitation Marmite but the supermarkets seem to have phased out that little puppy.
Now to fuel the whirligig of my mind-pool with some acid like white wine.
What has been good (or at least worth mentioning) recently...
Well C.S. Lewis seems to come in good forms (books and radio adaptations) and bad forms (Hollywood's 'Prince Caspian' and the better, but still wetter than a squid's ink diluted in a swimming pool that kids wee in, BBC 'Chronicles of Narnia' TV series).
Newsradio - American sitcom first introduced to me by the mighty Mat Lewis. So good I have watched over twenty episodes in two days. And I want more. And I could swear I have done binge watching of Newsradio before.
Ale in glasses with handles. And one-and-a-half-pint glasses.
Toothache. Ironically this has only occurred after seeing the dentist the last two times I have been. Last time my front tooth was chipped by the lady who polishes all the brown stains out of my teeth because I'm worth it. This time its my wisdom teeth slowly and painfully making their dash for freedom. Could it be that dentists are like those dodgy mechanics who drop a few nuts into your gearbox so that you come back again? Either way the only cure for the pain in full swing is whiskey held still against the gum for a few minutes. And tragically all I have for this affliction is single malt Isle of Jura. Woe is me.
Nagatha Krusti. Wow. Hold on, I'm not blowing anyone's trumpet here, let alone me own. Its just that last band practice Chris and Lenny had touchingly learnt my favourite song. They played "Black Leg Miner" for me as a sexy little treat. If you're unfamiliar with this tune it is an anonymous folk classic about strike braking miners and the terrible punishments visited upon them by the community..... And apart from that the Steeleye Span version from their first album is an AMAZING piece of music. You'll tap your feet. And your one-and-a-half pint glass resplendent with handle.
I am going to listen to it now.
Now people, that is my bestist audio object what I own. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. I will happily make a CD of this for anyone who asks me. Even though this would be a terrific waste and the rest of the CD would have to be blank, or better still, would be that song over and over until you've gone mad.
It is good though.
I have handed in my notice at the bike shop.
Big whoop. But then again you don't care and probably shouldn't have read this far anyway.
I was suddenly very tired of doing it and have really, really, really worried about handing in my notice. My guilty feeling was compounded by forgetting to go into work last week. I know that sounds weak but I really thought I had booked it off. Anyway I mustered up the courage this morning and faced my boss with the attitude of a school boy caught in the act of being really very naught indeed, all red handed and red faced. Anyway, to be nice I will stay on till September.
Seriously, I woke up today dreaming of a confrontation with the aforementioned boss, thankfully reality was more mundane. The worst said was "you have left us in the sh___ really" which, although not ideal, I can deal with.
I think that when your job enters your dreams accompanied by a feeling of dread it is time to move on.
Anyway it seems that I'm writing this all backwards so how about a little description of what working in a bike shop is (soon was) like. Ok? Yay.....
Now I love bikes. I mean I really like them. I think they are the pinnacle of human engineering thus far. I see beyond the function and form, and on to the affect on mind and body and soul. I am in touch with the world immediately round me in an intimate way for miles and miles via my bike. They are simple, efficient and using one will keep you young, fit and able to deal with most things for a long time. So you see they are a passion of mine.
Just setting the scene OK?
Now I am not the most practical of fellows (like my phraseology?) so mending stuff has never been my forte. Wow, I just made me being a bit 'cack handed' sound sophisticated. Anyhow I got a job in a bike shop mainly because it would train me to fix and assemble bikes. And it paid more than the Star - but thats not saying much (oh er.. I still want a job if your out there Andrew/Rob). And over and above all this it would encourage me to drink less. Well here is the rub:
I am miserable. I'm drunk as ever (yes drunk right now and even writing this is becoming tricky, so god bless the spell checker). I am still untrained and unskilled in any practical way. I have shown no real affinity for learning the art of setting up gears, straightening wheels or any real hands on stuff. I simply haven't had time to learn every single bike sold and their corresponding 1000s of accessories, or how to fit them, or how much they cost or the myriad of other things I need to do to work there properly. All in all I have found it eye opening, humbling and I have renewed respect for the mechanics and staff of bike shops* generally. But it is not for me.
Forcing myself to get up to work on saturday mornings is bad, bad, bad after a few months. Trying to describe what this is like on top of a self imposed training regime that sometimes brings you happiness and sometimes does not is tricky. Lets just say I am actually really, really tired right now. This is periodical, interspersed with immense energy, vim, vigour and optimism. And sometimes all vim and vigour leaves you. Well me anyway.
Next I want to try my hand at A-level biology tutoring now because I think I could do it well and get paid loads. Hmmmmmmmm. I wish my tooth was hurting because I need an excuse for that Isle of Jura.
Anyway just so as not to end on a downer........
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I did. Jokes on you.
* this applies to all bike shops, except 'Bicycle King' on the Cowley Rd. These people don't sell bikes but misrepresent the word 'bicycle' with hunks of junk made to look good for a couple of minutes and then rust for eternity. I hate them and all they stand for.
I have been drunk and dazed for four days and for some unknown reason everything in the middle of summer has made me tired and glum and grey. Pizza, a feeling of sweat and a strange sweaty-pizza-kind-of-a-smell is permeating my inner being.
Just the time to write a blog to confuse, amuse, and generally distract me from myself. How gorgeously pretentious.
Marmite in squeezy bottles. Sucks. Because I like Marmite. And because I like Marmite I like to be able to access the stuff. Once I have exchanged my hard earned dollar pounds for the happy, sticky, black, succulent devil-tar I want to eat it in mind-bogglingly huge quantities. I like it on toast, half an inch thick, so when you chew the skin of your soft pallet burns. The squeezy jars just don't work for me. After about two thirds of the way through the plastic jar starts farting and dispensing air. And happy, sticky, black, succulent devil-air on toast is not nice.
Now for the science bit. When you have a squeezy ketchup bottle you can give it a shake and ketchup will always obey the force you apply. It is sent obediently down to the bottom of the bottle, ready to be emptied over your low grade meat and rusk sausage. Marmite is an altogether smarter enemy. It is like it doesn't want to be eaten. You shake the squeezy bottle and the Marmite reacts with a stubborn amount of inertia and stays put. In the bottle. Not on your toast. The result is margarine on toast and a single tear running out of the corner of my eye at half past seven in the morning.
Boo the Marmite design engineers. Its not even like their glass jars were best shape anyway! How about tubes like toothpaste?? Huh?? You could even do the gimmicky push-button-style toothpaste tubes if you want to charge loads of dollar pounds. Brand identity blah blah blah. You suck. I wish you could still buy imitation Marmite but the supermarkets seem to have phased out that little puppy.
Now to fuel the whirligig of my mind-pool with some acid like white wine.
What has been good (or at least worth mentioning) recently...
Well C.S. Lewis seems to come in good forms (books and radio adaptations) and bad forms (Hollywood's 'Prince Caspian' and the better, but still wetter than a squid's ink diluted in a swimming pool that kids wee in, BBC 'Chronicles of Narnia' TV series).
Newsradio - American sitcom first introduced to me by the mighty Mat Lewis. So good I have watched over twenty episodes in two days. And I want more. And I could swear I have done binge watching of Newsradio before.
Ale in glasses with handles. And one-and-a-half-pint glasses.
Toothache. Ironically this has only occurred after seeing the dentist the last two times I have been. Last time my front tooth was chipped by the lady who polishes all the brown stains out of my teeth because I'm worth it. This time its my wisdom teeth slowly and painfully making their dash for freedom. Could it be that dentists are like those dodgy mechanics who drop a few nuts into your gearbox so that you come back again? Either way the only cure for the pain in full swing is whiskey held still against the gum for a few minutes. And tragically all I have for this affliction is single malt Isle of Jura. Woe is me.
Nagatha Krusti. Wow. Hold on, I'm not blowing anyone's trumpet here, let alone me own. Its just that last band practice Chris and Lenny had touchingly learnt my favourite song. They played "Black Leg Miner" for me as a sexy little treat. If you're unfamiliar with this tune it is an anonymous folk classic about strike braking miners and the terrible punishments visited upon them by the community..... And apart from that the Steeleye Span version from their first album is an AMAZING piece of music. You'll tap your feet. And your one-and-a-half pint glass resplendent with handle.
I am going to listen to it now.
Now people, that is my bestist audio object what I own. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. I will happily make a CD of this for anyone who asks me. Even though this would be a terrific waste and the rest of the CD would have to be blank, or better still, would be that song over and over until you've gone mad.
It is good though.
I have handed in my notice at the bike shop.
Big whoop. But then again you don't care and probably shouldn't have read this far anyway.
I was suddenly very tired of doing it and have really, really, really worried about handing in my notice. My guilty feeling was compounded by forgetting to go into work last week. I know that sounds weak but I really thought I had booked it off. Anyway I mustered up the courage this morning and faced my boss with the attitude of a school boy caught in the act of being really very naught indeed, all red handed and red faced. Anyway, to be nice I will stay on till September.
Seriously, I woke up today dreaming of a confrontation with the aforementioned boss, thankfully reality was more mundane. The worst said was "you have left us in the sh___ really" which, although not ideal, I can deal with.
I think that when your job enters your dreams accompanied by a feeling of dread it is time to move on.
Anyway it seems that I'm writing this all backwards so how about a little description of what working in a bike shop is (soon was) like. Ok? Yay.....
Now I love bikes. I mean I really like them. I think they are the pinnacle of human engineering thus far. I see beyond the function and form, and on to the affect on mind and body and soul. I am in touch with the world immediately round me in an intimate way for miles and miles via my bike. They are simple, efficient and using one will keep you young, fit and able to deal with most things for a long time. So you see they are a passion of mine.
Just setting the scene OK?
Now I am not the most practical of fellows (like my phraseology?) so mending stuff has never been my forte. Wow, I just made me being a bit 'cack handed' sound sophisticated. Anyhow I got a job in a bike shop mainly because it would train me to fix and assemble bikes. And it paid more than the Star - but thats not saying much (oh er.. I still want a job if your out there Andrew/Rob). And over and above all this it would encourage me to drink less. Well here is the rub:
I am miserable. I'm drunk as ever (yes drunk right now and even writing this is becoming tricky, so god bless the spell checker). I am still untrained and unskilled in any practical way. I have shown no real affinity for learning the art of setting up gears, straightening wheels or any real hands on stuff. I simply haven't had time to learn every single bike sold and their corresponding 1000s of accessories, or how to fit them, or how much they cost or the myriad of other things I need to do to work there properly. All in all I have found it eye opening, humbling and I have renewed respect for the mechanics and staff of bike shops* generally. But it is not for me.
Forcing myself to get up to work on saturday mornings is bad, bad, bad after a few months. Trying to describe what this is like on top of a self imposed training regime that sometimes brings you happiness and sometimes does not is tricky. Lets just say I am actually really, really tired right now. This is periodical, interspersed with immense energy, vim, vigour and optimism. And sometimes all vim and vigour leaves you. Well me anyway.
Next I want to try my hand at A-level biology tutoring now because I think I could do it well and get paid loads. Hmmmmmmmm. I wish my tooth was hurting because I need an excuse for that Isle of Jura.
Anyway just so as not to end on a downer........
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I did. Jokes on you.
* this applies to all bike shops, except 'Bicycle King' on the Cowley Rd. These people don't sell bikes but misrepresent the word 'bicycle' with hunks of junk made to look good for a couple of minutes and then rust for eternity. I hate them and all they stand for.
Monday, 11 February 2008
What I do at lunch once I've eaten lunch.
Errrrrrrrrrgh! Not that. Pervert.
This.
I am listening to the drunk, spoken word/beat poet stylings of Mr Tom Waits whilst staring out my window. It is an impossibly yellow hue on a sunny January day and (contrary to what you may now be thinking) I'm not actually a sixth form poet. Granted I couldn't actually spell the previous sentence without my automatic spell checker going nuts. Who cares? You wouldn't have known unless I admitted it. Now try to guess which word I struggled with. This is a little tactic I'm employing to make reading more fun - I'll tell you what it was at the end. See? - now you have something to look forward to.
Recently my spelling has gotten worse. I'm not sure how to combat this. And every time I type the word "the" I end up typing "th" and putting the "e" at the beginning of the next word. Every time. Its bloody infuriating but I can't stop doing it. (Nice child friendly curse back there). And No. I won't type slower. How can I excrete my consciousness out onto the page if I have to think about coordinating my motor skills too? Huh? Can't be done. By me anyway.
Anyhoo my life is coming together. Rather like a plan drawn up by th eA-team (see!).
I sleep better now I no longer work night shifts down the beer mine. Which means I can wake up easier. And I'm finding that waking up is generally useful. This won't affect you the reader in the least. But this blog is about feeding the self-obsessed side of my personality so I don't care. Me, me, me.
Real time news flash: I just saw someone drop what looked like an architect's plan out of a window four floors up from the building opposite mine. I'm going to see how long it takes her to fetch it.
If she fetches it.
Can you tell I'm bored? Brain the size of a planet you see. I bore easy.
(Long temporal event here)
She isn't going to bother.
It was 'impossibly'.
You had probably guessed right. It was the only sensible candidate because all the other words were quite short (I also would have accepted "stylings" as I had to add that to my dictionary).
This.
I am listening to the drunk, spoken word/beat poet stylings of Mr Tom Waits whilst staring out my window. It is an impossibly yellow hue on a sunny January day and (contrary to what you may now be thinking) I'm not actually a sixth form poet. Granted I couldn't actually spell the previous sentence without my automatic spell checker going nuts. Who cares? You wouldn't have known unless I admitted it. Now try to guess which word I struggled with. This is a little tactic I'm employing to make reading more fun - I'll tell you what it was at the end. See? - now you have something to look forward to.
Recently my spelling has gotten worse. I'm not sure how to combat this. And every time I type the word "the" I end up typing "th" and putting the "e" at the beginning of the next word. Every time. Its bloody infuriating but I can't stop doing it. (Nice child friendly curse back there). And No. I won't type slower. How can I excrete my consciousness out onto the page if I have to think about coordinating my motor skills too? Huh? Can't be done. By me anyway.
Anyhoo my life is coming together. Rather like a plan drawn up by th eA-team (see!).
I sleep better now I no longer work night shifts down the beer mine. Which means I can wake up easier. And I'm finding that waking up is generally useful. This won't affect you the reader in the least. But this blog is about feeding the self-obsessed side of my personality so I don't care. Me, me, me.
Real time news flash: I just saw someone drop what looked like an architect's plan out of a window four floors up from the building opposite mine. I'm going to see how long it takes her to fetch it.
If she fetches it.
Can you tell I'm bored? Brain the size of a planet you see. I bore easy.
(Long temporal event here)
She isn't going to bother.
It was 'impossibly'.
You had probably guessed right. It was the only sensible candidate because all the other words were quite short (I also would have accepted "stylings" as I had to add that to my dictionary).
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
Adverts from the telly n that
Here are a couple of adverts that I think are worth a mention. When you examine them you realise that the underlying message is actually a bit twisted. I know this is nothing new. Ooooooooo thats an evil way of selling something!! has been pointed out a million times but these two take the biscuit...........
1. The Kleenex advert
This advert consists of lots of different people being lured onto a blue sofa in the middle of a random street with the inticing words "fancy a chat" being uttered by the Kleenex man. It shows close ups of these saps engaging with the Kleenex man and they're all smiles and chatty. Then it shows them starting to get a bit emotional. And the Kleenex man is right on hand to give them a tissue. Thus pointing out the purpose and usefulness of thin sheets of paper that have been balm coated. Fine and good.
Cue slogan "Let it out" written accross screen and the advert ends.
Then I got to thinking about what was meant to be happening. This Kleenex man was taking random people, clearly of a slightly fragile disposition and making them cry. Kleenex man is obviously very good at manipulating people. He knows just what buttons to press that can break a person down in a short space of time. The bastard. Not a person I'd want my product associated with.
2. The Toyota Yaris advert
This advert is basically glorifying revenge as something aspirational. It tells the story of a woman who breaks her boy friend's model plane because her boy friend recently shut the door of her car using his foot. (He was using both hands to carry something heavy for her at the time).
Now what is their selling point hear?
Our car is bought by the petty demograph. The kind of folk who have OCD. The kind of people who bear a grudge against a kind person for an act that had no consequences anyway. What were they thinking?
Right. Rant over.
FYI to make myself feel better I installed a CD player in my office at Brookes this afternoon. I listened to "Paint a lady" by Susan Christie and everything was OK. Instantly. Even though I was at work. Ahhhhhhhhhh. (That is an expression of how soothing the song was and not "Ahhhhhhhhhh" in pain or anguish as it could be interpreted). If you also want to hear this amazing bit of music then beg or borrow (I don't endorse theft) a copy of Folk is not a four letter word, Vol 2. Selected by Andy Votel. I promise you will not regret any effort spent in tracking this down. Unless you have no soul. In which case you probably work in advertising.
1. The Kleenex advert
This advert consists of lots of different people being lured onto a blue sofa in the middle of a random street with the inticing words "fancy a chat" being uttered by the Kleenex man. It shows close ups of these saps engaging with the Kleenex man and they're all smiles and chatty. Then it shows them starting to get a bit emotional. And the Kleenex man is right on hand to give them a tissue. Thus pointing out the purpose and usefulness of thin sheets of paper that have been balm coated. Fine and good.
Cue slogan "Let it out" written accross screen and the advert ends.
Then I got to thinking about what was meant to be happening. This Kleenex man was taking random people, clearly of a slightly fragile disposition and making them cry. Kleenex man is obviously very good at manipulating people. He knows just what buttons to press that can break a person down in a short space of time. The bastard. Not a person I'd want my product associated with.
2. The Toyota Yaris advert
This advert is basically glorifying revenge as something aspirational. It tells the story of a woman who breaks her boy friend's model plane because her boy friend recently shut the door of her car using his foot. (He was using both hands to carry something heavy for her at the time).
Now what is their selling point hear?
Our car is bought by the petty demograph. The kind of folk who have OCD. The kind of people who bear a grudge against a kind person for an act that had no consequences anyway. What were they thinking?
Right. Rant over.
FYI to make myself feel better I installed a CD player in my office at Brookes this afternoon. I listened to "Paint a lady" by Susan Christie and everything was OK. Instantly. Even though I was at work. Ahhhhhhhhhh. (That is an expression of how soothing the song was and not "Ahhhhhhhhhh" in pain or anguish as it could be interpreted). If you also want to hear this amazing bit of music then beg or borrow (I don't endorse theft) a copy of Folk is not a four letter word, Vol 2. Selected by Andy Votel. I promise you will not regret any effort spent in tracking this down. Unless you have no soul. In which case you probably work in advertising.
Friday, 14 December 2007
About time
Yeah. I've been an impotent, lame, flaccid kind of fool for not blogging for so long. Irresponsible really. What with the increase in suicides, the people throwing themselves into the road just because life without my words seems so empty. I will no longer shirk my social responsibility and will once again entertain Ye through the medium of these 'ere pixels.
I still don't smoke. Na na na-na-na. Up yours Nay Sayers! You know who you are.
Anyhow I have been keeping busy. I know how to perform venipuncture now. Sleep soundly. If anyone is in the least bit interested in helping mankind (and more importantly me) by becoming a participant in my PhD project do not hesitate to contact me. I have designed a very informative email response in advance in case anyone wants to know about it. You can all get involved. I do want your blood though. Yes you.
Enough abuse of the blogging space to recruit people for my own ends.
But I don't have much else to talk about these days. Ah. Goes with the job you see, I'm becoming a socially awkward, reclusive PhD student. If I were in the room with you right now I'd probably be finding it hard to keep eye contact.
I have discovered a new joy in running. I never used to be able to do this. Now not only am I capable but I actually like it. Hmmmmm. What a topsy-turvy crazy world this is.
Ya know considering I haven't bothered writing anything for months it really feels like I'm scraping the bottom of the word barrel. So in the interest of keeping the standards up to my usual award winning*, benchmark setting, monumentally mind bogglingly high standards I'm going to stop. Now.
*May not actually have won awards.
I still don't smoke. Na na na-na-na. Up yours Nay Sayers! You know who you are.
Anyhow I have been keeping busy. I know how to perform venipuncture now. Sleep soundly. If anyone is in the least bit interested in helping mankind (and more importantly me) by becoming a participant in my PhD project do not hesitate to contact me. I have designed a very informative email response in advance in case anyone wants to know about it. You can all get involved. I do want your blood though. Yes you.
Enough abuse of the blogging space to recruit people for my own ends.
But I don't have much else to talk about these days. Ah. Goes with the job you see, I'm becoming a socially awkward, reclusive PhD student. If I were in the room with you right now I'd probably be finding it hard to keep eye contact.
I have discovered a new joy in running. I never used to be able to do this. Now not only am I capable but I actually like it. Hmmmmm. What a topsy-turvy crazy world this is.
Ya know considering I haven't bothered writing anything for months it really feels like I'm scraping the bottom of the word barrel. So in the interest of keeping the standards up to my usual award winning*, benchmark setting, monumentally mind bogglingly high standards I'm going to stop. Now.
*May not actually have won awards.
Monday, 24 September 2007
Blogarithm
How are things your end? I really hope you're ok. Thats right. I'm genuinely concerned for you; the reader. After all happiness is an important, if oft argued over concept. And thats the kind of service I provide. I'm at least 37% more sincere than the news reader who wishes you a good evening.
So whats this crazy, zany play on words title about? Huh? Well I've been drinking and reading about chaos theory. Thats all you need to know really. If some maths geeks want to nick the word to use as their funky maths forum web page they're welcome.
The last week, the build up to this random title selecting moment, has been interesting. Due to some intractable life errors I was forced into a corner to confront my lifestyle. I'd recently been uncharacteristically naughty/stupid. Very melodramatic. I felt dirty. A shower didn't help. What was one to do at a time like this? I looked into my repertoire of useful sayings. "If it aint broke don't fix it" presented itself. I looked deeper and found with some imagination another implication arose from the ashes; if it is broke fix it.
I was broke(n). I needed fixing. Gumption would be required. I decided that giving up smoking could provide a physical if not moral redemption for my misguided actions. I have been a heavy smoker. Quitting has involved sweat, sleep deprivation, temporary abstinence from booze, self fornication, illegal downloaded movies (not the greasy kind, just anything to distract me), cycling, running, mars bars, self doubt, blah, blah, blahhhhhhhhhhhh.
So far so good! I write this on day 10. I don't want to write much more here because I don't want to jinx it. Which is odd because until I wrote that I thought I didn't believe in luck.
I start a proper job in a few days. This is dominating my thoughts. I will be in a position of minor responsibility. In my research contract they have foolishly stated I have to lecture for 6 hours per week. Imagine that. Me. Teaching. Supervising. Advising! Ha. I'm absolutely petrified. At the same time I feel indifference to any institution who could assign me to such a role when I'm not ready! Arggggggggghhhhh. Anyway this is not the place to raise these concerns.
Brown are my trousers. Blue is the sea. Buck up old fellow. Pull those socks up, pull your thumb out, look lively, stiff upper lip, er........... when in Roam?
No.
I still haven't got the hang of that one.
Who knows it might just work out.
So whats this crazy, zany play on words title about? Huh? Well I've been drinking and reading about chaos theory. Thats all you need to know really. If some maths geeks want to nick the word to use as their funky maths forum web page they're welcome.
The last week, the build up to this random title selecting moment, has been interesting. Due to some intractable life errors I was forced into a corner to confront my lifestyle. I'd recently been uncharacteristically naughty/stupid. Very melodramatic. I felt dirty. A shower didn't help. What was one to do at a time like this? I looked into my repertoire of useful sayings. "If it aint broke don't fix it" presented itself. I looked deeper and found with some imagination another implication arose from the ashes; if it is broke fix it.
I was broke(n). I needed fixing. Gumption would be required. I decided that giving up smoking could provide a physical if not moral redemption for my misguided actions. I have been a heavy smoker. Quitting has involved sweat, sleep deprivation, temporary abstinence from booze, self fornication, illegal downloaded movies (not the greasy kind, just anything to distract me), cycling, running, mars bars, self doubt, blah, blah, blahhhhhhhhhhhh.
So far so good! I write this on day 10. I don't want to write much more here because I don't want to jinx it. Which is odd because until I wrote that I thought I didn't believe in luck.
I start a proper job in a few days. This is dominating my thoughts. I will be in a position of minor responsibility. In my research contract they have foolishly stated I have to lecture for 6 hours per week. Imagine that. Me. Teaching. Supervising. Advising! Ha. I'm absolutely petrified. At the same time I feel indifference to any institution who could assign me to such a role when I'm not ready! Arggggggggghhhhh. Anyway this is not the place to raise these concerns.
Brown are my trousers. Blue is the sea. Buck up old fellow. Pull those socks up, pull your thumb out, look lively, stiff upper lip, er........... when in Roam?
No.
I still haven't got the hang of that one.
Who knows it might just work out.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Folk you, you folking folk
I have recently been given a vinyl deck with a USB output on the proviso that I copy the vinyls of its previous owners onto CDs for them. Awesome I thought. Now they've said I can keep the vinyl too. I got really drunk and thought about how touching this was because vinyls are personal things and so emailed them telling them it was too much, i'd feel bad etc etc. They didn't care as they're moving onto a house boat in a few months and are ridding themselves of all but the most essential of their posessions and they know i love old music. So thanks Elizabeth and Pete! Good things happen when people hear you playing Fairport Convention in the Star.
Anyhow I've been copying their old vinyls, at the rate of a out 2 or 3 a week. It is actually quite a labour intensive process. You have to play each vinyl in real time. Then you have to normalise the volume level. Then you have to chop the continuous audio into seperate tracks - so you have to find the beginnings/ends of all the songs. Then you have to export the tracks as WAV files and name them. Then you can burn the CD if you don't have arguments with windows media player. I've gotten faster at doing it after a few albums.
So I've been listening to old folk records and reading a book a few afternoons a week. Big whoop. But it gets interesting.... I have discovered one LP in particular that I love. It is an album entitled "Morris On" and is a sort of folk rock super group; Ashley Hutchings, Richard Thompson (knew I'd like it when I saw that name), Dave Mattacks, John Kirkpatrick and Barry Dransfeld (I'd never heard of him before). It features a song which has the privalage of being the only one ever to actually force me to laugh out loud on first and then repeated listens.
The song is "Cuckoo's Nest" and I shall try and find the lyrics and paste them into me blog. What is the folk song Cuckoo's Nest about? Huh? You want me to tell you. OK 'cos I hate that look on your face. Its about a vagina. The basic premiss of the song is boy meets girl, boys tells girl he wants to touch her up, girl says no, boys says don't be like that, girl relents, boy fingers girl, they like it, get married, have kids and boy can finger girl to his hearts content. Its got a haunting tune too.
CUCKOOS NEST
As I was a walking one morning in May
I met a pretty fair maid and unto her did say
I'll tell you me mind, it's for love I am inclined
An me inclination lies in your cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says she, I am innocent and young
And I scarcely can believe your false deluding tongue
Yet I see it in your eyes and it fills me with surprise
That your inclination lies in me cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says me, if you can see it in me eyes
Then think of it as fondness and do not be surprised
For I live you me dear and I'll marry you I swear
If you'll let me clap my hand on your cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says she, I can do no such thing
For me mother often told me it was committing sin
Me maidenhead to lose and me sex to be abused
So have no more to do with me cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says me, it's not committing sin
But common sense should tell you it is a pleasing thing
For you were brought into this world to increase and do your best
And to help a man to heaven in your cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says she, I cannot you deny
For you've surely won my heart by the rolling of your eye
Yet I see it in your eyes that your courage is surprised
So gently lift your hand into me cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
This couple they got married and soon they went to bed
And now this pretty fair maid has lost her maidenhead
In a small country cottage they increase and do their best
And he often claps his hand on her cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
Brilliant.
Anyhow I've been copying their old vinyls, at the rate of a out 2 or 3 a week. It is actually quite a labour intensive process. You have to play each vinyl in real time. Then you have to normalise the volume level. Then you have to chop the continuous audio into seperate tracks - so you have to find the beginnings/ends of all the songs. Then you have to export the tracks as WAV files and name them. Then you can burn the CD if you don't have arguments with windows media player. I've gotten faster at doing it after a few albums.
So I've been listening to old folk records and reading a book a few afternoons a week. Big whoop. But it gets interesting.... I have discovered one LP in particular that I love. It is an album entitled "Morris On" and is a sort of folk rock super group; Ashley Hutchings, Richard Thompson (knew I'd like it when I saw that name), Dave Mattacks, John Kirkpatrick and Barry Dransfeld (I'd never heard of him before). It features a song which has the privalage of being the only one ever to actually force me to laugh out loud on first and then repeated listens.
The song is "Cuckoo's Nest" and I shall try and find the lyrics and paste them into me blog. What is the folk song Cuckoo's Nest about? Huh? You want me to tell you. OK 'cos I hate that look on your face. Its about a vagina. The basic premiss of the song is boy meets girl, boys tells girl he wants to touch her up, girl says no, boys says don't be like that, girl relents, boy fingers girl, they like it, get married, have kids and boy can finger girl to his hearts content. Its got a haunting tune too.
CUCKOOS NEST
As I was a walking one morning in May
I met a pretty fair maid and unto her did say
I'll tell you me mind, it's for love I am inclined
An me inclination lies in your cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says she, I am innocent and young
And I scarcely can believe your false deluding tongue
Yet I see it in your eyes and it fills me with surprise
That your inclination lies in me cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says me, if you can see it in me eyes
Then think of it as fondness and do not be surprised
For I live you me dear and I'll marry you I swear
If you'll let me clap my hand on your cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says she, I can do no such thing
For me mother often told me it was committing sin
Me maidenhead to lose and me sex to be abused
So have no more to do with me cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says me, it's not committing sin
But common sense should tell you it is a pleasing thing
For you were brought into this world to increase and do your best
And to help a man to heaven in your cuckoo's nest
Me darling, says she, I cannot you deny
For you've surely won my heart by the rolling of your eye
Yet I see it in your eyes that your courage is surprised
So gently lift your hand into me cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
This couple they got married and soon they went to bed
And now this pretty fair maid has lost her maidenhead
In a small country cottage they increase and do their best
And he often claps his hand on her cuckoo's nest
Some like a girl who is pretty in the face
and some like a girl who is slender in the waist
But give me a girl who will wriggle and will twist
At the bottom of the belly lies the cuckoo's nest
Brilliant.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
iSwear
Try typing swear words into itunes. Juvenile aren't I? Its funny. So far nobody in my pitiful 26.79GB of music has been fool hardy / man enough to use "cunt" as even part of a band/album/track/anything. (Sorry Pikey if you read this). Although I should bring to your attention the band Wank that have an album called "get a grip on yourself". Nuff said.
The same joys can be had from google earth.
I'll be back in a minute to explain. Unfortunately my mouse has decided to malfunction simultaniously with my intestine. So I'm going to have a poo and then subsequently use the arrows on the keyboard..........................
RIGHT. (Amount of space scrolled down does not reflect the amount of time i spent sitting).
If I've ever had a more invoragting shite I can't remember it. Yep. I'm going to describe the poo I just did. Not its shape and form but the emotional impact upon my good self.
What set it apart from the others (excluding time and distance travelled along pipes towards the Thames) was the accompanying feeling of freedom. My flat mates are away so I had the door open and my music up loud. And I took my sweet, sweet time. Run out of bog roll? I'll fetch some from my room with no trousers and no worries. So lets hear it for a really good pound of mashed up Dundee cake. Its a rare thing in my day, age and house to be able to have a poo like that.
And now my mouse works again. Best poo ever.
.................................There are four pages of places on my planet with "Fuck" in. Wank Nesselwang is in Germany. Dick is in Chippewa, Michigan, United States.... Fanny; Wyoming, West Virgina. Toss; Ton, Trento, Italy.
There is nowhere called Cunt.
The same joys can be had from google earth.
I'll be back in a minute to explain. Unfortunately my mouse has decided to malfunction simultaniously with my intestine. So I'm going to have a poo and then subsequently use the arrows on the keyboard..........................
RIGHT. (Amount of space scrolled down does not reflect the amount of time i spent sitting).
If I've ever had a more invoragting shite I can't remember it. Yep. I'm going to describe the poo I just did. Not its shape and form but the emotional impact upon my good self.
What set it apart from the others (excluding time and distance travelled along pipes towards the Thames) was the accompanying feeling of freedom. My flat mates are away so I had the door open and my music up loud. And I took my sweet, sweet time. Run out of bog roll? I'll fetch some from my room with no trousers and no worries. So lets hear it for a really good pound of mashed up Dundee cake. Its a rare thing in my day, age and house to be able to have a poo like that.
And now my mouse works again. Best poo ever.
.................................There are four pages of places on my planet with "Fuck" in. Wank Nesselwang is in Germany. Dick is in Chippewa, Michigan, United States.... Fanny; Wyoming, West Virgina. Toss; Ton, Trento, Italy.
There is nowhere called Cunt.
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
Lager cheese.
Due to in-operable levels of self improvement i have lately been too up my own ass to blog. I now make the almost impossible stoop down to your level.
Ouch.
That smarts.
Seriously though I haven't read anyone's blog for about 3 months and having just read Han's I've remembered just how awesome blogs can be. So really don't expect too much from this as I'm drunk and it just took me 5 goes to write "anyones". ayneons?
What have I been doing?
Like you really care.
I got my uni results resluts which were excellent. (Stroke of the beard, sip of port). I got accepted onto a PhD course (glug of port, slippery nipple). And I decided i wouldn't get a "proper" job for the time being.
This situation was fine as I had nuts, berries and cash stock piled for the summer months. (Bad analogy I know because nuts and berries are a winter crop). Anyhoooooooooooow I went on holiday twice. Boat trip and Prague. Boat trip was so epoch makingly monumental that you will probably read about it in GCSE history books next year so there is no point documenting it here.
Prague. I went with my good friend Sarah who has family over there - we didn't visit whore houses and weren't on a stag do. We ate stew and dumplings and drank good lager. Obviously the architecture was great and it was steeped in history but I'm sure you'll be more comforted to know that the local speciality is fried cheese. Lager and fried cheese. I left there a stone heavier.
Oh yeah and my nuts, berries and spending money were all nicked out of my bag before I even arrived in Prague by some airport baggage handler who better hope there isn't an afterlife because if there is and I'm there I'll make 'em wish they'd never found it.
So now I'm trying to cycle off >1 stone of fried lager cheese, read articles so I'm suffieciently book learned for October and grift enough cash so I can eat at Cropready festival next weekend..... Richard Thompson with the Richard Thompson Band electric and also Fairport Convention perform Leige and Leaf.
Currently I'm looking forward to fishing with Darren and Mat Lewis and maybe babbing a few evil American Cray fish outta the river Cherwell. So you will probably gather I'm on cloud nine right now. Mmmmmmm summer.
Smell you later.
Ouch.
That smarts.
Seriously though I haven't read anyone's blog for about 3 months and having just read Han's I've remembered just how awesome blogs can be. So really don't expect too much from this as I'm drunk and it just took me 5 goes to write "anyones". ayneons?
What have I been doing?
Like you really care.
I got my uni results resluts which were excellent. (Stroke of the beard, sip of port). I got accepted onto a PhD course (glug of port, slippery nipple). And I decided i wouldn't get a "proper" job for the time being.
This situation was fine as I had nuts, berries and cash stock piled for the summer months. (Bad analogy I know because nuts and berries are a winter crop). Anyhoooooooooooow I went on holiday twice. Boat trip and Prague. Boat trip was so epoch makingly monumental that you will probably read about it in GCSE history books next year so there is no point documenting it here.
Prague. I went with my good friend Sarah who has family over there - we didn't visit whore houses and weren't on a stag do. We ate stew and dumplings and drank good lager. Obviously the architecture was great and it was steeped in history but I'm sure you'll be more comforted to know that the local speciality is fried cheese. Lager and fried cheese. I left there a stone heavier.
Oh yeah and my nuts, berries and spending money were all nicked out of my bag before I even arrived in Prague by some airport baggage handler who better hope there isn't an afterlife because if there is and I'm there I'll make 'em wish they'd never found it.
So now I'm trying to cycle off >1 stone of fried lager cheese, read articles so I'm suffieciently book learned for October and grift enough cash so I can eat at Cropready festival next weekend..... Richard Thompson with the Richard Thompson Band electric and also Fairport Convention perform Leige and Leaf.
Currently I'm looking forward to fishing with Darren and Mat Lewis and maybe babbing a few evil American Cray fish outta the river Cherwell. So you will probably gather I'm on cloud nine right now. Mmmmmmm summer.
Smell you later.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Eight
Joss was driving quickly. She was angry at Michael, lying to her like that. She also knew that Michael could be dangerous when he stopped taking his pills. Impatiently she sounded her horn, the car in front failed to notice the green light.
"Fucks sake" she yelled at the dashboard and rubber squealed when she accelerated.
Meanwhile....
Drunk girl was undergoing an experience she hadn't had since being a toddler. Without warning, as she was preparing to dismount from the pool stool, she felt something warm flow down her leg. She noticed the expressions of the people in the pool room change. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. She ran to the toilet, thankfully it was empty. She couldn't believe it. She felt slightly ashamed but also confused. Was she ill? She didn't know what was going on.
Drunkboy scratched his head. Surely rohypnol wasn't meant to do that. He wondered what state Drunk Girl was in and pondered going home.
The table erupted with conversation but nobody knew exactly what had happened. From their perspective the grinning Drunk Girl leapt from her stool and made a beeline for the toilet. Through the commotion Bunny rose from the table, some instinct made her realise that Drunk Girl's actions were probably connected with her recent experience. Bunny headed towards the toilet after Drunk Girl, determined to work out what was happening.
Drunk Girl was pulling herself together. Flat denial would be the only way to approach this. She pondered going comando style. There was a knock on the cubicle door.
"Its Bunny, er you OK?"
"Fucks sake" she yelled at the dashboard and rubber squealed when she accelerated.
Meanwhile....
Drunk girl was undergoing an experience she hadn't had since being a toddler. Without warning, as she was preparing to dismount from the pool stool, she felt something warm flow down her leg. She noticed the expressions of the people in the pool room change. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. She ran to the toilet, thankfully it was empty. She couldn't believe it. She felt slightly ashamed but also confused. Was she ill? She didn't know what was going on.
Drunkboy scratched his head. Surely rohypnol wasn't meant to do that. He wondered what state Drunk Girl was in and pondered going home.
The table erupted with conversation but nobody knew exactly what had happened. From their perspective the grinning Drunk Girl leapt from her stool and made a beeline for the toilet. Through the commotion Bunny rose from the table, some instinct made her realise that Drunk Girl's actions were probably connected with her recent experience. Bunny headed towards the toilet after Drunk Girl, determined to work out what was happening.
Drunk Girl was pulling herself together. Flat denial would be the only way to approach this. She pondered going comando style. There was a knock on the cubicle door.
"Its Bunny, er you OK?"
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Peppers burgers.
I heard a disturbing rumour t'other day. Grab hold of something sturdy and try to maintain control of primitive bodily functions. This is a biggy. Ready? You'll have to scroll down. (I've done this to a create an element of surprise).
Peppers burgers is going to close.
Rub your eyes. You can read that again. Yes. It still said the same thing.
If you eat meat and live in Oxford I shall give you another minute to let full impact of this monumental information sink in. Steadied? Smelling salts help? Try them, they might. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Oxford then I had better explain that Peppers Burgers is an institution. Look at the number reviews on the daily information website. The majority of local eateries nobody has bothered to review, with the exception of maybe the owner's brother or business partner. Peppers have got tonnes of fanatical fans. One guy says that he makes a special trip to Oxford when he comes to the UK just to go to there, another that its the best burger in Europe. I believe them. I've eaten there.
So you'll understand that I really hope the closure of Peppers is just malicious propaganda distributed by Islamic extremists to bring down the moral of our nation in an attempt to thwart the war on terror. That is the magnitude of the situation. Peppers is the only decent burger in town. They have a proper choice of sauces. (Blue cheese and white shark chili being my personal favourite combo). Fuck BK or Maccy D's and although delicious as Tootsies is, you need to remortgage your house to eat there. Peppers have got it right.
If anyone could provide evidence to substantiate or deny this ghastly rumour it would definitely settle my nerves. Which is good for moral. If it is proven then I suggest forming some sort of action group like "Save Our Burgers" (S.O.B.s) to fight the cause.
Stay classy Oxford and thanks for stopping by.
Peppers burgers is going to close.
Rub your eyes. You can read that again. Yes. It still said the same thing.
If you eat meat and live in Oxford I shall give you another minute to let full impact of this monumental information sink in. Steadied? Smelling salts help? Try them, they might. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Oxford then I had better explain that Peppers Burgers is an institution. Look at the number reviews on the daily information website. The majority of local eateries nobody has bothered to review, with the exception of maybe the owner's brother or business partner. Peppers have got tonnes of fanatical fans. One guy says that he makes a special trip to Oxford when he comes to the UK just to go to there, another that its the best burger in Europe. I believe them. I've eaten there.
So you'll understand that I really hope the closure of Peppers is just malicious propaganda distributed by Islamic extremists to bring down the moral of our nation in an attempt to thwart the war on terror. That is the magnitude of the situation. Peppers is the only decent burger in town. They have a proper choice of sauces. (Blue cheese and white shark chili being my personal favourite combo). Fuck BK or Maccy D's and although delicious as Tootsies is, you need to remortgage your house to eat there. Peppers have got it right.
If anyone could provide evidence to substantiate or deny this ghastly rumour it would definitely settle my nerves. Which is good for moral. If it is proven then I suggest forming some sort of action group like "Save Our Burgers" (S.O.B.s) to fight the cause.
Stay classy Oxford and thanks for stopping by.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Spider warning
I'll start with some disappointment. Due to the secret government work I've been assigned I will not be able to deliver the next installment of Pub Crawl Massacre until mid May. But its OK cos i writ this down for your arousment. And its sunny.
A tale of spiders.....
Some people are scarred of them. This is generally thought to be irrational in Britain because all our spiders are harmless. Yet some of our native spiders are wearing disguises. The ancestors of these special spiders were born in the misty waters of Lake Genesis a few days after the dawn of time. At about the time Neighbours would be on today. No! The evening episode not the lunch time one. Yes, I know this is irrelevant but it's these little details that suck you in. Sucker.
Anyhow they masquerade in frail little bodies day after day keeping up a pretence of living off flies by spinning webs and sometimes even eating the flies. They grow empty, bitter and weak off such a putrid diet. They lust for red meat and blood. They are perfectly capable of devouring a full grown man in as little as three minutes. These special spiders have learned amazing feats of stealth and subtlety that have been past from generation to generation. Therefore few people ever realise that the 'irrational' fear of spiders has some justification.
Very rarely does anyone ever escape from a murderous British house spider when it feels the lust for man-flesh. Victims generally die and therefore never get to tell anyone that they saw this innocuous looking arachnid swell up, spit venom then chow down on a lovely, juicy shoulder of man.
When spiders choose to show their true form they never do it if two or more people are present in the same place. If they did that their secret would be out. No. They attack only when one is alone. Only when the spider is sure they are alone with the victim does the transformation take place. First the legs begin to elongate, normally a few inches or so in a matter of seconds. If you ever see a spider with disproportionately long legs run. Run like the wind and don't look behind you.
Then the body starts to swell too, bigger and bigger until at last it reaches the size of a clenched fist. Fangs form. Quickly. More quickly than scientists think bone can be formed. Razor sharp fangs like sharks teeth appear within a couple of minutes of the body swelling. These teeth are amazingly efficient in design. They posses the ability to tear flesh from bone with almost no effort. Behind these rows of incisors the venom glands materialise. Finally hairs sprout forth from the body and the legs. The hairs turn from black to yellow once the spider is fully developed into the ravenous, murderous predator.
The enlarged British house spider in it's special carnivorous phase is still not all that big. Full grown their bodies can be as small as a tennis ball but legend has it that the very biggest ones have bodies the size of a football. Either way a well timed stamp with a good walking boot produces spider soup.
There are several good reasons why nearly all people who are unfortunate enough to witness the transformation still manage to get themselves eaten. Speed and surprise are the main two. Spiders are fast. Enlarged hungry spiders are faster. Try running from one and you will almost certainly fail. They have eight legs, you have just two. Do the math.
Surprise certainly helps the special spiders. Having walked the Earth for a considerable number of years amongst lots of harmless spiders an average adult victim will not be expecting a spider to swell up right under their nose. They will also not expect them to then proceed to eat them. This definitely is most unexpected behaviour and "I'm surprised" is often the last thought of a person who sees the spurt of venom issuing from the deadly spider.
Disbelief, the denial of the fact that this could possibly be happening, delays your reactions and hampers any chance of escape. Initial surprise is often coupled with a sheer blind panic (this normally happens to people who are afraid of the everyday harmless spiders) and the victim becomes routed to the spot, too afraid to shout or cry. They get covered in venom with ease. Alternatively surprise can be accompanied with a curious fascination. This normally happens with those who do not suffer arachnophobia. These people get involuntarily drawn towards their own doom. Afterall, watching a spider transformation is a fascinating, if deadly process. A prospective zoologist type will actually put their face right next to the abnormally large, ney incredibly large spider, just to get a better look at the legs turning yellow. Yellow hair is always their final observation.
The main reason people are no match for these unusual creatures is the nature of the venom itself. It produces instant paralysis coupled with a powerful amnesia. Once the green sticky liquid touches your skin, no matter how small the amount, you will not remember a thing. You will be unable to warn your brother, your lover or your mother that peril is at hand. They could be spinning a web in the cupboard under the stairs of someone near and dear to you.
One thing at least we can be grateful for is that in the enlarged state spiders do not have (or at least ever seem to have used) a functioning web. I can only imagine how many more victims there would be if they could spin webs. However a quick reflection on this point and I realise that enormous spiders webs everywhere would certainly alert people that something was amiss. After all with sensible precautions (protective clothing and heavy boots for example) man is quite capable of exterminating them all. Lack of web is probably another factor that has contributed to their secret survival.
Also I believe the fact they hunt alone, not in packs* enables their continued secrecy and therefore survival. You see to complete their life cycle they must change back to their original form. Only once they've fed on the flesh of man and then changed back to appear small and harmless can they breed and reproduce.
The morph back into their smaller size usually takes place within an hour or so of feeding on a human, sometimes slightly quicker or sometimes times slightly slower. However spiders must remain hidden from people at all times once they have enlarged. This is why pack hunting is not a viable option. A simple premise; it is harder to remain hidden when there are more things to hide. A group of enlarged spiders covered with bright yellow hairs, blood dripping from their collective jaws would surely get a glance or two. One spider on the other hand, the lone warrior in the dead of night, one spider can get away with it. Spiders can climb walls and fit through gaps by folding their legs. Almost any hiding place imaginable is accessible to a clever spider in the prime of their youth.
Remember. You will always be alone with a spider when suddenly it turns on you. But there will only be one to contend with. Consider this an educational public service bulletin to give you due warning. Be on a state of heightened alert. Don't run. Be prepared to dodge venom, then be prepared to stamp.
*I think 'pack' would be the correct term to use for a bunch of deranged, salivating, man eating spiders on the rampage.
A tale of spiders.....
Some people are scarred of them. This is generally thought to be irrational in Britain because all our spiders are harmless. Yet some of our native spiders are wearing disguises. The ancestors of these special spiders were born in the misty waters of Lake Genesis a few days after the dawn of time. At about the time Neighbours would be on today. No! The evening episode not the lunch time one. Yes, I know this is irrelevant but it's these little details that suck you in. Sucker.
Anyhow they masquerade in frail little bodies day after day keeping up a pretence of living off flies by spinning webs and sometimes even eating the flies. They grow empty, bitter and weak off such a putrid diet. They lust for red meat and blood. They are perfectly capable of devouring a full grown man in as little as three minutes. These special spiders have learned amazing feats of stealth and subtlety that have been past from generation to generation. Therefore few people ever realise that the 'irrational' fear of spiders has some justification.
Very rarely does anyone ever escape from a murderous British house spider when it feels the lust for man-flesh. Victims generally die and therefore never get to tell anyone that they saw this innocuous looking arachnid swell up, spit venom then chow down on a lovely, juicy shoulder of man.
When spiders choose to show their true form they never do it if two or more people are present in the same place. If they did that their secret would be out. No. They attack only when one is alone. Only when the spider is sure they are alone with the victim does the transformation take place. First the legs begin to elongate, normally a few inches or so in a matter of seconds. If you ever see a spider with disproportionately long legs run. Run like the wind and don't look behind you.
Then the body starts to swell too, bigger and bigger until at last it reaches the size of a clenched fist. Fangs form. Quickly. More quickly than scientists think bone can be formed. Razor sharp fangs like sharks teeth appear within a couple of minutes of the body swelling. These teeth are amazingly efficient in design. They posses the ability to tear flesh from bone with almost no effort. Behind these rows of incisors the venom glands materialise. Finally hairs sprout forth from the body and the legs. The hairs turn from black to yellow once the spider is fully developed into the ravenous, murderous predator.
The enlarged British house spider in it's special carnivorous phase is still not all that big. Full grown their bodies can be as small as a tennis ball but legend has it that the very biggest ones have bodies the size of a football. Either way a well timed stamp with a good walking boot produces spider soup.
There are several good reasons why nearly all people who are unfortunate enough to witness the transformation still manage to get themselves eaten. Speed and surprise are the main two. Spiders are fast. Enlarged hungry spiders are faster. Try running from one and you will almost certainly fail. They have eight legs, you have just two. Do the math.
Surprise certainly helps the special spiders. Having walked the Earth for a considerable number of years amongst lots of harmless spiders an average adult victim will not be expecting a spider to swell up right under their nose. They will also not expect them to then proceed to eat them. This definitely is most unexpected behaviour and "I'm surprised" is often the last thought of a person who sees the spurt of venom issuing from the deadly spider.
Disbelief, the denial of the fact that this could possibly be happening, delays your reactions and hampers any chance of escape. Initial surprise is often coupled with a sheer blind panic (this normally happens to people who are afraid of the everyday harmless spiders) and the victim becomes routed to the spot, too afraid to shout or cry. They get covered in venom with ease. Alternatively surprise can be accompanied with a curious fascination. This normally happens with those who do not suffer arachnophobia. These people get involuntarily drawn towards their own doom. Afterall, watching a spider transformation is a fascinating, if deadly process. A prospective zoologist type will actually put their face right next to the abnormally large, ney incredibly large spider, just to get a better look at the legs turning yellow. Yellow hair is always their final observation.
The main reason people are no match for these unusual creatures is the nature of the venom itself. It produces instant paralysis coupled with a powerful amnesia. Once the green sticky liquid touches your skin, no matter how small the amount, you will not remember a thing. You will be unable to warn your brother, your lover or your mother that peril is at hand. They could be spinning a web in the cupboard under the stairs of someone near and dear to you.
One thing at least we can be grateful for is that in the enlarged state spiders do not have (or at least ever seem to have used) a functioning web. I can only imagine how many more victims there would be if they could spin webs. However a quick reflection on this point and I realise that enormous spiders webs everywhere would certainly alert people that something was amiss. After all with sensible precautions (protective clothing and heavy boots for example) man is quite capable of exterminating them all. Lack of web is probably another factor that has contributed to their secret survival.
Also I believe the fact they hunt alone, not in packs* enables their continued secrecy and therefore survival. You see to complete their life cycle they must change back to their original form. Only once they've fed on the flesh of man and then changed back to appear small and harmless can they breed and reproduce.
The morph back into their smaller size usually takes place within an hour or so of feeding on a human, sometimes slightly quicker or sometimes times slightly slower. However spiders must remain hidden from people at all times once they have enlarged. This is why pack hunting is not a viable option. A simple premise; it is harder to remain hidden when there are more things to hide. A group of enlarged spiders covered with bright yellow hairs, blood dripping from their collective jaws would surely get a glance or two. One spider on the other hand, the lone warrior in the dead of night, one spider can get away with it. Spiders can climb walls and fit through gaps by folding their legs. Almost any hiding place imaginable is accessible to a clever spider in the prime of their youth.
Remember. You will always be alone with a spider when suddenly it turns on you. But there will only be one to contend with. Consider this an educational public service bulletin to give you due warning. Be on a state of heightened alert. Don't run. Be prepared to dodge venom, then be prepared to stamp.
*I think 'pack' would be the correct term to use for a bunch of deranged, salivating, man eating spiders on the rampage.
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Washing up
Is there a cool, relaxed way of asking someone to do their fair share?
I am bitter person, trapped within a resentful, hate filled tyrant, trapped within someone who smiles, shrugs and then cleans the only sharp knife and chopping board. Everyday.
What do you do?
I have an entire beehive within my proverbial bonnet but right now washing up is the notably vicious bee. And it just stung me with a swollen sack of poison.
Bob Dylan should have sung;
"How many times must a man clean a pint glass
Before he can drink some water"
The thing is if you complain you're a twat. But if you do the dishes it's not 'cool'.
Flies in the kitchen isn't cool. Eating nice food is.
Convenience is what I lust for. The ability to be able to explore my gastro potential without prior community service.
Why don't you get nice pot noodles?
I am bitter person, trapped within a resentful, hate filled tyrant, trapped within someone who smiles, shrugs and then cleans the only sharp knife and chopping board. Everyday.
What do you do?
I have an entire beehive within my proverbial bonnet but right now washing up is the notably vicious bee. And it just stung me with a swollen sack of poison.
Bob Dylan should have sung;
"How many times must a man clean a pint glass
Before he can drink some water"
The thing is if you complain you're a twat. But if you do the dishes it's not 'cool'.
Flies in the kitchen isn't cool. Eating nice food is.
Convenience is what I lust for. The ability to be able to explore my gastro potential without prior community service.
Why don't you get nice pot noodles?
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Dreams
This morning i found that last night I had been sick on the Guardian that was conveniently positioned next to my bed. If you don't believe that I live this sort of bohemian, white knuckle, pants down, socks up existence then think about it. Why would I make this up? In fact why should I write it hear? I'll tell you why. You don't have to clean the things I am going to have to clean after writing this. So this is postponing the inevitable. This is a fatalistic hangover.
Anyhow I had some interesting dreams recently. And not just the sex ones.
I dreamt about mythical creatures that were enslaved in the Burberry factory. Only this factory was different. It farmed and processed a tarten fruit - the burberry - and turned it into jam and pies and tarts. Inside machines were operated by strange things. Pheasants that had only one wing and flew in circles turning handles and wheels via wires attached to their feet.
Working alongside the mutilated poultry workers were spurting gherkins, falic small creatures. They looked like gherkins but could swim and had purple stripes down their sides. They fussed around in vinegar tanks, their whole lives spent driving turbines.
The evil owner, yes this dream even had an evil owner not just lots of random words that sound nice, was Lord Burberry Jam. He had a monicle and a sinister laugh. He was the one behind the battery farming to produce all those phesants. I don't know how he made the spurting gherkins.
Thats it. I probably need a world class psychologist/therapist/live in cleaner and janitor that cooks breakfast and makes a mean bloody mary. The sick is still there and I still don't want to clean it up so I'll tell you about last night.
I was in a pub (you choose, its irrelevant). I was obviously being very witty, coming at you like Oscar Wilde only faster and slimmer. I was talking to my friend (you choose, its fairly irrelevant) and hit apon the idea of opening a shop. Only I'm going to call mine a boutique so it can be more expensive. I'm going to call my boutique Wired deaf sex purves. It is going to sell coffee. Ground and in bean form. Not ready made into drinks 'cos that will mean more effort. And I hate the stupid names I'd have to give to coffee in order for the masses to part with lots of money; frothy-chav-in-chinos etc. It is also going to sell drum kits. And pornographic magazines.
All I need now is some financial backing. Any offers?.... You'll be in safe hands as I'm some what of an expert in the fields of coffee, drums and sssssssssh 'porn' - read it quietly. Its got a catchy, snappy name too. It will be more interesting than a Subway and my ideal replacement for the recently closed Comic Book Shop on St Clements. Show me the money.
Anyhow this sick won't clean itself.
Anyhow I had some interesting dreams recently. And not just the sex ones.
I dreamt about mythical creatures that were enslaved in the Burberry factory. Only this factory was different. It farmed and processed a tarten fruit - the burberry - and turned it into jam and pies and tarts. Inside machines were operated by strange things. Pheasants that had only one wing and flew in circles turning handles and wheels via wires attached to their feet.
Working alongside the mutilated poultry workers were spurting gherkins, falic small creatures. They looked like gherkins but could swim and had purple stripes down their sides. They fussed around in vinegar tanks, their whole lives spent driving turbines.
The evil owner, yes this dream even had an evil owner not just lots of random words that sound nice, was Lord Burberry Jam. He had a monicle and a sinister laugh. He was the one behind the battery farming to produce all those phesants. I don't know how he made the spurting gherkins.
Thats it. I probably need a world class psychologist/therapist/live in cleaner and janitor that cooks breakfast and makes a mean bloody mary. The sick is still there and I still don't want to clean it up so I'll tell you about last night.
I was in a pub (you choose, its irrelevant). I was obviously being very witty, coming at you like Oscar Wilde only faster and slimmer. I was talking to my friend (you choose, its fairly irrelevant) and hit apon the idea of opening a shop. Only I'm going to call mine a boutique so it can be more expensive. I'm going to call my boutique Wired deaf sex purves. It is going to sell coffee. Ground and in bean form. Not ready made into drinks 'cos that will mean more effort. And I hate the stupid names I'd have to give to coffee in order for the masses to part with lots of money; frothy-chav-in-chinos etc. It is also going to sell drum kits. And pornographic magazines.
All I need now is some financial backing. Any offers?.... You'll be in safe hands as I'm some what of an expert in the fields of coffee, drums and sssssssssh 'porn' - read it quietly. Its got a catchy, snappy name too. It will be more interesting than a Subway and my ideal replacement for the recently closed Comic Book Shop on St Clements. Show me the money.
Anyhow this sick won't clean itself.
Friday, 30 March 2007
Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Seven
Bunny sat on the toilet. She remebered the claim "Fast acting relief" from the box. Due to the finite capacity of her Louis Vuitton bag she'd only taken the blister pack. Could you take these in conjunction with alcohol? She couldn't remeber. Unfortunately she was already drunk and this presented her with little recourse.
As she pulled out the blister pack she was surprised to see that several tablets had already been taken out. She necked two herself.
"Not long to wait now I hope" she thought, gazing round at the graffitti. Maybe she could relax and enjoy herself later if she wasn't so backed up. After only about three minutes her bowels pulsated. She was most surprised. Far from reducing the tablets actions it seemed that alcohol had a positive excitatory effect. Within a few seconds powerfull contractions sent the contents of her colon shooting through her flacid sphincter.
A little taken aback by the suddeness of this normally carefully controlled proceedure she shook herself, cleaned up and got up to join the others.
The first thing Bunny noticed was Penny and Felix carefully coming through the front door, Felix simultaneously feeling Penny's bottom.
"Where have you two been?" she asked, beginning to feel better and wanting more drink.
"What'av you been doing in there?" interupted Benedict before anyone could answer.
She blushed.
Drunk Girl kindly explained that they were playing truth or dare.
She heard a boastful but concise account of the successful assault on the road sign by Penny and Felix. When pressed for further details they'd got back to tongueing eachother.
Bunny now gleaned that Drunk Girl was about to flash her ass through the pool room windows as a forfeit.
"Hey has anyone taken any, er, tablets out of my handbag?" Bunny enquired of the table.
This time it was Toby's time to blush. Only briefly though. He was a master of maintaining a straight face. He wondered what he had dropped into Drunk Girl's glass. The guilt arrived fractionally too late; he was on the verge of asking Bunny when everyone errupted into laughter.
Matt and Lex looked at eachother as the particularly loud peels of laughter cut through the room. Then from the bar they followed the direction of almost all eyes in the pub.
Through the pool room window Drunk Girl was mounted on a pool stool. Her peachy, young posterior was barely hidden by a luminous pink thong, displayed for all to see. Being a natural extrovert and further fuelled by the booze she was having quite a good time.
Then it started to happen. Something ominous suddenly stirred deep within her bowls....
ILLUSTRATION BY MAT.
Wednesday, 28 March 2007
Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Six
Well Meaning Flatmate was getting sweaty palms. He had run out of tobacco. A combination of stomach acid and crap television had prompted him to hunt this bounty at whatever cost. He was going to get a cigarette. Michael smoked. Well Meaning Flatmate quite logically reasoned that there would be tobbacco in Michael's room.
Nicotine withdrawals made him feel edgey as he oberseved Michael going down the road to the shop.
"Now's my chance" he thought to himself.
He considered himself to be Michael's mate. He had spotted Michael numerous cigarettes and reasoned that Michael shouldn't really be that bothered.
This was true but he was aware he was breaking and entering. Afterall your room is private. Nonetheless he opened Michael's door. Stale tobacco odour met his nose.
He scanned all obvious surfaces. No tobacco in eyeshot. Being a sparse room he reasoned that there couldn't be many hiding places for the desired to be stashed. Ignoring the wardrobe and the desk he instictively made for the top draw of the bedside table. He opened it. A laminated spread eagled princess greeted him.
"Wow."
He wasn't expecting the porn stash. Still, nevermind, he could drops subtle hints later and maybe borrow one.
No tobacco. Damn. He was about to open the next draw when he noticed them.
"Shit."
"Shiiiiit!"
The implications of not taking medication could be enormous. That was why Michael was living there anyway. Well Meaning Flatmate had heard about the last time. Astonishment was replaced by panic when he heard a key in the lock of the front door.
Quickly he slunk out of Michael's room, bending his knees to absorb sound, tip toeing over the carpet. He quietly shut his bedroom door. He thought quickly. He should inform Joss but without Michael knowing.
What if Michael found out? He grimaced. Concentrate on the matter in hand. Surprising himself with his acting abilities he called out from his room;
"Oi Michael! Have you got a fag? I'm screwing."
"You what?" came the reply from the hallway. Footsteps and a few seconds later Michael's head poked round his door.
Casually "Bruv, you got any tobacco? I've run out."
Michael rolled his eyes, grinned and said "Aright you pikey!" and fished some out of his pocket.
Well Meaning Flatmate nervously laughed and took the rollie being offered.
"Fanks bruv. Er, I gotta shoot. Meeting a mate in town." He left abrubtly without looking at Michael. He ran down the stairs and slammed the front door.
Michael shook his head. Slightly bemused by the aggitated behaviour of Well Meaning Flatmate he began to make himself a cigarette. Cheerily he remebered that he had just bought milk and so tea was imminent. Mmmmmm.
Then absent mindedly he looked out of the window at the Star. He could see that the 'Sloan' student girls from the taxi were sat right there in the window. What the hell. Tea could wait. As he caressed himself his eyes glazed.
Well Meaning Flatmate had jogged down the street and collected his thoughts. He jabbed at his mobile. He swore. He jabbed more carefully and correctly dialled Joss.
"Hi yer. Yeah it's me. Ummmm.... Look there's something you need to know. I've just looked in Michael's room.... No, no.... I know I shouldn't be in there. Look this is important; I found a load of his pills. Yeah tonnes of them...."
Nicotine withdrawals made him feel edgey as he oberseved Michael going down the road to the shop.
"Now's my chance" he thought to himself.
He considered himself to be Michael's mate. He had spotted Michael numerous cigarettes and reasoned that Michael shouldn't really be that bothered.
This was true but he was aware he was breaking and entering. Afterall your room is private. Nonetheless he opened Michael's door. Stale tobacco odour met his nose.
He scanned all obvious surfaces. No tobacco in eyeshot. Being a sparse room he reasoned that there couldn't be many hiding places for the desired to be stashed. Ignoring the wardrobe and the desk he instictively made for the top draw of the bedside table. He opened it. A laminated spread eagled princess greeted him.
"Wow."
He wasn't expecting the porn stash. Still, nevermind, he could drops subtle hints later and maybe borrow one.
No tobacco. Damn. He was about to open the next draw when he noticed them.
"Shit."
"Shiiiiit!"
The implications of not taking medication could be enormous. That was why Michael was living there anyway. Well Meaning Flatmate had heard about the last time. Astonishment was replaced by panic when he heard a key in the lock of the front door.
Quickly he slunk out of Michael's room, bending his knees to absorb sound, tip toeing over the carpet. He quietly shut his bedroom door. He thought quickly. He should inform Joss but without Michael knowing.
What if Michael found out? He grimaced. Concentrate on the matter in hand. Surprising himself with his acting abilities he called out from his room;
"Oi Michael! Have you got a fag? I'm screwing."
"You what?" came the reply from the hallway. Footsteps and a few seconds later Michael's head poked round his door.
Casually "Bruv, you got any tobacco? I've run out."
Michael rolled his eyes, grinned and said "Aright you pikey!" and fished some out of his pocket.
Well Meaning Flatmate nervously laughed and took the rollie being offered.
"Fanks bruv. Er, I gotta shoot. Meeting a mate in town." He left abrubtly without looking at Michael. He ran down the stairs and slammed the front door.
Michael shook his head. Slightly bemused by the aggitated behaviour of Well Meaning Flatmate he began to make himself a cigarette. Cheerily he remebered that he had just bought milk and so tea was imminent. Mmmmmm.
Then absent mindedly he looked out of the window at the Star. He could see that the 'Sloan' student girls from the taxi were sat right there in the window. What the hell. Tea could wait. As he caressed himself his eyes glazed.
Well Meaning Flatmate had jogged down the street and collected his thoughts. He jabbed at his mobile. He swore. He jabbed more carefully and correctly dialled Joss.
"Hi yer. Yeah it's me. Ummmm.... Look there's something you need to know. I've just looked in Michael's room.... No, no.... I know I shouldn't be in there. Look this is important; I found a load of his pills. Yeah tonnes of them...."
Monday, 26 March 2007
Thought spagetti.
A sexual act between two men.
Morris dancing dwarfs.
A pirate ship with a cargo of exotic spices.
Terry Wogan.*
The long drawn out death rattle of a Yak with terminal flatulence.
Vast stretches of oaken forrests found in pre industrialised Britain.
The M25.
The M1.
And Simpson's beloved Griffter bicycle (rest it's soul).
Will not be mentioned in this.
* Exception. It is true that if you mouth "Wogan" whilst being photographed you appear at least 3 times as sexy. Fact. (I think the woman on the BT adverts must say Wogan to the camera constantly because she is stupidly sexy. You know the one, with kids from a previous relationship but now has a younger man with greasy hair who is the perfect dad. She likes to use the phone book to do everything and he likes to over come the difficulties of not being thier biological father by smiling a lot).
Thats right "spagetti". My mind is such a whirlwind, such a hot bed of creativity that threre simply isn't time for things like correct spellings. Actually someone told me last night that spaghetti has a H. Woops. I mean whoops.
Right. I've started reading "The Rik Mayall: Bigger than Hitler, Better than Christ". Cos I'm a fan of his. He is ludicrustly funny. The book itself is very much like the start of this blog. A bit random with many pointless asterisks and footnotes. It is full of pointless sexual references, like the rest of this blog. However once I picture him reading the words with his animated voice/facial expressions I find myself laughing like a 15 year boy and love it.
"You lurrrrrve him" I hear you cry.
"Why don't you get a room with him?" I hear Cakeyvoice jeer.
Well its cos I'm not a straight girl or a gay man. But I tell you now if I was I'd dooooooooooo it with Rick Mayall. (I assure you its not due to his tactic of using a cucumbers and pool balls for "trouser enhancement").
Anyway enough of that kind of thing. I need to thank Lex and Han for respectively recommending and lending to me the Wickerman. You were right. It was awesome. Awesome folk music sound track. Brit Eckland's side boob. And front boob. And sillouette of her front bottom. Wow. I don't just like it because of the boob aspect. But they didn't hurt. And that scene in the pub must have been inspiration for the pub in the "Old Greg" episode of the Boosch.
Now to darker tidings. My brown jumper was filched from the Star. This may have been done maliciously. A person or persons who will collectively remain unnamed have since promised to return the much missed garment. Apparantly she had one that was identical. Which is why he/she/they told Matt that my one was hers. (Ok it was She clearly). But I'm not at all bitter. Actually I won't lie to you. Lieing is bad. I am bitter.
I left the pub in a mood so dark that I temporarilly became a black hole. I began to suck matter into myself whilst thunder storms spontaneously formed around my head. Anyone else walking home may have chanced to hear me scatting in the fashion of Captain Beefheart just to vent spleen;
"Turgid porpoise, tears, spite oven".
Etc.
Who am i kidding. I cannot scat like Beefheart. Nobody can nomore. Not even him. He paints pictures in the desert now.
Anyhow. Who wants to know where you can gets yer grubby paws on a good ole fashion hooker? Oh you do? Well OK, allow me. This next section reads like the diary of a village gossip but I've gone to the effort of scanning a newspaper cutting so I'm damn well including it now.....
You may or may not be aquainted with Jaquai and Curly who drink in the Star and are stand up, awesome and often drunk. Well Jaquai answered a newspaper advert for a receptionist job. Turned out the premises were at "X" Cherwell Drive. And the buisness was a brothel.
"I do have to tell you that we're a brothel" (Quoting Jaquai quoting them here; this is not primary journalistic evidence but I'm getting to that).
"We're the Kitten Club. The position has been filled but are you interested in doing any escort work?"
She wasn't.
This story was of direct interest to me because I live next door to the, er house of burlesque. It did indeed fit in with various observations. Lots of taxis there at night. Windows always wide open (even when its snowing like Siberia outside). Lots of sad looking, unappealing men that leave with glowing, beaming grins. And there was that large black and white note posted through our door. It said "You've got a brothel at number "X" Cherwell Drive".
I've never been there because I've never seen any pretty girls going in there. And I'm exceptionally skilled at masterbation and really don't think anyone could do it as well as me. I won't put the actual address because I realise this isn't very good press and don't want the Estonian mafia murdering me. If anyone does get murdered or deported because of this then sorry. I was born in 1982 under Thatcher and so I'll suggest the maxim "Any press is good press"! You seem pretty open about it anyway.
I still didn't want to believe it even in the face of over whelming evidence then my flatmates' girlfriend brought this round today....
One last thing.... how do you do those links to other blogs that work when you click on a word? I assume its some kind of HTML thang. Anyway they look cool and if Emma can do them then it can't be that hard.
Morris dancing dwarfs.
A pirate ship with a cargo of exotic spices.
Terry Wogan.*
The long drawn out death rattle of a Yak with terminal flatulence.
Vast stretches of oaken forrests found in pre industrialised Britain.
The M25.
The M1.
And Simpson's beloved Griffter bicycle (rest it's soul).
Will not be mentioned in this.
* Exception. It is true that if you mouth "Wogan" whilst being photographed you appear at least 3 times as sexy. Fact. (I think the woman on the BT adverts must say Wogan to the camera constantly because she is stupidly sexy. You know the one, with kids from a previous relationship but now has a younger man with greasy hair who is the perfect dad. She likes to use the phone book to do everything and he likes to over come the difficulties of not being thier biological father by smiling a lot).
Thats right "spagetti". My mind is such a whirlwind, such a hot bed of creativity that threre simply isn't time for things like correct spellings. Actually someone told me last night that spaghetti has a H. Woops. I mean whoops.
Right. I've started reading "The Rik Mayall: Bigger than Hitler, Better than Christ". Cos I'm a fan of his. He is ludicrustly funny. The book itself is very much like the start of this blog. A bit random with many pointless asterisks and footnotes. It is full of pointless sexual references, like the rest of this blog. However once I picture him reading the words with his animated voice/facial expressions I find myself laughing like a 15 year boy and love it.
"You lurrrrrve him" I hear you cry.
"Why don't you get a room with him?" I hear Cakeyvoice jeer.
Well its cos I'm not a straight girl or a gay man. But I tell you now if I was I'd dooooooooooo it with Rick Mayall. (I assure you its not due to his tactic of using a cucumbers and pool balls for "trouser enhancement").
Anyway enough of that kind of thing. I need to thank Lex and Han for respectively recommending and lending to me the Wickerman. You were right. It was awesome. Awesome folk music sound track. Brit Eckland's side boob. And front boob. And sillouette of her front bottom. Wow. I don't just like it because of the boob aspect. But they didn't hurt. And that scene in the pub must have been inspiration for the pub in the "Old Greg" episode of the Boosch.
Now to darker tidings. My brown jumper was filched from the Star. This may have been done maliciously. A person or persons who will collectively remain unnamed have since promised to return the much missed garment. Apparantly she had one that was identical. Which is why he/she/they told Matt that my one was hers. (Ok it was She clearly). But I'm not at all bitter. Actually I won't lie to you. Lieing is bad. I am bitter.
I left the pub in a mood so dark that I temporarilly became a black hole. I began to suck matter into myself whilst thunder storms spontaneously formed around my head. Anyone else walking home may have chanced to hear me scatting in the fashion of Captain Beefheart just to vent spleen;
"Turgid porpoise, tears, spite oven".
Etc.
Who am i kidding. I cannot scat like Beefheart. Nobody can nomore. Not even him. He paints pictures in the desert now.
Anyhow. Who wants to know where you can gets yer grubby paws on a good ole fashion hooker? Oh you do? Well OK, allow me. This next section reads like the diary of a village gossip but I've gone to the effort of scanning a newspaper cutting so I'm damn well including it now.....
You may or may not be aquainted with Jaquai and Curly who drink in the Star and are stand up, awesome and often drunk. Well Jaquai answered a newspaper advert for a receptionist job. Turned out the premises were at "X" Cherwell Drive. And the buisness was a brothel.
"I do have to tell you that we're a brothel" (Quoting Jaquai quoting them here; this is not primary journalistic evidence but I'm getting to that).
"We're the Kitten Club. The position has been filled but are you interested in doing any escort work?"
She wasn't.
This story was of direct interest to me because I live next door to the, er house of burlesque. It did indeed fit in with various observations. Lots of taxis there at night. Windows always wide open (even when its snowing like Siberia outside). Lots of sad looking, unappealing men that leave with glowing, beaming grins. And there was that large black and white note posted through our door. It said "You've got a brothel at number "X" Cherwell Drive".
I've never been there because I've never seen any pretty girls going in there. And I'm exceptionally skilled at masterbation and really don't think anyone could do it as well as me. I won't put the actual address because I realise this isn't very good press and don't want the Estonian mafia murdering me. If anyone does get murdered or deported because of this then sorry. I was born in 1982 under Thatcher and so I'll suggest the maxim "Any press is good press"! You seem pretty open about it anyway.
I still didn't want to believe it even in the face of over whelming evidence then my flatmates' girlfriend brought this round today....
One last thing.... how do you do those links to other blogs that work when you click on a word? I assume its some kind of HTML thang. Anyway they look cool and if Emma can do them then it can't be that hard.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Five
Bunny wasn't really enjoying herself. Her toes had been sprayed by that disgusting bloke. She tried to join in the conversation with Drunk Girl, Penny and Lolly. She couldn't concentrate. The bitchin music that had just been cranked on was not suitable for her oral palette.
Accross the room she spotted that awful man from the gents. For a brief second he made eye contact and scowled. Then she thought the whole piss on toes incident wasn't an accident. She wanted to leave. To compound her misery she had been suffering from acute constipation for the last couple of days. She began untying herself from Jonty and Lolly.
"Where you going?" Demanded Jonty.
"I need to go to the Ladies" and she snatched up her brown and gold Louis Vuitton bag from under the table.
"That time of the month?" queried Benedict, demonstrating his razor sharp brand of wit.
Unnoticed, the expression of Toby's face flickered as Bunny scooped up her bag. It was the same bag he'd got the tablets from. It wasn't Drunk Girl's bag. Those tablets weren't Rhohypnol.
In the middle of this train of thought Drunk Boy came back from having his slash. He singled out Toby and sat nex to him.
"D'you do it?" he whispered to Toby.
"Yeah... but I think I...", he was interrupted by Benedict; "What are you two gay boys chattin about?"
"Er nothing. I wonder whats taking Bunny so long in there?" said Drunk Boy.
"Rivers flowing red?" responded Benedict, looking really pleased. He couldn't normally reply that quickly to questions.
"I'm bored" said Toby, "How about truth or dare?". He forcefully nudged Felix who was tonguing Penny, ignoring him.
To Toby's suprise all the participants expressed their desire to play.
"Oi Oi" shouted Bendict (affirmative), Lolly and Drunk Girl giggled, Toby and Drunk Boy winked at eachother. The conversation successfully steered away from their suspicious conduct.
Due to their resumed tongue action Penny and Felix were unaware they were being nominated to go first.
"Have you guys ever shagged eachother?" inquired Drunk Girl, prodding them and grinning.
"Is that the question?" asked Felix, a little coy.
"Duh?" responded Drunk Girl sarcasticly.
"We're not answering that" said Penny, rescuing Felix. "We'll take the dare instead."
Toby laid down the gauntlet; "Start small. Go kick over that road works sign at the top of the road."
They all cheered wildly as Felix and Penny got up, cumbersomely hobbled out the door, their ankles and wrists still bound.
At the bar Lex turned to Matt "Shall I ask them to keep it down?"....
Accross the room she spotted that awful man from the gents. For a brief second he made eye contact and scowled. Then she thought the whole piss on toes incident wasn't an accident. She wanted to leave. To compound her misery she had been suffering from acute constipation for the last couple of days. She began untying herself from Jonty and Lolly.
"Where you going?" Demanded Jonty.
"I need to go to the Ladies" and she snatched up her brown and gold Louis Vuitton bag from under the table.
"That time of the month?" queried Benedict, demonstrating his razor sharp brand of wit.
Unnoticed, the expression of Toby's face flickered as Bunny scooped up her bag. It was the same bag he'd got the tablets from. It wasn't Drunk Girl's bag. Those tablets weren't Rhohypnol.
In the middle of this train of thought Drunk Boy came back from having his slash. He singled out Toby and sat nex to him.
"D'you do it?" he whispered to Toby.
"Yeah... but I think I...", he was interrupted by Benedict; "What are you two gay boys chattin about?"
"Er nothing. I wonder whats taking Bunny so long in there?" said Drunk Boy.
"Rivers flowing red?" responded Benedict, looking really pleased. He couldn't normally reply that quickly to questions.
"I'm bored" said Toby, "How about truth or dare?". He forcefully nudged Felix who was tonguing Penny, ignoring him.
To Toby's suprise all the participants expressed their desire to play.
"Oi Oi" shouted Bendict (affirmative), Lolly and Drunk Girl giggled, Toby and Drunk Boy winked at eachother. The conversation successfully steered away from their suspicious conduct.
Due to their resumed tongue action Penny and Felix were unaware they were being nominated to go first.
"Have you guys ever shagged eachother?" inquired Drunk Girl, prodding them and grinning.
"Is that the question?" asked Felix, a little coy.
"Duh?" responded Drunk Girl sarcasticly.
"We're not answering that" said Penny, rescuing Felix. "We'll take the dare instead."
Toby laid down the gauntlet; "Start small. Go kick over that road works sign at the top of the road."
They all cheered wildly as Felix and Penny got up, cumbersomely hobbled out the door, their ankles and wrists still bound.
At the bar Lex turned to Matt "Shall I ask them to keep it down?"....
Pub Crawl Massacre: Part Four
At the bar most of our participants were waiting. Mat and Lex were doing their best to keep up with the various demands. Penny had removed her Brookes hoody to reveal a grunge style T shirt. Matt wondered if Lex had been a bit hasty to hand out judgement when he had said
"Can you come and help me? There's a bunch of posh twats downstairs."
Penny and Felix (tied at the feet and wrists) replaced Benedict and Esther at the front of the queue. Suddenly Matt saw that in fact Penny was sporting a James Blunt T Shirt. Lex was vindicated.
After some pathetic hand gesturing, presumably to attract the bar staff's attention, Felix barked;
"Gin and Tonics."
Matt had almost reached the Bombay Sapphire when;
"Oi mate. D'you do Hendricks?"
"Nah, sorry."
"What about Tanquery 10?"
Matt looked blank.
"No. Sorry."
Eventually Matt and Lex managed to serve all of them.
"They piss you off too?"
"Yeah" answered Lex. "They all wanted to pay by card even though I explained to the first ones they couldn't - S.O.B.s."
Unaware of the petty gripes and insults being thrown around our participants had all gotten various large drinks and taken up residence on one of the sort after window tables. The table's previous occupants for some reason had taken leave when Benedict sat near them. Between telling Esther to drink faster he was proving his alpha male status by drinking two shots to her every one.
Blue Collar Workingman leant over and said something to Lex at the bar. Lex approached their table.
"Er, is it OK if you don't have ladies tied to you in the gents toilets? We've had complaints."
Drunk Boy replied "What-evs" and began unwinding the wire used to bind himself to Drunk Girl. "I need a slash", he explained to nobody in particular. Lex had already walked off in disgust. As Drunk Boy walked off towards the loo he gave a wink to Toby.
Toby was Drunk Boy's wing man and had been aware of the Rohypnol when the annonymous blisterpack had arrived in the post a few days earlier. He turned to Drunk Girl. After being temporarily freed she was conversing incessantly with Penny and Lolly. Toby realised that now would be a perfect opportunity to slip it into Drunk Girl's drink. Where had Drunk Boy put them?
None of their 'hilarious' pastel golf trousers had pockets. Despite the mess the last tequila had left between his ears he remebered they'd given their wallets and phones to their respective golf partners. Drunk Boy was with Drunk Girl. Surreptitiously he looked under the table for Drunk Girl's bag. The tablets must be in there. He spied two identical brown and gold Louis Vuitton handbags. He knew that one of them was Drunk Girl's.
He started rooting through the first one. In the dim light he used his fingertips to try and feel for the tablets. To his surprise he found what he was after reletively quickly. Within a few seconds he managed to squeeze two or three into his hand. He looked round. As he let them drop into Drunk Girl's glass nobody was playing the slightest bit of attention to what he was doing....
ILLUSTRATION BY MAT.
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