concepts for a buntiful world

It's been a long time. And I'm probably not coming back.

2012-01-20T11:35:00.001Z

But you never know. I exist elsewhere on the interweb, and sometimes I even hit meatspace too. Maybe I'll see you there someday.

Muffins away!

2008-03-28T12:10:00.002Z

So, this time, I am baking because it is Sianodel's birthday this weekend, and one of my earliest memories of enjoying his hospitality is sitting eating blueberry muffins and drinking caffe latte, usually qhile also smoking a cigarette. Since neither of us smoke any more, and making coffee is not as exciting, I decided to make blueberry muffins.

Success no?

I had to make them without muffin cases, as the shop was fresh out, but thankfully I was given a silicone muffin try for my birthday, so ahoy with the non-stick.

Due to my chronic inability to wait for the entire time the recipe says I should before taking things out of the oven, something which I must work on, they are a trifle moist on the bottoms, but hey, what's a muffin for if it isn't being moist?

So, I shall pick the best for Sianodel, and take the rest twerk.

Aah... a productive day. Now I can go play Xbox.

The Night Before Opening - a poem by Wheezil McFlynn

2008-03-13T13:20:00.000Z

Twas the night before opening, not a voice could be heard,
Stage management working, sleep being deferred,
The silence of tiredness, beaten and cowed,
No music or chat, only tools working loud.

The set has been changed, so it fits now at last,
Nails, screws and now battens are holding it fast,
The first set of flats has been tossed in the bin,
Measurements being skipped meant the set was too thin,

A third coat of paint has been left to dry out,
With a slight change of colour that removes any doubt
of it being, "a little too bland for the play."
A director's opinion on the next to last day.

The stage manager coughs, in the theatre echoes
From cast iron furniture and boxes of gekkos,
All fake, of course, rubber and painted plywood
That upon close inspection stops looking so good.

The technicians grumble, and tend to agree
Upon lack of respect for the stuff you can't see,
Of course visible props and the dressing of set,
Is the province of ASMs struggling to get,

The right dolls for the play, which must look like a poet,
Also period condoms and non-alcohol "Moet,"
The designer stressed and "It isn't my job!"
He's trying to find a cheap wig he can bob.

Now tempers are short and deadlines are passed,
And it's reaching the point when no-one can be arsed
There is only one remedy, tried tested and true,
"Down tools folks, fuck it - let's have a brew!"

Baking again

2008-02-23T20:21:00.007Z

I managed to cut myself while baking this time, by putting a very sharp knife into the washing up bowl and then trying to pick it up by feel. Bad idea. I did manage to keep the blood off the biscuits though.

I was given by my workmates a copy of How to be a Domestic Goddess, and by golly, I am one already. I thought I would try and make some biscuits out of what I have in the cupboard, and after a false start (turns out I didn't have any cocoa) I ended up with these. The first ones are trying to be really plain chocolate biscuits, so plain they are almost savoury, and they almost work. I remember them from being a kid, and they were good - the dough (first pickture) tasted about right, but the biscuits themselves are just fractionally too raised. Maybe if I made the same recipe with no baking soda they might turn out the same, then again they might turn out rubbish. Ms Lawson has the recipe fr just normal kiddy biscuits, but I swapped out a quarter of the flour for cocoa, which seems amazingly enough to have been exactly the right amount.

The second batch of things are oven baked donuts, called Chocodoodles, with nutmeg and cinnamon. Mmm. I reckon they will be best with milk. In fact both sets of bakery are a little dry, so milk all round.

Then, while I was making Lightly Curried Carbonara for supper, I sat down and wrote a story about a baker. A baker who's killed someone admittedly, but my day has been baking heavy.

I reckon i might go and find some vanilla ice cream, and see how well those Chocodoodles deal with that while I watch the Departed and wonder when the Brunette will be back.

Going to watch Involution again tomorrow. One review so far, the reviewer slightly misunderstood the play (and got Cloning and Genetic Engingeering mixed up (will these fucking morons EVER learn) but seemed to like it. Just a little web page tho, so fingers crossed for the big papers reviewers. If they are coming tomorrow I can give them cookies! but they'll have to bring their own milk.

Look look! A giant Jaffa Cake!

2008-02-08T10:50:00.000Z

A combination that puts most men into a catatonic state of shock. Well I'm not most men, which is a good thing, because if I were most men, there really wouldn't be many men left, because despite the fact that I'm a fairly large chap, you could only reasonably have two other fully functional men (and they would have to be quite small) if you were to call me "most."

I appreciate that's not very funny, but cut me some slack, I've been baking all
morning. I have been baking an idea that I found on www.pimpthatsnack.com - a site I have long admired, although I prefer the "pimped" snacks such as the Burberry Curly Wurly to the giant snacks, which technically, at least in my humble opinion, are not "pimped" but "supersized" or if you prefer, "Americanised"

I have simply supersized a Jaffa Cake. A fairly easy procedure, prompted by our a prediliction to Jaffa cakes spotted in someone at work. It's press night tonight, so I thought I would take the opportunity to make a cake.

The sponge I made went a little flatter than I had hoped - perhaps I took it out of the oven too early, but a skewer came out clean, and it sprung back when pushed, so I thought it were ready. Nigella said it were. Anyroad - it's not biggie, Jaffa cake cake bits are a bit chewier then sponge cakes anyway, so I figure it doesn't matter hugely. The other issue I had with the sponge was the typical Jaffa Cake profile. Some clever people on Pimp My Snack (it was better when it was Pimp My Snack, Pimp That Snack just doesn't have the same ring.) baked their cake in a cast iron frying pan which had the right slightly-curved-at-the-edges profile, but unfortunately everything i have with the right profile has plastic handles, so I figured bugger it, it's a cake, people are going to eat it not look at it that hard. I hope I'm right.

The jelly I made double strength with some lemon juice to give it some kick, I tried a corner of it neat before I made it and it didn't taste of anything, so it needed something. Tasted much better once I had the lemon juice in, hopefully it will give it the necessary bite to compete with the cake and the chocolate. It set nicely and didn't melt too much when I put the chocolate on it, which was nice, because I had been informed that would the most difficult part due to the jelly's habit of melting under heat. I had just taken it out of the fridge, which might well have helped, and I found out something very interesting. Melted chocolate stays melted a lot longer than I thought it did, which is a lesson well learned - next Christmas I might be able to make truffle without them melting all over the bloody shop.

I had lots of melted dark chocolate left over. After debating having it for breakfast (I start baking early) I decided this would be a bad idea, because a sugar crash during my driving lesson has the potential to turn into a less metaphorical crash.

What could I do with them. I made a coconut and chocolate turd look-a-like at Christmas with left over things, and that was very nice, but I have no coconut left, having used it all at Christmas. But I have walnuts!

So I took these tiny tree-brains and dipped one lobe (the creative side, I like to think) into dark chocolate, a type of brain surgery I think I should pioneer. There are plenty of people out there who would pay vast amounts of money to have their brains dipped in chocolate.

Walnuts

Then I took some pictures, and stuck them up on here. A bake by bake account of my morning.

In other news, I am supposedly getting married next Christmas. **DISCLAIMER - reading this is no guarantee of being invited, except for you, Mum.**

The pics below are the front and back of the hotel we're heading to. They have a view over Lake Windemere, and if it rains, we'll get very wet, but it's beautiful inside too, oak panels and all. I post this now, because it's too late for anyone to object - hah! We have our license to marry, I think, ready to pick up from the glamourous Hounslow Registrar's Office, which could be exciting, or just mundane, does licensing something take all the glamour away? It did for owning firearms, maybe it does for marriage too.

We would have run away to Vegas, but I lent my Elvis costume to someone and haven't had it back.

Langdale Chase

It's interesting how stupid people can be, isn't it?

2008-01-11T11:23:00.000Z

Like the phrase, "It's a long story."

It's used instead of the words, "I don't want to tell you."

It's a stupid phrase. I've read War and Peace, Lord of the Rings, I'm a patient guy.

ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION!

A long time coming

2008-01-10T17:37:00.000Z

I have been away for a long time, and I return only because I have an urge to make my head work at something, as the work I am currently involved in is stultifyingly dull. It will liven up soon, once we get something to build and time to build it, but at present - not so good.

I have been finishing my third novel, which still needs another five thousand words or so. I got stuck in yesterday, and was then brutally distracted by Mr Goulden Moments, and then this morning, other events conspired to prevent me from doing more, so tomorrow is the plan, it should finish, which will be fun.

I am adjudicating a game of Diplomacy, and trying to start another, for which I need a couple more players. We're playing with a fog of war and spies. If you are up for it, drop me a line. Email based, deadlines enforced.

I'm also organising technical things for the Brunette's new show being done at the Old Southwark Playhouse by a company of lovely people called Mokita more info after the jump. It's called Involution, and it's good. Very good. Go on. Book a ticket now. [hypnotic noises] In fact, book several.

God must be a Magpie

2007-12-31T14:53:00.000Z

One of the [many] things I hate about Christmas is the amount of crap you accumulate. I'm not talking about the unwanted speaking socks that Uncle Eric bought you, or any of the commercial gift packs of girl smellies/boy smellies/razors/chocolates/booze that you now have cluttering up your front room. I mean all the accompanying shit.

Tinsel.

Ribbons.

Those stupid bundles of twigs with glitter that shed like a dying cat.

Around 90% of the debris we have suddenly accumulated on the floor of the sitting room is shiny, and it's all for Christmas, which leads me to my conclusion. God is a magpie. He wants us to celebrate Christmas apparently, and I think it's all an excuse so that he can collect all the shiny crap when it gets thrown out and use it to line his nest. Jesus sits at God's right hand, surrounded by interwoven strands of threadbare tinsel, on a throne of slightly crumpled cracker tubes.

Why the shiny shot, Lord? Really, why not some nice brown paper. Recycled even, or do you want us fucking up the planet just to make stuff shiny?

Honestly.

Aah well, another New Year, another chance to get stuff fini

Merry Christmas, I suppose.

2007-12-24T20:09:00.001Z

It's official. Christmas makes me feel hungover, even when I haven't had anything to drink, the saturation levels of pre-recorded good cheer and saccharine Christmas wishes just drain the essential vitamins from my body and try to shrink my brain.

I believe the way to avoid this feeling is to watch it's a wonderful life, but that has been proven to shrink your brain by ten percent every time you watch it.

So, first Christmas in the house. I feel sorry for the Brunette, it's just me and my conviction that Christmas will be crap. So far, it's looking good. She's been in tears three times already, and not because of me. Mater's Christmas present too much trouble, we theoretically ran out of truffle mixture and she's lost a necklace her sister gave her and expects her to wear. Bless.

I am sinking myself into cooking things. Bread sauce ready to rock and roll, providing it can survive the depredations of my insatiable bread sauce appetite for the next 18 hours, joint out of freezer, beef. Turkey is just like crap chicken. I have made 70 truffles (we didn't run out) and the whole house smelled of chocolate yesterday, the spuds are ready for their par-boiling, I have Nigella on call for chocolate pudding (there's a reason we only eat it once a year;) and waaay too much chocolate in the house.

The odds are on our side. Fingers crossed I don't bollocks up the roast.

Have a fun one.

"Peace be with you."

Welcome back

2007-12-05T08:42:00.001Z

Greetings once again.

I realise that I have stopped updating my blog, as you may have done. I am making no promises to return, but the fact that the last post I left on here was a foul fingered rant about postmen kept bugging me, so I decided to come back and post again, just to get rid of it.

I'm making hummus, which is exciting, and I had an argument with Ikea, because they're crap, so they gave me some money back. I completed Nanowrimo again. which was nice, but I still have ten thousand words or so to go before I complete the story. I have had a persistent headache since last Friday (It's Wednesday) and I am waiting for my head to explode, or for a doctor to come up to me and say, "You have brain cancer, we diagnosed it from a little over a mile away."

Anyway, enough about me, where've you been, what've you been up to, and why're you still wasting your time visiting my site? Who's your daddy? and what the f*** is wrong with you? How are you feeling, what's your favourite music track at the moment, and why? What was the last book you read? Was it good? Was it as good as you thought it would be? Was it as good as people told you it was going to be? Would you cry if I told you I hadn't read it? Why would you care? How has your day been treating you? Well, I hope. Anyway, enough of this crap, I'm off to surf some goats.

Ok, so I'm an idiot.

2007-07-23T17:30:00.000Z

And so are you...

Blogger lets you do it yourselves now... apparently.

So.

Here's the only picture I took of my holiday.

Actually that's a lie. I took lots, but I;m not here to bore you with endless photos of views and lizards and thinks I took pictures of. Nevertheless, that's proper Pisan Graffiti.

I have finally turned the damn desk my computer was on around so I can actually type. And instead of throwing myself into a short story, or something equally productive, I made a Playlist and decided to blog.

The other reason I am blogging less frequently is that Blogger has yet to make it possible for me to be logged into my blog and my email at the same time. The only reason I really have a problem with this is so I can avoid giving my mother my email address... I'd never hear the end of it.

Anyway.

Playlist includes, "It's Only Mystery," from the film Subway, Mos Def, "Sex Love and Money," Robert Cray and Peter Gabriel. Am I gay or what?

That's a picture of some mess at work.

I was going to post a picture of some bread I baked and try a Marks and Spencer Parody, but I'm not sure I can be arsed, and I am damn sure you lot wouldn't be interested. Except maybe Mum, but then only from a professional standpoint.

Another thing I demand you waste your time with (except you, Mum, it will take hours to load and you probably won't get it anyway) is this.

These guys are prisoners from Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center in the Philippines.

Britain's finest talent may be a fat guy with fucking awful teeth, but the Phillipines have real talent.

Back, briefly

2007-07-18T06:28:00.001Z

Right. Long time no sea.

I am growing painfully aware that this is turning into a diary blog, albeit an irregular and slightly bizarre one, and I don't want that to happen. So, dear reader, don't expect anything radical soon. I don't want to post short stories, because it then prevents me from being able to enter them in any competitions or for any webzines that I might try for.

In other news:

Another seasons over at the LFBTV, and we have an awful lot of lights to clean.

I have discovered the joy of cycling, which is fantastic, and I am gently becoming bikie. I changed my brake levers the other day, which is a level 2 difficulty out of three in the book I bought to tell me how, and I am seriously considering trying to integrate my gears into my brake levers next time, only I have yet to find a way of doing this without spending more money on a pair of brake/gear levers than I did on my bike when I bought it.

Had a nice week in Italy with family and the Brunette, very good food and hospitality in Volterra, let down in Pisa by a restaurant known as La Pergoletta where we experienced the worst service I have ever encountered outside of Richmond Odeon (and that's pretty bad) but ended being quite a fun evening as when we tried to leave, having waited unsuccessfully for two hours for our main course they tried to charge us for it, and this scenario ended up with the chef coming out of the kitchen (minus cleaver unfortunately) and shouting at us, then cursing us as we left... which was fun.

So please, don't go there unless you are prepared to spend a week of your holiday waiting for food. The food we did receive was very interesting, but only starters and Primi, so it's difficult to judge whether it was destined to be any good at the end of the wait. This is only really here so that hopefully people who google La Pergoletta will find their way here and realise what they are in for if they go.

I'm desperately sorry, but my knees can't take any more of this. The new house is slowly (very slowly) taking shape, but we have no computer desk at present, and I am stuck trying to type at something I can't put my knees under, so it limits me to about two hundred words before I'm in agony.

More when I have something better to type at, and yes, that could be a while...

***plus, quick whinge at the end, what's happened to Picasa and bloggerbot? I can't post pictures any more. Bastards... if anyone more technologically inclined has actually figured out another easy way to post pics now blogger has shafted simpletons like me, please let me know.***

I'd value your opinion on something...

2007-06-13T17:21:00.000Z

I want a question answered.

When did it become a bad thing to have an opinion?

I was asked today, mockingly, "Is there anything you don't have an opinion on?

I had, perhaps been rather free with my low opinion of Russell T Davies' writing talent, in front of someone who was a rather ardent (new) Doctor Who fan, and I must admit, because if I don't it will be pointed out anyway I am sure, that I am free with my opinions, and I enjoy arguing over matters of opinion.

But surely anyone who thinks has opinions about anything they have ever thought about.

Some definitions of opinion are as follows:

Hyperdictionary:


	Definition:		[n] the reason for a court's judgment (as opposed to the decision itself) [n] a vague idea in which some confidence is placed; "his impression of her was favorable"; "what are your feelings about the crisis?"; "it strengthened my belief in his sincerity"; "I had a feeling that she was lying" [n] a personal belief or judgment that is not founded on proof or certainty; "my opinion differs from yours"; "what are your thoughts on Haiti?" [n] a belief or sentiment shared by most people; the voice of the people; "he asked for a poll of public opinion" [n] the legal document stating the reasons for a judicial decision; "opinions are usually written by a single judge" [n] a message expressing a belief about something; "his opinions appeared frequently on the editorial page"

I don't quite know why every word there is a link, but hey. Numbers 1 and 5 are legal definitions, number 4 only applies in the phrase "public opinion," but you get the general gist. A couple of other dictionaries use number 3, down to the question about Haiti, and I reckon that is the closest to how I tend to use the word.

I have an opinion about everything I have ever thought about, and I formulate new opinions as I think about new things. I have thought about most of the stuff I know, and I know a lot of things, ergo, I have opinions about almost everything I know about, which makes for a lot of opinions.

Many of them are unqualified rubbish, and a good few (including my opinions of the new Dr Who series) have formed themselves into rants or raves.

But surely anyone who thinks has opinions, and only people who don't think can not have opinions?

Does that not make sense?

Admittedly, I should probably shut the fuck up more and not waft my opinions about so flagrantly, but I enjoy slating Russell T Davies, he's a twat, and I preferred it when he wrote horoscopes for the Sun ;) He can't write sci fi to save his life, and he should be put to death in an inventive and painful manner for making the British Public equate Dr Who with science fiction.

And I was asked for my opinion about Dr Who.

So No, there isn't anything I know about that I don't have an opinion about. There are things I don't care about enough to bother holding a well thought out opinion about, and there are things that I hold deliberately aggressive opinions about, because I like arguing their areas.

I felt put out, and put down, but I don't think I should have done.

Fuck em.

I think, therefore I have opinions, I think.

Do you agree? Let me have your opinions. Except for you Sianodel, you'll just say something nasty, and then I'll cry.

In other news. I am cycling to work which is lovely, I love my bike. The house is looking better. The weather is too hot, and there was something else which I have forgotten.

I've had a short story published online.

2007-05-23T12:02:00.001Z

Which is exciting.

Go here to read it.

I quite want to know what people think, but there doesn't seem to be a way of leaving comments, or anywhere else to leave comments either.

Aah well. Probably better off not knowing.

Smurdi Fshoolay

2007-05-17T08:55:00.000Z

The house has been moved, it now resides in Houn Slow, that places of thieves and brigands. Now it is filled with Brown chavs who, in a bid for racial equality, are as annoying as White chavs.

Congratulations, you're now no better than the natives.

Am I being racist here? I don't think I am, I think I'm just being classist, which is ok, because it is a well established fact that people with brains are better than people with R'nB. (and I'm not talking North Mississippi Allstars here, I'm talking Beyonce)

The house is good. It's small, full of cardboard boxes, and the plaster in the room we have started stripping the wallpaper from is shite, but it's ours. I owe the Royal Bank around five and a half times my annual salary, which is nice, and the Brunette owes them almost all her annual salary. We've got a burglar alarm, a mortgage and a room with no wallpaper on the walls. It's like we're a married couple.

I have almost completed Star Wars, Knights of the Old Republic, which is very good, but I think I may have made a terrible mistake, which means I can't actually beat the big bad chinless dude at the end. Aah well, I'll have to play it through again.

In slightly better news we had a radiator burst the other day, which cost us a little over my weekly salary to fix. It took the plumber two hours. I need a new job. The way I figure it I can do one day's work a month and make as much as I do in a month, that way I have between twenty seven and thirty days a month to play Xbox.

Sorry - that wasn't good news at all. It was simply a cunning ploy to do something or other.

I have recently bought the new Linkin Park Album. My task today is to listen to it as many times as possible to see if it takes multiple listens to become good. So far, disappointing.

I also found City of Lost Children on DVD, with the proper French voices, and subtitles. Unfortunately, in their bid to make it impossible for me to enjoy this film on dvd, the subtitles are rubbisher than those on the VHS. Why, I asked myself. Is it because DVD is a revolutionary new format with possibilities to have multiple audio soundtracks along with interchangeable subtitles? Well, unlikely, because DVD isn't that new any more. What's more likely is that They did it to piss me off. [That's the Them that are out to get me, not the the Other Ones]

I now own four versions of City of Lost Children.

The VHS - the only version worth watching, proper subtitles and no dubbing
The English DVD mk I - no subtitles, dubbed by Janet Street Porter (probably)
The French DVD - Due to a lovely person in France who sent me this limited edition French Edition, I can now watch it in it's full original glory... which means I can't understand it, because I am stupid and don't understand French.
The English DVD mk II - subtitled by someone who has no poetry in their heart. (but speaks better French than me.)

In other news, the Shyster card strikes again, and we're not talking Ewoks here people. Firstly, how come a bus pass costs more than pay as you go? Bastards. Sure, if I was taking buses to Milton Keynes and back eight days a week, it might be worth the money, but otherwise? Wankers. Secondly - I like the innovation of "Automatic Top Up" or whatever they have decided to call it, probably something "funky" like "Cool Groovy Topping", where you can make your oyster card top up automatically once it gets down to less than a fiver. Very useful, but why do all the oyster card innovations ONLY WORK if you're ONLY commuting to Zone 1, or friends with the mayor. Why can't me, a humble bus user use this service? Because Oyster cards are shit?

wait for it...

wait for it....

Yes. Probably. So basically, my oyster card will automatically top up once it goes below five pounds, and I go past an Oyster card machine in a tube station...where I could have topped it up anyway...

Ok, and in other news, ASDA has started doing Auto Shopping, where you're shopping will automatically do it itself, provided you go to ASDA and put everything into a trolley, take it to the checkout, pay for it, bag it and take it home.

Great.

If I was going through tube stations on a regular basis I would be able to top up my Oyster card myself, unless I was criminally stupid or pathologically lazy, so why would I need Automatic Top up? The pathologically lazy should be made to walk, and the criminally stupid should be forced to stay at home. Bastards. I take the bus? Why does that make me a second class citizen? because Shyster cards are shit, but we have to use them, because the government wants us to. That's democracy at work. Use an Oyster card or we'll take all your money away.

But I don't, I take the bus, and because Oyster cards are shite, you can't top them up on a bus, or in fact, at a bus station, in fact, the nearest newsagents that tops them up is the other end of town! Great.

ooh - but I can do web top up right? And I can do it over the phone? Perfect, that's fine.

Oh wait... It says it will top up my card next time I go through a tube station...

But I'm not going through a tube station. If I was going through a tube station I could top up my card myself. In fact the only reason I could possibly have for needing to Web Top Up, Phone Top up OR Automatically Top Up is IF I WAS TAKING THE FUCKING BUS!!!

AAAAAAAARGH!

FUCKWITS!

The "great value" that Oyster promotes is like a Moss Bros sale - "Everything Half Price." It's true, but only because they doubled the price of everything in the store just before they had the sale. Great.

Oyster cards are the cheapest way to travel, because travelling without an Oyster card has been made about as expensive as taking a taxi. They are also really quite shit unless you're travelling almost exclusively in Zones 1 and 2.

Fuckwits.

There are better things going on in my life, I think. I just can't remember them in the red mist of rage that has descended over me.

Scary things

2007-04-20T13:29:00.000Z

Yea, est is season for the verily scary things.

Oh, it is, trust me.

The Brunette and I are buying a house, and as the date approaches I find myself having to play more and more Xbox to blank the terror from my mind. We transferred money to the lawyers the other day for deposits etc. It is more than the Brunette's parents paid for their house in full. It's more than my parents paid for our house, and they got three acres of land with it, and a six bedroom house. We get two up two down and a tube line spitting distance from the back door. I'm not sure I'm convinced.

On the plus side, it is freehold, so at least we get to keep it and hand it down to our children, in the days when Hounslow is a fine, upstanding beautiful part of the world. [Which means either it gets a lot nicer fast, or the rest of the world turns into poo.]

I took my theoretical driving test the other day, glorying in the hazard perception test, which is like the worst computer game ever designed, one which comes with a manual which only serves to confuse and further obscure what it is precisely the player is supposed to do. Apparently you're supposed to click whenever you see a potential hazard and then again every time that hazard changes in any way, and then when it develops into a full blown hazard, but if you click too much then it fails you for clicking rythmically. Now I clicked along to "Enter the Sandman" and it didn't pick up the rhythm, but when I clicked for every potential hazard I saw it failed me.

Another car: potential hazard - my brother could be driving
A bus: potential hazard - a bus driver might be driving
A tree: potential hazard - it could fall onto the road
A bird: potential hazard - it might fly into my windscreen
A horse: potential hazard - it might kick the car or run into the road
Pedestrians: potential hazard - they might run into the road.

It had one scenario driving through a town centre. EVERY pedestrian is a potential hazard, but if you click once for every pedestrian it fails you. What the test demands of you in order to pass is to judge which hazards have been specifically placed into the clip [probably played by paid actors] by the DSA and click the mouse when you detect them, but not to click when you detect a hazard that just happened to be on or near the road while they were filming.

I think they should have done it properly and got Bioware to design the game.

[Game opens with the player character carrying a sword through a jungle teeming with hostile alien life. He/She comes across a car.]

Dialogue - "Aah, a contraption to ferry us safely out of this foreboding place."

[Player climbs into car]

Dialogue - "Aah, and automatic guiding mechanism so I do not have to control this hell bound contraption."

[Driving screen pops up]

***Player character must now point out potential hazards to their companions, who are on the roof of the car armed with bows and arrows.***

Dialogue - "Die Die foul beasts of the forest. Potential hazards all and now laid to rest for all time!!!"

Or something along those lines. I would have enjoyed it much more if I was able to shoot the hazards or at least see something explode every so often, and I would have been better at it.

"Watch out! There's a demon reversing out of that side road without checking his mirrors!!!"

BOOM!

"Oh no, a small child demon has chased a soul destroying bomb out into the road! Shoot it!"

BOOM!

"Watch out for that ammo truck parked on the side of the upcoming bend, thereby obstructing our view of oncoming hostiles!"

BOOM!

Yeah! Wooooooo!

And then they could have a clip at the end of you battling desperately but coming through against all odds.

So I just booked my practical test, and I am going to practice playing "Burnout Revenge" until it happens, that and bettling my way out of forests by blowing things up. Although the practical is a fairly scary prospect too, not as scary, I dare say as the prospect facing the Brunette.

Me insured on her car.

hehe **evil Calvin face**

and worse...

Me driving, her passenging.

hee hee hee **rubs hands slowly in a sinister fashion, despite using both a left AND a right hand**

We have an inspection of our flat next wednesday, which is also scary, since we are hoping to have our deposit back to help pay for things in the new flat, but it means we gots to paint things this weekend and make the flat real neat and tidyified. We have given notice, which means if the house falls through we'll be homeless, possibly living in a VW camper van.

Can you feel the fear? The FeAr. PhEAr! pHeAR!!!!!!

Which reminds me of that series I was going to do on twatmagnets of the nineties, beginning with No Fear T-Shirts. "If you're not living on the edge you're taking up too much space."

Hmmm.. If you're living on the edge I'm going to fucking push you off you twat.

"Second place is the first loser."

No Fear T-Shirts mean you weren't even first loser, you followed all the other losers to the No Fear store and bought loser clothes.

"Does not play well with others. Seems other's have a problem with losing."

Does not play well with others. Seems others have a problem with losers.

I do have to say I like the fact that there is a Christian spin off of No Fear called "Fear God"

Which presumably has slogans like:

"Does not Pray well with others. Seems others have a problem with being bombed."

and

"If you're living on the edge, you might be gay, and will probably burn for all eternity for not conforming to human imposed out of date gender stereotypes."

or maybe

"Second place is the first loser, only winners go to heaven."

Hmmm...like it.

I hope my lawyer gets hyperalgesia and then falls in a bath of acid.

2007-04-12T10:12:00.000Z

My lawyer is a FUCKING CUNT!

I have never so seriously wanted to cause someone pain as I do him. I genuinely hope he dies a painful, lonely death, preferably in the next three months. I hope his loved ones desert him when he needs them, and those that don't, die in front of him as he watches, powerless to save them.

I never used to use the C word - I don't like it, it is an ugly word. The Brunette will confirm that I have even in the past chastised her for the use of it in her plays, as I think it is a blot on the linguistic landscape, ugly in a way few words are, but since I have started dealing with this lawyer I have felt the need to use it more often, it is the worst word I know, and now even it cannot plumb the depths of my hatred for the man. I genuinely don't know words that can describe him, I have not the vocabularic depths to plumb - I just don't think language can do it.

He has been lying to me for two weeks, not lies about anything worth lying about, he's just been promising me he'll put the paperwork in the post, and then EVERY FUCKING TIME I SPEAK TO HIM he tells me he hasn't, it's been delayed, he'll put it in the post today.

If he is to be believed, the clerks working in the firm who employs him are also either liars or entirely incompetent, as none of my messages ever get passed on, he never calls me back, and occasionally he sees fit to blame them for not having posted it as well.

I recommend anyone not to use this firm, but I'm going to hold off until we have finished with them before I put their name or his on my blog. Then I'm going to read the libel laws, just in case.

But for now, if you're a lawyer the safest course is to kill yourself, safe in the knowledge that you are making the world a better place, and if anyone knows any words which I might be able to use to describe the lawyer, please let me know, because even the c word doesn't feel strong enough any more.

Now I'm off to plan revenge stratagies involving the lawyer, barbed wire dipped in canine faeces, and surprise enemas.

Next on the menu - Iran

2007-04-08T10:56:00.000Z

Well, the propaganda machine is gearing up to take us into Iran, with Bush and Blair desperately trying to make sure that this time we have something to find, or that the premise upon which we go in doesn't require any further justification. I'm sure they'll come up with something.

And in New Scientist recently I was flabbergasted to read an article suggesting that humans have an inherent tendancy to categorise people and things, which leads to Racism. Of course this is news to nobody, I imagine, but what truly flabbered my gast was the following description of some research that had been done.

"Hirschfeld found that by the age of three, most children already attribute significance to skin colour. In 1993, he showed a group of children a drawing of a chubby black child dressed up as a policeman, followed by photos of several adults, each of whom had two fo the following three traits: being black, chubby and dressed as a policeman. Asked to decide which person was the boy as a grown-up, most children chose a black adult even though he was either not overweight or minus a police uniform.

"Kids appear to believe," says Hirschfeld, "that race is more important than other physical differences in determining what sort of person one is.""

Before you ask, this was not the April 1st Edition.

I cannot believe that research like this is being allowed to slip through the net - I'm kind of assuming anyone reading this sees the problem, but I am going to put it down here anyway.

Surely this research shows that three year olds already know that people can change their clothes and their weight easily, but can't change their skin colour? Apart from vitilago sufferers (or whatever that disease Jacko claims to have is called)

How can this research be being considered by intelligent human beings? It baffles and upsets me.

In other New Scientists News - they have named the phenomenon of owning a website one letter different from a real one and making it something relevant but subversive "typosquatting" - my favourite example being the blogpot family - any blog address with blogpot instead of blogspot directs the user to the "Abundant Bible Mega Site"

I'm going to email them - but since my blog address and my email address are not the same, I'm going to have to go now.

Fuck Blogger Beta, and all who programmed her.

Mitchell and Webb PC Ads

2007-04-02T08:53:00.000Z

Really make me want to buy PCs.

Where do they sell PCs that can't do video editing... oh wait, they don't.

And the ones where you can't make picture albums and podcasts, or play music? Wait hold on... Are Macs trying to make us believe this crap? Aah. So that's why cretins own them.

I wish I was a good enough programmer to write viruses - then I would specialise in writing them for Macs. The reason there are so many more viruses for PCs than for Macs is because there are proportionally more PC users.

And if PCs are only for office time and Macs are only for leisure, why do almost no PC games support Mac OS?

So Macs allow you to make movies and do podcasts, and PCs allow you to play the latest games, surf the internet AND do work?

Bonus - order me another PC please.

I like this video

I also think it is quite funny the way there are shedloads of Mac users in the comments going, "I've only ever used a Mac and it's running ten programs WAAY faster than Windows...like WAAAAAAAY faster."

Right - you've only ever used a Mac... so how do you know dickwad?

Yes - Microsoft is an evil money grabbing corporation, but hey... Apple isn't? Oh wait, all their stuff is white... it must be good...

Or is that racist?

I think it's racist. Except for the Macbook Pro [Black Edition] for homies everywhere. And the black U2 Ipod. For African American U2 fans. Ummm...

Dreams

2007-03-29T08:29:00.000Z

I had a dream about plumbing last night. I mention this only because it is very rare for me to remember my dreams, which apparently means I repress things more thoroughly than most people. I dreamt that I plumbed in a toilet, but that for some reason the only pipe that was available to do it was the hot water pipe, then I had a discussion about how this was not very economical, and concluded that hey, I don't pay for my hot water so what the fuck.

I have studied psycholanalysis, and I know that everything is supposed to be about sex on one level or other, but what the fuck?

Other than that I am spending my free mental hours investigating the game of diplomacy. Mr Moments has suggested that I, Sianodel, IamEvil and a few other choice mateys try a game or two. We'll be PBEM (playing by e-mail) so it is going to take a long time, but as yet we haven't bee allocated our countries. Moments is allowing us to nominate our top three countries, and I am hopeful that I might get my number 1, as I nominated before I knew anything about the game, and have since discovered that Italy (my no.1) is the nation least likely to win, statistically, so I am out to prove statistics wrong, but I am currently worrying over my neighbours, since I am friends with a fair proportion of my fellow players, which is good for Italy, but bad for friendships when I discover that X is Turkey, and I really have to kill them off quickly, or suchlike. (Obviously, Turkey - I wouldn't dream of attacking you, ever... well, hardly ever.)

Right - I have cooked myself a fryup this morning, and I think it is ready tweet.

Greetings mortals

2007-03-25T21:49:00.000Z

Perpare yourselves for another rambling mind dump. I've not been writing, and it needs to be done, I reckon it's worth a try doing daily pages style things again, so I should be posting more regularly, but with less coherent content than recently.

Show's started, and so far I haven't forgotten my lines, although yesterday I did belt some poor woman in the knee with a step I have to fit for one of the scenes. The Front of House Manager spoke to her, and I apologised at half time, and apprently she left at least partially mollified, I did spend most of the perf worrying about her though, whish wasn't pleasant, so I'll be looking out for that next time.

I have just finished reading a Frank Herbert book, which came with a naked woman on the front - It is a source of bafflement to me how sci-fi books do this. It's like the editor said "It won't sell without a naked chick on the front."

Author: "But honestly, it's actually quite a good book - there are some cracking characters, and I think I've readlly managed to say something about the human condition in relation to the often experienced paranoid feeling that something is controlling us in the way we lead our lives. I have used aliens as a substitute for the 'God' that most of us attribute this to and even worked in some clever allusions as to how the aliens might have come down to the planet surface and played God with us."

Editor: "Dude - naked chick. Otherwise it's remainder material."

Author: "There's actually a real chance that this might bypass genre boundaries and become one of the few science fiction works to be generally accepted by the mainstream readership. Even the thickest and most snobbish of them, who demand that any novel deal solely with investigation of the human condition won't be able to turn this down on that basis."

Editor: "Two words - NAKED CHICK"

Author: "Please. Are you even listening to me? There are no naked women in this book. There is little nakedness at all, and the nakedness that there is within is tastefully necessary.

Editor: " Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick, Naked Chick..."

The author is eventually forced to crumble, at which point the readership becomes composed solely of people who bought the book because it has a naked chick on the cover, who will be sorely disappointed, and those people who are brave enough to read it anyway, and suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous accusations of reading porn by Jilly Cooper readers.

So, I'm thinking up another cover pisture for my novel, one with naked chicks on the front.

I must leave you now, and go to sleep, for I am tired, and my brain is made of sleep sensitive cheese.

So, it's all a bit of an epidermal leisure pastime

2007-03-21T23:53:00.000Z

Can you guess what play I'm in?

Oh yeah, I have lines on a professional stage. Only three, but hey, who's counting?

Mind dumping into a house now filled with electromagnetic waves. I've gone wireless, mainly to stop the Brunette from pulling the bundles of wires out from under my fucking desk every time she uses the internet, but it seems to be working so far, and it should help in the new place, when we finally get the shit sorted. I just fear that I may be electrosensitive, or that I may develop this. You probably haven't read my book, but I suggested that there might be people who were more sensitive to the electromagnetic smog we are immersing ourselves further and further into, and guess what? There are. Long term consequences? Who knows, that's the great thing about thalidomide...I mean, long term things. Sorry.

I also found out that my lawyer used to be a playwright, apparently he had some things on at Contact while I was there. Interesting, and he understands careers in theatre. The problem? Playwrights make fucking awful lawyers, the man's a cretin. If he's billing us by the hour then he's a crooked cretin. Fuckwit. He never calls anyone, and never answers the phone. When I complained in an irritated fashion to his receptionist she said, "Well that's Shaun for you, isn't it?"

Quality - so even his receptionist knows he's an idiot.

Right - tired and got a matinee tomorrow. Toodles.

Sweet Dreams

2007-03-02T12:06:00.000Z

Two pillars of mud drip gently as they grow upwards from the floor,

parentheses of stinking dirt and cloying water stand before a bed.

Thus far the victim sleeps, cherubic and serene.

A muddy figure stretches forward

pulls the covers back.

The child, bared now, shivers in their sleep,

prescience of the figure that watches every breath.

The golden hair surrounds a mind untroubled in its dream.

The muddy figure stretches forward

pulls the child towards itself.

The child awakes and struggles, panic dawns.

It opens up its mouth but makes no noise except to choke.

Now the mind is open, empty but for fear.

The muddy figure stretches forward

plunges its hand into the child’s mouth and pulls,

and pulls,

and pulls the child inside out, the blood comes.

Red and fresh, blooming brightly, roses on the bed,

as what was once a child begins to shake.

Its tortured muscles twist and twitch and tremble

as it slowly loses life, it’s nerves no longer fire.

Its heart, dangling, writhes as it tries to pump,

the empty skin hangs from one clay hand and seems to cry,

and the muddy figure speaks

“You should have been a better boy.”

2007-02-27T17:27:00.002Z

I realise, having re-read my uninspired, dull and worthless post from earlier today, that I perhaps need to dump, just dump, just get rid of shite that is cluttering up my head. I feel stuffed up, my sinuses are affecting my brain, and both are full of crap, so here's hoping that if I evacuate enough of the shite that is currently swimming round my head I will feel better and perhaps start producing some more worthy words soon.

I've been feeling rubbish for a while, I don't usually get ill, and I never get colds, although what I have at the mo may well be a cold, I don't know, cos I never get them. It started off with a nasty sore throat and moved down to my chest, where it fired up the mucoid industry, which had been awaiting its chance to flood the market of my body with it's sticky schlep, and then relocated into my sinuses, where it either dribbles at innopportune moments of prevents me from respiring, both of which encourage me to sniff, which I reckon shoots bolts of stulitifying mucoid death into my brain pan, slowing my mental faculties to the point where they can't move at all for being soaked in snot.

Nice.

Devil Wears Prada - fairly rubbish
Lord of War - Ok, but no great shakes
Brick - Fucking fantastic
Last Kiss - Zach Braff is shit, but watchable film (just)
Accepted - Shiter than expected.

The Brunette's birthday is fast approaching, and while I reckon ten pounds of bacon is a wicked birthday present, she doesn't, so it's back to the drawing board on that front.

I am feeling steeped in a general malaise, where I don't want to go to the gym, I don't want to write, I don't want to go to work, or to work once I'm there, I don't even want to play on the xbox, I just don't want to anything. I can sum up how I feel physically at the moment with the phrase, "Don't want to..."

It's kind of worrying, cos I don't usually feel like this, it also allows me an excuse for this post, because as much as my conscious mind is urging, "Type, damn you, type, just get it out." My unconscious, or subconscious, or any psyche terror group that wants to claim responsibility for my current state is saying, "Don't want to." Which would probably be their response to a suggestion that they take responsibility for anything.

I have mixed feelings about the bus ticket forgers who've recently been busted. On one hand they are bastards who have been making money by charging commuters for dodgy bus tickets, but on the other hand, transport in London is massively overpriced, Ken has been practising his ass reaming for years, and it is coming to perfection with the double hammer of congestion charge AND ridiculously over priced public transport. Imagine someone who could charge eight pounds a day to drive in a city - what a fucker. Now imagine someone who is able to make that worthwhile by charging such extortionate prices for public transport that eight quid a day is actually pretty good value - what a twat.

Perhaps my malaise (sounds like a new type of gourmet mayonnaise) is to do with the fact that I have been feeling remarkably like "the man" has got to me to such an extent that I no longer feel like sticking it to him very much any more. I just want to come home and watch tv. A regular, semi fulfilling job and a workaday life have drained me and left me feeling humdrum, and that's annoying me. Which is a good start I guess, because at least it means I haven't entirely accepted being humdrum yet.

There are simply a catalogue of minor woes that have been sucking energy from me, small inefficiencies at work (no, I'm not going to give examples to anyone) and that fact that the Brunette and I are paying out approximately twelve times my annual salary (before tax) for a house that's about as big as my parents garages, and which has worse decor, and the fact that our lawyers are being shite, and that once we do get into the house it's going to take us months to do the place up because we both work such stupid job hours, which with the weather, which is frankly pants at the moment, and the fact that I ostensibly have a long list of things I must do are all adding up to create a big pile of "I can't be bothered to do anything now!"

That sentence was so long I lost track of how it started, so if it ended badly, I'm sorry. I'm mind dumping, I can't be expected to go back and check things to make sure they make sense! You're lucky I'm trying my best with teh typos, instead of letting them pile up.

I actually extracted them all and will leave a small pile at the bottom of the post for anyone who wants one to take away.

And blogger are still being twats.

Please take one:

qwweeeeertryuioppalskllkdjfhhgnnnlllmnxvbvbvzxlklklklklllllwtfhfjjksa@@#:L:;##

I'm twenty six now

2007-02-27T07:51:00.000Z

and it feels very much the same.

Housing seems to be proceeding reasonably smoothly, fingers crossed, touch wood and all that crap.

I'm too tired to be blogging much at the mo - I'm struggling through a script for Night Warrior at the mo, and have purchased Scott Mcloud's "Understanding comics - the invisible art" to aid me, on the recommendation of Mr Ranting. It's very good, very good indeed, although it would be more useful for me if I were an artist.

Ebaumsworld behind the times again with the Vader sessions, which are nevertheless, still hugely worth watching.

Snow

2007-02-08T08:48:00.000Z

again.

Soon to be slush.

So, the Brunette and I are buying a house. So far, touch wood, everything seems to be proceeding fairly smoothly. Once the offer was accepted there was a brief period of hell where we had all sorts of people calling telling us they all needed the original copies of our last three months bank statements and our passports sent to them in the next three hours or the house would explode, which, being that we have three passports each, was fine, although I can't remember which named passport I gave to which person. Now they've all been paid they've fucked off and left us to our own devices, which on my part has consisted of drawing scale outlines of the rooms and cutting pieces of paper to the same size as our furniture and seeing where we can put it, which has been quite good (I hadn't realised that the bedroom is actually quite big) and also quite bad ( can't see any way to put both couches in the living room.)

I have also designed a desk which is all singing and all dancing, and intend to build it as soon as I'm sure this is actually going to happen. I am concerned that the Brunette is radically underestimating the cost of a kitchen, which I don't particularly want to be installing myself, but may end up having to, because we can't afford the 7 grand (minimum) it is likely to cost to have one put in by someone else.

At the LBFBTV we are finishing up the show, which is very nice, but I want to make a public service announcement for anyone who reads this and goes to the theatre.

IT IS CONSIDERED IMPOLITE TO MOVE THE FUCKING SET WHEN IN THE THEATRE UNLESS YOU ARE A TECHNICIAN OR STAGE MANAGER

The audience at the LBFBTV are very rude when it comes to this, they seem to think that if they wish to get somewhere, it is perfectly permissable to push things to one side, or to pull them further on stage. Someone last night pushed something about eight inches further on stage, spilling the water in the item as she did so, and left it there. When I went to replace the item she started making a fuss.

"I've paid a lot of money for this seat." she started.

I had to explain that the items on the set were important to the show and where they were on the stage had actually been chosen and marked fairly carefully to that the actors could move around the items. I was unable to explain that twelve pounds is not a lot of money for a theatre seat, and in any case she had chosen to sit behind the damn thing, when she could easily have sat elsewhere in the space. It's just a fucking liberty, frankly.

Blogger is still asking for a bombing. I must point out however, to make the Brunette happier (she seems to think I'm going to get arrested for commenting about bombs due to the local nutter who is mailing people explosive literature) that I have no intention of mailing my bomb to google, I shall take the opportunity to visit California, and deliver it by hand.

I think I've figured out why she bought the Xbox as well. It's to distract me from the fact that I'm buying a house with her.

Well hello commentless folk

2007-01-25T11:50:00.001Z

Right

Firstly, I'd like to kick things off by having a moan about how shit blogger beta is. It's not beta, it's wurs. I like to keep my blog seperate from my work and from various parts of my web presence, and blogger has managed to take away just a little bit more of our privacy with blogger beta - I have a gmail account. I love my gmail account, it's big, it's friendly, and it doesn't touch me in places that make me uncomfortable, and yes, I let it rest it's cookie on my tired hard drive, because it feels good, and then I don't have to sign in every time I access my email from home - so now, when I try and blog - it tries to sign me in using my gmail access, because both parties are pwned by google (not a typo) they are obviously information sharing, and while I will put up with some History Boys cookie fondling, I won't take two, there just isn't room in this town for the both of them, so every time I want to blog I have to go to blogger, click to sign in, wait until it's signed me into an account I'm not going to use, which takes much longer than it used to on old blogger, then sign out and go through the process of deleting my details from the boxes and putting them back in again. It's just annoying, it's not going to kill me, it's just going to piss me off. Frankly, my dear, they're fuckwits.

If anyone has any creative solutions other than bombing the google offices, please let me know. Maybe you've encountered this very same problem.

Right - onwards, and upwards, in tone if not in style.

The Brunette recently bought an xbox. Yup. This is why I love her so much. She hasn't actually played on it much yet I don't think, although that's not my fault in any way. I was encouraged by this purchase and bought Halo 2.

I've heard a lot about the Halo games, I have only ever played PC games, unless you count some rounds of duckshoot at a friend's house when I was a kid, and being inexplicably good at Sonic at the same friend's house. I had a deprived childhood, I didn't have a tv, and I didn't have a console. That's why I'm a genius and you're not. (That doesn't apply to all my readers, Mum, I know you're there somewhere.)

So I played the first text adventures on the PC, and Digger, and a crazy typing game where letters were going to fall on your head if you didn't type them, and then I discovered piracy. Sensible amounts of pocket money = can't afford to buy Doom = borrow it off a mate and copy it.

Wolfenstein, Doom, Rise of the Triads I played, Quake was always a bit advanced, and had copy protection, so I never got that. And then I forgot about First Person Shooters until I discovered Unreal Tournament in my third year of University. That's why I got a 2:2 and you got a 2:1 or better. (I have a highly edumacated readership)

Unreal rocks, but you still play it on a PC.

Halo 2 rocks harder, although I haven't played Xbox live, (I don't want to pay for something I can get for free...on my PC)

Basically all this spiel about never having played console games is leading up to an excuse. I played the game through on 'easy' first. Controlling an FPS using a pad is very difficult for me, I'm still having trouble and I'm halfway through on 'normal.'

I hold my hands up, 'easy' is easy... really easy... I only died a handful of times, and most of those times were because I walked off the edge of something without looking properly first. The rest of them were fighting hunters, because those bastards are immune to everything.

Halo 2 is the best FPS I have ever played, despite the fact that half the time I end up running away trying desperately to stop looking at the floor or the ceiling because I have forgotton how to control my view. The movement is wonderful, the graphics are superb, the AI is better than any I have ever seen. They hide, they scatter if you take out there leader. You can even listen to them giving orders to their troops and then use tactics to nullify the advantage they think they've given themselves.

I've pasted myself into a corner timewise now. I have to go to work very soon.

I have one grumble about Halo 2, and that is with the ending, which has no videos to wrap things up and tidy things away, nothing to really make you feel like you've completed the game, it feels like a breakpoint in the game, with a few chapters still to go. I know Halo 3 is out soon, and I am interested to see how that ends, although I may well not get the chance, but I thought you should get some payback when you complete.

Having said that, Halo 2 is not a game you play for the videos, it's a game you play for the game.

Mr Churchill

2007-01-12T15:05:00.000Z

I've owed this to Gregorian Ranting for a very long time. I apologise if it is not the most polished piece of writing in the world. Despite having had it half finished on my hard drive for at least a year I haven't been making it gradually better, it was simply sitting pretty. Any comments please go ahead. It's 2.5k words, just so I let you know before you start reading.

Mr Churchill

It was the end of the season, all the girls that were going to get married had been found a match, and those few left had resigned themselves to another year of waiting when the whispers started to run through the town.

Mothers began to buy their daughters dresses, the social circle began to effervesce one last time. One final ball was planned. It was thrown in one man’s honour. It had been conceived in the silence after a single sentence.

“Mr Churchill is coming to town.”

This fateful sentence had been uttered by none other than Mrs Caltrop, a small, sharp woman, who was nevertheless always to be found underfoot wherever everybody who was anybody was drinking. She had had no news all season, and this piece of dynamite had rocked everyone back on her heels and put her very much on top for the season finale. Everybody knew Mr Churchill, he was rich, eligible and very very witty.

Murmurs began to spread, his epigrams, his jests, his anecdotes...

“...but in the morning I will be sober.”

“He stayed up all night playing poker with tarot cards, he got a full house, and four people died...”

“... there was nothing, and then the Lord said ‘Let there be light’ and then there was nothing, only now you could see it.”

The date was set, the ball was ordered, the lucky daughters who hadn’t quite made the cut the first time round were practising their lines.

“My My, Mr Churchill, oh, may I call you Alphonse? Why thank you, charmed I’m sure. I am Greta, Mr Churchill...”

The fathers took to muttering, running their best jokes out from the closet and dusting them off, some took to reading the papers in the hope of an anecdote or quip that Mr Churchill might not have heard.

The lady to whom the honour of hosting the ball had gone was a Mrs Malcustard, a former teacher, who had nonetheless risen to the heights of society once her husband had died. He had left her a fortune in property, and she had, once unencumbered by his lack of taste, quickly doubled and doubled again her worth. She was now owed money to by almost all the best people, and this made her a lady whose presence anywhere was very much in demand.

She had cleared one of her townhouses for the purpose, a building with a vast garden, into which she was planning to fit a marquee she had hired in from Holland at great expense. A spiegeltent, a luxurious tent with stained glass windows, a stage upon which cabaret could be performed, and in which heating was possible, to take the edge off the cold evenings this time of year often provided.

The house itself was being gutted to provide catering facilities and enough snug corners and crannies into which after dinner conversations might take themselves and provide comfort for every gentleman invited who proved not to be Mr Churchill’s equal at repartee.

Mrs Malcustard became fond of talking about the amount of project management she was having to do herself.

“Not that I would usually admit to being any good with this sort of thing, but I seem to have a knack. The workmen are putty in my hands. Once I even took them out tea myself. They were struck dumb. Even dumber, I mean.

“But Mrs Malcustard, surely this sort of thing is man’s work really.” Mrs Caltrop, who was struggling to remain at the top, was determined to undermine the future host’s credibility as a lady of taste.

“My dear Edenza, of course had I still a husband,” Mrs Malcustard was quick to point out Mrs Caltrop’s tastelessness in bringing this subject up, “Then I would have been forced into leaving the matters of practicality in his hands, however, I have been blessed with enough common sense to realise that this would not be a useful course of action in my current situation, and so I have taken over. I am sure he doesn’t mind. I am determined that this little gathering be a success, and I am sure that the application of my mind to the problem will only make matters better.”

More than anything, Mrs Malcustard wished it to be known that it would be her triumph, her success which would shine around Mr Churchill as if he were a perfectly cut diamond, and she the jeweller who had excelled at setting such a piece.

“After all, the work on the designs and the little things are things at which I excel, and I enjoy making sure that our eminent guest to be feels that we have done him justice.” Mrs Malcustard was a graceful enough winner to know when to throw a bone to her defeated rivals. Mrs Caltrop was hungry enough to bite quick and fast when she had the chance.

“Mr Churchill, apparently, is conducting a political tour celebrating his recent victory in the local elections. I understand he won with a vast majority. My cousin voted for him, you know.”

The gathered women nodded wisely. They did not know where he had been elected, they just wished they had had the honour of being able to vote for him. Each one gently tried to imagine how pleasant life would be with Mr Churchill as a son-in-law, except for Mrs St-John Parsons, who had six sons, and very rarely said anything at these little meetings. She tended to doze in the corner, and nobody blamed her. It would have exhausted anyone. Many of them cursed the proposals they had so eagerly urged their daughters to accept earlier in the year, and wondered if there was any way of escaping the bounds of verbally contractual obligations without casting everlasting shame upon their daughters.

“So, Mrs Malcustard.” Mrs Peasbuttock enquired, “When will we be getting a tour of the planned festivities?”

It was customary for whoever was throwing the party to give tours to various small groups of the women who would be attending the party. With a little disinformation, some hints as to what might be occurring in various places and some impressive drawings to show the ladies, as well as some well oiled builders, the party could be made to be a success in everybody’s minds before it actually occurred. It also allowed them to plan the plans of attack they would press upon their daughters, ready for the evening where the rest of their daughter’s lives could be decided.

“No, Marjoram, I will not be touring. I am far too busy, and there are some dangerous installations. I’m afraid it would simply be too dangerous and too time consuming.”

With one sentence Mrs Malcustard had dispensed with the touring custom. Were tours even necessary when there were ‘dangerous installations’ to be gossiped about?

The weeks passed and the gossip intensified. Marjoram Peasbuttock claimed to have accidentally wandered into the building while preparations were ongoing and seen no dangerous installations, but this was written off as sour grapes at having been snubbed in her request for a tour. Mrs Smish-Bluthroe was unceremoniously thrown from the property having been found snooping round late one night. She had been desperate to find a husband for her intelligent and bookish daughter, Martha, and had hoped that if she could find an appropriate way to introduce her daughter, that Martha might win Mr Churchill round with her wit. It was Mrs Smish-Bluthroe’s hope that an intelligent man might treasure Martha for her quick wit and intelligent conversation, despite her having been pulled through the ugly hedge backwards at a young age.

Eventually the day came. Every stylist with any sort of reputation was booked solid from six in the morning, and some of the pushier mothers deliberately tried to detain stylists once they had finished with their offspring. Some of the stylists allowed themselves to be detained by various offers, with varying results. One received a message after having taken full advantage of their eager hosts pantry to the effect that Fnoozie, their beloved poodle was in danger of being dropped into the Thames with a brick attached to its collar if they did not appear at their next clients house within five minutes. Another over imbibed at lunch and butchered two coiffures before being stopped and impounded. To my knowledge he was last seen opening a hairdressers in Shepton Mallet, specialising in hair for the recently released.

A hundred daughters picked nervously at their light lunches, memorising their quips and practising their laughs. Martha Smish-Bluthroe finished a particularly good novel and began composing a letter to the Times regarding her utter boredom with this evening’s planned activities.

Mr Churchill arrived on a train into Paddington, where he was met by Mrs Malcustard, and noticeably only Mrs Malcustard. Other women had been warned away, and had stayed away, fearing being seen as ‘too keen’ above all. He looked nothing special, and seemed surprised to see even Mrs Malcustard.

“Good day. I was expecting no reception, it is so kind of you to come.” His hair was dark brown and glossy, his eyes sparkled with invitation, his dress sense was impeccable, and as he bent slightly to kiss Mrs Malcustard’s cheek, he wafted a cloud of knee weakeningly masculine cologne past her.

Mrs Malcustard flushed, “It is no bother, Mr Churchill. I have the honour of being your host for this evening. If you don’t mind, I thought we could retire to one of my smaller townhouses, and you may have this afternoon to prepare yourself.”

Mrs Malcustard had no daughters, she was throwing the party simply for her own benefit. She neither wanted nor needed another husband, she simply desired to claw her way to the top of the social ladder and stay there, and her plan was working.

“Well, that is very kind of you. I was planning on visiting Edenza. Mrs Caltrop.”

Edenza Caltrop’s standing had never been surer. Mrs Malcustard blushed, “I will invite her to spend the afternoon with us. I had no idea you knew her. She never mentioned it.”

Mr Churchill chuckled. His voice was rich with promise, lilting rumbles gave his words tones they were not designed to have, and created effects Mrs Malcustard could feel even through three decades and her self-erected social wall. “Of course I know her. She is my aunt.”

Edenza could not have hoped for more. Mrs Malcustard almost choked as she climbed up next to Mr Churchill. “Well I am sure she will accept my invitation then. Really, she should have told us.”

Their journey was mercifully swift, and as Mr Churchill investigated the rooms Mrs Malcustard had put aside for him. They were far plusher than he had anticipated, but he smiled to himself as he realised his aunt must pull more weight than he had imagined.

Mrs Malcustard, meanwhile, had sent a messenger for Mrs Caltrop, and was conducting some research of her own into Mr Churchill’s origin. He looked the part, he sounded the part, but she was sure that the Mr Churchill they had been so eagerly anticipating was no relation of Edenza Caltrop’s. Nobody could have an aunt that socially vituperative and be the man they had all believed him to be. Of course, if her suspicions were correct there was nothing she could do at this stage, she was as deep in as Edenza, and stood to lose a great deal if Mr Churchill did not deliver.

When Mrs Caltrop arrived, she was sent up to Mr Churchill’s rooms and remained within until Mrs Malcustard felt it necessary to drag her out for a ‘little chat.’

They arrived at the party as a trilogy.

“Mrs Malcustard, our erstwhile host.” The assembled clapped and cheered as Mrs Malcustard began nervously mingling. The ‘dangerous installation’ which had turned out to be a full size Trevy Fountain carved from ice was a great hit, and already she could sense the glares being directed her way turning into plans as to how to outdo her at next season’s opening party. She knew it would take some doing, and had some ideas herself, provided she could make it through the evening.

“Mrs Caltrop, aunt of Mr Churchill.” This time the assembled fell silent in a moment of respect as they realised there was more to Mrs Caltrop than a painful sensation occasionally incurred in various reception rooms. She swept in, clad in a dark gold silk dress, a gift, they surmised, from the long awaited Mr Churchill.

Mr Churchill waited nervously outside. He had been instructed to keep out of sight by his aunt and the battleship who had accosted him at the station. Never had he felt quite so apprehensive about entering a party, even the one where he had planned and successfully executed the plan to divert his wife’s chaperone and propose to her. He smoked a cigarette while he waited. It was not a habit he approved of, nor one of which he partook often, but sometimes a little nerve calmer was necessary, and he had seen ample examples of the fact that alcohol was not the correct route to take if performance was expected of one.

He had been briefed by the two women. Mrs Malcustard had, by dint of banging Mrs Caltrop’s head against the wall repeatedly, extracted a confession from his aunt. She had misled everyone by allowing them to understand that the Mr Churchill that was coming to town was the tremendously witty and erudite rake who bore the same surname as her nephew, whose first name was not ‘Alphonse’ at all, but was instead ‘Geraint.’ Mrs Malcustard had gone to great trouble and expense creating a party in his honour, and the party was to go ahead, whether he liked it or not. He was to pretend to be the Mr Churchill everybody thought he was, and not let slip that he was in fact member of parliament for Rogerstone in Wales. He was indeed known for his speech making, but more for his revolutionary policies and fervour than for any rapier sharp commentary.

Once he had finished his cigar he breathed deeply and rounded the corner, facing the door to the house he brushed himself down in preparation and began the march towards his ordeal. He mounted the stairs into the house and scuttled down a corridor where a servant in livery fielded him.

“You are?”

Geraint looked at the man in horror for his own predicament, “Mr Churchill.”

The footman bolted upright and saluted in confusion, “I’ll have you announced.”

The man waved towards a doorway and disappeared before Mr Churchill had a chance to ask him not to. After a moment he heard a swell in noise and a sudden hush. His entrance was upon him.

He turned to the door the man had indicated and pushed it open. Inside was a partially melted ice statue of grotesque proportion and a crowd of people looking more impressed than any of his political crowds had ever done him the service of appearing. He stepped into the room.

As he cleared his throat to greet the throng a voice piped up from the back of the room.

“You’re not that Mr Churchill. Not the one we’ve been expecting. You’re the MP for somewhere in Wales.”

Hubbub broke out. Geraint spied Mrs Malcustard shushing people while fighting her way back towards the troublemaker. He could see Mrs Caltrop making her way out of a side entrance. It had not been her voice.

Someone else called out, “Go on then. If she’s not right then tell us she’s not.”

Geraint looked out over the crowd and realised that Mrs Malcustard was currently being hustled into the bowl of the fountain by two rowdy youths. He could see the troublemaker clearly now, a young girl in glasses. She piped up again.

“I saw your picture in the paper a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you get married recently?”

Mr Churchill, who was known for his quick wit, looked down in dismay and remarked 'Bugger.'

2007

2007-01-05T11:47:00.001Z

New Year - same old shit.

I've sent my novel off to a few agents in the hope that one of them might like it. I seem to have lost weight over Christmas, and I'm bored and almost looking forward to going back to work.

I also joined a new writer's forum, which looks interesting - I had to submit something and be approved before I was let in, so it might have better writers in than most of them out there, and they are certainly more active than many of the groups out there. I joined Zokutou once, and I think my post upon joining was probably the last thing in their forum.

I have to take issue with something I read in the forums however. Someone was comparing writers to concert pianists, pointing out that concert pianists (at the peak of their careers) practice four or more hours a day.

Fair enough. A fact is a fact. But then to exhort writers to do the same is wrong, plain and simple. If I were a concert typist, someone who typed great works of literature so that people could read them as they came up on a a big screen, or so that a Stephen Hawking type voice could read them out as I typed them, then it might be a fair comparison. If I took care to pause in the appropriate places so that the big voice in the sky paused with me, to add drama or weight to a moment, then it might work. If I learnt great pieces of literature off by heart so that I could 'perform' them without having to read them as I typed, it would be a remarkably good comparison. But I don't, because I'm not a typist, I'm a writer. I have news for you. Any writer who considers themself in the same area of the ballpark as a concert pianist is not a writer, they are a typist.

I'm a writer - a writer is the composer, not the performer. I don't have stats for how many hours a day a composer 'practices' while at the peak of their career - I don't know. I suspect they are like writers, when they are on a roll they can write for eight or ten hours a day, getting up only to put [insert foodstuff/stimulant here] in one end and dispose of the remnants later, when they're not they might be 'refilling their artistic well' or thinking of new ideas, new characters, new plots, rather then honing their typing skills.

It's a false simile. A writer invents, creates and documents. One of the wonderful things about books is that there is no concert pianist, there is no middleman putting their own swing on the creators ideas, no musician who has their own concepts of what the piece is about. The worst you'll get is someone choosing a dodgy font, otherwise the communion is between author and reader, about as close to mind to mind we can get without state of the art electronic equipment.

As a reader I get to take words that have come straight out of someone else's mind and put them directly into my own, as a writer I get to take words out of my mind and put them straight into other people's minds. That's what it's about. Meme transfer on the most essential level you can get. The only art form I can think of which gets closer is visual art, and I'm talking non commissioned artworks created by their conceptualiser, so film, tv, animation (unless animated by its creator) etc are out. That gets closer with the loss of semantic clarity. A picture speaks a thousand words, but those words are different for each person depending on background. A writer who expresses themselves clearly should be able to put the same words in everybody's minds, or close to.

It's like the mind doesn't have a macro lens. You get too close, you lose clarity. In fact, it is more of a fixed focus lens, to close, lose clarity, too far away, lose clarity. A writer should be able to land in focus.

It's rapidly approaching the time

2006-12-22T16:45:00.000Z

when I do a post full of pictures, because I feel I should post and yet having to stamp round endless fucking shops playing endless "Best of Christmas Hits" and being rammed in the shins by mothers who have insisted on taking their triplet-prams shopping to boutique shops in Richmond that can only fit three people at a time, except for during Christmas where suddenly they have twice as much expensive shite and ninety eight people in them at once.

It's like orgies in ancient Rome only less fun and with fewer Christians. So I'm trying a combination this year. I have four pictures to post. Some of which will mean nothing to you, others of which I hope will make your ears bleed.

London has been in the grip of a fog for the past week or so, it has descended over the capital, blanketing its bustling streets with a peaceful quality entirely inappropriate to the hectic evil rush to buy things that is going on beneath it's quiet embrace. It does, however, in addition to freezing your face off, make it feel quite Christmassey. Like Jack the Ripper, who murdered prostitutes in the pea soupers of his time, (can you say... Ipswich) it makes me want to go and cut people's heads off. Although that's not really the fog, that's the people.

Anyway - I found a card, and I bought it. "Hold on" I can hear you saying, "A card?... This man must be crazy!"

No. I bought it for myself. It's an Edward Monckton card. I like his designs, the madness mice are creatures I have been afraid of since I was very young, and who out of all who have lived with a woman can doubt the shoe of loveliness. This one, however, has a different message.

Killing people is a good idea. Funny, even. Now there have been people in history who have espoused this theory, only they're all either dead, or in prison for war crimes. Except for Bush, Blair and Pinochet, who for reasons unknown to me have got away with it. I find this card funny, and blackly appropriate for my Christmas mood, especially after the tech week I've been through, but why do other people find it funny? When I make jokes like this people look at me and shake their heads as if to say, "You'll be burning in hell for that one you unfunny twat." but this is being mass marketed! I'm impressed and horrified in equal measure.

This is a picture of a web ad - I don't know what for, I don't notice web ads any more. What they don't realise is that many people (myself included) will actively boycott company's using intrusive advertising. While I regularly stock up on bootleg viagra from the public spirited people who sell it over 'the hotmail farmacy' I will not buy from intrusive web advertisiers. Coupled to that is the fact that we are becoming so saturated with adverts that we no longer take them in. Often I watch ads on tv and think, "That was a good ad." to myself (sad, I know) but then realise that actually, technically, it wasn't a good ad at all, because despite the beautiful camera work and fantastic storyboarding, I have no idea what it was trying to sell me. By contrast, I find myself unable to shake the name of Halifax from my head after watching their appalling adverts with that speccy twat and their cringworthy attempts to make themselves 'hip' but will NEVER EVER bank with them on account of their advertising. Make note, advertisers - a bad advert will do you as much damage if not more than a good one does you help.

Anyway, back to the eyes. They're mine. Not the scabby skin in the middle, the man clearly has a vitamin deficiency, probably B or D I would say, and I would be interested to know what the rest of his face looks like, because his eyes look exactly like mine, and I can say with authority. Yes, they are the eyes of a madman.

I did art yesterday.

And I read ebaumsworld

As a technician, working with gaffer tape a lot, this looks like a quality idea. I think with holes in the approriate places you could bring a child up this way - you'd always know where they were, no worries of them picking things up and putting into their mouths, or of throwing their toys to the floor over and over again.

I also found a good alternative to a Christmas tree. I'm allergic to Christmas trees. It could be psychosomatic, or it could be a hangover from being dragged round for walks in pine forests - the dullest kind of forest - in my youth. I think this is a cool idea, and I think that I may try and institute as a tradition for myself and the Brunette that we try and find a different way to represent a Christmas tree each year.

So I''ll be leaving you to your festivities now.

Christ Mess

2006-12-21T15:15:00.000Z

Welcome to the first day of my Hannukkah Holiday.

My plans for having a pleasant time off entirely alone having been scuppered by farces beyond my control, I am preparing for rental influx. I have wrapped all my presents (I think) and I have ignored tidying almost completely.

I have managed not to call any of the people on my "to call" list, but I did buy a brush and dustpan this morning, so the kitchen is a bit cleaner.

For the past four days I've been working on a get in, thirteen hour days and precious little thanks from Directors. Apparently "he couldn't fault us" and our work had been, "not bad." Well thanks. Thanks very much.

I have to finish a short story, and do more washing - so I must rush. The glamour of my life is getting to me.

I have news!

2006-12-12T19:31:00.000Z

In quick reference to my last post - I'm not technically an arms dealer, I just sell them to kids. And my Dad is not a spy, no metter what Mr Goulden says. (And frankly old boy, I'd be very careful - termination with extreme discretion is the speciality of the house)

I entered a short story competition a while back, over at Mr Skintwriter's house.

And he's just published a shortlist of stories:

in alphabetical order

* Angus by Kenneth Shand
* Escape From Suffering by Peter Caunt
* Full of Grace by Polyphiloprogenitive
* Snow by John T Ahearn
* The Execution of Jimmy Crow by DBA Lehane
* Therefore I am by Theonlygolux

and you may notice me there at the bottom, masquerading as theonlygolux in the world, and not a mere device. Also not number three, Ms Philogrogenitive writing about what it's like to be her. (heh)

Links to the stories are over at Skint's site if you are interested enough to read them. You may also be able to vote (or in fact nominate,) so please do so. Not necessarily for me - but nominate nonetheless - the more the merrier.

Goodbye for now.

I love my job

2006-12-06T19:00:00.000Z

I've finished Nano. Now there's just one more thing to say.

2006-12-01T19:41:00.000Z

Current Life Goals

2006-11-21T08:59:00.000Z

1 - Stop drinking caffeine
2 - Learn to control my sugar intake
3 - Redevelop my body into temple in the style of Daniel Craig
4 - Don't let some crazy nut job whack my bollocks with a weighted rope
5 - Keep learning new things
6 - Stop buying books unless I specifically want them
7 - Stop buying anything unless I specifically want it
8 - Trim down my wardrobe so I'm not keeping things I won't wear
9 - Try and make the Brunette do the same (ha ha)
10 - Get off my ass and get published

It's not the new year, but hey, New Year's Resolutions. I feel like an ex-con who's been given a second chance and has decided to change the way he lives. That's a slightly dodgy metaphor, as I was never convicted. Some of the goals are vaguely tongue in cheek, and others are deadly serious. I'm trying to become a productive person.

Anyway. I've already given up smoking this year, and it has made going to the pub much less fun, and has had minimal effect on my fitness, bank balance and sex life, so I'm thinking that the hype about how giving up smoking is good for you - actually it's all bollocks. What has driven me to distraction is that bar Sianodel's mother, everyone I know who has given up smoking has started again without blinking. Now they are obviously wiser than me, and have realised that "smoking = big, hard and clever" and most importantly "smoking = cool" but it still irritates me. If I can't do it, why should they be able to. It's not fair.

***goes away and weeps in corner***

I'm more than halfway through my third novel. It's set in our world and the most frequent thing my main character has done so far is drink tea. Which make a change from last year's meth gobbling OCD sufferer.

I'm still getting rounds of applause for my turn onstage at the LBFBTV. It's amazing, I just act the rest of them offstage, and I'm heavily encumbered too, and dressed up like a ponce.

Does it make me abnormal to daydream about beating people to death and getting away with it? [If it makes any difference, they deserved it.]

However, I can now do seven minutes on a concept rower at under two minutes split time, which I'm assured is not bad. James Bond, here I come.

/later edit/
oh yeah - and Natwest Bank are wankers. I went onto the highstreet to get some copies of documents certified for the ISAs I've set up, and went in to Natwest, where I hold an account. Having been made to wait for fifteen minutes, the woman came out and said,

"What are they for? We don't certify documents unless they are specifically for Natwest business."

"Well if they were Natwest business I wouldn't need them certified you unhelpful bitch - I've brought them here." Went through my mind. "Fine" came out my mouth.

So I left and went to Lloyds, to see my buddy the bank manager there, and they certified my documents no questions asked. They even made me a spare copy.

I don't know if it is Natwest policy. If it is it should be changed, because it's lousy customer service. It might just be that the Twickenham branch of Natwest are tossers. Who can say?

So Natwest: 0 Lloyds TSB: 1

Remind me to stop blogging from work.

2006-11-20T10:21:00.000Z

I had a long blog that I had written during my supper break at work that was mainly content concerning how much shopping at this time of year makes me wants to stab my eyes out with a fork and poke knitting needles in my ears, and how much Christmas encourages me towards multiple homicide, and how people who claim Christmas is about love and forgiveness, happiness and thankfulness for being alive are either stupid or liars, it's about spending money and pretending we care about people we don't. If you don't love someone for the rest of the year, then you don't love them at Christmas. We've even forgotten about its roots, and I'm not talking about Father Christmas and Coca Cola, although that's about as valid as the Christian version, I'm talking about the original Christmas the oringinal winter celebration, before it even got shat on by the Christians, before it was named after some egotistical little twat who said:

"I come to set man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law. And man's foes shall be they of his own household. He that loveth his father and mother more than me is not worthy of me: he that loveth his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me."

Matthew 10:35:37

Yeah. Love and Peace like that is more like the Christmas we know today. Go Christians.

Give us a 'C'
Give us an 'H'
Give us an 'R'
Give us an 'I'
Give us an 'S'
Give us a 'T'

on a fucking pushbike.

Well. Work ate it, so here I am again.

Saw Casino Royale - very good.
Saw The Prestige - not bad, although I wish they hadn't made it supernatural and then called it 'science' because it really doesn't do science any favours. And what irritates me more is that I know people will be coming out of that going, "Wow - I never realised Tesla coils could do that!" Well I have news. They can't. They won't, and that made me disappointed in the film. That said, it was damn good for the rest of it, if a little predictable.

I'm back on nano-track, having put in a stint this morning and I'll be doing more before I go twerk.

The Brunette's back, and the flat is already a tip. We went walking round Hounslow yesterday, and, amazingly, are still alive to tell the tale. There are actually some nice areas and it wasn't half as bad as I imagined it would be. I was impressed by the upmarketness of the town centre, which not only has a 99p shop - one better than a pound shop, but also a 98p shop... one better than that. And wait for it.... it's worth the wait... really.. it is. They have a 90p shop for people like me, mortgage and a job that pays me a fraction of what I'm worth. So it's ok folks, I can afford to get you all presents this year.

Right now, I'm thinking bacon sadwiches and Spooks sounds like a plan.

Blue Emptiness

2006-11-09T21:44:00.000Z

Blue emptiness makes me cold.
I sweat the ache from my bones in a bath,
but when I climb out, the pain returns.
The flat is hostile,
it will not talk to me.
I hurt inside and out
and I cannot find the source.
I am not home,
I am somewhere else, somewhere that I stay.
I am neither tired nor awake,
I function by reflex,
Hit me on the knee and I'll kick you in the teeth.

And I'm behind on my Nano. Almost four thousand words behind. Not that I can't make those up, tonight, if I can be bothered. What worries me is that I'm not sure I can be bothered, and I know if I fall further behind now I may not make it later in the month. Work is very draining at the moment.

I must head back to ye old keyboard shaped grindstone.

Je suis un cretin.

2006-11-08T19:28:00.000Z

Io sono cretino
Ich bin ein kretin

I am the biggest cretin I have ever met. Just recently, that is. Usually I'm a fuckin' genius, however, in the week leading up to me taking my Mensa test, I have obviously dropped around a hundred IQ points somewhere in Marrakech.

Great weekend by the way. Can't be bothered to blog here about it. If I've told you, you know, and if I haven't, tought.

Anyroad. On my way back I decided to listen to me mp3 player. Pulled it out, and couldn't switch it on, no matter how hard I held down the 'M' button. Bastard thing had bust. So I bought a new battery, which did about as much good as a cucumber in a squash match.

So I irritatedly put it away and thanked my lucky socks that I had purchased product insurance or whatever Currys call it when they rinse you for an extra twenty quid after you've already spent a hundred.

Yesterday, I went in to Currys. Showed them the player. The guy fiddled with the buttons, so I told him you had to hold down the 'M' key to turn it on, and he couldn't turn it on either, even with a special 'Curry's' battery. But they didn't have any in stock, and the system was down, so they couldn't tell which other stores did have. They offered me an exchange, but since I liked the model I didn't want to swap.

So I went in today, their system was up and running, and the Currys in Hatton Cross had ten of the model in, so I walked up there, about a twenty minute walk from Richmond. They took the player, fiddled with it and replaced it. Very nice of them.

I got the player back to work and tried to turn it on. Holding down the 'M' key didn't work. I cursed, I swore, I fumed. Then I checked the manual. Holding down the 'M' key isn't how you turn it on. You have to hold down the 'Play' key.

Which means (for those of you as slow as me.) I exchanged a perfectly healthy player because I had forgotten how to turn it on.

As I said. Io sono cretino.

In other news, we go into tech tomorrow, which I had forgotten. The news was as welcome as Ted Haggard at a gay strip joint. Hold on, that's probably quite welcome. The news was as welcome as Ted Haggard at an evangelical faith conference. That's right, Ted... they don't like benders! And the irony is, the people most likely to accept him are people he has been preaching against for an awful long time.

Sorry - off topic there.

tech = boo

Here's a meme I don't think anyone seems to have thought of

2006-10-26T21:00:00.000Z

Five things about me that are true, but that other people won't believe.

Due to the slightly awkward terms of this meme, I may alternate between sounding like a conceited fuckwit and a muppet.

1 - I only ever tread on snails by accident (generally walking home from work in the dark), but when I do I apologise.

2 - Whether or not you like me externally, you probably wouldn't if you knew what went on in my head.

3 - I am an exceedingly intolerant person.

4 - I do not want to do what is 'right.' I want to do what profits me best, but I reckon if you do the maths, doing 'right' actually profits everybody best in the long run.

5 - I'm going to live forever.

;)

Have fun everybody, and please, if you've read this, consider yourself memeificated. I don't expect anybody to actually do this, because whenever I suggest things like this people seem to ignore me twice as hard as usual, but I think it is a unique meme. Feel free to shatter my puny illusions.

I did a long post this lunchtime about how I hadn't written any Nano yet, but the fuckspaced computers at work refuse to post things to blogger, so I am reposting now I have Nano'ed. My Nano-Fu is strong, I have Fu'ed around three thousand words and I am still poking the damn keys.

I am going to Morocco this weekend to sort out the situation with the Brunette. I'm sure I can win her back if I remind her of all the good times we had together. Of course, I won't be telling her about the sordid affair I've been having with Mr Moments.

I have been perfecting my parrot impression. "Pieces of eight!"

Of course, it loses something when I have to type it, but hey.

I apologise in advance for not posting as much as I might once have done this month. I be Nanoing.

If you are Nanoing, or have come here from the Nano site, please say hello (in the comments, don't just say " hello" because I can't hear you.) because everyone I try and talk into Nano lacks the "Fu" and re"Fu"ses to do it, so I would like Nano friends. there is a rumour the Brunette may be Nanoing, but since she is writing a play, the application is somewhat different.

Sianodel, Ms Philoprogenitive, Mother, Minx, your Nano-Fu is weak.

"When a man is bored with cheese, he is bored with life. When a hole is bored with cheese, it takes an awfully long time and makes a real mess of the drill" lit Theonlygolux

This has taken 12 hours to post.... FUCKERATION!

2006-10-26T17:58:00.000Z

I set off for the gym with the best intentions this morning, really I did. I dragged my sorry oversize ass out of bed at seven and abluted, packed my kit and was on my way, on my bike, feeling reasonably ill, by eight thirty.

Seven minutes later I was outside the gym, cursing in a manner that would give my grandparents heartattacks only staved off by their need to first write me (and possibly my parents) out of any wills they had knocking about. I had forgotten my wallet, which meant, I either had to barter my phone for change to put in the lockers, and do without food all day, something which arguably could be good for me, so I cursed some more and set off home.

So I will have ridden into Richmond twice, and out twice, and not had enough time to gym either. Fuckwit.

The problem is that I haven't been for two weeks now, which is shite. I also haven't blogged, or written anything for two weeks, and with the absence of the Brunette, the only things in the house to have sex with are my hand, or Mr Moments, and I don't think he'd be too pleased about that.

In other news, I was overhearing a rant about "bored of" and "bored with" the other day, apparently "bored of" is grammatically incorrect. The correct form is "bored with" eg. "I am bored with grammar."

Which set me thinking. That means (surely, and correct me if I'm wrong, but only if you know you are right) that "Tired of" is also incorrect, and that seems a little odd. In future I shall try only to be "bored with" and "tired with" grammar and going to the gym.

"When a man is tired with grammar, he is tired of life. When a car is tired with grammar, the wheel rims make this horrible screeching sound." lit. Theonlygolux

And, I have been captivated by this little toy.

Apparently it made Time magazine, although probably in an article going, "Look at what the internet geeks are wasting their time doing now." I haven't seen it, so I don't know.

If you want to see what is possible, I suggest these two.

Line Rider - Helicopter Escape

and

Line Rider - Smooth as Silk

Peeps, this little guy rocks.

Treacle Tart

2006-10-12T11:39:00.000Z

Alright, Treacle.

First I must apologise for the myriad typos in my last post, I was tired, or my fingers were especially fat that day, or something. I'm not normally that bad.

I'm fighting the impulse to go to the gym, and while my mind is telling me "fuck it" another part of my mind wants to go. I'm sure I'm schizophrenic sometimes, but I'm reasonably sure I'm not.

I now must explain the trecale reference. I have Mr Moments staying with me at present, and he went home this weekend to his rentals. THey, in the time honoured approach of most rentals, emptied the contents of their fridge into the back of his car, and now it is the contents of my fridge. Among the offal and bright red spare llama ribs, and beneath the International Mango Chutney, there is a treacle tart, which Mr Goulden kindly said I could sample.

I have sampled, and I am now fat. I remember this stuff from school, it's thick and sticky and sweet as Willy Wonka's shit. On the cover it proudly proclaims itself to be a shortcrust pastry around a filling of .... breadcrumbs and golden syrup.

Breadcrumbs and golden syrup. What a fantastic filling for a pie! Screw the fruit, custard, meat or veg, in fact screw anything with any nutritional value, let's have breadcrumbs and golden syrup, and let's put it in pastry.

Of course it is probably a hangover from Edwardian poverty, where (kind of like today) sugar and carbohydrate were cheap, but fruit, veg, meat and things what might be good for you are expensive.

See - my history's getting better!

I went into Oxfam today, just to make sure that they weren't selling any books I might want without me. [I have a made a resolution to stop buying books until i have read at least some of the ones on my to read shelf]

I found a complete works of Bernard Shaw, of whose stuff we are doing quite a lot at the LBFBT [London based Fruit bearing theatre] so I bought it. I has belonged to a drama student, and has highlighted bits inside, and some of the pages were dog eared, but I took it to the counter to ask how much it was and was informed apologetically that their lowest book price was £1.49. Which isn't bad, really. I wanted to read Man and Superman anyway, from whence this quote comes:

[talking about improving humankind]

"to be in Hell is to drift; to be in Heaven is to steer"

The dude has it right. We must take the reins and begin our own evolution.

I've just finished reading Joel Garreau's "Radical Evolution" which you should read, because it will make you more aware of what might be happening in the next ten years. An incredible book, with some more than incredible things inside.

Still listening to Eels - "Bright Light's and Revelations," the second disk of which is fantastic. The first disk isn't bad, but isn't anything massively special.

And also listening to Captain Dan and the Scurvy Crew. Pirate hip-hop at the knockdown price of $12. Wicked album. I'm going to get my hand amputated to I can get me a hook. Trust me, anyone you buy this as a Christmas present will love you for ever. Except me, I've got it already. Or the Brunette, she just sighed and went, "really, that's great." in a sarcastic tone of voice.

Right - I've blogged right past the deadline by which time I had to leave to get to the gym, so I won't be going. Job done.

Tremble at my approach, mortals!

2006-10-10T15:06:00.000Z

Hello, a whinge, a w00t and a whale.

Actaully, that was a lie about the whale.

Lets start with the w00t.

I have entered a short story competition at Skint Writer's site, courtesy of the link at Innerminx's typo dyspraxic ramblings.

I have a short story called, "Therefore I am" at the other end of that link. 1500 words around a theme of Spirituality.

I hope you read it, and I hope you like it.

I have another submission to do now, not due till end of Nov, but once I begin to Nano I may not be writing other things.

In other news. Last week of show. Good news because then I'm on days, bad news because then I have to start doing serious work on the next set of shows, which approach post haste. I've only just clocked this, but since myself and the other new girl started, we have been rota-ed for three shows before Christmas, wheras the established crew are doing...one. I'm not complaining, I think it will be fun (I have to say that, people from work have found this blog) but I hadn't realised until I explained it to someone on the weekend and they pointed out that the words straw and short could well be said to apply. heh - at least I'm working Christmas.

Right - here's the whinge.

BBC's Robin Hood - Review: In a word, PANTS. Were I a Spinal tap fan I might apply the infamous two word review, "Shit Sandwich." Robin looks like a sulky ASBO, and I know it has been aimed at sulky ASBOs, to try and keep them in on a Saturday, but really, it was more likely to appeal to fantasy geeks like myself, and it was shite, shite on a stick! He pouts like Ms Knightley when he doesn't get his way, he looks like the "war" he's been in was probably fought with sponges, and he's about as menacing as Miss Piggy riding a rocket powered ice cream. The supporting cast is fine, I guess, although Much isn't (wait for it, wait for it) up to much. But he's the main character! Surely the BBC could find someone halfway convincing! Even Costner was better... for fuck's sake, even Cary Elwes was more menacing! I've worked with better actors for the best part of last year, and guess what? They're mostly out of work now. I've pissed better dialogue, and I've never directed anything, but the direction was pitiful as well. The zoom/zoom/zoom on Marion's broach for God's sake, I know they expect the audience to have double digit IQs bu hammering it home like that was still unnecessary...we SAW HER THROW THE FUCKING THING!

Coupled to which Marion is slightly less attractive that Miss Piggy riding a rocket powered ice cream. Her neck is wider than her head, which unless she is supposed to be a weight lifter, probably isn't ideal, and her make up is like Snow White's. In fact I would almost bet she's played Snow White in the past.

[Goes to check]

Nope, but she should do, she's white enough.

Second whinge.

Spooks have written Ruth out. In a similar way to writing tom out, and Dannny out, they devoted two episodes to building her importance up as a character before turfing her out with few tears and fewer good lines.

They seem to do this fairly regularly. It's like a reverse ballon debate, they take the nest characters and write them out, replacing them with insipid fuckwits.

I guess Harry's next, and then I'll stop watching. It's like watching Buffy and seeing first her, and then all the Scoobies turfed off the show, and then finding out that it's now all about slaying lawyers. Giles is the only one left.

Oh dear.

Goodbye. Vote for me. (even if I'm not up, just draw a little box and write "Theonlygolux" and tick it.)

Hello Peeps

2006-10-05T12:03:00.000Z

Right - I'm off to a wedding tomorrow, that of Fatass, the Brunette's sister.

I have a survival pack.

An umbrella - apparently it is pissing down with rain
A bottle of gin - for me
A bar of chocolate - for the Brunette
Prozac - For anyone that wants some
A camera - For that embarassing moment
A phone - To call for help
A suit - To blend in
No cigarettes - When I gave up, I forgot this was in the works.

I have also memorised a useful set of stories for the inevitable question: "So when's your special date then?"

1 - Six weeks ago, but we didn't want to spoil Fatass's big day
2 - Still waiting for my divorce to finalise
3 - Still waiting for the Brunette's divorce to finalise
4 - I can't until the Brunette converts to scientology
5 - I'm only in it for the sex
6 - The day after your funeral, you old goat
7 - I'm not sure I can afford the Brunette and three lots of child support
8 - I think it would be irresponsible to marry when my cleric is promising Jihad against Britishers at any given moment

I think those should cover all eventualities, applied depending on who is doing the asking. [I had put a rather amusing sentence here until I realised if I allowed it to remain then any chance of sex this weekend was completely out of the window.]

In other news, I have signed up for Joe's goals. Apparently it will help me become a better footballer. No, hold on, I'm thinking of Boyz Magazine there. Joe's Goals helps me become a better person. I have labelled it "Trys" [I think] because I don't like football and play no sports where a "goal" has any relevance. I think only gay men properly understand football. Certainly only gays play it. Take the guy who nearly got in trouble with the police [the POLICE for fuck's sake - haven't they got better things to do?] for showing his bum to 10000 opposition fans. Something a stright man would do? I don't think so. And would a straight man pay for tickets to something where this sort of thing happens? Maybe, but he won't be a straight man for long.

Rugby's for straight men, the desire to wrestle with cold men in shorts, whose legs have been dipped in vaseline is a purely heterosexual province.

Right - back to work.

I introduce Mr Write Now, over to the right ------->

Not politically I'm sure, but he's another blogging writer, or a writing blogger, whichever you choose, like my good self. Go and say hello, unless you already have done so.

Goodbye. I must leave you now, secure in the knowledge that I have more cake than you.

Space Men from Twickenham Abducted Me And Did Horrible Things To My Pants!

2006-10-02T11:47:00.000Z

Actually, they may not have done, but it's totally possible.

Despite drinking many beers and some of Mr Moments' whiskey last night [we had an informative tasting session comparing bourbon to single malt, something I have never specifically done before. If you can taste the difference after six pints of beer, there must be a fairly radical taste difference.

I'm afraid I am going to direct you to a local news story.

Go here.

Once you have returned - we shall discuss this phenomenon. Mr Moments showed me this story with glee the other day. Glee wasn't very interested, but I was. The discussions of the floating lights' 'intelligence' and the facts that 'power cuts and bright flashes' followed their sighting were of particular amusement to Mr Moments. He, in fact had been on the common on that particular evening, with friends, and had spotted the lights himself, at quite close range, in fact, he saw them right in front of him, as he was lighting some chinese lanterns which he then released.

He felt unable to comment upon the 'intelligence' behind the lanterns, only pointing out that they were made from paper and wire, and that precluded any chance of them being 'intelligent' as far as his knowledge of artificial intelligence reaches. He did point out that they could well be more intelligent than many people he is acquainted with.

I emailed the paper, suggesting this theory, and they took me up on my suggestion, and have put the comment on their site here.

Yaay.

I am not an accredited IFO expert, but have seen many in my time. Some I would further classify as "birds" and would be able with a little diligence to further classify them as to sex, species, size etc. Others I have encounterered have been the small spinning disks found moving swiftly over parks and playing grounds. These I have come, through intimate acquaintance, to know as "frisbees." I recently booked a flight on an IFO, one run by the mysterious organisation known only as BA [as in BA DA BOOM - a noise their craft occasionally make when crashing]

I must herefore specify that I have never been sexually molested on an IFO [not for want of trying], and I have never been abducted by one against my will, in fact I normally have to pay quite a lot to embark upon such a fantastic voyage. I have been attacked by various IFO's some small and biological, known to a select few as "Wasps" and "Mozzies" and on a couple of occasions by larger leather bound non-sentient IFOs, which while I was at school would often strike me in the head and fall to the ground. Occasionally I would get my own back upon them by donning white clothes and beating them with a willow stick, a traditional punishment for the misery they inflict upon the professional English sportsmen who devote their life to throwing them at Australians.

Please write to the following Institutions for further information on IFOs:

IIFTSOIFO - International Institute For The Study Of Identified Flying Objects

IIIIIFO - International Information Institute Investigating Intelligent Indentified Flying Objects

IFOIFO - International Financial Organisation for Identified Flying Objects

Nano-time

2006-09-25T11:21:00.000Z

For those about to write... we salute you.

This may seem a little early, to those of you who know about what I am talking. What I am talking about is

Nanowrimo

an annual month of madness where lots of people (one of which is me) try to write a 50000 word novel in a month.

In fact, I have invoked the Zokutou clause twice, which states that if you have a novel which has already been started, it is acceptable to expend your energy finishing that one to the tune of 50000 words or more.

The reason I am slapping a nice early notice on here is so that anyone who hasn't done it before, Ms Progenitation, Mum etc. can get a nice early start planning it. Because if you plan it well in advance, with chapter plans etc, then not only will you have it all sorted by the time you begin, but you will be so keen to get started, that come the beginning of November (and you must hold off until then) you will be so enthused that you will churn out 15000 words on the first weekend free, which then gives you a nice safety cushion for the next couple of weeks.

If you work it out it only comes to 1666 words a day, which is peanuts really, and if you make sure you slap out a nice safety cushion at the beginning and then make 8k each weekend then it really doesn't matter if you can't be arsed much during the week, just make notes and use those to create huge word counts during the times you can be arsed. In fact, if you can make 15k on the first weekend and 8k on the ones after that, you will only have to write 500 words a day. I've written more than five hundred words here.

I'm sure I will get my annual snotty comment from Sianodel, pointing out that he is convinced that my writing must suffer for being done fast. Well actually, it doesn't really, provided I have a plan ready, I'm not having to write any faster than I usually do, I am just making sure that I keep a sustained effort up. And to be honest, despite his earnest protestations that he doesn't need Nano, he is still only part way through either two or three novels, I have lost count.

This year, like every year in fact, I suggest he tries it.

I am looking forward to it, even just cruising the forums is fun, although I prefer the satisfied feeling of being able to do that once I have done my words for the day. Otherwise the guilt gets to me. This year I think I am going to try and write something stupid. I'm even considering not planning it, just to see if I can do it. But I want to start now, so really, I will have to start planning it, otherwise I will start to sneak out prose, and then I will be cheating.

The Brunette started to do it with plays, as she doesn't want to be a novelist, she writes plays instead, something I can't do, but it is more difficult then, because word count is less of a factor as to the length of the play. She might try again this year.

I should go to work, I want to stop off at Waterstones and get a Go book. I'm learning Go, but I have a feeling that I am getting something wrong. I keep beating the computer, but my boards look nothing like the ones in books do - I think I might be taking too direct an approach.

I'm back.

2006-09-19T23:41:00.000Z

By that I mean the normal offensive slightly drunk me, rather than the upset slightly maudlin me that has been occupying me for the past few days.

I was looking up social networking sites yesterday, after watching the second of the new series of Spooks. Bastards. Frankly. Colin was great. That was spoiler text for anyone who hasn't seen it.

Social networking is something I don't quite get. It doesn't help that I don't like other people, but things like myspace seem great for bands, where musicians can post some of their own music for others to listen to, and flickr is great for photographers, and youtube is great for budding filmmakers, but surely a blog is good enough for everyone else? Or not. It networks me with anyone who wants to network with me, and frankly, anyone who doesn't can fuck right off. Myspace seems to network me with fifteen thousand teenage girls all posting little videos about how upset they are about their emo friends said something upsetting the other day. I don't know them, and I don't want to.

Googles version, which is called something like Otuko has a clause in the t&cs which states that anything you post becomes their intellectual property.

WHAT?

Read my fingers. They can fuck right off too.

And librarything seemed wicked. I even set up an account, which was foolishly easy, but then the fuckers cut me off after only 200 books, and that hadn't even got through the list of books I had left at home. You have to pay for more, and I'm not that bothered.

I even went to some site that lists all of them, and the only one I was even mildly attempted to join was the one specifically for smoker singles and smoker friendly non smokers. Not because I'm smoker friendly any more, they should all be taken out and drenched in chutney IMO, but just because I couldn't belive someone had created a social networking site for smokers.

***five minutes later***

It's ok. I have another gin and tonic.

Hendricks Gin. Yum. Trust me on this. It's more expensive, but your hangovers taste of cucumber.

Show still proceedin smoothly. I am writing a spoof version, which may end up here. Cast members are still discovering my twisted sense of humour as they read Digby's Story. Only one of you lot have read it, so you probably don't know what I'm talking about.

I walked home tonight, suppressing the need to laugh at passers by in case I was beaten up.

I wrote something the other night. It's a bit wanky. I thought I'd post it anyway, just because I can. hah.

I whirl around, my head pumping, my hair matted and stuck to me. I can smell myself moving in the stink of the crowd. Arms in, eyes down, the lights overhead passing like searchlights across the crowd. Pulsing, in time with the beats, muscles spasmodically moving in rhythm to the waves of sound energy crashing into me.

Inside my eyelids I can sense the dancers nearest to me, their movements, girl to the left sinuously moving her pelvis in and out of the crotch of the boy behind her, the guy to my left, as lost as me, drifting, his eyes turned upwards, reflecting the colours of the rig, drug confused pupils dancing erratically to the strobe. The girl behind me, focussed, mineral water her only beverage, elbows in, neat small steps, anxious not to offend by bodily contact. Not possible in this arena.

I can feel the muscles in my neck which throw my head about in the ecstasy of dance protesting against the rhythm. The drugs mix with the alcohol to produce a barrier between myself and myself. The one that wants to forget, and the one that can. They allow me to keep clear of the people around me, other than the occasional bump and grind. The heat is tangible, wrapping me in its embrace and stroking the fear from my bones, the tiredness from my joints, and eliciting the sweat of the desperate.

I must forget. I will forget. I have taken what I need to forget, and now I dance to ensure whichever deity governs Lethe will grant me enough to let me rest. To take away the ghost that haunts me.

I feel the bass in my pelvis as a woman reaches round my waist and puts her hand on me through my trousers. She pulls back, and I follow readily, pushing my weight into her warmth and reaching round myself to take her butt, grinding myself into her as we sway to the same beats, following the same rhythm. Pick a strand of the music and make it your own. I can feel her breath on my neck, quick and hot. Her tongue touches to the nape of my neck, coming away with a droplet of sweat which she runs round her lips, tasting me already.

I open my eyes, but the lights are too much for me and sweep me away into a rainbow dance along my optic nerve. I am blinking to try and bring myself back to the woman, but by the time I am aware of my surroundings again, she is gone, and the strings in the music lift me, turning me as I seek her, but I did not see her face, and I cannot know where she is now. Her place has been taken by another girl, who looks at me strangely.

The velocity of the dance has brought me further down the tunnel I am seeking. The lights are darker now, and the movements more frantic. The drugs do work, they will show me the way, which turnings to take when I am in doubt, the patterns I must move within to be granted access. I can feel my feet are becoming worn, tired, in the sodden shoes I wear as penance, but I can keep them moving, sustain the equilibrium, keep the beat, keep the beat, keep the beat.

Synth chords assault the crowd, a guardian bars my way. I see people leaving, others, wary of the challenge slow, their footsteps falter, they lose track, regain it, but have lost the chance to pass, they must remain here, dancing fruitlessly, sweating their life out, drink by drink, with no redemption. I feel the true path, my feet move slyly, jiving backwards and forwards of their own volition, their rhythm known only by myself and those I make obeisance to. Hidden by my shoes my toes beat a tattoo which complements the movement of my heel. Each foot moving separately, their patterns crawling up my legs, knees flexing, hips swaying, muscles clenching and unclenching. I will have to rest tonight, but I will not rest until the music has gone away, bearing with it those fragments I want no longer.

I close my eyes again, internalising my movements. I do not like the music, I do not care, I feel only the rhythm. Provide me with that, and I will dance, deprive me of such, and I will fall apart. The DJ obliges. I move, visions I am preparing to part with running in front of my eyes, my face contorted, I feel, into a visage of pain.

The music smoothes, a break to allow respite, brief and beautiful. This guardian will take some of the load. He knows it will become harder before I reach my destination, before I stand before Her. He takes one, two, three, then the beat bounces back in, lightly, reminding me of where I am, what I am here for. It slides under my feet, lifting me up, taking me forward. The pathway is darker now, but lighter at the same time. My feet stomp, carrying me forward. I can see fewer footsteps now. Only those who need to pass this point. I can feel my self drifting, the drugs are pushing it to one side, they are taking control.

I can feel myself, squashed to one side, removed from the equation, no longer needed to keep my body moving, eyes now open, unfocussed, staring at nothing, my gaze hanging loosely in the air within grasping distance. The music opens up. Even in this cramped and claustrophobic pit of sweating people there is suddenly space. It is epic. We all raise our hands, and our faces to the lights, staring blankly as we move in time, and yet each individually, thanking something for this chance, for this space, this feeling, this beat, the possibility of rebirth. Another guardian.

The space goes, people step down, their arms flail as they fall. Others hold their arms for longer than they should. They fall by the wayside. They will not be allowed to pass further than this. Whatever is in control moves my arms in perfect harmony downwards, hiding them from view beneath the surging dancers surrounding me, always with grace, always with rhythm. I close my eyes briefly and see this guardian bow its head and stand aside. I am further than I have come before.

I have shed memories I wished to shed, but there are more to come, and the dance keeps those most dangerous till last. I move on, feeling the muscles and articulations of my body come back into my control, this last section is up to me, I cannot rely on anything else to do the job for me. They have become heavier, animated, crawling over me, shifting their weight at awkward times, trying to throw me, but I keep my strength, my balance, my beat. The music slows, making it more difficult to hold concentration.

I sweat, I keep moving. My clothes stick to me, down my back and under my arms. I focus and pull myself around. I must come through, these few I still carry are those I must rid myself of. She must go, I must be rid of what I carry now. Visions flash again, smells, memories I have not felt for years begin to stir and I realise with horror, that what I plan to rid myself of is only the very surface of what I must in fact leave behind. The weight grows. I make it through the next track on instinct and sheer bloody mindedness. I must have a rhythm, and the path has become hard, the rhythms grow insipid, weaker, lighter. I drag my focus inside and bite down on my tongue, driving out the drugs clouding my system, and using pain to drive me forward.

I am nearly there now, I can sense Her. I will have made it as far as I need when I may gaze upon Her face and plead with Her to take what I cannot live with. She will be waiting at the end of the pathway that I dance. I can feel the night growing weaker, my companions no longer surround me as closely. I have more space, and I cannot feel them as accurately when I have my eyes closed. A chill seeps up my spine. I cannot afford to have taken a wrong turn, to be abandoned here, alone where there should be many, dark and empty, would be too much to take, too far travelled. I am committed to my journey now, and if it does not end in satisfaction, or at least release, then it must end in disaster.

Fade, and back, beats rhythm, pulsing over me, moving, arms out, arms in, head nodding, pulsing, oscillating, turning, allowing my brain direct access to the rhythms I am being fed. I look up at the strobe as it bursts into magnesium white. As I see bursts of nothingness, suddenly I see everything. My optic nerve drains and refills, drains and refills, emptying itself further each time. I can see Her, I can see Her. The path is at an end. I contain my excitement and simply move more completely, feet in sync with my upper body now, my entire being pulsing with the rips and grooves She throws at me. I can hear voices, brass and drums, tearing at each other, weaving themselves into beautiful fabric that clothes Her as I dance to Her.

One by one I unburden myself, laying my memories out for Her to peruse. As I drop each one I feel it flicker through me. Tears begin to come, but I am not finished yet. More portions of my history are laid at Her feet. I let the drugs back in and feel them sweep into me, almost knocking me from my rhythm, my worship, my dance.

Finally I am empty, filled only by drugs, alcohol, and a already a void where my memories have needs been taken from. It will ache when the drugs are gone, but it will be better than remembering that other her. I make my obeisance and move away, fleeing before She recalls me, changing her mind and leaving me distraught again.

As the beats fade, the lights slow. I am alone on the floor. Other dancers have given up. I have beaten the DJ, he could not lay a dangerous enough path for me not to tread. My need was direr.

There is one other dancer. I must control my exit. I let the rhythm fade, the beats leave me and I am again limp, a puppet with no master. The other dancer stops and we stand quiet, exhausted, spent, triumphant.

She raises her eyes to mine and I feel my insides drop away. It is her, my her. The her I left behind.

She turns and walks away.

2006-09-17T01:32:00.000Z

Lucy’s dead. Another person I will never get the chance to speak to again. I hadn’t seen her for seven years. The last time I did see her, I was in the front seat of a car driving to a friend’s house behind a coach. She was on the back seat of a coach looking out of the back window. I blew her a kiss.

I never found out whether she saw me, or what her reaction was if she did. I had fancied her for two years at school, seeing her only in Italian lessons, and never speaking to her. It didn’t help that coupled to myself being reduced to silence by the presence of almost all girls at that point, she was also very quiet and never in my experience initiated a conversation herself.

She walked around for the first two terms of sixth-form with her right hand hovering near the side of her face, as if she were holding a mobile phone to her cheek. Apparently one of the Russians had told her she would be pretty if it weren’t for her nose. It took that long for her to regain her confidence.

I had no conversations with her that I can remember, certainly none that did not take place in the Italian classroom before the lesson. She wore trousers that breached school regulations, but she was too pleasant ever to be pulled up about it.

She was beautiful in an ethereal sort of way, her smile cast shadows in her eyes that made her look as if she were smiling at something nobody else could see. On the rare occasions I made her smile, usually by acting up in class as a twelve year old might, to impress a girl, it made my heart beat a little faster.

I heard her once described by another girl as “the beautiful one, the one with the ski-jump nose.” A description as apt as it was catty.

I don’t know what she was interested in, or where she went to uni, or even if she did. In two years of sixth form, eight periods a week with her I had singularly failed even to make a casual enough acquaintance to be able to sit down and eat lunch with her. I forgot about her, and she only occasionally passed through my mind as I wondered what everyone at school was doing now, or when I wondered who might be at the school reunion.

She was someone to whom I don’t think I was ever likely to speak again, not realistically. But I had unfinished business with her. Even if it was just to say “Hi, how’s life?” on an even basis, without feeling like my insides were dropping out, in a way that no longer meant, “I really like the way you look but know nothing else about you.” There was no expectation of being able to do this, but the fact that the possibility was there, that one day I might bump into her on the street and be able just to say, “Hello” was enough.

It can’t happen now, and that’s a strange feeling. She was a part of my sixth form. Just a crush.

I'm incredibly popular

2006-09-15T12:18:00.000Z

Although I actually mistyped "I'm incredibly poo..."

I had 78 visitors yesterday! A new record, and no comments at all. Rubbish - all of you. I'm also now well over the five figure visitor site, which makes me feel warm and slightly runny inside.

Hang about...

[five minutes later]

Actually, that was just the tabasco soaked nightmare I had for breakfast making me both of those things.

I'm on my long day off today, and running low on things to do, so I thought I would say hello. I have Mr Moments still staying with me, and we are still drinking too much and staying up later than we should, although he's just started filming something, so I think he'll be going to bed earlier these days, cos he has to leave at some god forsaken time of the morning where the time only has single digits. I thought that was just a legend, but it appears, like imaginary numbers, that it does exist.

I'm sure when I sat down at the keyboard I had more to say. I have a new linker, but I those of you who haven't met him already can meet him later, when I get around to editing my template properly and introducing him.

I found a charity shop selling sci fi books for 10p each the other day on the way to work, and I bought 20. The Brunette's not going to be happy when she gets back and finds that I have spent all the bill money on books and filled the flat up with the little critters. (Our bill money is more than £2, sad to say, but I have also spent over £100 at Amazon since she left. Oops)

I bought:

Nine Tail Fox - Jon Courtenay Grimwood - fantastic so far
End of the World Blues by the same chap - haven't started it yet.
Radical Evolution by Joel Garreau
Science on Stage by Kirsten Shephard Barr
How to Eat - Nigella Lawson - don't hit me, please! I peered through it at Sianodel's mother's house, and it looked really good
Lost Girls - Alan Moore - buy it before they ban it, looks great
and
Empires of Belief: Why We Need More Scepticism and Doubt in the Twenty-first Century by Stuart Sim - long title, I know, but it looks interesting, I'm a sceptic, and I believe that much more dangerous than Islam is modern neo-conservative Christianity, partly because there are an awful lot more Christians than Muslims, and they are all tied together somehow.

Ooh, and in other news Mr Moments has introduced me to Tescos cooking bacon, a kilo or so of bacon for under a quid! And it is nice chunky lean bacon too, awesome for sandwiches and salads, and broccoli etc on bads of couscous.

I realised why Islam can't be the one true religion - No god who bans bacon can be taken seriously, it's good stuff, and the only reason he did it was to keep it all for himself. Christian God tried to do that with paedophilia, but the church got wind of it and institutionalised it, while making it a sin for people that weren't priests.

heh

[if you could see the grin on my face now...heh...imagining the comments, although with you lot I'll be lucky to get a "meh"]

And I had another thought - does anyone know the webpage where you can input lots of photos of the same item from different angles and then make a spinning view of the object? I found it once, but now I have the photos and I can't find the damn thing.

I'm selling more greaves

So if any of you want more fetish gear, you know where to look.

Show still going well, nobody dead yet, although many of the audience nearly there ;)

fshjgfshtm

2006-09-13T06:37:00.000Z

I get back from work at around 11.15 at the mo. And then I stayed up a a while. At 1.30 I went to bed. I couldn't get to sleep for hours.

So why, in Satan's smelly shit filled underpants, have I irretrievably woken up at six thirty?

I'm going to pay for this later. (Pay for getting no sleep, not for suggesting Satan is incontinent.)

Digby's Story

2006-09-09T11:49:00.000Z

I haven't mentioned it before, but the theatre in which I work has a ghost, a young girl. I was trapped in the theatre the other night, and met her. She's upset, and this is her story .

Digby’s Story

This is Digby’s story. Please forgive its faults and its discrepancies, for Digby was only young, and English never was her strongest subject. I, as transcriber, have tried to keep this text as faithful to what I remember I was told upon that night.

Let me begin by introducing Digby. She is a girl of nine, devoted to her mother, and scared of her forbidding papa, of whom she saw very little. He worked at the mill down upon the Thames, near Teddington, as a foreman, and was determined that his daughter grow up to be as proper and delightful as the daughters of the mill owners, it was this thinking which led him to suggest to Histania, her mother, that Digby be sent to Ms Faversham Lloyds’ school for girls, a modern-thinking school that had been set up not many miles from where they lived. He pulled in enough money to afford it, if they saved a little at home, and Histania was more than happy to scrape the household budget a little further to ensure her daughter Digby “an education.”

So Walter Samuels applied to Ms Lloyds, and went up to Richmond to meet her on three occasions, each time returning home more gravely faced than he had the time before. Then one cold afternoon in September, as Digby was helping her mother clean the pews in St John’s Church, Walter strode in, his long coat flapping in the curl of wind the doors had released into the frigid nave, and beckoned her. Never one for tergiversation, her father kept his words brief.

“Come, Digby. Histania, I must show Ms Lloyds our daughter.”

They journeyed up to Richmond in a small horse trap Digby’s father had hired for the afternoon, and soon she found herself deposited outside a rambling building at one end of Richmond High Street.

Her father pushed her forward with one hand, striking forward with the other above her head to burst the doors open. Digby was forced to scuttle in order not to be trampled beneath his feet, and barely had time to glance at the barren walls and cold bricks of the building into which she was being deposited.

It was not until they reached the door of Ms Lloyd’s room that her father paused.

“You must continue on your own.”

Digby looked up at the dark oaken door before her. Passing beyond it was a step into a new life.

She was accepted to the school, and soon began her classes there. It was the custom for new pupils, especially those such as Digby, who had joined the class in the middle of the term, to stand up on their first day and introduce themselves to their future tormentors. Digby started with an obvious disadvantage.

“My name is Digby Samuels.”

She expected laughter, gales of it usually followed the pronouncement of her name. Nothing came, no laughter, no repressed giggles, nothing. She searched the faces of the girls in front of her. Not one smiled, not one even blinked. Finally she saw an expression pass across the face of one, it was a micro flash of disgust, quickly blanked over by the conditioning the school imposed.

Her classmates did not talk to her that day, nor the next, nor the one after that. It was three weeks before any of Digby’s peers said a word to her. That word, when it came set the tone for her career as the school scapegoat.

“Commoner!”

Whispered with such venom, such hatred, that Digby involuntarily lost control of her bladder, and had to be sent down to the school nurse for a change of stockings.

The school was peopled with the children of mill owners, small landowners and businessmen, who had, perhaps due to their own slight social ambiguity, developed a hatred for those commoner than themselves, as if afraid they might contract a social disease from her.

It was not simply her name they hated, although once she began to be spoken to it was the subject of many vicious jibes, but also her hair (‘ginger’), the cut of her clothes (‘cheap’), her accent (‘irretrievably common’), her face (‘pug ugly’) and her voice (‘piercing, like a weasel being raped’.) Digby had the joint disadvantages of gullibility and openness, so she was assured of offending, as well as being easy to take advantage of, and throughout the months she attended Ms Faversham’s she rarely went a day without having something of hers taken from her and broken or eaten or destroyed in some form or other. She was mercilessly tormented, and yet she never spoke out, for she was a good girl, and her parents were suffering for the privilege of having her schooled here.

Let us however, skip forward here, some months, for while I had the long uninterrupted stretches of the night with nobody but Digby to keep me company, I understand that modern people are often in a hurry, and thus I will keep this brief, trying only to put down those details salient to poor Digby’s story.

Amongst everything else Ms Samuels was hated for was one insurmountable flaw. She was good at almost anything. More than anything else she was hated for this. The girls surrounded her rarely allowed Digby the chance to show the teachers her talent, such was theirs for sabotage and misdirection. Digby was renowned as a student whose work was never in on time, and was done hurriedly, generally because another girl had stolen hers and handed it in as her own, or torn it up and thrown it in the Thames. They had many ways of making her life a misery, and I have time only to detail a few in this brief account.

Digby shone in many areas, but one in which she both excelled and took great delight was that of the girls’ theatre classes. Theatre was quite plainly not a subject worth expending lesson time upon, but In Ms Faversham Lloyds’ Modern Mannered Method, there was made time for subjects which might merely increase a girl’s suitability for marriage and conversation. These classes included gardening, bedroom conversation, cookery, elementary hand to hand combat, and theatre.

The school hall was converted into a rough theatre space, and each term the girls would rehearse a new play before performing it in front of parents and various parishioners and residents of Richmond. Ms Lloyd was very keen on theatre in which the audience surrounded the action, or ‘theatre in the altogether’ as she called it. The girls would play both male and female parts in the plays, and there was great competition as to the lead parts.

Digby, having both the stature, the voice (apparently), and according to the other girls, the name for it, had been cast in her first years production as one of the leading men in “The Slave of Duty”, a two act comic opera, that had been recently written and performed to great acclaim in Paignton and New York.

This made her less popular than ever with her contemporaries, and throughout the rehearsal period she was bullied horribly, the violence beginning to take on physical form, as girls began leaping out on her and beating her on the head with rulers as ‘practice’ for her part.

The trouble, and her story came to a head as the production began to roll into its final few days. Ms Lloyd sent out slips to all parents of the girls in the production requesting permission for them to stay in the theatre for a full night the day before the first performance. The set had to be erected, and the technical rehearsal was expected to take them late into the night. Ms Lloyd was hopeful that the girls would sleep better as a group and rise invigorated and with the necessary group spirit to bind them into a solid cast.

The set was a single ship, built from wood donated by a wealthy parent, clad in sails, again donated by another wealthy parent, and the play would open as the girls ran on, brandishing swords and releasing the main sail, which would unroll with an impressive ‘whooomp’ ing sound, and begin the show.

That night Ms Lloyd worked the girls hard, making sure they knew their lines and their melodies, before shepherding them upstairs and into the communal dining room, which had been cleared to make a sleeping area for them for the night.

The girls undressed and slipped under their blankets in the cold, giggling and in turn being hushed by the supervising members of staff. Digby did the same, crawling underneath a corner blanket and hiding her telltale mop of ginger hair.

She heard behind her the staff leave, and felt the eyes of her contemporaries alight upon her.

“Commoner and commoner.”

Giggles.

“Ginger minger…”

Giggles.

“Little swat…teachers pet…”

Whispers. Giggles.

“Come on…Answer back then.”

Digby kept her head down. She could hear giggles and whispers, and then footsteps. A hand seized her blanket and tore it down her, leaving her shivering and pale in her nightgown. An older girl, one she knew had missed out on Digby’s part, Frederic, stood over her.

“Get up you little freak.”

A foot landed in her ribs.

“Get up, commoner!”

Digby pulled herself upright, clasping her hands round her for warmth.

“What gives you the right, you little bitch?”

The girl threw a punch, but her hand, hampered by the fact that she was till holding the blanket, flew wide. Digby turned and ran, knowing as she did so that it was a worse idea. If she could just get to the door she could shout for a member of staff.

Hands flew up, feet out, trying to grab or trip her. Digby jumped and ducked, but eventually one found her, and brought her crashing down to the ground. She felt the floorboards shudder and hopped the noise might be enough to call a teacher.

The large girl who had taken her blanket thudded down on her shoulders.

“Get her feet, one of them’ll be up in a mo.”

Anxious hands grabbed for her feet and hustled them under blankets, bodies lying on them, grinding them into the coarse floorboards. Melissa, the girl lying on her shoulders bent down and whispered at her through gritted teeth.

“Make a sound and I’ll break your fingers.” And Digby felt Melissa’s hands snake round her little fingers and twist them back painfully. The weight of the girl came down on her head as she heard the door open.

Rumbling of a teacher’s voice, mutters of denial from the collected girls, the door once more, then footsteps.

“Good girl,” Digby felt Melissa mutter into her ear, and one of the larger girl’s arms released her left finger and slid around her mouth, muffling her. The other arm jerked back and Digby could not prevent screaming into Melissa’s elbow as the older girl snapped her finger backwards, splintering the bone.

Tears were in full flow down Digby’s face as she heard Melissa order.

“Get a gag.”

Blankets were torn, and Digby’s mouth was bound up. She began to vomit as bits of filthy blanket were pushed into her mouth, but managed to stop herself, knowing she would drown if she allowed it.

A circle of girls had gathered around Melissa and Digby, and others were guarding the stairs or doorway. Digby could see bundles on the floor, girls who had their blankets drawn up so that they would not have to witness what was about to come.

Bethany joined the group. A large girl, whose facial hair had necessitated her casting as a particularly evil pirate, she smiled at Digby.

“Let’s play pirates.”

Digby could see the smiles spread across the faces of her peers as they remembered the game. Bethany pulled a wooden ruler from under her blanket and held it up. She had bound a scrap of wood across the bottom to form a crude hilt.

“I got a cutlass. You’re unarmed. Hehe.”

Digby knew from experience that unarmed was the way Bethany liked her victims.

Bethany genteelly handed the makeshift blade to Melissa. “Your captive, your go first.” She explained.

The girls behind Digby took hold of her nightgown and stripped it to her waist.

“Disarm her. Go on.” Someone muttered, and giggled.

Melissa snorted and struck her. The blade passed to Bethany. She swung, again the wood made contact with Digby’s shoulder, this time breaking the skin. Pass and hit, pass and hit. Soon the right side of Digby’s face was spattered with her own blood, and she was keening continually into the rags that secured her silence. The girls around her continued to aim for the same spot, a slice into Digby’s shoulder that was not far from totally severing her arm. As the strength of the group dissipated and the night wore on, Bethany began to saw at the arm, Melissa and two other girls holding Digby upright, for she had by this time fainted from the pain.

It took four hours for the girls to sever the arm completely, but they persevered, as Ms Lloyd taught, and eventually they succeeded.

Digby passed in and out of consciousness several times during this period, fading from pain filled wakefulness to blood and nightmare filled twisted dreams. She awoke the last time to find her tormentors beating her with her own arm, smashing it into her face as they hurled their bodies around as if they were pre pubescent hammer throwers, trying to impart the greatest momentum to her arm as they smashed it into her face. Giggles surrounded her as her eyes swam with blood.

“She’s hitting herself.” Giggles.

“Beating herself up.” Snorts.

“Fingering herself.” Hysterical muffled laughter.

Digby remembers this in detail. She does not remember what happened after the girls tired even of this hilarious game, as she had lost more blood than a young girl should have to on the evening before her acting debut, and passed out. She remembers wishing she could have sung for her parents.

I must relate the rest of the tale from facts I have been able to gather from the other older and not so old occupants of this building.

The next day, the performance went ahead. Nobody missed Digby until beginners, the teachers all knew her to be reliable, and assumed she was off learning her part. Mr Walter and Histania Samuels had purchased front row tickets they could ill afford, to see the effect their daughter’s education was having upon her, and were waiting with bated breath for her appearance.

The show opened, the chorus entered, the sail unfurled, and with it, a small body fell, still bound at the mouth, but also now at the neck, smudging red against the canvas, swinging and bouncing against the set and eliciting screams and horror from her public. A small girls body, dis-armed and beaten ruthlessly to death, before being bound by the neck and swathed in canvas, and preset as some sort of horrid joke or warning.

The verdict was suicide. The other girls had richer parents than Digby did.

Digby Samuels still prowls the building, her mouth bound with rags, eyes full of pleading, nightgown hanging tattered and bloody from her waist. She seeks her arm, for it was never returned to her, and she seeks something more, although whether that thing is revenge, understanding, or simply the chance to sing for her parents, I do not know.

The building now is a theatre, and I do not know if this soothes poor Digby’s soul, or whether the eternal desire and inability to perform for those for whom she endured so much is more torture than she has already suffered. She does not tell her secrets easily, and the cost of them is more than many would endure - still, I thought her story should be told, and here it is. The cost for you is negligible.

Greetings, people of Earth

2006-09-06T10:36:00.000Z

Take me to your leader...

on second thoughts, take me to someone intelligent.

Well, still not smoking, show goes up tonight, the butterflies in my stomach have been firmly DDT'ed by three dress rehearsals, and I'm sitting here eating broccoli and bacon on a bad of cous cous.

Since the Brunette has gone away I have decided to try and make myself a little more fashionable.

Skirts for guys! What could be more useful in this sweltering hot weather, except perhaps AC.

Cityskirt has a whole range. Perhaps my favourite is this:

Which shows just a naughty bit of leg, and is probably dark enough for me to do scene changes in. I would have to find a nice black blouse though.

I'm still missing the Brunette though, which sucks, cos she's back on Thursday before leaving for the really long stint after her sister's Hen Night

Often, Hen Night's are not the most tasteful of nights out, but apparently they'll be playing scrabble. Bear in mind that I have only been on the observing end of women in T-Shirts embroidered with witty sayings like, "Suck me off Sarra" or "Blow Job Beth", generally vomiting in the gutter after what must have been a great night.

I may be assumed to be being slightly tongue in cheek here, but I am wary of offending anyone who genuinely does like fucking random guys while so hammered that all they can remember the next day is the feeling that they did something very very wrong while dressed in clothes that make them look like whores with no dress sense but a keen head for advertising.

Must go to work.

Shalakazammmmmmmm! That's quite tasty!

2006-09-01T09:49:00.001Z

As Minx points out. If you put 225 grams of macaroni and 478 grammes of mature tesco cheddar into a frying pan and slap it on the oven, forty five minutes later you have macaroni cheese. It's kind of crunchy, and I had to use my Dewalt jigsaw to get it out of the frying pan, but it was caramelised crunchy goodness. We are ninety three percent carbon anyway.

Obviously, the secret ingredient is burning yourself on the frying pan and shouting "Shalakazammmmmmmm!" in the kitchen. At which point the magical macaroni fairy appears and asks you to make one macaroni related wish. I wished that I had a small child formed entirely of macaroni, whose spaghetti nose would grow longer whenever they told the truth. At that point she smacked me with her wand and told me not to practice my pasta related preversions in front of her, or she would call the police.

So my dream of Penneochhio was not to be. I was all ready to be Gepasto the pasta puppeteer as well.

I'm still busy at work, but working lates, so I'm actually procrastinating while trying to write a story about time. Then I shall cycle into work, like the good cyclist I am, staying off the FUCKING PAVEMENTS!

Can you tell that they annoy me? You'd never have guessed, would you? Honestly.

I used to cycle on the pavements, but I found God, in the form of a policeman in Manchester who stopped me and tried to arrest me for cycling on the pavement. In my defence, I would have died if I had tried to cycle round the centre of Manchester in my bike, as I had no idea of what the one way systems were, and there are trams as well as cars, buses and psychotic taxi drivers in Manchester - coupled to the fact that you would get Scallies trying to steal your bike at knife point while you were riding it.

Anyway, I found God, an overweight and fairly grumpy God, who told me to get the hell off the pavements. And I have lived a better life ever since. So if you're a cyclist who cycles on the pavement, you've probably got aids. Pavement aids. It's the worst type.

You knew the risks.

HAND (Have A Nice Day)

Zip Zap Boing!

2006-08-30T19:06:00.000Z

Alors! Le Brunette est parti.

Yup, the Brunette is partying. She finally up and left, apparently we need "a break"...

No, that's a complete lie. She's had to go away for work, but it looks rather cool, she's working here:

The top mark is the hotel, the bottom are the portacabins where they actually work. It's air conditioned, because apparently it's quite hot there. The hotel looks nice though:

Frankly, I'm jealous. I'm stuck in London working while she's swanning off skiiing somewhere.

Humph!

Actually, I'm doing ok, other than bursting into tears at innapropriate points due to terrible spelling errors.

I've been shopping, I bought leeks, broccoli, corn on the cob, onions, and my dear friend Mr Moments (Goulden, not Magic) brought me some lovely fresh garlic, so I am vegging out. Because the Brunette doesn't eat things which don't have eyes. (Meat and potatoes) and occasionally some tomatoes, and letuis.

We came back from the Burgh on Monday, having seen some good shows.

No Obvious Trauma -Unpacked Theatre Co. - absolutely fucking fantastic. They're on in Croyden at the Warehouse after the festival I believe, and I would recommend the show to anyone who has ever expressed an interest in theatre. If this show doesn't appeal then you should probably shoot yourself now.

Budapest Kiseret and G City Monologues - Firefly - Aside from being named after a great sci fi series [They existed long before Whedon thought of the name] they do great theatre. G City is Batman based, and was up last year. Better this year, with subtly different cast and set, and the same powerful and thought provoking play. Budapest Kiseret was a whole kettle of fish away from G City. A much more cerebral play, it explores ideas about different sorts of journey and includes gypsies, really crap wine and instant mashed potato.

Moths Ate My Dr Who Scarf - Toby Hadoke - I was dragged to see this by people I was up with, and never having liked Dr Who very much, I didn't really expect to enjoy this, but aside from informing me about Dr Who, and making me want to watch some of the early episodes (I came to it about as late as you can, and have only seen Ecclestone and Tennant) it is also a very funny one man show about obsession and the ramifications of that Geekiness that nature bestows upon some (myself included) I wound up crying at the end, which is a measure of the power of the show, or of how tired I was. Definitely the surprise hit for me.

Patrick Monaghan - A pleasantly funny family stand up show - a genuinely lovely guy whose good humour and likeableness makes up for not having class A material all the way through.

Brendon Burns - This is the third year running. I'm fairly bored of his trilogy by now, although having said that every year I keep going back, and I always end up laughing till it hurts, which is the main point. Still I wish he'd leave God out of it. Next year twill be new different stuff, and I will go and see him again. Just remember...

God botherers?

They've all got AIDS,

religious AIDS,

the worst kind.

...they knew the risks.

Heh.

That won't mean much to you less you've seen it.

We also went to comedy club for kids, and were the only people without kids there. Saw some good folks rubbing crisps into their hair.

The Jekyll and Hyde seemed to have stopped doing Monster Burgers, for which I will never forgive them. The woman tried to convince me there was a food shortage, but why they couldn't have put two of their normal burgers on top of one another like they usually do is beside me.

Battered Haggis is still one of my favourite things, but I discovered that battered (whole) black pudding is also pretty damn good. I tell you, you can never have too much curdled blood in one meal. Arthur's Seat is still there, and I would post pics, only I can't be bothered.

Back at the ranch things are proceeding apace. Show starts soon.

I must go and find out the recipe for macaroni cheese.

Good bye, and Good luck.

Well...hmmm

2006-08-24T18:30:00.000Z

Ciao bambini, Come stai?

I'm having fun at the mo, actually. We have been laying lino and we've finished building the set, and it is being varnished, and if we are all good boys and girls it will slide into place and bolt down a treat next week. Of course, if we've been bad boys and girls then the God of Stage Management will make all our measurements wrong and subtly harden the floor of the space so we can't put any screws in. He's already blowing bubbles in the lino.

I was reading an article on how to do crazily comlex google searches, which could come in handy, and I was trying some of the examples, and I came across this. Look at the web address when you load this up. I'm sure I've found it before, but it baffles me. Call me paranoid, but I find it very difficult to believe that this is not a piss take site directed specifically at my atheism.

Maybe I'm wrong. I've tried searching for google caches of it to see how long it has been running, but it doesn't seem to exist. Google links to it don't exist, yet it has 273 entries in the guest book.

ok - I'm an arse. I've just remembered finding this last time - any url with www dot SOMETHING dot blogpot dot com will link this site.

For example: this

Actually that doesn't work, sadly. I think you are limited to the number of letters you can abuse them with before it cuts you off.

I'm still not smoking, which is boring. It has made going to the pub slightly duller. Obviously I need better company. [no offence intended to anyone who might take it.]

Mum said to me recently that she'd been to dinner with an ex smack head - it's ok, he was a merchant banker while he was doing smack, which is fairly common in that area. [Yeah Jordie...] and he has recently given up smoking tobacco, and then taken it up again, and said that he would rather have to give up heroin again than tobacco. So I'm going to take up smack. Obviously.

I have to leave. I have to go to Tesco's. It's an odd compulsion I have...to do with eating...and shoes.

I have news!

2006-08-12T09:49:00.000Z

Which is news to you, not news to me, cos I already know it. But it is good so far.

I am (this isn't the news) addicted to listening to More Sileage's myspace tracks. My favourite is "I'm a Man." Possibly because I am, but possibly for some other reason. I have also discovered The Young Knives, whose track "Weekends and Bleak Days (Hot Summer)" has stuck in my head.

Right - news. I'm a non-smoker. That's it really. And it probably should be qualified with a "so far." It's officially been two weeks since I had a cigarette. I know it takes longer, and it may take much longer, as the real challenge is coming- next weekend I am planning on going to Sianodel's house and gaming, and I have never not smoked at a gaming session, so I am looking for any hints for what to do to try and not smoke. I'm thinking licorice root if I can get it, so I have something to stick in my mouth.

And in other news. Cycling is getting easier. It only actually takes about eight minutes on my bike before I get to work, and my legs are hurting less. I'm developing cyclists calves. Slowly.

I'm glad to see that everyone thinks my idea for the banning of vegetarianism is a good idea, and I will be putting it forward in the next parliamentary session I bother to attend. I don't know who voted me in, but their getting their money's worth of apathy.

Christ! I sound like a real politician, don't I. I should put in a disclaimer, I have never, will never, and would never run for parliament, despite the fact that I would be almost certain to be voted in within seconds of standing. Unlimited dicatator of the world is the only post I would accept, and even then only if I was asked nicely and offered a lifetime supply of Ben and Jerry's. (my lifetime, not the lifetime of the ice cream.)

Simon's still going. Hasn't made much progress. Edinburgh in two weekends.

Le Weekend

2006-08-06T19:24:00.000Z

Well, we had Mr Ranting down for a day or so. Nice to see him, and Ms Pedog who stopped yapping a while back, but kept kicking, as it were.

There ain't masses to report, other than that I am feeling that Oxfam owes me. I have far too many books that I find when I go in, and they just suck me into buying them. Still, at least I can offer them a good home. In the Marlow Oxfam we also found "Passing through the Netherworld," a board game based on dying and what happens next. In ancient Egyptian times anyhoo. I guess it's like snakes and laddes only when you step on a snake you come back to life. Or go to hell. Whichever..

Apparently it is like Backgammon, which I have a sneaking suspicion is what made the Brunette want to buy it. Up until around six months ago the Brunette hadn't ever played backgammon. I had, in bars and with mates, and enjoyed the game. Blebber did a show which needed a set, which was duly bought from props money, and after the show, consigned to the back of a cupboard. I asked if I could take it home, and was given permission. So I started teaching the Brunette backgammon.

Backgammon is a game very definitely of two halves, and it is true to say that while the first half is strategy and planning, a skillful half, the second is mainly down to luck. I considered myself a fair hand at it, other than needing constant reminding of how to set the damn thing up, and I was looking forward to playing the Brunette, with anticipation of some easy victories followed by some more challenging matches.

We played through the first time, with me talking the Brunette through her moves, going through the rules, some tactics etc. She won, through luck and since I was playing both sides basically that time, I didn't mind.

She said she had figured it out, and we played a proper game. I was determined to make it close, because I know that the Brunette could give up in disgust at this stage if I beat her too easily and she felt she wouldn't make any headway, and, the dice fell for her. She won. I didn't mind, this was good, she was enjoying beating me, and feeling that she had a good grasp of the game. It was time for me to assert my superioroty and win a game, just to show that I did know what I was talking about.

I haven't won a game since.

I've come close, but the closest I have come is two pieces left. I think the Brunette saw the sentence in the quick start guide to this Netherworld game which said "similar to the modern game, Backgammon" and realised there was something else she could rinse me at every time.

It's very frustrating.

And, I missed a friends birthday party, a joint party of two friends. Nobody who reads this knows them. (except you Mum)

But at the party another friend and his band played. More Sileage

I went to their myspace, and their songs are wicked. Try them - you might like them

And in the latest news

2006-08-03T17:40:00.000Z

The CO2 we keep pumping out into the atmosphere is combining with sea water to ford carbolic (or carbonic, I never could remember the difference) acid and turning the sea into acid. Way to go Kyoto! (You can chant that)

I just realised that the Brunette and I do a bit for the environment (not much mind, we haven't got organised enough to get ourselves carbon neutral yet, although I want to find out how much it would cost)

For starters, we don't recycle. Biggest myth in recycling history. "Recycyling is good for the environment"

IN FACT: Recycling (most things) is bad for the environment.

Technically, well, NO. It isn't. In fact, it's bad for the environment. All of it.

With the exception of Aluminium, and that isn't good for the environment, it is good for us, because Aluminium is a very rare resource on earth, because ninety percent or more of it is tied up in silicates in mud and clay, and we haven't figured a way of extracting it yet.

Glass = better to tip it in the sea and wait till it gets turned back into sand again.

Paper = better burnt.

Plastics - well, I'm willing to give a little on this one, again, recycling them is no good for the planet, but it is good for us, because again they are a non-sustainable resource.

That's pretty much everything people recycle.

The reasons that it is bad for the environment are:

Trucks to and from pick up points, to and from factories, and to and from distributors waste more energy than is saved by recycling.

Recycling itself tends to use more energy than making from new - glass-->glass : for example must be sorted, washed, melted, formed, cooled, washed and then distributed, whereas sand
-->glass must only be melted, formed, cooled, washed and distributed, and it isn't as if sand is a resource we are likely to run short on.

Paper gets sorted, bleached, mulched, formed etc, and then the bleach gets pumped into rivers. Nice. Way to go. Over ninety five percent of paper nowadays is made from sustainable forests anyhow, so again, not a resource we are running short on.

Plastics are very difficult to sort, there are various types, PVC, HDPVC, and others I can't remember the letters for, and each is a different type, and at present we don't have a quick and
easy sort method, so it is time consuming and energy inefficient to sort. We should be landfilling them and earmarking the sites for later excavation once we can sort them properly, mining plastic if you will.

Recycling is just this pervasive popular myth that does NO GOOD WHATSOEVER except for making people think they are helping out, when really they are about as helpful as George Bush at a Peace Conference.

right.

Point two.

Neither of us are veggies, and we eat a fair amount of beef and pork, and not that many vegetables (the Brunette doesn't like eating green things) so we get rid of animals, which breathe O2 and exhale CO2, as well as getting rid of cows and pigs, which also fart vast amounts of methane (to the extent that they are the worst source of methane contributing to global warming) and we don't kill harmless little plants which breathe CO2 and exhale O2

the Moral of this story is: Vegetarians are bad for the Environment

The reason I switched to colours there is because it makes me happy to realise this. Vegetarians are always preachy and arsy about how they are much better than we meat eaters (or omnivores) and how they are better for the environment. Well they're not. They are killing the things that are helping us, and helping the things which are killing us.

Therefore. I would like to propose a motion.

This house would ban vegetarianism.

Except on exceedingly serious medical grounds.

And even then, I think we'd be better off without someone who wouldn't give their life willingly if they were forced to stop eating meat.

So there.

I am aware that I have rambled again. But I think I have a fair point - Bush, take note, this is how to deal with greenpeace, I bet they're all fucking veggies as well. Fucking hippy treehuggers.

New job proceeding well. Gym proceeding promising. Bike making legs hurt regularly. Reading very good book.

I always wanted to be an astronaut...

2006-07-24T14:22:00.002Z

But I am a Stage Manager instead.

so...

Blebber's over. I'm officially unemployed, although it may not count given I start tomorrow at the Fruit Bearing Theatrical Venue. (FBTV)

And no, to those of you who may be wondering "the Strawberry Patch" is not a theatre!

I'm having a busy day. I've had a haircut, and I ran away to Rome, and signed up for the gym. Defeated Megatron in single handed combat, and ensured world safety for at least as long as we take to destroy it ourselves.

TWAU has been slacking - no sign of Dredd Casefiles 4, and I've been checking frequently.

and The Brunette has finally had enough of me, and will be moving to Morocco in September.

I keep meaning to start writing again, and I have a couple of ideas up my sleeves, but I have been so busy I am still processing, and quite enjoying tearing through the Pratchett's I have been collecting again.

Off to see RocketLeafSalad's thing at the Hampstead Start night tonight - and looking forward to it. I haven't been to the Hampstead (the number of theatre's in London I haven't been to is quite embarrassing, but I am only interested in them for their technical capabilities.) So that should be fun.

In other news, fourteen squirrels have just been allowed representation in the UN after it was found that they had successfully run North East Somerset as an independant state for the past seventeen years.

I'm just losing my sanity slowly.

That's one of our constructions in the Theatre, for RTTForbiddenPlanet - a space ship set, and if you look closely, some rather un animated (at that point in time) tentacles.

Just thought I would show you what I do. Lights under the stairs and everything....

Admittedly, that set was more fun than most.

Chow for now folks.

Music: Prodigy

Book: A Forgotten Realms Classic - "All she wanted was a pony, but did her mother every buy her one? Did she f**k! Now Morgannica is back from the dead, and she's dead! and mean! and obsessed with BLOOD! and she can do magic, like Harry Potter only f**king deadly!!!! Chronicling the rise of an psychotic and dangerously insane pony club girl, "BLOODmagic" shows us what life is really like on the other side of the fence, the side without the ponies."

Naah. It aint bad actually, just the blurb made me laugh, and not for reasons that would make anyone else laugh. Although I may try and write one of the chronicles of Morgannica, the Pony Club Reject turned Psychotic Bloodmage!

Well, it's all over...

2006-07-17T10:05:00.000Z

It's over, it's finished, and I feel tired and kind of emptied out.

Tuesday night, first dress, first run, show went badly. Too many of my cues were in the wrong place. However, after an afternoon run on Wed, the evening run was shit hot and sparkling. Thursday came, the last night. The last show ever in the theatre, the last show ever at Blebber. And it went ok. I had to shout a line which is supposed to be delivered by someone on a mike backstage, but they didn't hear the cue line. And then some fucker ran off the stage and managed to kick the sound equipment off it's little stack. I watched it collapse in slow motion, the sound desk itself shooting off the top, and then the top minidisc player gradually sliding backwards, tilting upwards, and then collapsing down outside the sound booth. I got to my feet calmly, drew back the little curtain that hides me from the audience, and put the system back together. The show continued on stage, and when I got back, I had missed three lighting cues, but the sound came back on the next time we needed a cue, and the show finished in style.

Everybody then proceeded to get hammered. I had purchased some limes, brown sugar and cachaca earlier on, because I wasn't up for drinking the nasty wine provided, so I disappeared for a little while and made some cocktails. Unfortunately, as is so often the case, Jesbo, my opposite number at Blebber, whoom I had made the second of the two cocktails for, immediately started disclaiming how nasty the Caipirinha was, but insisted on finishing it before going and throwing up in the loo. I wish people wouldn't drink my booze, and my cocktails if they don't like them. Then there's more for me.

After a while, which saw students dancing on the gurney, and using Don Quixote's lance as a pole (for dancing purposes) we were thrown out and were led to a club down the road which had an Iranian night on. I have no idea what the local Iranian clubbers thought of the 40 or so upper middle class drama students that descended upon their club, but they must have made a killing at the bar.

I didn't get home, managing to miss the last tube, and then staggering back to student digs, and staying up till it was time to come back in for work the next day. Not a wise idea, and I'm still recovering.

Drinks on friday for one of our costumiers, then Gasbo's birthday drinks on Saturday, then staff party Sunday. I'm tired and my liver hates me.

And now I had one final week of work before I move places. We'll be skipping things solidly all week. Seems a shame.

Right - I must go twerk.

2006-06-29T22:14:00.000Z

I've got a job ...I've got a job..I've got a job.....I've got a job.....I've got a job......I've got a job......I've got a job......I've got a job...I've got a job...I've got a job...I've got a job.....I've got a job.....I've got a job...I've got a job.I've got a job..I've got a job..I've got a job..I've got a job..I've got a job..I've got a job.I've got a job.I've got a job.I've got a job.I've got a jobI've got a jobI've got a jobI've got a jobI've got a job...

tra la la

At the aforementioned place of fruit.

Sorry I've been away so long folks...

2006-06-22T15:38:00.000Z

Not that you mind massively, I'm sure. Most people have better things to do than read my brain dribble. (Except you, Mum ;)

I've bin busy. Really. Showcase, other show, and Cabaret, and trying to find another job.

Mooning Beagle Splodge has turned me down - apparently I'm not worth as much as I was last year. So I'm trying the alphabetically inclined and audibly oceanic venues and the venue we took "Kept Their Humanity" to for jobs. They are both interested, but I have a feeling that they won't pay enough either. Aah well, more time for slobbing round London. and perhaps visiting the French Branch of Chateau Norris.

But I have had a call from a Fruitful Theatre in Richmond, which could be interested, round fruit, theatre in the round, like that...hmmm... So fingers crossed for that, which is tomorrow.

I realise that I'm talking rubbish, but those of you who know what I'm talking about know what I'm talking about, know what I'm talking about. I just decided to make that sentence more complicated than strictly necessary, and those of you who don't, don't, innit?

And I did a home test for the Society for the Incredibly Brainy, which is named after a common kitchen appliance, "Spatula" being close, but smaller and less used for cooking and more for eating off. Wiki reckons it is the flat top surface of an altar, but I've heard it defined as Table more commonly.

Let it be said, I'm (according to the home test, which of course I could have cheated monstrously on) in the 99th percentile,(which if you are Westerly, lies on the same line as Mexico City, and if you are Easterly, is pretty near Bangkok) which means that I can join the table. It was like this when I was a kid. You ate in the kitchen till you were old enough, then you got to join the table where the grown ups ate. Then you realised it was more fun eating in the kitchen, and warmer, and meals came at sensible times, and then you realised that when you bought a house, you weren't going to be able to afford a kitchen you could eat in (unless, like me you perfected the art of dining while standing, preferably over the bin) and it was the knees or the dining table until I'm rich...rich I tell you...mwah ha ha ...oh shit, I'm not rich yet.

Anyroad. I should go before I start ranting about work and put something googleable in which might get me fired.

Hehe....

And in a turn up for the books, England are still in the FA Cup! And nobody's been killed yet by our hooligans. (Have they?)

In other news, I'm selling something tremendously exciting on ebay. It is far more exciting than buying something, I keep logging on and people have bid more... I'm going to be rich, I tell you, Rich! mwah ha ha h... bollocks. I'm selling some greaves.

And I've 7 people watching, and lots of bids..

They are tremendously lovely, and I would recommend them to anyone as very sexy clubbing wear, with a thong or a mask. Or, Mr Ranting, of the Gregorian type, they might just complement your cape to perfection, and add resonance to your battlefield stories. I mean, what would you do if you were just describing a selection of swords in front of you, with a picturesque ruin in the background, and some crazy cameraman, or producer (like Sonia Friedman - crazy...just look at her eyes, their like holes in the snow made by someone blowing very hot very strong arabian coffee through a straw) runs up to you and attacks you with one of them? You need to be able to defend yourself, and what better to defend your self with than some lovely greaves that will protect your legs as you kick them in the nose, disarm them with your toes and do the Historians War Dance on their chests, blooded with the warm juices of your victim.

Anyone think I'd make a salesman?

I could try subliminal advertising, only my html isn't so good, so if you could just look at the following sentence for long enough for it to sink into your subconscious, but not long enough for it to register on your conscious mind, that would be great.

Buy my greaves NOW!

I went into work the other day with the Brunette, or at least we got the same train. I was commenting on her lack of expertise moving through crowds of people, which is probably to do with her being to nice to barge them out of the way, and I came up with a metaphor I liked.

I move through crowds like a hot chainsaw through lasagne.

Or a hot chainsaw through melted butter, but without the flying fat. (I can't fly)

Yeah.

Anyway.

I'll just go now. I can tell you don't like me any more.

And frankly, I don't care.

(Ann Frankly, I shall lock myself in an attic)

or was it a cellar?

Never mind.

Bye.........

Prescription drugs over the internet.

2006-06-15T22:10:00.000Z

Now that's a presription for junk mail. Good job my email address isn't on the page, and that junk commenters seem not to have worked out how haloscan works.

I'm thinking of buying some Modafarin from this quality establishment. It is a drug that I read about recently in New Scientist, to which I have recently re-subscribed, making the most of my student status (until September) although what they will think of someone studying Stage Management subscribing beats me.

It is a drug which keeps you awake. I'm not narcoleptic, nor do I have trouble staying awake, but this is different. It isn't Red Bull on acid, it emphatically isn't amphetamine, it just makes you more awake, if you are already at 100% then it doesn't boost you further like amphetamines do. It is a pure stimulant. It doesn't have side effects to speak of, and there is no "come down" like there is on amphetamines or other stimulants (including Red Bull)

It doesn't even cost that much, about as much as Red Bull, although if it works for 8 hours then it is a lot cheaper than Red Bull, cos when I'm tired it would take three or four Red Bulls to keep me running at 100% through that lot.

It even lets you catch up sleep in small bits. Theoretically, you could postpone sleep for 40 hours, and then only need to catch up 16 hours sleep. That is the equivalent of waking up Monday, running through to Wednesday night, then getting an early night, and only needing to sleep that night to catch up.

Pretty good eh?

I only really want it for recreational use. I don't get vast amount of time off, and the ability to get off work on Friday and stay awake through the whole weekend, hit the sack Sunday afternoon, and still be fresh on Monday would be quite entertaining. I'd get a lot more done.

Hmmm...

Methinks the Brunette might disapprove, and my mother too...

Heh...

2006-06-15T18:11:00.000Z

I can't decide whether it is sweet or pathetic how overjoyed football fans seem to be about us beating Trinidad and Tobago. I've got them shouting outside the flat, and it sounds like we trashed Germany 6 love or something, but no, we just scraped a win against those giants of the football world, Trindad and Tobago.

And don't try and tell me we didn't "scrape" the win. I kow it was 2-0, but we didn't have any points when I turned on at 80 minutes in, we scraped them in the last couple of minutes.

Rubbish, frankly, but, as the old saying says, little things please cretins.

Tact

2006-06-14T13:01:00.000Z

Welcome back. You've been away a while. Me? No I've been here the whole time, waiting for you to return.

Ok, that's not going to wash is it. I've been away. We've had show weekend and shows the past week, so I has bin busy. Working for a director who, if there was any justice in the world, would have been beaten to death with his own liver a long long time ago.

He's from the generation that thought Technical Crew were beneath them. An anecdote in one of the Stage Management handbooks I have read tells of how a Stage Manager waas astounded to receive an invitation to a dinner with the leading actress and the rest of the cast, turned up at the house, and was expected to eat in the kitchen with the servants.

THis guy still lives in that age. Aah well, one day justice will come, and he'll drown to death in a cesspit.

Other than that I have very little news to report. I had a great idea for a play the other day, but I had decided it was rubbish by the time I got home. I did have a plot breakthrough in Disease, the third installment of my trilogy, so that was good.

And I have been mostly drinking shandy, which is very pleasant.

The heat we have had here has been vile. Sticky, hot and full of footballers. Apparently there is some football comeptition going on at the moment, the FA Cup or something. I was amused to note that the only piece I have seen so far was when I was in the pub the other day, drinking shandy and reading New Scientist, and I glanced up at the screen, only to see someone in yellow pretending to fall over the leg of someone in white, and missing by a mile, honestly. I can do a better impression of being hit by a bus while sitting in my lounge, and the bus would be nearer me than the guy wearing white was to the guy wearing yellow.

I didn't see if the yellow person got an award for his diving, or whether he was penalised for taking the mickey, but it summed up football for me yet again, something where boring people pretend desperately that something interesting is happening.

I digress. The heat. In a small studio theatre with a whole bunch of lights in the heat is quite crazy. I think we hit 40 the other day. I've been operating the show with my shirt off, which is putting the actors off, because they are the only people who can see me (being behind the audience) but keeps me fractionally cooler. I also have a fan running six inches away from my face, which manages to blow the sweat out of my eyes at any rate.

But I walked into Richmond yesterday, and halfway there it began to rain. I stood on the towpath and raised my arms and just waited as the rain grew stronger, pattering into the water, and gently soaking me. The split in the temperature of the air it brought was beautiful, and the smells it raises, that of over dry concrete or tarmac gratefully receiving succour, the dusty dampness of the ground underfoot, and the rich stink of cow parsely becoming sodden. The river looks beautiful in the rain as well, the surface coruscating in the sunlight, while a smell of slightly rancid seasides drifts out of the storm drains.

I stood for about ten minutes, laughing to myself and getting wetter, and then I noticed the police coming for me, so I ran away and hid in a box of oranges, which was being lorried to Birmingham, but luckily I managed to slip out of the van as it paused in Milton Keynes, and pickpocketed someone for enough cash to get back to the big city. I was still two hours early for the damn show as well.

Fiction or Fantasy?

2006-06-04T12:41:00.000Z

I was going to apologise for allowing Simon to post in my stead these past few days. I have little enough to talk about, and I would only really be whinging about the incompetence of my co-worker.

We had a good showcase, and then I went and got pissed, before being locked into the pub by armed police, and then going to play fives and having a rather good session despite not really having my hand-eye co-ordination up to scratch.

Ms Leaf-Salad over there -------------->
is going to be published - which is exciting for her.... watch this space, and probably her space too to find out more.

Raar raar raaar laa laa laa

Hmmm...after a cold, wet week, the weather has changed dramatically and is now baking hot and uncomfortably sweat making.

I really genuinely honestly have very little else to say. So there.

And he reads too...

2006-05-29T21:46:00.000Z

Simon sez

2006-05-23T13:59:00.000Z

There are some times you just have to

2006-05-19T17:45:00.000Z

well, I was gonna put "smile", but I'm too much of a cynic.

I read ebaumsworld and sometimes there is something worth reading there.

There's a lot of dross, but I'm hardly one to talk, but sometimes something comes along, which reminds me why IU waste five minutes of my time browsing every so often.

This man and his story, is one of those moments. Respect, and if I could say it like a cool street dude, I would, but I'm white and middle class, so I'll just put Aretha on the stereo.

If he didn't get the job, I want my license fee back.

Yo ho ho and a motherfucker in a pear tree

2006-05-18T10:53:00.001Z

I am inexplicably euphoric today. It's a nice day, but not that nice. Aah well, who can expla?

Anyway. Short attention span as well.

Try this

For a new twist on an old classic. That's your horoscope for today ;) And fuck the Ordinary Boys, this is much better.

And this

is also very good, especially for those cat freaks out there (I know you've been rocket leafing)

I find the girl in the top left oddly sexy, although the last section of the animation kind of puts a damper on it. It's kind of like conditioning or something.

And apparently they need opera singers in Maidenhead, so any of you divas out there, get down to the Head of the Maiden and sing some opera.

Don't know where that came from, or at least I do, but I can't be bothered to explain, and it's much more interesting if I don't say nuffink.

In fact, the world would be a better place if nobody said "nuffink"

but that's just because it's irretrievably common.

Fine - ignore me...

2006-05-15T21:23:00.000Z

Bugger football

2006-05-13T17:56:00.000Z

Please welcome.......................................................

2006-05-12T08:18:00.001Z

SIMON!!!!!!

The Gap

2006-05-09T16:57:00.000Z

The mysterious London based Underground movement known only as "The Gap" claimed another victim yesterday.

"The Gap" spawned with the rise of the tube system and persisting ever since, claimed 53 victims last year, many more than the Basque movement ETA, putting it firmly into the ranks of Al Quaida and similar organisations that are not afriad to kill for their own purposes, and pushin it firmly into the awareness of the world consciousness.

A shady organisation, "The Gap's" motivations are unclear, generally targeting commuters or unwary tourists, and very occasionally polishing off a drunken yob or two, it rarely retruns its victims, and has yet to issue demands.

The high street retailer, "Gap" denaies any knowledge of the movement, and refuses to comment on suggestions that they may have been supplying "The Gap" with pastel coloured leisure wear. A spokesman for the company said:

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"I...what?"

"Are you winding me up?"

"The Gap" is not thought to have had any involvement in the 7/7 bombings, despite their happening on its home turf. "The Gap" has never voiced a political or religious alignment and is belived to be more concerned with simply existing.

The movement is beliveed to operate in cells based within London Tube Stations. These cells are independantly run on a track system and are only connected by shadowy organisations known as 'lines.' There are thirteen of these 'lines' named by colour, and more are believed to be under construction.

The Gap has proved to be hard to track down, due to the fact it manages to disappear between stations, and the phenomenon by which it seems only to manifest in the presence of tube trains. Their clain to have been 'under our feet all along' [attrib] may yet turn out to be true.

One day this mysterious organisation will reveal the reason for its continued existence, and perhaps even its future goals.

In the meantime...

MIND THE GAP

Of course I am indebted to this blog

2006-04-30T20:52:00.000Z

http://london-underground.blogspot.com

For these:

London Underground's sudden seafood allergy, although I did pay for my last monthly travel card in whelks.

And for the underground song which I linked to a long time ago. Although the last two posters were my own concoctions.

Interestingly, it looks like Mr London Underground Dot Blogspot commutes from Richmond.

like me.

Although possibly at an earlier, more commuting-like time.

Finally a reason has been given

2006-04-30T20:41:00.000Z

for the interminable repairs and delays upon our over worked public transport system.

I didn't say it was a good reason.

but I don't see why they shouldn't have pretty tools.

And... in breaking news. Cheesemongers Anonymous may have a guest blogger in the next couple of weeks...

Please prepare to welcome...

Simon

Then again. It may never happen.

Performance artists banned from the tube!

2006-04-30T20:27:00.000Z

Now I know it was always irritating when you get some surly busker on the tube, because nobody wants to hear them, and yet they have a captive audience.

The other day, one had the audacity to harass us directly as if we owed him attention. Grow up, get a proper fucking job, and stop playing shit Oasis covers, frankly.

but mimes?

Perhaps the most harmless of performance artists...

have been banned...

It comes in the wake of the news that one mime artist became too convinced by his own "glass wall" sketch, and remained on the Circle line for three weeks and four days solidly, until he passed out from lack of fresh greasepaint. Despite alarming customers with his frantic, silent entreaties, he managed to earn himself forty five pounds thirty six pence during his imprisonment.

"Call Me Kenneth", as I like to think of our Mayor, has demanded that the tube be taken out of service for comprehensive cleaning, and has acted swiftly to prevent similar occurrences.

Reports had circulated briefly last year about a small fringe theatre group that had set up shop on carriage 7319/824 of the District Line, but it transpired that they had moved on once they realised that their carriage had been permanently allocated to the High Street Kensington - Olympia Branch, necessitating plays of seventeen minutes or shorter.

Hmmm..... I would spell it Fey - but that's because I can spell...

2006-04-30T11:29:00.000Z

What type of Fae are you?

And in other news, not much is happening - I bought Nochnoi Dozor yesterday, and have found the theatrical version with the proper subtitles, which looks wicked, again. I am looking forward to watching it...

And I'm on book three of Dredd's Complete Casefiles. Very good. But now I am nearly up to speed and will have to wait for a month for the fourth one.

I'm off... I just thought I would give you something to waste time on...

Blaine Away

2006-04-27T08:26:00.000Z

I had forgotten all about David Blaine - hadn't you? Do you remember, way back in the distant past, he decided that being a twat on land was not enough, he needed to suspend himself in the air over the Thames, in order to be more visible a twat than ever.

And it worked, we turned up in our hundreds to hit golf balls at him and catapult dog food onto his perspex box. But then we got bored.... and he disappeared.

What you didn't realise, is that he's still there.

The mind's a funny thing, and we are incredibly capable of blanking out things we don't want in our mind. After three weeks of Blaine being a dick, commuters over Tower Bridge stopped noticing him, they stopped even bothering to glance out of the bus windows to see if he was still there, they didn't care, and rightly so, the idiot was using the ability to stick himself in a place where people couldn't avoid seeing him to try and crowbar his fame into the British market.

But he underestimated us. We disappeared him. He went missing, and nobody cared tuppence, nobody even cared two shakes of a lambs tail, and yes thanks, I am aware that I have misused that metaphor. But what are metaphors for if not for abuse.

Although I do steer clear of underage metaphors. That can be dangerous.

We Britons erased Blaine from our collective consciousness. The police force faded away, the Sun stopped concentrating on making burgers underneath, and went back to printing coloured toilet paper, the businessmen went back to their driving ranges.

But he stayed there.

It was only by a supreme effort of will the other day, as I was crossing the Bridge that I glanced to my left and saw, hanging there, a perspex box with nothing but a very thin irritated-looking tosser, waving his hands half heartedly, as if he no longer really expected anyone to see him.

I gave him a wave back, but I feel bad about it now. I might have got his hopes up, and I have no intention of telling the police. Let the fucker starve. It was his idea.

House, House, Let it all out...

2006-04-26T21:02:00.000Z

Well folks...

House no happen. Mortgage people are fuck-stained pisswits, and the credit score system is a joke. We cancel officially tomorrow. Wish me luck.

And for gods sake, if any DJs read this site (Mum, I know you're not a DJ) PLEASE STOP PLAYING GNARLS BARKLEY...

I used to quite like the song, but dear god, they're playing it more than twice per set. It's just wrong! I heard it thirty seven times today, and I only listened to the radio for fifteen minutes. (I exaggerate, but only slightly, and only for effect.)

I have blogs up my sleeve, but they're stuck on some loose thread.

It's official!

2006-04-18T18:36:00.000Z

Nationwide are a bunch of piss stained fuckwits.

Dreddfully busy...

2006-04-17T18:49:00.000Z

I am ending the period of grace, the break we had from Blebber while the students went away and we gathered ourselves for the next, and final term.

Saw the rentals, which was fine.

Finished Aura, which was excellent.

And now I have just finished Judge Dredd: Complete Case Files Vol. 1

Very good....

I was kind of hustled into buying it by the folks at "They Walk Among Us" In Richmond, a very good little shop where I purchase many of my Comics, Perplexcity Cards and Forgotten Realms books.

I was enquiring after Y: The Last Man, which I have been following avidly. The next book is out in two weeks or so, but I came away with this. They didn't have volume two, but they should have by this week, so I might go back and get it.

It is quite an experience to be able to read all the Dredd stories in order uncut etc etc. Walter the Wobot and everything. I found the three and a half pages or so which the film must have been based on. Dredd's brother Rico coming back, and was impressed by how in three pages the writers and artists could create more atmosphere and interest than an hour of watching Ms Bullock attempt to flirt with the plank that is Stallone.

We also bought a Freeview box, which was a let down. The Brunette has been keen on one for a while, and I can see plus sides, we could watch Housewives a week in advance, or Lost, and that would be good, so we can miss it occasionally and not have to panic about catching up, but it doesn't work.

The internet listing says our area is fine, but Freeview boxes don't work on communal aerials. Bear that in mind if you live in a city like us. I thought there should be some sort of warning on the box, a lot of peoiple round here share their aerials with at least one or two other buildings.

Warning - Freeview boxes DO NOT work with Communal Aerials.

I just think they should have let us know.

Disclaimer: Apparently some communal aerials can be boosted to deal with freeview boxes, but the majority won't work.

I miss fives this week. This whole Easter bollocks seems to make people think they can slack off. Damn their eyes. I don't care that Jesus escaped from a chocolate egg on Easter Sunday, frankly, or about the Hare Bingers of Doom that were vanquished by the Egg Wielding Rabbits of Destiny. Or about the chicks. What's with the chicks? They're just undersized McNugget fodder. (If you believe that McNuggets are made from Chicken. Personally I have always suspected them of being made primarily from breadcrumbs and powdered clown.)

I must leave now, to go and scrape the Bolognese of Death out of the Wok Pan of Pain and onto the Plates of Supper.

Kebooooooobaa!

2006-04-17T09:56:00.000Z

I am tired, exhausted, and otherwise fatigued.

I have had a busy day. I finished Aura yesterday, at about ten past ten I typed the final sentence, and then "THE END"

It was satisfying. I will go back and edit it, and nobody is allowed to read it until I have done that, bar perhaps the Brunette, and only if she asks very nicely. Because I know it needs a big edit. I have been so patchy with the writing of the last thirty thousand words that I am sure there will be continuity errors, and the very fact that I wrote 15700 words yesterday means that there will most certainly be bits in that I want to change. On the plus side, it means the pace should be good, and I am pretty happy with how it ends.

I have changed the icon on the lower right hand side of my blog. It had been saying "2005 Nanowrimo Participant." but now I can put my winner icon up.

Let me explain. I took part in Nanowrimo, I wrote 50 thousand words in November, but I did not finish my novel, and so I didn't let myself put the icon up till I was finished. Now, five months later, I am finished, and I am a winner. I can finally delete the fucking thing from my desktop.

There are two more links on the right as well. One leading to an encyclopedia of accents, which is funny, and can be useful, and the other leading to an online history reference, which isn't Wiki based. Which is very useful. Those of you who know me know that my history skills closely match my interest in football. Zero, nada, not even if its England. So a history ref like that one could come in very handy. In fact I was looking for examples of numerical representation formats when I found it.

Right. Enough with the writing. I'm going shopping.

Chow fer now, Peeps.

Sushi

2006-04-15T17:27:00.000Z

It is interesting to note that sushi is gaining popularity as an eat-as-you-go dish. It is more of a gain in popularity for vendors, because of its low cost to produce and high retail value due to its exotic nature in this country - but vendors lead consumers by the nose, and consumers now seem happy to pay four pounds or more for rice rolled in spinach at Tescos.

I think it is especially interesting, as cyberpunk predicted the growing influence of Japanese culture in the West.

but...

why...

has sushi, raw fish, a foodstuff potentially deadly if not prepared by an experienced chef, a foodstuff that should go off in a day or less, and that, once it has gone off can give truly horrible types of food poisoning.

Having done some research, I have realised that Sushi doesn't actually go off that quickly. Wrapping fish with rice, or vice versa, was found to preserve the fish. The as the fish fermented, the rice produced lactic acid, which in turn pickled the fish. Interesting...

I don't really understand vegetarian sushi, aside from its being cheaper...

I had this big rant lined up about how english sushi was a pale imitation of the real thing, but I am disappointed. The real thing is genuinely mostly rice and small bits of fish, although apparently in the beginning the rice wasn't eaten.

Aah well.. what's a man to do?

I just finished reading Neuromancer again, I had browsed through the first few pages a couple of weeks back and decided it was high time I read it again, and I have noticed, for the first time, that Molly tells Case a story about an old boyfriend of hers called Johnny, who has storage in his head and gets in trouble with the Yak....It's Johnny Mnemonic. I knew that Gibson wrote the screenplay for the film, but I never knew it was based on her story...

very cool...

Still one of the best books I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

The Brunette and I are planning a day of writing over the Vernal Equinox break. I need to get back into Aura big time, although I have finally sent Legionnaire off to some people. Now I just wait till I hear back.

Right. I'm off to read Judge Dredd Case Files 1

Happy Spring everyone!"

Holiday.....

2006-04-11T10:08:00.000Z

I am on holiday, and relaxing, chucking some words out here before I start on Aura again.

You may notice I have new links to the right, one to Implicit Lychopsy, a waterpolo playing Dutch Hawaian with a good line in art, and one to Innerminx, an earnest scribbler from the mystical land of Cornwall, in de Von, somewhere off the South West coast of Somerset. Go visit them if you have the inclination, or ignore them if you must.

I proceeded to watch History of Violence yesterday, and then Hotel Rwanda. H of V was very good, very graphically violent, and slightly too dark (film wise) to watch in bright sunshine, even with the curtains closed, so there were a few scenes where all you could see was a face. An intelligent treatment of something which has been done to varying degrees several times before. Hotel Rwanda was predictably good, shocking, and reassuring in equal measure. I know it was based around a true story, but I felt they could have dramatised it a little more and made a better film by leaving some elements out, which IMHO could have created a more moving and powerful piece.

I am writing today, as I have been dragged home for a couple of days during my holiday. It will be pleasant to see the Rentals again, but it does mean I lose 48 hours which I was planning to spend sending Legionnaire off and finishing Aura. So I have to have a busy day today.

I am also going to book seeing some films at the London Sci-Fi festival thingy today. An anime all nighter which looks wicked, and a couple of other things which look rather good. None of the Arthur C Clarke award nominees look especially thrilling this year, although I might try and read one or two to see what they are like. The Ishiguro one looks interesting.

Right, or rather...write. I'm off, to write, and wait for the mortgage man to call and tell us we are poor and evil bastards who will not pay for our house if they lend us money.

**Update**

And in true style of a time when I actually have time to write, and I have specifically allocated time to that end, I can't. I have written about 12 hundred words today, and they are coming grudgingly, each one forced from me with a push and a curse. I know I will hate what I have written, and I know it is good discipline to push on, but I just don't feel I can. I think I might make some tea, and sit down and find out if any publishers take emailed submissions - that way I can at least do something constructive.

I can write shit, just not what I should be writing. Maybe I will try a short story in a while. Maybe I will give up and go watch television.

Boooooo

Plus the mortgage people haven't phoned yet, so that is always helpful, a Damoclean phone call waiting to drop.

**Turns out he isn't in (I called them having heard nothing.) Suddenly a five letter word beginning with 'c' and ending in 'ts' springs to mind, and it isn't 'carts'

Fuckers...

Yaay.

Fine sunshine, cold and fresh...

2006-04-10T09:30:00.000Z

Legend of Zorro is finishing behind me as I type. Not a terrible film, but I found myself tremendously frustrated by the fact that he refused to kill anyone, which meant the same bad guys who pissed him off at the beginning were the same ones who kidnapped his wife, kidnapped his son, threatened the birth of the United States of America etc, it would have been much quicker and simpler, and indeed a huge amount more satisfying to the viewer had he killed them in the first place. It seems to be a trend of modern films. Sianodel pointed out over the weekend that Bond was a real fucker, as we watched a clip from (I think) Moonraker, where he dart-guns someone into paralysis, and then pushes him out of an airlock and into space. He gets away with it without being portrayed as a ruthless psychotic because of his one liners and the debonair way in which he disposes of the bodies. If only serial killers were as pleasant I'm sure they wouldn't be so vilified, a last witty one liner so you go to your grave choking with mirth rather than choking on your own blood. Could have potential there.

Any ideas for one liners out there?

I'm going with the London hammer murderer attracting his victims in the dark with a:

"Stop...Hammertime."

Sorry.

One of those times when I realised that if I believed in hell, I would believe I was going to it, and then I would start thinking about the music down there...

Given me a possible idea for a story though. Always nice.

Bit of a shit film though.

Anyway. I have two better ones to watch, which I shall do later. First I must go and buy something to have for lunch, and shower first...

Mind Dump

2006-03-30T11:56:00.000Z

Don't say you weren't warned. I'll be just rambling more than usual. I haven't written anything in months, and it is possible that my mental constipation could be due to too much stuff I need to get out, so I will dump here and hopefully might get some writing done in the next few weeks.

I have also been tremendously busy at work, which may account for it. The musical now underway, I have done two shows, and with over 200 cues I have been prevented from sleeping through it, which is a shame, but hey - it keeps me busy. And the musci means that my RLS (restless leg syndrome) can be converted from fidgeting into counting the beats.

I have been late with one cue (first night) and early with one (second night) tonight being the third night, I may be able to get it all right this time.

In other news - and article I came across in Metro the other day was detailing electrosensitivity, which is something briefly touched upon in Aura, and means I need to get the damn thing finished and published before any more research starts coming out on it, and I noticed that a device has been invented, consisting of lots of electrodes, which enable a user with no arms to type. Once appropriate modification and research has been done, these will develop into trodes, enabling people to game using the minds only, or their hands and their minds, and allowing hackers to hack and military people to kill people using only their minds and trodes.

Very cool.

In other news, there isn't any really. I am reading a lot, some Harry Harrison, which was very cool, and Raymond Chandler, of whose essays I also read a couple, talking about the snobbishness people have towards detective fiction etc, and his stories, which reminded me why i wanted to write in the first place. He's so good. And then some JG Ballard, "The Unlimited Dream Company" which was strangely anti-climactic, and frankly, rubbish. I find Ballard very hit and miss. The Drought stank, Unlimited Dream Company was as if the author had written it whilst horny and on acid, which means, while he talks a lot about sex, and his prose is flowery and detailed, rambling and crazy, very little of interest happens, the plot, such as their is one, sucks, and the book is boring.

Aah well. You can't get it right all the time. I need to read Empire of the Sun really, as they say that was his masterpiece.

House buying proceeding very slowly. Our lawyer seems to type letters a word a day, and then sellotapes them to the back of a snail to get them here.

The musical looks good, the set is fantastic, and the costumesa re great, and the acting and singing is good as well. I'm pleased it has come out this well, and think that the Director's antagonism might just be based on the fact that we have done a better job than he has.

I'm having an exciting day at home today, washing up and doing washing, blogging and then going into work. I've barely seen the Brunette for a week or so. By the time I get in, she's in bed, trying to get to sleep. And when she gets up to go to work, I'm trying to stay asleep. Hopefully I'll manage to meet her during this weekend when both of us are awake.

Right, I'm off. I might even try and write something.

Chow for now: Quiche

**UPDATE** I have finished the quiche, and written 4600 words. Yaay for me.

Yo Ho Ho

2006-03-29T12:28:00.000Z

We are into the run. First night last night, and it went well. I dropped one cue, and I shouldn't do that tonight. The audience clearly loved it, and the Director said "thank you" to us for the first time. Late, but better late then never. He's still a dick. This doesn't excuse his unavoidable rudeness during the last month, but hey, we were right, and he was wrong. Our part of the show looks great, and his isn't as good as it should be.

I am a juggler, three and four balls, although only tricks with three, and I'm rusty, I haven't been keeping practicing, in any case, this is fantastic. I haven't seen anything like it...

I should go now, and let my brain keep melting out of my ears...

Yaay for me

2006-03-21T10:10:00.000Z

I have seven thousand hits at time of writing. Thanks Mum.

It's taken a long time to clock that many, but with only two readers I feel good.

V for Vendetta = fantastic

Dark Star = shit

Tiger Lillies = fantastic

Tiger Lillies support act = shit on an ipod.

I have an idea. It's a new form of Ipod. I call it the U-pod. I have noticed that whenever one is in a public space one can always see around oneself a bare minimum of thirteen people wearing ipods. I went down to Dartmoor the other day to text this hypothesis, and the buggers were just wandering around with their silly white cables down their fronts. When will they learn that if you put the cable underneath your t-shirt it will stop catching on things and stop you from looking like a posing fuckwit.

Anyway, back to my idea. Due to the ubiquity of ipods, it is no longer necessary to actually own one, enter the U-pod. It is a simple design, which enables one to tune in to any of the various ipods in your immediate vicinity. Of course it is best used for commuters, as the incidence of ipods rises to an average of seventy three within the immediate meter radius surrounding one when commuting by tube or bus in London. You can tune in to your neighbours music, rejecting those listening to Alicia Quays, or Cheeko, and choosing the more refined of ones travelling companions, perhaps a touch of classical... depends on your taste.

[and before you whinge about 'maybe my taste is for Cheeko', if you like Cheeko or Alicia Quays then by definition you have no music taste, and precious little chance of reproducing]

If life gives you lemons - make lemonade
If life gives you gators - make gatorade

Made from real gators.

And I came to a realisation the other day, so if I wind up floating face down in a canal soon, it was this what done it, I was right!

Of course, I may not be right, but I think I am.

You know the Chinese boys and girl who go from door to door, and wander the streets of London selling DVDs?

I'll bet they are at language school, and I wonder how they pay their course fees.

Someone is running the language schools in London, and using them not only to get cheap labour into the country, and possibly allowing bypassing of immigration law, but they are also running the largest film piracy ring I have ever encountered. The dvds are all the same ones, which means a centralised source, probably a centralised distributor.

Maybe these kids are brought into the country, and first they are sent out to try and give phone cards away which allow you to ring Guatemala for under seven p a minute. Well, I have a fulfilling and complete relationship with my Guatemalese friends, I don't have any, and they don't have me either.

After proving themselves at the "giving away of stupid phone cards" game, for a week, or longer if it is nice weather, they get to move up the Language School ladder. They are taught a smattering more of a vocabulary:

"DVD?"

No..

"No?"

No...

"No lookee?"

No...

"Only five pounds?"

No...

"Five for twenty?"

No...

"Oh..."

Then, if you are male, they try and tempt you with their supply of Chinese porn DVDs.

I reckon they pay their term fees by putting in time flogging pirate DVDs

Why it is only Chinese beats me for the moment. I suspect they get the Eastern Europeans either pushing drugs or acting as muscle for their other illicit activites.

It's all a big conspiracy...

I'm at home today, as you may have gathered, but I am going to be doing sound stuff later.

Must dash, terribly important things to be doing...

;)

Mmph...

2006-03-08T00:07:00.000Z

Dark and Empty...

I have just finished Neal Stephenson's "The Big U" it is a strange book, nihilistic and destructive, but well written and a compulsive read with brilliant characters and an interesting plot. It has however, left me feeling dark and empty. It doesn't help that the Brunette is away, and my only human contact today has been with the mortgage people and my bank manager, neither of whom are people I particularly engage with.

I'm listening to "Return to the Forbidden Planet" which is the musical the Blebber Shuglas is doing next, and which is not as distasteful to me as most musicals are.

I have spent the day pointlessly, reading, and messing about on the computer.

I have, aside from failing to get a decent score on any miniclip game, done some artwork.

Which was some interesting graffiti I found. Stilo means "pen" in Italian, I like the name, it's mine.

and

Which is Tiger Lillies make up - not perfect, but I have identified some interesting functions on the program which I am looking forward to trying out. I know RTTFP will need some fairly serious artwork done for it, and I am no expert, but I'm as close as they can get, so I'll be doing it.

I have decided that tabloids should no longer be designated "news" papers, as they portray very little news, more opinion and gossip these days. I have therefore declared them to be "nuis"papers*, only fit for filling the sacks of the people that tidy the tube.

*from "nuis"ance

I am still trying to get impetus back into Aura, which is petrifying at the 70k word stage. I only have another 40k to go according to my plan, but I can't seem to motivate myself to write the bastard.

So I'm off to bed, and off to work tomorrow, back to the grindstone.

A head wound never killed anybody...

2006-02-28T17:57:00.000Z

Look away now if you have a nervous disposition. Well, it is probably too late. Tough.

I'm a bit of a doofus. I hit myself on the head with a piece of 2x2 while I was trying to remove a particularly stubborn screw. Head wounds always looks worse than they are, so I went home as usual, and was intrigued to discover when I arrived home that the blood had made little bubble type thingies. In the spirit of scientific discovery, and because I enjoy the idea of grossing people out online, I took pictures.

Cool, huh?

In the meantime I'm off to get pissed and find out about concussion and alcohol.

Oxfam presents

2006-02-27T08:54:00.000Z

I love getting presents from Charity shops. I have many shirts from Oxfam, and countless books. They have started doing something else as well though. I found one of my Christmas presents today, which went straight in the bin.

You can buy, and I had been bought, 200 school dinners for a starving child somewhere in the world. Now I do not disapprove, in fact I think anything that makes people give more is a good idea, however:

Aside from the fact that I don't want to be responsible for anyone having to eat school dinners.[ - I would rather Oxfam had called them packed lunches than School dinners.]

I think it is rather mean to give someone this. Bear with me here. If I decide to give thirty quid to Oxfam, then Oxfam gets thirty quid, for which they are thankful, and I get a warm feeling of Christian/Muslim/Atheist charity within me [depending on my religion]

However, if someone else decides to give Oxfam thirty quid on my behalf, then Oxfam gets thirty quid, for which they are thankful, the giver gets a warm feeling of Christian/Muslim/Atheist charity within them [depending on their religion], they also get a feeling of moral superiority over me, as they can consider themselves to have put themselves out putting some credit on the balance of my immortal soul.

I think it is out of order. I wouldn't complain had I recieved nothing for Christmas from this family, nor would I complain had they sent out cards saying "No presents this year, we are giving the money to charity" but to get a card saying 'you have bought 200 school dinners for this kiddo' makes me feel bad, for not having bought the school dinners in the first place, begins the first workings of a complex about not having finished my school dinners when I was at school, as well as benifiting the giver in two ways, they can feel good about having bought 200 school dinners, and they can feel moral superiority over me because I actually got them a present, heartless bastard that I am.

I am of the mind that all giving is a originally self motivated, and that Altruism is a myth invented by someone or other to make us feel bad, but giving an Oxfam present as a gift sucks.

Oxfam gift vouchers now, I'm all for, I spend far too much money there as it is.

I'll tell you what, go to Oxfam, by yourself a card saying you've paid for someone's school dinners, and keep it, that way I'll feel good, you'll feel good, and some poor fucker will have to eat 200 school dinners.

It's a beautiful thing, but there's far too much purple.

2006-02-23T09:36:00.000Z

Well, I be back in the land of the living, wondering why I'm bothering blogging this shit. I vowed I would always keep my blog away from the mundane, and in the surreal, or at least the non mundane. I know you aren't intersted in my life, hell, I'm not interested in my life, and those of you who might sustain a glimmer of interest I use a different method of communication with, an older method involving larynxes and face to face interaction.

Well, I'm a year older. Feels just the same, except it's snowing. Does it always snow when you hit this age. Perhaps it's a sign. I hear it is all downhill from here.

I actually have to get away from this fantasy world and into another, so I will leave after a brief mind dump to prepare myself.

Have fun. Someone should.

Louthy place to be thtuck

2006-02-14T11:47:00.000Z

Hmmm... In Lincolnshire, having fun. In internet cafe charging me a quid every twenty minutes, but my withdrawel symptoms are gradually fading away.

Everything has gone worrying smoothly up here. Gasbo and Asbo (Production Mgr and Designer) went home today, and I'm fucking off tomorrow, so there is 24 hours for things to go wrong, then it it too late.

Feeling slightly, better, although missing the Brunette. Not at home for Valentines day = Brunette not impressed. Brunette not impressed = Brunette rage, a special ability where she gets a plus to her attack and a minus to her accuracy that can be sustained only by continued applications of chocolate.

Yeah, weird mood. Not my fault. I attribute it to having no internet access, to much beer and too many full english breakfasts. It's free, what am I supposed to do? turn it down?

I have to go, more because I am bored of talking to my self now, and I'll run out of money soon.

chow for now.

It's all going to shit...

2006-02-07T11:31:00.000Z

Right, hello again, I apologise for my long absence, I know that both of you will have missed me. I've been working very hard as various parts of my world gently go to shit around me. The work keeps me busy at least.

I'm going on tour next weekend, all the way to sunny Lowth. "Where is that crazy place?" I hear you shout. Well, the nearest place to Lowth that I had heard of was Skegness. Oh yes, place synonymous with shit seaside holidays. Lowth however is not on the coast. I believe it may be synonymous with shit stays in countryside.

Apparently the 'hotel' we are staying in is called "Ye Olde Whyte Swanne" complete with the dodgy spelling and the 'y' in the middle of what could be a perfectly good colour. I'm expecting plastic ducks in trios on the walls, lukewarm three day old toast and small plastic packets, with the ever present just off white bathroom suite. Mmmm.. comfort like that of home...

On the plus side, I may get to blow things up as we tech. We have a pyro, so we have purchased some medium bang maroons. [Evil Calvin smile]

hehehe

We're still looking for a house, and we haven't won the lottery. It's a scam, I must have bought ten tickets this year and I still didn't win the jackpot. Out of order frankly.

I am currently nearing the end of Green Mars, the second of Kim Stanley Robinson's Mars trilogy. I am flabberminded at it's brilliance. I didn't think the terraforming of Mars would be a subject which would enthrall me, but I have been steadily devouring the trilogy, which is made up of three books, each of about 800 pages, so there is a lot of material, but it is astoundingly well written and engaging. I love it.

Watched series 4 of 24. Very good, although it does get more ridiculous episode by episode.

Watched Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. What a load of bollocks.

Right... better go. I'm supposed to be working...

Ferro-Fluid

2006-01-24T09:53:00.000Z

This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life. Look at the pictures and if yuou have time I urge you to download one of the videos. Incredible.

Apparently I've been 'tagged' by the Brunette...

2006-01-23T22:39:00.000Z

Four Jobs You've Had In Your Life
1) Washer Up for hotel up the road, and waiter when theirs didn't turn up, and yes, I can't carry plates without putting my thumb in the gravy
2) Glass collector at Elemental in Manchester, I used to cry before going in to work, and fantasize about getting hit by buses, just to stop me from having to go in.
3) Barman/Manager at Deluxe Cafe Bar, Contact Theatre, I will never again grow this attached to a bar without becoming an alcoholic.
4) Accountant person in the movie industry (go ooooooo!...heh)

Four Movies You Could Watch Over And Over
1) Akira
2) Taxi (The Luc Besson one, not the remake)
3) Amelie
4) City of Lost Children
(There are loads more but this will just have to do, won't it. I second this.)

Four Places You've Lived
1) Somerset
2) Manchester
3) Deluxe
4) London

Four TV Shows You Love To Watch
1) House
2) I don't really like tv series, there are ones I watch, but no more I 'love' to watch
3)
4)

Four Places You've Been On Holiday/Vacation
1) Italy
2) Dubai (kind of working vacation...was good...)
3) America
4) England

Four Blogs You Visit Daily (in no particular order, and certainly not including everyone)
1) Technically Rachel
2) Southern Bird
3) Gregorian
4) Polyphiloprogenitive
and I can't be bothered to link to them, they're in the list.

Four Of Your Favorite Foods
1) Taramasalata
2) Pizza
3) Cheese
4) Pasta

Four Places You'd Rather Be
1) Dartmoor
2) Scotland
3) Under the stairs
4) Manchester

Four Bands You Can't Live Without
1) Tiger Lillies
2) Dust Junkies
3) Live
4) bored now....

Four Vehicles You've Owned
1) Bike
2)another bike
3)micro machines
4)those ones that come out of kinder eggs

Four People To Be Tagged (do it! do it now!)
1) Sianodel (ha ha, like he'll do this.)
2) I am Evil (see above)
3) Nick (see above)
4) Micheal Heseltine

I was going to post, but this has kind of drained me. I want to go to bed.

Ninja Pirates, again...

2006-01-14T13:23:00.000Z

Memoirs of a Geisha - too many Ninja Pirates for my liking, and not enough bears with laser beams coming out of their eyes.

I'm going to send something off to Tonto this weekend, and try and get some sleep. That's the plan.

I need to write some more, and shpleurgh... can't be bothered.

Ciao.

So... not so impressed - new year, same old shit

2006-01-10T18:52:00.000Z

Welcome to 2006 folks, it's new, it's shiny, and like an ipod's batteries, it will only last a year.

On the glummer side, I'm back at work, which is good, don't get me wrong, I like my work, but a month off just makes me want to stay off and do nothing but write and drink and things. And on the plus side at work we have five plays in ten days time, instead of the usual two and thirty days time, so fun fun fun on the work front.

It gets a bit crazy, and I am stressing over the fact that one director wants 21 chairs and 8 tables on a stage which simply isn't big enough. Damn them, damn them all to hell...

So I'm building coffins to make a bed out of, and sourcing props, as we decided this time would be a good time to start swapping over the jobs, so I get to do the building, the sound and the props where before I only had to do the building and the sound. Sweet...

hmmm..

I'm collecting wrinkles this year, and I'm trying to give up smoking (with varying degrees of success) and I'm loving the extra stress...

On the plus side, they've renewed my contract so I am officially employed till the end

and on the plusser side, the new series of House and Desperate Housewives start again next week, so I have something to drown my sorrows with after work once or twice a week.

Right. I'm off to find a jazz waltz from 1936...

great...

Happy New Year

2005-12-31T15:16:00.000Z

The Brunette, in her infinite wisdom, has been telling me not to buy a digital camera for quite a while, and it turns out that aside from the fact that I don't have enough money to really justify buying the camera I desire, she had a better reason - she had bought me one for Christmas...

So I am posting pictures from my new digital camera. I haven't been very far afield with it as yet, so no pictures of India or anything...

My gramophone, of which I am proud. I will make the pictures smaller when I figure out how to really post pictures. I might even go Greg and find out how to embed them in text properly...

It is Christmas after all, and I have an 'after' photo for later... heh

One of the statues from Twickers...

And this is what I am drinking tonight. Whiskey sour with brown sugar. Half whiskey, half lemon juice and sugar to taste [lots]

Nasty Brown colour, but juice looseningly yummy taste.

In the meantime. Have a good New Year's Eve, and enjoy the beginning of '06

Peace be wiv you, innit?

2005-12-24T23:46:00.000Z

yeah, like, peace, man...

Christmas is a time to remember how much you like being on your own, and how it might not be a good idea to bring little people into this world, that's why the wise men were there, they were commiserating...

Christmas came round again, and the father had the son crucified, innit. Like, that's the whole thing about family christmases... rows, and the odd crucifixification...

oh, and turkeys, cos that's how we got the indians to give us their land. Now they have been forced into reservations on the corners of built up land...

and parsnips, and sprouts, we tried the indians with them, but they weren't having any of them...