Wednesday 24 December 2008

Mish Mash

I thought I would slip this entry in having partially recovered from a virus. I know man-flu doesn’t bring the sympathy that I think it should but at least it was nothing worse. Still things have slowed down for me because I spent a few days in bed groaning, watching The IT Crowd, listening to Radio 5 (hearing the same news stories being repeated every half hour is akin to torture, I’m sure of it). But being sick also meant my life kind of went topsy-turvey.

My routine of work and lunch were thrown aside to be replaced by constant wriggling in an attempt to get comfortable so I could fall asleep. I still needed to get some Christmas presents but was unable to because of my illness. But although I was unable to do any of the tasks I would do on a daily basis it gave me time to think about things perhaps more important to me. The things I usually neglect, not because I want to, but because daily life kind of takes over and I neglect it to the point of forgetting it. For instance, reflecting how well and how badly the year has gone for me. It is strange thinking about it while in a meeting or trying to compose an official email which requires me to scrutinise my grammar in case a smart ass points it out and also copies everyone else in. Nor can it be done in my lunch hour. I don’t want to spend my spare free time in a day to reflect on things like that. I want to eat, talk trash or funny anecdotes and maybe go for a walk. In fact there is not many times I can think of to reflect about my year, apart from when I’m sick in bed. There is no question the thought would never have popped into my head had I not been lying there waiting to get better (which is like waiting for a train. You wait then wait. Then you sit down because waiting has made you tired until finally when all hope has gone it casually rolls up with a conductor hanging out of the window flicking his fag ash everywhere).

In a whole I have been happy with the year and it seems that the last couple of years I have achieved quite a lot. I don’t know why and tried to think about it but couldn’t find the answer, maybe I had just got mentally stronger in the sense I can take more things on now. Juggle more oranges in my life so I could be doing many things at once instead of two or three. It hasn’t been all dandy though, I have dropped a few, and squashed them. Hard. But for some reason, probably because I haven’t had much time to dwell over anything, I have just picked myself back up and carried on. Mistakes at work, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, accidentally using the female shower room* all seemed to happen but I just deal with it, laughed sheepishly before running off or just apologised and then moved on leaving me thinking that I have nudged in the right direction in ’08, just.

Although reflecting about a year still didn’t deliver me a kettle to wrap for Christmas. So this morning I managed to climb out of bed, have a shower and put on any clean clothes I could find. Town was heaving, and I thought everyone else was at work but it seemed they all had the same idea as me this morning. So still drowsy with man-flu and dragging my feet as I walked I found the nearest electrical store. Glaring at all the people bustling and jostling against one another I took a deep breath and dived in pushing my way through feeling like crap and sounding even more so. I stuck out a hand picked up and box with a kettle in it, joined the queue which took so long that I even had time to plug in my ipod, paid and got the hell back home. If only shopping for presents were this simple all the time.

Merry Christmas peeps


*Please note that it is only a single cubicle shower room and I unwittingly walked in thinking it was just unisex. I was corrected when a female knocked on the door and ask what the hell is a male was doing there.

Tuesday 16 December 2008

We’re Jammin’

Last night I had my next entry all planned out to write upon my arrival, it kind of fell into my head. That was until I got caught in a traffic jam for four hours so I have decided to write about that instead.

I was on the X5 heading back from Oxford. Everything was running smoothly, in fact the driver was swerving rather erratically around the bends causing me to occasionally bump my head against the window. Still I carried on with my book with my ipod plugged in. I had it on shuffle.

We left the city in haste going around 70mph where ever we could. But then it became 50mph, then 30mph until gradually we were going 15 mph and finally we were at stand still. I didn’t think much of it at first and in fact was secretly quite pleased because the plot was thickening in my book – kind of like corn flour when making home made gravy.

By the time I had reached chapter seventeen, I realised we had crawled about ten metres in the last half an hour. My senses suddenly became aware of my surroundings, particularly the passengers. A girl on the right a few seats down was talking loudly to her friend on the phone. “Yeah it’s on my Facebook page.” She told her (apparent) friend. “I’ve done some modelling shoots and they want to put me in a magazine.” There was an instinctive urge to see so I shuffled to the edge and caught a glimpse of her face. Yeah she could be a model. Still she spoke loudly so was glad I was not sitting by her.

Another girl who was behind me began to sigh. First it was a gentle sigh, one that kind of signified a wilting patience. Then after a few minutes she sighed with some force and her breath tickled the bit of my head that poked out from behind the back seat. There were a couple in front of me, both lying against one another forming a pyramid shape in between the two seats. I was tempted to push one of their heads just so I could see the other topple. I didn’t bother and returned to my book. Jimi Hendrix was playing on my ipod.

My thoughts returned to the current situation when a police car came hurtling past with its siren blaring aloud. The girl behind me was now on the phone cancelling her night’s plans because of the traffic jam. She apologised and then proclaimed that she had already read 107 pages of her book. What! I thought. I was a fast reader but this girl is reading twice the speed I am. Wow, perhaps I’m not fast at reading at all. Ah well. I shake my head to break my thoughts and hear the model now talking about getting wasted. “Yeah we can go down the pub and get bladdered”. She was talking even louder now. I looked over and saw the guy in front of her trying to catch her attention by pouting his lips slightly. He must have been trying to impress her. It didn’t work. “Yeah then we can go clubbing.” I sighed and then turned the page. Jose Gonzalez had just started.

I kind of freaked when I next saw the driver standing outside. We had not moved in that long that he felt there was enough time to go outside for a cheeky cigarette. What made me feel uneasy was that he was puffing on his Marlboro behind an oil tanker. I contemplated tapping on the window but then just slumped within my jacket. We’d been here a couple of hours, an explosion would at least make things a bit more interesting. Hey, it might even make local news if it’s a big enough blast. The girl behind me was on the phone again. “Talk to me I’m bored…” I liked her style. My eyes began to wander along the coach staring at the aisle way and then noticing a guy sitting behind the model reading a book. I tried to catch the title but couldn’t see it. Craning my neck to give myself a better angle still proved fruitless. I gave up for the time being and opened up my book again. “Yeah I’ve read 200 pages. I’d be totally screwed with out it.” Shit. This girl had some serious reading ability, I was barely scratching a century of pages and she was rifling through her tome like it was the latest Harry Potter novel. I begin to wonder if there is a tournament or world record for how fast people can read. If there was I would enter the girl behind me.

Finally we began to move. At first it was gradual with some rather sharp jerks which made me rock forward and bang my knees on the seat in front of me. The male of the couple turned his head back and gave me the stink eye. I shrugged my shoulders. It was not as if I meant it so felt I didn’t have to apologise. A shrug was all he was getting. Eventually the bus driver turned 2nd gear into 3rd and then 4th until finally we was cruising again on the open road in 5th. I tried once again to see if I could catch the title of the book the man was reading. Once again I failed. Ah well, it was a mildly entertaining game while it lasted. The model had now stopped talking and was staring out of the window. The girl behind me was also quiet so I looked outside. Everything seemed peaceful because it was hard to see anything. All was asleep, retired for the night apart from the X5 which was hurtling down the road trying to make up lost time. My eyes become heavy and I closed them. My ipod was now playing St Etienne and I fell asleep.

Wednesday 10 December 2008

Pins ‘n Needles

I hate waking up with one of my limbs suffering with pins and needles. Last night, or should I say this morning, I awoke to this odd hot and cold sensation when I realised that I was lying on my left arm. My head was a little hazy at first and thought that I’d grown an extra arm or something but then the pins and needles started or that was when I noticed it. I winced and then I grimaced until finally I was biting my pillow and wailing slightly. It wasn’t all pain but feeling fragile around 4am in the morning exacerbated the sensation. Finally after a couple of minutes that warm prickly feeling started to subdue. It didn’t completely go but it was a bit more tolerable so it then left me with the next issue, an arm that did not do much.

It was twisted in a locked position and did not feel part of me. With my right hand I flicked it but could not feel a thing. I pinched it next and still there was nothing. I started to wonder whether I’d slept on it for so long that it was dead and would spend my remaining years hanging and swinging by my left side. Not so, at last after pinching and then twisting the skin I finally felt something. It was faint but at least the worry that it had gone to sleep forever had evaporated.

The next stage was to try and move it. There was no response when I tried to bend it. Instead I just lay there staring at my arm contemptuously because it was depriving me of sleep. I turned my body so I was now on my side and in doing so my arm moved but it was like carrying a dead weight and just slapped my chest before landing on to the bed. I even started to play with it, picking it up by the wrist and then dropping it like they used to do in WWF when the referee was checking to see if Hulk Hogan was still conscious. My arm just flopped on to the bed without emotion. It was almost like playing with a toy. I even pulled it up high and let go causing it to hit the bed then bounce up and slap me on the nose.

It was only when I kept my arm lifted for over thirty seconds that I it started to feel it again. Elated that the thing was finally sorting out its circulation I placed it hanging over my bed thinking that this is what would stimulate the circulation even more so. After a couple of minutes I felt this rush of energy run through my arm and suddenly my fingers were moving and the pins and needles were gone. I sighed in relief to have my arm back, like a friend you hadn’t seen in a while. You want to catch up but after a while the novelty where’s off. And it did for me as sleep finally took over and I closed my eyes making sure to keep in the same position so as not to find myself in the same situation again.

In other news Kerouac’s scroll is in England. It is currently residing in the University of Birmingham and I plan to have a look.

Monday 8 December 2008

Vampires & Goths


It seems odd when I think about it and even stranger if I say it out loud but I’m really intrigued by the goth subculture. Ok, the music doesn’t really get me going (unless of course you are counting The Cure) because it depresses me. Maybe because it has an uncanny ability to influence my emotions into a state of despair but either way I keep away from it so I avoid any emotional trauma, like I do with Radiohead. I do like the way they dress though, especially the females and quite frankly I find goth girls alluring in an eerie way.

I could never be a goth though because I’m pretty rubbish. Committing myself to wearing black is too hard to do. There’s only a black leather jacket and a black t-shirt in my wardrobe. The rest is pretty much navy, grey or white. A navy coloured goth would just look foolish, surely. Also preparation time would take up much of my time. I’d have to learn how to apply black nail varnish and guyliner which would leave me looking stupid. Currently I can get ready in fourteen minutes in the morning which enables me to have an extra half hour in bed, giving that up would be hard to do especially to tie up those big ol’ boots. But why would I do I look in awe and curiosity when I walk past a gothic posse in the streets?

Maybe it is because when I was younger I was terrified of Vlad the Impaler, aka, Dracula. Christopher Lee swaggering around with his black cape in those hammer horror films had me going to bed having nightmares. Dracula is surely the goth messiah always shrouded in black and at his most powerful during night. Eventually, when I was a bit older I accepted that Dracula was not real or at least would not seek me out so now feeling a bit safer I began investigating his lore. The library brought me some rather different interpretations of a Romanian warlord or Count who used to dispose of his enemies by impaling them with a spear. Only for it to be done to him but he did not die. Women were wooed by his lascivious aura only to find themselves bitten in the night. And those victims to the sanguinary bite would become vampires themselves. Was Dracula unwittingly the original goth instigator? Well perhaps not especially if you look at Hollywood’s fairly recent portrayal of vampires. Interview with a Vampire had Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise walking around dressed rather casually without much black at all. There were no capes seen anywhere. The Lost Boys (I love this film) show the eighties generation of vampires as The Doors fans who although wear a lot more black still were not dressed in full gothic clobber. I am keen to see this Twilight film, the one with Cedric Diggory in it, just to see if the vampires of 2008 have by chance gone back to their original Dracula style roots. Vampires these days have drifted away from the black cape and powdered face so this has me thinking that Dracula may have kicked off the goth fashion but contemporary vampires try their best to integrate in society and therefore don’t walk around with high collared shirts (I will be keeping a more closer eye on Harry Hill though).

The relationship between vampirism and Gothicism seem entwined with me still trying to work the various connections, although for the learned it is probably clear as day light! Either way the subculture still fascinates me and I will continue to admire those goth chicks from afar.

Thursday 4 December 2008

Fix Up, Look Sharp

Mr Rascal instructs so I listen and follow. Even though it’s so 2005 I have discovered skinny ties. Ok, so I may look like a member out of Busted but it’s definitely left me feeling comfortable looking smart.

It all started with me having to go to an event which insisted on ties being worn. There was no chance of me getting away with the ol’ open shirt with a couple of buttons undone. A tie was a necessity. So off I trudged to town on a mission to find one. I tried the most obvious place first, the Tie Rack. It is kind of an awkward shop on the corner of a larger building, I wasn’t sure how to actually get in because there were stands everywhere. A kind lady spotted the novice and aptly starting producing ties all over the place. “This will suit you.” “That will definitely match your shirt”. It sounded all very nice that I knew I was being played. There was no way a purple tie would look good against a brown shirt, or so I thought. I smiled sweetly whilst carefully backing away from the shop only to hit the back of head on a stand full of scarves. The stand shook and a few dropped on the floor leaving me feeling obliged to pick them up. As I stood though there were more ties being shoved in my face ranging from polka-dot to stripy and it was all too much for me. I laid the scarves from the stand and then bolted.

The next few shops proved futile, leaving me walking past Next. For a moment I took a step towards its direction but remembered that anything I buy there at least 3,567 people will be wearing the same thing. I back tracked and headed to John Lewis. The ties were gorgeous, spun by the finest Vietnamese silk worms but because of that they were costing around £50 - £80. I was not prepared to part with that sort of cash just because I can say my tie was made out of worms. I headed along not sure where to go next when I thought I might as well check out H&M. It was there that I saw a skinny tie. Although I’d come across them many a time it never really appealed to me wearing something half the size it should be. Grabbing it off the hook I spun it around my neck and remembered that I was pretty lame at tying knots, instead I twisted and turned it under so it kind of looked like a knot. Doing this meant I could not move my neck otherwise it would unravel and float to the floor leaving me looking a fool. Eventually sliding to the mirror I realised immediately that it actually suited me. It was a strange feeling of relief that my quest had come to an end but also I was annoyed why I hadn’t realised before. I pulled the tie away from my neck and this time spun it around so that it rested just beneath my open shirt. I just grinned and walked off to pick up four other more before heading to the till.

So in short I’ve been wearing a lot of ties recently to work because I kind of like them. People ask if I’ve got an interview but I don’t care because it kind of makes me feel like an action hero when I’m late for things and run down the road with the tie flapping in the air like ribbon blowing in the wind.


Wednesday 26 November 2008

A Step Into The Unknown

When I was in South America one of my cousins had a friend who could speak English whom I got to know fairly well. It became such a welcome relief to talk the native tongue after speaking woeful Spanish during my time there. I had to listen extremely attentively as the words rolled off tongues about hundred miles an hour. Then my brain would have to process these words, translate them and finally respond in a less than articulate way. It was extremely hard for me to crack jokes and in fact I would give up once a group of people would talk about things passionately. There was no way I could cope with the colloquialisms that were banded about other than ‘bien chevere’ (very cool). So when I did get to talk English it at least reminded me that I could cobble some words together and form sentences that some people could understand.

Anyhow it turns out that my cousin’s friend is now moving to Italy to improve her prospects for herself and her families. Peru is a third world country which is immediately noticeable from the streets of Lima to the villages in Moquegua. Yet it has natural riches beyond belief, a rain forest, volcanoes, a town in the mountains, gold, silver even uranium. The mismatch of the two is for another day. But I can see why young people want to go to the western world to get better lives. We do it here, our parents push us, the government encourages us by giving us loans to tempt us to go to university, hey, they even pay college students money just to attend a terms worth of classes. Unfortunately those mechanisms are not in place there because of obvious resources but the encouragement is equally apparent. What got me thinking like I am right now was that this girl who is going to Italy does not know what she is walking into. Britain is battling on the frontline to keep recession at bay, Germany are already underway whilst Italy are struggling too. Does she know this? I know she is a school teacher and accepts that she will not be one in Italy. But over there you are paid 500 soles a month for that job which equates to £125 here so you can see why even working in a factory would be appealing. I tried to put myself in her position, and immediately everything felt lonely, I have no contacts in Italy so I’d be screwed. I cannot even speak the language so alienation is something I would have to deal with. Trying to get a job, even one classed as non-skilled seems a lot harder now than it did say six years ago. I would be devastated if I came to the first world only to find it crumbling all around me and leaving me unable to find work at all. What would I do if no work was found and all the money I saved for umpteen years had been used up just living there? Emotionally it would be so taxing knowing you are trying hard but the opportunities are not appearing. And financially it would be a mess leaving me potentially homeless and vulnerable. It is such a gamble that I have nothing but the greatest admiration for her bravery in taking on this venture. I do hope that she finds work there and is able to earn money to form the foundations of a platform to move on in life in the western world. I am kind of troubled about this imminent recession but at the same time I think if someone can leave their country, friends, go to another continent in the hope of finding better work then it kind of puts my worries into perspective.

Enough of intense scrawling, the other day I was walking along listening to 6music when they dropped Sophie B. Hawkins’ Damn I wish I was your lover. Man, I love that song but had totally forgotten it existed. It made my day even though it was so cold that when I looked down my scarf had what seemed like frozen air nestled on the top of it.

Monday 17 November 2008

Contactable

It was the afternoon lull that was responsible. The period of time when after you have eaten lunch but are still forced to work, so as a protest your body begins to shut it self down. I began to yawn and the next thing I know I’m rubbing my eyes quite hard and not paying much notice to my blurry vision as a consequence.

I only noticed what had happened after I got home from work and decided to take out my contacts. I looked in the mirror and proceeded with the ritual of dabbing my eyeball with my finger and pinching the watery lens whilst trying not to pinch my actual eyeball (something I have done many times). The left one came out with one grab but when I tried to tug at the right eye it had disappeared. At first I thought it must have fallen out at some point during the day and tried to remember if there was an occasion where this might have happened. And so I recalled the lull earlier on where I’d found my head gradually trying to meet my chest. I concluded that I must have rubbed it away from my eye ball. But where was it? Was it in the bin or lying on the floor getting trampled on by the cleaner? Nope, I had managed to dislodge the contact lens from my eye only for it to find a new home up my eye lid. I did not realise straight away having now settled down to watch some television. It was after a few minutes I kept tapping my eyelid completely ignorant that there was a foreign entity harbouring in the upper corner. Eventually the constant tapping brought me back in front of the mirror. This time I carefully pressed on my eyelid and felt the lens hunched near the top leaving me unsure on what to do. My first attempt was to try and rub it out. But this only made my eye go red and my skin burn slightly from the constant friction. It was then I realised that I needed to go up there so with my right hand I pinched my eyelid and pulled it away exposing the inners of the dark roof. I started to gag at the sight of the back of my eyeball and for a brief moment I thought it might pop out just like the girl’s did in Hostel. Having got past the freakiness and the fascination of the amount of capillaries my eyeball has around the back I began my quest for the lost lens. No matter how much I tilted my head or twisted my body I could not get sight of the thing. It was there festering while my left eye tried hard to catch sight of it, but to no avail. The only method left was to try and jam a finger up there in the hope that brute force would get the lens back. I braced myself, washed my hands again and prepared my left little finger to be the violator. As I was about to thrust it up there when I had a brainwave. If I was to fall asleep then my eye would roll backwards and there was a small chance the lens would slip back into its place. Relieved that there was another way to remove the contact without jamming one of my digits up there I headed to bed.

The next morning began badly. The lens had not moved and was still hiding somewhere in my eyelid. Annoyed that I could not go to the optometrists until after work I headed off. Ten minutes had no passed before people were asking why I was blinking so incessantly so I divulged my situation. One of my colleagues then volunteered to get it out. For a moment I wasn’t sure if I should let someone prod my eyeball but I really needed the lens out of there. So I titled my head back and sure enough within a few seconds I was being shown a shrivelled little lump that had caused me so much distress.

In other news, I know it’s time to get my haircut when I start to sprout wings on the side of my head.


Friday 7 November 2008

Fairground

I love the fair and once again it has returned, perched on the heath of Campbell Park. The love affair started when I won a gold fish after throwing three consecutive baskets when I was twelve. The man who ran the stall scowled as he shoved the clear plastic bag full of water and a little orange fish into my hand. I took it with great pleasure and a sensation of satisfaction. Although subsequently the little fish died only four days later the enthusiastic feeling did not wane. Even when my friend’s wallet slipped out of his back pocket on the Helter Skelter and when we asked to check the seat the spotty teenage guy said we couldn’t whilst openly grinning at us. And then we tried to look anyway only to be confronted by the spotty teenager’s entourage of five burly skinheads looking for trouble, my excitement of the fair continued. Why? Well, because I love all the little games scattered amongst those rather thrilling yet shabby looking rides.

I really dig going up to one of those stalls where you have to toss ringlets over prizes they cannot actually fit around. My technique is to aim for something the ringlet must fit over but I still get thwarted. Once I aimed for a bottle of Grant’s Vodka and the ringlet went over the bottle but half of the ring still hung from the bottle top. Elated at the thought of winning, the owner shook his head and explained ‘his’ rules required the ringlet to completely go over the item and touch the ground. There was no point arguing so I just walked off. Another game I enjoy is firing the pellet gun at stack of cans. The objective is to knock over all the cans with eight pellets. Even though I have played this for years I still cannot win. My best is leaving only two cans left, but they are so hard to knock over, you literally have to hit the can in the bottom left or right corner to make it topple. Otherwise it just wobbles. And to add to its difficulty all you need to do is hover over the trigger and the pellet fires. There has been many a time I considered firing at the stall owner but he always seems to be standing well away from the gun’s reach for some reason.

As for rides, I’m not too keen on the absolute terrifying ones like Gravity, where there’s nothing stopping you from falling 40ft but gravity. Those machines just look too weathered for me to risk and take the plunge. I do not fancy being on the front cover of the local paper with a photo of me splattered on the ground and some quote from a local campaigner saying ‘there will be a full investigation’. The image is too clear in my mind to make me think it is plausible. The ride I really like is the ghost train, if the owner does it correctly. I truly brick it going through a route in a tatty little cart whilst various noises explode around and random textures rub against my face. One time there was even a ‘part-time’ actor who stayed in a coffin until the cart gradually came to a halt and he flew out shouting ‘rahhh’ while I just had a heart attack and screamed back. So impressed I was with that particular ride that I procured a water pistol and went back on the ride and drenched him the next time he sprung out.

Ahhhh, I do enjoy the fairground.



I am really pleased that Barack is now president-elect. I considered writing a piece but then thought the moment is best typified by this.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=tM1XrVVVBAk

Monday 3 November 2008

November 2010 – A McCain Alternative?

As you probably all have read or seen the UK will be supporting the US in deploying a military presence in Jordan after the US accused Iran of using aggressive force in the region. There has been no official report from the UN whether this is true but Vice President Palin considered there to be a ‘clear and evident threat’ not just in the Middle East but also the world. So far the UN has stated that guerrillas from both countries have exchanged fire over the border but nothing more. Prime Minister Cameron believes that it is imperative to stand shoulder to shoulder with the US over a matter of national security and has pledged to send 4,000 troops to the region to support the 20,000 US forces currently amassing. Although no other member country is willing to pledge any troops until the UN has assessed the situation and given a statement the US have refused to wait for the UN, as many believe will consider the conflict between separatist groups, and have declared that any enemy combatant state will suffer attacking an ally of the free world. Although President McCain does not wish to involve nuclear weapons he has refused to rule out the possibility of using them. Many people in the UK are hoping that David Cameron is able to influence the US administration into not being so forceful with Iran who have made it known they will retaliate with any means available to them should there be a US led conflict in their country.

November 2010 – An Obama Alternative?

Tensions increased in the Middle East as fighting between Jordan and Iran intensified. President Obama has personally flown to the region to help resolve the problem by controversially asking President Ahmadinejad for a face to face meeting to see if a peaceful solution can be found. Although considered an enemy state it is an unprecedented move by the president who although has not ruled out sending troops to the area will wait for the UN to finish their investigations of the region before making a decision. Prime Minister Milliband advocated the bold move, seen by many nations as foolish, to be a great opportunity to bring stability to the area. Although declaring the UK to be a staunch ally of the US it would only contribute troops to the Middle East subject to the UN endorsing such a move. The UK is still sore over the capture of British sailors in March 2007 by Iran but there is a general consensus among the public that based on previous experience it was best to wait for the UN to finish conducting their investigation. The offer is another controversial move by the maverick president who last year held talks with Kim Jung Il over establishing better relationships between the east and west. It is being noted that since coming into power two years ago the current US president is willing to talk to leaders who were once deemed part of the ‘axis of evil’ as coined by the former administration. Although not always popular few can disagree that no other president, since Bill Clinton, has the interpersonal skills to reach out to nations who were deemed nothing more than enemies of the state. If the talks go ahead between the US and Iran it is hoped that the fighting will be stopped in the meantime.

As you probably have guessed I support Obama for president. However, I did try to write this in a non partisan way based on the statements made by both candidates here http://www.ontheissues.org/John_McCain.htm and here http://www.ontheissues.org/Barack_Obama.htm. Ok, McCain supporters can say that I have written a very extreme aggressive response from their leader’s camp. But there is not much for me to work with. This scenario is very much based on how the last current Republican administration dealt with the Iraq war. Remember the weapons inspection led by Has Blix for the UN and how they did not wait and disagreed with the findings? Only to be proved wrong. John McCain is a left wing republican but it is hard not to think that the right wing republican ideology will just diminish because he is in charge. Sarah Palin his right hand man is extremely right wing so I can imagine there being many more within the party in powerful influential roles. As for Obama, he is a bit of a flash in pan and has unparalleled oratory skills amongst the American political arena. He is willing to talk to people who are considered the West’s enemies and from a European point of view that is good. The world needs leaders that don’t get hyped up with militaristic buzzwords like ‘enemy combatant’ and actually is willing to meet a different culture, engage with them and maybe even resolve the problem without parking their tanks in the ‘enemies’ back yard. For that and more reasons (my hands getting tired and I can’t write anymore) Barack has my vote. Should he get in I will keep a close eye on whether Guantanamo Bay detention camp will get shut down.

In other news, I heard The Bewlay Brothers by David Bowie for the first time the other night. That song blew me away.

Wednesday 29 October 2008

A Fallen Brand

It was inevitable that Russell Brand would quit his radio show on BBC 2 today after being suspended. The apology seemed sincere only smirking at the end when he spoke of Jonathan Ross but alas there is no getting around it, his show was pretty darn good and those comments aside and the David Baddiel show, it will be missed by me. Profusely.

I first listened to those comments on my ipod after downloading the show on Sunday evening. When I heard Brand suggesting and talking in undertones about sleeping with the girl, I thought it was pretty risky but he always seems to do that. Then I hear Ross blurt out ‘he fucked your grand daughter’. I actually said ‘shit’ out loud upon hearing those words and felt a little bit embarrassed. It was over the line, and those who think it is not should try empathising in both the grandfather’s and the granddaughter’s view. If I become a grandfather the last thing I would want to hear is a man full of hi jinx retelling the tale of porking one of my progeny. What made me cringe slightly more was when they started visualising the scenario such as it was likely he’d be staring at a photograph of his granddaughter aged four as he heard his answer machine message. They pretty much fucked up big time but it was not said in a baleful manner just two guys subconsciously egging each other on.

What came next was unexpected. I presumed there would be some complaints and I thought that Brand would apologise immediately. I was lying in bed on Sunday evening trying to sleep when Steven Nolan on Radio 5Live was debating what Brand and Ross said was acceptable. It was odd that something that happened a week ago had made it onto the agenda of a radio talk show. Yet the majority of callers lambasted Brand and Ross calling for them to be sacked and stripped of their high wages. There was even some contempt in their voices when they spoke of the amount of money each one of them earns. Still I thought nothing of it. But the next morning it had reached the newspapers, the front pages even. Supplanting the current credit crunch or the US elections for something that happened on October 18th, it seemed odd. I read the news article on the BBC website that there had been a complaint made by the grandfather. I could understand why he made it. What did start to gyrate with me was the ever growing band of people complaining to the BBC. The last count was 20,000. These people did not listen to the show and hear what was said. Otherwise there would have been more than the 2 complaints made (for swearing) when the show was broadcasted. They could not have downloaded the podcast because that show had already been replaced and you cannot download old ones. My interpretation of why so many complaints were made was that many people read the papers and decided to voice their anger. Fair enough if these people did hear show and the way it was delivered with intonation and enunciation of the words used. But they did not. However, because so many of them complained it raised the stories profile and bumped it onto the agenda of the national news on television.

Only after the Prime Minister voiced his opinion did the BBC suspend Ross and Brand. Maybe it is because the BBC are still wounded over the court case they lost to the Labour government regarding the Andrew Gilligan allegations, that they felt action was required. And now Brand has quit. But I can not help but feel that it is the BBC that will lose out. It is a unique institution unrivalled through out the rest of the earth. It covers news meticulously, produces programmes on both radio and television which are superb but they have handled this issue badly. If Brand and Ross were going to be dealt with why not do it when the grandfather first complained. He and his granddaughter are the ones directly involved with the actions so they should have been suspended then. Not when 20,000 odd and the Prime Minister get involved. That only suggests that they are reacting to their fury and concern and not of the feelings of those who it does really matter. And this makes the suspension seem a façade and not genuine. Anyhow, I surmise with the belief that had Matt Morgan been there none of this would have happened. Where the hell is?


In other news, it snowed last night.

Monday 27 October 2008

Bling Bling

I’ve come to realise that gold jewellery looks crap on me. There is no way getting around it. Gold does not suit my skin tone and when I don a chain or ring I look nothing more than a narcotics pusher trying to peddle aspirin in the guise of amphetamine. Still at least I know gold does not suit me so keep away from purchasing those huge link chains that look thick enough to be a bike lock. I can only imagine what I would look like walking down the street wearing Elizabeth Dukes’ latest range chatting people whilst parts of me twinkles against the light, what a fool I would look. In fact it is probably a good thing that I am not that bothered with male jewellery in general. There are no hours wasted perusing the Argos catalogue for annulates with ‘ICE’ etched on them with fake diamonds that resemble Rice Crispies. Instead I am happy with what I wear when the mood takes me. I own a wooden dolphin string necklace that cost £1.79 from some shop which I tend to wear at least once a week. It just lays there next to my television, there is no need to shine it and if it falls on the floor I do not need to get all flustered in case it has been scratched. In fact my dolphin is scratched but I consider it an endearing feature. No one can really see the dolphin as it’s usually tucked underneath my t-shirt/shirt. Still the bootlace is visible as a sign that although there’s a plethora of chains out there I still like to wrap a bootlace around my neck as I strut down the street. It also possesses symbolic properties to me too. Having to dress smart to work is hard for me, although I am getting used to it. Sometimes I feel fake and look like Little Lord Fontleroy in trousers and a shirt. I really wished I did not have to wear these clothes but I am still a participant in ‘the game’. It’s funny as I never really wanted to be in ‘the game’ I just sort of fell into the race and next thing I know I’m scampering along feeling unable to stop. So the little dolphin is a reminder that somewhere inside of me is the ‘true me’. The person who could spend hours listening to digital radio or BBC’s Listen Again whilst slurping on some wine, whisky or rum and still consider it productive a productive day if I hear a song that makes me think differently. But then I have to ask myself, the longer I do what I do then surely it defines who I am more than what I want to do? Ah ha, that is true and so I am slightly anxious at the truth that perhaps I secretly enjoy being in ‘the game’ while tricking myself otherwise. Luckily the little dolphin is still there to let me know I haven’t gone just yet.

In other news, I went to Edinburgh for work the other week. Being surrounded by historic buildings, castles, culture that is century’s years old, brick work that can make an architect cream his pants, this was the only photo I took of the journey and it wasn't even in Edinburgh but Luton airport.



It’s an amazing city but not once did it dawn on me to take photos of its undoubted beauty. No, instead it was when we landed and on the way to the car that I spot an abandoned wheelchair and my mind starts to think ‘quick take a picture’.

Monday 20 October 2008

Tuneful

I was sitting in the canteen the other day, sipping on my potato and leek soup and drifting in and out of conversation with a group of people when I begin to splutter. A piece of leek travels down the oral express but becomes lodged in my throat. The reason was a question, “What’s your favourite song of all time?” It has been many moons since I last heard that being asked. I think the last time was when I was in school, playing that game with the paper pyramid type thing with numbers written on the top and your destiny written underneath a flap. I am not sure of the exact reasons why I choked, was it because it sounded so immature? Or was it the absurdity? Upon reflection it is a question of the greatest grandeur not really absurd but a loaded one that needs to be thought about deeply. The person who asked it gave their own answer before sound could come from my mouth, “Mine is from the iPod advert.” "Shit you haven’t really thought about it.” I thought. It quite possible is the greatest song ever heard but I’m pretty sure it has more to do with good advertising whereas I could not find an answer I was comfortable with, I found it really hard but it was something I needed to mull over (hence this entry). Firstly the last answer I gave was along the lines of Paula Abdul’s Opposites Attract. So cultured and aware of music I was back then but at that time I could think of nothing better, it genuinely was my favourite song. However, if the animated cat had not featured in the music video my mind would have changed in an instant. That cat was pretty funkin’ cool.

My early steps into more thought provoking music occurred when I heard Fools Gold one cold winter. A friend’s older brother had it on vinyl and we listened to it in his room before he got home from work. Sneaking out just as he turned the key in the door. It was an unusual beat and a lot different to the Now compilations I had been spending my hard earn pocket money on. The opinion I had on music changed upon hearing that song, it was like a letter to my soul had been written by The Stone Roses letting me know that there is a hell of a lot of music out there. It was a good few years later when I felt that unusual feeling once more, this time it almost had me in shock. I was ill in bed one evening listening to the radio when I heard Wondewall by Oasis. It was another unusual feeling that plucked away at my emotions. I just couldn’t believe such a gruff arrogant band could produce something so brutally magnificent. The words are so vague that you could just form and apply them to your own story in life and it worked so beautifully. When the song ended on the radio and Steve Lamaq announced who sung it I remember shaking my head in astonishment. Over the years, my mind has gotten used to the rhythm beats and lyrics that the same feelings has eroded, it doesn’t seem to be able to make me stop for a moment anymore. Certainly not like when I first heard it on the radio all those years ago. Although the Cat Power version almost did take me back. From then, I ditched trying to get myself into clubs on Friday nights as Happy Wednesdays at the Winter Gardens brought me the greatest joy, jiving down to some Kula Shaker and Ash amongst others.

It was strange but my love for indie died one night. Probably after Be Here Now was released as it was so shit. I mean Britpop was rife at the time but my tastes began to change, I started to get into electronic dance type music. I’d always been a fan of Drum ‘n Bass but The Prodigy really asked questions of me as to why I hadn’t listened to more dance music. And so I did. And I realised that Prodigy stuff really wasn’t my type of thing, it was a bit too slow. It was trance music I had been waiting for which I discovered soon after. After a Saturday night at Flamingos we went back to someone’s house and carried on drinking when I heard this tweeting, beeping song called Ayla by Ayla. I think they’re German but the build up of the song really tapped into my constant attempt to heighten feelings within myself, like the way I drink coffee every day to keep awake but secretly experiment how much I can drink before I start shaking. From Ayla, the trance scene erupted before my eyes. Before I could say Tiesto I was buying Mixmag magazine and giving myself premature ear damage by listening to euphoric trance that kind of made me think, everything in the world is great. The pinnacle of this musical chapter was when I heard Delirium’s Silence (Teisto’s In Search of the Sunrise Mix version of course). It’s over 7 minutes long but when I hear it, even now, it evokes both wonderful memories and that same feeling that everything in the planet is alright.

Alas that episode came to a close when I picked up Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness for £5 in HMV one day. I felt like Judas having absconded to trance music whilst all this time there was still some great guitar music being written. 1979 blew me away as does Stumbleine. It completely made me obsessed in finding out what I’d been missing the last couple of years whilst I was listening to what Paul Oakenfold dished out.

And so after finishing off my soup I trudged off back to work but spent the rest of the afternoon remembering all the songs that I considered great. I didn’t bother to answer the question asked as to me those songs I’ve mentioned in this blog (although I’m sure I’ve missed loads out) are part of my amblings through life, how I felt, what was popular and what made me stand still until it was finished, like I used to do in Virgin and HMV. But I guess, if I was really pushed into a corner, forced to answer the question that was asked in the cafeteria then it would probably have to be this one.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=HD7g9Ds_SE4

Tuesday 7 October 2008

Strolling

For me, to think and mull over things about myself or the world I tend to go on a really long walk. Nothing works better in clearing my head than to close the door, sniff and start shuffling those feet. Where I head, I’m not really too fussed, it literally is aimless walking, sometimes on the path, other times across a field (I do believe I walked past a dogging gathering once). Since I was a young un’ I have enjoyed walking and used to see how far I could venture until I was truly lost. Although I don’t adapt the walking style you see in the Olympic Games I do tend to shift some without realising it. But it’s the opportunity for me to think things deeply that motivates me to do it. Taking in a cool breath of air kind of mellows my mind from ideas buzzing around my head and allows me to approach them rationally instead of going ‘yeah that’s great.’ Then two minutes later I’m thinking about another one and then another. I don’t actually given them due consideration and eventual realisation that some of them are pretty pants unless I think about them while walking. Hey, Meredith Belbin always said I was a ‘Plant’. So while walking along making the hole in my plimpsole even larger my head sorts them out by thinking, is it possible to do this? If so, how can it be done? How much money will it cost? Usually by step two it’s faltered. I snigger and we carry on. Other times my mind is preoccupied with the usual clichéd but still somewhat significant topic we all share, ‘am I doing the right thing for me in this moment in life?’

To deal with this I let my mind’s eye take over and create several alternative selfs all exactly the same as me but one is richer, another sensible and the final one adventurous. The richer one would definitely be living in New York, in an apartment similar to the one that’s featured in the beginning of Cloverfield, when the camera is first turned on in the morning. When I saw that scene my heart kind of melted seeing the view of New York below. How I would love to one day pull back the curtains and see that view, know and feeling I am part of such a magnificent city. The smile would grow and grow. The sensible version of me would probably be related to the rich aspect. Had I been sensible I could have aspired to those extremely financially rewarding professions. But from a young age I’ve wrestled with that aspect, when being told being a solicitor or accountant are professions I must push towards. Straightaway I thought they were boring, I didn’t want to follow that route. However, I do not wish to write disparaging remarks about those types of careers. As I get older I realise that in order to reach those kinds of jobs you need to develop skills like, analytical and observational both of which are useful in every job. Perhaps that is why those who fail in those professions succeed elsewhere because they have nurtured these transferable assets. I think the sensible version of me is the most dangerous, he would be content with money but inside him would harbour a resentment for not being just himself until reaching mid life and break down, fall to pieces and then start to resent the time wasted achieving those career goals only to throw them all away again from going bonkers.

And the adventurous one, well, it’s pretty obvious to myself I’d like to be travelling, perhaps right now sitting in some café in Japan reading some Murakami in peace while occasionally looking outside and see the people go to work, smiling at the cute office girl as she buys her breakfast. But adventure doesn’t mean gallivanting around the globe. What adventure would arise if I just quit my job one day? Said it was over and not come back. Turn on my laptop and really hammer through my progressive text I wrote. Rewrote the parts that were woeful, spend hours on a paragraph, days rereading the text until I was happy with it. Develop new skills in the progress as I tackle problems with the story, its direction and the fact I can flutter between tenses more times than Vanessa Feltz can re-launch her career. Sounds pretty fucking ace but reality is that it can’t really happen and besides how long would the motivation last?

It’s at this point I tend to realise that I’m in another estate far, far away and my knees are creaking. I’m glad I think about those things but it usually makes me hungry too so I always end up heading to a Tesco Express and buying a Double Decker. Man I love that Chocolate bar.

Here is me walking along listening to The Acorn. I recommend them.

Wednesday 1 October 2008

Spreading That Toast

Dang, according to my recent observations these last couple of weeks I can pretty much tell how I will act during the day by none other than the choice of my spread that goes on my toast in the mornings. It’s dire but I started to see how my day pans out after a take a mouthful of Marmite, honey, peanut butter or margarine. It’s messed up, I know, but what I fancy in the morning pretty much tells me how my approach to the day will unravel once I’ve fully awoken.

Ok when I slap the toast down and push the button I know that my day is going to be a boring one when I want margarine. It’s like subconsciously I already know I can’t be bothered with it and there isn’t enough gusto inside me because to try and change this feeling. I’m either really tired or pissed off about something. When I spread the margarine I know that I’m not motivated, I’m not interested in enlightening my life today, thank you, I am quite happy to fester. To be honest I’d probably be content staring at the wall at work examining the cracks and the little animals that crawl out of them.

Yet it’s different when the toast pops up all golden and the next morning I'm craving honey. I sort of know I’ll soon have loads of ideas. Don’t know why, maybe it’s the sweet taste but I get small scale ones like where to go for lunch ‘screw the cafeteria I want to check out that Sushi Bar next to All Bar One’. Or larger ones like ‘if I save 5k and then take a 5k loan I can go travelling around the world for a year, right I’ll start saving now’. My mind just gets these random ideas which help the day roll by.

When it’s Marmite I want, I’m thinking about getting fit. I’ve got a love/hate relationship with marmite. I can go weeks eating it, scoffing it down everyday which seems to coincide when I’m on some sort of health vibe, like going for runs or playing squash. But then I stop playing these sports and all of a sudden I hate the black stuff. Even seeing the jar makes me gag and if I smell it I’m heaving like a cat coughing up a furball.

Occasionally I get the urge to slap on peanut butter and my day is random, I make random choices and do random things like roll up one sleeve but keep the other down. What I am trying to do, keep it real or something? Or the time I went for a walk at lunch and kept walking until I reached a small wood realised that it took me 55 minutes to get there and I’ve only got an hour for lunch so spent another 25 minutes reading my book sitting on a fallen tree trunk.


Either way I do find it strange that there is a connection (maybe sprinkled heavily with coincidence)between my morning eating habits and the feelings I have towards the day.

Saturday 27 September 2008

Credit + Bank = Woes (and Dohs)

Seems there is going to be a winter of financial discontent these forthcoming months according to news programs, newspapers and radio shows. Banks seemed to be writing off billions worth of pounds whereas two of America's biggest (and daftest named) mortgage related companies had to be bailed out by the US Government because they were heading for financial meltdown. I wish I could write off all my debts because my estate was in disrepute. Unfortunately everyone’s darling, Alistair, would not help me but instead continues to suckle every last penny from my account to help pay for the Labour party's convention and then slap me across the face with his big bushy eyebrows. So this constant hammering of dismal economic climates, banks struggling, companies folding and the government sweating leaves me, well, just bored of it all. Fuck, someone screwed up or knew what they were doing was stupid but realised they could make a lot of money and get the hell out. Yeah the financial guardians let their guard down a bit and lent money to anyone to buy a house, even the local tramp that hangs out by the park got one (yet he still sits on the bench all day). I'm pretty sure prisoners were able to get themselves a mortgage whilst serving their fifteen to twenty year sentences. Yet now we need credit to keep the economy chugging along otherwise we will be facing a recession and if you are like me you do not want someone like the current Chancellor leading our way back to growth. So I refuse to feel guilty in buying the Bourne Ultimatum on DVD yesterday because I should be acting frugal with my money. Or buy some new trainers because my plimpsoles now have a hole in the sole. Or buy one of those thin scarves that make me look like I'm out of a H&M advert. Hey, I work for it, I'll blow it any way I want. And I advise everyone to do so too *. Not stupidly obviously, but if there is some spare disposable income we should pump it into the economy whilst we get superficial consumer goods in return where the novelty value wares off after a week. Please I am getting so bored in hearing business analysts confirm only what the newscaster said a few moments earlier And how boring are these analysts? Their monotone voices only add to the despair they conjure when hearing about the ‘credit crunch’.

I do think it was good a thing that the US Government let the Lehman Brothers bank go bankrupt. This showed that they were not willing to bail every bank out because their bosses had messed up so much (I say this because I read in Private Eye and according to their sources, they paid out $5.4 billion in bonuses over the last two years) and probably made other precarious decisions. If they had bailed them out it would be like saying 'hey you can practically make any decision you want, invest in any venture you want, including buying stocks in Stewie Griffin's Death Ray Project, and when everything proves worthless, don't worry we'll bail you out and you'll still get shit loads of money (HBOS messed up big time and their CEO still got his £2 million as part of the buy out by Lloyds TSB).' Oh wait, actually that is exactly what is happening in the US of A right now with the US Government trying to buy back bad debt off the banks for $700 billion. This is so confidence can be restored and they can start to lend to each other again. Shit, talk about having a license to piss money up a wall. I can understand what the US Government is trying to do and it is pretty admirable considering the alternative is serious financial meltdown which might liquescent the guy of the Halifax advert. But I do hope that they insert conditions that the decision makers who woefully made the wrong ones are not rewarded with tax payers money of millions of dollars. It's not on really because the public did not ask for this to happen, they are the cause of the problem and yet they will be rewarded with the money of the public. You may wonder why I've focused on the States in the last section. That's because we pretty much copy anything they do and if they start to prevent people obtaining bonuses then Britain will too. In the meantime I’ll go make a cup of tea.

*My advice should not be followed under any circumstances as it is based on me discussing the world’s problems with various people in different queues.

Here's my holey plimpsole

Wednesday 24 September 2008

Release

Finally I have completed my Spanish course. I had my final oral exam at 20:38 which lasted about fifteen minutes. Prior to that time I was nothing more than a gibbering nervous wreck due to reckless consumption of five cups of coffee during the day. The theory was that by drinking copious amounts of coffee I’d be as perky as Pamela Anderson’s assets. However, because I was anxious or perhaps excited about my oral exam I drunk more than my usual three cups. By four o’clock I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I’d stare at the computer screen writing out an email but as soon as I’d finished typing out the recipient’s name my conscious thought insisted that I should turn my attentions to revising a few Spanish verbs. So I turned my head and gave a deft glance at the list hidden beneath my writing pad. I’d got as far a revising the verb of ‘hablar’ when my mind informed me it was time to grab something to eat. I wasn’t even hungry and it wasn’t until I was in the canteen that I realised that being in a queue for a Mars Bar I didn’t want was nothing more than stupidity. Realising that my mind was finding it hard to concentrate it was time to consider drastic measures to ensure that I’d be able to speak coherently for the oral.

So arriving home I decided to nullify the caffeine by using a sedative this being, a glass of red wine. It went down a treat and I could feel the tension literally evaporate from my shoulders. It had such a good affect on me that I turned to a second glass and hit the books practicing my verbs, prepositions and pronunciations. It seemed to literally role of my tongue like I’d been speaking the language for years. The feeling of confidence oozed and I wanted more so poured another and knocked it back. After putting down the empty glass I suddenly felt languid, I’d overdone it. The verve had left me and all I wanted to do was lie down and watch Alan Partridge. The urge to attend this tutorial started to diminish with every thought of speaking a language I kind of understood to an expert who would nod, wince and perhaps even scowl as I got things wrong. However, I rallied. It was important to finish the course because it has haunted me since February, looming around my neck like a boil that won’t disappear. You can forget about it for a little while but every now and then you realise it is there. It felt almost like subtle harassment if such a term could exist. Even though it was for my benefit I just could not help that it was intruding on my life rather than contributing it. Yet, I still persisted, even though studying wasn’t daily or even weekly. It was important I took the final exam, so I made myself another coffee pouring in three teaspoons of sugar for an extra kick and made myself ready by standing outside for no apparent reason.

The exam itself was quite quick. I spoke, was asked some questions which I eventually answered after saying ‘errr’ quite a lot and also feeling my heart beating really fast only to slow down after a few seconds and then to speed up again. It all came to an end after twenty minutes and thought I should write this blog whilst I’m in this incoherent manner. So apologies but thought it would read kind of disjointed tomorrow when I’m off the caffeine/wine comedown.

Monday 22 September 2008

The Coughing And Sniffing Express

I was on a coach the other day, nestled tightly in a chair and staring wide-eyed out of the window. As the cars went past the coach with ease (including a battered Robin Reliant) I was grateful that it wasn’t chucking it outside and that travelling on a coach isn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. My new found affection for this form of public transport soon changed.

It started about twenty minutes into the journey. I heard a small squeak behind me and wondered what on earth it could be, surely there weren’t any rodents scurrying along the aisle. The squeaking persisted so to satisfy my curiosity I turned my head around pretending to look for the toilet and caught the glimpse of a petite lady trying with great distress to stifle her sneezing. The person sitting next to her, a thin bespectacled gentleman shuffled a little further away each time she squeaked. I turned back to my seat satisfied that there was no rat around stowing away underneath the seats when I next heard an almighty cough. A great roar making the windows shake ever so slightly by a man sitting in the next aisle brought me out of my thoughts. I sunk a little deeper when moments later I heard another sneeze, this time from the person sitting in front of me. It seemed I was surrounded by people with colds. There must have been germs circulating around me waiting to be hovered up by my snout so they could unleash havoc inside. I had only just recovered from a horrible cold that left me bed bound for days I wasn’t going to let these germs invade and violate me without my permission. There wasn’t much I could do though. No one chooses to be ill and I can’t go and try and reason with a germ. My meagre efforts consisted of turning off the air conditioning contraption above me. It seemed pretty rickety anyhow but I remember reading somewhere at some point in time that most people catch colds from the air con because it recycles the air and gives the germs a rollercoaster of a ride before infecting unsuspecting people snoozing with their mouths open. My other attempt to fortify my body was to flip up my hoodie and pull the strings so it all closed up like a little ET in a Parker jacket. It didn’t bother me that I looked like a freak and that my peripheral vision became nonexistent as the hoodie closed in tighter. I would virtually do anything not to catch that cold again.

The sneezing continued. There were squeaks behind me, roars to my left and the standard sneeze you hear in adverts in front of me. I could hear a few more sneezes further in front close to the driver. The only person in my vicinity who was not sneezing was the lady sitting next to me. She just stole curious glances at me as I stared out of the window again with my hood covering most of my face. I was deep in thought that this coach was nothing more than a conduit for a plethora of germs to infect an unsuspecting city. Each one of these people sneezing would go off on their merry-way infecting their friends, family and strangers. Still what can anyone do other than hide within your attire? Was it a vindicated manoeuvre? Well, the lady sitting next to me started to sniffle just as we pulled in, so I say it was.

In other news, your sex is on fire.

Friday 12 September 2008

Eyeful

I had an eye appointment yesterday and managed to muster up the energy to make the visit after feeling ill the last few days. I decided it was best to shave as I felt a felt of hair all over my face usually terrifies people let alone me.

Everything happened as usual in the eye shop, checking in and sitting down while I waited for the optometrist. It is strange being involved in a social situation but the reason for being there is business. Like when you go to the doctors or dentist you are only there for business reasons but whilst waiting everyone is in a social situation, well you are if there are other people waiting as well. In this case there was and as usual no one really talks to each other which is fine with me. I had a guy in suit but with jack-ups almost scratching his knees sitting next to me while a lady on my right looked pensively ahead staring at the optometrist’s closed door. It made me feel slightly uncomfortable at the way she stared at the door in such an intense manner. Her brow frowning and her mouth grimacing slightly. I wondered if she was here to see the eye man for personal reasons. Perhaps she was here to collect an outstanding debt or maybe she had been left jilted at the alter and she was now here to exact revenge, leaving me and Jack-ups as potential witnesses to a murder. My concentration was broken by the call of my name and I noticed the optometrist standing a few metres in front of me carrying his clipboard. I looked to see if he noticed the lady boring her eyes down on him but he was only concerned about the clipboard. As I headed to the office I turned back to see the woman now looking at me with a look of disgust spread all over her face, Jack-ups just had his arm folded probably wondering why his ankles were so cold.

The optometrist got me to sit down and read letters off the wall as they all do. I was really good on the first two lines but once I reached the middle my sight failed me and all I could see was little black blobs. I was then asked to place my chin on a little machine where it enabled him to examine my eye. I did so and almost immediately was hit by a bright light, I blinked to block its brightness and the eye man said not to blink. I told him it was hard when he is flashing a light directly into my iris. He said nothing and instead got up and pulled out a small pipette full of liquid. The eye man told me this liquid would brighten up any scratches I had on my cornea and pulled my head back with some force. Next thing I know he squeezed the pipette and drops of liquid were swirling around in my eyes. I blinked profusely but he shoved my head back on the machine. Looking back into my eyes he announced there is no problem with them at all. He shuffles me out of his office where his assistant tells me that I will be contacted once my contact lenses come in (the whole point of the appointment was to check my suitability for a new type). So off I went wandering around town looking for Season 2 of Alan Partridge.

It was about five minutes that I noticed people staring at me rather oddly. First it was an old lady pulling her trolley along. I just assumed she was odd. Then it was a woman in her thirties who looked at me as she walked past. Everyone seemed strange as I ventured into HMV. There I picked up Partridge on DVD and headed to the counter. It was there that the till guy took the merchandise for scanning before asking why my eyes were orange. I asked him what he was on about and he just told me that my eyes were orange and so was my eyelids. It then dawned on me that the optometrist had been pouring random liquids into my peepers. I bought the DVD and quickly found a mirror in another shop where I saw in front of me exactly what I would look like if I was a zombie in 28 Days later. I cursed the eye man but grinned at my new look before heading home.

Tuesday 9 September 2008

I am sick

Grrr, I have been struck down by what many of the opposite sex denote as Man Flu. However, in my humble opinion it is a terrible illness that has rendered me unable to perform daily tasks such as shaving. At work, I sniffle through meetings and rock my head in front of my computer. When I talk it sounds like I’m chewing eight pieces of toffee whilst trying to ask where the train station is, in German. When I get home I just crash on my bed and delve underneath the covers until nestled in a comfortable position. In bed I have listened to Andy Murray beat Nadal in the US Open and then heard him get spanked by Federer in the final, all this in between sneezing, coughing and the occasional groaning.

I am bloody weak and it’s annoying. Physically I have the strength of Mr Muscle from those adverts. It seems my legs can only carry me a few metres before needing to rest. My arms have trouble holding on to an egg mayonnaise baguette and a bottle of blueberry juice. They were twitching in strain and I was glad to throw them on the counter once I reached the till. The till lady looked at me pathetically as my unshaved face and gaunt eyes looked around for the right change in my pocket. Mentally I’ve become slow, no more am I able to throw a four syllable word in a conversation to give my sentence some extra poignancy. Instead I grunt and if asked a question my mouth tends to open and my eyelids lower a little. It’s not a pretty sight and neither are the words that come out of my mouth which tend to be ‘bah’ or ‘whaaaa’. Even reading is draining my energy and I cannot seem to get through a paragraph without having to close my eyes for at least one minute. It is really annoying and highlights how much I miss being able to do things quickly and on a whim. At the moment I’m stagnate and morose unable to do anything or think of anything.

So to combat my ‘man flu’ I’ve adopted a fruit based assault. A concoction of tea, lemon and honey has had some affect. However, realising that it is only the lemon that contains the any useful properties I attempted to eat one on its own. This was not a good move on my part and shoving half a lemon in my mouth only made me contort my face into features even the elephant man would have been proud of. Still, after the initial gush of bitter juice running down my throat it got a bit easier. Someone also recommended drinking boiled water with ginger in it which again does not taste amazing but I’ll drink anything right now. I really cannot wait to get back to full strength again as I feel really weak and just in general, rubbish.

Ok, can anyone tell me why on every episode of The Midsomer Murders it is always sunny? How do they do it because England is such a rainy place (yes, these are the things that keep me awake at night)!

Monday 25 August 2008

Sleep Remedy

I find it quite difficult to fall asleep, it's probably my own fault because I cannot settle. I go to bed but need to watch television for a bit even if it's utter rubbish, although I can never watch the late night bingo. That truly would signal the death of my charisma. I then spend about an hour tossing and turning until I decide to turn on the radio. Sometimes that sends me to sleep straight away but lately that has not worked and I find myself listening to repeats of the shipping forecasts! I am not too keen to gulping various over the counter narcotics so I have been drinking a glass of red wine instead. This chills me out, relaxes me after a pretty rough day at the orifice and generally get's the creative juices flowing. So every evening around nine I go and pour myself a glass and sit back relax and watch either Never Mind the Buzzcocks, Family Guy, Heroes or of course The Mighty Boosh ( I have these all on DVD and not on Sky +). Doing this over a period of time, only broken when I go out, means that I have tried a few wines now and although cannot claim to have a cultured pallet I have by polishing bottle after bottle can claim to know which wine makes you the most sleepy (well for me). No, I have not spent months swishing it around my mouth like that lady used to do on BBC 2 in the nineties. Instead it was more of a case of me traipsing around the aisles in Tescos pointing at a bottle and remembering that I had already tried that one, then by some stretch of the imagination I recall it's affect on me. Soon I found myself standing in front of the red wine section able to select the one that would send me into a drowsy state quicker than the others. So the wine that manages to send me to sleep the quickest is some Australian wine called Rosemount Estate Shiraz which you can pick up in your local Spar, Co-op, Sainos or Tescos. Do check it out if you have trouble heading to dreamland it's completely sorted me out. Perhaps drinking one of those really cheap high percentage beers would do a better job but I don't want liver damage and touching something like Super Tennants is the first sign of your life ending. Plus, I like to enjoy the taste of what I drink and down something that resembles the taste of ear wax.

In other news, I'm loving the new football season starting. It has been a painful summer watching the Euro 2008 but now the Premier League has started and all the buzz has come back, especially on a Saturday afternoon. Hopefully Torres will turn on the style again this season and deliver the goods. He better do, he's in my dream team!

Thursday 21 August 2008

Simon Reeve

It was Tuesday night and I was laying in bed unable to sleep. Moving around trying to get comfortable I cut my losses and switched on the television. Skipping past late night bingo on ITV 1 I came across a programme on BBC 2 called Equator. It’s where this guy called Simon Reeve cruises around different countries that lie near the middle of the equator. In this particular episode he was in Colombia and apart from dodging the terrorists and army he found himself in the Amazon. Whilst paddling in a boat up the Amazon River he would give a very conservative yelp in triumph every time he crossed the imaginary line of the equator. The boat driver would just look at him in an odd way as Simon looked at his GPS satellite device in wonderment. The whole programme was quite interesting because he got to see some of the culture and highlight the poverty going around. This left me thinking ‘wow, I want his job’. So the next day I went on to Wikipedia and it turns out this television presenter is also a bestselling author on subjects like terrorism and the Munich massacre (not much humour circulating around him then). He has also presented another programme called Tropic of Capricorn where he went off gallivanting around countries such as Madagascar and Mozambique and in general seems to be doing pretty cool stuff for a living, writing books and making television programmes which I found quite inspiring. So the last few days I’ve been falling asleep with the idea that I one day will go around the world getting into adventures and mischief but also get paid for it! Sadly, this still only remains in my dreams.

In other news I saw Knocked Up for the first time last week, it’s pretty funny but nothing on Superbad. The main character kept reminding me of Yogi Bear which kept me amused. I also, check out Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay which cracked me up, it’s sick but if you need a quick dosage laughter it may do the trick.

Here’s a trailer to a new film called Watchmen that’s coming out next year. It’s based on a comic book/graphic novel I have never read but the film looks damn good.

http://www.apple.com/trailers/wb/watchmen/med.html

Tuesday 19 August 2008

Drenched!

It happened last week but the British weather haunts me like the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise. Last Tuesday I decided to head to the shop to buy a few things at lunch. It’s not too far about a five minute walking distance but as I stared from the window I saw tiny speckles of droplets splash against the window. Thinking it was a light shower, I plugged in my digital radio, slipped on the rain coat and headed out. Within a couple of minutes the sky decided to vomit gushes of water all over the UK. I flipped up my hood and thought that it was just a brief down pour but I was wrong. Within thirty seconds my trousers became soaked until they stuck to my legs. My brown shoes became a darker shade as I found it too hard to dodge the puddles. However, it was my jacket that let me down*. I was about midway through my journey when I started to feel the water trickling down my back causing me to sway all over the place. As the rain come bucketing down the jacket became less resistant to the water, I looked up at the sky silently asking for it to show some mercy for someone who wanted just to buy something to eat. There was no mercy at all, and it flew down ferociously until it was seeping through my jacket and reaching my skin.

I then heard a pop in my ears. At the time Bjork was playing and had thought it was a quirky beeb from her song. It wasn’t. It was my radio dying on me. I quickly unzipped my pocket and scooped up my radio and a small puddle of water. The rain had gotten through to the radio and the screen was flickering blue and white until there was crackling, a bit of fuzziness and then a flatline. My digital radio had perished. No more 1xtra, 6Music, BBC7, World Service they were all taken from me and instead it would have to be local radio for the next few weeks with the cheesy DJ deceiving the naïve into thinking he’s cool when really he’s a washed up prick. ‘Texas, what a great new band!’ I was irascible, wet and there was nothing I could do apart from venture forth. I carried on to the shop dripping all over the floor and the newspapers as I leaned over to the magazines for anything of interest. After deciding there was nothing about I brought my sandwich where the woman at the counter gave me the stink eye for creating a small reservoir in between the pot noodle and soup aisle. Handing over my wet coins I headed back in the rain.

Although it whipped across my face making it red I decided to accept the weather. It was raining and I was outside, there were a lot graver situations I could have been in. Besides I could not have gotten more soaked considering my clothes had absorbed half the River Ouse. So I flipped my hood down and casually made my way back in similar fashion as the movements seen in the opening credits of Superbad.



* I later found out that my jacket is only shower proof.

Sunday 17 August 2008

Wener

It was my last blog entry that sparked the interest of the Britpop epoch. A comment that mentioned the band Menswear had me thinking back about the bands that had only relative success during that time. Elastica, Bluetones, Nothern Uproar all spring to my mind but it was the band Sleeper who I had forgotten about. Their music rang vaguely in my mind as I tried to dredge up the memories of that hedonistic era of Adidas Campus trainers coupled with black rimmed glasses but it was the lead singer that was the most notable part of the band. I could not remember her name but recalled she had a short brown bobbed hair and it tormented me. It was like an itch that would not go away, and at various times of the week I would try to think of her name and the band she was from. It was not until I spoke to my pal Coldbrain that he told me it was Sleeper and Louise Wener was the lead singer. As soon as I heard her name it all came rushing back. The surname used to make my chuckle because of its colloquial American connotations of being a sausage. I still could not remember any songs but the small release of nostalgia had me suitably content. That was until he told me she had become an author. My ears pricked up and the curiosity ran rife inside me, apparently she is quite good.

The next day I went onto Amazon and did a search on her name, it was true she is an author. She has written three books, The Perfect Play, Goodnight Steve McQueen and The Half Life of Stars. Eager to learn more I started to read each synopsis of each book before taking the plunge and deciding on Goodnight Steve McQueen. I’ll probably have to wait till Thursday before it arrives which is fine for me because that gives me time to finish my current tome. I will let you know if her book is any good.

In other news, I’m heading towards the end of my Spanish course and I cannot wait. It feels like a weight around my neck regulating how I feel about the day. When I finish work, in theory I should be hitting the books but no one wants to work during the day just to get home and work during the night and in fact I have been flagging greatly of late. Soon it will be all over though and I can continue to learn at my own pace and feel free from obligation.

Sunday 10 August 2008

Downgrade

Yes I know, I have been rubbish over the last two months but this is the holiday season so I have refrained from bashing the keys in hope that my brain might seep out something worthwhile. It has not of late so I gave it a break and exposed it to the usual cult cultural pulp that seems to stimulate it to the same levels as a teenager watching a porno movie. However, now it is time to awaken it and start tapping again.

You may recall an entry I posted last year babbling how I managed to blag a great deal on a new mobile phone with luck, a sprinkle of hard nose attitude and some nous that was bequeathed to me by someone I met once. So eleven months later I am now able to upgrade whilst sitting on my chair pondering about what to get I realised that there is not much out there. The iPhone looks gorgeous and the fact tech geeks and the layman both salivate at the mere mentioning of the name lets us all know Apple are on to a winner. And I am tempted but their camera is utter pants considering the cheapest tariff going is £30 a month not to mention the £99 for the handset. The N96 is the behemoth of phones packed with more gizmos at hand than Data from the Goonies but it is a slide phone and does not compete with the sleekness and smoothness of the iphone where surfing the internet is actually a pleasant experience on a mobile device. So, I ditched that phone. There is a Samsung out which is supposed to be good but upon inspection it was not even an improvement on my current phone. I was pretty annoyed with the conclusion that mobile technology has not really progressed in the last twelve months leaving me with little choice but to downgrade. Yep, I decided that I want to fall downwards because to get a top of the range phone you need to be on a £30 tariff, which to me is quite pricey, for a phone that has not really improved over the last year. Not even the mouthiest telecommuniocations salesman could hide the fact that if you own the N95 then there is nothing out there to really beat it. So instead I wanted to reduce my tariff even further to less than £20, regardless of the handset they chucked at me.

It must have been an odd experience for the salesperson to hear someone go 'I want to downgrade, what pretty standard handsets have you got?' He did stumble on his words a bit, and tried to persuade me that a £30 tariff was the way forward. 'Nope, I want a tariff less than £20 a month, don't care how pants the phone is.' There was a bit of silence then an admission that they could do a £20 tariff but it was for something like 75 mins free a month. Now way, I thought and told them I want to quit, I'd rather try my luck on the pay-as-you-go gravy train than pay £240 a year for about thirteen hours worth of free talking. Finally he said I could revert to the sim only scheme for £15 a month for 200 free mins and texts per month. 'Hmm' I replied whilst pondering the offer. I almost went to that scheme last year but managed to wrangle a better package to stay contracted, it felt a bit like I was going backwards but I said 'Ok, lets do that'. I do not get a new handset but that does not bother me, in fact I am going to sell my current phone on ebay and hopefully get £150 for it. I recently bought a phone from the site for £15 and will use that. This means I will have made £135 profit which I plan to reinvest in my bills meaning I will only need to spend £45 on phone bills for the year while I wait for the Apple dudes to bring out a new iPhone with a decent camera on it.

P.S. Anyone want to go see Shed 7 with me? I don't care where.

Monday 14 July 2008

Lagging behind

Well it’s just been over a week since I came back and I am only now starting to get back in to the groove. This is mainly to do with the jet lag I experienced. At first I thought I’d only be affected for one night as I stayed up watching television until 3:30 in the morning and finally falling asleep at 4am. This happened Saturday night then Sunday, then Monday and Tuesday. I watched BBC News so much that during the night that the stories began to loop. I developed a crush on Martine Croxall, the newscaster between the hours of 1am to 5am. She holds her self so well and so professional and from there my crush just flourished. However, the news was becoming repetitive and not even the sophisticated Martine could stop me from changing channels. I switched to BBC 2 which just showed repeats of BBC 1 but with a sign language. I don’t want to watch Holby City at 8pm let alone 2:30am. ITV, have this weird bingo game going on which had an aura of chaotic organisation which made me flick. Channel 5 had baseball, so Channel 4 it was which was showing Big Brother Live. I don’t know why but I just lay there bleary eyed watching these people sit there and talk. Well, they didn’t even do that. The sound of the birds tweeting kept playing as they said something liable and I felt it strangely soothing. So much so that it lulled me to sleep.

The jet lag meant that at work as was more of a zombie than anything else. People would ask how I was doing and all I could do was look up at them and occasionally salivate in acknowledgment. On my journey I wrote a diary and planned to scan it in and post it on the blog. I managed to do the first day but the scanner is at work and I’d have to get in early to scan in the rest. I had the best intentions but I was waking up at 8:20 with a banging headache so have not had time yet to slip down to IT and use the scanner. This annoyed me, and I was determined to beat this jet lag so much I refused to watch Martine Croxall deliver her headlines in such a mellifluous manner and abstained from hearing gibberish from the Big Brother house. Instead I just lay in silence. After half an hour though I couldn’t take it so switched on the radio to BBC 7. Some rather unfunny comedy was playing which started to make me doze. The comedy ended and in its place was a reading from I Am Legend by Richard Matheson, most recently brought into the spotlight for the Will Smith film. The film had a certain void which Carlton may have been able to fill but this was totally different. At first I lay there gently swaying my head in hope it would send me to sleep, when the story began, retold by someone with an old style New York detective agency accent. My attention stirred. As the story developed I realised how much was not included in the film. By now I had my eyes open listening to the story intently until the first excerpt ended. I was wide awake but had been enjoyably entertained.

This pattern has been going on for the last few days now. And I’ve been using the weekend to get ‘proper’ sleep. Each night I’ve been checking out I Am Legend and getting up late for work. You can listen to I Am Legend on the BBC iPlayer if you can be bothered. As for me, I’ve got to break this routine soon or I’ll turn into a vampire myself.

Monday 7 July 2008

Day One



Monday 30 June 2008

Where art thou?

I know it´s been a while since my last post. I hadn´t forgotten about it I was just busy.

Well, my progressive prose is now completed, well the first draft anyway, and I sent it out to some people to give it some critical comments. I will commence the second draft shortly. If you want to read the first draft please email me and I´ll send it to you. I think people were starting to get annoyed with the extracts I kept uploading. Work has been intense but completed a mini project and to celebrate I bounced to Peru which is where I´m writing from. It´s 3:30 in the afternoon here in Iquitos.

There is much to write but unfortunately the internet connection is worse than dail up and things keep crashing. I´ll post when I´m back in early July.

Friday 23 May 2008

Periodical Ponderings

I was on lunch yesterday when I fancied reading a newspaper. Over the last four years I’ve gradually stopped reading them frequently to the point I do so every few weeks. Standing in WHSmiths finding myself staring at the quadrant stand of papers I started to see which one I’d purchase. The first one to catch my eye was The Sun. The first paper I ever read. Its large topical banner headlines with colour pictures of scantily clad gorgeous women, what more could a randy teenager want. I used to read it as I delivered them on my paper round, always starting 20 minutes early so I could give myself some leisurely reading time. After a while though, it became apparent that these stories were rather salacious and false, plus I’d have as much chance with them women inside them as Alan Partridge has of getting a second series.

I took a few extra steps around to the second side of the stand and saw The Daily Star, with even bigger headlines and larger photos of semi naked women but the thought of finishing a paper in two minutes encouraged me to continue until I moved on to the broadsheets, or the former broadsheets. I first began reading a broadsheet when my old English teacher instructed us to do so telling us it will improve our vocabulary. She touted The Independent, so off I went and bought one. It was during this period that I became aware of the political and commercial significance the broadsheet signified. I felt all self-righteous and left wing slapping the coins on the counter and walking off with a paper that could also be used as a parachute. The Independent, the paper that stood for independence and against the commercial might of News Corporation. Still able to viably print off papers even though News Corp always outbids them when television advertising space is available, well according to my English teacher they did. So I sat on a park bench and started to read the first few sentences when I came a cropper. What were these words ‘insidious’ and ‘cantankerous’, I was only used to the likes of ‘creepy’ and ‘bellow’. That’s when I realised that to read this paper I would need a dictionary, and reading one story became a one hour study session, frequently turning the papers of the ol’ Oxford Dictionary. And little by little my brain retained words that had two syllables, then three, then four and I even managed to squeeze in a couple of five syllable words. After a year I had all these random words to stupefy people with and occasionally get my backside kicked by a budding semanticist. And all though I was truly grateful for The Independent for introducing me to a greater range of vocabulary, my views had become sort of left wing and off beat. This was mainly due to their stories being completely non-mainstream. For example, there would be an economical crisis and their front page story would be about the polar ice caps melting. A valid story that is true but sometimes I wanted to tap into the pulse of the ‘now’ and so I was finally prised away from ‘The Inde’ to its popular cousin, The Guardian. Now, carrying The Guardian around under your arm pretty much informs the rest of the country that you’re more inclined to vote for Labour than Conservatives, which I didn’t have a problem with. The paper still had many a word that had me baffled and so my learning process continued. However, after a while I started to realise the undertone utterances of its political slant were everywhere. At first, it was a bit of a shock becoming fully aware of it all but I have to say I was happy to agree with most of what was written, and so began the year love affair with the paper. It ended when I sneaked out early one morning and cheated on it with The Times. I hold my hands up, the paper was an easy read and offered me more material things, for instance a free CD. News Corp had corrupted me, they had more money than all the other papers and therefore could afford to ply greater amounts of cash into their journalism covering issues in more detail and offer a greater breadth of them, all covered with the Murdoch glaze, of course. I was slightly savvy now though in the periodical world due to the papers I read previously and could see through the shameless bashing of Rupert’s enemies.
Staring at these papers in the quadrant gave me a tough choice, so I decided to move around the next side to see if there was something else on offer to make the choosing a lot less difficult. As I shuffled around I saw the only broadsheet that still retains its size, The Daily Telegraph. As the Guardian represents labour the Telegraph does the Conservatives and I’ve never ever bought this paper. Mostly due to the fact my father reads it and I could never understand why. I have to say I’ve read certain supplements as they lay scattered around my father’s flat and they are well written and highly slanted but I just couldn’t betray The Independent or The Guardian in teaching me new words.

And so I reached the final side of the quadrant where only the local paper was stacked and is truly as appealing a read as Edwina Curry’s memoirs. Realising I needed to pick a paper soon or lunch would evaporate I walked around once more before picking up the Guardian. Its compact size, berlina style and general colour scheme enticed me enough to make the purchase. And besides if The Private Eye can ridicule it and it still sponsors their competitions it must still be a good egg of a paper.