Dogs and Sharks

Over the recent years I have becoming gradually more and more scared of dogs. I am not referring to a Sausage dog or a Labrador. It’s the Rottweiler and the Staffordshire bull terriers that have me feeling all cold and shivery when I see one walking along the path. I didn’t really used to care about them but recently they’ve started growling at me and forcing their owner towards my direction.

For example, I was walking back from the off licence the other day after buying some wine and was day-dreaming a naughty scenario that included me and Sarah Silverman, when all of a sudden I hear this low pitch growl, Sarah Silverman shouldn’t growl I thought, so I looked around and from the other side of the path was a man of no great stature but a weather-beaten face holding the leash of a large Rottweiler almost as big as him. At first I thought it might have been the man who growled but the baring of teeth by his pet made me realise it was the dog. We were about 40 feet apart and coming closer with every step. I thought what should I do, if the dog goes for me. The sensible pragmatic side of me said cross over the road now and you will be fine but the side full of naïve self-pride said bollocks to that, if you walk away they’ll know it’s because of them. The only thing I could think of to defend myself would be my keys should it attack. Not much help there. Still I thought that these are public walkways and anyone should feel comfortable using them and besides the dog probably doesn’t want to take a chunk out of me, it’s probably just messing with my head. As we crossed each other I took a deft side step to the right to make sure there was plenty of space between me and the 100 pound animal which didn’t go unnoticed by its owner. “Don’t’ worry mate if he wanted to bite you it would,” fucking great reassurance.

But sometimes it’s the owner that makes me think oh shit, I’m screwed because they are so puny. One guy was practically being led by his dog and although he had the bling and the large silver chain as a leash there was no hiding the fact the Staffordshire bull terrier was taking him for a walk. On that occasion, the dog didn’t pay much interest to me but I was getting slightly freaked for the possibility that the owner wouldn’t be able to stop it if it did want some of my calf.

Yet thinking about it some more, ‘dangerous’ dogs are still well behind on the thing I fear most, Great White Sharks and the possible return of El Dorado to the BBC. Perhaps it was because I watched Jaws when I was far too young or that a rather large fish brushed past me in the sea when I was around twelve, but I am terrified of the Carcharodon carcharias. I have never seen one other than on television but the sight of them fills me with a slight awe but more predominately, terror.

It is not because I think they are evil and horrid. I admit if I’m in the sea then I may be considered food. It is the realisation that when one is near you and wants you then life is pretty much over. Seeing the fin gliding above the sea is the signification that death is coming towards you. Shouting won’t help, swimming away won’t help and no one can help you. And that’s what scares me. Knowing that I just can’t do anything but wait, even though it’ll be a couple of seconds before I’ve been slashed into pieces and then spat out because I wasn’t the juicy seal it was expecting.

I read an article about a surfer in San Fran who got attack by a Great White. He said that he got hit from below and he didn’t realise what had happened until he saw his board snapped in two and blood all around him. Then the next moment the shark bit into his rib cage but he still was able to shout for help as he tried to stop the shark from rolling him under by punching its nose. I couldn’t believe it as I was reading that he had time to scream for help. What was he saying? He was lucky because another surfer had heard the screams and originally fled but felt he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t turn back so went to his aid. By then the guy had some how managed to fight off the shark but was dying from the lack of blood because half his organs were hanging out. Still the other surfer saved his life by swimming him back to shore so that the paramedics could take him straight to the hospital.

Snail Shells Shower Sneaks

Now that's the sixth best sequence of alliteration I've seen all year.

A random thing happened to me last Thursday. It was around 10pm and I was walking home. It had been raining and I’d decided to stay in Ye Olde Weatherspoons and drink another bottle of Effes beer. The rain stopped after twenty or so minutes and I made my move.

Although walks home at night after a few beers are not uncommon, the mixture of rain, humidity and moisture in the air made sure it was a rather odd journey. I crossed over a road and turned off the main path onto a short cut and then crunch. I knew I’d trodden on something before I heard the sound because of the small resistance I felt as my foot came down. I had stepped on a snail. Crap I thought and scrapped my new pumps (I got these ones by the way) along the ground to clear away any shell debris leftover. Turning left to save me ten minutes meant I’d have to go down an alleyway where the street lamps did not work. I first thought that this was ‘chav’ hunting ground. The ominous signs were there, all street lamps were off, it was dark, the path was an alleyway where anyone could appear from, but I thought sod it and started the 300 (or so) metre walk. It took only a few steps when again there was a crunch sound. I couldn’t be bothered to scrape my shoes and continued but it was not too long until there was another crunch as within a space of a nanosecond I crushed a snail’s home followed by its life. My feet shuffled along a few more steps and with every other I destroyed a snail and its abode. This was getting all too strange so pulled out my key-ring and found my little light and illuminated the alleyway. At first I couldn’t quite understand what was in front of me but as I narrowed my eyes to take a more inquisitive look I noticed hundreds of snails all over the place. The path was absolutely littered with them. There was hardly anywhere I could tread without smashing one of those little fellas into pieces. It seemed there was some sort of a snail convention taking place inviting all the snails within four counties to congregate here down this dodgy dark alleyway. I pulled out my phone to take a photo but it was currently being repaired and the makeshift one doesn’t have a camera.

I still wanted to get home early though and decided to carry on down the alleyway. So with my little light as guidance I began weaving in and out but unfortunately could only pick out the big ones. Crunch, “Ah shit” I said aloud as I started to squash more snails. I even attempted tip-toeing but lost my balance and almost ended up falling to the floor. Getting back to the task in hand I decided that there was no other way to get through but to leg it. There would be more squashing but I wanted to get out quickly. I put the little light away and just ran for it.

It didn’t take long for me to hear that crunching sound, in fact it happened with every step. In the dark I could imagine I was treading on snow. Unfortunately, reality set in when I finally made it through the alleyway and stood underneath a lamp post (that was alight) and saw on my new trainers a plethora of snail shells covering my pumps. When I got back home I took the hose out and washed away all the debris making sure everything had been sprayed off. To help with the cleaning process I even poured half a tube worth of washing up liquid to make sure the job was done. It was a random end to the night but my trainers no longer look new and I hate snails.

In other news, I saw this on the Kiss Channel a couple of weeks ago.

It's all in the email

I get annoyed when ever so often the news agenda runs wild with some story and its coverage becomes bigger than the story itself. It makes me not want to buy a newspaper, watch or listen to the news and stay ignorant of everything.

On this occasion it’s about some bloke who works for Prime Minister Brown that wrote an email to ‘a friend’ (who happens to run some political blog) about smearing some Conservatives. Firstly, what on earth do they mean by ‘smearing’? Is someone going to smear Ann Widdecombe in Johnson’s Baby Oil or smear the Tories HQ in dog crap? Ok, it’s to do with damaging someone’s reputation but I think I’ve made my point on the loose term of the word used in political context.

Still, I’m torn here and even though I have been exposed to quite a bit of coverage on this story I’m still not clear on a few things (please note I’m writing this before I have read a Sunday Paper) such as did the guy send the email to blogger man from his personal email address or was it from his @labour.gov.uk one? This is why I’m undecided. I think given his position as some spin doctor, you know that band from the early-mid nineties, pants, I mean some guy that turns bad news into good for an organisation, he shouldn’t really have written what he did. But this should only apply within his working capacity, i.e. whilst at work or using equipment owned by his employer. Outside that jurisdiction I think he should be able to say what he wishes. I mean come off it, so what if he wants to ‘have George Osbourne running scared’ by smearing him. If that’s his talent in life, then he might as well use it. I shout at the television and call Wayne Rooney a bastard every time he scores for Man United, doesn’t mean I hate the guy, it’s just some throw away expression I make every time he does what he does best. Same thing applies when I see crap news stories all over the papers, I think what a load of crap The Guardian or Telegraph have got printed on their font covers today. I then check out the hottie on the Daily Star and I calm down. Still I say it with my voice and not on a letter headed with the organisation I work for which would in some way suggest to the recipient of my views that the organisation I work for endorses what I say. So this is why I’m sitting on the fence on this one but wish to make the reader aware of which way I’ll side once I find out where the email was sent from.

If it was sent by his @labour.gov.uk email address then I think he’s in the wrong. Sending that sort of stuff using your work email address is probably not the smartest thing to do because really you are opening up everything to interpretation. The stalwart right winger would probably believe that Mr Brown himself proof read the email before it was sent and that’s where the hysteria begins. Fair play to the Conservatives, they’re precisely doing what Labour doesn’t want them to do, acting rather admirably. As yet, I haven’t heard a call for a ‘public enquiry’ (another term I one day wish to discuss) or some sort of restructuring of their cabinet. All they’re highlighting is that we’re in a recession and that Labour should be concentrating on that and not smear. I think all 60 million of us are in agreement with that and we probably also agree based on their reaction to this is that they’ve got better spin doctors (perhaps the they’ve got the singer working for them).

If he did send it from his @destroyconservative.me.uk email address to his blogging pal then I think we are wrong to castigate him. Yes, it is probably foolish to write those things but we all do foolish things and as long as we do them in our own time then we should be allowed to express our personal intentions and feelings. I’m pretty sure Tony Blair must of said ‘That git David, he made me look a fool today. I’ll get him one day,’ after receiving a pasting on Prime Minister’s question time and he should be allowed to say that at home or sending it to his mate Bill Clinton on his @blairrules.co.uk address. Isn’t that what freedom of speech (I guess in this sense freedom of email) is all about?


In other news, I’m so glad Phileas Fogg Tortilla chips are back. It’s like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone’s invited every time I munch on a packet of those bad boys.

Pumps

My battered plimpsoles have finally perished. I had managed to ignore the gradual demise and crumbling of my footwear by shoving them in the corner to collect dust and become a shelter home for arachnids. Besides I wear shoes to work, so polished you can see your face in them. Well, not really but they are in tidy condition. What I could not do any longer was ignore the hole in my plimpsole, especially when it rained and my feet got wet. Thing is, I’m really picky on my footwear based on a criteria of comfort and whether they look radical which sounds simple but can last eons in the search for new footwear.

And so it began last week venturing all through the shops looking for a new pair of trainers. I walked past a pair of Converse and winced a little. I really like those trainers especially as they look better the older and more battered they become. My only problem is getting them on. Those boot versions leave me spending ages trying to slip them on. Sometimes I try so hard to get my foot in that I lose my balance and smack myself against the wall. So I carried on walking past and spied a cracking pair of Adidas Campus. These white and orange shell capped beauties were exactly what I was looking for and asked for a pair of size 9s. The sales girl came out two minutes later with a pair of size 8s. They had no 9s left but would I consider trying the 8s. Even though I knew full well I am a 9 I still found myself saying, “yeah alright then,” as she handed them over to me. They looked the money, I felt the money but alas my big toe was attempting a breakout from shell cap prison and there was no way I could cope with the crammed up condition the rest of my digits were in.

Vexed, I even considered ‘Priceless Shoes’ but it seemed they have all closed down. Eventually I found myself on eBay bidding for a pair of those Nike turtle shoes, the ones where they’ve cut out an extra section for the big toe to live. However, I got out bidded in the last moments with someone coming in with a £62 bid for a pair. I couldn’t really compete but it was a blessing in disguise as I’d either have to wear them bare foot or buy those special Nike socks. A bit of a palaver for someone who likes to get ready in about fifteen minutes so I guess it was for the best. So in the end it left me looking at my stained, scuffed plimpsoles and thinking I’ve got at least another summers worth of wear out of them.