Its like this awkward thing. And it really hurts. It stops me from being as mobile as I'd like and to be honest, its my own fault.
I am, of course, referring to a broken foot.
3rd Metatarsal, broken.
2nd Metatarsal, dislocated.
Apparently near impossible to re-set into position again. So I'm striding(read: hobbling slowly) from place to place in massive amounts of pain but with 3 entire days off.
The doctor said I'm not allowed to work on it for a few days, so I'm sorted for some time off to get some things done. For a change.
OH NO!
Its just dawned on me that I may not be able to fully Muse out on the 16th because I've the standing ticket and the complete lack of standing ability.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Fuck it. I'll get doped up to the point of passing the pain barrier and wake up in the morning to pass out. Sorted.
Painkillers are quality, by the way. I'm well happy right now. I could just hug everyone. Its like taking ecstasy but with Nurofen instead.
Yes indeed.
Oh, and V needs to get herself across here for a gig. She needs some Pitchshifter. SHE NEEDS TO COME TO LONDONDONDONDONDONDON.
Wednesday 6 June 2007
Sunday 3 June 2007
Is salad cooked or prepared if some aspects are hot?
I'm only asking because I've just made a salad with some chicken. And damn fine it was too.
Good fresh ingredients are the key, obviously, so I ensured that I didn't have any by being a lazy bastard and buying them yesterday and then buggering off to the pub.
So I made it this afternoon for 2 people who have almost 0 vegetation in their diet, and they've both eaten it. This is a miracle on a par with the blind man seeing, the lame man walk and getting a duck to say "I am a goat"
Fear my powers.
I was initially worried that the chicken would be dry because of the way I made it, but it was fine. A shade tougher than I'd have preferred on the outer edges but it was still very very edible. In for about 3 minutes too long, probably.
I want to learn to cook duck and other game birds, just for the ability to say things like "This duck has not been seared as I'd have done it" or something and I want to cook posh food with oranges in it and stuff.
This is unlikely.
Oh, and I should be moving out of my current abode within the foreseeable. Yay for me.
Salad could have done with a few more radishes though.
Good fresh ingredients are the key, obviously, so I ensured that I didn't have any by being a lazy bastard and buying them yesterday and then buggering off to the pub.
So I made it this afternoon for 2 people who have almost 0 vegetation in their diet, and they've both eaten it. This is a miracle on a par with the blind man seeing, the lame man walk and getting a duck to say "I am a goat"
Fear my powers.
I was initially worried that the chicken would be dry because of the way I made it, but it was fine. A shade tougher than I'd have preferred on the outer edges but it was still very very edible. In for about 3 minutes too long, probably.
I want to learn to cook duck and other game birds, just for the ability to say things like "This duck has not been seared as I'd have done it" or something and I want to cook posh food with oranges in it and stuff.
This is unlikely.
Oh, and I should be moving out of my current abode within the foreseeable. Yay for me.
Salad could have done with a few more radishes though.
Saturday 2 June 2007
This holiday is going to be well buff
As I may or may not have mentioned(I forget if I have or not) I'm off to Hastings for a few days at the end of this month.
Today, I bought my crappy luggage for it. And now I am well and truly geared for it. Lazy days by the sea, active nights at the pub or maybe the camp site. Depends entirely on how we all feel.
Harry, Vicki and Katie off doing family crap, and Charlotte, Poboi and myself entertaining ourselves in other manners. Though Pod reckons he's going to spend 5 days sitting in front of the TV. In his pants.
Ah well, me and Charlotte will have to do other things away from Pod and his overbearing scents.
Should be a laugh. Beach cricket sets will be bought. Yes indeed.
On the 16th of June, I shall be attending a fine event at the new Wembley Stadium in Middlesex. Home of the England national football team, and the first of two dates by one of the most exciting bands around in my time so far. Muse. I shall be going to the Saturday date with Daniela Y Rodriguez, The Streets and Dirty Pretty Things supporting. I'd have preferred the Sunday date, for Biffy Clyro are supporting Muse, but then again, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Muse tickets are like gold dust at times, so when I was offered a standing ticket to what may turn out to be THE event of the summer(no football is on, has to be music) I jumped at the chance.
Quality.
I've now ran out of bloggage for now. I'll think of something later.
Today, I bought my crappy luggage for it. And now I am well and truly geared for it. Lazy days by the sea, active nights at the pub or maybe the camp site. Depends entirely on how we all feel.
Harry, Vicki and Katie off doing family crap, and Charlotte, Poboi and myself entertaining ourselves in other manners. Though Pod reckons he's going to spend 5 days sitting in front of the TV. In his pants.
Ah well, me and Charlotte will have to do other things away from Pod and his overbearing scents.
Should be a laugh. Beach cricket sets will be bought. Yes indeed.
On the 16th of June, I shall be attending a fine event at the new Wembley Stadium in Middlesex. Home of the England national football team, and the first of two dates by one of the most exciting bands around in my time so far. Muse. I shall be going to the Saturday date with Daniela Y Rodriguez, The Streets and Dirty Pretty Things supporting. I'd have preferred the Sunday date, for Biffy Clyro are supporting Muse, but then again, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Muse tickets are like gold dust at times, so when I was offered a standing ticket to what may turn out to be THE event of the summer(no football is on, has to be music) I jumped at the chance.
Quality.
I've now ran out of bloggage for now. I'll think of something later.
Friday 1 June 2007
Staunch denial
In the last couple of days, I've been complimented on a fair few things.
Primarily, my work and how well I've picked it up and the skill and ease I'm apparently showing.
Fuck yes, means a pay rise that shit.
Then I was complimented by some friends from the Barbarian Lands to the North of Berwick on how well I appear to be doing(as well as one honourable mention from my friend Chelle who seems to think I'm pretty)
My good friend Podboi complimented me on my photography skillz. Now, its a hobby and nothing beyond, but god knows I'd love it to be a profession. I like taking pictures of scenery and still life's, but sometimes I look down from the balcony(its not as posh as it sounds, its a top floor flat) and I can capture the most amazing moments of human interaction on sunny days. One or two in the rain and at dusk and night times look pretty cool too. "London life as viewed from the 11th floor &trade". I might make that a working project.
DIGRESSION!
I must stop digressing from my points in this here blog, the first part of this sentence nicely linking me from one part to the last.
I was complimented on my writing by a fellow Blogger(I was informed it was "very good" if that's not compliment enough for you, you may no longer read my drivel. Away with thee!)
Now, my complimenter, and I'd like to say personal friend(she's watched me grow up, albeit from afar and intermittently), is a professional writer. Blog, newspaper articles and the like are her turf. As far as I know, you cannot move in the US for reading some of her work(or maybe its just the New Jersey internets) because it is plagiarised on a seemingly daily basis.
This is theft, and something not to be taken lightly, especially by someone with as much intelligence, beauty and a way with words as Deb.
And, this tends to mean that anything Deb says on T'internet™ is Gospel, and is due to be believed and obeyed to the letter.
I pwn at Bloggerage.
I pwn all.
Except Deb.
Primarily, my work and how well I've picked it up and the skill and ease I'm apparently showing.
Fuck yes, means a pay rise that shit.
Then I was complimented by some friends from the Barbarian Lands to the North of Berwick on how well I appear to be doing(as well as one honourable mention from my friend Chelle who seems to think I'm pretty)
My good friend Podboi complimented me on my photography skillz. Now, its a hobby and nothing beyond, but god knows I'd love it to be a profession. I like taking pictures of scenery and still life's, but sometimes I look down from the balcony(its not as posh as it sounds, its a top floor flat) and I can capture the most amazing moments of human interaction on sunny days. One or two in the rain and at dusk and night times look pretty cool too. "London life as viewed from the 11th floor &trade". I might make that a working project.
DIGRESSION!
I must stop digressing from my points in this here blog, the first part of this sentence nicely linking me from one part to the last.
I was complimented on my writing by a fellow Blogger(I was informed it was "very good" if that's not compliment enough for you, you may no longer read my drivel. Away with thee!)
Now, my complimenter, and I'd like to say personal friend(she's watched me grow up, albeit from afar and intermittently), is a professional writer. Blog, newspaper articles and the like are her turf. As far as I know, you cannot move in the US for reading some of her work(or maybe its just the New Jersey internets) because it is plagiarised on a seemingly daily basis.
This is theft, and something not to be taken lightly, especially by someone with as much intelligence, beauty and a way with words as Deb.
And, this tends to mean that anything Deb says on T'internet™ is Gospel, and is due to be believed and obeyed to the letter.
I pwn at Bloggerage.
I pwn all.
Except Deb.
Thursday 31 May 2007
Its payday tomorrow!
I like Fridays best, because I get paid £some for doing some work. This in turn means I can either ignore the whole shonky fiasco that involves doing work properly. Yayness, for it means it is pub day too.
I've just been discussing interior decorating with regards to shelving. Which, despite the banality of the subject, somehow descended into quite a heated discussion. Impressive, as ever.
And now I'm listening to Boston's More Than A Feeling. I've spent much of the evening listening to Jimi Hendrix and Biffy Clyro. But thats all about to change, because House is on Channel 5.
I like House. Hugh Laurie is an amazing actor. Apparently, many of the American viewers were convinced he was from the States instead of jolly old Blighty like many thousands of wonderful folk throughout history.
The first place I encountered the amazing talents of Mr. Laurie was in a British television show called Blackadder. He had mainly bit parts in most of the seasons, but he had a larger role in a later season as Prince George(I think it was Blackadder III but I cant be certain.)
He also has a cult following from other shows he did with another stalwart of British acting, Stephen Fry, in the Fry And Laurie Show. Basically a sketch show, it also included musical comedy snippets from Laurie, being as he is an accomplished musician on both piano and guitar.
A truly amazing actor. He has been known to occasionally appear as a panelist on comedy quiz shows too.
I'm sitting here watching House, sorting out my friends shopping bill and typing this up. In the front room, there are Harry, Vicki and Katie over by the TV, me at the computer and Podboi sitting on the other side of the table from me.
This may be an OK night. We might even break out a game or 7 of Halo on XBox Live.
Anyone up for it?
I've just been discussing interior decorating with regards to shelving. Which, despite the banality of the subject, somehow descended into quite a heated discussion. Impressive, as ever.
And now I'm listening to Boston's More Than A Feeling. I've spent much of the evening listening to Jimi Hendrix and Biffy Clyro. But thats all about to change, because House is on Channel 5.
I like House. Hugh Laurie is an amazing actor. Apparently, many of the American viewers were convinced he was from the States instead of jolly old Blighty like many thousands of wonderful folk throughout history.
The first place I encountered the amazing talents of Mr. Laurie was in a British television show called Blackadder. He had mainly bit parts in most of the seasons, but he had a larger role in a later season as Prince George(I think it was Blackadder III but I cant be certain.)
He also has a cult following from other shows he did with another stalwart of British acting, Stephen Fry, in the Fry And Laurie Show. Basically a sketch show, it also included musical comedy snippets from Laurie, being as he is an accomplished musician on both piano and guitar.
A truly amazing actor. He has been known to occasionally appear as a panelist on comedy quiz shows too.
I'm sitting here watching House, sorting out my friends shopping bill and typing this up. In the front room, there are Harry, Vicki and Katie over by the TV, me at the computer and Podboi sitting on the other side of the table from me.
This may be an OK night. We might even break out a game or 7 of Halo on XBox Live.
Anyone up for it?
Monday 28 May 2007
Saturday Superpub
After spending much of my Saturday morning and afternoon with my eyes shut on the sofa, I got a phone call in the early evening.
Olev: Yo, King Garry I, are you coming to the Grove? Its a mate of mines party *squawk squawk, etc...*
King Garry I: I dunno man, who's all going to be there?
Olev: Loads of people man
King Garry I: Fuck it, why not.
Olev: I'll come up and see everyone before we head off.
King Garry I: Sorted
*click*
Fast forward to 7 15PM
*knock knock*
King Garry I: Olev! You had your hair cut!?
Olev: Nah man, its just the way its tied back
*usual boring chit chat*
So we go to the pub, we get Colin down, Sam is there and so are Katie and Tasha. I'm thinking it should be a laugh tonight.
How wrong can one person be about one night?
First off, it was a shit party in a shit night,shit music good music played badly was played by an old man with a guitar that wasn't plugged in, and some little arse faced little toss pot who kept doing TERRIBLE covers of amazing songs. He tried to cover Radiohead, Pearl Jam and other such giants of the music industry. The little wanker.
Then the main act came on, and they were 100% wank. Proper hardcore shit. I mean you think you've heard shit? You've heard nothing like shit until you hear whatever 3rd rate name was given to this 5th rate band. Band is a very strong word. Collection of musical retards is more accurate, I feel.
Anyway, so we do our best to ignore this shit all night, and Colin left at like 10 30PM or so, which was bad, because it just got funnier and funnier after he left. Some people that Sam and Olev know called Sorren and Finn(I'm guessing the spellings, I didn't get to know them that well. Seemed jolly nice fellows though)turned up and were just all chatty and whatnot. Good stuff.
We all left at around 12ish because it was that bollocks. Waste of a night, in my opinion.
SUNDAY
Sunday started like every other weekend. Woken up by Vicki putting baby Katie in my room/the living room, thus ruining my lie in. But Olev was there. Added plus or what?
Me and Olev left at noon and we set off for Sam's house, but just as we got to Sam's we encountered Sam's mum Pauline so we accosted her for a lift to Sutton. Classic tactics. I needed jeans and t-shirts, for I have none of either. ASDA and Matalan. Hardcore clothes shopping.
Whilst in ASDAs conversation turned to cooking and dinner. I happened to mention my liking for cooking. So I was bullied into making my world famous Broccoli Chicken+rice for 5 and some veggie burgers for Sam's other half. Sorted.
I am now well in Pauline's good books. I haven't been round for a couple of years and the first thing I do is cook for her. Whereas Olev only ever goes round to scrounge. That's the norm for poor poor Olev. I'm now "the good friend" and am welcome anytime.
Boo, and indeed, yah.
So, to summarize: Saturday was shit, Sunday was the nuts.
Oh, and on Sunday night, I was covered in cookies by Charlotte. Specifically, cookie crumbs all over my bed/sofa. Which made for an interesting moment when I woke up for work. Specifically a thought along the lines of "What the shuddering fuck am I doing covered in fucking crumbs?" until that dawning moment of realisation when I remembered what happened the night before.
Its a fucking magic show at this house sometimes.
Olev: Yo, King Garry I, are you coming to the Grove? Its a mate of mines party *squawk squawk, etc...*
King Garry I: I dunno man, who's all going to be there?
Olev: Loads of people man
King Garry I: Fuck it, why not.
Olev: I'll come up and see everyone before we head off.
King Garry I: Sorted
*click*
Fast forward to 7 15PM
*knock knock*
King Garry I: Olev! You had your hair cut!?
Olev: Nah man, its just the way its tied back
*usual boring chit chat*
So we go to the pub, we get Colin down, Sam is there and so are Katie and Tasha. I'm thinking it should be a laugh tonight.
How wrong can one person be about one night?
First off, it was a shit party in a shit night,
Then the main act came on, and they were 100% wank. Proper hardcore shit. I mean you think you've heard shit? You've heard nothing like shit until you hear whatever 3rd rate name was given to this 5th rate band. Band is a very strong word. Collection of musical retards is more accurate, I feel.
Anyway, so we do our best to ignore this shit all night, and Colin left at like 10 30PM or so, which was bad, because it just got funnier and funnier after he left. Some people that Sam and Olev know called Sorren and Finn(I'm guessing the spellings, I didn't get to know them that well. Seemed jolly nice fellows though)turned up and were just all chatty and whatnot. Good stuff.
We all left at around 12ish because it was that bollocks. Waste of a night, in my opinion.
SUNDAY
Sunday started like every other weekend. Woken up by Vicki putting baby Katie in my room/the living room, thus ruining my lie in. But Olev was there. Added plus or what?
Me and Olev left at noon and we set off for Sam's house, but just as we got to Sam's we encountered Sam's mum Pauline so we accosted her for a lift to Sutton. Classic tactics. I needed jeans and t-shirts, for I have none of either. ASDA and Matalan. Hardcore clothes shopping.
Whilst in ASDAs conversation turned to cooking and dinner. I happened to mention my liking for cooking. So I was bullied into making my world famous Broccoli Chicken+rice for 5 and some veggie burgers for Sam's other half. Sorted.
I am now well in Pauline's good books. I haven't been round for a couple of years and the first thing I do is cook for her. Whereas Olev only ever goes round to scrounge. That's the norm for poor poor Olev. I'm now "the good friend" and am welcome anytime.
Boo, and indeed, yah.
So, to summarize: Saturday was shit, Sunday was the nuts.
Oh, and on Sunday night, I was covered in cookies by Charlotte. Specifically, cookie crumbs all over my bed/sofa. Which made for an interesting moment when I woke up for work. Specifically a thought along the lines of "What the shuddering fuck am I doing covered in fucking crumbs?" until that dawning moment of realisation when I remembered what happened the night before.
Its a fucking magic show at this house sometimes.
Do you believe it in your head?
I'm going to just throw caution to the wind here and tell you about my state of mind in a very very general term.
Wobbly.
Sometimes I'm 100% coherent, other times I talk complete and utter bollocks.
Last night, for instance. I got home from Sim's house at around 9 30PM and sat down. Harry was off to the shop and asked if anyone wanted anything. I responded in the negative.
"WAIT A MINUTE!" says I "I could use a Christmas tree complete with ornate Norwegians wearing fairy lights and a large bag of potatoes to replace the fairy."
Something along those lines, but the key elements are correct.
Later on, I proceeded to tell everyone else in the flat about the Finnish builders on the roof who are installing a giant may-pole for the festivities in early June.
I worry about me on occasion.
However, in my more normal frame of mind, I can focus and just crack on with solving a cure for cancer AND the common cold should the mood strike me.
Today at work, only me and Darren were working because everyone else are lazy bastards and don't work bank holidays.
I sat in the van at 7AM(7AM!!!!!!) and put all the work in order, sorted out which ones were avoidable, how to get from one road to the other with minimal travelling time and at approximately what time we'd finish.
I was damn near spot on with the time, bang on with the avoidables and even though I forgot to factor in cafe time I was home by 1PM.
All this at 7AM. Normally at that time, I'm busy wondering if I'm wearing wet socks or wet shoes or even any shoes. You'd be alarmed at the frequency of this. Normally a bacon sandwich at JB's cures this, but even he was shut this morning due to a sodding bank holiday.
We had to drive all the way to Brixton for petrol and back into Streatham and Tooting for the work.
WHAT AN EPIC FUCKING MISSION
Still, even with private jobs and first cleans added on to the time factor, we were only 20 minutes over the time I thought we'd be done. So that was OK.
What made it even better was making £20 on the sly and "doing" £300 worth of windows in one day. This means that For working 4hrs today(Law Of Window Cleaning #1: Never leave the cafe before 9AM) I'll have made £70.
And yet, I'm always, always ALWAYS skint.
How on Earth does that happen?
Wobbly.
Sometimes I'm 100% coherent, other times I talk complete and utter bollocks.
Last night, for instance. I got home from Sim's house at around 9 30PM and sat down. Harry was off to the shop and asked if anyone wanted anything. I responded in the negative.
"WAIT A MINUTE!" says I "I could use a Christmas tree complete with ornate Norwegians wearing fairy lights and a large bag of potatoes to replace the fairy."
Something along those lines, but the key elements are correct.
Later on, I proceeded to tell everyone else in the flat about the Finnish builders on the roof who are installing a giant may-pole for the festivities in early June.
I worry about me on occasion.
However, in my more normal frame of mind, I can focus and just crack on with solving a cure for cancer AND the common cold should the mood strike me.
Today at work, only me and Darren were working because everyone else are lazy bastards and don't work bank holidays.
I sat in the van at 7AM(7AM!!!!!!) and put all the work in order, sorted out which ones were avoidable, how to get from one road to the other with minimal travelling time and at approximately what time we'd finish.
I was damn near spot on with the time, bang on with the avoidables and even though I forgot to factor in cafe time I was home by 1PM.
All this at 7AM. Normally at that time, I'm busy wondering if I'm wearing wet socks or wet shoes or even any shoes. You'd be alarmed at the frequency of this. Normally a bacon sandwich at JB's cures this, but even he was shut this morning due to a sodding bank holiday.
We had to drive all the way to Brixton for petrol and back into Streatham and Tooting for the work.
WHAT AN EPIC FUCKING MISSION
Still, even with private jobs and first cleans added on to the time factor, we were only 20 minutes over the time I thought we'd be done. So that was OK.
What made it even better was making £20 on the sly and "doing" £300 worth of windows in one day. This means that For working 4hrs today(Law Of Window Cleaning #1: Never leave the cafe before 9AM) I'll have made £70.
And yet, I'm always, always ALWAYS skint.
How on Earth does that happen?
Saturday 26 May 2007
Today's discussion, class, will involve a thought that I hold within my head, and will most likely end up on a completely different subject, as is my way.
Lets begin with the mundane. The British Weather.
Last Monday, the reports were saying rain. And rain it did.
I was informed on Tuesday, that it would rain. And it did not. Similar stories for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. With each day being hotter than the former.
Up and down ladders in the blazing sunshine and then carrying said ladders is not good. Bring on the dehydration.
It was so hot that even the birds had decided to go for a swim.
I cannot stand heat waves. They are up there with anti-semitism and William Shatner on my "Hate Things" list.
THAT'S ANOTHER THING!
I was drunk a few Fridays ago with Harry, Vicki and Charlotte and we watched Star Trek. An episode with some Nazis in. I saw William Shatner dressed as a Nazi. It was my two biggest hates coming together in order to fuck me up for life.
That made for an unpleasant, yet very watchable 50 minutes of televised entertainment at 3AM.
On that Friday, we played the Game Of Life. I was sat there with all 3 of them, and they'd unanimously declared me(for the purposes of the game) gay. So I had a civil partnership with a chap named Cedric. Instead of children, we adopted small breed dogs. And for some odd reason, they were all called Muffy. All 8 of them, or however many it was.
Memo to self: No more getting tattoo's when hungover. Its not a smart idea.
I've been listening to a fair bit of Dad Rock recently. Some David Bowie, Lynard Skynard, Blondie(how cool is my dad?) and a fair whack of hard-core punk.
INTENSIVE
I'm off on holiday next month. 4 nights at the Combe Haven on the South Coast of England. I'll wave at Vanessa from there and see if she can see me. Should be a right laugh down there. 12 of us. Harry's dad and his offshoots in one chalet and 6 of us in another caravan. Harry, Vicki and Katie sharing one room(Katie being Harry and Vicki's baby), Podboy on the sofa bed thingy and me and Charlotte sharing a twin room.
Christ, this will all be terribly terribly interesting.
Lets hope the weather sorts itself out in time for my excursion to Hastings.
Lets begin with the mundane. The British Weather.
Last Monday, the reports were saying rain. And rain it did.
I was informed on Tuesday, that it would rain. And it did not. Similar stories for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. With each day being hotter than the former.
Up and down ladders in the blazing sunshine and then carrying said ladders is not good. Bring on the dehydration.
It was so hot that even the birds had decided to go for a swim.
I cannot stand heat waves. They are up there with anti-semitism and William Shatner on my "Hate Things" list.
THAT'S ANOTHER THING!
I was drunk a few Fridays ago with Harry, Vicki and Charlotte and we watched Star Trek. An episode with some Nazis in. I saw William Shatner dressed as a Nazi. It was my two biggest hates coming together in order to fuck me up for life.
That made for an unpleasant, yet very watchable 50 minutes of televised entertainment at 3AM.
On that Friday, we played the Game Of Life. I was sat there with all 3 of them, and they'd unanimously declared me(for the purposes of the game) gay. So I had a civil partnership with a chap named Cedric. Instead of children, we adopted small breed dogs. And for some odd reason, they were all called Muffy. All 8 of them, or however many it was.
Memo to self: No more getting tattoo's when hungover. Its not a smart idea.
I've been listening to a fair bit of Dad Rock recently. Some David Bowie, Lynard Skynard, Blondie(how cool is my dad?) and a fair whack of hard-core punk.
INTENSIVE
I'm off on holiday next month. 4 nights at the Combe Haven on the South Coast of England. I'll wave at Vanessa from there and see if she can see me. Should be a right laugh down there. 12 of us. Harry's dad and his offshoots in one chalet and 6 of us in another caravan. Harry, Vicki and Katie sharing one room(Katie being Harry and Vicki's baby), Podboy on the sofa bed thingy and me and Charlotte sharing a twin room.
Christ, this will all be terribly terribly interesting.
Lets hope the weather sorts itself out in time for my excursion to Hastings.
Thursday 17 May 2007
Dilemmas.
Do I choose a life of no prospects, no promotional options but lots of money doing a very very physical job, or do I swap careers and go to work for a major automobile company with lower pay and longer hours?
Do I stick with the shit I'm not really up for. Every morning, I wake up and I go and stand waiting for a van to roll up and I climb in. Once in the van, I'll be moaned at for something, and then we'll head off to the cafe. Cafe time over, I'll get to work. Work involves ladders. Heavy ladders. Or a light ladder, a bucket of water, money handling, navigational skills and stupid pig ignorant bastard customers. To be honest, I'd rather drag a heavy arse ladder all over South London then deal with 50-60 knob heads every day who argue over what they did and didn't pay. Tossers.
Or
Do I go for the shiny new exciting career with massive job prospects, an industry that I'd prefer to work in, but on a far lower wage than what I earn now?
If I stay with my current situation, I'll be working with 1 of 5 other blokes for a long time, one of whom is my future brother in law, and the longer he pays my wages, the longer I'll resent him. Which can do no good for my relationship with my sister.
If I move on, I'll be meeting lots of shiny exciting new people with similar interests(up to a point) as well as working alongside one of my best friends.
Reading back on this, I can see that moving on would be the better option, but its longer hours for less money.
Is money really all that matters? What about a better quality of life? Working closely with a very good friend, in a job that I'd doubtless prefer, in a nicer area for nicer people.
To be honest, this major automotive company is looking better and better.
Currently, my day to day existence involves the heavy work that was noted above, followed by being absolutely knackered from clambering around window sills that are rarely much wider than an A4 piece of paper. I fall from great heights regularly, from sliding ladders, window sills and, on one memorable occasion, shoe laces tied together whilst halfway up a ladder. That wont happen if I'm working on the floor at all times.
I should probably learn to drive soonest, I may even get a flash company car if I do shift on.
All I need to do now is secure an interview with the right person.
Maybe I should learn German so I can speak to Mr B. M. Dubbleyoo on a more personal level.
Do I stick with the shit I'm not really up for. Every morning, I wake up and I go and stand waiting for a van to roll up and I climb in. Once in the van, I'll be moaned at for something, and then we'll head off to the cafe. Cafe time over, I'll get to work. Work involves ladders. Heavy ladders. Or a light ladder, a bucket of water, money handling, navigational skills and stupid pig ignorant bastard customers. To be honest, I'd rather drag a heavy arse ladder all over South London then deal with 50-60 knob heads every day who argue over what they did and didn't pay. Tossers.
Or
Do I go for the shiny new exciting career with massive job prospects, an industry that I'd prefer to work in, but on a far lower wage than what I earn now?
If I stay with my current situation, I'll be working with 1 of 5 other blokes for a long time, one of whom is my future brother in law, and the longer he pays my wages, the longer I'll resent him. Which can do no good for my relationship with my sister.
If I move on, I'll be meeting lots of shiny exciting new people with similar interests(up to a point) as well as working alongside one of my best friends.
Reading back on this, I can see that moving on would be the better option, but its longer hours for less money.
Is money really all that matters? What about a better quality of life? Working closely with a very good friend, in a job that I'd doubtless prefer, in a nicer area for nicer people.
To be honest, this major automotive company is looking better and better.
Currently, my day to day existence involves the heavy work that was noted above, followed by being absolutely knackered from clambering around window sills that are rarely much wider than an A4 piece of paper. I fall from great heights regularly, from sliding ladders, window sills and, on one memorable occasion, shoe laces tied together whilst halfway up a ladder. That wont happen if I'm working on the floor at all times.
I should probably learn to drive soonest, I may even get a flash company car if I do shift on.
All I need to do now is secure an interview with the right person.
Maybe I should learn German so I can speak to Mr B. M. Dubbleyoo on a more personal level.
Wednesday 9 May 2007
This could be destiny, oh sweet charm
I was up a ladder the other day, speaking to one of my work colleagues. We shall call him Marv, for that is his name. Anyway, Marv wants to be a superstar DJ. Drum and bass, specifically, and he really is very very good at it.
Given my love of music, and his love of drum and bass, the subject was bound to come up at some point or another. It was then that he asked me something I'd never really thought about before.
"Who is your favourite band?"
Anyone who has spoken to me for more than 5 minutes while I listen to music can attest that every 30 seconds there are shouts of "Oh my, these guitar-weilding fellows really are quite spiffy, what what?" or words to that effect at least.
I've been playing with this question in my mind for a few days now. Taking certain things into account(just how shit are the album tracks they dont release? etc..) and lining them up against other factors (how many of their songs do I like?) and I've came up with an answer. I'm not going to tell you who, because that would ruin the magic.
I love the singers voice, the use of the guitar, the constant tempo changes in the songs. The elastic basslines, the diversity of their songs and even their videos. The way that even I, a somewhat untalented musician, can play their songs and that they even sound amazing on an acoustic guitar.
Wunderbar, etc...
I'd tell you who it is now(for the magic has died) but I have to go out. You'll just have to wait.
Good Lord, I'm compelling.
Given my love of music, and his love of drum and bass, the subject was bound to come up at some point or another. It was then that he asked me something I'd never really thought about before.
"Who is your favourite band?"
Anyone who has spoken to me for more than 5 minutes while I listen to music can attest that every 30 seconds there are shouts of "Oh my, these guitar-weilding fellows really are quite spiffy, what what?" or words to that effect at least.
I've been playing with this question in my mind for a few days now. Taking certain things into account(just how shit are the album tracks they dont release? etc..) and lining them up against other factors (how many of their songs do I like?) and I've came up with an answer. I'm not going to tell you who, because that would ruin the magic.
I love the singers voice, the use of the guitar, the constant tempo changes in the songs. The elastic basslines, the diversity of their songs and even their videos. The way that even I, a somewhat untalented musician, can play their songs and that they even sound amazing on an acoustic guitar.
Wunderbar, etc...
I'd tell you who it is now(for the magic has died) but I have to go out. You'll just have to wait.
Good Lord, I'm compelling.
Wednesday 2 May 2007
I fell off a ladder again, but I missed the rose bush
I have returned from the wilderness of South London to write for you once more, albeit on a largely more sporadic frequency than before.
As it turns out, my original plan of working in a pub stalled slightly after I was offered another job. One which I instantly accepted and I have been doing for a week and some days.
I sub-contract Window Cleaning jobs from my brother in law and off I stroll with a ladder and a bucket of soapy water. Yay for me.
It means that I start at around 7 30 in the morning, finish anywhere between 1 30pm and 3 30pm, and collect missed payments on a Wednesday and Thursday afternoon. Easy job, you may think.
There is such an art to the whole shonky affair that I'm a little bit hazy on the mastering of the skill. The basics are as you'd expect; water goes on, water comes off; but the rest of it is vastly complex. Far too boring and hard to explain without demonstrations.
Everyday its a new thing, someone new to work with in the mornings in a new area. Interesting characters at the houses, sometimes.
Monday morning, 9 30, house 136 on the road, number 3 of the day. Lee knocks on the door to collect the money. A man sprints out of the house wearing not much more than a smile and into a car and off into the distance he drives.
That pretty much sets the precedent for the day.
According to some I've worked with, I've started at the right time. Beautiful sunshine, warm days, no rain and most importantly, no cold weather. I work out doors all day, and sometimes you strike gold and you get a really fantastic customer who gives out drinks and is just a good laugh to talk to. But those are few and far between.
On the busier roads, it pays to be on the taller ladders washing the bedroom/bathroom windows, that way you get the most amazing views of many things. The surrounding town, the streets below, the cleavage of the passing beauties. Lots of good things, basically.
The morning tends to kick off with a cooked breakfast and organising the work between everyone who also sub-contracts. After that we all split off into teams and head in different vans and different directions to get on with the work.
Those mornings in the cafe are such massive laughs. All the lads sitting around taking the piss out of JB the cafe owner or each other. Such a chuckle.
Anyway, because its Wednesday evening, I have to go out again to do a spot of debt collecting. I shall see you all later, the number below has been cocked up a touch. It accepts incoming, but not outgoing calls for some reason, so I have to go and swear at "Darren" or whoever at the Orange network shop in Sutton.
Cunts.
As it turns out, my original plan of working in a pub stalled slightly after I was offered another job. One which I instantly accepted and I have been doing for a week and some days.
I sub-contract Window Cleaning jobs from my brother in law and off I stroll with a ladder and a bucket of soapy water. Yay for me.
It means that I start at around 7 30 in the morning, finish anywhere between 1 30pm and 3 30pm, and collect missed payments on a Wednesday and Thursday afternoon. Easy job, you may think.
There is such an art to the whole shonky affair that I'm a little bit hazy on the mastering of the skill. The basics are as you'd expect; water goes on, water comes off; but the rest of it is vastly complex. Far too boring and hard to explain without demonstrations.
Everyday its a new thing, someone new to work with in the mornings in a new area. Interesting characters at the houses, sometimes.
Monday morning, 9 30, house 136 on the road, number 3 of the day. Lee knocks on the door to collect the money. A man sprints out of the house wearing not much more than a smile and into a car and off into the distance he drives.
That pretty much sets the precedent for the day.
According to some I've worked with, I've started at the right time. Beautiful sunshine, warm days, no rain and most importantly, no cold weather. I work out doors all day, and sometimes you strike gold and you get a really fantastic customer who gives out drinks and is just a good laugh to talk to. But those are few and far between.
On the busier roads, it pays to be on the taller ladders washing the bedroom/bathroom windows, that way you get the most amazing views of many things. The surrounding town, the streets below, the cleavage of the passing beauties. Lots of good things, basically.
The morning tends to kick off with a cooked breakfast and organising the work between everyone who also sub-contracts. After that we all split off into teams and head in different vans and different directions to get on with the work.
Those mornings in the cafe are such massive laughs. All the lads sitting around taking the piss out of JB the cafe owner or each other. Such a chuckle.
Anyway, because its Wednesday evening, I have to go out again to do a spot of debt collecting. I shall see you all later, the number below has been cocked up a touch. It accepts incoming, but not outgoing calls for some reason, so I have to go and swear at "Darren" or whoever at the Orange network shop in Sutton.
Cunts.
Wednesday 18 April 2007
Right, I'm off for a while.
I dont know how long, exactly, but it wont be a matter of days.
I'm moving back down to London. Well, just south of London.
I dont really have much to say at this particular moment about it other than I really should be packing the computer up and sorting out the boxes of crap that I've accumilated in the last 2 years.
Who knew you could aquire so many books with no money?
Because I'm feeling uninspired, I'll leave you with this:
If I'm needed to be called for any great vital mission in life, call 07814277549
If I'm needed in a less urgent manner, email to giswan@tiscali.co.uk this is subject to change as my net subscription gets cancelled
If I'm needed in a matter of weeks, try snail mail, but I dont know the address of where I'll be moving to properly yet, just write "swanney, No. 64" on the envelope and hope for the best.
Thanks.
Tattys.
I'm moving back down to London. Well, just south of London.
I dont really have much to say at this particular moment about it other than I really should be packing the computer up and sorting out the boxes of crap that I've accumilated in the last 2 years.
Who knew you could aquire so many books with no money?
Because I'm feeling uninspired, I'll leave you with this:
If I'm needed to be called for any great vital mission in life, call 07814277549
If I'm needed in a less urgent manner, email to giswan@tiscali.co.uk this is subject to change as my net subscription gets cancelled
If I'm needed in a matter of weeks, try snail mail, but I dont know the address of where I'll be moving to properly yet, just write "swanney, No. 64" on the envelope and hope for the best.
Thanks.
Tattys.
Monday 16 April 2007
I'm not terribly photogenic.
This is something I knew anyway. I'm not a pretty person, and I have, in the past, been likened to a troll.
That suits me just nicely, means all the gayers stay away from me and my rear end.
I noticed something else recently too. I were out and about in Londinium in early March, and I were destined for a meet-up with a few people from a message board in honour of a Canadian girl coming across and being entrusted by her parents into our somewhat atrocious levels of care.
At a point early in our excursion, we were all stood at Trafalger Square and some clever soul suggested a photograph to document the day a 15 year old blonde girl was corrupted by the influence of numerous elder males of assorted states of normality.
Now, I'm a fan of photography, but not being on the business end of being photographed. I'll happily stand behind the camera and snap away for hours and hours, but the minute someone suggests my mug getting on a roll of film and I try to hide under the pavement.
Whilst I accept some photos need to be taken(weddings, drunken states, other rubbish) some are just not needed. Least of all with me in them.
And so, onto my point here.
At high school, the pupils must have garnered a reputation for buggering about with subsitute teachers. We were bullied into having our pictures taken ready for registers and so on where we could be identified as "The Naughty Ones" or the "Not So Naughty Ones" or something equally demeaning and shite.
Obviously, being 100% purebred Uggo, I was an obvious memory bank for a name. Or so you'd think. Spellings of my name(2 R's, 1 N), remembering my face without looking at the page, and on one odd occasion, forgetting how to pronounce my name entirely.
Couple this with being a Noisy Shouty Person™ in class, and being a fat bugger too, I was a prime candidate for being remembered. Not one sub teacher could place my mug shot 5 minutes after I'd left the room.
Many would see this as an oppurtunity for extreme naawtyness, but not me. No, this was a challenge.
Amid tasks of complete buffoonery, and ignoring the teachers words, I'd often ask with a completely unrelated question(Teacher: "Today we will be doing some physics" Me: "Is the black bit in a maggot its brain or a baby fly") Still I was unnoticable.
This all came to a head one day when I was in rather a lot of trouble for not actually doing anything wrong, an injustice of the playground.
We had a particularly evil teacher called Mr. Newcombe(I'm still convinced he only became a teacher so he could seek revenge on those whom he imagined to bully him) and one day he took offence to the way I breathed, apparently.
Now, I was furious that this big shiny headed wanker was having a go at me for literally doing nothing wrong. I was on my way to the canteen(it being lunch and all) and he started off on one at me. "Fuck this" thinks I, "I'm not in the mood for this shit"
Now, I was being co-operative, told him my name and all sorts. I was a model reprobate. And yet somehow, he was STILL insistant upon tearing me a new one.
But still I let him carry on. I get dragged up to his office. At which point I get a little peeved. I was more than willing to walk on my own accord, but instead I was dragged. The twat. So I get all nasty myself now. Openly questioning his parenthood, asking him why he is such a "shiny headed cunt" and all that sort of stuff.
We get to his office, and I'm all calm again. He asks me my name(AGAIN, WTF?? I TOLD YOU 30 SECONDS AGO, DICKHEAD), but I tell him my actual real name(first time for everything). He asks what tutor group I was in, I tell him. He asks me why I'm feeding him false information. I explain to him that I am not, he must just have shitty computers with nothing on them except solitaire and minesweeper.
He sends me away before he "really loses his temper" with me.
A full hour and a half later and he comes back to get me. Asks me to collect my stuff and come with him. Fair one, maths is crap anyway. Off I trot, safe in the knowledge that a bollocking is awaiting.
I get back to his office, where I am ordered to work for the rest of the day(a whole half an hour, well played that idiot). As I go to leave, I'm asked why I gave him false information and then carried on lying to him after he asked me time and time again. The cunt tried to give me detention every day for 3 months for insulting him, his family and his profession. Fucking wank.
Turns out that my photo had been deleted somehow, and replaced by someone elses.
I'll swear blind that I had nothing to do with it, but I've been known to give false information before.
That suits me just nicely, means all the gayers stay away from me and my rear end.
I noticed something else recently too. I were out and about in Londinium in early March, and I were destined for a meet-up with a few people from a message board in honour of a Canadian girl coming across and being entrusted by her parents into our somewhat atrocious levels of care.
At a point early in our excursion, we were all stood at Trafalger Square and some clever soul suggested a photograph to document the day a 15 year old blonde girl was corrupted by the influence of numerous elder males of assorted states of normality.
Now, I'm a fan of photography, but not being on the business end of being photographed. I'll happily stand behind the camera and snap away for hours and hours, but the minute someone suggests my mug getting on a roll of film and I try to hide under the pavement.
Whilst I accept some photos need to be taken(weddings, drunken states, other rubbish) some are just not needed. Least of all with me in them.
And so, onto my point here.
At high school, the pupils must have garnered a reputation for buggering about with subsitute teachers. We were bullied into having our pictures taken ready for registers and so on where we could be identified as "The Naughty Ones" or the "Not So Naughty Ones" or something equally demeaning and shite.
Obviously, being 100% purebred Uggo, I was an obvious memory bank for a name. Or so you'd think. Spellings of my name(2 R's, 1 N), remembering my face without looking at the page, and on one odd occasion, forgetting how to pronounce my name entirely.
Couple this with being a Noisy Shouty Person™ in class, and being a fat bugger too, I was a prime candidate for being remembered. Not one sub teacher could place my mug shot 5 minutes after I'd left the room.
Many would see this as an oppurtunity for extreme naawtyness, but not me. No, this was a challenge.
Amid tasks of complete buffoonery, and ignoring the teachers words, I'd often ask with a completely unrelated question(Teacher: "Today we will be doing some physics" Me: "Is the black bit in a maggot its brain or a baby fly") Still I was unnoticable.
This all came to a head one day when I was in rather a lot of trouble for not actually doing anything wrong, an injustice of the playground.
We had a particularly evil teacher called Mr. Newcombe(I'm still convinced he only became a teacher so he could seek revenge on those whom he imagined to bully him) and one day he took offence to the way I breathed, apparently.
Now, I was furious that this big shiny headed wanker was having a go at me for literally doing nothing wrong. I was on my way to the canteen(it being lunch and all) and he started off on one at me. "Fuck this" thinks I, "I'm not in the mood for this shit"
Now, I was being co-operative, told him my name and all sorts. I was a model reprobate. And yet somehow, he was STILL insistant upon tearing me a new one.
But still I let him carry on. I get dragged up to his office. At which point I get a little peeved. I was more than willing to walk on my own accord, but instead I was dragged. The twat. So I get all nasty myself now. Openly questioning his parenthood, asking him why he is such a "shiny headed cunt" and all that sort of stuff.
We get to his office, and I'm all calm again. He asks me my name(AGAIN, WTF?? I TOLD YOU 30 SECONDS AGO, DICKHEAD), but I tell him my actual real name(first time for everything). He asks what tutor group I was in, I tell him. He asks me why I'm feeding him false information. I explain to him that I am not, he must just have shitty computers with nothing on them except solitaire and minesweeper.
He sends me away before he "really loses his temper" with me.
A full hour and a half later and he comes back to get me. Asks me to collect my stuff and come with him. Fair one, maths is crap anyway. Off I trot, safe in the knowledge that a bollocking is awaiting.
I get back to his office, where I am ordered to work for the rest of the day(a whole half an hour, well played that idiot). As I go to leave, I'm asked why I gave him false information and then carried on lying to him after he asked me time and time again. The cunt tried to give me detention every day for 3 months for insulting him, his family and his profession. Fucking wank.
Turns out that my photo had been deleted somehow, and replaced by someone elses.
I'll swear blind that I had nothing to do with it, but I've been known to give false information before.
Sunday 15 April 2007
I'm highly ill at the minute.
I did a silly thing yesterday. I went to the pub to watch some football and perhaps a pint or two.
Then I was reminded that my good friend Graham was having his 21st birthday celebrations too. I think that was the killer.
So that went well.
I single handedly took out the entire stock of real ales in the Imperial Bar on North Bridge Street. 10 varieties, 2 of each. Add to this the assorted lagers I'd had previously. 3 Tennants in the Waverly Bar, 2 San Miguels in the Imperial Bar(different occasion, same day), a Carlsberg in the Station Inn, and a Fosters in Stampers. I think I did rather well for myself.
We went on to a club after that. I encountered my stalker there too. I said hello, blah blah, and then Chelle appeared at my side. Stalker then proceeded to naff off somewhere for a while, so I had a bit of a kiss and a cuddle and a dance with Chelle. No harm, no foul and whatnot.
As I exited the club, I was with Chelle and Crawford, I turned around and saw Stalker stood there alone, so I left Crawford and Chelle and told Stalker I'd walk her up the road. At which point I was accosted by her sister and her sisters mates who thought I was a Bad Bugger.
I had to put my case across that I'm not the worst guy in the world, and that I was in no fit state to do anything BUT walk her up the road and then fall asleep at home.
Given the all clear to do something I was going to do anyway, I walked her home and she was speaking about something or someone, and I was in my own little world because (I think) my drink was spiked.
So, job done, Stalker at home, I turn around and head for home. Luckily, she lives up the hill from me, so there wasn't a huge amount of effort involved. All I had to do was aim at my house and lean forward.
Once at home, I went straight to bed, as was the plan, and I was placed into a trance by the comfort and warmth of the bedroom. Quick check of the time before the coma kicks in tells me its just after 4 in the morning.
I blink, and all of a sudden its 10 AM. Oh well, time to think about getting up.
That gets put on the back burner as I notice the TV remote. Flicky on, and we're good to go. I get distracted by lower leagues football and some cooking programme. I am going NOWHERE until these two televised giants finish. And then the Grand Prix was on the other channel, so that locked me in.
Grand Prix done, I got up and swore at my unsteadiness and headed off for a shower to rid myself of that most wonderful hangover symptom, Beer Breath.
My dad and his girlfriend were in the house when I awoke, and as I went to make myself a cup of tea, I was shaking with Hangoverness. It was some job attempting to pour milk and hot water into a cup which would not stop dancing.
With my second cup, I decided to have some toast. That was possibly the best idea I have, or ever will have, in all my days. Instant relief.
Tragically, it didn't cure my hangover. I'm still very painful at the minute.
I've also noticed that almost 13 hrs after I stopped drinking, I'm still swaying gently and growling at everything and squinting with one eye.
That's only because its too sodding sunny outside to fully appreciate my hangover and its healing qualities.
I've never been as bad as all this, but by fuck it was fun getting here.
Then I was reminded that my good friend Graham was having his 21st birthday celebrations too. I think that was the killer.
So that went well.
I single handedly took out the entire stock of real ales in the Imperial Bar on North Bridge Street. 10 varieties, 2 of each. Add to this the assorted lagers I'd had previously. 3 Tennants in the Waverly Bar, 2 San Miguels in the Imperial Bar(different occasion, same day), a Carlsberg in the Station Inn, and a Fosters in Stampers. I think I did rather well for myself.
We went on to a club after that. I encountered my stalker there too. I said hello, blah blah, and then Chelle appeared at my side. Stalker then proceeded to naff off somewhere for a while, so I had a bit of a kiss and a cuddle and a dance with Chelle. No harm, no foul and whatnot.
As I exited the club, I was with Chelle and Crawford, I turned around and saw Stalker stood there alone, so I left Crawford and Chelle and told Stalker I'd walk her up the road. At which point I was accosted by her sister and her sisters mates who thought I was a Bad Bugger.
I had to put my case across that I'm not the worst guy in the world, and that I was in no fit state to do anything BUT walk her up the road and then fall asleep at home.
Given the all clear to do something I was going to do anyway, I walked her home and she was speaking about something or someone, and I was in my own little world because (I think) my drink was spiked.
So, job done, Stalker at home, I turn around and head for home. Luckily, she lives up the hill from me, so there wasn't a huge amount of effort involved. All I had to do was aim at my house and lean forward.
Once at home, I went straight to bed, as was the plan, and I was placed into a trance by the comfort and warmth of the bedroom. Quick check of the time before the coma kicks in tells me its just after 4 in the morning.
I blink, and all of a sudden its 10 AM. Oh well, time to think about getting up.
That gets put on the back burner as I notice the TV remote. Flicky on, and we're good to go. I get distracted by lower leagues football and some cooking programme. I am going NOWHERE until these two televised giants finish. And then the Grand Prix was on the other channel, so that locked me in.
Grand Prix done, I got up and swore at my unsteadiness and headed off for a shower to rid myself of that most wonderful hangover symptom, Beer Breath.
My dad and his girlfriend were in the house when I awoke, and as I went to make myself a cup of tea, I was shaking with Hangoverness. It was some job attempting to pour milk and hot water into a cup which would not stop dancing.
With my second cup, I decided to have some toast. That was possibly the best idea I have, or ever will have, in all my days. Instant relief.
Tragically, it didn't cure my hangover. I'm still very painful at the minute.
I've also noticed that almost 13 hrs after I stopped drinking, I'm still swaying gently and growling at everything and squinting with one eye.
That's only because its too sodding sunny outside to fully appreciate my hangover and its healing qualities.
I've never been as bad as all this, but by fuck it was fun getting here.
Thursday 12 April 2007
Iraq: Fact or Fiction?
I was watching a programme on the television earlier today called Mark Of Cain. It focuses on the cases of abuse against Iraqi prisoners of war at the hands of the British troops in Basra.
Now, in all honesty, I'm neither for nor against this little bit of Barney out in the Middle East. On one hand, an evil tyrannical dictator has been deposed from control of what could be a great nation. But if you turn a blind eye to his atrocious human rights record(its as long as your arm, or his neck, these days) but he actually created a relatively prosperous country.
If my memory serves me well, something I don't expect, I read somewhere that he built hospitals, schools, libraries and other public buildings. The Iraqi state paid for Iraqi students to get free education until they finished University, even if it meant being taught abroad. If I remember correctly, a few of his higher army officers were trained at the British army's own officer training college at Sandhurst.
My Grandad was a soldier, he served in Borneo and other such places. My Great-Grandad served in the Kings Own Scottish Borderers(now amalgamated into the Scottish Infantry Regiment). He fought in the Second World War and aided the mass withdrawal of troops at Dunkirk. He was on an attachment to a Canadian regiment in Cherbourg. They distracted a large portion of German fire power which allowed the Allies a bit of space(admittedly not much) to get as many troops off the beaches as possible.
He never spoke much about his time in the army. I think it bothered him too much. Any mention of the war and he'd get glassy eyes and he'd go for a pee. Certain times of the year made him need to visit the toilet a lot too. Christmases, some days, VE Day, that sort of stuff.
I wish I knew more of where he went, and who he was with during his time in the army, but I lived 400 miles away from for much of my life up until his death. I don't even know what rank he was when he retired.
I don't remember a great deal about the man, he died 5 years ago, but what I do remember, those memories I cherish.
We'd walk the dogs and have that basic old person-young person chat of how school is, etc... I told him once we were studying Dunkirk in History GCSE and I actually saw him cry, because there wasn't a handy toilet. We never spoke about school again.
Instead, he taught me some of your bog standard skills for the army.
He bought me my first Swiss army knife, which sits unused in front of me. I had someone buy me a cheaper one so I didn't break the expensive one. He bought me an air rifle, and that's how I learned to shoot(I always win at the target shooting stalls) which helped me to bond with my mothers Dad. Pheasant shooting with him.
I remember being at his funeral. My Papa was never a tall man, we all knew it. But when we saw his coffin laid out in the funeral parlour, it was tiny. I've never seen so many grown men cry outside of loosing a cup final in all my life. All 5 feet of him just lying there. How could someone so small affect so many people.
On the road up to Edinburgh for the cremation, I felt empty. Like I'd lost something. Obviously, I'd lost someone, but I'd lost a connection with that person too. Who else was I going to spend my summers learning base survival skills? My dad could never do it, he was never in the army, and my Grandad is just an angry man with a shiny head, who still never gives me the time of day, even at 19.
For years and years, he was the reason why I wanted to join the infantry. Then as I got older, I wanted to be an army mechanic, then a driver and finally a cook.
I realised I'd never get in though, I'm a bit of a lard-arse.
James Scott. KOSB.
Now, in all honesty, I'm neither for nor against this little bit of Barney out in the Middle East. On one hand, an evil tyrannical dictator has been deposed from control of what could be a great nation. But if you turn a blind eye to his atrocious human rights record(its as long as your arm, or his neck, these days) but he actually created a relatively prosperous country.
If my memory serves me well, something I don't expect, I read somewhere that he built hospitals, schools, libraries and other public buildings. The Iraqi state paid for Iraqi students to get free education until they finished University, even if it meant being taught abroad. If I remember correctly, a few of his higher army officers were trained at the British army's own officer training college at Sandhurst.
My Grandad was a soldier, he served in Borneo and other such places. My Great-Grandad served in the Kings Own Scottish Borderers(now amalgamated into the Scottish Infantry Regiment). He fought in the Second World War and aided the mass withdrawal of troops at Dunkirk. He was on an attachment to a Canadian regiment in Cherbourg. They distracted a large portion of German fire power which allowed the Allies a bit of space(admittedly not much) to get as many troops off the beaches as possible.
He never spoke much about his time in the army. I think it bothered him too much. Any mention of the war and he'd get glassy eyes and he'd go for a pee. Certain times of the year made him need to visit the toilet a lot too. Christmases, some days, VE Day, that sort of stuff.
I wish I knew more of where he went, and who he was with during his time in the army, but I lived 400 miles away from for much of my life up until his death. I don't even know what rank he was when he retired.
I don't remember a great deal about the man, he died 5 years ago, but what I do remember, those memories I cherish.
We'd walk the dogs and have that basic old person-young person chat of how school is, etc... I told him once we were studying Dunkirk in History GCSE and I actually saw him cry, because there wasn't a handy toilet. We never spoke about school again.
Instead, he taught me some of your bog standard skills for the army.
He bought me my first Swiss army knife, which sits unused in front of me. I had someone buy me a cheaper one so I didn't break the expensive one. He bought me an air rifle, and that's how I learned to shoot(I always win at the target shooting stalls) which helped me to bond with my mothers Dad. Pheasant shooting with him.
I remember being at his funeral. My Papa was never a tall man, we all knew it. But when we saw his coffin laid out in the funeral parlour, it was tiny. I've never seen so many grown men cry outside of loosing a cup final in all my life. All 5 feet of him just lying there. How could someone so small affect so many people.
On the road up to Edinburgh for the cremation, I felt empty. Like I'd lost something. Obviously, I'd lost someone, but I'd lost a connection with that person too. Who else was I going to spend my summers learning base survival skills? My dad could never do it, he was never in the army, and my Grandad is just an angry man with a shiny head, who still never gives me the time of day, even at 19.
For years and years, he was the reason why I wanted to join the infantry. Then as I got older, I wanted to be an army mechanic, then a driver and finally a cook.
I realised I'd never get in though, I'm a bit of a lard-arse.
James Scott. KOSB.
Big trouble in little Hawick
My Nana's new pup, Bonnie made a bid for freedom this morning. Or so we thought.
Cue frantic phone calls to me, as if I'm in any state to go dog-hunting at any hour of the morning. If the time of day ends in AM I do not want to know, let alone move from my bed.
After much protestations from my legs, my head, my bladder and many other parts of the anatomy unaccustomed to moving at 9 AM, I get up and hose myself off ready to pursue my quarry.
I get around to my Nana's house, with my dog, in the vain hope that the Hairy Idiot™ will be able to sniff her out. And a fine job he did too.
90 minutes after setting off on The great Dog Hunt of 07, we return, with sunken hearts and disdain for the hound and his mad tracking skillz.
Who is there to greet us at the back door? Well noted reader, it was Bonnie. Gold stars all round. My cousin had discovered her when she was manning the phone in case someone handed the pup in at the Cozzer Shop or the Dog Centre. She went to the toilet and amid a flurry of chewed toilet rolls, there was the small fuzzy one.
We all thanked Glorious Cousin for her expertise on ringing us to tell us the dog had been found 10 minutes after we'd set off.
Apparently, its better this way. Appreciation of the fuzzball or something.
Next time the dog vanishes, she'd better have the good graces to do it in the afternoon, or else.
Cue frantic phone calls to me, as if I'm in any state to go dog-hunting at any hour of the morning. If the time of day ends in AM I do not want to know, let alone move from my bed.
After much protestations from my legs, my head, my bladder and many other parts of the anatomy unaccustomed to moving at 9 AM, I get up and hose myself off ready to pursue my quarry.
I get around to my Nana's house, with my dog, in the vain hope that the Hairy Idiot™ will be able to sniff her out. And a fine job he did too.
90 minutes after setting off on The great Dog Hunt of 07, we return, with sunken hearts and disdain for the hound and his mad tracking skillz.
Who is there to greet us at the back door? Well noted reader, it was Bonnie. Gold stars all round. My cousin had discovered her when she was manning the phone in case someone handed the pup in at the Cozzer Shop or the Dog Centre. She went to the toilet and amid a flurry of chewed toilet rolls, there was the small fuzzy one.
We all thanked Glorious Cousin for her expertise on ringing us to tell us the dog had been found 10 minutes after we'd set off.
Apparently, its better this way. Appreciation of the fuzzball or something.
Next time the dog vanishes, she'd better have the good graces to do it in the afternoon, or else.
Wednesday 11 April 2007
You absorb more than you think, even on dry land.
Reading a message board I belong to, I've been inspired to reflect on some of the minor details which have had a major effect on my life.
Things like music, art, nature, friendship, family, illness and so on. Every little thing has an effect in the long run. Whether its a song you cant get out of your head which puts you in a good mood, or a thought which leads onto bigger and better things. Maybe its a colour you see in a painting and you decide to paint your house that exact shade, right there, on the spot.
Your subconscious is a powerful tool. Something you see out of the corner of your eye may not focus you conscious, but your subconscious will remember it, and lock it away until such a time as its needed. That's the theory anyway, but not always the case. This applies to everything around you. The smell of the cut grass on a warm summers evening. That last pint you had, and how it tasted. What two people were talking about opposite you on the train. Its all there, inside your mind, just waiting for the opportunity to come out.
This happened to me today.
On the aforementioned message board, there was a thread entitled "Songs that changed your life" or something similar. Now, I'd never really thought about it, but there are a few songs and bands over my short life that appear to have affected me, without me knowing it.
In the spirit of utter laziness, allow me to cut and paste the answer I gave:
"Pretty much all my dad's music. He's an aging punk. So it was mainly things like Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash and that sort of stuff. The first song that I really listened to, because it was on every single tape my dad played, was Teenage Kicks by The Undertones. I must have been 7 or so and that was my first major exposure to good music, given that my mum has a tendency to think she's from the Caribbean and play endless Reggae. The twunt.
My own music fandom came in the form of hearing things like Oasis and Blur and other Britpop heavyweights(were there anymore?) at a mates house, and his older brother had them all. Maybe about 12 years old.
I didn't seriously start getting into music, and listening to the radio for new bands until I was about 14 or 15 before I knew of piss like MySpace or whatever. The Von Bondies were my first "discovery" that was all my own. None of my friends had heard of them by then, so when I played them the first few seconds of Lack Of Communication they didn't have a clue.
I suppose that in effect, my big push into the music world was being competitive, and finding the Next Big Thing™ before they did.
Shame I was never quick enough to get a grasp on it all though."
Reading over it before I sent it onto the internet for all to see, I noticed something I'd never thought about before. My dad and my friends have seriously pushed me into music. I need to thank them all for that, but to do that individually do that would involve tracking down lots of people, and I wouldn't know what to say to them once I had.
I think that if I were going to break down the specifics of each persons role(not that I could) I'd have to say my dad brought me into the rock scene. Mainly punk to begin with, but I've since evolved my own tastes, but I still hold a candle for a bit of punk now and again.
I think my friends pushed me to play guitar. If I'm correct in remembering, I was the first of us to get a guitar. But I left it to gather dust for the most part, the thought of playing it being daunting. I think Colin was the next among us to get one, and as he progressed, my competitive streak came out and I wanted to get better at the instrument. Sadly, I have not. I'm still useless, but I can play one or two things with confidence. So maybe I'm not so bad after all. I was in and out of bands in High School, once I'd learned how to shape power chords. Smoke On The Water was always a nice easy one, no matter what your age.
As I got older though, I've started embracing more and more types of music. At one point early in my listening career, I was staunchly rock music. As I sit here and type, I'm listening to a song which is based on a piano riff. Before, I was listening to bluegrass. Last night, I was listening to dance and house.
I've even made a few attempts at writing as I've grown up. It was all about how I could never get a girl, and the usual teen angst stuff, but out of a few thousand little ditties, I've got maybe 8 or 9 that could make it to radio, with the right adjustments. And I ran the radio station. Who knows, maybe on day I will hear one of my compositions on a station I listen to.
To end tonight's musings, I wish to thank those who have had any minor effect upon me, in the long and the short terms. It is in no small part to all of you that I have gone in this direction in life.
So if I get to radio, its all your own fault.
Things like music, art, nature, friendship, family, illness and so on. Every little thing has an effect in the long run. Whether its a song you cant get out of your head which puts you in a good mood, or a thought which leads onto bigger and better things. Maybe its a colour you see in a painting and you decide to paint your house that exact shade, right there, on the spot.
Your subconscious is a powerful tool. Something you see out of the corner of your eye may not focus you conscious, but your subconscious will remember it, and lock it away until such a time as its needed. That's the theory anyway, but not always the case. This applies to everything around you. The smell of the cut grass on a warm summers evening. That last pint you had, and how it tasted. What two people were talking about opposite you on the train. Its all there, inside your mind, just waiting for the opportunity to come out.
This happened to me today.
On the aforementioned message board, there was a thread entitled "Songs that changed your life" or something similar. Now, I'd never really thought about it, but there are a few songs and bands over my short life that appear to have affected me, without me knowing it.
In the spirit of utter laziness, allow me to cut and paste the answer I gave:
"Pretty much all my dad's music. He's an aging punk. So it was mainly things like Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash and that sort of stuff. The first song that I really listened to, because it was on every single tape my dad played, was Teenage Kicks by The Undertones. I must have been 7 or so and that was my first major exposure to good music, given that my mum has a tendency to think she's from the Caribbean and play endless Reggae. The twunt.
My own music fandom came in the form of hearing things like Oasis and Blur and other Britpop heavyweights(were there anymore?) at a mates house, and his older brother had them all. Maybe about 12 years old.
I didn't seriously start getting into music, and listening to the radio for new bands until I was about 14 or 15 before I knew of piss like MySpace or whatever. The Von Bondies were my first "discovery" that was all my own. None of my friends had heard of them by then, so when I played them the first few seconds of Lack Of Communication they didn't have a clue.
I suppose that in effect, my big push into the music world was being competitive, and finding the Next Big Thing™ before they did.
Shame I was never quick enough to get a grasp on it all though."
Reading over it before I sent it onto the internet for all to see, I noticed something I'd never thought about before. My dad and my friends have seriously pushed me into music. I need to thank them all for that, but to do that individually do that would involve tracking down lots of people, and I wouldn't know what to say to them once I had.
I think that if I were going to break down the specifics of each persons role(not that I could) I'd have to say my dad brought me into the rock scene. Mainly punk to begin with, but I've since evolved my own tastes, but I still hold a candle for a bit of punk now and again.
I think my friends pushed me to play guitar. If I'm correct in remembering, I was the first of us to get a guitar. But I left it to gather dust for the most part, the thought of playing it being daunting. I think Colin was the next among us to get one, and as he progressed, my competitive streak came out and I wanted to get better at the instrument. Sadly, I have not. I'm still useless, but I can play one or two things with confidence. So maybe I'm not so bad after all. I was in and out of bands in High School, once I'd learned how to shape power chords. Smoke On The Water was always a nice easy one, no matter what your age.
As I got older though, I've started embracing more and more types of music. At one point early in my listening career, I was staunchly rock music. As I sit here and type, I'm listening to a song which is based on a piano riff. Before, I was listening to bluegrass. Last night, I was listening to dance and house.
I've even made a few attempts at writing as I've grown up. It was all about how I could never get a girl, and the usual teen angst stuff, but out of a few thousand little ditties, I've got maybe 8 or 9 that could make it to radio, with the right adjustments. And I ran the radio station. Who knows, maybe on day I will hear one of my compositions on a station I listen to.
To end tonight's musings, I wish to thank those who have had any minor effect upon me, in the long and the short terms. It is in no small part to all of you that I have gone in this direction in life.
So if I get to radio, its all your own fault.
Tuesday 10 April 2007
Is there Life On Mars after all?
I've recently gotten very VERY into a BBC programme called Life On Mars which had its series ending tonight. I'm rather upset about this, but it was an amazing way to put the series to bed.
Does he wake up? Was he in a coma thinking he was in a coma? Is he really from the future, or is he genuinly from 1973? Amazing.
I've managed to get others into watching this show too. I think the biggest Life On Mars freak I created has to be Vicki.
I was staying with her and Harry, and one evening whilst he was working, Vicki, myself and Katie(Harry and Vicki's littlun) sat and watched it. To be honest, I basically bullied Vicki into watching it, but she is so glad I did.
I'm going to owe that pair an awfully large debt of gratitude soon, because I'm going to be turning their tiny flat into an even tinier flat when I come down with all my gubbins. Dont get me wrong, living with Harry will be the biggest laugh ever. Peas in a pod me and him. Vicki and Katie are his package, not mine.
Luckily, I'll have a job, so I'll be able to contribute until I find somewhere of my own, which will hopefully be soon enough. Until then, its going to be massive computer game and beer fests. Maybe Pod will show his face at one point. I dunno. It'll be a laugh anyway.
Plus, we have yet to finish Halo on Xbox 360 Live.
Does he wake up? Was he in a coma thinking he was in a coma? Is he really from the future, or is he genuinly from 1973? Amazing.
I've managed to get others into watching this show too. I think the biggest Life On Mars freak I created has to be Vicki.
I was staying with her and Harry, and one evening whilst he was working, Vicki, myself and Katie(Harry and Vicki's littlun) sat and watched it. To be honest, I basically bullied Vicki into watching it, but she is so glad I did.
I'm going to owe that pair an awfully large debt of gratitude soon, because I'm going to be turning their tiny flat into an even tinier flat when I come down with all my gubbins. Dont get me wrong, living with Harry will be the biggest laugh ever. Peas in a pod me and him. Vicki and Katie are his package, not mine.
Luckily, I'll have a job, so I'll be able to contribute until I find somewhere of my own, which will hopefully be soon enough. Until then, its going to be massive computer game and beer fests. Maybe Pod will show his face at one point. I dunno. It'll be a laugh anyway.
Plus, we have yet to finish Halo on Xbox 360 Live.
Chubby but enthusiastic, please take pity.
I was a miserable and unhappy child at school. And because of this, my teachers saw fit to bully me into doing sports. I feel this was mainly due to the friends I kept at primary school, and less so at high school.
Amongst the delights of compulsory Physical Education we had the highlight of being hacked to pieces by the lesser skilled pupils in football, being lumped to the ground so hard that I thought my coccyx was going to need replaced. Winter on the sports field was never fun by any stretch of the imagination.
Only when it was really cold did we do things indoors. Uni-hoc being a big favourite in the gym. 2 benches, one at either end of the gym, with crappy plastic sticks behind them. If your number was called, your job was to run, get a stick and attempt to score a "goal" by hitting the oppositions bench. I still have the firm belief that I scored the best ever goal in Uni-hoc with a turn that Johan Cruyff would be jealous of. Quick stab at the puck and it hit the bench. It will never be bettered.
In high school we had the trampolines, but they were crap and given half the chance, I'd rather be running about on the slick mud playing football.
Summer sports were the obligatory cricket, tennis and softball. Softball and tennis were the big ones because they were quicker paced and as such, quicker to sort out.
Cricket was always the best though. The batting team generally sat on their arse and did very little until it came to their turn. The standard of bowling was such that when(note: not "if") the ball was struck with any sort of force, it would go for miles. Wooden bats and tennis balls work marvellously for chalking up 36 runs in an over.
I think for 3 months at the end of year 9 there was even a cricket club, which I was bullied into taking part in(I can really whack a ball when it means I don't have to run anywhere for the pleasure of relieving stress) and we had maybe 6 practises before it was disbanded on the grounds of everyone being shite. Myself included.
Despite 6 years of solid objections, "forgotten" kits, notes from parents and a general lack of interest, I still pursued PE as a GCSE subject.
By the age of 15, I had given up on sport almost entirely. I was more into music. But it was too late. I was ruined. I'd gone from "chubby but enthusiastic" to "lazy fat bastard" in less than 2 years really. I often wonder why I got a D for the final mark.
Might have been a B, but I think a pie was obscuring my view.
Amongst the delights of compulsory Physical Education we had the highlight of being hacked to pieces by the lesser skilled pupils in football, being lumped to the ground so hard that I thought my coccyx was going to need replaced. Winter on the sports field was never fun by any stretch of the imagination.
Only when it was really cold did we do things indoors. Uni-hoc being a big favourite in the gym. 2 benches, one at either end of the gym, with crappy plastic sticks behind them. If your number was called, your job was to run, get a stick and attempt to score a "goal" by hitting the oppositions bench. I still have the firm belief that I scored the best ever goal in Uni-hoc with a turn that Johan Cruyff would be jealous of. Quick stab at the puck and it hit the bench. It will never be bettered.
In high school we had the trampolines, but they were crap and given half the chance, I'd rather be running about on the slick mud playing football.
Summer sports were the obligatory cricket, tennis and softball. Softball and tennis were the big ones because they were quicker paced and as such, quicker to sort out.
Cricket was always the best though. The batting team generally sat on their arse and did very little until it came to their turn. The standard of bowling was such that when(note: not "if") the ball was struck with any sort of force, it would go for miles. Wooden bats and tennis balls work marvellously for chalking up 36 runs in an over.
I think for 3 months at the end of year 9 there was even a cricket club, which I was bullied into taking part in(I can really whack a ball when it means I don't have to run anywhere for the pleasure of relieving stress) and we had maybe 6 practises before it was disbanded on the grounds of everyone being shite. Myself included.
Despite 6 years of solid objections, "forgotten" kits, notes from parents and a general lack of interest, I still pursued PE as a GCSE subject.
By the age of 15, I had given up on sport almost entirely. I was more into music. But it was too late. I was ruined. I'd gone from "chubby but enthusiastic" to "lazy fat bastard" in less than 2 years really. I often wonder why I got a D for the final mark.
Might have been a B, but I think a pie was obscuring my view.
Monday 9 April 2007
Rosemary, Heaven restores you in life.
I think that, because Buff and Scottie aren't doing their shows this evening, I shall be listening to Interpol. A lot.
Paul Banks has an amazing voice. Baritone, so he gets the inevitable comparisons to Ian Curtis of Joy Division. Many people wrongly assume that the similarities between the two bands(deep vocals, sparse guitars, heavy on the bass please barman) is because Joy Division were a direct influence upon Interpol. According to the Wiki page, thats just not true.
I digress, as ever.
Interpol are another of those bands who I could listen to forever and a day. I think only Radiohead could possibly have the same claim to fame. I always thought the Beatles could be on that level, but it turns out I was wrong. It took a good year and a half for that to dawn on me. So now they have been ruined for me, by me. Thumbs up all round, I think.
I promised Vanessa last night that I'd send her all the Radiohead I have, so I think I'll end up crippling my computer. Because that is an awful lot of tunes, my electricity meter will start crying after maybe 20 minutes from the strain.
I should probably stop drinking Guinness too. I've been told I talk more bollocks than normal under the influence of the black stuff. Which is a crying shame because I'm certain that stuff keeps me sane.
Looks like I'll have to return to the fizzy piss domains.
Paul Banks has an amazing voice. Baritone, so he gets the inevitable comparisons to Ian Curtis of Joy Division. Many people wrongly assume that the similarities between the two bands(deep vocals, sparse guitars, heavy on the bass please barman) is because Joy Division were a direct influence upon Interpol. According to the Wiki page, thats just not true.
I digress, as ever.
Interpol are another of those bands who I could listen to forever and a day. I think only Radiohead could possibly have the same claim to fame. I always thought the Beatles could be on that level, but it turns out I was wrong. It took a good year and a half for that to dawn on me. So now they have been ruined for me, by me. Thumbs up all round, I think.
I promised Vanessa last night that I'd send her all the Radiohead I have, so I think I'll end up crippling my computer. Because that is an awful lot of tunes, my electricity meter will start crying after maybe 20 minutes from the strain.
I should probably stop drinking Guinness too. I've been told I talk more bollocks than normal under the influence of the black stuff. Which is a crying shame because I'm certain that stuff keeps me sane.
Looks like I'll have to return to the fizzy piss domains.
Tea, and the achievement of the perfect cup.
Tea. A very serious business in my house. Taken so seriously, in fact, that on a message board I frequent, there was a whole thread dedicated to it.
I was being wound up beyond all recognition. Good laugh, amazing people.
It is with this in mind that I present to you my guide for making the perfect cup of tea. For now, I'll only post the quick way, but if demand is high enough I may be persuaded to post the full blown event.
Quick Method
You will need:
1 Tetley teabag(drawstring, optional)
1 "dod" of milk
2 teaspoonfuls of sugar.
1 kettle with hot water
1. Put the milk, teabag and sugar into the mug
2. Pour the water into the cup and allow to stew for approximatley 2 minutes.
3. Once brewed to an orange/terracotta colour.
4. Throw the teabag away.
5. Stir well and drink, safe in the knowledge that you have just made the perfect cup of tea in a maxiumum of 5 minutes.
You have created the perfect cup of tea. Congratulations and welcome to the Tea Drinkers Club of Swandanavia. Feel free to sign your name to a petition and pat yourself on the back.
Tonight though, I've been speaking to Vanessa mainly. Markle has been watching the A-Team all night. Me and V have talked music, cheese, other stuff, tea, heroes, drinking, guinness food and lots of other things.
She's gone to bed now, so its just me. I think I'll try to go to bed.
Maybe once Scottie has stopped his music stream
I was being wound up beyond all recognition. Good laugh, amazing people.
It is with this in mind that I present to you my guide for making the perfect cup of tea. For now, I'll only post the quick way, but if demand is high enough I may be persuaded to post the full blown event.
Quick Method
You will need:
1 Tetley teabag(drawstring, optional)
1 "dod" of milk
2 teaspoonfuls of sugar.
1 kettle with hot water
1. Put the milk, teabag and sugar into the mug
2. Pour the water into the cup and allow to stew for approximatley 2 minutes.
3. Once brewed to an orange/terracotta colour.
4. Throw the teabag away.
5. Stir well and drink, safe in the knowledge that you have just made the perfect cup of tea in a maxiumum of 5 minutes.
You have created the perfect cup of tea. Congratulations and welcome to the Tea Drinkers Club of Swandanavia. Feel free to sign your name to a petition and pat yourself on the back.
Tonight though, I've been speaking to Vanessa mainly. Markle has been watching the A-Team all night. Me and V have talked music, cheese, other stuff, tea, heroes, drinking, guinness food and lots of other things.
She's gone to bed now, so its just me. I think I'll try to go to bed.
Maybe once Scottie has stopped his music stream
Sunday 8 April 2007
Dinner, computers and a brand new puppy
That, in one simple line, sums up my day thus far.
After my marathon session of waffle last night with the man Mark, I was rudely disturbed from my slumber at 1PM, to my dismay.
"You gettin' to your Nana's with that computer or what today?" was the eloquent request.
So I haul my carcass from my scratcher and once more I tread, again into the breach. I turn up with a computer, plus assorted spares for emergencies.
I get there and who am I greeted with? My Auntie Susan, her two daughters and their dog, Kelsey. Possibly the single most idiotic canine on the face of this Earth. Lovely, but thick as pig shit.
Also there were my Nana, my Papa, my Dad, his girlfriend and her son. Thats all well and good, but blah.
And then, there was the new pup. Bonnie. Border Collie. Beautiful dog. Bitch, obviously. The plan is to mate them with my dog(Jack, also a Border Collie) when she reaches maturity.
But yeah, she was all quiet and stuff when Kelsey and Matthew(Dad's Girlfriends Kid) were about, because they are so very hyper-active. Once those pair had left, she was everywhere, doing that thing of puppies everywhere. Looking so damn cute.
Damn near had the meat from my plate with those eyes. I'm a sucker for large eyes, me. So once I was done with the computer and sorting out my Nana's computer for her(I just swapped it for my old one, Brownie Points all the same though) I spent a fair branch of my time messing about with the new pup and I got a lacerated forarm for my troubles.
OK, it was a small scratch. No stitches required. Just a bit of tissue to stem the flow.
Dinner, by the way, was your average Sunday roast. Pork, mash, roast potatoes, bit of veg, yourkshire puddings. It was followed by a home made Toffee Pavlova. Marvellous.
Best bit was, my Nana cooked it. It was fucking lovely.
After my marathon session of waffle last night with the man Mark, I was rudely disturbed from my slumber at 1PM, to my dismay.
"You gettin' to your Nana's with that computer or what today?" was the eloquent request.
So I haul my carcass from my scratcher and once more I tread, again into the breach. I turn up with a computer, plus assorted spares for emergencies.
I get there and who am I greeted with? My Auntie Susan, her two daughters and their dog, Kelsey. Possibly the single most idiotic canine on the face of this Earth. Lovely, but thick as pig shit.
Also there were my Nana, my Papa, my Dad, his girlfriend and her son. Thats all well and good, but blah.
And then, there was the new pup. Bonnie. Border Collie. Beautiful dog. Bitch, obviously. The plan is to mate them with my dog(Jack, also a Border Collie) when she reaches maturity.
But yeah, she was all quiet and stuff when Kelsey and Matthew(Dad's Girlfriends Kid) were about, because they are so very hyper-active. Once those pair had left, she was everywhere, doing that thing of puppies everywhere. Looking so damn cute.
Damn near had the meat from my plate with those eyes. I'm a sucker for large eyes, me. So once I was done with the computer and sorting out my Nana's computer for her(I just swapped it for my old one, Brownie Points all the same though) I spent a fair branch of my time messing about with the new pup and I got a lacerated forarm for my troubles.
OK, it was a small scratch. No stitches required. Just a bit of tissue to stem the flow.
Dinner, by the way, was your average Sunday roast. Pork, mash, roast potatoes, bit of veg, yourkshire puddings. It was followed by a home made Toffee Pavlova. Marvellous.
Best bit was, my Nana cooked it. It was fucking lovely.
What a night
Ultimatly, it was fairly shit. I was on my own(not including evil cat) BUT I was having the most amazing conversations with people via the medium of MSN!
It all started when I was in the huff because the person I was meant to see wasnt there(it later transpired she'd fell asleep. Handy to know, 4 hrs after we were meant to meet)
So I came online, signed in and was all geared up for a lonely night in front of the LCD.
And there were others! On a Saturday night! At home!
I rejoiced, for I was not the only sad bastard around.
And so it began.
Vanessa was the first. Leonard Cohen was our beginning topic. And from there we covered masses of music, my evil cat, her friends unfortunate situation(not my place to discuss any further) and moving to London.
Over the course of the night, a few people were on and offline, but the man of the hour was Mark. One of my favorite people at this moment in time. Wonderful bloke. Terribly inflicted with that most henious of ailments: Crippling Shyness. Something I can relate to.
Our conversations this evening ranged from: "your face, two bob and a blunt ended-spoon" to shit parents, to MySpace, to music, to drugs, to being drunk, to getting drunk together, to going on the pull, to my stalker, and other stuff besides.
The man is a legend. You never get a boring conversation with the man Mark. There is always something else to discuss. In my absence(and it will happen in a couple of weeks) I will miss our monumental chats about, essentially, fuck all. But once I am back in the mix, all hell shall be broken loose and the keyboard shall get the same levels of abuse once again.
Yes indeed.
And then Katie came online and fucked the moment.
It all started when I was in the huff because the person I was meant to see wasnt there(it later transpired she'd fell asleep. Handy to know, 4 hrs after we were meant to meet)
So I came online, signed in and was all geared up for a lonely night in front of the LCD.
And there were others! On a Saturday night! At home!
I rejoiced, for I was not the only sad bastard around.
And so it began.
Vanessa was the first. Leonard Cohen was our beginning topic. And from there we covered masses of music, my evil cat, her friends unfortunate situation(not my place to discuss any further) and moving to London.
Over the course of the night, a few people were on and offline, but the man of the hour was Mark. One of my favorite people at this moment in time. Wonderful bloke. Terribly inflicted with that most henious of ailments: Crippling Shyness. Something I can relate to.
Our conversations this evening ranged from: "your face, two bob and a blunt ended-spoon" to shit parents, to MySpace, to music, to drugs, to being drunk, to getting drunk together, to going on the pull, to my stalker, and other stuff besides.
The man is a legend. You never get a boring conversation with the man Mark. There is always something else to discuss. In my absence(and it will happen in a couple of weeks) I will miss our monumental chats about, essentially, fuck all. But once I am back in the mix, all hell shall be broken loose and the keyboard shall get the same levels of abuse once again.
Yes indeed.
And then Katie came online and fucked the moment.
Saturday 7 April 2007
This morning I was confronted by a beast.
No, I'm not referring to that most awkward of social faux pas the Morning Wood, I am in fact referring to my cat.
Now, many of you would imagine a cat to be a small, loving, friendly animal.
You would imagine wrong.
My cat has the very essence of Lucifur within its claws and teeth.
I have to allow her to sleep on my bed, or else I will be taken away from this life and never heard from again.
In her sleep, she claws, scratches and bites me. I built her a box to sleep in or on or whatever her ladyship desires, but that is not enough. It musy be MY bed, which is now HER bed.
She has the ability to knock you stone dead with a look. I am of the firm belief that I have only made it this far by being the one who feeds her a tin of tuna on occasion, because she is too idle to go fishing for herself.
She has been known to bring gifts, in her youth, of dead birds. What a loving cat. She's trying to feed us.
Altogether now, AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Now, I watched her "catch" these birds in the garden. She does not pounce, she waits until the eggs have hatched and knocks the neses to the ground.
My cat is evil, and she must be punished for her ways. But for fucks sake, dont tell her I told you to, I'll be killed.
Now, many of you would imagine a cat to be a small, loving, friendly animal.
You would imagine wrong.
My cat has the very essence of Lucifur within its claws and teeth.
I have to allow her to sleep on my bed, or else I will be taken away from this life and never heard from again.
In her sleep, she claws, scratches and bites me. I built her a box to sleep in or on or whatever her ladyship desires, but that is not enough. It musy be MY bed, which is now HER bed.
She has the ability to knock you stone dead with a look. I am of the firm belief that I have only made it this far by being the one who feeds her a tin of tuna on occasion, because she is too idle to go fishing for herself.
She has been known to bring gifts, in her youth, of dead birds. What a loving cat. She's trying to feed us.
Altogether now, AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Now, I watched her "catch" these birds in the garden. She does not pounce, she waits until the eggs have hatched and knocks the neses to the ground.
My cat is evil, and she must be punished for her ways. But for fucks sake, dont tell her I told you to, I'll be killed.
Welcome to Swandanvia,
I am your host, King Garry I and welcome.
Over the coming weeks, I shall update this as frequently as I remember, but dont hold your breath.
Allow me to begin.
I was born, I've lived in the North and the South of Britain, I'm currently North, and I am soon to be making a journey Southwards.
I am brutally into my music. Some sports get a look in at times too. But mainly music, despite my abundant lack of talent musically.
I like photographs too, they're spiffy. A few folk I know are rather tremendous with a camera and I am jealous, because I am not.
I am, in case you wondered, average at being creative.
Oh, and I'm a whiny tosser at times too, so if you read this, you'll figure that out.
Over the coming weeks, I shall update this as frequently as I remember, but dont hold your breath.
Allow me to begin.
I was born, I've lived in the North and the South of Britain, I'm currently North, and I am soon to be making a journey Southwards.
I am brutally into my music. Some sports get a look in at times too. But mainly music, despite my abundant lack of talent musically.
I like photographs too, they're spiffy. A few folk I know are rather tremendous with a camera and I am jealous, because I am not.
I am, in case you wondered, average at being creative.
Oh, and I'm a whiny tosser at times too, so if you read this, you'll figure that out.
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