Slurred Ramblings Of A Mistyped Youth.

NOTICE OF REVOCATION OF INDEPENDENCE

2004-11-15T15:05:00.000Z

To the citizens of the United States of America, In the light of your failure to produce proper cars and elect a competent President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective today.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical dutie over all states, commonwealths and other territories. Except Utah, which she does not fancy. Your new prime minister (The Right Honourable Tony Blair, MP for the 97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that there is a world outside your borders) will appoint a minister for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire will be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed. To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1. You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and 'neighbour', skipping the letter 'U' is nothing more than laziness on your part. Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters. You will end your love affair with the letter 'Z' (pronounced 'zed' not 'zee') and the suffix "ize" will be replaced by the suffix "ise". You will learn that the suffix 'burgh is pronounced 'burra' e.g. Edinburgh. You are welcome to respell Pittsburgh as 'Pittsberg' if you can't cope with correct pronunciation. Generally, you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. Look up "vocabulary". Using the same twenty seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. Look up "interspersed". There will be no more 'bleeps' in the Jerry Springer show. If you're not old enough to cope with bad language then you shouldn't have chat shows. When you learn to develop your vocabulary then you won't have to use bad language as often.

2. There is no such thing as "US English". We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of "-ize".

3. You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard. English accents are not limited to cockney, upper-class twit or Mancunian (Daphne in Frasier). You will also have to learn how to understand regional accents - Scottish dramas such as "Taggart" will no longer be broadcast with subtitles. While we're talking about regions, you must learn that there is no such place as Devonshire in England. The name of the county is "Devon". If you persist in calling it Devonshire, all American States will become "shires" e.g. Texasshire, Floridashire, Louisianashire.

4. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys. Hollywood will be required to cast English actors to play English characters. British sit-coms such as "Men Behaving Badly" or "Red Dwarf" will not be re-cast and watered down for a wishy-washy American audience who can't cope with the humour of occasional political incorrectness.

5. You should relearn your original national anthem, "God Save The Queen", but only after fully carrying out task 1. We would not want you to get confused and give up half way through.

6. You should stop playing American "football". There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American "football" is not a very good game.
The 2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world outside your borders may have noticed that no one else plays "American" football. You will no longer be allowed to play it, and should instead play proper football. Initially, it would be best if you played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which is similar to American "football", but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like nancies). We are hoping to get together at least a US rugby sevens side by 2005. You should stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the 'World Series' for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.15% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. Instead of baseball, you will be allowed to play a girls' game called "rounders" which is baseball without fancy team strip, oversized gloves, collector cards or hotdogs.

7. You will no longer be allowed to own or carry guns. You will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous in public than a vegetable peeler. Because we don't believe you are sensible enough to handle potentially dangerous items, you will require a permit if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

8. July 4th is no longer a public holiday. November 2nd will be a new national holiday, but only in England. It will be called "Indecisive Day".

9. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and it is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.
All road intersections will be replaced with roundabouts. You will start driving on the left with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

10. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips. Fries aren't even French, they are Belgian though 97.85% of you (including the guy who discovered fries while in Europe) are not aware of a country called Belgium. Those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called "crisps". Real chips are thick cut and fried in animal fat. The traditional accompaniment to chips is beer which should be served warm and flat. Waitresses will be trained to be more aggressive with customers.

11. As a sign of penance 5 grams of sea salt per cup will be added to all tea made within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, this quantity to be doubled for tea made within the city of Boston itself.

12. The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all, it is lager. From November 1st only proper British Bitter will be referred to as "beer", and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as "Lager". The substances formerly known as "American Beer" will henceforth be referred to as "Near-Frozen Knat's Urine", with the exception of the product of the American Budweiser company whose product will be referred to as "Weak Near-Frozen Knat's Urine". This will allow true Budweiser (as manufactured for the last 1000 years in Pilsen, Czech Republic) to be sold without risk of confusion.

13. From November 10th the UK will harmonise petrol (or "Gasoline" as you will be permitted to keep calling it until April 1st 2005) prices with the
former USA. The UK will harmonise its prices to those of the former USA and the Former USA will, in return, adopt UK petrol prices (roughly $6/US gallon - get used to it).

14. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent. Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun.

15. Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us crazy.

16. Tax collectors from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all revenues due (backdated to 1776).

Thank you for your co-operation

‹©I have no idea, but I didn't really write this. :)›

Argh!

2004-11-13T23:19:00.000Z

Much as I would love to spend my free time NaNoWroMo-ing, I just can't. I simply don't have the free time, what with helping to organise geocaching do's and seeing my granny in horspital. It's a bit like work: "oooh, you're clever, could you just do this for me, please, seeing as I can't be arsed to use my *own* brain?"
OK, mebee it's not like work; no-one is twisting my arm, but still. Bollocks to it. In a nice way, of course. I'd rather do what I do with my chums, and that's about it.

I've made a start on a novel and I *will* finish it (first one to say Trebuchet gets a taste of Swedish Steel, or maybe Pine) and I'm enjoying the thrill of putting something together that may or may not entertain the masses. Either way, it's mine and I'm doing it in my own time, so bollocks once more.

Good night. :)

‹scribbles frantically about a dead dog and it's master whilst attempting to credibly kill off the gorgeous young female lead›

*please, no offence to anyone who's involved in 'geoccaching dos' along with myself: it's just work pressure, really. :)

A Plot! A Plot! My Prized Collection Of Pint Mugs For A Plot!

2004-11-10T22:10:00.000Z

OK, not that drastic. My inane scribblings are taking form and I can now see a story laying at my finger-tips as a road of faded yellow bricks. I admit I still keep going back and changing things, but progress is progress. I'm progressing good 'n' hard but I can't shake off the quality/quantity monster which is, of course, the whole point of NaNoWriMo. I am enjoying this exercise, though: seems to me that exercise is something we all need, be it physical or mental, either being appropriate according to one's lights. I might not make the 50,000 by Nov 30th but I'm not going to stop trying. From a world record quitter that's saying something.

All I can say is this: beer helps.

Night all, God love you.

‹6309 and counting›

Methinks Thou Art Taking The Piss

2004-11-08T20:11:00.000Z

Such a great title for a blog, isn't it? Trouble is, I can't think of anyone who actually is taking the piss right now, so I'll go on about something else instead. Just gimme a mo...

cue tumbleweed

er...

cue vultures circling o'erhead

Help! Oh no! Dear God noooooooooooo!!!!!

Oooh, hang on!

cue comic lightbulb over head *ting!*

Nope. It's turned into a small fruity bun.

Scone.

Frankenpen

2004-11-04T23:29:00.000Z

I'm beginning to think I've created a Monster. This 'ere writing lark seems to have inveigled its way into my brain, quite happily sitting there like a warty old toad in a pond.
I resisted the urge to email my story-so-far to myself at work, chiefly to avoid getting stuck in when I should be working, but that didn't stop me scribbling odd notes and possible plot-devices whilst I pootled away at my work this afternoon.

I'm off to visit Trouty and Henners tomorrow with Merman to help paint the Charlotte Rose: I can see I'm going to have to take a notebook and pen with me so I can jot whilst I paint.
I just hope the lines come out straight.

‹4001›

Fussy

2004-11-03T22:28:00.000Z

I've finished the first chapter of my NaNoWriMo novel. Only a paltry 2,478 words. I've been constantly going back and editing my scribblings, which sort of goes against the idea somewhat. To quote from the NaNoWriMo website:

'Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.'

Dammit.

Bah!

2004-11-02T22:52:00.000Z

Right, I've done my first 1000-odd words for NaNoWriMo, so at least I've made a start. Not a great deal, but I have found an anchor for my scribblings and thus I have something to work from.
I'm stopping for tonight but I know I will go a-tweaking at lunch-break tomorrow and will continue scribbling tomorrow night. If I don't appear in the chatroom or in MSN, you'll know why.

Mort, thankyou. I need this. :)

Anyone For Scribblings?

2004-11-01T22:59:00.000Z

Oh dear. I seem to have let Mort twist my arm. I've been coerced into having a stab at this Nanoo-Nanoo-Wriggly-Mop thing. I can see I'm going to have to be a little less fussy: numerous Slurred Ramblings have been consigned to the Recycle Bin as I realise how convolutedly nonsensical each plot has become with no hope of rescuing it without some sort of horrendously incompetent jarring of reality that would make anyone reading it wonder why they bothered learning to read.
Still, with a deadline of '1 month hence' to keep to I may just turn out 50,000 words, some of which may even be intelligible. What do you mean, 'it would make a change'? Tchoh!

Ah well. Should be a chuckle. I'll just have to learn to type without making so many smelling pistakes. :)

WooooOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooOOOooo coff coff

2004-10-31T03:30:00.000Z

It was, as convention dictates for such an event as this, a dark and stormy night. The old house on the hill was doing it’s best to rise to the occasion. Shutters banged in the wind, the odd tile slipped and plummeted to a gory terracotta death on the path below and ragged curtains swept the remnants of gabled windows long broken by daring miscreants.

Let the camera of the eye pan across the front of the house; watch as it takes a sweeping turn around the side, up the back wall and, as an owl on a branch, perches upon the roof to gaze at the dark landscape before the house.
The storm echoing around rolling hills, barren save for a small patch of dark woodland near the house. A twisting, potholed road untended for decades.
A light appears in the distance; slowly, almost imperceptibly, getting closer.
Soon, over the noise of the storm, the sound of a car can be heard, battling its way slowly along the beaten track toward the house, its sole occupant struggling to see through the rain-lashed windscreen.
Let the camera tilt downward to follow the car as it draws up to the front of the house, coughs and dies with a shuddering gasp. Slowly fade to black as its occupant climbs out, map held over its head in a pathetic attempt to keep the rain off.

Dan Rackham, for it was indeed he, hurried into the porch of the old house and worried at the lock with the huge iron key that he’d been given along with the deeds for the house. Reflecting bitterly that he’d much rather be in India, he managed to trip the lock and heaved at the iron-clad oak door. With an ominous and thoroughly expected creak, the great door yielded to Dan’s shoulder.
A sudden flash of lightning lit the hallway and Dan froze, half inside the door with trembling hand on the knob. Was that a figure in the corner at the far end? A tall, gangly figure clad in black robes with a shock of wispy grey hair? Thunder smashed its cymbalistic cacophony in the clouds above and Dan remained rooted to the spot.
A longer blast of flickering light from the heavens revealed a simple coat-stand bedecked with cobwebs and a big black great-coat.
Chiding himself for his foolishness, Dan entered the hallway and heaved the door closed. It slammed into place with a crash as the thunder rolled its beastly chorus once more.
Dan rummaged in his bag for matches and candles; soon he had lit two candles and placed them on musty shelves in the hallway. Further rucksack rummaging brought forth a bottle of paraffin. Taking down an old hurricane lamp from its bracket on the wall, he filled the reservoir and applied flame to wick.
Bearing his steady saviour, Dan explored the reception rooms of the old house. Dust-sheet covered furniture filled all the rooms, as did cobwebs and eerie shadows. Into the drawing-room went our hero, and was surprised to find all the windows intact. Setting to his task, Dan found more lamps and soon the shadows, although not banished entirely, were at least demoted to a flickering retirement in dusty corners.
A cheery fire was soon lit in the grate and warmth began to spread once more into the room; warmth unfelt for many a long year.

Dan settled into an armchair by the fire and pondered the peculiar position he now found himself in.
Who, or what, was Great Uncle Isaiah? Dan’s father had mentioned him once, and only once, with the caveat that he should never be spoken of again. This was at the ripe old age of 12, reflected Dan. He’d been up into the loft, looking through old papers, and had found a photo of Great Uncle Isaiah. In it he was wearing a big black great-coat, a tricorn hat, an eyepatch and he also had a wooden leg. Such a remarkable looking gent aroused great interest in young Dan, who took the picture to his Father and demanded to know all about his Piratey Uncle. A grim look passed over Father’s face and he took the picture from Dan.
“This is your Great Uncle Isaiah. He’s a bad man and rightly shunned by the family. I will not have you mention his name in this house, nor will I pollute your young mind with tales of his evil deeds. If I catch you in the loft again, you’ll be in big trouble. Understand?”
The next day, Dan watched with sadness as his Father lit a bonfire in the garden and consigned many old papers to an ashy end.

Over time Dan grew up and became a fine adventurer, at least in his own mind. He lived a simple enough life, working as an assistant manager in the local Tesco during the day and scribbling stories in his dingy little hovel at night; tales of derring-do on the high seas and suchlike.

One day a letter from the family solicitor arrived on his doormat, bearing the news of his Great Uncle Isaiah’s sudden demise. He’d died on a fishing trawler which had sunk in the storm-lashed waters of the Cape of Good Hope. His body was never found but the sole survivor, a swarthy fisherman named Harris, testified that he’d seen Isaiah struck by a falling mast and had been sent to a watery grave. The inquest was brief, a funeral with an empty coffin followed soon after and then the solicitor had gathered the family together to read Great Uncle Isaiah’s will. All that remained of Isaiah’s suspected, at least in Dan’s mind, piratey treasure hoarde was this creaky old house and that had been left, mysteriously, to Dan. There was no money, no valuable possessions, just this old dump and an ancient attaché case full of musty old papers that the solicitor had been instructed to keep safe until Isaiah’s death.
Dan’s inspiration for his adventurous yet sadly unpublished yarns was gone to Davy Jones’ Locker.

Feeling understandably miffed, Dan shook himself from his reverie and got up to wander around the room. The storm still muttered without, but the fire made the place fair cosy. Investigation of an old cabinet in the corner brought forth a bottle of Navy Rum and this cheered Dan’s spirits no end. He returned to his armchair and poured himself a large measure of Rum, which he sipped whilst leafing through Great Uncle Isaiah’s old papers. Much swigging of Rum and riffling through old papers led Dan to conclude that nothing of any importance lay within the attaché case, just a load of old court summonses for piracy and the odd restraining order or two. Nothing about any hidden treasure. Not a scrap.
In a fit of drunken frustration, Dan flung the battered old bag onto the roaring fire. As the case flew to its fiery doom, a single scrap of paper escaped and fluttered to Dan’s feet. This he picked up and examined with growing interest. His imagination running wild, Dan hoped against hope that it was a treasure map. He unfolded the paper and, disappointment tugging at his weary heart, saw a simple Land Registry chart of the grounds of Great Uncle Isaiah’s tatty old house. It showed the boundaries of the estate, about 2 square miles if Dan was any judge. It showed the house itself, the small wooded area to the east and that was about it. Wearily he laid the chart on the table at his elbow and settled down for a bit of a snooze in his chair.

The storm slowly petered out as Dan slept drunkenly in his chair. As he slept, the fire decomposed into glowing embers and the lamps dimmed, spluttered and died.

Dan awoke around midnight to a peculiar scraping sound.

*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*

Steeling himself he rose from the high-backed armchair so that he might listen more carefully. It appeared to be coming from the window, across which a faded red curtain was draped. Daring and double-daring his foolish drunken self, Dan plucked up the courage to tug the curtain aside. To his chagrin there was a branch idly tapping its twiggy fingers upon the window, waving to and fro in time with the gusting wind.
Cursing his foolish imagination, his knackered old car that stopped him leaving this dump and the lack of a telephone, Dan slumped back into his chair and returned to the arms of Morpheus.

The wind blew hard outside and swept away the clouds. It blew harder still and whistled down the chimney.

Dan awoke again to the rapid tapping as the branch at the window sped its scraping taunts.

*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*

No. The sound was coming from somewhere else.
Dan, now alert and horribly sober, sat bolt upright.

*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*

It was coming from the hallway.

*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*

Silence. An oppressive one at that. A real gut-wrencher of a silence.
Dan froze, cold sweat tickling the back of his neck. The wind howled and raged outside but all he could hear was the silence. With a mighty crash the door flew open.
In the darkness Dan could just make out the doorway, but could see no-one there.
Trembling, Dan stood up. He moved to the window and flung the curtain aside, thinking to open the window and leave before he found out what had opened the door. As he opened the curtain, revealing a magnificent full moon which flooded the room with its pale light, the wind blew hard around the house, through the smashed upstairs windows, into the drawing-room where Dan stood a-quaking at the window and picked up the chart that had been laid on the table. This was cast full face at the tall window and stuck there, the moonlight shining through the thin paper.
Dan stared in horror as this happened; horror which gave way to amazement. The chart was a curious thing indeed. Pressed against the window Dan could clearly see faint silvery lines traced upon the map.
The lines, accompanied by neat copper-plate writing, clearly led to a large ‘X’ which seemed to hover just over the outline of the woodland near the house.
Suddenly the door crashed shut again and the wind dropped, allowing the chart to fall from the window.
In the following moments Dan managed to unfreeze his silly self and pick up the map. This he tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket and began a fruitless search for matches to relight a lamp, intending to get a better look at the map and to bring some sort of comfort back to the now disturbingly chilly drawing-room. Finding none, Dan shuffled back to his armchair to get some shut-eye. He could always walk to the nearest town for supplies tomorrow, get the place tidied up a bit, maybe even find a good glazier to sort out the upstairs windows. Comfort not fright, that was the key.

The wind seemed to have blown the warmth out of the room and Dan could not get comfy. He remembered the big black great-coat in the hall, and decided to go fetch it. As he reached the door, he felt a shiver run up his spine.
“Stupid idiot” he told himself, “There’s nothing odd here, it’s just a creaky, draughty old house”.
With that he opened the door, and nearly died of fright. There, where once had stood the old coat-stand with its cobwebs and ancient big black great-coat, stood a tall gangly figure. It had its back to Dan, but slowly turned on its wooden leg to face him as he stood there gibbering like an idiot. The figure brandished a cutlass at him and screamed in a deep guttural roar.
“Yarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” quoth the figure and Dan dropped down in a dead faint, the last thing he saw being the gnarled old face of Great Uncle Isaiah himself.

When Dan awoke in his armchair, dawn had cast her rosy fingers about the sky and he could see the sun peeking above the woods near the house. He rubbed at his stiff neck and suddenly the memory of the previous night caught him full in the face. Cowering under the big black great-coat that he was snuggled under, he reached into his jacket pocket.

The map was gone.

‹Bwahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!›

Granny Update

2004-10-31T02:43:00.000Z

She's doing quite well, still in hospital. She's got sickness and diarrhoea and the ward she's in is closed to visitors. In fact, my Dad has the same problem now so my parents and my little sister are, in effect, in quarantine. So much for hospitals being healthy places. When Mum and Dad went to visit Granny on Thursday they were issued with rubber gloves and face-masks about 15 minutes after settling down to chat with Granny.
Incompetence of staff or lack of staff? Lack of training, maybe? I don't know, but what I do know is that my Granny, along with everyone else in her ward and indeed the whole hospital, deserves better, including the nurses. She's not got long left, she's deteriorating rapidly, and she's in this state? Come off it.

No, I'm not going to rant. The temptation is strong but it won't help matters. I just hope it's not MRSA or whatever it is the scare-mongers would have us believe is the next plague.

A Slight Hiccup.

2004-10-28T13:01:00.000+01:00

Well, it appears Henners is getting better; he hopes to be coming home on Friday, with a dollop of luck. Just hope he's right as I'm sure we need an expert to insult SimonG throughout the Dressing-Up Game. :)

You may recall how useless I am at making sure I have enough booze in my fridge of a Friday night. There have been times when I've gleefully swigged down my last bottle of Circle Master, happy in the knowledge that I have at least another 3 bottles in the fridge only to find that my fridge bears an uncanny resemblance to Old Mother Hubbard's Pantry. Apart from being much colder, of course. The fridge that is, not the pantry.
Any-way, last night I got loads of booze in and filled the fridge up.
"Hmmm" thought I to myself, "these bottles are a tad warm, I'll bung a couple in the freezer so they'll be nicely chilled in 15 minutes".
A bonzer idea in normal circumstances; in fact, I'd had the exact same idea only two nights ago. Trouble is, two nights ago I hadn't quite follwed the idea through to it's natural conclusion by removing the two bottles from the freezer and drinking them.
They were still there. Well, bits of them were, which I duly removed. As well as the broken glass there's a very fetching brown ice-berg in my freezer. I'll have to defrost the freezer to get the rest of the broken glass out now.

I've never defrosted my freezer before, this is gonna be fun. There's all frozen veg fossilized to the inside and everything! I'm sure I heard a wooly mammoth in there last week, but that may have just been creaky hinges.

‹Dons rubber gloves, fetches scraping implement and lashings of kitchen paper and prepares to do battle with early Cenozoic mammals›

About Henry

2004-10-25T13:54:00.000+01:00

OK, OK, I give in, JG (anything but that!) and will tell you what I know about Henry's problems. I ought to anyway as I guess a few of you may not know why henners is in hospital.

Henry had a slight problem with vomiting blood a few days ago, so an ambulance was duly called and whisked him off to hospital. Turns out he has a rupture in his stomach lining which caused the bleeding. On the whole Henry is OK, but as he's diabetic of course he needs regular insulin jabs to keep his blood-sugar level nice and balanced. Seeing as he's in hospital, the nurses have insisted on doing this for him at the times they feel appropriate and as a result Henry's blood-sugar level is all over the shop. Henry has been diabetic for years and is in fact his own expert when it comes to making sure his blood-sugar level is OK and thus knows exactly when he needs to have a jab. More of an expert than any of the nurses in the hospital, anyway.
He's had two falls so far because of severe wobbliness caused by this situation, so it looks like Henners may not be coming home straight away after all.

If anyone wants Henry's address to send a get-well-soon card or something to, email Trouty or myself for details. :)

Tough As Old Boots.

2004-10-24T17:24:00.000+01:00

I went to see my Granny in hospital today, and I am extremely pleased to say she's coming back to life! She's awake and talking, a fair amount more muddled than before but she's improving greatly. She's well dosed up on something that's clearly doing her good; the roses have come back to her cheeks and she can't stop smiling at everyone, indeed she even got my name right almost at the first go!
Granny is slightly miffed about having to be fed by nurses, she managed to tell us she's "not a ruddy baby" but with nursies help she wolfed down a huge plate of minced beef and mashed taters followed by two puddings, so she must be getting better. She even wants to go back to her nursing home, but we didn't see any doctors today so don't know what their opinion might be as to her condition. Not that we're going to take anything they say without a rather large pinch of salt, now. I'll admit a tiny part of me is rather cross about being told the end was nigh (I guess they were preparing us for a worst-case scenario) but that doesn't matter: what's more important is that my Granny is getting better again. :)

Talking of getting better, I 'phoned Henners this morning to find out how he is: he reckons he may be going home from hospital tonight or possibly tomorrow! I'll not give you all the gory details about Henry's problems, that's for Henry to tell y'all about if he wants to.
Hope you make a speedy recovery very soon, Henners.

[Edit: Oh yes, I totally forgot to say: Henry sends all of you his love and I told him we all send the same back]

My Granny

2004-10-21T19:47:00.000+01:00

I was a bit hesitant about posting this. It's about my chocolate-cake-snaffling Granny, and I love her to bits. It's not pleasant, but I need to get it off my chest, I suppose.
Here goes *deep breath*:

My Granny had another stroke yesterday. She's had lots of minor ones and has managed OK (as OK as can be expected, of course). This one was a biggun. She's now comatose in hospital and my Dad and my Uncle have been asked if they want her resucitated if anything else happens. The main concensus of the family is to let her go if it comes to that choice. I agree. It's for the best, I guess. She's 81, good innings and all that.
She'd have no quality of life if resucitated. She's practically a vegetable now.

Bless her heart, I love my Granny. I don't want her to die. I want her to get better and make us all laugh by saying daft things to waiters and being all happy and smiley all the time.

That is all.

Voooooom!

2004-10-19T21:03:00.000+01:00

Ah,thisisn'tsupposedtohappenatthistimeofyear:I'mgettingallhyperactiveforsomereason
andhavespring-cleanedmyentireflatandeverythingisallcleanandshinyandIstillcan'tworkout
wherethesedrattedflieshavecomefrombutatleasteverythingisreallycleanandI'velitaLavender
candletosoothemyfeveredmindintheeveningsandI'vecleanedtheratscageoutandI'vehooveredupall
thecobwebsroundmyflatandsuckedallthefliesoutofmylightfittingswithmyhooveraswellandandandand...

BANG!

Sorry, I'll slow down a bit. I don't know what brought that on, I really don't.

‹Breathes slowly into paperbag only to find it has some manky old chips in it›

Meh.

2004-10-17T19:48:00.000+01:00

I'd never, ever have thought I'd say this but here goes:

This weekend has really dragged.

There. I've said it. Oh it's had it's moments, such as actually going out geocaching on Saturday* and getting some new software to work on my PDA. And, er...

That's about it, actually. God this is pathetic. It's only 8 o' chuffing clock and I want it to be much later so I can go to bed and thence be magically transported to 6 a.m. and thus back to work. Yes, I know it's the 'W' word, but anything is better than this. Well, anything within reason, o'course. I mean, I wouldn't rather have a band of Gorillas turn up on my doorstep playing trombones and demanding bacon sandwiches** or anything.
Oh, I could have done something useful with my time, yes indeed. Yes indeedly doo. I have numerous things that I should be getting on with but, well, I dunno. I've actually tried to start various things this weekend, such as learning a new tune or watching one of the fillums I've taped recently, each attempt to end after a maximum of 30 minutes in a flurry of, well, mental-numbness I suppose. Which is odd, really, because I know I won't get much sleep tonight as my brain doesn't have an off-switch that allows me to turn it back on again. Thoughts racing 'round my head at 12 million miles a minute like a swarm of very fast locusts. Nothing productive therein. They just eat up anything useful and sod off again.

Getting out of bed in the mornings is getting tougher by the day.

*I enjoyed that.
**Don't you just hate it when that happens?

[Edit: By the way, Mort, good luck in your exam tomorrow. :)]

Zzzzzzzzzz

2004-10-17T01:08:00.000+01:00

Oh sleep! It is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole.

G'night.

Er...

2004-10-14T23:47:00.000+01:00

My tiny brane doesn't seem to be functioning this evening (whaddya mean, "cop-out"?) so here are some fresh piccies of Lou and Scabbers for your edification.

‹Glares at Trebuchet plans on wall and decides to try getting wood some time soon›

Londonismishnessification.

2004-10-12T19:50:00.000+01:00

Strewth! Well, this is a more appropriate comment than "Cor blimey guvnor", seeing as London seems more densely populated with Australians than Londoners these days. Anyway, I'm digressing already.

Had a smashing weekend's geocaching with me chums Pharisee and Motley Crew. Having looked at the density of caches in London, we figured we'd hit several over the weekend. This we did, 36 in total! Would have been more but we couldn't find 9 of the blighters.
I ought to explain here: many of these caches were simply them odd little plastic breath-mint-strip containers painted black and attached to the underside of park-benches with magnets. Given the size and propensity of parks in London, and therefore the number of benches therein, this goes some considerable way to explaining the apparantly super-human total of caches found. Not that I nor indeed my chummingtons Pharisee and Motley Crew aren't super-human, of course. That would go without saying if I hadn't just said it. Which I just did. Er.

Anyway, so Saturday morning Motley Crew (a.k.a. Keith) and myself journeyed up to London on the train and met Pharisee (a.k.a. John) near the Tube entrance in Waterloo Station. Thence we tubed it* to somewhere** and started finding caches. I'll not bore you with too many details, but I will show you some funky snaps instead. Are you sitting comfortably? Here we go then:

No sign of Batman today, but nonetheless I do think Buck House is an impressive domicile. I might even go so far as to say it's the Lion's Lovespuds.

Whilst searching here for a Virtual cache, I did get the feeling we were being watched. I suspect MI5 have upgraded their camoflage abilities since the recent Batman fiasco, but I could still spot the secret agent watching us closely from atop the Victoria Monument.

Later in the day I was mightily impressed by the play of light 'pon water at a fountain in Hyde Park.

And also with a friendly squirrel, who might possibly have been trying to find out where I had hidden my nuts.

Much later we stumbled across a magnificent bronze statchoo of Peter Pan. I feel a great kinship to Peter Pan, I think it's the whole "never grew up" thing. Splendid stuff!

And so, tired and quite frankly cached-out, we headed back across London and thence to John's gaff in Luton for some booze and to plan tomorrow's caches... must have been knackered: I only managed two bottles of Circle Master before seriously needing some kip!

Sunday saw us back in The Big Smoke, and with yet more "fumbling-under-park-benches-whilst-pretending-to-do-up-bootlaces" to locate more breath-mint-caches, it occured to me we could be easily mistaken for terrorists or drug-runners. Still, never mind; the rozzers didn't bother us too much (except to ask at one point if we were a bunch of ne'er-do-wells who'd been hanging around in the park for the last week: they *just* believed our denials...)
I mean: do we *look* like trouble?

We paid a brief*** visit to a lovely, tranquil park dedicated to the memory of Mahatma Ghandi.

And also to another park dedicated to Joseph Grimaldi - The Father of Clowns****. Must have been a Big Nose in the clown world: his autobiography was written by Charles Dickens.

And there was a superb sun-lit tree here too.

Not only did we bag loads of caches together as well as finding a great Fullers pub*****, Keith and I both found our 300th caches on this trip!

See?

‹Packs away camera and vows quietly to not bore people again for quite a while yet›

* Sorry, that sounds so dreadfully metropolitan, doesn't it?
** Well I don't know, do I? I may be super-human and King of Sweden but I'm also proud to call myself Idiot.
*** All too brief for my liking: I could've stayed here for hours
**** One for you there, Merman! :)
***** The name of which I forget but we did guzzle numerous satisfying pints of Red Fox and Chiswick there. :D

Knackered

2004-10-11T22:38:00.000+01:00

Cor blimey guvnor! I'm still logging all 36 caches (and 9 Did Not Finds) after a weekend caching in London. I'll do a proper blog with all pictures and stuff tomorrow. :)

Night all!

Good night, Ken Bigley.

2004-10-08T22:48:00.000+01:00

So, it's over now. Or is it? Who's next? What retribution will follow?

Many, many people can put up their hands and say "It wasn't me". How many are telling the truth?

Tony Blair is suitably dismayed.
The Muslim Council of Britain are also suitably dismayed.
Every man, woman and child are most likely suitably dismayed.
Anyone who dislikes the look of blood on their hands is suitably dismayed by the whole situation.

Can't help feeling that Tony Blair could have done more.
Can't help feeling that the Muslim Council of Britain could have done more.
Can't help feeling we could all have done more.

Tony Blair and Jack Straw made an attempt. They refused to be brow-beaten by the terrrorists. Even I was taught to stand up to bullies, so their stance made a kind of sense to me.
Tony Blair has just been on Newsnight to say "Hey, we tried. We didn't talk to the people that held the knife to Ken Bigley's throat, but we did talk to some other chaps in suits so we must have done our best. It isn't our fault, just because we're in charge of the USA's secondary power".
(I can't help but think he's trying to save his own skin. Election time is drawing nigh).

The Muslim Council of Britain made an attempt. They flew out to Iraq and spoke with some other chaps in suits yet nothing positive happened. Even I was taught to try and obtain a peaceful solution to playground squabbles, so their stance made a kind of sense to me.
The representative of the Muslim Council of Britain has just been on Newsnight to say "Hey, we tried. We didn't talk to the people that held the knife to Ken Bigley's throat, but we did talk to some other chaps in suits so we must have done our best. It isn't our fault, just because we're Muslims". (I can't help but think they're all just trying to save their own skins. Pun intended.
Please don't consider me racist. I'm colour-blind. I just don't suffer fools gladly, no matter what colour they are).

Tony Blair and the Muslim Council of Britain p'raps could have done more. I don't know what, I'm certainly no expert. They're just human beings like you and I.

WHAT COULD WE ALL HAVE DONE? Yes; you, me, everyone.

As above, so below. A simple "tchoh. blimmin' rag-heads" or an off the cuff "tchoh. cursed westerners" is just the tip of the ice-berg. It all counts against all of us.
Racial hatred seems to be the key here. Or, more precisely, the lock. No-one seems to be able to find the key to that lock. It's too easy for us all (regardless of which "side" we're on) to shrug our shoulders and say something like "well, they're just animals aren't they?".

Think about this: two Iraqi women have been held prisoner by the US (with Britain's support) for allegedly being involved in Iraq's weapons programme. They've been held without charge for a year. Ken Bigley's captors wanted their release in exchange for sparing his life. Add in the slaughter of innocent women and children (men, too) by the bombs of our very own armed forces and those of the US and any other country that joined in under the flag of Western Justice and you've got some pretty damned resentful people. Wouldn't you be just as resentful? Of course, Ken Bigley's family and friends must be feeling pretty damned resentful at the moment too.

Ken Bigley just wanted to help make Iraq, and indeed the world, a better place and now he's dead. The people that cut his head off are guilty of his death, but aren't we all, really?

We're all guilty, there's no denying it. Even if none of the above snide and shallow comments have passed your lips, all it takes for Evil to spread is for Good to be idle.

The only question that should be raised from this whole sorry affair is this:

When will mankind grow up?

That is all. It's possibly too simple for many to grasp, but that's all there is to it.

The Idiot Writes

2004-10-07T18:05:00.000+01:00

I was so busy nattering (fairly sensibly for a change) in SimonG's Chatroom with Scotty that I forgot to blog last night. Don't worry, there's not much of interest that I have to tell y'all...

BONG!

Southampton City Council are great! They're scrapping my car for free!*

BONG!

My Mother is a sneaky wossname: her and Dad are going away for hollibobs and have arranged for a vetinary nurse to house sit and look after Poppy, the deranged Beagle**. So far so good. Mother 'phoned last night to inform me of this, and also of the fact that said VN is an absolute stunner, 'bout my age and possibly*** single. Oh, and she's really nice and friendly too, and apparantly I'd get on really well with her.
Caveat: I've been instructed to not pop 'round and check up on the house without warning the poor girl first. Honestly, what does my Mother think I'm like? do I *really* frighten women? Don't answer that one.

BONG!

er...

BONG!

Look, will you shut up a minute, please? I'm trying to think of something to write.

BONG!

Right! If you do that once more so help me I'll...

BONG!

That's it! I warned you!

BONG!

‹Aims Bazooka at clock-tower, fires...›

KABLOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMIE!!!

Bloody Trevor MacDonald. Such a mischevious little twerp.

*I'll just settle for a bottle of Jim Beam Black Label, Merman... I love payment in advance! ;)
**More deranged than yer average Beagle, that is. No, really.
***How does she know? I know Mothers are traditionally psychic when it comes to things like finding secret booze/porn/choccy-bar stashes etc but really...

‹Rummages in wardrobe for aftershave and considers trimming over-grown whiskers before the 24th of October›

Spurt!

2004-10-05T22:33:00.004+01:00

I was going to get an early night tonight, but Stu proffered entertainment in the form of Mt St Helens and the coverage of the eruption thereof.
I'm not normally one to be ensnared by the zombie-box: I usually only watch good stuff like proper documentaries or occasionally a bit of good comedy, but this coverage has me hooked! Even the really crappy adverts in-between viewer phone-ins and whatnot! Wowzah! Just look at them fancy graphics! Hahahaha!
Back to the volcano again... Awww, I want more adverts! There was a great one from ADT about some guy who would not be alive today if ADT hadn't saved his life [cue dramatisation of chip-pan thingy setting fire to home] *wipes away stage-tear*... great stuff! Oh, you mean ADT isn't some kind of regional fire-service? It's a company that makes fire-alarm control magement system thingies? Oh. Ah well, scare tactics are still enjoyable to watch.
Oooh! back to the hot 'n' steamy volcano action! Apparantly, the ash-cloud that's guffing out at the moment is "just the tip of the ice-berg"! Ah, that's enough. Go watch the streaming video and see for yourselfs. It really is very interesting. :)

Talking of telly, I had a snotty note from the management company of my flat pushed through my letter-box while I was away. Apparantly, my telly is a fire-hazard. Well, OK, I *do* keep it outside my front door, but it's out of the way in a little alcove at the end of the landing. Apparantly I will be charged a fee if they have to remove it for me. How nice and efficient of them. Amazingly so, in fact, as it takes 3 months for them to get 'round to replacing blown-down fence-panels in our communal car-park. I know what I'll do: I'll put my telly in the boot of my bashed up old Citroen ZX which is still in said car-park and wait for them to give me a snotty note about that too. You can bet that note will meet with the same terrible end as the first one: Rat Bedding!

‹Manages, with alarming difficulty, to turn of the streaming video thingy and totters of to bed on very boringly sober feet›

YARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

2004-10-04T23:25:00.000+01:00

There's only one way to describe hiring a canal-boat for a weekend with a bunch of mates: Arsing about on the river. Splendid stuff, doncherknow. Waggling our collective wobbly cutlasses at anything that moved (including trees) and swigging our hoard of Piratey Grog which, I'm sure you'll agree, is a much better way of spending one's weekend than just sitting around being not-very-Piratey.

Ahhh, peaceful it was. Well, apart from swearing loudly at swans at 2 in the morning and going "Yarrrrrrrrrr!" at every opportunity and stuff. Watching the sunset from the pointy end as we chugged along was rather special, as was being gently rocked to sleep every night (in fact I'm still gently rocking to the movements of the boat - many think it's weird and slightly distressing when on dry land but I love it).

Of course, the company was splendid too! A better crew of Piratey chummingtons I couldn't wish to meet, L - R:
Pharisee, yours truly, Lady Hutton, Merman, Paul G0TLG, Trouty, Lord Hutton, SimonG, MCL and Capn Henry T. Thirst at the front.

You can see loads more pictures on Pharisee's website

It's a shame it all came to an end, really. The occasional brief glimpses I've had of canal-life this summer have been really smashing and I am having trouble fighting the urge to say "hang it all" and selling my flat to buy a boat of my own. Quite what I'd do for a living, of course, is one very important question that would need very careful consideration. I don't think I'd last very long simply by hoarding piratey treasure from daring raids along the Wey Navigation.

I think it's safe to say A Good Time Was Had By All.
Ya-harrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!

‹Swigs from Bottle o' Rum and tries in vain to get me Ratties to say "pieces of eight"›

[edited 'cos I can't do links to save my life...]

Another Thought Of The Day

2004-09-28T22:40:00.000+01:00

I seem to get these odd little unanswered questions popping into my head when I'm supposed to be concentrating on the job in hand.

Why is it that when something is really good you can call it "The Lions Love-Spuds" yet if something is really rubbish you can call it "A Load Of Bollocks"? Shurely that amounts to the same thing?

‹Considers the possibility of holding one's own counsel without Henry sniggering and decides it'll never happen›

Drunken Japery

2004-09-26T23:45:00.000+01:00

Well, would you expect any less from an idiot such as myself?

Yes, I got drunk with Bro.
Yes, we had a lock-in last night at A Certain Pub and didn't leave 'til god-knows-what-o'clock.
Yes, I managed to rescue a traffic cone from somewhere and placed it upon the roof of Bro's car.
Yes, my Mum woke me from my fully-dressed-and-sofa-bound drunken slumbers this morning to ask me if I remembered where I'd got the traffic-cone from.
Yes, I spent 30 sober minutes this afternoon wandering around Swanmore trying to rehome the traffic cone. Eventually I found a suitable hole in the pavement and applied the cone therein. I think it's happy where it is.

These things happen. It's The Law.

Bro wasn't too impressed, seeing as I've now added one or two really tiny scratches to his extremely tatty old motor. The facts that said motor has (a) been on Mum 'n' Dad's driveway for the last 18 months and (b) doesn't actually go seem to be irrelevant, but never mind. My Granny thought it highly amusing, so that makes it OK.

Speaking of Granny, we had Sunday Lunch down the pub today to celebrate my Aunty's birthday. My Granny is great at confusing herself, the waiter/ess, anyone within ear-shot. When asked if she wanted her Apple-Pie pudding hot or cold (a question posed no less than 4 times) she replied "Chocolate, please!". Class.

‹Remembers the old maxim "It's not a good night if you don't wake up with a traffic-cone"›

Thought Of The Day

2004-09-23T22:07:00.000+01:00

I can't think of anything better to share with y'all than this little thought-provoking wotsit from SimonG's chatroom:

Why is it that when yer out of baccy you can roll fags from your dog-ends, yet piss is no compensator for beer?

‹Ponders the futility of shopping for beer when clearly I'm no good at it›

Pheonix From The Not-Very-Impressive-Ashes

2004-09-21T20:13:00.000+01:00

I'm gonna rebuild my naff website. Yes indeedy-do. I've obtained some hostingness from 34sp.com and will start a-fresh with appropriate silliness and stuff. I've managed to change my nameserver* settings acordingly now (took some head-scratching, but I managed OK) and will start on the re-structuring at approximately when-I-can-be-bothered o'clock.
I've got Dreamweaver** somewhere, so I'd better dig that out and work out how to use it. SimonG reliably informs me I simply *must* learn how to do PHP ('cos it's great, apparantly) so if I end up breaking 34sp.com as SimonG regularly does, I'll send the Web-Rozzers in his direction.

Anyhoo, I now need to collate some vaguely amusing/entertaining content (my blog will be there too, I'd better look into Wordpress as well) so any suggestions will be greatfully received. And no, you don't get any crisp fivers if I use your ideas: just a bony hug from me if I meet you and the satisfaction of knowing, when you see it, that you had a hand in it's implementation. Alright, I might also give you a Knighthood. I am the King of Sweden, doncherknow! ;)

The name? J.R. Hartley.

No, sorry, www.omally.co.uk

*Don't ask. Don't worry about it either. It's done and that's all that matters.
**It's software for building websites.

‹Opens further beer to celebrate›

Ah-Harrrrr, Me Hearties, Splice The Main-Brace!!

2004-09-20T20:37:00.000+01:00

Alright, alright, settle down; the reason I've not been blogging lately is 'cos I've been working like a beaver all weekend and have therefore been too tired* (especially after going out for dinner nearly every night between Thursday and now, all on expenses ;)) to write anything remotely coherent.
Work was fun, in a way. Well, Sunday certainly was. No-one believed me when I told 'em it was Talk Like A Pirate Day, but did that stop me buying all the suitable paraphinalia and hoisting a Jolly Roger?** Did it 'eck as like! Talking to customers and slipping in the occasional discreet *ahem* "That it be!" and "Arrr!" is a great way of making the day go quickly, and also for upsetting the sort of colleagues who are too boring to afford a sense of humour***. Yarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!

In other news, me Bro is paying a visit tomorrow! He's home for a WHOLE WEEK and we'll be off to the Fulham game on Sunday to watch Saints win something (at last). The intervening days (well, evenings at least) will most likely be spent in various pubs and various states of inebriation, so you might have to endure some really slurred ramblings soon. Sorry 'bout that. ;)

*Alright, pissed. I love being poured out of taxis. :D
** Piccy to follow as soon as I can get it from my mobile to my peecee.
*** Some were distinctly unimpressed at the sight of me waving my cutlass at them. Tchoh. Should've keel-hauled'em!

‹Braces credit card for utter battering›

And There's More

2004-09-16T23:30:00.000+01:00

Isn't it great when you have such a fine time with fine people that you keep remembering odd bits to tell people? Yes, more from the Boaty Weekend With Henry and Trouty:

Jane, a regular visitor to SimonG's chatroom, was over this side o' the pond a wee while ago and sadly *just* missed meeting Henry and Trouty: here's her proof:

The very same pub where ROAST LAMB and PROFITEROLES were scoffed! The great thing about this pub is that you can sit in the garden of a busy weekend afternoon and watch the action on the bridge from where this photo was taken: it's extremely narrow and has two gert white stone pillars on each corner, which spell DANGER to yer average silly motorist, who deem it necessary to drive into these pillars instead of between them. Great fun! Whilst Henry, Trouty, Tony and I were there we saw two such magnificent collisions. The first was a rather snazzy (at least, before the smack) brand new white VW Golf which took off it's near-side wing, almost. The second was a big ole Nissan Primera ( I think so anyway: I'm not sure, these things have too many wheels for my liking) which smacked straight into a pillar, again on the nearside-front wing, this time with two added bonuses (bonii?). Firstly I was standing very close by at the time watching a boat go through the lock underneath and secondly that it damaged itself to the extent that it couldn't move. The passenger climbed out and called for a saw to help remove the wing so he could move the motor. It took me all of 3 seconds to remember my trusty Leatherman (thanks again, Merman!) and thus equipped we made very short work of the front wing and moved the car! I really enjoyed that: not from an evil-gloaty-point-of-view, rather more from a Hey-I-can-Be-useful-point-of-view.
Well, alright; I did have a quick gloat, but wouldn't you? ;)

‹Idly picks plastic from saw-blade and replaces Leatherman back in it's snug holster›

ACK!

2004-09-15T22:47:00.000+01:00

Brain freeze! ARGH!!

This isn't supposed to happen. I'm in a good mood. I feel well-balanced and relatively useful today. I've even had beer and dinner tonight! *Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrpppp*
See?

Hmmmmm.

Ah! I know!

No, maybe not.

Yes! That's it!

Nah, not again.

Eureka-ka-ka-ka-kaaa!

I used to love English lessons at skool. Science also, but that bears no relevance here.
I'm reminded of English lessons because I watched Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade tonight and I thoroughly enjoyed it, as I do any time I watch it, or indeed any other fillum in a similar vein.
Y'see, the only really good grade I ever got in English was for a short story wot I wrote that went in a similar kinda way: bit of swash-buckling, spooky-cursed-temple-raiding, etc etc you know the form. I managed to bash it out in one lunch-break (it was due to be handed-in immediately after lunch, y'see) and I was expecting a D because it was so hastily written and obviously rubbish... No! I got an A! And I was allowed to submit it for part of my GCSE too! Made up for all the duff and uninterested scribblings about naff peotry* and stupid smelly Shakespeare**, I suppose. Thus encouraged, I would make notes of ideas to include in further stories, with the intent of somehow stringing them all together to make a fantastic block-buster of a story that would sell millions of copies and make me rich before I reached the ripe old age of 20.
This seemingly unsinkable ship of a plan would have become reality, no doubt, had not the dog eaten my homework.

*Except WWI stuff, I really got into that.
**Well, c'mon! It's just an excuse for a bunch of silly people who should know better than to ham it up using a lot of daft words and get all excited about how fetching they look in green tights - gimme Arthur Miller any day. At least he could spell his own name.

‹Decides not to go rummaging in loft for old school-books at this time of night›

Addendum

2004-09-14T22:01:00.000+01:00

I completely forgot to mention the funniest part of my weekend with Henners and Trouty:

On Sunday we moored by The Anchor at *mumblemumble* along the Wey Navigation, absolutely bloody starving and sore in need of a slap-up lunch. We'd popped in on Saturday, but their chef had been kidnapped by aliens or something and thus the pub that proudly declared to all hungry travellers upon the Wey that it served "Food All Day" couldn't actually serve any food between 2 o'clock and 5 o'clock.
So, thus wary of non-enfoodification, we entered the pub once more and were greeted by the delightful smell of ROAST LAMB!

*queue drooling*

I expect there were other choices available, but we all settled 'pon the ROAST LAMB for we were much hungry and our little tummies were sore afraid of becoming all shrunken up into very small things.
We dined heartily 'pon our grub, which was served in portions satisfying and large, rich with Gravy 'n' Mint Sauce: smashing! Of course, Trouty decided she wanted PROFITEROLES purely becuse she'd seen someone else have some. Tchoh. Some people. So, we waited whilst Trouty attempted to stuff her face with said chocolate coated, cream-filled sweet-pastry-type dessert. I say attempted, because it was after the first mouthful that Henners decided it would be a good idea to adopt his "Carer-Mode". The desired effect, to whit make Trouty laugh too much to eat her pud, was very quickly achieved simply by Henry shouting at Trouty in a very loud voice (so the whole pub could hear, especially the table full of diners right next to us) as if he were talking to an errant old dear from a nursing home:

"What's that Trouty? You want to go to the toilet? Yes, alright, after you've eaten your pudding, OK?"

I guess you had to be there, especially to enjoy the sight of Trouty with all chocolate 'round her mush and several diners/drinkers looking on, some too shy to laugh, others damn near wetting themselves, further others clearly wondering how Henry could have the gall to tease Trouty so.

That's what's great about Henry and Trouty: they're bestest mates and can do that sort of thing. Trouty found it highly amusing, as of course did Henry, and for all the right reasons.

I'm still a-chuckling now... :)

‹Is slightly miffed that the ground has stopped rocking now›

The Day Capn T. Thirst Stopped Me Going Mad

2004-09-13T21:06:00.000+01:00

Last Friday, to be precise, when Henners invited me to pop up to Byfleet and join him 'n' Trouty on the Charlotte Rose for the weekend. If not for that, then I would have sat at home feeling miserable and worrying about work instead of being with friends and having a laugh and a swig.

I pootled up to Byfleet on the train and was met by Henners at around noon-ish. We strolled through the woods to the canal where the boat was moored and soon we were chugging away down the Wey Navigation.
It's a marvellous thing, having to slow down the pace a bit. Even on the way from the train station to the canal, I had to check my pace so's not to lose Henry. There was never any hurry to do anything this weekend, no hurry at all. Henry let me have a go at steering his boat for a bit and I was allowed to help out on the locks, too!
We didn't go that far down the Wey, but then we didn't really need to. We simply enjoyed the sunshine, met some nice boaty folk (including Henner's and Trouty's chum Tony) and we also saw The Guildford Crusader, 'pon which we'll be chugging in a few weeks time!

We saw nature in abundance (especially early on Sunday morning when we spied a Heron perched on a branch near the opposite bank to our mooring and a Fox trying to sneak up on it for brekkers. He didn't succeed, though).

We went for a bit of a walk near Ripley, ostensibly to stock up on Essential Supplies* and met some Horsies who were hanging around suspiciously near to, yet out of reach of, a Blackberry bush.
"Scuse me, Mister!" quoth one Horse. "You couldn't just pass over a few of them delicious ripe Blackberries to a poor starving Horsey, could you? (ooh, I'm so weak with hunger, so I am, Gawd bless me skinny ribs)".
So Henry did the decent thing and held out a Blackberry-filled hand to the cheeky Horse. Clearly this was none other than the legendary Vampire Horse of Ripley, as was soon evidenced when it chomped off at least three of Henry's fingers**, which resulted in much swearification (to ward off the Evil Spirits). Rotten bloody Horse. I hope it gets a one-way ticket to France***.

Is that Blackberry juice or Blood smeared all over the Horse's mush? You decide.

And of course there's always the Swans. I envy Henry and Trouty; they've watched these birds grow up from fluffy little Goslings over the last few months, and now they're nearly ready for the pot.****

Also bagged the two Weyside Wander caches that I'd not bagged on my last visit up thissaway: best way to reach 'em is by boat (certainly the most enjoyable way) and dropped off a couple of Travel Bugs to boot.
In fact, even now another cache is being planned which will require the dexterity of Tarzan to set, let alone find. Foolish me has been nominated to help out with that: it was either agree to help or walk the plank, and I didn't fancy the idea of going for a swim in the canal.

We saw plenty of really lovely boats, too. One or two in particular caught my eye:
"Carnzu" for it's extraordinarily beautiful paintwork; a delicate layer of golden knots over a smooth and satisfying green with a deep red trim.

The other one? Well ,the name says it all really.

We did see a sad sight, though: a scuppered Yoghurt Pot. Probably an insurance job, or a case of silliness (at least I hope that's all it was and nothing more dangerous).

Then again, it could have been Pirates, which, after all, is exactly what we were. We had the cutlasses, eye-patches and bandananananas for it, so we must have been Pirates. We even had an in-depth discussion with a bunch of kids as to why we were real Pirates, only to have every argument in our favour quashed mercilessly by such retorts as "but swords aren't meant to be all wobbly", "that's not a real hook! I can see your hand underneath!" and the ever-popular "I bet you don't even have any treasure!"
Huh. What do they teach kids at skool these days?

All told, a truly fabbo weekend going at walking pace and not giving a toss about work for once. Except when Henners, Trouty and Tony very nearly persuaded me to chuck a sicky and stay to get sloshed with them on Sunday night... I regret not being persuaded more thoroughly now. They could have at least tied me to the Mizzen Mast until I agreed to stay. Tchoh.

What a thoroughly good pair of chums are Henry 'n' Trouty. Thanks guys. Yer smashing!
Yarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!

*Swig 'n' Fags.
**Well, alright. Just the one, then..
***Good way to tease a Horse: call out "Uhu!" to it.
****Well they are! Alright, calm ye: Swans are too chewy anyway...

‹Continues to sway gently, in spite of being on Terra Firma. Most enjoyable it is too!›

Urgh?

2004-09-10T18:56:00.000+01:00

Y'know, I am a lazy sod sometimes. Last night I had a bit of a natter in the chatroom over at SimonG.org then decided to chill out on me sofa with a book and a beer for a bit before blogging. I woke up at 2 o'clock and just *had* to head bedwards. There's no way I would have been able to come out with anything remotely coherent at that time (shut up, I make perfect sense all the time, thankyousoverymuchyourotters).

So. Um. Ah yes! As I was about to say, before I *so regally* dozed orf... uh... hang on, it'll come to me n a sec...

No. It's turned into a small fruity bun*.

Can't have been important then.

Still, I've been invited to inspect the Good Ship Charlotte Rose tomorrow by the Commander of The Fleet, Capn T. Thirst, so I will no doubt have a Right Royal Report for you when I return.

G'night to y'all, and do sleep well, won't you?

*Scone. Ah ha ha ha.

‹Discards what I was supposed to do this weekend in favour of Boatiness. And that's the way it should be.›

Scarred For Life

2004-09-08T22:35:00.000+01:00

At the insistence of JG, I am compelled to tell you about my scar. Not from Scabby-Kneed-Mischieviousness as a kid, no. This one's a biggun. I used it to get out of lots of silly PE-related nonsense at school. Except Cricket and Hockey, I enjoyed them.
The scar runs down the middle of my chest, and was caused by the operation I had as a tiny two-year-old. The reason for the operation was quite simple: before I was born, I'd been a-wriggling about in the womb and had lasso'd myself 'round the neck not once but twice with the umbilical cord. Upon exit, the slack was duly taken up and I throttled myself. As I took my first proper breath with my shiny new lungs, my heart decided to go pop. This meant that a tiny hole between the Left and Right Ventricles (sp?) allowed oxygenated blood to enter the unoxygenated blood, thereby impairing my circulation slightly. This was fixed up at the age of two by having a John Bull Puncture Repair Kit (size XXXXXXS) fitted over the offending hole, which sorted me out quite well (apart from having a permanant heart murmur) and excused me from uber-harsh PE FOR EVER! Hurrah! The best bit was, I never ever needed a note from my Mum: I simply showed my impressive scar to any doubting PE teachers and was thus sent to sit in a quiet classroom to read a book whenever asked to partake in anything as strenuous as a Cross Country Run or Rugby. Sure I joined in with most stuff, as long as I stopped if I got too out-of-breath (my PE teacher would worry if I didn't stop for a break now and then, not that I always needed one) but I did enjoy the odd "free periods" that my minor condition granted me.
Until Hockey arrived, that is. When Hockey arrived, I wanted to play. Badly. At first it was suggested I shouldn't play, but with a bit of persuasion I wheedled my way onto the pitch and proceeded to break numerous sticks (including my PE teachers favourite stick, which apparantly cost "a ruddy fortune, you little twerp!"). I think I may have been making up for lost time.

Coincidentally, this reminisence was started by JG who, no doubt fed-up of my whinging about being stuck for a blog, suggested I blog about the seventh book from the left on the third shelf up on my book case. It was a book my mum bought me whilst I was last in hospital, having more tests done (aged 14: I knew how to letch at nurses by then).

The title?

Return Of The King. :)

‹Damn. Out of Port.›

Boing!

2004-09-07T22:45:00.000+01:00

I'm back!

I feel *much* better now, too! Hurrah! 'Tis true, I've been a bit down in the dumps lately, what with one thing and another*, but I have this habit of bouncing back (bit like Tigger getting his stripes back, doncherknow). I usually have to wait until I've been dangling my feet over the black pit of despair for a few days before it happens, but I know I'll always recompose myself in good time and, sure enough, I have. Not, seemingly, with any effort; it just happens. Maaaaarrrrrrrvellous!

Bagged a nice bottle of Port at work yesterday. "Fonseca Porto Bin No. 27" (not that it means much to me, except that it's something to do with the old family Port-making-place of the Portuguese customer that gave it to me) and it's really rather spiffing stuff. There was some witty banter in SimonG's chatroom earlier about there being a girl in every Port, and I thus expressed disappointment about there not being one in this bottle, but it wasn't very funny so I only repeated the joke about 5 times or so.

Talking of Parsnips, I had a call tonight from my old mate Lu from Norwich. Not heard hide nor hair of her for a few months, so it was extremely pleasant to talk with her for a couple of hours about life, the universe and things of that nature, generally. She was extremely pleased to get a nice picture of me rat-wot-I-named-after-her, Lou, indeed it set her off on a right Ooooh-ing and Ahhhhh-ing spree for a good couple of minutes, and she would only stop being all girly and return to the conversation in hand (as it were) when I promised to send her a video of Lou playing in his wheel. Silly moo.

And then, of course, there's always the old Trebuchet. Yes, that. I can now go and get Wood! For I have a new motor! Yes, it's all very well saying "huh! just 'cos you got a bike, don't mean you can't build a Trebuchet", but you just try strapping great lumps of 4 be 2 to your pillion seat and seeing if the Rozzers don't stop you!
So, now I have a motor-car (and it dunnarf feel strange driving a 4-wheeler again, I can tell you) I can go and get some lumps of wood with which to whittle away at a worthwhile project of wonderful woodishness! Hurrah!

Can you tell I'm in a good mood tonight? Huh? Can you?
Now would be a good time to ask to borrow money. I'll still say "sod off", but I promise I'll smile when I do. :)

‹Faintly amused by the unique sound of the cork exiting the Port bottle and wonders if there'll be any left for el10t to sample›

*But I don't really like to bother people with my problems, so I won't. Or don't. Or, even, didn't. Much. Er. Where was I? Oh yes, look back up there again, please.
No, up there, not down here. You want a map? I don't have any maps. At least, none that would be useful here. This is the inside of my head and therefore Uncharted Terrortory.

Hhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

2004-09-05T21:08:00.000+01:00

That's the sound of my tiny brain trying to squeeze something out.

I hate this. I really, really hate this. OK, so I *do* actually want to write something for your collective edification, but I just can't. I don't want to simply jot down my humdrum activities; I want to spice them up a bit by flowering up the language a little. I don't want y'all to just read my blog; I want y'all to read it and, hopefully, laugh. Or at least enjoy it with a slight twitch at the corners of your mouths.

I had a read through my Archive the other night. Bad move. Just made it worse. In a detatched way, I kinda enjoyed reading my old blogs and the banter from youse guys in the comments. Now I feel I just can't write anything like that any more.

I had a great day today, really I did. Geocaching with some rather grand chums and sweating buckets all the while. I even fell off a space-hopper whilst having a space-hopper-race, which I for one found highly amusing.

A few weeks ago I, no doubt, would have turned that simple little paragraph into a 500 word essay on Why Idiots Like Me Shouldn't Be Allowed Out (hoho) and it would, possibly, have been humourous.

Now I can't.

"Oh Bother" said Pooh.
"Oh bollocks to it" said Omally.

Hah! Fooled you!

2004-09-02T21:56:00.000+01:00

ow!

gerroff! that hurts!

look, if you don't put that big pointy stick down, I'm gonna tell my mum!

*saunters nonchalantly, alright, limps nonchalantly into spotlight*

*ahem*

Unaccustomed as I am...

What? oh, sorry, wrong speech

*ahem*

Yes. I'm back. Briefly, of course. I've been out playing in the sunshine lately. Well, apart from being stuck in fucking work, of course, but that's another story. Anyhoo, today something happened that was rather fab, so I thought I'd better share it with y'all:
At 4 o'clock, m'colleague Gavan called me to remind me that he owed me a flight in his plane, and enquired whether I was free after work this evening. If I hadn't been free, I would certainly have cancelled whatever I was supposed to be doing and thus spake my agreement.
A quick blatt down the motorway found me at Southampton Airport, and thence in a little 4 seater plane, the type of which began with a 'T' and belonged to the flying school where Gavan, funnily enough, learns to fly. Learns to fly a plane, that is; he doesn't flap his arms whilst running or anything like that.
Anyway, we took off and zoomed around over the South Coast for exactly one hour from take-off to landing, during which time we enjoyed some of the most splendiferous- late-summer-weather-decked-out English Countryside from 2,500 ft.
I must say it was very peaceful up there, looking down upon such sights as Corfe Castle, The Isle of Wight, the New forest et al. We watched as an Air & Sea Rescue Helicopter did some rescuing just off Hengistbury Head and also admired many small boats just bimbling their way around on the Solent.
How I wish I could stay up there, just watching all the life going on without actually having to endure the niggly bits.

A Gav said: "This beats the bollocks out of the rubbish we get at work, eh?"

How right he is.

‹Exeunt left›

Bugger Blognor: Endgame

2004-08-30T00:03:00.000+01:00

OK, so I took this blogging lark up as it was posted as a Favourite Thing on SimonG.org. I've somehow made it last a few months but, as you can tell from the recent infrequency of postings, it's starting to wear a tad thin. There's only so much I can bore y'all with, so I'll quit whilst I'm still (vaguely) ahead.
I think it may be due to the fact that I really do prefer being outdoors 'n' healthy as opposed to being indoors 'n' pale 'n' pasty which, I hasten to add, is fine for them as like that sort of thing but it ain't really for me. Also, I don't think I can post much more without getting to in-depth about myself, which really would bore y'all to death.

I may well pop back occasionally, I'll certainly still be contactable, but the call of the wild is too strong.

G'bye now.

Omally.

‹Takes a massive swerve to the right to avoid jumping over that 30ft Great White that's lying in the way›

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

2004-08-26T22:31:00.000+01:00

Don't you just hate it when you have something buzzing 'round inside your head that you just can't sort out? If thoughts were flies, then I have one bouncing off the inside of my skull and, like a stupid fly, it can't find the open half of the window to escape. Not that I have a window in my head, of course. That would be silly.
The annoying thing, of course, is that I can't pin the bugger down to analyze and therefore solve it. I don't even know what this random thought/fly is about, I just know it's there, buzzing away (which isn't helped in the slightest by the echo-cho-ho) quite blissfully unaware of its full potential.
Maybe it's a stunning new concept in account management software (lit. throw all the paperwork on the fire and wait a few days for someone to scream at you - that way you know which customers are more "important" and can ignore them), or maybe it's a dim realisation of insufficient input, so far, into what is loosely termed "real life".
Ah yes, I'm getting something now. There's someting missing, something important. I daresay I'll get more clues in good time. If I ever work out what's missing, I'll let y'all know.

Ah! My pint pot is empty! That must be it!

‹Tcshhhhh tinkle glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug swiiii-ii-ig "Ahhhhhhhh"›

Procrastrination By Numbers

2004-08-25T22:16:00.000+01:00

Outside of work, I have a vey small to-do list. It runs thusly:

Rebuild my website and move my blog there.
Drink some booze. (WIP)
Learn to play "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits.
Drink some booze. (WIP)
Learn PHP (see item 1)
Drive out the little pixies that inhabit, and indeed inhibit, my every waking moment.
Drink some booze. (WIP)
Build a Trebuchet.

Should only take a few months, at the outside.

Night all!

‹Snores gently in blissful slumber›

Bleurgh

2004-08-24T22:42:00.000+01:00

I seem to be experiencing a bout of non-blogginess again. I think my brain may be slowly turning to lemon curd due to overuse at work. I don't like to "do" work stuff outside of my standard 1/3 of my adult life, I certainly don't talk shop unless it's absolutely necessary. No, I don't have a problem "letting go" (stop sniggering Henry), it's just that my poor likkle brain gets all tired sometimes. Hmmm. I think I'd better demand to have some booze.

Lou 'n' Scabbers say 'lo, by the way. :)

‹Time for bed, said Zebedee›

Another On-Set Exclusive

2004-08-22T21:58:00.000+01:00

That's such a smashing picture, I can't even sully it with a repeat of yesterday's spiel. Instead, I'll sit here and fret 'cos I still don't know my lines. Of course, by the time we get a leading lady I expect I'll be word-perfect. If I actually get 'round to reading my lines for more than 5 minutes.

Gah! What is it about Sunday night that's so unpleasant? It means another bout of Monday-itis is on it's way, that's what. It's even worse after a fabbo weekend mucking about, this time with me chummingtons el10t, Kouros and the boy-wonder* himself, SimonG. W**k tomorrow, which I do actually enjoy, mostly, it's just that I'd rather be mucking about instead. This weekend's bout of mucking-aboutisms has been a real blast (except when we had some bother from the security guards at Gunwharf Quays in P*rtsm**th - 's OK, we duffed 'em up**, nicked their handbags*** and carried on filluming), watching the early progress of the soon-to-be-blockbuster of magnificent proportion, Smashing Venus. Hurrah!

And now it's raining.

Yay.

*May not be 100% fact.
**er, ditto.
***Prada, of course. Or maybe Gucci.

‹It's all his own hair, y'know›

Sneak Preview (or, "The SimonG Special-Jacket-That-Does-Up-Round-The-Back-Fund tea dance")

2004-08-21T20:39:00.000+01:00

Well! What can I say? I have been privvy to the inside action in the filluming of that soon-to-be-Blockbuster of magnificent proportions, Smashing Venus, and as long as you lot promise to not tell the Producer or the Director that I told you anything... OK? Right, here goes...

*Cue fast-paced, important sounding music and fancy graphics*

Hi, I'm Deridre Wurblestein and welcome to another exciting roundup of this weeks fillum-news in Nosy Old Bags With Sod All Else To Do.

Yesterday at Omally Studios in downtown Southampton filluming of Smashing Venus began in earnest. The famous and much lyonised actor SimonG and his co-star el10t Davidson arrived in their shared Limosine to the rousing cheers of literally no adoring crowds. Most of the scenes were fillumed in a closed-set studio but our ace reporter-sleuth-type-person, Vanessa Grimble, managed to catch them filluming outdoors at Bitterne High Street. Vanessa.

Thankyou, Deirdre. Yes, I caught some exclusive footage of the famous and much lyonised actor, SimonG, filluming a scene from the soon-to-be-Blockbuster of magnificent proportions, Smashing Venus. There is little information available as to exactly what the scene related to storywise, but it was a spectacular sight, scenewise. Here's a picture taken using the latest available technology in zoom lens technology.

Clearly the production is of such a high quality that even the walk-on actors are of the bestest calibre. Just look at the expression on the face of Woman-Shopper-Wearing-Black-and-Looking-Disgusted. She looks, like, toooootally disgusted!

I'll have to interrupt you there, Vanessa, we have a report from our other ace reporter-sleuth-type-person, Veronica Burblethorpe. Veronica.

Yes, thankyou Deirdre. Today, filluming of the soon-to-be-Blockbuster of magnificent proportions, Smashing Venus continued in earnest today. This morning at well past 9 a.m. the famous and much lyonised actor SimonG arrived accompanied by his co-ster el10t Dividson, this time arriving in a shared limosine with the director of the soon-to-be-Blockbuster of magnificent proportions, Smashing Venus, Kouros Smith. The strict enforcement of the closed set rule meant I couldn't get to hang around the set making a nuisance of myself, but I did manage to bribe one of the crew-members at lunch-time and he informed me that the crew had been having some technermological problems with sound and had wasted all of yesterdays filluming because of a creaky microphone. I was also infomed of the expected scheduling of another outside location scene, this time at Haslar Marina in Gosport. It happened this very afternoon, so I smuggled myself aboard the Mermaids Kiss, which was the boat where the filluming was being, er, fillumed, and I got a sneak preview of what could very well spell the end of the glorious career of the famous and much lyonised actor SimonG. Always proud of his high morals, I was shocked to see the famous and much lyonised actor SimonG wearing yet another bizarre costume. Always known for his crazy on and off-set antics, fans will fondly remember the times the famous and much lyonised actor SimonG has dressed up as such characters as Obelix, Henry the Eigth and even Blackadder, just for the amusement of his fans. This time, however, many peoople are guaranteed to be sickened by his latest "crazy" outfit, not to mention his latest role as a sick cross-dressing incestuous madman with inflated condoms in his skimpy top who seduces his own brother by plying him with Champagne served in a pint glass. I have already torn up my membership card for the fanclub of the famous and much lyonised actor SimonG and I urge anyone else to do the same. I'm off to cry into my horlicks now, I leave you with these pictures.

*End montage of all the highlights of the glorious career of the famous and much-lyonised actor SimonG accompanied by Air on a G-String*

Well, that's about it for the insider gossip so far. And yes, it was me that was bribed by Veronica Burblethorpe. Well, she did promise to let me have a go on her-

-aaaaaaaaaaaaaand CUT! OK, that's a wrap.

‹Decides to invest some time in learning how to actually use a microphone properly›

Star-Struck

2004-08-18T22:03:00.000+01:00

Wowzah! I met my all-time favourite author on Monday night! Not being one for telly, I have no truck with 'celebrities' (and I've met a few whilst at work*, they're just normal people, mostly) but literature I love. In particular I dig the written word when it's laid out in all it's twisted and nonsensical glory by none other than the fantabulous Robert Rankin.

Ralphus picked me up after work on Monday evening (due to me bike being knackered) and we hied us rather prompt, like, to Ottakars in P*rtsm**th. We stumbled in at 6:30 and went upstairs to sit with about 20 other Rankophiles to await the appearance of Our Lord and Master. In due course He appeared and proceeded to talk a load of old (very funny) toot about Burbarians (i.e. wearers of Burbury items) and things of that nature, generally. After about half-hour of this He sat down and signed all our books as we queued up, books clad in numerous grubby paws. I, myself, was desperately racking my tiny brain for something to say to Him, but nowt was forthcoming. Ralphus, who was in front of me, very astutely told Him He was right about the word 'Plinth'** which delighted Him no end. I even toyed with the idea of telling Him that my nickname/handle/whatever is Omally, but without my soon-to-be-rebuilt website to show off to Him I decided against such a bold move. I simply squeaked 'Neil' at Him through grin-set teeth and He obligingly squiggled in a most satisfyingly flourishingly manner in my copy of 'Knees Up Mother Earth' and I then shook his hand. He did invite everyone present to go out for a beer with Him ('cos P*rtsm**th is indeed a lonely place for talented folk). Sadly, I had to get back otherwise I'd have quite happily propped up the bar and chewed the fat with the old rogue. Dammit. Guess I'll just have to go to BrentCon next year instead!

What a buzz! Like I say, I don't normally do 'fame' stuff, but this man writes such incredibly great books that I really, honestly, truly was Star-Struck.

*Don't ask.
** Mr R once stated, quite correctly, that the word 'Plinth' is the single most erotic word a woman can mouth to a man. True fact.

‹Funny how I can now think of about 20 humourous things to say to Robert Rankin...›

How To Enjoy The Summer Whilst It Lasts #491: Go To Cropredy

2004-08-16T20:55:00.000+01:00

Cor! What a grand time that was! As you may or may not know I’d buggered off for another weekend (leaving my blog unattended: tchoh, amateur). This time, the excuse (and it’s a goodun: I got a note from me mum too) was to go to Cropredy! I should allow a little room for further explanation here, perhaps: Cropredy is a smashing little festival (at least compared to many other festivals wot are really big), started up in 1976* (I was a one-year-old then, by the way) by a band called Fairport Convention. The first gig was played, as legend has it, in the back garden of Ann Crossman's House in Cropredy to about 750 local residents. It’s significantly bigger now, of course: I don’t know how many people attended this year but multiples of thousands would be a good start.

Thursdee we turned up (we as in Ralpus, Shitter, Aidy and meself) and pitched camp.

Well, we tried to and had not much luck at first: the main campsite was flooded so we were herded into another field and allocated a space big enough for one car and one tent. How rubbish. So, naturally, we waited till the silly steward went away and bagged a larger spot with enough room to put up all our tents and the gazebo. We then broke out the tea-rations, supped upon same and sat around for a bit, deservedly so after our labours, whilst listening to the bands that had already started playing.
Whilst we were dining upon a mighty chili, my favourite minions JG and CRApp** turned up out of the blue*** for a bit of a chat and a swig (we’d started on the beer by this time) bearing such splendid gifts as a Swedish flag (I’d left mine on me battle-cruiser, doncherknow) and a t-shirt of such utter magnificence that I will only wear it on sepcial occasions (Royal banquets, supermarket openings, going down the pub, that sort of thing). It’s in the wash at the mo cos it got a bit sweaty (as did the rest of me kit) so I’ll show y’all another time.

After thoroughly enjoying a gert big thunder-storm (enjoyed because we all hid under the gazebo and dint get wet) JG and Ned wandered off to do stuff so we trundled on down to the field where it was all happening. We swigged numerous pints of 6X and listened to Jackie Leven & Michael Cosgrove followed by The Oyster Band whilst mooching around the numerous stalls around the edge of the main field. By bedtime we were all rather tipsy so we did further sitting around talking toot and swigging more until god-knows-what-o’clock.
This pretty much became the pattern of the festival for us over the following nights, and by golly it was good.

Frydee morn appeared (as is its wont to do after Thursday night). We dined mightily upon bacon, eggs, beans, toast, lashings of hot and thoroughly percolated coffee (it’s a splendid thing to take certain luxuries with you when you go camping) and did more sitting around until we hied us back to the main field. The highlight of the day-time music was most definitely and without argument The Family Mahone. This is a Pogues tribute band led by none other than Mark Riley (one half of Mark and Lard of Radio 1) and they played an absolute blinder! Drinking songs all round, boys, with a rum-tum-tiddly-eye-po to boot. Smashing stuff! We (including JG and Ned) placed ourselves comfortably in front of the stage to enjoy this lot, and enjoy it we most certainly did.
Suitably refreshed, it was voted unanimously to head back to the campsite for to cook some grub to fortify ourselves with for the evening session. We cooked up a huge pan of Potmess**** consisting of lumps of meat, carrots, er, lots of other bits and bobs accompanied by numerous rounds of bread to mop up the gravy. The four of us sat and scoffed in near-silence, pausing only to obtain more Potmess or bread. An utter feeding-frenzy it was, and most toothsome also. Thus appetitifically-sated, a great drowse settled upon our heads and we all indulged in an afternoon nap apiece (blimey, I *am* getting old). Fear not, we all awoke in time to see the mighty Jethro Tull doing what was expected of them! By the time we’d got back to the main field the crowd had swelled considerably, yet even with all the extra bodies everyone was rather chilled out and cheerful. I was very glad to see this; I was expecting the odd bout of grumpiness to pop up as often happens when you stick thousands of people in a field and add beer but no, it was grand.

I must confess to not being overly familiar with a lot of Jethro Tull’s music but even an unedumacated loon such as myself recognized instantly the mighty tune titled Living In The Past. This went on for blooming ages and it was a magnificent end to their set. The great thing was watching the crowd (again we were near the front of the stage, just off to the side). Seeing so many happy people in one place really does make you feel good, but more of that anon.

Satdee was the Big Day. We alternated between chilling out at the campsite listening to numerous acts (including Nick Harper, son of Roy Harper) and sitting around in the main field with the gloriously hot August sun beating down upon us, again listening to more great music. Swigging a-plenty (gotta keep your fluids topped up in that heat, doncherknow) we were fair set when Fairport Convention came on at about 9p.m. I’d not previously experienced Fairport Convention, I must admit to wondering to myself whether they’d be as good as Jethro Tull were the night before. These doubts were soon dissolved as the band did their thang. There was, for me, more than one highlight of their set: “Rosie” is a simply fantastic tune and it has become a bit of an earworm already, but the bestest tune was the thoroughly emotional “Meet on the Ledge”. The reason? It’s a corker. Simple as that. The whole crowd sang along, and when what looks and sounds like 20,000 folk sing along to a tune all at once, well you just can’t help but sing along too. Happiness in abundance, good Karma sloshing all around in big waves, stirring stuff. Major earworm, say I, but of the very bestest sort.

All in all, I’d say Cropredy has made it into my list of Places I’d Like To Retire To When I’m Old And Rich. Of course, another reason to want to live in Cropredy is that at least once a year it’s absolutely rammed with top-notch totty. And I bet JG thought I wasn’t going to mention that. ;)

* As far as I can find out anyway: happy to be corrected!
** A.K.A. Ned (Cook by Royal Appointment).
*** Well, alright: I summoned them.
**** Presumably cos it’s cooked in a big pot and looks a mess

‹Pays a major visit to the 24 hour music dealer›

How to increase your stopping distance in one easy move...

2004-08-10T20:59:00.000+01:00

Bugger. The front brake on me Skorp has ceased to function within its remit. Fear not, I managed to get home safely.
I was trundling home from work down Basset Green Road (as is my wont) when I heard a suspicious rattling round the engine and thence along the road behind me. I thought it was simply a stone that had flown up and off again, and thought no more of it until I tried to use the front brake a couple o' hundred yards down the road. It responded normally at first, then the brake-lever popped out again. I pulled over, had a quick look around to see if I could spot any obvious fault but my untrained eye spotted nothing out of the ordinary. I decided to head home, being very very careful indeed to not trust my front brake.
Once home I 'phoned Ralphus for advice who in turn recommended I 'phone Scotty, post haste. This I did and, with suitably expert advice from Scotty, I checked my front brake again and found that the Anti-Vibration Thingy was missing. Not only that, but of the two large bolts holding the calipers in place, one was totally missing and the other was half out of it's hole. I was very lucky indeed to not have lost my front brake entirely!
Scotty (who is a marvellous chap and an excellent bike mechanic to boot) will be getting replacement parts for me 'pon the morrow and will fix me front brake properly. Between us we reckon the chap who last serviced the Skorp failed to tighten these bolts correctly, so I shall be Having Words. Of course, it's entirely possible that the bolts had vibrated loose (other things have done the same, such as my fuel-filter), but the temptation to try and get the money back that I paid for the service is very strong... I may even ask Henners if I can borrow his Big Gun.

‹Thanks Lucky Stars, blesses Lucky Underpants and praises Lucky Biscuit-Tin›

The Ballad Of The Big-Bollocked Rats

2004-08-09T21:51:00.000+01:00

Phoned the V.E.T. today to enquire about the imminent de-bollockisation of me ratties. I have to take them in so the V.E.T. can decide if their goolies are big enough to be chopped off, apparantly. Seems a little odd. I mean, does he want them a certain size for some ghoulish (ah ha ha) Dhamer-esque necklace made from rats gonads? Maybe the V.E.T. uses spare whiskers to string 'em together as well. That's certainly the impression I got from the receptionist that answered the 'phone and indeed my query. As soon as the 'R' word left my lips, a certain frostiness entered the conversation which had started out rather warm and fuzzyish. I must be imagining that; I'd hate to think of a V.E.T. receptionist dislking Rats, that'd be like a Doctor's receptionist disliking small children. Oh, hang on a mo.

Awww, it's no good: I now have this terrible image...

*cue wobbly effect and stupid tinkly music laced everso-slightly with malice*

...of a grotty waiting room, dimly lit to boot. I walk up to the counter to be greeted by the Receptionist (who thoroughly deserves the capital letter). The stern scowl on her face is her silent acknowledgement of my presence, that and the long, bony arm thrust out suddenly to point at a chair in the dingiest corner. Her fearsome countenance is complemented by the School Marm grey hair tied in a bun (not the sort with currants, but possibly currents).
I sit down with my little ratties a-trembling in their cage and listen with apprehension to the faint sound of power-tools coming from somewhere beyond the door opposite.
A big clock on the wall drips evil seconds into a pool of bloody time as I sit and glance with increasing dread about the room, at the myriad yellowing photgraphs and pet-show ribbons stapled haphazardly to the wall.
I dare not leave. The Receptionist is watching me as a snake watches its latest victim, another episode in the on-going saga of Death By Dinner.
The ratties are silent, afeared by the oppresive surroundings. I can hear in my mind their heart-felt pleas to be taken back home, coupled with promises to never ever try to bite the others legs again if only they can just be allowed to go home right now pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeasssssseeeeeeeeeeek-kk-kkk...

The Door squeaks slowly open with the sound of a rodent's last breath.

The distant mumbling and rattling of power-tools has ceased, only noticed now by its absence.

From the darkness beyond that dread portal issues a tall, slim, smooth-domed man of middling years. His V.E.T.s gown, blood-stained and bulging at the pockets with hideous tools; his soft uttering of the word 'Next', reminiscent of the snipping of stainless-steel secateurs; his leer that tells of a lifetime of animalian death-rattles upon the operating table: all this and yet I helplessly follow his beckoning into the doorway...

I think I'll just buy a seperate cage. That or rat-sized body armour.

‹"Cheese before bedtime? No thanks!" quoth Lou and Scabbers in ratty unison›

Beer, Kites and Chainsaws

2004-08-08T21:12:00.000+01:00

It will come as no suprise to regular readers that I spent last night down the pub with me mates Ralphus, Dawn, Tony and Shitter*, swigging quantities of that marvelous brew known as Summer Lightning. Splendid stuff, and numerous pints of same make an excellent post-prandialism to a rather splendid Bar-B-Q care of Ralphus and Dawn; if you've not tried it (the beer, not the Bar-B-Q, although that was a magnificent feast also. The Bar-B-Q that is, not the beer) then I recommend you do so at your earliest convenience.

Needless to say, we awoke from our collective slumbers this sunny morning with a fine round of Thumping Heads which were soon soothed with the traditional and all-healing Tea, possibly the best drink (unless you prefer coffee) a hang-overee would ever wish for. After a spot of Sitting Around Feeling Sluggish, Ralphus's's bruvver 'phoned to announce his imminent arrival and also that he was bringing his Power Kite with him. Thus ensued a spot of Pre-Lunch Japery on Stokes Bay Common, where we took turns at flying said Power Kite. Being my first time at such larks, I didn't have much success. Quite the opposite, in fact: poor Ralphus had to keep running around picking the kite up for me every time I managed to send it hurtling groundwards. I almost took Ralphus's's head off at one stage and severely endangered some passers-by, so I gallantly handed the reins back to Ralphus's's bruvver and settled instead for watching the mighty Power Kite swoop and soar in the wind under the guiding hands of an expert. A joy to watch, are kites; I can just picture one shaped as a Stealth Bomber zipping about above Stokes Bay Common and giving rise to an abundance of rumours (of the local variety) that "The Americans Are Invading".

So, with a fair wind having blown the cobwebs away, we returned to Ralphus's's gaff and thence to his back-garden where we made spirited attempts to get his chainsaw running. Eventually Ralphus settled for giving it a bit of a service by cleaning the air-filter out and looking thoughtfully at the spark-plug (the removal of which was a mission in itself) all to seemingly no avail. A couple of final attempts brought the beast into life, and a fine racket it makes too! Ain't power-tools grand?
No, by the way, before you ask: we didn't stand around idly chopping up numerous items of the wooden persuasion. The reason for trying to get the chainsaw started was that Ralphus had agreed to take about an inch lengthways off an 8 foot long railway sleeper, an agreement that Ralpus unfortunately had to cancel due to the non-workingificationness of said item of garden machinery.

Soon after, I hied me homewards via Tumuli Turmoil as I had to remove the cache due to the local council planning to close the footpath it's hidden near for tree-felling purposes.

I wonder if they have chainsaws as impressive as Ralphus's's?

*That's his real name, honest. Alright, it isn't.

‹Dear Santa: I've been a good boy all year (almost) and I'd like a Power Kite and a Chainsaw and some Beer, please.›

The Scarlet Gimpernel

2004-08-06T23:22:00.000+01:00

SimonG told me tonight that every time I don't blog, a puppy dies. I'm not normally the gullible sort, so I really do feel horrendously guilty for slacking lately.*

I enlisted the help of the maaaaaaaaaaaaarvelous Car01 to inspire me tonight. Out of three suggestions, namely Isopropiropeygnoll, Sheep and Business Cards, I chose the latter.

*ahem*

(This isn't actually made-up at all**)

When I was a spotty teenager (OK, I was never actually spotty. Always had a good complexion, apparantly. Not that I give a toss) I was fascinated by those machines at train-stations that enable you to make your own business cards, so it was inevitable that whilst waiting for a train from P*rtsm**th Harbour Station, I decided to waste time making 30 of my very own extra-sepcial business cards. I inserted 3 rather sweaty pound coins which started a 3 minute timer. I had thus long to create a Business Card that would epitomise the hunky young stud-muffin that was I as a 15-year-old and, once flung towards any of my female classmates at the skool disco would ensure an evening of such exotic delights as I couldn't possibly imagine. Possibly involving not being slapped for a change. I tried many variations on the theme "I fink you're lovely, fancy a snog?" cunningly disguised by my heroic adolescent word-skills before settling upon something so fantastically romantic and seductive that I was guaranteed to not fail. I started to type the immortal words that would ensure a lifetime of Casanova-rivalling activites only for the poxy timer to run out and the machine started printing my 30 Business Cards. They were blank, apart from my old nick-name and number in the corner. How rubbish. I also missed my train, so I had another 30 minutes to kill. I decided against spending my remaning 3 quids on more futile attempts at making Business cards, instead opting for a bottle of Coke, some crisps and a copy of Private Eye.
Since then, I have stoically resisted any attempts to use any sort of naff chat-up lines, relying instead on my sheer animal magnetism and stunning good-looks to attract the Laydeez. My success at this is well documented***, in fact I'm now known locally as "Lothario", "Don Juan" and, occasionally, "Who's that knob-end you were talking to?".

So much for Business Cards. Who needs 'em, eh?

* Well, alright, I don't. In fact, I argued the case that it's a kitten that gets deep-fried every time I fail to blog. Which is much more believable, isn't it?
** May not be 100% true.
*** Alright, alright, I'll let you borrow my aftershave. 50p a squirt.

‹Smoothes down hair and tweaks eye-brows into dashing and attractive shape›

Time to visit the V.E.T. soon...

2004-08-04T21:57:00.000+01:00

Lou and Scabbers, fine chaps nontheless, are getting a little too boisterous. I think I'd better get them neutered soon before they start taking lumps out of eachother. Must admit, it was funny as hell when Scabbers decided Lou was female in quite a spectacular fashion, but the ensuing punch-up was not a particularly pretty sight and it's becoming a more frequent occurrence. I suppose I could get another cage and seperate them, but I think it'd be better to have their balls snipped so they can still keep eachother company. I'd better call the V.E.T. tomorrow and find out more, such as how old they have to be etc.
I cleaned them out again this evening after work. I do this once every week, of course. Keeps 'em nice and healthy. Their turds are still a nice healthy size and just the right consistency but I was disturbed, after cleaning the cage, to see a HUGE Mr Whippy right in the middle of the upper part of the cage. For a moment I thought somehow a Rottweiller had got in through the back-door. The Ratties normally go downstairs to 'drop the kids off at the pool' and besides, a big Mr Whippy is not a common shape for my Ratties turds so I shall ask the V.E.T. about that also.
Oh, and Scabbers managed to escape this evening! I had the top of the cage open and was feeding them both from my hand. I was concentrating on Lou and I didn't notice Scabbers sneak over the top. When I looked, there he was clinging to the side of the cage, staring at me. took me a moment to realise he was on the OUTside so I grabbed him and plopped him back inside. He was actually trying to get back in the cage anyway, so that's alright.
I wonder when I should let them out for a good roam of me flat? They still don't fully trust me just yet; whenever I take one out of the cage he just wants to get back in. Maybe when they're older I'll take the cage into me bedroom (where it's more peaceful and cable-free) and leave the door open for a while with some yoghurt drops in my hand to tempt them out.

‹Rat turds. Fascinatin'.›

Better than F1

2004-08-03T19:21:00.000+01:00

Yes indeedy, my 'mis-spent' weekend at the World Superbikes thingy at Brands Hatch was an utter corker of the highest magnitude!

Dil arrived at about 11-ish to pick me and my shabby tent up then we drove to West End to meet up with Tom, John and Zak. We bimbled along the M3 then the M25 to Brands Hatch, pitched our tents (along with a huge marquee) and fenced off our little camp with numerous ground-pins and some rather amusing 'Danger! Gas Main Below!' tape before starting on the old booze. We'd all brought comfy chairs of the fold-up persuasion, so were soon nicely refreshed from our not-very-long-haul on the motorway and by 1 a.m. decidedly tipsy, too. We decided to go to bed around 1-ish mainly, in my case at least, because I'd drunk half my beer-supply and there were still 4 nights to go. Damn. Maths was never my forte. Luckily, Sainsburys had set up a huge tent in the campsite where essential equipment could be purchased throughout the weekend, namely: beer, burgers, barbeques and er, beer. Oh, and some rather scrummy little bowls of fruit salad, just right for early morning refreshment of the old parched tongue.

I'll not bore you with the excessive details of drunken debauchery. I'm sure you won't be in the least bit interested in the Lap-Dancing Club that the Daily Sport had erected (ho ho) near the circuit (yes; we all visited, including Dil) or the torrent of drunkenly obscene jokes bandied around, or the midnight glow-stick fight between numerous groups that lit up the night sky and the campsite like tracer-fire or even the traditional Yelling Slurred Curses At Fellow Drunkards That Stagger Past Your Tent And Trip Over Your Guy Ropes After You've Gone To Bed. I do, however, feel obliged to tell you about Dil's Banner and our mission to secure this to a fence inside the track. This banner is a splendid piece of work, made from 7 Union flags Ty-Rapped together and with the word 'Stalker' writ across in letters large. This is for Chris Walker, one of the racers of World Superbikes. Stalker's his nickname, y'see. Simple but effective.
Saturday night saw Dil, Tom and myself stroll down to the circuit, banner wrapped up snug in Dil's bag. We strolled with an air of not-in-the-least-bit-suspicious nonchalance round to Druids and selected an appropriate part of fence down at Paddock Hill Bend that would ensure Stalker would definitely see the banner on race day yet wouldn't block anyone's view of the racing. After much clambering over tyre-walls, swearing and chuckling, the banner was up and we hied ourselves to the nearest hostelry for to quaff heartily from the cup that cheers. We sat in the Grandstand over-looking Paddock Hill Bend and admired Dil's handywork as the evening gloom descended. Thankfully, the banner was still in place the next day! Hurrah for a total lack of Nazi spoilsports!

I expect most of you won't be interested in the actual racing, either. Ah, to hell with it, I'm gonna tell you anyway! It was Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaantastic! I found it much more enjoyable to watch than Formula One. The battle for the win on the first Superbikes race was amazing! We'd bagsied a good spot along Cooper Straight, with a huge telly behind us. This meant we could keep an eye on the racing whilst the bikes were out of view, and hence we were able to watch Noriyuki Haga* and Regis Luconi's dramatic struggle for victory, especially in the final lap as they swapped first place about 4 times before Haga squeezed past for a stunning victory. Luconi came second and Steve Martin** came third due to Frankie Chili (the crowds favourite) binning it on Surtees very soon after snatching first place.

The next race was the World Supersport. Not as popular with the crowds as the Superbikes, at least until Foret crashed right in front of us and got both his legs run over by the bike following him. Poor sod broke a femur on one leg and an ankle on the other. He was still conscious, and managed to move so that he was parallel to the track rather than across it and waved to the other bikes so they didn't run him over too. The race was stopped whilst Foret was picked up by an ambulance, then restarted some time later. Lots of exciting to-ing and fro-ing of positions in this race led to a victory for Muggeridge with Charpentier second and Van der Goorbergh third.
Muggeridge and Charpentier (at least I think it was them) celebrated by doing rolling-burnouts all along Cooper Straight! Excellent!

The second World Superbikes race was stopped after three laps when Giancarlo de Matteis crashed at the Paddock Hill Bend. Later the race resumed, with positions on the grid determined by the positions at the end of lap three. This meant the race was an aggregate result, so despite Frankie Chili just edging past Nori Haga on the last lap to take the chequered flag, Haga still took first place on the podium.

So, Haga pulled off the double at Brands, we all got steaming drunk for numerous days on the trot, Dil bought herself a mini-moto painted just like Stalkers FPR Ducati and I learned how much better bike racing is compared to smelly old cars. Much more good-old-fashioned sportsmanship in bike racing, and with all the crashes and stuff it's a lot less boring!

I'd call that a result, wouldn't you?

L-R: John, Zak, Dil, Moi, Tom.

* A.K.A. The Dogs Borrocks. Honest.
** Not to be confused with the other Steve Martin.

‹Yes, my Ratties did miss me. Bless 'em.›

Bugger Blognor II

2004-07-28T20:19:00.000+01:00

I'm off out, I may be some time...

Well, 'til Monday to be exact. I'm orf to watch the World Superbike Championship race at Brands hatch for the weekend with some like-minded drunken-reprobate chums! Hurrah! Fear not for Lou and Scabbers, arrangements have been made for grub and swig: I have hired some performing gnomes to come in every day, laden with Pizza and Speckled Hen, so they'll be fine.

I've noticed the Blogring seems to have dropped into a bit of a lull recently, what with folks hollibobs and all. Must be the appeal of the sunshine keeping folk away from their pee-cees, which is no bad thing. Well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Hi, my name's Omally and I'm an Outdoors Addict. I like camping, drinking beer in good pubs, eating food cooked on little camping stoves and walking about in the countryside/'round race-tracks. I'm taking it one day at a time. Soon I hope to be back indoors where I belong, staring zombie-like at my pee-cee and eating pizza.
I've not had a wazz behind a hedge for several days now, so I'm getting better.

‹Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!›

Burp

2004-07-26T20:35:00.000+01:00

Ah, what a funday Sunday arvo that was with me fambly! Turned up at about 1 ish to be greeted by Granny 'n' Grandad, Mum 'n' Dad 'n' me lil sis Amey as well as Auntie Di, Uncle Malc and cousin Kathryn, who were showing off their Greek holiday snaps. As soon as Uncle Pete 'n' Auntie Hilde arrived, we realised we had nothing like enough beer or ice so Dad, Malc and I went out to get plenty of both. We must have visited about 6 off-licences (luckily I know where all the nearest offies are: odd that, innit?) and got ourselves an impressive bootful of booze and ice (the ice was for the numerous bottles of Champagne). Duly stocked up, we headed back to The Party which was by now in full swing as numerous Aunties, Great Aunties, Uncles, Great Uncles, Cousins and other assorted relatives had arrived and were Thronging the Patio. And Cackling. Well, the ladies were Cackling, the gents were Laughing Uproariously. Most likely due to Grandad and his Sense of Humour. A good example would be Grandad's habit of slipping his false teeth slightly out of place so they hang out over his bottom lip. It's even funnier when he's been drinking... You'd have to see it up close to see the funny side I guess. But wait! Now, with the technermological wonder that is Omallyvision, you can be there too!

The rest of the party was the usual fambly-do type stuff, lots of catching-up and 'hasn't he grown?' so I'll bore you not with details, save to say a good time was had by all, especially Granny and Grandad who also celebrated their Emerald Wedding Anniversary! Hurrah! Cake was involved in quantity large, too. And no, sorry, we didn't save you any, before you ask. :)

‹Doesn't for one moment regret the hangover, nor m'colleagues being able to guess that I'd been drinking Real Ale all day Sunday›

Pop

2004-07-24T14:27:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow is me Grandad's 80th Burfdee Party! Hurrah and Huzzah!
I'm fortunate enough to have a very very smashing fambly, none of us have ever really fallen out: even the occasional pair of divorcees are on good terms still. This means we like to have thumping-great get-togethers now and then, using such excuses as numerically pleasing birthdays, wedding anniversaries, moving housearies, christeningifications etc. We usually have a get-together around once a year. Same old drill each time: the Old People sit around nattering (with amazingly little 'youth of today' nonsense) and making a mess of their food; the middle-agers do all the running about serving booze, cooking barbeques, making cakes, driving the the Old People to and from the party and all that jazz; then you have my cousins and I, also known as 'The Grandchildren'. At every family gathering of at least any merit, you always have a gang of kids up to no good in a corner somewhere. This usually explains the cups of foaming tea, the exploding cakes, the sudden appearance of Tiger-Tail balloons from under Granny's chair (always gets a laugh, that one) and the discreet disappearance of certain bottles of spirits, with the amusing effect of having drunken youngsters noisily being ill whilst the Old People are just settling down for their evening naps.
Of course us Grandchildren are getting on a bit now; I'm 28 and one of the younger ones. That does not, however, mean any of us have any intention of behaving ourselves. Oh deary me no. I daresay one of my cousins will set fire to something in an amusing way this year, whilst another of us will doubtlessly start telling obscene jokes only to be outdone by me Grandad. Bless him. :)
No, the only way to really enjoy a Fambly-Gathering is to get blind-drunk and sing 'Kevin Bloody Wilson' songs or recite some of the grittier Pete 'n' Dud sketches whilst various mad Aunties snap away with their little 35mm cameras saying things like 'he looks just like Uncle Jack, doesn't he?' and 'ah, bless, he knows nearly all the words to Eskimo Nell now!'

‹Prepares to don really nasty aftershave in defence against the hordes of Monstrous Slobbering Aunties.›

The Rats Of Monte Christo

2004-07-22T23:50:00.000+01:00

I can't help but feel sorry for Lou and Scabbers, y'know. They're getting braver by the minute and are more comfy in their new home, but I had a bit of a weird dream last night in which Scabbers was huddled in a corner of the cage, scribbling in a tiny little diary made from scraps of shredded paper:

Day 1: I was taken from my noble family, along with my three brothers, and caged in some sort of hell-hole. These strange creatures keep looking in through the bars of our cage. They feed us well on a variety of cereals, but the hunger for pizza is ever-present.
Within a couple of days one of these humans turned up (in fact, the very same one that took us from our family in the first place) and plucked myself and my brother Lou from our hiding place at the back of the cage. We were thrust into the hands of another human who smelt decidedly of pizza who in turn placed us, along with some of our bedding, into a dark box with air-holes in the top. For 10 long minutes we were taken in this box on a journey through what sounded like the Outside World. We should have seized our opportunity for escape by knawing through the flimsy cardboard of the box, but the smell of pizza got the better of us both.
We finally arrived at this new human's dwelling where he had another cage waiting for us. This cage was again filled with hay. Lou and I hid as soon as we were thrown into the cage, for fear of this human being a monstrous brigand intent on stripping the flesh from our bones.
The cage was soon moved into a quiet room, away from prying eyes, so Lou and myself scoured our prison for weaknesses. I fear there are none. If we are to escape, we shall have to resort to cunning tactics. The human came in periodically and tried to feed us with more cereals. We remained hidden until he'd gone, then slipped out of our hiding place and gorged ourselves. I just hope the food isn't poisoned, but we were too hungry to care.

Day 2: Occasionally the human (who we've since learned is called Omally) has opened the cage and tried to stroke us. I think he's checking our sleek coats to see if we can be made into rugs or similar. Sometimes he gives us yoghurt drops to fatten us up. We can't help ourselves, however: these yoghurt drops are so tasty compared to the cereal that we dash out from hiding to snatch them from Omally and dash away quick before he can grab us. Lou keeps nicking my yoghurt drops, the cad. Doesn't he realise we're in the same situation and should stick together? Fool. Also, Lou keeps farting in our hiding place. It was too much to bear during the day and I had to get out and run 'round the cage for a bit. Luckily Omally wasn't around all day, so we both took the opportunity to explore again. Still no sign of any weak-points in this infernal cage.
Tonight, Omally came into the room and opened the cage again. He picked up some of our faeces and placed them in a strange pink box which was full of shredded paper, which he then placed in a corner of our cage. I think he expects us to 'slop out' here on a regular basis. It would be prudent of Lou and I to do so: Omally gives us yoghurt drops when we walk up to his out-stretched hand if he calls our names (quite how he knows our names I don't know: I think he may be in a witch or similar), perchance we can earn more yoghurt drops from him.
I think Omally is playing games with us. Later on this evening the smell of pizza hit us full blast when Omally opened the door to our prison chamber. He opened the cage and tossed in a couple of scraps of pizza for our supper. The swine only gave us crusts though! Chiz! He'll pay dearly for that, you mark my words! Lou and I have formulated a plan to keep him awake all night, as it seems this room that holds our cage is also Omally's bed-chamber.
Drat! Now Omally has moved our cage to another room! He must be reading this diary whilst I'm busy arguing over yoghurt drops with Lou. So, Omally is a cunning prison-guard. I shall have to be more careful in future. It's too risky to keep this diary so I shall now eat it. Or maybe I'll hide it in the toilet. Omally will never think to look for it in there.

‹Still amazed at the size of rat turds›

Nibble.

2004-07-21T22:30:00.000+01:00

OK, so I don't know what day it is. Or, rather, I do* but I forgot what day I was s'posed to be collecting my Ratties. Not Fursday, but TODAY! Hurrah! I got a call at work telling me they were out of quarantine*** so I asked m'boss if I could leave early so's to get to the pet-shop before closing. Now my boss (quite unlike Simon's boss) doesn't expect me to bend over backwards for him (or, indeed, forwards) and was quite happy to agree to my simple request. Didn't stop him questioning my sanity with regards to pet-procurement, but never mind: I am now EnRattyfied!

At the moment, Lou**** & Scabbers are in me bedroom as it's quieter there. Gives 'em a chance to settle down and get used to their new home before I thrust 'em into the limelight that is Rat TV (at which time formal introductions will be made: I have the Queen coming 'round to do a spot of paw-shaking before launching the new channel, doncherknow).
They're starting to get comfy already. At first they hid in the deepest corner of their cage and wouldn't come out; now they're starting to trust me a bit and have twice strolled nonchalantly across to my hand to accept a couple of Yoghurty Lumps each.

Here, have a couple of piccies to go 'Ooh' and 'Ahhh' over.

*Wednesday**
**May not be 100% true.
***I'm already getting bored of explaining to m'colleagues about Rat Hygeine: I'm getting a few good lessons in "talking to them wot won't listen". Stuff 'em.
**** They're both boys, so I had to change Lu to Lou. I may change it again. Indecisiveness is a sign of the creeping-up of old age, but I'm not so sure.

‹Still suprised at the sheer girth of Rat Turds and wonders how something so small can produce something so big›

Here come the Ratties!

2004-07-21T00:08:00.000+01:00

Yes indeedy, they'll be making an appearance upon Rat TV for the first time tomorrow night, where they'll no doubt scurry off into their little bed-chamber to hide from all the scary smells and noises that make up the exotic experience that is Chez Omally.
I have the yoghurt drops ready (Ratties like them, apparantly) as well as a big bag of proper food and the cage is all set. I just need to persuade my boss to let me leave work early so I can get to the pet-shop in time before they close.

And now I shall indulge in a spot of excessive thumb-twiddling due to being all excited about the impending enRatiffication.

<Twiddles thumbs>

Return Of The King Of Sweden

2004-07-20T00:09:00.000+01:00

Hurrah! I'm back from my Epic Journey 'round the Isle of Wight with me merry band of Grockles (Merman, Pharisee and Keef from Motley Crew) and what a great time we had too!
Pharisee arrived at Casa Omally on Friday night, so we sat and swigged (as Grockles are wont to do) til the wee hours and chatted much of cabbages and kings, then in the morning (after a bit of a fry-up, naturally) we headed off to Fareham to meet up with Keef to load all our kit into his VW Sharon*. Then we tootled off to the Ferry Terminal in P*rtsm**th to meet The Merman who had brung what for all the world looked like all his er, wordly possesions** and thence we boarded the Ferry and demanded the Capn take us to the Isle of Wight else we'd slit him from gizzard to gonads. Turned out he was going that way anyhoo, so we stowed our trusty cutlasses and settled down for a peaceful voyage.
'Pon arrival we set off toot sweet to find numerous caches, one of which gave us a fair bit of gyp: Diamond Isle by the mighty KeRa. Much travelling 'round the Wight accompanied by a suitable quantity of head-scratching landed us at what we thought to be the final location*** ('tis a virtual multi-cache, you see) but somehow we couldn't make all the clues fit proper, like. Well, we were sure we woz wrong, so tried to contact KeRa by 'phone. No joy that way, due to his mobile being switched orf, so we put that cache on the back-burner and carried on with some other caches.
After a long, hot, and indeed sweaty, day**** we hied us to our campsite and put our tents up before heading pub-wards at the hurry up for a few pints of dinner. Whilst in the pub, I decided to text numerous folk (about eight, I think) to beg their intervention on The Diamond Isle Problem. We were sat round a table going over the clues again and again and again and getting nowhere, so help was needed. I asked all them fine folk (y'all know who y'are, and my thanks indeed for your help! :)) to email KeRa and ask him to 'phone me. With that done, we once more replaced the Diamond Isle 'pon the back-burner and applied ourselves once more to the conumption of swig and thence the staggering back to the campsite.
Back at our tents, Merman (being of Native American Indian extraction, I expect) produced his Pipe of Peace of which we all partook and that was a splendid end to a grand day out, even if it did mean Mermy and I *had* to lay down and stare at some clouds for a bit :)
Rosy-fingered dawn came and went and still the Grockles slept, then at about 8-ish we all arose and indulged in a hearty brekkers of scrambled egg, mushies and bacon (as sliced by my fabbo new Leatherman!) cooked by Merman***** before proceeding with another bout of caching.
Still no contact from KeRa, and we were thinking we'd have to give up on Diamond Isle.
Eventually we ended up at The Needles to find an extremely cunningly hidden cache. On our way to said cache, my mobile started playing the Mexican Hat Dance. Golly! A call from a strange number! Could it be? Could it possibly be? It was! It was the Mighty KeRa! His first words were "I gather you've got a few problems with Diamond Isle, judging by the number of emails I've had asking me to phone you, need some help?"
My reply, after all the grovelling and scraping, was something along the lines of 'yessirpleasehelpusweneedacluesoveryverybadlypleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease', and so I described where we'd got to. As it transpired, being a total bunch of absolutely brilliant geocachers****** we'd actually found the final location already!! After a brief flash of feeling vey silly, I pulled myself together, said my thanks and goodbyes to KeRa and, once I'd stopped laughing I informed m'fellow Grockles that we'd actually completed Diamond Isle already.
Now that's what I call class. :)

The rest of the day was spent doing more caches before returning to the Mainland on wings of smugness at having completed all the available caches upon the Isle of Wight, a noble way indeed to celebrate the first anniversary of the formation of that splendid league of gentlemen known as The Grockles.

* Bit like the Vauxhall Tracy but betterer.
** Apart from his boat, of course.
*** I won't give away any details, don't wanna spoil it for anyone else!
**** Including numerous attempts to contact KeRa. Tchoh. Amatuer.
***** I'm sure if my regular cook had been present, we'd have dined on Curried Pheasant and Chips, but when one is on one's travels, one has to make shift.
****** If anyone would care to disagree, please post your comments to:
Kiss My Hairy Butt Promotions Ltd
PO Box 666
Slappem
Tillet
Herts
BO1 10X

*Eagerly awaits the arrival of Lu and Scabbers, also known as 'The Ratties' on Thursday*

By the way, rubbishy blogspot no longer lets me add my usual final comment using less-than and greater-than symbols, so pray excuse the asterisk overdose. Anyone got any bright ideas to overcome that? Ah, sod it. I'll just move to wordpress :)

Raided!

2004-07-15T22:57:00.000+01:00

Ah-harrr! That scurvy knave The Merman has been and gone and pillaged my Vintage Motorcar Collection! He turned up this very evening whilst I was a-slumbering off the effects of a hard days work at t' mill with his swarthy band of cut-throat brigands and stripped the innards from the prize of my collection, the Citroen ZX*! All that's left of the beloved Four-Wheeled Wonder is a chassis and a pile of rusty springs! He'll swing from the highest yardarm in P*rtsm**th for this days work!

Well, alright, I said he could have the bits he wanted for his own smelly old Shitroen ZX in exchange for taking the remaining bulk to the scrapyard for me. It was a choice between that or abandon the old heap on the side of the road and *ahem* 'add petrol'. Now, I know the latter option would have made for much better bloggage, but I'm really a fine up-standing fellow**.
So Merman (and his swarthy cut-throat brigand chum Pal Mal) did the honours to me old motor and Merman brung me a prezzie all the way from the Good Ol' U S of A: A Leatherman Supertool 200! With this mighty tool*** at my disposal I shall never again have to wonder how on earth I change a busted bulb on me Skorp, or indeed almost any other part that cares to blow-out, drop-off or otherwise cease to function as per remit. Maaaaaaaaaarvellous! I feel complete now. Blessings be upon the magnificent Merman!

* Formerly known as the Omallymobile.
** Henry, if you don't stop sniggering I'll have you flogged.****
*** I mean it.
**** For medical research.

Faaaaaaantastic!

2004-07-13T21:35:00.000+01:00

...As Murray Walker would say. Spent the weekend at the British Grand Prix (silent X, Henners, so stop sniggering) as a Spectator Marshall. This meant I got to watch the GP (including Practice, Qualifying and all the other rubbishy races involving Porches and Historic Cars) for free. In fact I was paid the princely sum of £15 to be a Marshall, which paid for my petrol to Silverstone and back again. I wasn't expecting money as well as free entertainment, so that's what you might call a Brucie Bonus. Oh, yes, I had to walk up and down all weekend getting sun-burnt to make sure no-one got onto the track to pull a moonie at Schumacher or whatever, but it was a jolly good time nonetheless.
Along with a few other lads, I was posted at Luffield (which is a lovely big hairpin bend near the starting grid thingy) and told to walk up and down (whilst wearing a bright orange tabbard) in front of the General Viewing Area which in turn was in front of one of the grandstands. In front of this General Viewing Area is an 8 ft wide grass strip before the Debris Fence. The reason for this is that the Debris Fence catches about 90% of sod-all when a car hits it at full tilt, spraying gravel, nuts, bolts, bits of driver etc, ergo the punters need to be kept away from it. This involves asking them repeatedly and very nicely not to sit on it, not to light barbeques on it, in fact to keep the hell away from it at all times. Not a problem mostly, but there's always one arsehole who's "paid a lot of money to come here, y'know" who insists we're all in his way. Tough titties, I said. Well, more politely than that of course. No, really. I called him "Sir" and everything whilst I carefully explained to him (and indeed the rest of the crowd that could hear me) that we were there for his safety and also for that of everyone around him, and that if he was to see any of us orange-clad loons legging it hell-for-leather away from the track he would be wise to follow suit before he got a Bridgestone Tyre in the mush.
Talking of tyres, I was given a big lump of rubber from one of the F1 car's tyres after the first qualifying round by one of the Track Marshalls. Hmmm. Not the most impressive thing to add to my collection of crap at home, so I broke it up and gave it to some of the nippers at the front of the crowd and told 'em it had come off Michael Shumacher's car when he'd spun off nearby during Qualifying. Little bit of bullshit never hurt no-one I suppose, and it meant I didn't end up with a pocket full of black resin.
Quite a tiring weekend, all told: I rode up to Silverstone on Thursday Morning, pitched me tent and awaited the arrival of everyone else (I have this terrible habit of being far too early sometimes, I didn't need to be there until 4 p.m.) did all me marshalling nonsense on Friday, Saturday and Sunday and then rode up to Norwich with me mate Dave (who was also marshalling with me) to see my lovely likkle God-Daughter Emily.
Monday I rode all the way home to Southampton, and would have done the trip in 3 1/2 hours if I hadn't been stopped by the police for having a not-working-at-all rear light on me bike. I was only 40 miles from home and it was *sort of* getting dark-ish, so I guess the copper did have a point. I pulled into Fleet services on the M3 and couldn't find anywhere to obtain a replacement bulb. I felt so very very silly for calling out a recovery bloke just for a poxy bulb, but that's what I had to do seeing as the copper "recommended" I get it "seen to" in case I got pulled over again. Even I can recognise a hint when it's got flourescent yellow all over it. I also got a nice pink ticket that I have to get stamped by an MOT test station to prove that I've replaced the bulb and that it works. This, apparantly, may well cost me £20. I suppose it would be expecting too much for the nice copper to have just not given me a ticket, but I suppose he could have given me some sort of penalty notice instead. Either way, I'm out of pocket, but hey ho, live and learn. I shall carry spare bulbs in future, and if it happens again I'll change it in front of the copper so he can verify it works his bloody self. I certainly can't moan about that, seeing as I just had yet another fabbo weekend!
Next weekend I'm off to the Isle of Wight to do some Geocaching with Merman, Pharisee and Motley Crew, then the weekend after that I'm going to watch the World Superbikes at Brands Hatch, then some time in August I'm off up to Cropredy (as previously mentioned) and I daresay SimonG's fillum will take up any remaining weekends. Hurrah for not being at home for the weekend!
I nearly forgot: the fuel-filter on me bike came undone, so it's now held on by a couple of Ty-Raps until I can work out how to get me starter-motor off so I can refit the fuel-filter. Oh the joys of riding a big single-cylinder bike that vibrates like a washing machine at anything over 3000 rpm. And no, I'm not taking any of you for a spin on it... ;)

‹Sulks briefly at not being allowed to keep poxy orange Marshalls tabbard›

...And still Birmingham

2004-07-12T23:06:00.000+01:00

The title says it all, really - another day without much progress. Simon's spending ever more time in bed, henry's feeling ill, and it sounds like he's pining to come home. It goes without saying, and yet bears repetition, that henry's doing an amazingly selfless thing. To give so much emotionally and physically for someone he barely knows, someone who - whether by dint of his nature or his condition - offers very little gratitude, says more about the kind of person henry is than I can ever say in words. But it sounds as though, perhaps, the time has come for him to think about himself for a change.

I do believe His Majesty King Omally will be back from his Royal Buggering Off tomorrow, so I'd like you all to line up with a catapult and a rotten cabbage for a low-budget 21 gun salute. Aim for his head.

‹Rolls out the red carpet and sweeps the pizza crumbs under it›

Still Birmingham

2004-07-11T22:39:00.000+01:00

Today the mechanic came out and patched up the boat - for you mechanically minded folk, the engine needed a new drive plate, whatever one of those is. All this palaver unfortunately means they're still in Birmingham, albeit a slightly more salubrious district thereof. They're just a few locks short of Aston junction (which I hope I've correctly located on the map), after which they'll be well out of the dodgy area.

It's been a slow day, but the lads are well on their way again now. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Birmingham

2004-07-10T23:10:00.000+01:00

Oh dear... not a good day. The boat's blown up.

More accurately, something's gone wrong with the gears, and they're stuck in the middle of Birmingham - just where they didn't want to stop. They've called a rescue company, but they won't be there until tomorrow... luckily the chaps have somehow managed to wangle a police guard overnight, so it's not as bad as it could be.

So, things weren't going well. Then henry fell off the roof of the boat.

He landed on the towpath, rather than in the water, choosing the dry option in preference to the soft one. He bruised his bundebangles, but is otherwise fine, and this evening got a visit from the marvellous Stu and Sarah, which I'm sure cheered our heroes up no end after their rubbish day.

Lots of setbacks, but nothing catastrophic, and they'll be back on their merry way upon the morrow. Best of luck to 'em.

Solihull

2004-07-09T22:50:00.000+01:00

Another successful day for the crew of the Wey Tamarisk. It seems henry gave Trouty a call at about 5:30 this evening with the news that they'd stopped for the night, at a little place called Catherine de Barnes. In itself this would have been a good day's progress, but she got another call at 7:30 announcing that they were on the move again. Seems our boys can't keep still!

They finally moored at - and I quote Trouty here, who I presume was quoting henry - "a dreadful industrial place near to Solihull". This is fantastic news - the next leg of their journey takes them through Birmingham, where they don't want to stop overnight as various persons of a vandallous persuasion stalk the canals thereabouts. Their plan is therefore to get all the way through Brum on the morrow, so it's great that they'll be starting so close to the outskirts.

Only one minor setback today - when henry was banging the mooring pin into place, the silly ostrich dropped the hammer in the canal. His language, I'm informed, was of a colourful and expressive nature. But all was not lost: he spared no time in whipping out his sea magnet, and the hammer was soon restored.

Kingswood

2004-07-08T19:33:00.000+01:00

Right you lot, Omally's gone AWOL for the weekend leaving me in charge, so let's get down to business. It seems our heroes have made marvellous progress today, conquering the remaining locks at Hatton Flight and thence chugging the considerable distance to Kingswood. All this despite pretty miserable weather, so it looks like they've had a fairly successful day. Let's hope their luck continues.

Hatton Flight

2004-07-07T20:42:00.000+01:00

The lads are doing really well, they managed to get half-way along Hatton Flight to a little mooring place and will finish the rest of the flight 'pon the morrow. I don't envy them this part of the trip (not that I envy *any* part; you know what I mean). The locks are spectacularly deep by all accounts, ergo take ages to refill etc. The weather has been bordering on 'Hatful of Arseholes' status today and this has really taken it's toll on our heroes. A spot of pub grub and a healthy drop or three of swig to recuperate and they'll be bracing themselves for the second half tomorrow.

From tomorrow until Monday, the magnificent SimonG will be keeping y'all updated with maps and stuff. Mind you don't get any ketchup or pizza-stains on my lovely *ahem* clean blog, Simon! ;)
My thanks, I owe ya one! :)

Mad?

2004-07-06T20:49:00.000+01:00

Henry managed to find Boaty Simon again today. As you can see below he's now in Warwick. Despite Henry's best efforts to persuade him otherwise, Boaty Simon is still determined to carry on up country to get to Telford. Exactly what he's going to do when he gets there or where he's going to stay, no-one knows.
Henry and Simon have both spoken with the National Trust today. It seems they're not really interested in renewing Simon's mooring down in Guildford. Even when Simon spoke to them himself (they'd reveal nothing at all to Henry) they insisted he write to them and they'd write back with an appropriate response. Quite how the post is supposed to reach someone when they're cruising on the Grand Union Canal is a tricky problem. One suggestion is that Simon has their reply sent Post Restant to a main Post Office of his choice and go pick it up from there, but it seems he simply wants to forget about the whole thing and just chug along to Telford. Nope. not Wolverhampton any more, Telford. Somehow I get the feeling he doesn't want to stop chugging along until the end. Who knows where the lads will end up?

So Henry is, of course, helping Boaty Simon on his way up country. They will be going through the 21 locks that make up Hatton flight, so tonight they are fortifying themselves with an excellent steak dinner and some swig at the Tiller Pin in Warwick. It's going to be a tough day for them tomorrow, possibly their toughest yet.

Mission II

2004-07-06T00:33:00.000+01:00

As Henry has already told, he's off to find Boaty Simon again. This time, hopefully and God-willing, to steer him on the right course and bring him back home. It simply cannot be left unsaid that Henry is doing the Right, and indeed Bravest, Thing. There are many people in this world who feel they are entitled to respect by dint of having loads of cash and power over mere mortals, but they can all fuck off. I reserve my respect for folk like Henry and Boaty Simon who really earn it.

I'll be posting updates for the new Mission (please God let Simon see sense) with the maps so y'all can see what's going on (at least on a geographical level) and as I'm away for the next few weekends for unimportant reasons I'd like to ask for help with the updates. Anyone who'd like to volunteer their services, please email me and I'll let you have my password, ftp details, mobile number etc. It's quite easy and not too overly technermological. If I had the technermology I'd post from all corners of this country, but I don't so I can't. I did offer to stick the updates on Henry's blog, but for the sake of consistency I'll stick 'em here and play silly buggers with Henrys's blog instead. Anyone care to join me?

I ask you all, please, for Boaty Simon's mental well-being, keep sending messages of support to him. He *really* needs all the help he can get, even if you just say "keep on chuggin'" it'll help.

Life is 6 to 4 against at best, but Boaty Simon is still alive so let's help him on his way a bit. We can't do much, but what we can do, we can do right. Team effort and all that jazz.

Update

2004-07-04T22:30:00.000+01:00

Boaty Simon is still going strong! He's now outside Leamington Spa, apparently, and his FG, Julie, has been to see him today. I hope she stays with him a bit longer this time, if ever he needed her it's now, but that's up to her I guess. I'll try to keep y'all updated as to Simon's progress as and when we know where Simon is.

Now, I have a complaint. Someone, one of you blogging fiends, has been casting aspertions on my good name. This evening I saw some graffiti on the wall outside SimonG.org of a most unpleasant and downright scurrilous nature:

"Mallers is the biggest softie in the world. A lovely chap."

If the perpetrator doesn't come forward before noon tomorrow, I will have no choice but to send a fleet of Swedish Battle-Cruisers to invade your puny country and force you all to eat black-currant jam sandwiches with custard tarts to follow. And I'll confiscate all your Gin, too. You have been warned. This sort of behaviour will not be tolerated, so in the interests of Anglo-Nordic harmony I suggest you all think very carefully about the possible quinceconces. And yes, Spike Milligan *was* Swedish, so ner.

Tchoh. People today have absolutely no respect for Knobility muttermumblemutter

‹Goes to rouse Swedish Navy from their drunken slumbers›

I Wanted To Be.... A Lumberjack!

2004-07-03T22:38:00.000+01:00

Leaping from tree to tree!

Well, not exactly leaping: more sidling carefully along a wire or hurtling down um, another wire, or, indeed, swinging from a platform about 12 miles up* into a cargo-net, trapping a nadger in the process.
As you may well be aware, from a number of the splendiferous blogs that form the Holy Blogring Of SimonG, a bunch of us went to Sherwood Forest to play on a load of old rope-swings. And what a corking day out it was too!
I travelled up by train last night to stay with my dedicated subjects, Jan and Ned. They even had the Swedish Flag flying outside the front door, which I must confess made me feel rather homesick. 'Pon entering their magnificent abode I was immediately pounced upon by numerous crotch-sniffing monsters of the spotted variety** before having a mug of Ale thrust into my ever-open drinking-hand to start the quaffing thereof. A veritable feast*** was laid on but, fear not, I got the stains out of me t-shirt OK. More quaffing ensued with the addition of yarning away like gooduns until the clock struck one and we decided that bed-time was nigh if we were to preserve enough energy to climb trees in the morning.

Now, for some unexplained reason, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the previously mentioned quaffing I can assure you, the early-morning sun seems so much brighter in Warwickshire. It's just not on, y'know. I shall have to pass a Royal Decree or something to get it turned down a bit. Can't be good for one's loyal subjects eye-sight, and one has to look after one's subjects, doncherknow.

So the Royal Carriage was loaded up and orf we jolly well went to Sherwood Forest to meet up with the others. The Morts, el10t and Milk Monsters Mum were waiting for us, (it was jolly difficult to resist the temptation to shut Mort in the boot of the Mortmobile) and we stood around in the refreshing**** rain to await the arrival of the rest of the gang (namely Bean, Marc B and his dad Colin and Miss_Sixty and Adam) who soon arrived and the fun commenced!

Much can be said of the many feats of derring-do witnessed in the tree-tops*****, but pictures tend to speak more clearly and succinctly than drunken nobility, so here ya go:

Go on, shut the lid!

el10t trying his hardest to keep warm. Note the gnome hiding behind Adam in the background.

Bean, the right way up for a change.

Ned showing us how spiderman does it.

Jan hanging on for dear life at approximately 3ft off the ground. ;)

Wibbling Tree-Hugger :)

Yarrrrr!!!

Aprés Swing.

So after a mornings silliness, a tad of swearification and lots of chuckling all 'round we headed off to the nearest pub****** for some swig, grub and much rubbing of tender limbs.
A most enjoyable day out in excellent company, my thanks indeed to the marvellously splendid JG and Ned for organising the whole thing! I shall have to see if I have any Knighthoods left, if anyone deserves being Knighted it's gotta be these guys!

To top off a smashing day, the splendid el10t gave me a lift home in his Rather Fast Car! Brrummmmmm! (Like a mo'bike with four wheels, but you'd have to have ridden a mo'bike to know what I mean!)

I think there's only one word in the Royal Vocabularly which can sum up today's activities: Huzzah!

*Look, if I want to exaggerate, I will. I'm the bloody King of Sweden, doncherknow!
** Dalmatians. Gert big dribbling lumoxes they are too, but lovely with it.
*** Curry. and blooming good it was too. I may have to sack my current chef and send for Ned. That or relocate my castle to South Warwickshire.
**** Trust me. It *was* refreshing.
***** Alright then, Tree-Middles. And Tree-bottoms. Tchoh. Pickypickypickymuttermuttermumble.
****** el10t, being a statistician, correctly predicted it would be called "The Robin Hood": one hell of a coincidence seeing as we were in Sherwood Forest! Amazing!

‹Sinks slowly and carefully into rose-scented bathwater to relieve multiple aches and reaches for another bottle of Marstons Firestoker›

A Grand Day Off

2004-06-30T23:19:00.000+01:00

Funny how most folk save weekends for Getting Stuff Done. Not me. I'm usually too busy going somewhere or other at weekends to Get Stuff Done. Well, I have been lately, at least. So, in order to Get Stuff Done, I took today off work. My To Do list ran thusly and in no particular order:

Buy Mum & Dad's birthday pressies
Buy Rat Cage and possibly Rats to go in it
Buy paniers, new gloves* and cargo-net for Skorp
Clean windows and hoover flat
Clean Skorp and oil the chain
Read Fillum Script

I think there were other items, but I've lost the list now. I managed to complete four of the above items as well as hang around in SimonG's magnificent chatroom for a goodly portion of the day. It may well have been this last activity which diverted me from my duties, but at least I have a clean bike with nice new paniers etc and, above all, a Rat Cage! Hurrah! I assembled same this afternoon, with much swearing, straining and also a dash of encouragement from some well-meaning folk** in the chatroom. Made a pig's ear of it at first before realising I had certain parts back to front and upside down. Once rectified, the whole thing went up quicker than Tim Henman's odds of winning Wimbledon.
No rats in stock at the pet-shop near me, however. There's a new litter (or, more accurately, 'mischief') of rats on its way, but the little mites are too young to leave home just now. Should be available near the end of July. I could go to another pet-shop, of course. I did phone round all the local pet-shops and one or two have some in stock, so we'll see which of 'em are open next Sunday after Go Ape! I'm so excited I could squeak! In fact, I think I will:

*ahem*

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

Ah, that's better.

*No, my bike doesn't wear gloves, silly: I do when I'm riding her. Tchoh.
**For "Well-Meaning Folk" read "Bunch Of Rotten Swine Who Kept Taking the Pi(scuse me, doorbell)"

‹Feels momentarily guilty for not getting Mum & Dad's pressies›

Much Cutlass Waving and "Yarrrrrrrs" All 'Round

2004-06-29T19:04:00.000+01:00

Fear not! Boaty Simon is still chugging along! Lord Henrington of Thirst is having a very well-earned break to gather his thoughts and recharge his batteries. Wise move. :)

Simon is now at Stockton Marina, also known as The Blue Lias Marina. OK, it's only a short trip of about 3 miles, but there are more engine problems to be considered. Well, fixed, more accurately. The oil-filter was put on without a gasket by some dirty rotten cowboy of a mechanic, so that needs attention. I tell you, when Cap'n BlackBeard The Thirst gets hold of the lily-livered land-lubber, he'll be keel-hauled good an' hard, and deservedly so! A pox on all cowboy mechanics!
Yarrrrrr!

Ooooh, and a double Hurrah! I have the day off tomorrow! I have one or two little jobs to catch up on, namely buying a nice set of paniers for me Skorp in readiness for my travels up and down the country (Silverstone GP, Cropredy, Brands Hatch, etc) as well as hopefully getting a Rat cage for Lu and Scabbers (no, I'd not forgotten!). Quite how I'll get a ruddy great Rat cage home I've yet to find out. I may have to resort to chatting up the lovely lass wot works the counter at the Rat Shop. I just hope she drives a car. :)

Boarded!

2004-06-27T19:16:00.000+01:00

So the weather is still doing what is generally expected of it in this Sceptic Isle and alternating between "Bloody Marvellous" and "A Bucketful Of Arseholes".
Thankfully, the engine on the Wey Tamarisk has been doing OK and, in spite of the odd break for to let the engine cool off a bit, the lads have got as far as Napton! Hurrah! They stopped in Marston Doles on Saturday night (which is, apparantly, somewhere in "the middle of pissing nowhere") and have today fought their way through 9 locks to reach Napton. Henry was certainly sounding more cheerful on the phone tonight. Simon and he were so chuffed to be visited by Ned and JG and to get more text messages from well wishers (especially from the other side of The Pond!). Not only that, but the lads were boarded by a Piratical Wench of the highest order determined to "look after" them: I speak of none other than the Magnificent Trouty! A splendid woman who misses her man enough to travel halfway up the country to make sure he has some clean underwear and other necessary provisions. They're off to the pub now to meet Ned again and 'pon the morrow they shall be off up the Grand Union Canal towards Leamington Spa and thence to Birmingham. All being well, they should make good progress. Fingers crossed.

Ache

2004-06-26T22:15:00.000+01:00

Have been out Geocaching all day with me chums Keith from Motley Crew and Pharisee. Ooh I ache! 'Twas a jolly good day, we bagged 10 out of 11 caches, but I do feel the need to sleep rather urgently so I shall update y'all on simon and Henry's progress tomorrow when I get a chance to call them.

Nighty night!

Progress Is Good

2004-06-25T19:01:00.000+01:00

Boaty Simon and Henry have done about 5 miles more chuggin' today: they're now at Cropredy! The weather has officially been "bloody lovely" today. When Henry called tonight to give me a progress report, it sounded like he was in some sort of aviary: The birdies have been out in force today to sing our heroes on their way. Good old nature, ain't she grand when she wants to be? The weather and birdsong has combined to galvanise grins back onto their phizzogs.

It seems fitting that Cropredy should be the place to listen to the music of Nature as it's the site of possibly one of the finest musical events of the year, known as The Cropredy Festival. I am reliably informed by chum Ralphus that this years may very well be the last Cropredy Festival. It would be silly not to go, wouldn't it? :)

Chugging Good 'n' Hard

2004-06-24T22:31:00.000+01:00

At last! Boaty Simon and faithful Henry have got moving again! Hurrah! They chugged along to Banbury today. The Wey Tamarisk stalled a couple of times, but the weather being total arse has been a bit of a help to them in a way because there have been a lot less boats on the canal.
Simon is, understandably, having to take regular lie-downs to conserve his energy. Lucky he's got Henry to help him out.

Friday night should see Simon and Henry being greeted somewhere along the Oxford Canal by the ultra-spiffing JG and Ned! All being well, of course. I just hope the lads don't get stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a bilgeful of kack!
Guys, you're about to meet possibly the finest pair of chaps you could wish to meet!

Henry seems to have recovered from his swimming escapades. Spirits are a tad low, owing to many factors. Partly due to the engine being a bit on the dodgy side, also because of Simon and Henry's own unique problems. Please spare a thought for the lads when you can. The odd text now and then will help lift their spirits, so please email me if you want either Simon or Henry's number: every little bit helps. C'mon, would you rather keep 12 pees of credit on yer 'phone or know that you're helped cheer someone up a bit? :)

Splash!

2004-06-23T22:48:00.000+01:00

Ho hum.
The lads are still stuck at Aynho. The engine on the Wey Tamarisk is still brokified, unfortunately. Water is still flooding into the engine and making a lovely scrummy mix with the oil. Apparantly, when the engine was serviced, the chap wot did the servicing managed to strip the threads on the oil-pipes through over-tightening the screws, so they no longer hold a sound joint and therefore leak oil. Add that to the Leak That Cannot Be Found wot is letting the water in and you have fun and games all over the place. Still, Simon has had the stencilling redone now, so all the lovely writing on the boat is now very lovely indeed and looking most definitely tip-top.
Henry managed to have a bath today, to wash off some of yesterdays grime. Unintentionally, mind you. He was apparantly helping another boat tie-up and had a nice firm grip on the bow rope. Somehow the skipper of the boat managed to not slow down enough and ploughed straight on backwards. Henry being Henry instinctively didn't let go of the rope and was dragged into the canal. With a great deal of spluttering, swearing and a-spitting out of stinky canal-water, he climbed ashore and had to go change and dry off by the stove aboard the Tamarisk.
He could've at least checked the hull of the Tamarisk for leaks whilst he was down there.

Ho Hum. :)

[EDIT: I almost forgot to include the weather report from Our Man In Aynho: It's worse than a Bucketful of Arseholes. That is all.]

Grubby Urchins Greasing The Gland

2004-06-22T19:21:00.000+01:00

Well well well. Simon and Henry ran into a spot of difficulty this morning. They started the engine up in readiness to leave Aynho and went to Grease the Gland. I have no idea whatsoever as to the nature of Gland-Greasing nor, indeed, why they would choose to do this first thing in the morning. It was whilst engaging in this particular act that they noticed the fuel pissing out if the Fuel-Filter and into the Bilges. I say pissing, because that is exactly how Henry described the stream of fuel that was magically moving from one location to the other as it closely resembled a stream of pent-up post-piss-up, er, piss. Anyway, after a very great deal of swearification they managed to retain the services of a mechanic who went over the engine with a fine toothed comb (and some other tools, no doubt) and mendified the whole lot. Took him all day (with Henry's help) to tidy up a lot of things so as to minimise the risks of anything else going wrong on the trip. On top of that, the mechanic made a new Fuel-Filter out of three old ones and cleaned out the Bilges.
In between helping the mechanic, Simon and Henry sat and chatted about this and that and watched the world go by. Swifts gliding two feet above the canal catching insects, ducks robbing tossed bread from Moorhens, two good friends musing upon cabbages and kings: life continued it's ever-rolling cycle.
At Aynho the lads visited two pubs: The one right on the canal turned out to be run by an utter cad who doesn't like dirty, greasy bargees in his bar, Simon and Henry being two very good examples of such folk after their days labours, so that place was rejected in favour of a nearby pub that declared it's love of boaty-folk by placing an advert on the nearby bridge offering to pick up and drop off anyone wanting to visit! Splendid! So, duly collected by the 80-year-old millionaire landlord, our Epic Duo dined mightily upon Gammon steaks bigger than the plates they were served on, swigged a-plenty and travelled back to the barge by the same generous transport as they'd arrived in.

As well as getting the engine sorted, Simon plans to have the stencilling redone before he hands over the Wey Tamarisk to Julie, the idea being it must be in tip-top condition and at it's most beautiful. What a guy.

So, they're all set for the off tomorrow, perhaps they'll make it as far as Banbury tomorrow, I don't know. As Henry told me when I asked where he plans to be next:
"Where we end up next is where we'll be". Makes perfect sense.

Team Effort

2004-06-22T00:03:00.000+01:00

Spoke to Henners today, Boaty Simon and he are going great guns and have done a fair few miles on the Wey Tamarisk. I left them at Kidlington on Sunday morning, they chugged along to Somerton yesterday and are now at Aynho. I make that very roughly about 13 miles by canal. Not bad chugging at all!
I'll be posting maps of their progress for y'all just as soon as I can get 'em sorted out, which will most likely be tomorrow. :)

There's little else I can add, except to pass on a rather good saying I picked up from somewhere recently:

"It's better to fill your days with life than to fill your life with days".

Night all.

Pause For Thought

2004-06-20T21:16:00.000+01:00

What a weekend that was. Forgive me, this is a bit of a big blog.

As Henry asked me along to visit Boaty Simon with him I felt obliged to attend, if only to make sure Henry got to Oxford in one piece. As Henry has already mentioned the situation in his own blog, only a brief recap is necessary: Boaty Simon has terminal cancer and he is on a mission to deliver his barge (the Wey Tamarisk) to Wolverhampton to give it to his girlfriend Julie. It's the sort of thing that simply must be done, especially as he knows his time is nearly up.

After work on Friday I caught the train up to Byfleet and New Haw to meet up with the magnificent Henry and Trouty. They were worried I'd not remember which door was theirs, so they were kind enough to leave a Jolly Roger sticking out of the letterbox. Instead of ringing the doorbell, I felt a suitable response was needed. With a mighty yell of "YARRRRR!!" through the letterbox, the door was flung open and I was greeted most warmly by the epicly piratical duo.

Friday night was spent in drunken (and therefore bawdy) conversation with much swearification, chuckling and listening to rude songs on Henry's peecee. Finally got to kip about 3 in the morning, mainly 'cos we were having so much fun we didn't notice the time.

In the morning we caught the train at around about 11-ish after doing a spot of homework to find out what connections we had to get to travel to Oxford. 3 in total, and Henry being Henry was worried about it all going wrong and us missing trains, being delayed etc. His feelings about train services in general, and specifically about SouthWest trains, are well documented. Basically they are a load of old arse, a thoroughly deserved title for the most part. Not so today. We made every single connection in good time, there was no waiting on platforms for aaaaaaaaaaaaages between trains, there were no major hold-ups, we only had to stand up on one train (I think) and we got to Oxford in about 2 hours. From there we had to get a bus to Kidlington to meet Simon at The Jolly Boatman pub, outside which his boat was moored. So, we wandered out of Oxford Station into town to try and locate a suitable bus. Henry chatted up a couple of lovely Octogenarian Oxonian dears at a bus stop (they loved being addressed as "girls" and also "teenagers"!) and we were informed that our bus left from outside the station! D'oh! Still, the wander 'round town* did us good and we found Henry's Shop:

So, back to the train-station we went to catch our bus. Well, not quite our bus 'cos our bus went from Debenhams, apparently, but the bus-driver we checked with gave us the correct information and even dropped us at Debenhams! Hurrah! We then caught the bus to Kidlington and made further enquiries of the next bus driver as to the whereabouts of The Jolly Boatman. He didn’t know exactly, but had a fair idea. Eventually, and with the help of an extremely kind passenger, we established that it was near the airport and we had passed the relevant stop. As the bus was going on a circular route the driver very kindly allowed us to travel back to our stop at no extra charge! Hurrah again!
It was after disembarking near the canal that I raised the issue of "Everything always goes fucking wrong" with Henry and pointed out that "Nothing had gone fucking wrong" today. He finally nodded agreement when I pointed out that this may well have been because he was on a mission to help his good friend Simon and therefore things would just work. I can’t explain it properly, and I certainly have no proof that it is the case, but I’d say it’s summat to do with Karma. Whatever way it worked, worked is just what it did and Henry grinned himself a big grin and we put our best feet forrard to the towpath.

We didn’t go straight to the pub. Oh no. Henry had acquired himself a new toy and was determined to have a play: he’d got a Sea Magnet! A bloody big magnet on the end of a sturdy rope; most useful for trawling the murky depths for lost items of the metallic persuasion. Quite useful if you like manky old springs, nails and other totally useless detritus. I must admit I was secretly hoping a discarded shopping trolley would be brought, Mary Rose-esque, to the surface so that we could make complete arses of ourselves along the towpath, but we were sadly denied.

So we hove to and wended our way to the Jolly Boatman, found the Wey Tamarisk and ahoyed our host from his onboard slumbers. Well, Henry did the actual Ahoying, and it went something along the lines of: "Yarr! Be there any scurvy dogs aboard? Ah-harrr!!"
which had the remarkable effect of bringing forth no bloody response at all. A second Ahoying of a similar nature was thus undertaken, this time waking Simon and Julie and forth they came. Much shaking of hands and hearty greetings all round before Henry and I tootled orf to the pub to indulge in some much-needed reswiggification and enfoodimentisms and left Simon and Julie to resume their afternoon "nap"**.

About an hour or two later*** Simon and Julie joined us for further swiggage and chattage in the pub, and it was during this time I had the opinions of Henry and Merman confirmed as to how splendid this chap is. You’ve read the blogs about him, I won’t repeat the stories here, but suffice to say Simon is completely unselfish, generous, entertaining; in fact he is a prime example of an Egg of the All-Round and certainly Good variety. A fine host to boot, insisting that we make ourselves completely at home on board the Tamarisk and instructed us to avail ourselves of the contents of his fridge whenever the need arose.
Makes his situation seem all the more unfair I suppose. For someone in Simon’s position to keep on laughing with the bestest, heartiest chuckle as befitting a true bargee makes one feel most humble.

After a few swigs Henry and I tootled off along the towpath into Kidlington, taking our time to admire many beautiful barges and to chat idly with numerous friendly folk.

Many times Henry was asked if he'd lost something, due to his persistent trawling of the depths with the sea-magnet and many times Henry would proudly hold aloft his latest catch with the words "well, you never know what you might find". One such catch was a large rusty spring. I was convinced that Zebeddee had met an untimely end at the hands of some seedy Mafioso but henry would have none of it. ;)
Stocked up on swig and other sundry supplies from Kidlington we headed back along the towpath. We paused for a bit of a sit-down by a lock and watched a few barges going through whilst Henry explained the ingenious workings of Locks to me. We helped one particular barge go through the lock and were rewarded with a lift back to the pub by the grateful skipper. My first time on a barge, and I want one. Just pootling along at a walking pace is a glorious thing to do on a beautiful summers evening, and I still feel like Toad of Toad Hall, or even Mole upon meeting up with Ratty and experiencing the River for the first time.
"I simply must have one, Ratty" quoth I to pal Henry. "Hooked now, eh Moley?" came the grin-laden reply. Indeed I was and indeed I still am. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.

So, back to the pub and Simon bought us a dinner fit for Sumo Wrestlers. Great food but neither Simon nor myself could finish more than a quarter of our plates of barbequed ribs.
Fantastic! And what a marvellous pub it is too, although I must confess to befuddlement at Henrys insistence of elevating me to the position of "Sly Old dog, Mallers!" upon informing him that the cute barmaid's name was Kinga (at least I think that's how it's spelt). I mean, it's not as if I got her 'phone number or anything. *ahem*

Our plan for the evening was to locate a suitable spot for Henry and I to pitch our tent. We waited until cover of dark, mainly because we didn't want to pay anyone any money for the privilege of lying in a canvas sack with the stony soil at our backs, but also because we totally forgot until almost chucking out time. Over the brige we trotted like a proverbial pair of Billy Goats Gruff, climbed over a gate into the field beyond (well, I climbed over it, Henry simply walked through the gate) and thrashed around in the extremely over-grown and lumpy field before heading back to the Tamarisk. Simon insisted we sleep aboard the barge in spite of our protests of invasion of his and Julie's privacy so we made ourselves comfy, set to further swigging and telling of yarns before going to bed; Henry on the floor and myself curled up like a cat on the rather short sofa.

After an excellent nights kip we awoke at sparrow's fart****, supped coffee, idly chatted some more with Simon and Julie and then I made my way home. A fond farewell to Simon and then Julie very kindly gave me a lift to Banbury station, from where I got a direct train straight back to Southampton.

I end by simply asking you all to spare a thought and a prayer (if you're that way inclined) for Simon. I really do hope he will succeed in his mission to deliver the Wey Tamarisk to Wolverhampton. He has the excellent Henry The Thirst as his crew for perhaps the next two weeks. This magnificent pair of Bargees nontheless need your encouragement. Please keep the messages of support coming in to Simon's phone, he really does love them and if any man deserves your best wishes, it is he. If you want Simon's number, please email me.

* During which time we saw one Dreaming Spire and about ten million beautiful laydeez. I’m moving to Oxford as soon as I can, although I fear it may cause permanent damage to my neck.

** Yes, we sniggered mightily as well.

*** Time is only approximate, at best, on canals. Splendid!

**** I have no idea what the time was, see previous foot-note.

I Apologise For The Inconvenience...

2004-06-18T18:48:00.000+01:00

... I'll will be away for the weekend, so no bloggage for a few days. Yes, I know I asked some celebrity bloggers to help me out last time, but I feel it's time for a little break-ette from blogging. Only a little one, mind.

Back soon.

Lots of love,

Omally.

Tweet Bloody Tweet

2004-06-16T23:52:00.000+01:00

You see? Apathy. That's why I didn't blog yesterday. Works a treat, mate. I feel all enlightened now, but I seem to have forgotten what I'd discovered in my Apathetic state, so I'll have to try again. I'll save it for work tomorrow, that's usually a good time. There's nothing like calmly watching the vein throb in my managers temple as he enquires in person as to my persistent ignorings of his telephonic attempts to get me to do the W-word.

I'm still spending my lunch-breaks out-and-about on me bike and stopping off to feed Robin. I found there are actually at least four Robins inhabiting the lay-by where I have lunch. I think it's two mating-pairs of Robins, they seem to hunt* in twos. It would appear that one pair inhabit one end of the lay-by whilst the other pair inhabit the other. Let's call them The Smiths and The Joneses for simplicity's sake. Well, alright, feel free to suggest alternatives of a more suitable, and no doubt amusing, nature.
I remembered my camera today, so I managed to take a few snaps of the little buggers as they skipped merrily about nearby. Yes, I know, it's tragic, taking birdy pics in my lunch-break,: It's all Bill Oddie's fault. I'm not normally one for being entertained in my stupid human way by our feathered friends, but occasionally I do dabble. I remember when I was younger my bedroom was in the loft of my parents house. They eventually conceeded that a window was necessary, (as well as a bed, a light and the lack of bolts on the outside of the door). In fact, they were more than generous and supplied two windows, one of which was amusingly placed on the side wall of the house. Amusing because we lived in a semi-detached house, next door to another pair of identical houses. From my bedroom window I could almost reach out and touch next-doors wall. Above the window, in the eaves of the roof, we had House-Martins come to stay every year. The nest was easily viewable from my bed (which I'd moved under the window) and I used to while away many an hour watching the parents darting in and out bearing big fat juicy insects for their young. I even borrowed Dad's camcorder and filmed them briefly each day for a few weeks and managed to get some footage of the young taking one of their first flights. It's a peaceful exercise, watching birds doing what's generally expected of them, even to the extent of checking the weather forecast for a spot of high pressure. This brings the insects that buzz around in the air lower down, y'see, and thus if you're lucky enough to have a colony of House Martins living on your, er, house, you can sit in your back garden and watch the feathered-and-twittering version of what for all the world looks like the Battle of Britain.

I seem to be having more technermological diffimaculties with the uploadification of my pictures once again, so I'll have to post 'em at a later date. first one to say "Tchoh. Amateur" gets a wet Halibut round the chops.

*Lesser Spotted Bredcrumms take some trapping, doncherknow. Takes all the skill and courage of the fearless Robin to catch these vicious wild beasts. Distant relative of the Haggis, I believe.

‹Polishes binoculars and looks around desperately for zoom-lens for camera. There's a lovely pair of Tits that frequent my neighbours garden›

Lazy

2004-06-14T22:49:00.000+01:00

Ah, it's been bliss lately, since I've been carless. 'Twas only a short gap of utter transportlessness 'til I got me bike, and I've been enjoying it rather muchly, indeed my fizzog has been high upon the big-grin scale on my way to and from work ever since.
Slight problem: Shopping. This isn't something I relish anyway, to the extent that I used to visit Tesco at about 10pm to stock up on foodishness and swiggerings so as to avoid the hordes of mad old ladies bearing seventeen shopping bags stuffed with sundries, but needs must as Satan pokes you up the bum with a sharp stick. Due to my inability to carry lots of bags of shopping on my trusty two-wheeled steed I've been rather slack with regards to feeding myself: my recent diet has consisted largely of pizza, sossidge sarnies, pizza, frozen meals obtained from me local Alldays (yuk!) and pizza. Oh and pizza.
Last night I decided enough was most certainly enough and ordered a delivery from the mighty Tesco. Browsing their site carefully I selected such delights as a bag of spuds (Maris Pipers, of course), milk, cheese, about half a ton of biscuits, lots of fruit 'n' veg, bacon, gammon steaks, eggs, bread, pasta, crisps etc. OK so that's not mega-healthy but at least I can now cook myself a decent meal.
Damn and blast! I forgot to buy swig! I checked back on my order before it was delivered tonight and saw, Lo and Behold! swig was indeed in My Favourites list. 'Funny', thought I, 'I don't remember ordering swig' but there it was on the page. Delivery arrived in good time, but no swig. I *knew* I hadn't ordered any! But what the hell was it doing on my favourites list when this was my first ever online order? They must know me too well.

Anyway, last night I made myself a rather scrummy pasta dish. Here's m'recipe, but it ain't necessarily to everyone's liking:

Boil up lots of pasta, Penne for preference, but I had to use Farfalle. Whilst that's doing, open two tins of tuna (in sunflower oil rather than brine) and slop into a big bowl. Add one tin of sweetcorn and about the same quantity of sultanas. Mix up with a bit of lemon juice and ground black pepper then add the by-now-cooked-to-perfection pasta. Stir it all up and add a jar of Lloyd Grossmans Tikka Sauce. This is designed to cook up a nice curry, but by simply transferring the mixture back to the heat for a few minutes soon makes it a yummy pasta sauce. Hey Presto! Omally's Patented Pasta Thingy. It's not a proper bake as such cos it don't go in the oven at all, but it's bloody yum and no you can't have any. It's all mine! Bwahahahahaaaaa!
It even tastes nice fresh from the fridge and I have one serving left. Bloaty me. It makes 5 regular servings, but I have some eating to catch up on. :)

Dear me, it's a skool-night and I'm still sober. Hey ho.

‹Belches contentedly and settles back with the last pint of Narnian Ale. (I also forgot to order Ginger Beer)›

Voting?

2004-06-13T11:01:00.000+01:00

Meh. Couldn't be arsed to vote. I could rant on about how I feel about how crap Politicians are, and also that I feel very strongly that we should sack them all and let someone run the country who is not interested in doing so for their own seedy benefit and also that I really do resent footing the bill for the House of Commons drinks cabinet (as, despite their persistence, the rotters at Westminster still have not drunk themselves to death), but I get the impression that a lot of fine folk feel that way and I'm sure that identical opinions are readily available from a multitude of sources on the intermaweb, so I won't bother.

Some regard Apathy as a Bad Thing, but I would remind you of the Holy Scripture of Mr Robert Rankin.
From The Book of Ultimate Truths, Chapter 2, Hugo Rune's Seventh Lecture on Universal Truths:

'In order to be at one with the Static Cosmos, one must achieve a state of supreme stillness. This state is known as APATHY.
'The word APATHY derives from the Atlantean. A-PATH-Y. A meaning A. PATH meaning path. And Y being an abbreviation of WHY.
Quite literally A PATH TO THE MEANING WHY.
'But it is a hard path to follow. And few there are with courage enough to try. The Apathé, i.e. "seeker after truth", must maintain a strict regimen. He must discipline himself to rigourously avoid any form of activity, be this mental or physical. He must be prepared to sit, for years if need be, until he is in tune and receives enlightenment. Others must selflessly administer to his needs.

Here endeth the lesson. Mainly because I think you should all go and buy The Book of Ultimate Truths and read the rest of it yourselves.

As I've also been practising Apathy this weekend by not blogging (until now, of course) I would be grateful if someone could give me a kick around about, ooooh, 8 of this evening's clock so that I can exert my slurred ramblings upon another Blog, that of Sir² Mortington Bear, who has gone off to invade Wales with a mighty horde of barbarians.

‹Sits comfortably in middle of floor and slides gracefully into a deep, transcendental state only to be distracted by the distinct lack of Rats and Wood.›

Bob-bob-bobbing.

2004-06-10T22:12:00.000+01:00

Good old Merman! I gave him a bell this evening to help get me RattyCam set up, and being the splendid gentleman wot he is, he naturally obliged and made free with gert big dollops of assistance.
As you can see, I don't have me rats yet. Nor, indeed, do I have a cage to keep them in. I've set up the RattyCam now, however, so's you can keep an eagle-eye on progress.
As you can see, there's nought in view but my lucky Jar Of Pate. I chose this 'cos it sort of sounds like Ratty. See what I did there? Oh, please yourselves then.

Talking of communing with the animals, if you'll pardon the tenuosity, I ought to tell y'all about my friend Robin. Not a desperately original name, seeing as he actually is a Robin: y'know, them poor little birdies wot get captured and glued onto cakes during the festive season. Well, these little chaplets are native to this Sceptic Isle, and can be seen all year round. This particular Robin I see every lunch-time. I've lately taken up the habit of getting the hell out of my office for a ride on me bike at lunch so I don't get bothered by anyone (peace and quiet being essential to mental well-being, doncherknow) and I always stop on my way back to work at a particular layby that is shielded from the main road by Rhododendron bushes.
Here I eat my sarnies whilst sat next to me bike and I read a book (Witches of Chiswick at the mo). Robin likes to share my sarnies whilst I'm sat reading. He's rather brave, but that's not too suprising for a Robin. The little mite* will quite happily skip to within a couple of feet of me and pick up the little tiny bits of bread that I tear off me sarnies for him (careful not to get a bit with butter on, birds don't do salt).
I'll show y'all a piccy soon, but I'm orf to the pub for lunch tomorrow so I'll try to remember to take my camera next week. I'm going to try and get the little chap to perch on the saddle of me bike, should be an amusing task.

*It's Simons fault I called Robin that. Read his blog from yesterday. Most infectious. ;)

‹Eagerly awaits the arrival of Knees Up Mother Earth some time in August. ›

Practice.

2004-06-09T00:00:00.000+01:00

Being a new biker, I've been making good use of my lunch-breaks at work by going out on me bike for a nice ride in the glorious June sunshine. I'm not the only one to do this: I see more bikes on the roads when it's lunchtime than I do on my way to or from work. I can tell they are all just having a ride for the hell of it and have no particular place to go as they all give the friendly nod as they zoom by more readily than in the morning slog to work. Rather than concentrating on getting to work they're concentrating on having a jolly nice time and are much more well-disposed to other two-wheelers. Splendid!

I decided to have another ride this evening once the Heat of the Day had passed it's regal mantle on to the Cool of the Evening. Just round the block* a couple of times and a fuel-stop before going home again.
At the garage where I refueled there were some "delightful" little people on some strange contraptions called "Scooters". These are apparently powered by sewing-machine engines and ridden by IQ-reducer**-wearing goons with the mental age of oooh, about 5 years. I think the collective term for these chaps might be "Gaggle", or it could possibly be "Bunch Of Irritating Little Shits".
Ignoring their antics involving Laps Of The Pumps and Getting In Everyone's Way I went into the shop to pay up, to obtain refreshment of a non-alcoholic nature***, and also to listen to the assistant whinging about said Gaggle who regularly plague his forecourt with stupid tricks and general misbehaviour every night****. I muttered non-commitally and shrugged to myself, thinking "Up to you to do summat, mate: it's your garage".
One of the little shits decided it would be delightful amusement to deliberately walk into me on his way out of the shop (which I dutifully ignored). I returned to me bike, swigged some of my NA Swig and "saddled-up".
Now, I well remember being a mischievous little toad as a kid (rather like the aforementioned Gaggle but much less offensive) and something sparked in my tiny brain that said "go on, you know you want to". I spied the Gaggle sitting on their scooters at the forecourt exit, revving their "engines". Thinking a spot of slow-control practice to be in order, I sidled up behind them unnoticed, slipped my clutch in and let out a roar***** with a quick twist of me throttle. I nearly got one of the little shits to fall off in surprise; they certainly all jumped out of their skins but sadly not off their scooters. I just hope the assistant was watching and decided to cheer the hell up. Miserable sod.

I must admit to letting free with a hearty chuckle on my way home. This bike is turning me into a big kid, y'know. :)

*Well, I say "block" but I really mean a nice circular route from my place to Burseldon Roundabout, up Kanes Hill to Thornhill Park Road and then down my road again. Very pleasant, quiet little route it is too in the evening. Apart from the Scooters.

**Burberry Baseball Caps. They're dead fashionable, y'know, but thankfully not worn in place of a skid-lid.

***Don't worry, beer at home. Just needed something nice and cool before riding back. :)

****Provided, I would assume, that their Mummies let them out to play.

*****Not a very loud one: I've yet to fit the *ahem* Other Can.

‹Still chuffed at not accidentally getting neutral at all today: makes a change›

The Second Name Is Unveiled...

2004-06-07T22:50:00.000+01:00

Hurrah! My Bro is home at last! After numerous delays in Germany (his girlfriend Peggy's pet rabbits have being dying off one by one so they've had to stay and sort them out - in fact Peggy has had to stay in Germany to look after the last 3) he's managed to get back to blighty for a spot of R & R down the Bricklayers Arms. He's only just got home, though, so I shall be popping over to Mum n Dads tomorrow night to see if my Bro is still a lightweight on real ale. Will only have a couple, of course - skool in the morning - saving it up for Friday Night!* Hurrah for swiggitude!

I have chosen a name for my second Rat now: Lu. After my good chummington of the same name from sunny Norwich. Yes yes yes, you might well ask "how is it possible to choose a name for your pet rats when you don't even have them yet?" and I will tell you: the "name" you give to a pet is only the collection of noises you make that the pet, over time, associates with "come here I want to play with you/feed you etc. To a pet it's more of a signal for a tasty treat than an personal identifier. Think of Pavlov's Dogs: instead of a ringing bell it's vague rumbling sound created by air passing over your vocal chords that, in time, said pet learns to distinguish from all the other nonsense that comes out the same way. That's not to say you can't build a special bond between yourself and your pet, just that it's worth noting the facts. :)
I could prove this by calling my rats Bastard and Twatface and, in time, they will (hopefully) still come to me when I call (if they feel like it, apparently) but that wouldn't really be a great idea. Especially when I have had two great names suggested to me (alright, one suggested by Lu herself but there ya go).
No, Scabbers and Lu it shall be. I may even set up my webcam just so you can watch the Naming Ceremony. You'll not see me on the webcam, just the rats, so no fear of a Rich-esque nudie walkthrough on my part (no pun intended, so quit sniggering). I wonder if I can find a small enough bottle of Champagne for the ceremony? Don't want to squash the wee blighters, y'know. ;)
I also note with interest that rats eat pretty much what their owners eat (with notable exceptions, but as I don't eat wood, especially the poisonous-to-rats-sort, there's no danger there): methinks a nice healthy diet of Pizza all round then! Hurrah!

*What song is that lyric from? I have a mini ear-worm now and it won't go away til I know... HELP!

‹Starts clearing a big, draft-free space for The Cage: wonders how long it'll take to move my library into the loft›

Gah!

2004-06-06T22:05:00.000+01:00

Ah, what a splendid day it was today. I decided to surprise my folks by showing 'em my new bike (I'd not told 'em I got one y'see) and was fully expecting a lecture on how dangerous they are (trust me, I know) but no. Denied. All my reasoned arguments went out into the middle of the road to await being run over like a hedgehog. Mum is now pestering me for a spare skid-lid so she can ride pillion and Dad just wandered around it muttering appreciatively and asking things like "so does she shift then, son?" and "what's the MPG like?". Gah! There's no predicting my parents, I tell 'ee!
So, after a splendid lunch chez M. et Mme Omally I went to the park with me sis and the family Beagle (Poppy: World's Stupidest Dog) for a kickabout. Of course, we took a football. Poppy is getting too old for that sort of nonsense, doncherknow. :)
Then I enjoyed a splendid ride home from glorious Swanmore along leafy lanes flecked with dappled sunlight and horse-shit. Riding a bike makes you that little bit more aware of stuff like that. Grand, innit?

Anyway, this will be a short blog 'cos I'm crying into my beer (Adnams Suffolk Strong Bitter) 'cos I've been an utter knob and formatted my spare hard-drive wot had all my music on it. I was intending to format my SD card via my card-reader, y'see. I wondered why it was taking so long... ARGH!

‹Mumbles inaudibly about being totally and irrevocably stupid›

Scabbers Needs A Chum

2004-06-05T22:33:00.000+01:00

Right. I've sorted out my technermological diffimaculties, so tonights blog will start off as a picture blog. Here come some Christening piccies:

As you can see, young Emily is already learning to reach for the tinnies. Good girl. Just need to wean her off lager now and she'll be fine.

Dave and Nicky, the proud parents, accompanied by Dave's folks and numerous assorted small people. Note the distinct lack of nose-picking. Well done Dave.

I made the mistake of suggesting dipping Emily's dummy in vodka when she starts teething.

Gav, the other Godfather, felt obliged to wear an ironed shirt for the ceremony. This picture is even rarer (and more authentic) than any piccies of Nessie or Bigfoot you may have seen.

Ah, now that's what any good Christening is about: wetting the baby's head. Splendid. :)

Right, I think that's enough of the old snapshots. Don't want y'all to die of boredom. :)

On my way home from work today I popped into my local pet-shop to enquire about getting a likkle ratty fwend. Being a mainly sensible chap (no, really!) I figured a bit of research and preperation would be the thing before I go and infest my flat with furry ferocities. I boought a book about rat-care and looked at some of the cages available. My god they're huge cages for rats! Excellent! Makes me want to be a rat just so's I can have a go! Some of the cages I looked at were heeeeeeeeeee-yooooooge! Nearly as tall as me and full of nice big tunnels, toys, sleeping-quarters, latrines (rats can apparantly be "trained" to stick to the same spot for that and are generally very clean creatures anyway) and stuff to clamber over. There are no rats in stock at the moment but there should be more in two weeks or so. Cool. I have a fortnight to prepare. Having read the rat-care book upon returning to my domicile I found it may be a good idea to get a pair of rats rather than just the one. Being sociable animals in the wild, it's better that way. Of course, I'll spend a lot of time with me rat when I'm home, but during the day the poor blighter would get lonely so company would be required. Of course if I get a pair of boy-rats or a pair of girl-rats*, fisticuffs may well ensue so I need to get a large enough cage so they have their own space to skulk about in. I shall seek further advice on that score, but it looks like you guys are gonna have to come up with another name**. And this time, please, no Hairy Plopper/Terry Pratchett/Robert Rankin names! I will be checking carefully!

Oh Arse! I forgot to get wood again today! Dammit!

*If I get one boy-rat and one girl-rat, I'll end up with hordes of rats. Takes less than a month to make baby rats, y'know. Not an option.

**C'mon; you have to help me out here, please! If left to me, I'll end up calling it Bastard or Twatface or similar and that would never do.

‹Sets about rat-proofing the living-room to ensure cables are not nibbled: fried rat is not on my list of delicacies, I'm afraid.›

Booze, Rats And Ammonia.

2004-06-04T21:59:00.000+01:00

Good God, I do declare I'm pissed. Ah well; little change there then, except I've touched nary a drop all week. Been too tired after work every day to bother going to the offy, but I made an extra special effort today and a certain bottle caught my eye. It was Bombay Sapphhire Gin and I nearly bought it. I couldn't see JG's name on it, but I decided to opt for quantity rather than quality so I grabbed some tinnies of Kronenbourg instead. And now I'm pissed. It's a lovely feeling, as I'm sure many of you will agree. I also had a whole fruit-cake for my dinner, but it's not a regular habit so please don't send Trouty round to "look after me", Henners!
Anyway, to more important matters: I have now chosen the name for my soon-to-be pet rat: I shall name it "Scabbers", as suggested by the insightful and splendid Sir Mortington Bear. A marvellous name indeed, that conjours up (in my rapidly diminishing mind, at least) images of a noble Rat accompanying his (or her) master (indeed, King of Sweden) on adventures of such derring-do that said adventures can't possibly be writ large in letters big, and illuminated to boot, for fear of making the Humble Folk think the sky has fallen on their heads. I could even stuff the poor blighter into my leathern jacket (after a suitable training period, of course: I don't relish the idea of having my nipples chewed off whilst navigating my wary course 'pon the highways and byways of this Sceptic Isle) and smuggle it into work to wreak havoc upon those I would class as Foe. Should be a chuckle at the very least.
So, tomorrow after work I shall hie me to my nearest pet-shop in search of a likkle fwend of the Ratty persuasion and, needless to say, certain accoutrements that will make my likkle ratty fwend happy in his/her new home. A good sized cage for a start, and food, bedding, and, er.... well, I think I'd better read this first. Would only be the decent thing to do, doncherknow.

Something tells me that Scabbers and I are gonna get along just fine. :)

‹Dashes off to Alldays to stock up on cheese and alcomohol›

Pass The Cheese, Please.

2004-06-03T21:18:00.000+01:00

I going to get a pet. I considered getting a little doggie, but that wouldn't be right as I live on my own the poor bugger would be shut up all day. As for cats, well, they'd be good target practice for my super-soaker but I'm sure I'd get bored/hungry too soon. Someone suggested fish but they're just not my bag, baby. Then a thought struck me: I could get a Rat! Very intelligent creatures, Rats. And a shop-bought one should be nice and healthy. I could get another Hampster, maybe, but the idea of a little ratty chum has a certain edge to it.
I know where the idea came from: The book by Mark Haddon, "The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time". The lad in the story has a pet rat called Toby.
What should I name mine when I get it? Best suggestion wins, er... um... honour and glory by being the genius behind such a fantastic pet name! Hurrah!

I shall be investing my time on Saturday in getting wood. For the Trebuchet, you disgusting sniggerers! I have a coupla leads from "those in the know" so I may have success yet. There's a print-out-cut-out-fold-up Trebby on the web too, so I'll have a bash at that too just to temporarily sate my lust for wood-work.

I had a bit of a mental-block earlier, so I asked Carol (via MSN) to give me a random word. "Scissors" was the first suggestion, the second one being "Well it's that or donkey", so I chose Donkey. The reason being, I followed a link from Miss Sixty's blog to determine which Shrek character I might be best represented by. After answering a few questions along the lines of "Does your BO keep you awake at night?" I was informed I was The Dragon, because I'm apparantly misunderstood yet actually quite flirtatious and romantic. What a load of old toot! I'm sure you all understand every quark I zlynglerise in a flurtsome flurry. As for flirtatious and romantic, I've sadly yet to find a bird what's impressed by gaseous emissions, Monty Python and dust.

Before I forget, MMM and Mort, here's a handy linky for you both. ;)

‹Wonders who will be first to suggest "Roland"?›

Mate, That Bike Wouldn't "Vooom" If You Put 4 Million Volts Through It!

2004-06-01T22:22:00.000+01:00

Well, not if I'm riding it anyway. Y'see, I can now announce: The Skorp is on the road again! Hurrah! I can now learn to ride properly!

I took it rather steady this morning on my way into w**k, left home early to miss traffic etc (although I did manage a little bit of filtering) and, apart from the odd slip into neutral*, the ride went jolly smoothly. By crikey I love this bike! I shouldn't tempt fate though so I'll shut up crowing.

Instead I'll show you some snaps from the Christening. Hurrah!

Er, well I would but I'm having technermological diffimaculties.

Hey! You lot at the back! Stop chucking pop-corn about!

I apollo-gise for the inconwenience, normal service will be resumed shortly.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

*clink*

*tickatickatickaticka*

nearly there!

*whirr*

OK, here they come, any minute now...

*spoing*

Bummocks!

Watch this, er, area. Zone. Umm, location? *snaps fingers* Got it! Space!

*I'm reliably informed that it's a character of the bike and I'll get used to it. :)

‹Remembers the first proper fellow-biker greeting from this morning. A simple nod to say hello, just like Mini-drivers with their headlight-flashing! Hurrah!›

The Christening

2004-05-31T18:50:00.000+01:00

Hurrah! Two more extra-splendid blogs! Thanks, Kouros and Carol!

So, as I mentioned before, my absenteeism this weekend was due to becoming a Godfather to my little, er, Goddaughter Emily Elizabeth. Me mate Dil picked me up Saturday lunchtime and we tootled on up to Norwich nattering like old friends all the way. Which was nice, considering we're old friends. Oh, and there was much silliness included, such as teaching Dil how to belch like Godzilla and singing along to The Darkness and getting odd looks from other drivers. Hurrah!
We arrived at Dave and Nicky's place to be greeted, obviously, by Dave and Nicky and The Giggling Sprog as well as Nicky's kids Liam and Bethany, the other Godfather Gav from Plymouth and our grand chummingtons Laura and Craig from Glasgee. Hurrah once more! So we settled down to the time-honoured tradition of Drinking Far Too Much and playing It's Not My Bloody Turn To Change The Nappy. I should mention that Nicky, and indeed her kids, weren't drinking in case you're worried that the poor kid is going to be growing up surrounded by lunatic drunkards.
We talked tons of old toot, laughed loads and swapped gossip/news from forn parts till well into the wee hours. We all turned in at Silly O'clock and slept the blessed sleep of the vigorously imbibed. Next morning, after the early-morning staggering was out of the way, we got dressed and ready to go. I must say, I was a bit too smartly dressed in my new suit (I chose the cream shirt instead of the lilac, don't worry) seeing as most folks going are bikers so I left my suit jacket behind and took my leather jacket instead! Now I looked more normal but there's something not quite right about cufflinks peeping out from under leather sleeves. But hey, who cares? Even Emily was wearing a miniature leather jacket over her posh Christening dress, so I didn't look *too* out of place! ;)
The ceremony was very nice. Loads of Dave and Nicky's friends and relatives were there as well as us lot. Thankfully there was no singing (terrible singer, me; runs in the family, doncherknow) and we had at least 3 video cameras whirring away. Dil's efforts were rather humourous, given her usual daft running commentary. Zooming in on the collection plate, Dil uttered "Cor, we're a tight bunch ain't we?" and, upon finding an ancient prophylactic in the car-park, took immense delight in getting a close up whilst muttering pithy advice about buying quality items of a rubber nature.
After the ceremony (where Emily, bless her heart, managed to puke all down her dress whilst sat on the altar for piccies) we headed off to the King Edward pub for some luvvly grub and to scoff the huge cake that had been made. Oh, and to have some beer and talk about bikes, of course. :)
Back then to Dave and Nicky's (it was amazing how quickly we all dashed off to get changed out of our smart togs as soon as we got in the house!) for a repeat performance of the night before, this time with lashings and lashings of delicious Chilli and "Monty Pythons Meaning of Life"! Hurrah again!
Next morning we all slobbed around the house for a bit watching "Finding Nemo" and munching toast, then Dil and I went back home after sharing many many hugs and hand-shakes with all our chummingtons.
You'll be no doubt pleased to know I didn't escape without first being forced to change a pooey nappy. I also fed Emily a couple of times, and I must say she's coming along nicely with the old belching. Proper job!

Overall a bloody splendid weekend, but I'm rather tired now and I have to go to w**k in the morning. I shall sleep soundly tonight knowing that I'm a Godfather now which, to me, is going to be just like being an uncle. Hurrah!

‹Yawns mightily and reaches for one last beer before bed beckons›

2004-05-30T18:00:00.000+01:00

In honour of doing the whole 'celebrity' guest blog bit for Omally, I decided today to conduct myself as he would. This started in a wholly appropriate fashion, by doing a bit of Geocaching. A decidedly un-Omally-like shopping trip then ensued, in which I failed to purchase a supersoaker, but did manage to treat myself to something which is likely to cause some kind of future kitchen disaster - a handheld blender. Expect to hear reports of missing limbs fairly soon. The afternoon then reverted to an Omally-esque lie-down to recover from the morning's exertions. And umm, that's it really. At this point I'm sure he would be regaling you with tales of his exciting adventures whilst out Tupperware hunting, or at the very least be waxing eloquent about his little nap. Sadly I have no such exciting tales, nor can I wax eloquent. I'm sure at this stage I should be conjuring up some kind of hearty feast with which to um, feast upon, which would no doubt be followed by equally hearty emissions of gas from both ends, however I feel these sorts of things are best left to the experts.

As an aside, when my invitation to guest blog arrived, I followed the link and was added to this particular blog, and as such I get to see some of the behind the scenes statistics. It's been puzzling me ever since that Omally seems to have far less posts than I do - 88 is his current total, whilst I'm on 109. A bit strange really considering that I started blogging on the same day that he did, and I don't recall him missing nearly as many days as that. Perhaps I'm a trifle more prolific with my emanations than I thought.

Cornerisms

2004-05-29T15:13:00.000+01:00

No sooner is Pal Mallers back than he's off again, and being the desperate fool that he is, he's asked me to fill in for him.

The only stipulation, he enthused, was that people must it's me talking and not him, but other than that I can talk about anything I like.

Obviously where I said him, he said me, meaning him, and for me he said you meaning me, but I'm sure you got that. And this isn't Me me, but rather me me, but I guess you got that too.

Anyway, with a free space to talk about anything of my choosing, I think it would be somewhat blatant that I would choose to talk about tits. Or to be more precise, Blue Tits.

I'm not building up to a witty diatribe about some poor girl I once knew being outside during a snow storm in her school days with nowt to wear but her earrings, or even the unfortunate evening experimenting with elastic bands.

Rather surpringly, I do mean the birds, and I'm exceedingly grateful for this opportunity to discuss them.

Hey... you were all right all along, this blogging lark is good for getting things off the system.

I'm Back!

2004-05-28T22:21:00.000+01:00

Wowzah! I must bugger off to Birmingham more often! What a grand set of guest-blogs! Thank you kindly to all contributors thus far (crisp fivers in post*)! :D

So, I guess I'd better tell you what I was doing in Brum. I went to the Motorshow at the NEC with w**k and spent 3 delightful days wandering around the show with no stupid smelly crowds**, having a ride in a Caterham 7 round a small race-track, ogling scantily clad models, eating disgusting bacon-sarnies, ogling scantily clad models, sitting in cars like the new Mercedes SLR, lots of Maseratis, Ferraris, Aston Martins, TVRs, Morgans etc. All, coincidentaly, draped with scantily-clad models. I think the appropriate term to describe the amount of totty, er... I mean models, would be plethora. As the halls were sparsely populated the girls really did become so much more obvious. Very friendly though. Not like that, I mean most of the girls I chatted with they actually enjoy the work and are capable of holding intelligent conversation. Of course, it takes great mental effort to keep one's gaze at eye-level, but I coped heroically. *ahem*
Only one down-side really: I didn't get to meet ned and JG! Bugger! Sorry guys, will have to be another time. :(

The journey home was strangley entertaining. I caught the train from Birmingham International to Southampton, which was delayed by 25 minutes. This gave me enough time to pick up a book from the newsy in the station. I chose The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time and started reading it straight away. Immediately hooked, I carried on reading all the wayhome and got through about 3/4 of the book. Fantastic stuff! It had me so gripped I was quite happy to sit outside in the corridor due to all the seats being full. It was only when the steward*** tapped my shoulder to offer me a cup of coffee that I looked up from the book. Declining his very kind offer of "no charge, mate!" I carried on reading. Later still, the Guard nudged me and said I could go sit in Club Class if I liked. Wow! Mmmmmmmm, comfy seats and LEG-ROOM! Also bagged a couple of odd looks from some rich buggers who had spotted me sitting on my ruck-sack outside the compartment. Hah! Free upgrade to you too, meester! I speet on your feelthy first-class teecket! Hahaha!
I *so* wanted them to make comment! Ah well. Maybe another time. More importantly, though, it was very nice of the Virgin staff to take pity on a lowly twerp. That's what I call service. It was nice to be free of the pestilence of "personal" stereos. :D

Can't wait to hand in my expenses: I foolishly mentioned that I had yet to spend all my pay: as it was the dreaded "month-end" for m'colleagues I was duly given the keys to the hire-car and detailed to fetch "supplies". I don't think £70 on beer and foot-ointment is excessive, do you? I only bought one tube of the stuff. :)

‹Rubs sores on neck from too much rubber-necking in a highly starched collar.›

*I find the best lies to tell are the most enduring and oft-repeated ones.
**The first two or three days are business days, before they let the plebs like me in.
***I was sat outside the half-full Virgin Club Class carriage. Bring back John Major! Class indeed. Pah! Power to the People!

Oh nuts

2004-05-27T20:13:00.000+01:00

I fancied some nuts this evening. I really must stop visiting the Bedlam Asylum for Deranged Jennifer Aniston Lookalikes.

I was able to satiate this lust, for I have in my possession a bag of mixed nuts and raisins purchased on a recent trip to Tesco. My first attempt to open them involved tearing downwards through the plastic, with a view to ripping off the corner and thence extending the tear along the top of the packet. But I didn't get very far before striking something solid, which on further inspection turned out to be a resealing clippy thing. Sure enough, careful analysis showed the words 'Resealable Bag' marked clearly on the front.

All I had to do, then, was pull open the packet like a bag of crisps, tearing apart the two sides of the resealing clippy thingy, and the nuts would be mine.

Unfortunately, no amount of heaving would do the trick, so I paused to analyse the problem and observed a dotted line with a stylised pair of scissors marked on it. At this point I had a brainwave - I would simply cut along the dotted line with a pair of scissors.

This I did. I had anticipated that the next stage would involve opening the resealing clippy thingy, but it transpired that my exertions in the heaving phase had parted this from one side of the bag altogether, and the still firmly clipped resealing clippy thingy clung limpet-like to the opposing face. Furthermore, the opening I'd created by cutting along the dotted line was barely the size of my hand, completely unsuitable for scooping up great handfuls of nuts and stuffing them in my gob. So I grabbed both sides and pulled it open wide, tearing down the side of the bag and pouring nuts everywhere.

The result is a flappy piece of plastic with some nuts on it. I've never seen a less resealable bag in my life.

The Joy Of Sects

2004-05-26T19:48:00.000+01:00

Today it's me, MarcB, who takes the helm of the good ship Omally into the choppy waters of bloggingdom.

I really ought to stop using dodgy "Pirates of the Caribbean" metaphors.

Anyway, today I'm finally going to tell you about the Religious Studies trip we went on a long time ago. Or at least the weirdest part of it (and it was a weird day). I also cannot be held responsible for any inaccuracies or offence caused to any religious group!

Basically, the trip itself involved driving around to various places of worship in the cultural mecca that is Birmingham on a very hot day towards the end of term (in think it was in year 9). At the majority of places (such as the Gudwara and the Synagogue) we met some really friendly people and learnt a lot about their religion. But it was half way through the day, around lunchtime that we reached the Buddhist Temple and things took a turn for the worst.

The coach pulled up by a massive reservoir somewhere in the suburbs of the second city. This was the only part of the day where the sun didn't shine. A cold breeze blew across the grey, overcast lake and everyone shivered due to not having any coats. There, in front of us was a new looking, round building, comically placed on a scrubby, sloping piece of waste land. As we approached the entrance a thin man with a shaved head came out.

“Can you all walk clockwise round before coming in”, the monk said.

Fair enough, this would have been a bit of a novelty normally, but we were all getting colder and colder in our t-shirts. We had little choice though, and the whole group of roughly 60 kids and I began our trek around the temple.

The “journey” was easy going at first as someone had kindly laid down concrete slabs for about a quarter of the circle but it shortly became obvious that they had either died or just couldn’t be arsed to pave the rest of it. One of the teachers (in heels) began to squeal as the path petered out and the potholed scrubland took over around the back of the building. Fortunately, (or maybe unfortunately) everyone made it back round to the entrance without an ambulance having to be called and the monk finally let us in.

Then the smell hit us. This monk was alone in the temple and it quickly became apparent why. At least twenty incense sticks were burning inside and the potent waft of “Rose Petal” and “Morning Sunrise” was horrendous. Again, we had little choice in the matter and how we managed to sit through half an hour of him rambling on about nothing in particular without anyone becoming asphyxiated I will never know.

One of the many subjects he covered was the evilness of flags.

“You know what is both the greatest evil in the world and the thing that makes me the most angry? Flags”
…was not something anyone expected to hear that day. Neither was his speech on mortality…

“You have to be prepared to die. Anyone could die at any point you know. Just think you could get back on that coach, drive onto the M6, get hit by a juggernaut and all be killed”. At this point I shot a glance at our teacher, she was absolutely horrified, not only about us being extremely late for our next destination but about getting back on the bus itself!

To round things off the guy decided to hold a meditation session (much to Miss Leigh, our teacher’s annoyance).

“Close your eyes and be absolutely silent for the next ten minutes”, was wishful thinking when telling a large group of bored fifteen year-olds. In fact with the fake (and on one occasion, possibly real) farting noises, coughing and fidgeting going on, we were probably making more noise than when he was speaking to us.

Twenty minutes later (he gave us another exercise on walking around the room and not bumping into each other – I mean honestly!) the ordeal was finally over and we were allowed to return to civilisation. Unsurprisingly, Buddhism didn’t feature on the itinerary for the following years’ trip.

That’s all for today… actually no… I’ve got to go and write my own blog now…
Thanks for reading,
MarcB

Beddy byes

2004-05-25T16:43:00.000+01:00

I don't know how he does it.

Omally I mean by the 'he', and the 'it' means staying away for so long without intermaweb access. I couldn't do it, certainly. This leads to huge problems in August when I'm off to Florida with my The Family. We'll be there for about two weeks. Two long weeks without a net connection. Two long weeks without a computer at all. Admittedly I'm very lucky to be going anywhere at all, and there will be distractions aplenty whilst I'm there, so it's probably not that bad afterall. In recent years I've noticed that I get less and less homesick when I go away from home for extended periods of time. When I was younger I'd get a sudden craving for Heinz spaghetti hoops and 'Are you being served?' and, what with being in France or wherever, these needs could hardly be filled. The only thing I always miss, no matter where I am or how long I've been there, is my bed. I love my bed, I really do. This seems to be a universal trait, although I may be wrong, in that everyone in the world thinks that nothing is quite as comfortable as their own bed, I think it's always been this way; through the zeitgeist* of the sixties, probably even far back into Roman times - or possibly not, I'm fifteen, you expect me to make a relatively logical hypothesis? Anyway, I certainly think my little bed is the supreme comfiness at times. What I think the world needs though, is a device for measuring the comfiness of beds. There'd have to be different ratings, but it's a logical idea.

*No, I don't know what it means. Simon told me to put it in and I have. So ner.

I think I'll rate my bed:

Squishiness: 6/10
Snuggleability: 8/10
Hepatic portal vein interference: None
Quality of dens: 10/10
Number of poltergeist hauntings: None

That gives my bed a grand total of 82% on the brilliance scale! Yay! The 'none's equal ten out of ten for those who can't do maffs *coughmotherspluttercough*

So, um, I can't really think of much else to write about.

Move along people.

Nothing to see here.

GO AWAY! Sheesh!

< wanders away looking around suspiciously >