My Sister bought my one year old nephew round to the house this afternoon. This was the first time I'd seen him since Christmas. I couldn’t help but notice how quickly he's developing a personality beyond the three default settings of benign sleepiness, simplistic joy and blart-face. He is now starting to get a foothold on some basic interactional skills.
Even at this primitive stage 12 month stage, there seems to be a willful independence forming, highlighted through his staunch indifference to adult affections. He also seemed to have developed interactional skills, if you can count blowing a big raspberry as an interactional skill. As he indulged this new pastime, he seemed to be taking great amusement from the wet fountain of spittle which accompanied his actions. Not to be outdone (after all, I was the person nearest to his age in the room and so am his most natural competitor) I took up the challenge of engaged him in a full-on raspberry blowing contest. I was able to show more self-control than my competitor and mine were of the dry variety, but even so, having had 30 years more practice I was able to make them a lot louder than his feeble-tongued effort. Nevertheless this only inspired the infant to try blowing one back even harder, but the tiny fool was no match for me. I responded with another raspberry, just to rub salt into his wounded willful pride. His raspberries became progressively fiercer, but no matter how much he tried, he simply couldn’t compete. And as I watched his little struggle, through his usually angelic face, he shot me a sudden aggressive, chilling glance. For that one fleeting moment it felt like I had been privy to a peek into his little heart of darkness. This will no doubt be the same look he’ll appropriate in fifteen years time when he stabs some member of a rival gang to death in cold blood on the rough streets of Willenhall. You know what kids are like nowadays, spending all their leisure time engaged in knife-related hi-jinx.
Seriously though, as he plodded round the room, half stumbling towards his next potential domestic disaster (trying to squeeze the cat’s tail, pushing at the telly in an attempt to flip it over, messing with the washing machine, trying to devour a coaster – you know - the normal kind of stuff) I felt truly exhausted by worry just from watching him. And he was only in my company for an hour or so. God knows what it must be like to have this kind of responsibility twenty four seven. I might be a victorious achiever when it comes to raspberry-blowing battles with infants, but I’m certainly not sure how adept I’d be when it comes to child-rearing. I imagine I’d be so continually tormented by the next possible disaster that could befall the little creature; I’d literally drive myself into some sort of morbid breakdown. I’d be so over-protective, my life would become a hellish existence where I lived as little more than constant surveillance camera.
At one point in the afternoon, there was a heart-stopping moment when the child stumbled, nearly colliding face first into a small coffee table. Luckily, no harm was done, but despite not even being his parent, I was instantly struck by a sudden sense of guilt and responsibility for this near-miss; merely on the basis that I happened to be the one sitting nearest to him at the time (and if I’m honest, it was my oafish foot he had tripped over in the first place).
I don’t think I’ll ever be up to having kids. I’m just not made of the right stuff. You may think there is little harm in being a bit overly-concerned for a child’s welfare. But youngsters probably need to be allowed to take tumbles and get hurt, or take ill-judged risks every now and again. Otherwise, how are they to learn behavioral boundaries? The difference between right and wrong? The difference between danger and safety? If Liam were mine, at what point would I be able to set him free, to learn these necessary lessons for himself? It’d take least sixteen years, I reckon.
I suppose eventually he’ll just have learn via the judicial system, after going down for stabbing that bloke to death.
Fri 30th Jan 2009
Whilst walking to the car park from work, I overheard some lads of an age range of around 18-21, arranging to go to a particular club later that evening because, I quote, “the girls there are easy”.
I couldn't help but wonder to myself how indicative of youth this was. Ten years ago, that’s the sort of delusional, socially-assumptive conversation I might have been involved in. Those lads were so full of the hope, naivety and the harmless misogyny of youth. They were yet to be jaded with the cynicism that follows years of leaving pubs and clubs alone, having failed to summon the bravery it takes to actually make approaches to the opposite sex (no matter how 'easy' they were reputed to be). Indeed, with ten years more experience than these youngsters, I am, by now, wizened enough to make economical savings on my time by making a bee-line straight home on my own, editing out that unnecessary expense and kerfuffle of spending Friday evening in some claustrophobic, booming pizzle-hutch.
Actually, I don't know why I'm making excuses. This is getting just like yesterday’s entry where I feel like I have to justify my misanthropic behavior to you. So what if I spent another Friday night in on my own? I might be on the road to a lonely death, but surely that's my perogative!
I couldn't help but wonder to myself how indicative of youth this was. Ten years ago, that’s the sort of delusional, socially-assumptive conversation I might have been involved in. Those lads were so full of the hope, naivety and the harmless misogyny of youth. They were yet to be jaded with the cynicism that follows years of leaving pubs and clubs alone, having failed to summon the bravery it takes to actually make approaches to the opposite sex (no matter how 'easy' they were reputed to be). Indeed, with ten years more experience than these youngsters, I am, by now, wizened enough to make economical savings on my time by making a bee-line straight home on my own, editing out that unnecessary expense and kerfuffle of spending Friday evening in some claustrophobic, booming pizzle-hutch.
Actually, I don't know why I'm making excuses. This is getting just like yesterday’s entry where I feel like I have to justify my misanthropic behavior to you. So what if I spent another Friday night in on my own? I might be on the road to a lonely death, but surely that's my perogative!
Thu 29th Jan 2009
My old gym regime doesn’t not seem to have kick-started with the New Year. After a sloppy and indulgent December, I assured myself that I’d start a-fresh come January. It didn’t really go to plan, and sloppy indulgences have now slid past my self-promised New Year marker. This is bad news. As far as I am concerned, unless I go enough times per month that it is better value than paying for individual visits to the gym, then my membership is worthwhile. On average, since joining I am certainly up on the deal having made good use of the gym, but these saving are slowly being dripped away with my level of attendance in December and January. Today I even did the classic move of a de-motivated gym member, desperately clinging on to the idea that his membership is justifiable. Adamant to start a new regime, I went to the gym. Then I drove around the carpark, looking for a tenuous excuse to turn round and go home. This wasn’t too difficult because the car park was jammed, and as I peered through the window, the gym was packed. Not a single running machine free. I didn’t fancy all that hassle of waiting for lockers to become available, just so I can then stand around waiting for gym equipment to become available. I didn’t have that sort of time to spare. For starters, I needed to get back in time so I could write up this blog. Yes, that’s right, this blog about failing to go to the gym. This blog you are reading, about bypassing the gym to write a blog about bypassing the gym. It’s certainly been worthwhile, don’t you think? I reckon this is my most post-modern entry to date. We’re breaking brave new territory here folks. Let’s all take a collective gasp of astonishment.
The only reason the gym was so full is because everybody has resurrected their enthusiasm for exercise, or have signed up to appease post-Christmas guilt and New Year resolutions. Come the middle of February we’ll find out how dedicated these fair-weather gym cloggers really are. Then I’ll once again have a freer reign from the hoi palloy, and will soon get back into the swing of things. I am adamant that by driving round the car-park and going home, I am not showing a sign of failure. I was merely psyching myself up, preparing to get in ‘the zone’ ready for February. Yes, that’s definitely what I was doing. In fact, I am so confident of this psychological approach that next year, I intend to do exactly the same again. Except this time, I will show a bit more persistence through December then deliberately slow down in January to avoid the horrors of the ‘peak month’. From now on, in my world, February is the new January.
I suppose this highlights I’m not a social animal. I am even prepared to take such desperate measures as adjusting my own perception of time, just so I can avoid other people. Even so, I reckon this is actually a rather brilliantly conceived plan. I can honestly say I feel better about myself already. Perhaps this time-shift will even add another month on to my lifespan for every year that passes!
In which case, who needs the sodding gym anyway?
The only reason the gym was so full is because everybody has resurrected their enthusiasm for exercise, or have signed up to appease post-Christmas guilt and New Year resolutions. Come the middle of February we’ll find out how dedicated these fair-weather gym cloggers really are. Then I’ll once again have a freer reign from the hoi palloy, and will soon get back into the swing of things. I am adamant that by driving round the car-park and going home, I am not showing a sign of failure. I was merely psyching myself up, preparing to get in ‘the zone’ ready for February. Yes, that’s definitely what I was doing. In fact, I am so confident of this psychological approach that next year, I intend to do exactly the same again. Except this time, I will show a bit more persistence through December then deliberately slow down in January to avoid the horrors of the ‘peak month’. From now on, in my world, February is the new January.
I suppose this highlights I’m not a social animal. I am even prepared to take such desperate measures as adjusting my own perception of time, just so I can avoid other people. Even so, I reckon this is actually a rather brilliantly conceived plan. I can honestly say I feel better about myself already. Perhaps this time-shift will even add another month on to my lifespan for every year that passes!
In which case, who needs the sodding gym anyway?
Wed 28th Jan 2009
My nerdy temperament is exponentially increasing by the day. I have now joined the world of podcasting. You can click here to download the first episode right now – providing I’ve done it right. You may feel a bit hesitant about downloading a random link from a random website for fear that it might contain virus or something. I know I would. For an increasing nerdy yet still essentially technophobic paranoid like me, downloading files is very much like inviting a stray dog into your home – in theory it should be rewarding, but you can never be too sure that the canine won’t end up biting your face off. There’s got to be a reason why no-one wants to house it. Let me assure you though, the file is perfectly fine. I have downloaded it myself and my computer still seems to be functioning well enough to be writing this blog to you now. But in case you are still worried, I have also been reassuringly vetted by iTunes, who also seem willing to house my stray dog of a podcast. Lots of people moan about the strangle-hold monopoly that the mighty iTunes has on the download market. You can be as cynical as you like, but at least with international corporations, you can’t but help feel a reassuring sense of trust with their products. Nestle may allegedly have dubious ethics as regards to powdered milk (and is often rightfully boycotted), but have you really ever had a bad glass of Nesquick?
At the risk of sounding like a naïve old uncle being shown this ‘new fangled interweb whatchamathing’ for the first time, I find it both mind-boggling and immensely amusing that my dour, monotonous West Midlands drone can now literally be heard anywhere in the world. Even more inexplicable is that one of my favourite songwriters offered to donate some ace compositions to my growing mid-life crisis vanity project - presumably an altruistic act for the good of mankind, making the listening experience miles less excruciating. And fortunately (for his reputation), I well imagine this unprecedented international audience of potential listeners are very much likely to remain in the category of potential listeners. Nevertheless, having one of your favourite ever songwriters offering their compositions is an immensely humbling privilege. Thankfully, I don’t think he’d seen the film ‘Misery’ at the time he politely humored my casual collaborative suggestion.
So let me emphasize - it’s worth downloading for the music alone. And who knows, maybe people out there might love hearing curmudgeonly grumblings of a pedantic neurotic, delivered straight to their ears in a dour, monotonous West Midlands drone. Time will tell. If you now happen to see ‘Days of Enlightenment’ unexpectedly hurtling up the iTunes chart, we’ll all realise just how big the market for this sort of thing actually is.
At the risk of sounding like a naïve old uncle being shown this ‘new fangled interweb whatchamathing’ for the first time, I find it both mind-boggling and immensely amusing that my dour, monotonous West Midlands drone can now literally be heard anywhere in the world. Even more inexplicable is that one of my favourite songwriters offered to donate some ace compositions to my growing mid-life crisis vanity project - presumably an altruistic act for the good of mankind, making the listening experience miles less excruciating. And fortunately (for his reputation), I well imagine this unprecedented international audience of potential listeners are very much likely to remain in the category of potential listeners. Nevertheless, having one of your favourite ever songwriters offering their compositions is an immensely humbling privilege. Thankfully, I don’t think he’d seen the film ‘Misery’ at the time he politely humored my casual collaborative suggestion.
So let me emphasize - it’s worth downloading for the music alone. And who knows, maybe people out there might love hearing curmudgeonly grumblings of a pedantic neurotic, delivered straight to their ears in a dour, monotonous West Midlands drone. Time will tell. If you now happen to see ‘Days of Enlightenment’ unexpectedly hurtling up the iTunes chart, we’ll all realise just how big the market for this sort of thing actually is.
Tue 27th Jan 2009
Do you ever find yourself faced with a quandary over small change?
Picture being at a shop counter. You’re purchasing a 99p item, having just handed over a pound coin. The shopkeeper starts faffing around for your change. Although this fumble (like so many of my others) only lasts seconds, the time delay in this furrowing seems endless.
Maybe he’s having trouble opening the till? Or he’s going to punishing lengths to burrow round for the right coin? It doesn’t matter what the hold up is caused by. Automatically you can’t help feeling you’re putting the poor chap to great pains for the sake of a penny. Worse still, other customers in the queue stand behind you, impatiently waiting to be served. Your continued presence at the counter, anticipating this solitary coin, is going to portray you as incredibly mean to this audience. Especially when they spot you’ve been holding them all up over a penny. You are trapped, conscious of the venomous glares erupting behind you.
Or are you? Couldn’t you just walk off? I suppose you could. But what if the shop-keeper calls you back?
“Here’s your change sir.” He hollers across the aisles. And what are your options now?
You can turn around and trudge shamefully back to the counter, barging in front of a queue of irritated customers just to reclaim a tiny monetary piece of shrapnel. But you’d be damning your popularity further, wasting even more of their time than you would have done originally if you’d have just stayed at the counter in the first place.
Or you could return the holler and insist that the gentleman ‘keep the change’ for his kindly concern. This isn’t so bad for monetary value of ten pence or over, but telling him to keep a penny just makes you look arrogant. What is the poor man expected to say in response?
“Oh sir, is this for me? Really? You show such generosity to my shop, that this transcends a mere tip – oh what am I saying? - Tip?? - For you are surely now classed a benefactor! Oh but sir, how we both know I cannot keep this coin. It doesn’t seem right. It is too much. Please, allow me spend my day off dividing it with a saw, so I may share the wealth for the fortune of mankind. I must place at least half in this tin which I keep on the front counter to collect for Cancer Research. Oh thank you kind sir, you will be the savior of so many lives with your donation.”
This response would be fairly unlikely. In fact, if I were him, I’d pelt the measily coin straight back at your head, you condescending, tight-arsed little squirrel.
You make me sick.
Of course, you could opt to simply be dismissive the whole ordeal. When he calls you’d pretend not to hear and just leg it out of the shop. But this looks plain weird. Chances are you’ll be exuding the impression of guilt and a petty shop theft. You won’t get to the end of the street before you’ve been a victim of police brutality.
As you can see, each option is as unappealing as the next. My advice? Stay indoors at all costs. Why do you think God invented internet shopping?
Oh yeah, that’s right – to terrify us with the hanging paranoia of internet banking fraud.
Picture being at a shop counter. You’re purchasing a 99p item, having just handed over a pound coin. The shopkeeper starts faffing around for your change. Although this fumble (like so many of my others) only lasts seconds, the time delay in this furrowing seems endless.
Maybe he’s having trouble opening the till? Or he’s going to punishing lengths to burrow round for the right coin? It doesn’t matter what the hold up is caused by. Automatically you can’t help feeling you’re putting the poor chap to great pains for the sake of a penny. Worse still, other customers in the queue stand behind you, impatiently waiting to be served. Your continued presence at the counter, anticipating this solitary coin, is going to portray you as incredibly mean to this audience. Especially when they spot you’ve been holding them all up over a penny. You are trapped, conscious of the venomous glares erupting behind you.
Or are you? Couldn’t you just walk off? I suppose you could. But what if the shop-keeper calls you back?
“Here’s your change sir.” He hollers across the aisles. And what are your options now?
You can turn around and trudge shamefully back to the counter, barging in front of a queue of irritated customers just to reclaim a tiny monetary piece of shrapnel. But you’d be damning your popularity further, wasting even more of their time than you would have done originally if you’d have just stayed at the counter in the first place.
Or you could return the holler and insist that the gentleman ‘keep the change’ for his kindly concern. This isn’t so bad for monetary value of ten pence or over, but telling him to keep a penny just makes you look arrogant. What is the poor man expected to say in response?
“Oh sir, is this for me? Really? You show such generosity to my shop, that this transcends a mere tip – oh what am I saying? - Tip?? - For you are surely now classed a benefactor! Oh but sir, how we both know I cannot keep this coin. It doesn’t seem right. It is too much. Please, allow me spend my day off dividing it with a saw, so I may share the wealth for the fortune of mankind. I must place at least half in this tin which I keep on the front counter to collect for Cancer Research. Oh thank you kind sir, you will be the savior of so many lives with your donation.”
This response would be fairly unlikely. In fact, if I were him, I’d pelt the measily coin straight back at your head, you condescending, tight-arsed little squirrel.
You make me sick.
Of course, you could opt to simply be dismissive the whole ordeal. When he calls you’d pretend not to hear and just leg it out of the shop. But this looks plain weird. Chances are you’ll be exuding the impression of guilt and a petty shop theft. You won’t get to the end of the street before you’ve been a victim of police brutality.
As you can see, each option is as unappealing as the next. My advice? Stay indoors at all costs. Why do you think God invented internet shopping?
Oh yeah, that’s right – to terrify us with the hanging paranoia of internet banking fraud.
Mon 26th Jan 2009
I often get irritated by abbreviations in text messages. This morning my Mom sent me a text which read “Sorry 4 yesterday. Ok 2 cum 4 dinner next Sunday? Luv Mom.”
On the one hand, maybe she should be applauded in her efforts to embrace this youth-speak. But on the other hand, I can't help feeling she really should know better at that age. I fear that the regularity in which these spelling short-cuts are used by people has the potential start eroding language. There'll come a time when our written word will resemble the tracklisting of a Prince LP. And for what benefit? To be saved from the effort of typing just 6 measly extra letters? I mean, those seven extra letters cost nothing do they? (Well to be fair, I suppose there are a limit to the number of characters you can send in a single message and if you exceed this limit, there'd be the additional charge incurred in sending 2 messages. I accept economics are involved in certain circumstances and I’m not going to insist that someone should pay double where it can be avoided; that would be pointless. I’m not that much of a pedant for heaven's sake). Irritatingly, when I re-typed this particular message into my own phone, I was appalled to find that she would still have had 75 characters to use. If anything, I think she should have typed the full words out just to get more of her money’s-worth.
And what's even worse is that as I’m typing all this, I’ve also just noticed her use of the word ‘cum’, which seems to be the spelling more commonly used in making reference to a sexual climax. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t really want to think about ejaculatory fluids in the same context as my own mother. Such imagery is most unsettling. I just hope she’s not sending this spelling of the word to all her colleagues and friends. She’ll be a considered a laughing stock, or even worse, mistakenly assumed as a kind of text message based pornographer. It might sound like a big laugh to you now, but this is something that I’m going to have to broach with her the next time I see her. Damn, what a troublesome blog I have spawned today. I’m not looking forward to addressing this matter in the slightest.
On the one hand, maybe she should be applauded in her efforts to embrace this youth-speak. But on the other hand, I can't help feeling she really should know better at that age. I fear that the regularity in which these spelling short-cuts are used by people has the potential start eroding language. There'll come a time when our written word will resemble the tracklisting of a Prince LP. And for what benefit? To be saved from the effort of typing just 6 measly extra letters? I mean, those seven extra letters cost nothing do they? (Well to be fair, I suppose there are a limit to the number of characters you can send in a single message and if you exceed this limit, there'd be the additional charge incurred in sending 2 messages. I accept economics are involved in certain circumstances and I’m not going to insist that someone should pay double where it can be avoided; that would be pointless. I’m not that much of a pedant for heaven's sake). Irritatingly, when I re-typed this particular message into my own phone, I was appalled to find that she would still have had 75 characters to use. If anything, I think she should have typed the full words out just to get more of her money’s-worth.
And what's even worse is that as I’m typing all this, I’ve also just noticed her use of the word ‘cum’, which seems to be the spelling more commonly used in making reference to a sexual climax. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t really want to think about ejaculatory fluids in the same context as my own mother. Such imagery is most unsettling. I just hope she’s not sending this spelling of the word to all her colleagues and friends. She’ll be a considered a laughing stock, or even worse, mistakenly assumed as a kind of text message based pornographer. It might sound like a big laugh to you now, but this is something that I’m going to have to broach with her the next time I see her. Damn, what a troublesome blog I have spawned today. I’m not looking forward to addressing this matter in the slightest.
Sun 25th Jan 2009
Unusually for a Sunday, I did not go for dinner with my Mom. She called to say she had been invited elsewhere (should it be of concern that even my own mother is standing me up now?). To be honest, it came as a bit of a relief. I felt sluggish and mildly hung-over following yesterday’s party. It’s one thing not being good at interacting with strangers, but quite another not being able to interact with your own mother.
I wasted the morning lolling about house, till I could bear my lethargic stupor no more. I decided to join some friends on a bracing afternoon bike ride in the countryside. We did a fair few miles too. The first part of the ride seemed cruel and unrelenting, but the cold wind and the endless pedaling soon seemed to snap me from my hangover.
On the way back, we decided to award our efforts with a pint in a nice warm country pub. We locked our bikes outside next to the bus stop. Escaping the cool air blowing at our shirts which had been dampened by earlier sweat, we took off our restrictive helmets and entered the pub. We settled down at a table by the log fireside. Our tired legs rested whilst we supped at crisp cool glasses of lager. Whist chatting and laughing together by the warmth of the fire all seemed good with the world. I felt better about myself having made the effort to do some exercise.
We couldn’t stay for long. The dusk was looming and we needed to get back before dark. Even though there had only been time for one drink, as I stood up to leave, I felt enveloped by a small warm buzz of alcohol. The hair of the dog had truly relaxed me.
As we left the pub could hear the distant rumble of a bus approaching. And inside, there was a small strange part of me that hoped the bikes had been stolen.
I wasted the morning lolling about house, till I could bear my lethargic stupor no more. I decided to join some friends on a bracing afternoon bike ride in the countryside. We did a fair few miles too. The first part of the ride seemed cruel and unrelenting, but the cold wind and the endless pedaling soon seemed to snap me from my hangover.
On the way back, we decided to award our efforts with a pint in a nice warm country pub. We locked our bikes outside next to the bus stop. Escaping the cool air blowing at our shirts which had been dampened by earlier sweat, we took off our restrictive helmets and entered the pub. We settled down at a table by the log fireside. Our tired legs rested whilst we supped at crisp cool glasses of lager. Whist chatting and laughing together by the warmth of the fire all seemed good with the world. I felt better about myself having made the effort to do some exercise.
We couldn’t stay for long. The dusk was looming and we needed to get back before dark. Even though there had only been time for one drink, as I stood up to leave, I felt enveloped by a small warm buzz of alcohol. The hair of the dog had truly relaxed me.
As we left the pub could hear the distant rumble of a bus approaching. And inside, there was a small strange part of me that hoped the bikes had been stolen.
Sat 24th Jan 2009
This evening I was invited to a 60th birthday/retirement party. I didn’t know many of the people there, since it was a friend’s mother’s party. But this made my invitation all the more flattering.
I’ve started to notice that I’ve perhaps never developed past the stage of looking like a self-consciously awkward teenager whenever I’m in large groups of people. Other humans who aren’t me, make parties look much easier. Or is it all just comparative because I make them look hard? I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like some folks I don’t know will try to make me feel really welcome. They’ll do things like coming up and talking to me, apropos of nothing; yet I never seem able to instigate anything like that. I just keep myself exclusively in a corner with people my own age, huddled inside the comfort of my familiar social circle. Even at 30, I still don’t feel myself of enough interest to approach someone I don’t really know and make polite conversation. I always feel like I’d need a pretty good reason to do so – perhaps if I needed to alert someone to the fact their child is on fire in the corner, something like that . And even then I’d still be hesitant. The poor kid would be charred to death before I found a polite opportune opening with which to interrupt any conversations their parent’s might be having.
Exactly how am I ever going to get to that position where I can put others at ease with my rapport, when I’m still so pre-occupied by making my rapport feel at ease? Is the skill of looking out for other’s comfort just something which one acquires at a certain age? All my parent’s generation make it look easy – just like how all their parent’s generation made the New Year sing-a-long to “Auld Lang Syne” look easy.
Don’t get me wrong though, I did have a genuinely good time. My self-consciousness is not of such quantity that it actually spoils my enjoyment of parties (let me assure you, that hasn’t happened for at least a year). And neither do I really consider myself aloof. This is nothing more than a small acknowledgement, that maybe I could give a bit more of myself to others, as they do to me. Which is rather ironic, given that I’ve just written a whole entry about someone else’s celebratory occasion and yet have written solely about no-one but my own uninteresting self.
Actually, perhaps that might be the answer? The next time I get invited to a party, I could get all these blogs printed and stapled, then hand them out to guests?
But I suppose if anything, that would be giving an over-compensatory, possibly unnecessary amount of myself to give.
Too much too soon.
Especially if they were merely inviting me to link arms for “High Ho Silver Lining” at the time.
I’ve started to notice that I’ve perhaps never developed past the stage of looking like a self-consciously awkward teenager whenever I’m in large groups of people. Other humans who aren’t me, make parties look much easier. Or is it all just comparative because I make them look hard? I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like some folks I don’t know will try to make me feel really welcome. They’ll do things like coming up and talking to me, apropos of nothing; yet I never seem able to instigate anything like that. I just keep myself exclusively in a corner with people my own age, huddled inside the comfort of my familiar social circle. Even at 30, I still don’t feel myself of enough interest to approach someone I don’t really know and make polite conversation. I always feel like I’d need a pretty good reason to do so – perhaps if I needed to alert someone to the fact their child is on fire in the corner, something like that . And even then I’d still be hesitant. The poor kid would be charred to death before I found a polite opportune opening with which to interrupt any conversations their parent’s might be having.
Exactly how am I ever going to get to that position where I can put others at ease with my rapport, when I’m still so pre-occupied by making my rapport feel at ease? Is the skill of looking out for other’s comfort just something which one acquires at a certain age? All my parent’s generation make it look easy – just like how all their parent’s generation made the New Year sing-a-long to “Auld Lang Syne” look easy.
Don’t get me wrong though, I did have a genuinely good time. My self-consciousness is not of such quantity that it actually spoils my enjoyment of parties (let me assure you, that hasn’t happened for at least a year). And neither do I really consider myself aloof. This is nothing more than a small acknowledgement, that maybe I could give a bit more of myself to others, as they do to me. Which is rather ironic, given that I’ve just written a whole entry about someone else’s celebratory occasion and yet have written solely about no-one but my own uninteresting self.
Actually, perhaps that might be the answer? The next time I get invited to a party, I could get all these blogs printed and stapled, then hand them out to guests?
But I suppose if anything, that would be giving an over-compensatory, possibly unnecessary amount of myself to give.
Too much too soon.
Especially if they were merely inviting me to link arms for “High Ho Silver Lining” at the time.
Fri 23rd Jan 2009
After the disappointment of Monday’s dinner, I decided to prepare my own sandwiches for work today. At least I would only have myself to blame if they were horrible.
Luckily they weren’t. Though the only problem with sarnies, is that you sit at your work desk all morning eagerly anticipating dinnertime, then the lot seem to get devoured in a matter of seconds. At least with the Scotch Broth, one has to wait for the soup to cool down, thus allowing a more lengthier appreciation of dinner. After wolfing the sarnies, I simply didn’t feel sated, and was promptly heading over to Tesco Metro for a packet of Snack-A-Jacks. In case you are unfamiliar with Snack-a-Jacks, they are little circles of puffed rice that look like polystyrene and are only ever purchased as a desperate effort to stave off hunger in a manner which avoids the calorific guilt associated with real crisps.
They sold three different varieties; salt & vinegar, barbeque and caramel. I am not too keen on the latter as I consider Snack-a-jacks to be a savoury product so the thought of caramel flavor always seems a bit weird. Yet there also seemed a sensible logic to getting one of each flavor; if only as a means to swiftly resolve the dilemma of whether I preferred an extra bag of salt and vinegar or an extra bag of barbeque. I didn’t really have the time to stand around having a debate with myself over such trivialities.
Grabbing one of each, I headed to those self-service check-outs where you scan the product in yourself. Where possible, I will always try to use these, because it means I can avoid any awkward social interactions with check-out staff who probably hate me; because they associate any customer with the drudgery of being at work. I never really feel inclined to impose myself upon someone who disliked me by such virtue of my default consumer relationship. Which may seem paranoid, but even if they don’t happen to hate me, it’s still not a very appealing aspiration where the best to hope for is that someone merely feels numbing ambivalence. Consequently, the only time I tend to use the staffed check-out is when I am buying any alcoholic products. This is because I once tried scan a four pack on the manual checkouts, and a big light above the checkout suddenly started flashing a piercing red. The purpose of this blazing beacon was to attract the attention of one of the shop assistants, to verify whether I am old enough for booze. This is undeniably a necessary and understandable policy to employ, but I still felt it a little indiscreet. It’s not so bad if you shop in the evening, but what would the rest of the shoppers think about the sort of person buys alcohol in the daytime? Once again, maybe I’m paranoid, but I never much fancy a public accusation of a steady problem with alcoholism.
I scanned the Snack-a-Jacks through and was already holding my pound coin out in the anticipation of payment. However, I was alarmed to see that when the screen tallied up my bill, the machine seemed to have made a mistake. No offer deduction had gone through, and it expected the full 44p payment for each of the bags! I am not a very confrontational character, so my default reaction was to just put the extra money in and leave it be. It didn’t seem worth the hassle just for 31p.
But then why should I? The only reason I’d bought three bags was to get take advantage of the offer! When I had entered Tesco’s, I didn’t even intend to buy three bags! This wasn’t just about puffy rice circles anymore – there was a bigger principal at stake. If I were to let this lie, it would be the 2nd time in a fortnight I’d been ripped off by rogue offers from evil corporations! When I look back over a previous entry I wrote about PC World, I can’t help notice how badly it reads. You kind of get the sense that I so angry whilst reporting the incident, I was actually hammering at the keys. And my God, didn’t it go on and on?! I was not willing to let this happen again. For the first time ever, it was me calling a shop assistant to the checkout machines, rather than the checkout machine calling shop assistants to me.
Upon her arrival, the woman looked at the screen and then studied the Snack-A-Jacks. She turned to me, saying “Ah yes you see, the offer only includes the 30 gram bags, but this one here is actually a 35 gram bag.”
Incidentally, the rogue 35 gram bag she was referring to was the Caramel flavor - trust the caramel ones to causing all this sodding trouble.
“That’s why the offer didn’t work y’see. Different bag sizes.” she continued, before kindly enquiring, “Would you like me to change them for you?”
“Yes please” I replied, resigning myself to the bosom of her maternal charm.
I really didn’t want to inconvenience this nice lady with this petty matter any further. But equally I didn’t want to effectively pay 30-odd pence for an extra 5 grams. That would be consumer madness. I mean, 5 grams is at most, 2 puffy rice circles. And in any case, they were 5 grams of caramel flavored puffy rice circles- my least favourite flavor!
'Ooh I feel like such a pedant squabbling over the 31p.’ I self-consciously announced whilst following her back to the isle of Snack-A-Jacks. It was true; the amount of money was so insignificant that I probably wouldn’t even go to the effort of zipping the reclaimed shrapnel safely back my wallet. It would just end up swinging loose in my trouser pocket, till each piece of change finally fell out unspent.
"Oh don’t worry love. It's a good job you pointed it out now. Otherwise other people would have just complained later."
I strongly suspect she was only trying to make me feel better. Even if anyone did ever go to the effort of pointing out the misleading display, I’d imagine she’d much prefer it if it happened when it wasn’t on a shift she was working.
Nevertheless, I don’t mind admitting that I feel slightly proud for standing up to Tesco and their confusing Snack-A-Jack arrangement. The puffy rice may soon be devoured, but I can forever cherish the receipt. It will be a permanent souvenir of the day I finally became equipped to look after myself better in the frenzied jungle of retail. It’s a massive personal achievement for me. I suppose you might call it Retail Therapy.
Thu 22nd Jan 2009
Do you believe in fate?
I’ve been looking to put on a Quiz Night in the town centre. There used to be one which was rather popular amongst students in the local Varsity pub. It ceased about nine years ago, and I’ve recently been looking to resurrect the concept. The only problem is that I’ve been unable to find anyone who’d be willing to act as a quizmaster. I’d do the job myself, but when I was in my late-teens, I had a crack at chairing the aforementioned quiz on behalf of Pottsy, the usual host who was taking a week’s holiday. It seemed a simple enough task, all I had to do was read - he’d even kindly prepared the questions for me. But in the event, I’d never anticipated the level of exception to which my incorrect but innocently naive pronunciation of the Polish currency was to be taken. I can still recall some of the complaints; ranging from the snipe: “You’re no Bob Holness are you son?” to the haunting vision of the man inadvertently firing shards of angry spittle at me from behind his wall of bared teeth, as I was personally blamed for all his personal failures. It felt as if everyone in the room hated me. With the possible exception of the team that won; who only complimented me with mere ambivalence.
As I was leaving the gym today, I clapped eyes on a vaguely familiar face coming toward me from the other side of the turnstile. It appeared that my face was familiar to him too, since he stopped me at the entrance. “Where do I know you from?” he asked. My mind raced desperately to locate this person’s identity through my mind’s database, before finally recognising him as Pottsy, the old quizmaster from ten years ago!
Could it really be? Given my current desire to start a quiz night being hindered only by a lack of a quizmaster, to now see this vintage quizmaster’s face appear before me seemed a tremendous co-incidence.
“Was it from The Varsity?” I asked.
“Yeah that must be it” he nodded.
Obviously, the opportunity seemed too good to pass, so I chanced my arm, “Are you still doing any quizzes”
“Nah” he replied.
“Why’s that? Is it a lack of time or inclination or something?”
“Er.. well, both really”
I was disappointed, but wondered if I’d be able to re-ignite some enthusiasm by announcing my new project.
“It’s just I was thinking of doing a quiz in town, and I wondered whether you’d be interested in it”.
He gave me a strange, kind of slightly indignant look, before politely but efficiently replying, “No, not really. Anyway, better crack on, nice to see you, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon”.
And with that, we parted. I was disappointed that such a strange and aptly timed meeting with this old acquaintance had not ended with the conclusion that I’d wished for. As I walked across the car park, I considered that if fate did indeed exist, it seemed cruel for it to have engineered such a situation, only for its possibilities to be so abruptly dismissed.
But then another, more pressing realisation swept over me. That man hadn’t actually been Pottsy at all. I suddenly recalled that it was in fact someone I used to wash dishes with at a kitchen I worked at as a student. The whole exchange had been a case of mistaken identity. It had all been a big lie.
I felt a bit embarrassed. Wondering what I must have looked to him, my first inevitable reaction was to run back through the contents of conversation that had just taken place.
The haste in which the conversation was ended certainly gave an air of discomfort.
I had been working with the pre-conceived notion which assumed he was a man who used to host quizzes. Due to the fact that he was not aware of ever hosting quizzes, nor even actually didn’t have much interest in quizzes, I guess I must have appeared rather lonely and presumptive man. A man so bereft of friends, that he would invite anyone who looked only
vaguely familiar, to assist him in forming a quiz team.. What sort of a person would go around asking barely recognisable acquintances to go out sit with them for the duration of a whole evening of quiz? Probably someone rather lonely, who rarely goes out and spends a lot of time alone in front of a computer. It would be a rather amusing stereotype if only it didn’t fit me so well.
So the question remains – does fate exist? To be honest I’m not really sure, but I’d certainly prefer to believe it doesn’t. Because if it did, this would mean that I am forever fated to engineer all of my social interactions (whether they be a one-to-one exchange or addressing a room full of people during an otherwise light-hearted general knowledge game), like a graceless, half-witted twat. And if this is the case, I might as well just save time and give up all this ‘talking to people’ stuff right now.
If I’ve run off to live in a monastery somewhere by the time you read this, you’ll know what I finally decided upon.
I’ve been looking to put on a Quiz Night in the town centre. There used to be one which was rather popular amongst students in the local Varsity pub. It ceased about nine years ago, and I’ve recently been looking to resurrect the concept. The only problem is that I’ve been unable to find anyone who’d be willing to act as a quizmaster. I’d do the job myself, but when I was in my late-teens, I had a crack at chairing the aforementioned quiz on behalf of Pottsy, the usual host who was taking a week’s holiday. It seemed a simple enough task, all I had to do was read - he’d even kindly prepared the questions for me. But in the event, I’d never anticipated the level of exception to which my incorrect but innocently naive pronunciation of the Polish currency was to be taken. I can still recall some of the complaints; ranging from the snipe: “You’re no Bob Holness are you son?” to the haunting vision of the man inadvertently firing shards of angry spittle at me from behind his wall of bared teeth, as I was personally blamed for all his personal failures. It felt as if everyone in the room hated me. With the possible exception of the team that won; who only complimented me with mere ambivalence.
As I was leaving the gym today, I clapped eyes on a vaguely familiar face coming toward me from the other side of the turnstile. It appeared that my face was familiar to him too, since he stopped me at the entrance. “Where do I know you from?” he asked. My mind raced desperately to locate this person’s identity through my mind’s database, before finally recognising him as Pottsy, the old quizmaster from ten years ago!
Could it really be? Given my current desire to start a quiz night being hindered only by a lack of a quizmaster, to now see this vintage quizmaster’s face appear before me seemed a tremendous co-incidence.
“Was it from The Varsity?” I asked.
“Yeah that must be it” he nodded.
Obviously, the opportunity seemed too good to pass, so I chanced my arm, “Are you still doing any quizzes”
“Nah” he replied.
“Why’s that? Is it a lack of time or inclination or something?”
“Er.. well, both really”
I was disappointed, but wondered if I’d be able to re-ignite some enthusiasm by announcing my new project.
“It’s just I was thinking of doing a quiz in town, and I wondered whether you’d be interested in it”.
He gave me a strange, kind of slightly indignant look, before politely but efficiently replying, “No, not really. Anyway, better crack on, nice to see you, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon”.
And with that, we parted. I was disappointed that such a strange and aptly timed meeting with this old acquaintance had not ended with the conclusion that I’d wished for. As I walked across the car park, I considered that if fate did indeed exist, it seemed cruel for it to have engineered such a situation, only for its possibilities to be so abruptly dismissed.
But then another, more pressing realisation swept over me. That man hadn’t actually been Pottsy at all. I suddenly recalled that it was in fact someone I used to wash dishes with at a kitchen I worked at as a student. The whole exchange had been a case of mistaken identity. It had all been a big lie.
I felt a bit embarrassed. Wondering what I must have looked to him, my first inevitable reaction was to run back through the contents of conversation that had just taken place.
The haste in which the conversation was ended certainly gave an air of discomfort.
I had been working with the pre-conceived notion which assumed he was a man who used to host quizzes. Due to the fact that he was not aware of ever hosting quizzes, nor even actually didn’t have much interest in quizzes, I guess I must have appeared rather lonely and presumptive man. A man so bereft of friends, that he would invite anyone who looked only
vaguely familiar, to assist him in forming a quiz team.. What sort of a person would go around asking barely recognisable acquintances to go out sit with them for the duration of a whole evening of quiz? Probably someone rather lonely, who rarely goes out and spends a lot of time alone in front of a computer. It would be a rather amusing stereotype if only it didn’t fit me so well.
So the question remains – does fate exist? To be honest I’m not really sure, but I’d certainly prefer to believe it doesn’t. Because if it did, this would mean that I am forever fated to engineer all of my social interactions (whether they be a one-to-one exchange or addressing a room full of people during an otherwise light-hearted general knowledge game), like a graceless, half-witted twat. And if this is the case, I might as well just save time and give up all this ‘talking to people’ stuff right now.
If I’ve run off to live in a monastery somewhere by the time you read this, you’ll know what I finally decided upon.
Tue 20th Jan 2009
There was a bit of excitement at work today, when an NUS Conference suddenly got disrupted by some “Free Palastine” protesters. The usurpers had invaded the stage, and even though the candidates were on a tight deadline wanting to finish in time to see the inaugauration of Obama, the disgruntled activists refused to leave the before being heard out by, erm… the NUS.
Although it is impossible to criticize the sentiment (it’s always great to see any sort of protest in these times of such political lethargy), I also cannot help but question the real consequential value of this protest at such a forum. The NUS are the only group to hire the hall and insist a ban on the sales of all Nestle products. They are the only venue hirers who have one of the toilets labeled up for “Gender Nuetral” use only.
With such a sympathetic nature in mind, I reckon it is highly unlikely that many candidates actually had secret desires to ensure the repression of Palastine. Frankly, it is a wasted opportunity. Especially when Roy Chubby Brown is scheduled to perform in the same venue later in the year. He’s famed for hating any interruptions. He’d have been off in the stage seconds, making way for a clear forum for the protesters.
You’d assume an audience of dogs, who’d been panting in anticipation for a fat man to come and swear at them, would be in much greater need of political enlightenment than a load of students. If the protesters had managed to arouse mass political action from THAT crowd, it would be a remarkable protest indeed!
Incidentally - if anyone from the NUS is reading this, please let me assure you that I only ever compose this blog using recycled webpages.
Although it is impossible to criticize the sentiment (it’s always great to see any sort of protest in these times of such political lethargy), I also cannot help but question the real consequential value of this protest at such a forum. The NUS are the only group to hire the hall and insist a ban on the sales of all Nestle products. They are the only venue hirers who have one of the toilets labeled up for “Gender Nuetral” use only.
With such a sympathetic nature in mind, I reckon it is highly unlikely that many candidates actually had secret desires to ensure the repression of Palastine. Frankly, it is a wasted opportunity. Especially when Roy Chubby Brown is scheduled to perform in the same venue later in the year. He’s famed for hating any interruptions. He’d have been off in the stage seconds, making way for a clear forum for the protesters.
You’d assume an audience of dogs, who’d been panting in anticipation for a fat man to come and swear at them, would be in much greater need of political enlightenment than a load of students. If the protesters had managed to arouse mass political action from THAT crowd, it would be a remarkable protest indeed!
Incidentally - if anyone from the NUS is reading this, please let me assure you that I only ever compose this blog using recycled webpages.
Mon 19th Jan 2009
After yesterday's fantastic banquet, it is with some irony and great surprise that Marks & Spencer would let the side down on quality consistency. Today I bought one of their Scotch Broths for my dinner at work. Too much Pearl Barley for my liking. I'm not keen on Pearl Barley. It feels and tastes like you're chewing through fat little bullet-hard bogeys. Which I know is not an oft-used simile by Food critics in the Sunday Times, but is still a fact. I could forgive this in isolation, and even accept it was my own fault for not looking at the ingredients, but sadly this is not my only complaint. The meat was all stringy. And there were distracting tiny brittle bones too. I hate crunching bones. It was all bit like trying to eat Bryce Forsyth or something (thankfully a flavour that the modest Cup-a-Soup brand continue to decline).
Over all I was pretty gutted. I'd really been looking forward to my grandly-priced soup. I even had to go out and buy a Twix afterwards, just to try and quell my disappointment.
On the plus side, the Hotmail junk deletion count has now reached 387. So not a completely wasted work day.
I'll be sure to keep you abreast of this matter.
Sun 18th Jan 2009
Being Sunday, I went to visit my mother again. This time, rather than going out for dinner, her friend invited us over and fed us with a luscious cottage pie with a side of creamed leeks and mushrooms, finishing with a rich luxury chocolate fudge cake with double cream. By the time we left, I was as nearly full of food as I was of compliments.
At some point during this feast, my mother's friend enquired about my own culinary skills. It led me to think back upon my own lifelong relationship with the kitchen. My first experiences of proper cooking were, as is probably predictable, in school home economics class. I have always been a slow worker where meal preparation is concerned and it is likely this very trait was borne from these classes. We once had to make a sausage hotpot (or it may have been casserole. I have an irritating tendency of getting my own real memories mixed up with old plot lines in Coronation Street). The boiling pan of water had bubbled away even before I had fully prepared the ingredients. I was behind everybody else in the class so didn't want to get even further behind by heating another pan of water. In my immature haste and determination to utilise the bubbly residue remaining at the bottom of the pan, I threw the carrots in whole - unpeeled and uncut. This became the source of much amusement for my teacher and fellow school-chums at the time.
Another assignment was to make a fruit crumble. The one I created was quite a successful fruit crumble too. One of the ingredients we had to take for the recipe was 'a pinch of salt'. Not quite sure of the definition of the word 'pinch', my mom had rammed one of those little sealable plastic bags that people use to keep drugs in completely full of salt (had I realized the visual relationship at the time, I could have probably made a fortune out of the 4th Year boys. Home Economics would have been my favourite subject). Unfortunately, whilst transporting my otherwise successful fruit crumble home in my schoolbag, the little plastic purse still contained so much salt, that it burst open all over my dessert.
I'll never forget my Dad's face as he tried to soldier on with his salty pud to show some loyal support. He was never one for showing encouragement with words and was determined that he could do so by using his belly. He only surrendered after the tears started to roll down his cheeks. As a child, sights like this tend to give your confidence a bit of a knock. Thinking back now, this was about the same time his doctor started prescribing him with blood pressure tablets.
When I moved away from home, my mom was no longer there. I lived with three other guys - friends of mine of a similar age (I think it would have just been awkward having my mom live in the house too). It suddenly became necessary to become more imaginative in the kitchen. This wasn't driven by any competitiveness with my housemates, but was more down to simple logistics. When four young men live in a house together, there are perpetually few clean condiments or utensils. Most of them are sitting on a work surface coated with dried bean juice, or lying in a washing-up bowl full of an experimental soup. To get anywhere near making an elaborate meal would cost you at least an hour in the sink beforehand. It was around this time that through necessity, I invented my signature dish of "Stuffed Peppers with Super Noodles". Like I say, it was all down logistics. All you needed to prepare it was a plate, a knife, a kettle and an oven.
Luckily most of my ex-girlfriends seemed to take great pride and art in their culinary skills. I realise how saying this makes me appear like a patronizing, stereotypical male chauvinist slob, but I never once expected 'a meal on the table when I got home' or anything (in fact they shouldn't have worried their pretty little heads about it - Honestly, I'd have just been just as happy if they'd prepared me a cheese sandwich ready for my arrival. What a waste of time and effort they went to. I'll never understand women. God I'm so lonely). Nevertheless I am eternally thankful, because these women were all great teachers to me. Much better than my real Home Economics teacher, who ironically received a salary for the job, but was more actually preoccupied by laughing at unpeeled veg.
Thankfully (and at long last), I am a much more competent cook and now have a fair grasp on a respectable variety of dishes. I am getting better all the time. One day, I shall even invite every woman over who has ever cooked me a meal and finally repay them the favour. Obviously in real terms this isn't practical, for it would effectively be a dinner party where most the guests consisted of my ex-girlfriends and my own mother - and I fear such an occasion might be marred by a weird and uncomfortable atmosphere (if anything, it would have been even weirder than inviting my mom to live with me and my mates).
But I genuinely still wish to pay a mark of respect to all those wonderful women who at some point filled my belly with their work. And what better way to pay tribute than making a resolution to return back to the beast that had sapped me of all my culinary confidence in the first place?
In this blog, I hereby vow to tackle a re-match with the sausage hotpot. I will exorcise my ghosts by mastering the dish to an unprecedented level. Then I shall follow it with an impeccable fruit crumble. It will be an immaculate banquet. I just need to think of a starter. I've never really made starters before. I have no recipe ideas. I need one quick. Otherwise it may have to be stuffed peppers with Super Noodles.
Sat 17th Jan 2009
A few of my friends use public transport to head to some nice countryside destinations of a Saturday afternoon and go for a ramble. Today, they decided to take a hike through a wooded area toward a quaint little village called Brewood. Given the close proximity of their starting point to my house, I decided that it might be quite nice to join them.
They're a pretty academic bunch. Which is what made it was so surprising that they hadn't accounted for the fundamental fact that day turns to night quite early in the winter. By the time they'd visited our local bookshop (see - told you they were academic), it was about 3.30pm and dusky skies were already beginning to threaten our trip. These are not the best conditions to embark on a muddy walk through a wood and canal bank.
By five o'clock, we had safely arrived at a pub in Brewood without incident, having concluded our walk. And there we would stay, sinking ale for the rest of the evening, until the last bus ferried the ramblin' crew back to the cities they'd arrived from.
I was beginning to think that maybe the exercise element was not the primary motive of the brisk walk, given that only one of their 7 hour visit was spent doing anything remotely physical. For the last year they have been trying to impress me with tales of their epic foot journeys, but they are clearly charlatans.
Also, being from a sprawling glowing metropolis like Stafford or Wolverhampton, I think my friends find the humble ways of a small middle-class suburban village a little strange.
Whilst in the pub, they chanced upon a copy of the local Parish Newsletter and derived juvenile amusement from satirising the simple pastimes listed in the magazine's 'What's On' section. You know the sort of jokes I mean:- where the descriptions of activities are diliberately mis-interpreted to make the banal even more banal.
For instance, the advertised weekly meeting of the Coven Morris Men is not actually about the art of a particular dance, but a chance for people called Morris to find out how others are representing their monikor.
The local Open Mike Night is not an expression of amatuer musical ability, but a public chance for people called Mike to receive a medical procedure.
The Albrighton Aero club is not a meeting for hobbyist pilots, but for chocoholics to eat Nestle Aero bars. And Jacobs Clubs.
You get the picture. It's probably best to stop before we mine the possibilities of 'the
2nd Brewood Brownies Club'.
Of course I should state that any racist implications of such a reading would have been tactfully stressed with the obligatory 'ironic' tag.
Like I say - I should state that.
But I'm not going to.
It's my blog.
Let their reputation be soiled by bigotry forever more.
If this assortment of Phd students and doctorates can so willingly misinterpret intent for comic effect, then so can I!
Fri 16th Jan 2009
Friday night! No work tomorrow! Wayhey!
What better way to celebrate than sitting alone at home, alienated from humanity, living each moment as if life were a poem of existential plea?
I've just done the washing up. That's all the housework I'm going to do. I'm not even going to dry up or put the things away either. It is Friday night after all. I can be a right devil.
Underneath the draining board, the washing machine's still on. I know I really should hang the stuff out as soon as its finished. Otherwise all the clothing will be fetidly rotting in the drum all night. It won't feel as clean when I wear it, because I'll be cursed by how my idleness made it grubby. But the digital display on the machine is taunting me. Cruelly, I can't just get this task over with now. There's still ten minutes to go till the cycle finishes.
Even if I walk away and try to occupy myself with something else, those ten minutes will be hanging over me, stifling any potential enjoyment. Or worse still, I will immerse myself in a new activity and forget about the damp clothing until I'm really tired and sorting the washing out becomes a horrific task.
My options? Well I could sneak up to bed before the washer finishes. That'd take the dilemma out. The same damp-clothes problem will still await me in the morning, but being asleep somehow excuses me from my own laziness, allowing unconsciousness to solve my nagging problem.
Yes, I think I'll do that.
I'm in bed. I need to get to sleep within ten minutes otherwise I will be possessed by the clammy washing again. Dimly aware of the countdown pressing on downstairs, I realise I need the toilet. Have I got time to cram in a toilet trip and still achieve a state of emanicipating bliss? Probably not. But neither can I sleep given the discomfort of the bodily waste bearing down through my insides.
I get up.
As I am sitting on the toilet, I am abruptly interrupted by a loud banging sound from downstairs. I jump out of my skin with fear. My immediate worry is that it might be some sort of special branch of the police, hammering at my door following the content of yesterday's blog entry. Or it could be a burglar.
I should really check what on Earth it is. Immediately. But I can't stop now, my bowels are in full swing. In any case, I don't want to stop now, just to risk finding some nightmarish horror. Nor do I want any hypothetical intruders to find me. There is no more vulnerable feeling than one of an undressed, unwiped deficating man.
Eventually I conclude my deposit. The alarming noise has subsided so I trepidly venture downstairs. It turns out the banging was simply the noise of the washing machine entering it's final rapid spin, causing it to thud against the condiments and cutlery on draining board above.
The machine has won the battle of wills this time.
Footnote to self(s)
Congratulations. You can now officially certify yourself as insane.
Thu 15th Jan 2009
In 2007 I briefly met a new, virtually unknown singer called Gabriella Cilmi. She was performing as an opener for another act. She seemed nice - friendly, charming, lovely smile and strikingly quite sassy and sexually attractive. I remember remarking as much to some colleagues at the time.
Fast forward to 2008 and she's become a star. Her single has become a massive national hit over the airwaves. Her debut album smashed into the Top 10. But the biggest surprise to the public is her age. It transpires (as radio presenters constantly point out - a little too eagerly for my liking) that this songstress is only a tender sixteen years old.
I think back to when I first met her in her humble days as a struggling third-on-the bill artist. But rather than being filled by any sense of pride, I am profusely alarmed. If I announced to colleagues that she was attractive in 2007, yet she's only 16 years old in 2008, then my comments become lauded with a sinister overtone. Are confessions of fleetingly impure thoughts about this 15 year old girl technically illegal?
In my defence, how was I supposed to know her age at the time? She was all dressed up like an adult. She's got a singing voice like a 40 year-old. She didn't seem in the slightest bit angst-ridden like normal teenagers are.
But nevertheless, this leaves me in quite a scruple. Will my colleagues consider me Wolverhampton's ethical answer to R. Kelly? I'm no good at making distinctions. I couldn't tell you for instance, when a soup stops being a mere soup and becomes a chowder. Or the point in which a Strawberry yoghurt is promoted to being a strawberry fool.
Perhaps I am a low-life. Even lower than the man at the court who I childishly snickered at yesterday. Should I be spearheading a witch-hunt against myself until I am safely locked away, no longer a threat to the public? Should I be ripping my own genitalia off with a compass?
Was Garbriella trying use her provocative clothing and omnipresent hit 'Nothing Sweet About Me' as some sort of prophetic warning? I don't know, I never paid much attention to the lyrics. Not even once in the 100 times a day that the song still seems to get played. I've no reason to - it's not like I'm trying groom her or anything. And anyway even if I was, she released it when she was 16, which although would be morally redunant, is now at least technically within the confines of the law.
Although I've never been nearer than 3 feet away from the girl (and let's face it, after this entry I can't imagine it being very likely to happen in the future either), I still can't help feel a foreboding sense of paranoia hanging over me. What if my colleagues grass me up for those comments in 2007? Better keep them all on side and never mention it again - to anyone.
But if prison does await, I sincerely hope they don't kill me. It would be a ridiculous sounding turn of phrase to think they were to 'kill me over Cilmi'.
Footnote to self
Sometimes some days may be dull and you may have little to write about.
On balance the 'Kill me over Cilmi' observational word-play gag was not worth the stronger implications laid out by the greater contextual content of this entry. In fact this is a wrecklessly self-destructive thing to have written. Having said that, at the time of writing, you have fallen 4 days behind in your blog. You haven't got time to go back and do it again. Just move on, safe in the knowledge that no-one ever reads this shit anyway.
Wed 14th Jan 2009
On my way to work, I have to walk past the Magistrates court. Today there were two lads standing outside the front of the court smoking. This is not an uncommon sight.
I made the bold presumption that one of them was 'the accused' - which probably reveals a slight prejudice in me, since I had only based my conclusions on the fact that one of them had turned up to court in grey tracksuit bottoms, and that they were youths being loud, frequently swearing and brazenly smoking outside the court (even though I see loads of the staff similarly popping out for fags throughout the working day).
A lady in her mid-twenties with longish blonde hair approached the court steps. She was quite voluptuous, wearing a black knee-length skirt, white blouse and had fair complexion. As she walked past, I could see the lad in the tracksuit watching her; his eyes following her figure with a leering gaze. Although she didn't acknowledge or even really see either of them, I could sense that to him, she was the archetypal Daily Star pin-up to his archetypal 'chav rogue'.
The tracksuited lad then looked at his friend with a knowing smile; and through gritted teeth, made a kind of prolonged, deep-throated, money-shot 'phrwrrr'-ing sound.
'I tell you," he announced, 'I don't reckon I'd last long inside that!'
I'd been fully anticipating him to say some sort of sexually-oriented comment, but had expected something more along the lines of 'I wouldn't mind giving her one!' (although I realise that phrase probably hasn't been used since the seventies or something). Yet despite some dubious use of wording (using "inside that" instead of "inside her" clearly implied an obligatory objectification of the woman) there was also something enduringly English and self-depricating in his comments. Seeing past the mild misogyny, his bantering revealed less about machismo and more about his sense of physical self-worth or premature hopelessness. And if the level of relief in his strangely pleasured 'phrwrrr'-ing noise was anything to go by, he was being pretty sincere!
It was the closest to politically correct lechery I've ever witnessed.
Although in reality, the litmus test as to whether a phrase is offensive or not is to turn it back round upon oneself. If someone said "I don't reckon I'd last long inside that" about him, I wonder how he would feel?
If his court hearing goes badly, then my guess is probably relieved.
Especially if he happens to be in the prison showers at the time.
Tue 13th Jan 2009
I've made good headway with my Hotmail account, having cleared out 241 Junk emails so far. The most frequently occurring emails seem to come from the online retailers Amazon. For those of you familiar with Amazon, you will know that once you have purchased something from the site, you automatically get a profile, which they use to email you with similar products you might be interested in. So if I bought say, a reissued album by arty post-punk types, The Nightingales, Amazon would then suggest I might enjoy The Fall, because of the genre similarity.
All ok in theory - but it doesn't really work.
Personally, a good percentage of my purchases are gifts for other people, so often the suggestions thrown up have absolutely no relevance to me. One minute, I'm being recommended the forthcoming album by up-and-coming doom-laden indie-synth pseudo-goths, White Lies. The next minute, I'm being recommended 'Stars' by Simply Red. The juxtaposition is too confusing. If I ever left my browser open and someone else saw the list, they'd think I was schizophrenic. Or worse still - grossly uncool.
This isn't the only flaw in their viral marketing strategies either. If I use Amazon to buy an electrical good, such as a printer, they assume I'll want other similar printers. They send me emails with titles such as "Amazon recommends the new HP Inkjet 2000 printer."
No thanks Amazon, I've already just bought an inkjet printer. Had you sent me your recommendation last week, it might have been quite helpful, but it's no use now, is it?
This silly thing is that on their behalf, this isn't even a faux pas. They seem fully aware of my recent printer purchase, even brazenly acknowledging it when I open the email. It'll say something along the lines of "We recommended this because you recently bought a Canon inkjet printer" - as if they're saying, "You like ink jet printers don't you."
It is true, I am quite keen on having an inkjet printer, but what do they imagine I need more inkjet printers for? Maybe they're thinking, "Here's another inkjet printer. Let's offer it to that man, you know, the one who LOVES inkjet printers".
It's actually quite an insult. Are they somehow trying to imply I have an unhealthy fascination with inkjet printers? Are they insinuating I am the sort of person who wants to buy inkjet printer after inkjet printer and set them all up together in my room, and lie on my bed furiously masturbating at the orchestrated cacophony of a dozen printers rattling themselves into alignment? I most certainly hope not. Otherwise I'll sue for libel (unless they can present me with substantial evidence of such behaviour).
Actually it's quite funny. Earlier I was worried about my involuntary Amazon recommendations revealing me as totally uncool. Yet ironically, it's just occurred I have now voluntarily written three consecutive blogs about computers, peripherals and websites. This officially makes me a nerd!
Someone had better pass the printer catalogue.
Mon 12th Jan 2009
Living as an untidy and disorganised slob may have short term advantages, but that doesn't make life devoid of longer term annoyances. Today I tried to start tidying my Hotmail account. It is generally used as a dumping ground for unread ‘website notifications’ (‘Mandy just sent you a Hi Five’ it says. Did she? Well Mandy can sod off!) and all the unread marketing junk (‘Thanks for buying your groceries at Tesco sir. Can I take your email address?’, they ask. ‘Yeah sure’ I think to myself, ‘have my Hotmail account then you can stick it with the rest of the crap I’ll never open’).
Rather disconcertingly, I have tallied up 1114 unread emails of the stuff. I can’t just click the option to clear out the lot in one large sweep, because rather stupidly, I also have some necessary mails which I need to keep (like account log in details, personal messages and other attachments that I might require one day - but when it comes to a time that I actually do need them, probably won’t have a clue where I left them anyway).
Having to sort through 1114 mails feels like one hell of a daunting task. I shall probably break the work up, and try to tackle a target of X amount of emails per day. But in the back of my mind, I’ll always be acutely aware that for every day that passes, even more of the buggers are flying into in my inbox.
If the Greek Gods were around in these modern times, Sysyphus wouldn’t be condemned to spend eternity rolling a boulder up an endless mountain. I reckon he’d be assigned the task of clearing out my Hotmail account. At least until some humanitarian crusade insisted on returning his rock back to him.
Rather disconcertingly, I have tallied up 1114 unread emails of the stuff. I can’t just click the option to clear out the lot in one large sweep, because rather stupidly, I also have some necessary mails which I need to keep (like account log in details, personal messages and other attachments that I might require one day - but when it comes to a time that I actually do need them, probably won’t have a clue where I left them anyway).
Having to sort through 1114 mails feels like one hell of a daunting task. I shall probably break the work up, and try to tackle a target of X amount of emails per day. But in the back of my mind, I’ll always be acutely aware that for every day that passes, even more of the buggers are flying into in my inbox.
If the Greek Gods were around in these modern times, Sysyphus wouldn’t be condemned to spend eternity rolling a boulder up an endless mountain. I reckon he’d be assigned the task of clearing out my Hotmail account. At least until some humanitarian crusade insisted on returning his rock back to him.
Sun 11th Jan 2009
If Dick Turpin were alive today, he probably wouldn’t find the modern day transport system too fruitful. How’s he gonna hold up a car? Cars are too fast nowadays. If a driver saw a man in the middle of the road holding a pistol, he’d probably stick his foot down. And what about technological developments like CCTV? Let’s be honest, it’s not going to take too long before he’s either caught out in his antics or killed. So where in the world would he obtain his ill-gotten lucre?
I reckon he’d be best off opening a branch of the computer retail franchise, PC World.
Let me explain. I am typing this entry on a brand new Advent Net Book. I had been considering getting one for quite some time but kept getting daunted by all the different models, operating systems and prices and I’ve always intimidated by technology. For instance, I recently advised my mom (who is even worse with technology than me), in a slightly condescending and impatient manner, that it is perfectly fine, you’re supposed to click OK on a ‘Windows Update’. Ten minutes later, she phoned me to tell me her internet was broke. I went over and spent hours uninstalling and reinstalling software, but still couldn’t get the thing to work. After finally admitting defeat, we called a computer expert, who sorted the problem in minutes. By turning the wireless router on and off again. Things like this do not fill me with confidence in my abilities.
Being the only person without a non-work-related access to the internet was starting to make me feel a bit Amish so yesterday I finally bit the bullet and bought one.
I went to evil PC World and saw a decent looking model, which stood out because it had its own plinth (it had won awards apparently), boasting a sale price of £229.99. This was perfect, because I had set myself a budget of £300 and could now also get a case for the Net Book, and I also remembered I needed a cheap MP3 player for the gym – I could buy both and still be within my budget! Oh happy days!
I picked up my peripheral bits, before looking for a sales assistant and taking it to ask about the computer. “Excuse me” I said, “Do you have any of these in stock?” The sales assistant wondered off to have a check for me before returning to announce that they did indeed. I told him I’d like to buy it, no questions asked.
“Good choice sir.” He said, “We also have a special offer on at the moment. When people buy any Net Books or laptops, we offer them a chance to buy Microsoft Office and Norton Virus Protection CDs at half the cost.
He wasn’t going to get me that easily. “No thanks,” I said. I might be a technophobe, but even I knew that Net Books are so compact they don’t have a disc drive. “Well don’t let that worry you”, he replied, “we’ll install it for you here if you like – completely free of charge”.
“Honestly,” I maintained, “I only want it for bit of Word processing to put on the internet and there’s already one on the computer. I don’t need Microsoft Office.”
“Ah, but that’s even more reason to take advantage of our offer. These machines only got Microsoft Works on there and it’s not always compatible with certain programs. And if you’re going on the internet, you’re gonna need virus protection”.
In the end, I relented. It wouldn’t be until later that I’d learn about how rare the compatibility issues of Microsoft Works really were. Or that Norton are the McDonalds of the virus protection world, whose programs lives on as a ghost in your hard drive when its 12 month protection expires, even after you’ve uninstalled it, taking up precious memory space and continually annoying you with pop-ups that asked for your credit card details. At the time, I just what thought ‘the hell’. It’ll only push me a bit over my budget and maybe what he is saying might actually be true.
It wasn’t until he rang up the items at the till, before he informed me that it would take them two hours to install the software and I should take my items and come back later.
Two hours?! Remembering I was on a retail park, placed at Junction 10 on the M6, how the hell was I supposed to keep myself occupied for two hours??
Wishing I hadn’t have bothered and with no-where to go, I trudged off with my other items to spend most of my time sitting in my car feeling irritated and bored. To help pass the time, I took my other purchases from the bag. Reading the cardboard box of the MP3 player through boredom, I had now noticed had a bit of superficial damage at the bottom of the box. On the plus side, it also informed me the player had an unanticipated Dictaphone feature.
After the time had passed, I retrieved my receipt from my pocket and set off to make my collection from PC World. But whilst glancing at the small bit of printed paper, I discovered that they’d actually charged me £279.99 for the computer. ‘Typical’, I thought, and immediately searched for the assistant who’d made the sale to sort this discrepancy out.
“Look at this! The machine I bought was supposed to be £229. But you’ve charged me £279!” I raged when I found him.
He looked at the receipt then he looked at me. “No, you see, that one for sale at £229, it’s a different model.” He replied with gormless sincerity.
“Yes I know. But that’s the computer I asked for!”
“Really?”, he asked, “Well it definitely wasn’t the one you pointed at”.
Wasn’t the one I pointed at?? Now unless I had suddenly suffered an unremembered attack of dizzying vertigo due to the towering size of the plinth used to herald this single computer bargain, it would have been a true achievement to have managed to point in the completely wrong direction. To prove the point, I led him to the computer I’d requested to show him. He looked at the plinth and looked at the purchase in my hand.
“Yes, I see” he assessed, “but the one that you’ve got is better than the one there.”
By now my irritation was starting to show. “That’s hardly the point! Surely a consumer has a right to purchase the goods that he’s actually asked for, rather than just being given a random item from the store room? I’d like to return this immediately and get what I’ve asked for.” I said.
He gave me a rather confused look, before replying, “We can’t possible return that laptop now!”
“Why not?”
“Well, you’ve already started installing programs on it, haven’t you?”
I couldn’t believe it! I hadn’t even particularly wanted his sodding programs and had only agreed to buy them out of English politeness. Requesting an address, I assured him I’d be writing a very stern letter of complaint. To emphasise the point, I wondered off to make my threat look as real as possible by taking photographs of the sale display, which he’d naturally assume I’d use as evidence of their conning ways.
Obviously, since I have already confessed to using the machine to write this, you can already tell I’ve voluntarily invalidated my consumer rights of return. Even so, I bet he was bricking it when he saw me with that cameraphone. I brandished it like I was Dick Turpin.
But incredibly, this isn’t even the oddest part of my PC World shopping experience. Today I have been testing my brand new MP3 player. When I turned it on for the first time, I discovered there was already a file on it. It felt safe to assume this was probably just some ditty the manufacturers put on there for demonstration purposes, but it seemed a little intriguing that it was stored in a folder which housed voice recordings. Upon pressing play, I listened to a 5 or 6 second clip of some rustling, then a woman talking with a strong Black Country accent.
Don’t get me wrong. I'm not implying that PC World have ever been unprofessional enough to put a returned product back on the shelf for resale. That’d be the last thing from my mind. Who am I to start making such libelous accusations?
I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for this strange bit of audio. Maybe the international electrical giant Sony, have relocated their product development to Walsall. Or it is perhaps coincidence that the person who records feature demonstrations on behalf of Sony, has a similar accent to the geographical location of that particular PC World branch?
In order to find justice, I need to commence plotting an ingenious retribution against PC World for their dubious practices. I will not rest until every branch has closed! In fact I should begin to type my plot immediately. Which indeed, I would do. But I’ve already had this thing on for an hour, and now the damn battery isn’t going last long enough. I’m sure the plinth said there was a three and a half hour life in these things.
Footnote To Self:-
In future, remember that pasting a big photo of their hot new offer on my page looks like a bit like I’m advertising PC World to the casual browser. This probably isn't the best way to secure their demise.
I reckon he’d be best off opening a branch of the computer retail franchise, PC World.
Let me explain. I am typing this entry on a brand new Advent Net Book. I had been considering getting one for quite some time but kept getting daunted by all the different models, operating systems and prices and I’ve always intimidated by technology. For instance, I recently advised my mom (who is even worse with technology than me), in a slightly condescending and impatient manner, that it is perfectly fine, you’re supposed to click OK on a ‘Windows Update’. Ten minutes later, she phoned me to tell me her internet was broke. I went over and spent hours uninstalling and reinstalling software, but still couldn’t get the thing to work. After finally admitting defeat, we called a computer expert, who sorted the problem in minutes. By turning the wireless router on and off again. Things like this do not fill me with confidence in my abilities.
Being the only person without a non-work-related access to the internet was starting to make me feel a bit Amish so yesterday I finally bit the bullet and bought one.
I went to evil PC World and saw a decent looking model, which stood out because it had its own plinth (it had won awards apparently), boasting a sale price of £229.99. This was perfect, because I had set myself a budget of £300 and could now also get a case for the Net Book, and I also remembered I needed a cheap MP3 player for the gym – I could buy both and still be within my budget! Oh happy days!
I picked up my peripheral bits, before looking for a sales assistant and taking it to ask about the computer. “Excuse me” I said, “Do you have any of these in stock?” The sales assistant wondered off to have a check for me before returning to announce that they did indeed. I told him I’d like to buy it, no questions asked.
“Good choice sir.” He said, “We also have a special offer on at the moment. When people buy any Net Books or laptops, we offer them a chance to buy Microsoft Office and Norton Virus Protection CDs at half the cost.
He wasn’t going to get me that easily. “No thanks,” I said. I might be a technophobe, but even I knew that Net Books are so compact they don’t have a disc drive. “Well don’t let that worry you”, he replied, “we’ll install it for you here if you like – completely free of charge”.
“Honestly,” I maintained, “I only want it for bit of Word processing to put on the internet and there’s already one on the computer. I don’t need Microsoft Office.”
“Ah, but that’s even more reason to take advantage of our offer. These machines only got Microsoft Works on there and it’s not always compatible with certain programs. And if you’re going on the internet, you’re gonna need virus protection”.
In the end, I relented. It wouldn’t be until later that I’d learn about how rare the compatibility issues of Microsoft Works really were. Or that Norton are the McDonalds of the virus protection world, whose programs lives on as a ghost in your hard drive when its 12 month protection expires, even after you’ve uninstalled it, taking up precious memory space and continually annoying you with pop-ups that asked for your credit card details. At the time, I just what thought ‘the hell’. It’ll only push me a bit over my budget and maybe what he is saying might actually be true.
It wasn’t until he rang up the items at the till, before he informed me that it would take them two hours to install the software and I should take my items and come back later.
Two hours?! Remembering I was on a retail park, placed at Junction 10 on the M6, how the hell was I supposed to keep myself occupied for two hours??
Wishing I hadn’t have bothered and with no-where to go, I trudged off with my other items to spend most of my time sitting in my car feeling irritated and bored. To help pass the time, I took my other purchases from the bag. Reading the cardboard box of the MP3 player through boredom, I had now noticed had a bit of superficial damage at the bottom of the box. On the plus side, it also informed me the player had an unanticipated Dictaphone feature.
After the time had passed, I retrieved my receipt from my pocket and set off to make my collection from PC World. But whilst glancing at the small bit of printed paper, I discovered that they’d actually charged me £279.99 for the computer. ‘Typical’, I thought, and immediately searched for the assistant who’d made the sale to sort this discrepancy out.
“Look at this! The machine I bought was supposed to be £229. But you’ve charged me £279!” I raged when I found him.
He looked at the receipt then he looked at me. “No, you see, that one for sale at £229, it’s a different model.” He replied with gormless sincerity.
“Yes I know. But that’s the computer I asked for!”
“Really?”, he asked, “Well it definitely wasn’t the one you pointed at”.
Wasn’t the one I pointed at?? Now unless I had suddenly suffered an unremembered attack of dizzying vertigo due to the towering size of the plinth used to herald this single computer bargain, it would have been a true achievement to have managed to point in the completely wrong direction. To prove the point, I led him to the computer I’d requested to show him. He looked at the plinth and looked at the purchase in my hand.
“Yes, I see” he assessed, “but the one that you’ve got is better than the one there.”
By now my irritation was starting to show. “That’s hardly the point! Surely a consumer has a right to purchase the goods that he’s actually asked for, rather than just being given a random item from the store room? I’d like to return this immediately and get what I’ve asked for.” I said.
He gave me a rather confused look, before replying, “We can’t possible return that laptop now!”
“Why not?”
“Well, you’ve already started installing programs on it, haven’t you?”
I couldn’t believe it! I hadn’t even particularly wanted his sodding programs and had only agreed to buy them out of English politeness. Requesting an address, I assured him I’d be writing a very stern letter of complaint. To emphasise the point, I wondered off to make my threat look as real as possible by taking photographs of the sale display, which he’d naturally assume I’d use as evidence of their conning ways.
Obviously, since I have already confessed to using the machine to write this, you can already tell I’ve voluntarily invalidated my consumer rights of return. Even so, I bet he was bricking it when he saw me with that cameraphone. I brandished it like I was Dick Turpin.
But incredibly, this isn’t even the oddest part of my PC World shopping experience. Today I have been testing my brand new MP3 player. When I turned it on for the first time, I discovered there was already a file on it. It felt safe to assume this was probably just some ditty the manufacturers put on there for demonstration purposes, but it seemed a little intriguing that it was stored in a folder which housed voice recordings. Upon pressing play, I listened to a 5 or 6 second clip of some rustling, then a woman talking with a strong Black Country accent.
Don’t get me wrong. I'm not implying that PC World have ever been unprofessional enough to put a returned product back on the shelf for resale. That’d be the last thing from my mind. Who am I to start making such libelous accusations?
I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for this strange bit of audio. Maybe the international electrical giant Sony, have relocated their product development to Walsall. Or it is perhaps coincidence that the person who records feature demonstrations on behalf of Sony, has a similar accent to the geographical location of that particular PC World branch?
In order to find justice, I need to commence plotting an ingenious retribution against PC World for their dubious practices. I will not rest until every branch has closed! In fact I should begin to type my plot immediately. Which indeed, I would do. But I’ve already had this thing on for an hour, and now the damn battery isn’t going last long enough. I’m sure the plinth said there was a three and a half hour life in these things.
Footnote To Self:-
In future, remember that pasting a big photo of their hot new offer on my page looks like a bit like I’m advertising PC World to the casual browser. This probably isn't the best way to secure their demise.
Sat 10th Jan 2009
Last Sunday, I wrote an entry based around what I'd had for dinner and whilst doing so, made a throwaway comment about how thrilling the blog had become at such an early stage. I followed this with an intentionally self-deprecating joke supposing how long it would be before I was using the blog to document my own stools. I even humoured my own humour by bothering to hazard a guess of September. Unbeknownst, I had somewhat overestimated the time it would take to resort to such lows. At the time of writing yesterday's entry, I honestly hadn't given a second thought to its contents or their implications. But upon realizing, I'm left feeling thoroughly disappointed it took less than ten days before I succumbed to writing about excrement (although in a medical sense, I am not sure that dihorrea is actually medically classed as a 'stool', so it's still arguable that I'm worrying myself over nothing.)
The subject is puerile enough to have left a smudge in my memoirs, which I'll now anticipate shrinking in embarrassment from in years to come. What will my one-year old nephew learn about his Uncle should he ever find this blog when he's older? There must be more to me than simply being a man who fears being forced to use splashed-back dihorrea as unrequested Cologne. It's concerning to be writing such things after just 9 days because it implies I am shallow. What could be a worse revelation to learn about myself?
Then it struck me; I am also currently writing something else - completely independently - about the perils of irritable bowel syndrome. Maybe I have some sort of worryingly weird and obsession with the subject of excrement (a terrible thing, but on the bright side, at least I'd hastily managed to find an even worse revelation to learn about myself!).
Today I made my gym debut for this year. My health regime has suffered over Christmas and this was the first time I've been to the gym in over a month. Prior to that, I was a disciplined regular and the longest I had been without visiting the gym had been about 5 days. Don't ask me where such motivation came from. It could just be an accute self-discipline. Or it could merely be a desire to claw value for money from the fixed monthly membership fee.
As I pulled up on the car park, I felt a strange sort of daunting nervousness. What if I couldn't exercise anymore? What if I exercised too much too soon, and gave myself a fatal heart-attack? I know it sounds a bit silly, but these extremely morose worries were probably just something to do with having such a prolonged period of abstinence.
When I got to the changing rooms there was one other man in there drying himself. We acknowledged each another while I got changed, but were both preoccupied by trying not to look at each other's cocks to have any sort of real conversation (please note I include this line for the benefit of any twelve-year-old boys who may have joined my readership after stumbling over yesterday's puerile entry. Not that I have any unhealthy interests in ensnaring a following of 12 year old boys or anything - I am not a pervert. Neither do I have an interest in men's cocks for that matter).
One of the gym attendants entered the room. It was clear that the man and the attendant were familiar with each other, and soon struck up a conversation.
"Did you get that bog fixed?" the man asked casually.
"Yeah fixed now." The gym attendant replied.
"Ah good."
I didn't say it was the most riveting of conversations, did I? But at least I'd been informed of my gym's plumbing situation during my absence. The man continued getting dressed while the attendant clothed down a mirror.
"Wouldn't flush you know." he suddenly piped.
"Yeah I know" the attendant agreed, "all fixed now"
A brief silence followed, but soon it became apparent that the man considered the topic as far from exhausted.
"You could see what had happened," he said before going on to explain, "Some bloke had gone in and dropped his load. Tried to flush it. Wouldn't flush, so he just left it."
"Really?" said the attendant with an unsuccessfully discouraging feigned interest.
"Then another bloke came in, dropped his load and couldn't flush it neither"
The man then seemed to disconcertingly tap his nose, before saying in a kind of hushed conspiring manner,
"I could tell that you see. There was two different colours in the bowl".
I couldn't believe it! At that moment, I literally had to hold myself back from kissing this stranger. What a relief! He'd really managed to put my fears of obsession into a new perspective. For I am merely a man who had written a couple of things about my own problematic excretions. Yet this fellow had become so consumed with the subject, he'd even started studied the excretions of others; apparently with such pedantry, he'd now become some kind of weird fecal detective.
But the important thing is that no matter how much you might try to convince me otherwise, there is relatively little evidence to suggest that the amount of time I spend thinking about poo is unhealthy. In fact, having just used a spell-checker which I didn't have at my disposal yesterday, I've also just discovered 'dihorrea' isn't even a real word. Wouldn't any self-respecting obsessive at least learn the spellings of his subject's terminology? For all anyone can tell, yesterday's entry might not have been about diarrhea at all.
You - on the other hand - might want to start asking yourselves a few questions before you next think about pointing the finger at me. Exactly what made you end up typing the words 'anus' and 'horribilus' into a URL in the first place? You twisted people make me sick. And before you get excited, I don't mean that in a literal sense. I'm definitely not going back over that story again any time soon.
The subject is puerile enough to have left a smudge in my memoirs, which I'll now anticipate shrinking in embarrassment from in years to come. What will my one-year old nephew learn about his Uncle should he ever find this blog when he's older? There must be more to me than simply being a man who fears being forced to use splashed-back dihorrea as unrequested Cologne. It's concerning to be writing such things after just 9 days because it implies I am shallow. What could be a worse revelation to learn about myself?
Then it struck me; I am also currently writing something else - completely independently - about the perils of irritable bowel syndrome. Maybe I have some sort of worryingly weird and obsession with the subject of excrement (a terrible thing, but on the bright side, at least I'd hastily managed to find an even worse revelation to learn about myself!).
Today I made my gym debut for this year. My health regime has suffered over Christmas and this was the first time I've been to the gym in over a month. Prior to that, I was a disciplined regular and the longest I had been without visiting the gym had been about 5 days. Don't ask me where such motivation came from. It could just be an accute self-discipline. Or it could merely be a desire to claw value for money from the fixed monthly membership fee.
As I pulled up on the car park, I felt a strange sort of daunting nervousness. What if I couldn't exercise anymore? What if I exercised too much too soon, and gave myself a fatal heart-attack? I know it sounds a bit silly, but these extremely morose worries were probably just something to do with having such a prolonged period of abstinence.
When I got to the changing rooms there was one other man in there drying himself. We acknowledged each another while I got changed, but were both preoccupied by trying not to look at each other's cocks to have any sort of real conversation (please note I include this line for the benefit of any twelve-year-old boys who may have joined my readership after stumbling over yesterday's puerile entry. Not that I have any unhealthy interests in ensnaring a following of 12 year old boys or anything - I am not a pervert. Neither do I have an interest in men's cocks for that matter).
One of the gym attendants entered the room. It was clear that the man and the attendant were familiar with each other, and soon struck up a conversation.
"Did you get that bog fixed?" the man asked casually.
"Yeah fixed now." The gym attendant replied.
"Ah good."
I didn't say it was the most riveting of conversations, did I? But at least I'd been informed of my gym's plumbing situation during my absence. The man continued getting dressed while the attendant clothed down a mirror.
"Wouldn't flush you know." he suddenly piped.
"Yeah I know" the attendant agreed, "all fixed now"
A brief silence followed, but soon it became apparent that the man considered the topic as far from exhausted.
"You could see what had happened," he said before going on to explain, "Some bloke had gone in and dropped his load. Tried to flush it. Wouldn't flush, so he just left it."
"Really?" said the attendant with an unsuccessfully discouraging feigned interest.
"Then another bloke came in, dropped his load and couldn't flush it neither"
The man then seemed to disconcertingly tap his nose, before saying in a kind of hushed conspiring manner,
"I could tell that you see. There was two different colours in the bowl".
I couldn't believe it! At that moment, I literally had to hold myself back from kissing this stranger. What a relief! He'd really managed to put my fears of obsession into a new perspective. For I am merely a man who had written a couple of things about my own problematic excretions. Yet this fellow had become so consumed with the subject, he'd even started studied the excretions of others; apparently with such pedantry, he'd now become some kind of weird fecal detective.
But the important thing is that no matter how much you might try to convince me otherwise, there is relatively little evidence to suggest that the amount of time I spend thinking about poo is unhealthy. In fact, having just used a spell-checker which I didn't have at my disposal yesterday, I've also just discovered 'dihorrea' isn't even a real word. Wouldn't any self-respecting obsessive at least learn the spellings of his subject's terminology? For all anyone can tell, yesterday's entry might not have been about diarrhea at all.
You - on the other hand - might want to start asking yourselves a few questions before you next think about pointing the finger at me. Exactly what made you end up typing the words 'anus' and 'horribilus' into a URL in the first place? You twisted people make me sick. And before you get excited, I don't mean that in a literal sense. I'm definitely not going back over that story again any time soon.
Fri 9th Jan 2009
One of my colleagues called in sick today. There seems to be two predominant types of 'lurgee' doing the rounds this year. One is a kind of mild flu - achy body, torturous sand-paper coughing fits, out-breaks of sweating etc. I had this one myself over Christmas. It seemed rather unfortunate to get bed ridden on the day straight after breaking up from work for the holidays. Still, I can't really moan. Apparently our colleague had 'the other sort' - which involves perpetual exorcisms of fluid from the body's 2 largest holes. Even though the timing was more inconvenient, I much preferred my version of being ill.
It's not that I'm particularly averse to being sick. Nor am I bothered by a touch of the trots now and again. As long as I'm at home and the bathroom is free, I'm as happy as Larry (a man renowned for his dickey guts).
But when both ailments are happening as part of a single illness, the logistics of having two holes at either end seems a serious bodily design flaw. I always have it at the back of my mind that both symptoms could potentially creep up on me at any time. The toilet might seem like the safest place to be, but if I am knelt down, vomiting into the watery abyss below, the act of retching might put excess strain on all internal organs - which is not very practical when you are also currently suffering with vulnerable bowels. I always feel a certain unease that the violent shudders of my retching might inadvertently force out a small geyser of fiery squit, across the bathroom floor.
My favorite part about being sick is the emancipating sense relief when it's all over. That relaxing sense of being sated, however temporary, almost seems to make all the phsyical work seem worthwhile. But this would surely be a barbed reward if I immediately had to face cleaning up my own pool of watery excrement from the bathroom floor. Being of rather queasy temperament, that'd be the last thing I'd fancy doing. As I kneeled on all fours with cleaning materials in hand, it is possible that the foul sight and smell before me would even be enough to make me sick again. Which would only add to the problem, because then I'd have to clean up a puddle of excrement that has now been diluted with sick! No doubt this unpleasant cocktail would consume me with nausea yet again. By now all is lost, as I'd be trapped in a cycle, continually sickened in my attempts to this clean up this perpetually increasing volume of mess. Presumably this would continue until all moisture has been completely expelled from my body. At which point I'd slump face first in a pool of my own messy devastation, dehydrated like a big bag of Bombay mix.
And what if things were the other way round and the diahorrea had come first? Mid-way through my expulsion, I'd be forced to toggle my exit hole, quickly having to swap from a sitting to a kneeling position. But then I'd be facing into a toilet bowl full of my own fecal matter, probably inspiring me to vomit with even more vigor than usual.
What if it was so forceful, it caused the contents of the bowl to splash back all over my face? Deflected excrement over my cheeks would undoubtedly make me feel even more nauseas, so it is likely that the retching would soon commence yet again. Only this time, my face would now be greeted by excrement diluted with sick. And on it goes.
With these concerns in mind, I don't envy my colleague at all. He has my humblest sympathies. Unless he's not actually ill at all. One can never tell - he might just be pulling a sickie.
If so, he should be ashamed of himself. Not merely for his deceitful lack of professionalism; but also for having put you and I through this blog for absolutely no reason whatsoever. It has been unnecessarily unpleasant. I only tried to write it to offer a kind of empathy. I haven't enjoyed any of the last 500 words at all.
Thu 8th Jan 2009
Do you remember being a child and getting a diary for Christmas? Some years, those diaries literally just sat on the shelf the whole time, maybe being picked up once. It was usually about June or September when you were casually wondering which day next Christmas fell on. You'd suddenly remembered you could use it to find out.
You were made up about that.
You were made up about that.
Then the year arrived when you actually attempted to use the diary for its proper purpose.
Come the 1st Jan, after psyching yourself up, you decide you will definitely start documenting your life in a most disciplined fashion. Admittedly, there were a few overspill December days at the front of the book which you'd already missed. But officially speaking, they weren't a part of the coming year - so they didn't count.
True to your promise, 1st Jan sees you frantically pouring a torrent of emotion. Your outburst reflects on the year gone by. You list earnest hopes for the year ahead. So much so, that you even end up writing over a few lines into January 2nd.
You consider using your pocket money to invest in a larger diary to fit more in.
On January 2nd, it is decided that the entry on the previous day might have been a bit 'poncey', and that you'd be better to consider a more formal approach to your writings. This will minimise any embarrassment if anyone were to find and read it.
By January 3rd, cracks start to show in your autobiographical integrity. This entry reads:-
"3 Jan - Dreading school on Monday. This year I promise to keep up with my homework. I will spend 3 hours a day on it at least. Dad trumped during 'Dempsey & Makepeace'. We all laughed.
Got to go now. Need to get up early and catch up on all the homework from over the holiday".
By 5th Jan, the word count of your entries have started to wain even more dramatically;-
"5 Jan - Had Maths today. Followed by PE."
Then finally, on January 7th (a mere week into your project), it finally happens:-
"7 Jan - Today, I have nothing interesting to say."
You do not realise it at the time, but this phrase is a get-out clause you merely use in the name of completism; just to have some sort of biro next to an entry. This is the first hole in your journal. Then within a fortnight, the dubious entry has become a common occupancy. Eventually you become bored of this façade and abandon this year's diary altogether.
I must confess, after all these years, I still maintain that same one-week-itch; desperately struggling to find anything interesting to write about. I'm hoping that by documenting the whole having-nothing-to-write-about predicament, I've perversely padded myself with something to write about. I don't know if it's worked. Suppose for you it must have, because you're still here. You idiot.
But the fundamental problem with this kind of trick, is that you can only really get away with it once. Otherwise it quickly becomes apparent that you are devoid of any thoughts whatsoever.
Like in some bizarre way, having written all this, feels like I have somehow used a "Get Out Of Jail Free" card in Monopoly or a life line on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?'. At an unjustifiably early stage.
Wed 7th Jan 2008
I finally heard word from my prospective employers. They called to inform me of their resignation, from the position of being my prospective employers. In other words, I didn't get the job I'd applied for in Liverpool.
After 3 interviews (2 formal and 1 informal), my antiquated handset finally informed me I'd come 2nd place. And in case you are sneering cynically, please let me assure you, I DEFINITELY DID come 2nd place.
You might expect this news to have dealt me a blow of disappointment. If so, I appreciate how this may sound like an attempt of self-preserving petulance in the face of rejection - but it really kind of didn't.
Over the last week or so, as the new job became an increasingly real prospect, I was developing more and more doubts about whether it would be the right move for me - in either a geographical, or career sense. And to be honest, decision-making is really not my forte (which interestingly, is a trait I continually neglect to mention whenever I update my CV).
So much so, that the last few days really have been weighed down in desperate provarication, trying to subjectively assess the pros and cons of my career move, but actually going round in circles, never making any real progress towards a final decision.
In fact, had I been offered the job, I'm convinced that prior to reaching any affirmative conclusions of its acceptance or rejection, I'd have ended up breaking down; howling at the mental torture of it all, tearing my pubic hair out with own my bare hands in sheer, self-loathing, indecisive frustration.
And most stupidly of all, I'd have no-one to blame for this mental anguish but myself. It's not like I was ever forced at gunpoint to apply for this position (that would be ridiculous, as everyone knows this sort of 'employment prospect' only ever happens in Manchester).
So yes, it was a genuine relief when this dilemma was taken out of my hands. I really feel a strange sense of gratitude for having been let off some sort of self-imposed hook. My prospects are no longer my responsibility!
Which, rather depressingly, would appear to be just the way I like it.
Given what I have concluded about myself, should I be celebrating, or tearfully punching the wall?
Funnily enough, I can't decide.
Tue 6th Jan 2009
For anyone who is interested in the nuts and bolts of how these entries get composed and published straight on to cyberspace for the consumption of an unprecedented international community, then this is the blog for you. Let's face it, out of the 16 site visitors so far (hello mom!), who could possibly resist an exciting behind-the-scenes peek through the window of my enthralling existence?
So here goes. For exclusive benefit of any techno-buffs out there, I can reveal to you, these blogs are written entirely using a Vodafone 'Open Hand' thing. It's a kind of 'flash' mobile phone which ended up getting purchased for me by work (but obviously, please don't tell them I only use it for these purposes).
It's got text messaging, 1.3 megapixel camera, a Mobile version of a Windows operating system so that I can create and edit spreadsheet and word documents, an email account with archiving facilities, a reader for PDF files, a media player with both music and film capability, wireless and mobile internet access via the user-standard reader 'Explorer', full miniature keyboard (useful for typing ease), an addictive solitaire game for which to endlessly procrastinate with, calculator, calendar, alarm clock, a file zipper and a phone book storage facility big enough to accommodate a greater level of numbers than actual amount people you would ever actually ever end up meeting in the whole of your life.
But can it obtain sufficient signal to actually make a telephone call? Can it bollocks. My whatchamathing might be fancy, but for something proclaiming to be a 'mobile phone', I can't help feeling there's a rather fundamental flaw.
Since obtaining this... well, whatever you can call it, I have continued carrying my old personal mobile for the purposes of telecommunication. It is to my great chagrin that the microphone on the more humble handset seems now to have also given up the ghost. People can call me, but they can't hear a single word I say. Once again, this is a pretty major flaw for a phone.
This fault couldn't have come at a worse time, because today, not only did I have my MOT results pending after taking my car to be tested, I also have the imminent call relating to the success or failure of my job interview.
Which started me thinking that there's a kind of problem with keeping this blog. Maybe I have started subconsciously willing unfortunate things to happen, just so I can have something interesting to write about. This is undoubtedly an unhealthy and ill-advised mental outlook to commence living your life by. Surely it's only a matter of time before I am concluding every single entry with derivative world-weary phrases, like 'You just couldn't make it up', or 'Isn't that just bloody typical!' (with an exclaimation, rather than question mark, to make it seem even more rhetroical') . Who knows, I might even eventually carve a career as a columnist for The Sun.
In fairness, the day didn't actually turn out too bad. I swapped my SIM card with an old handset of my dad's and the garage successfully contacted me later in the afternoon. Thankfully, my car had passed its MOT, despite all the gloomy prospects I'd envisaged at the time of yesterday's ill-timed windscreen crack.
Though there's still no word on the job front yet. I imagine they'll contact me tomorrow. Provided yet another of my phones doesn't start getting its job description perilously confused. How bloody typical would that be! You just couldn't make it up.
Mon 5th Jan 2009
Big. Massive. Scruttocks.
My car is due its MOT tomorrow. I have left it right till the last day again before my current certificate expires. I would have booked it in for today to allow myself time to get any necessary repairs, only I really needed to make a long journey in it - an important trip to my 2nd interview for that job in Liverpool.
I decided to set off early. Given the snowy conditions, I was eager to allow myself plenty of time to take a slow and steady ride and didn't want to get flustered and panicky if I hit any delays.
But as it turned out, I'd vastly over-compensated. There were no queues and even my self-imposed 50mph speed limit behind lorries was failing to significantly fill my abundance of journey allowance. I pulled in at Knutsford services to kill a bit of time (which I mainly did by amusing myself with the name Knutsford services), and after 45 minutes passed, I decided to get back on the road.
Not long after pulling into the first motorway lane, I could almost smell the Mersey in my nostrils. My thoughts started getting clouded by the interview ahead and nervous butterflies were hatching in my stomach. Other descriptive clichés may have also happened. Then suddenly, there was a big, alarming bang.
Damn!
A stone in the road had been flicked up by the dual wheels of a lorry in front. It then thwacked across the front of my car, presenting my windscreen with a wonderful four inch crack. That's the problem when you a first-lane crawler, you're always in the firing line of heavy goods vehicles catapulting road-bits.
An MOT has a lifespan of 365 days. Why had this happened on day 364, when there was no time to do anything about it? It was impossible not to start instinctively cursing myself. If only I hadn't stopped at those services for so long, it would have given me enough time to find somewhere in Liverpool to get my crack examined (feel free to insert your own anal or Northern-city-based-drug-reference joke here). Furthermore, if I hadn't stopped at the services at all, my windscreen would not have even been at the right place at the right time to break the flight of an oncoming brick. How frustrating. If I'd have just given the services a wide-berth completely, I would've achieved the journey completely damage free!
Mind you, having said this, I suppose it's all just a question of fate. If the timing and circumstances of my journey had been different, it's also possible that I'd have ended up in an even worse place at an even worse time. Like in a fatal motorway pile-up for instance - my timid little Micra, crushed and mangled, sandwiched between two big heavy goods vehicles.
I'd imagine that with an impact like that, many of the contents of the truck would also get ruined. It would have been especially sad, if that particular truck just happened to have been transporting a cargo-full donated food for the starving Africans. And it is highly likely, that with such a collision, the driver would have suffered terrible whiplash. Injuries potentially so severe, that they prevented him from ever driving another lorry again. Especially sad, if he relied on his lorry drivers wage to feed two young children (who in turn, with their father's employment terminated, could no longer afford to keep their cute dough-eyed little bunny rabbit).
But I reckon if this did actually happen, it might not be of much concern to me. I'd probably be preoccupied by my legs being crushed up into my torso so violently, that many of my internal organs had been pounded into a smooth paste. There's even a chance that the petrol tank could have combusted with a delayed shock from the impact, turning my car into a raging inferno. My skin bubbling and blistered with the heat of the flames, until it final charred off my screaming face - a face vainly begging for a merciful release from this agonizing demise.
So there you are. It's always best to look on the bright side.
In hindsight, I might have been really lucky to escape the fate of circumstance with just a cracked windscreen.
As I drove back from my interview, I called by at the MOT garage to enquire whether it was still worth even bothering getting my car tested tomorrow. To my relief, they informed me not only that the fracture was fixable, they would even do the work themselves prior to testing the rest of the car.
And to think I'd nearly deprived some innocent children of their beloved pet rabbit for that!
Sun 4th Jan 2009
Visited my Mom and we had our first Sunday pub lunch of the year. For starters I had the soup of the day which was Chateau Tomato flavour (there was plenty of tomato chunks in the bowl, but I failed to find a single castle bobbing about). Then the main course arrived - a massive chicken dinner with veg & gravy (I know - I'm sure this revealing journey to the pit of my soul is enrapturing you no end; the saddest thing being that it's only the 4th day of my blog and I'm already resorting to entries which list my eating habits. What personal revelations will I be stunning you with by, say, September? Detailed analysis of my stools? I don't know. Maybe this is a good sign for the future, and the blog will find its place as a mundane, soothing textual opiate for the masses. Or perhaps it's a painfully slow charting of a man's public mental breakdown. Only time will tell.)
It felt like ages since I last had a proper roast. I suppose the Christmas day meal I went out for was a kind of a pub roast, just with the addition of sprouts and pigs in blankets, and a noticeably heavy price tag per head. This Christmas I'd also decided to be daringly cosmopolitan, breaking sacrilegious traditions by opting for duck rather than turkey. The other peripheral vegetable contents of this alternative were essentially the same, but I strongly suspected the kitchen was so short staffed, they needed the desert chef to assist in the preparation of my meal. It wasn't the morello cherries placed on the duck which aroused my suspicions - in fact duck and cherries seem to go surprising well. However, I suspect the chef must have picked the wrong receptacle up when he was looking for the gravy, as he seemed to have poured cherry sauce over my vegetables.
I'm sure it must have just been an accident. I can't think of any other explanation. Usually if someone cooked you a roast meal and then purposely drenched your mash with Cherryade, you have probably entered into a dare - you know, the sort which involves eating a bizarre concoction of incongruous ingredients. There's probably five other friends around the table, with normal gravy dinners, goading you. But don't get me wrong, it's not the sort of thing you'd agree to eating just for laugh. It would be vile, and you do have your pride. I suspect you'd have been tempted by money. Because for some reason, the room has an unhealthy perverse pleasure in seeing your retching face as it attempts the ingestion of ill-fitting flavours. Which actually turns to be a fortunate circumstance to be in, as you happen to be short of cash at the time, and to entice you into this torment, they've whipped-round a tenner each. Come on, we've all been in that position at some point, surely?
Thankfully for me, such times are all in the past now. Rest assured, it's been a long while since I last found it necessary to prostitute myself with any stomach-churning dares. Just goes to show how much things have changed. Who'd have thought that one Xmas day, I'd actually end up paying fifty quid out of my own pocket for the privilege. Funny how things work out.
Sat 3rd Jan 2009
It was a usual Saturday night's drinking in the pub. On any other week, this is usually something to look forward to after days of hard (and sometimes not so hard) work. But for some reason, tonight I had a sense of inescapable melancholy hanging over me. Maybe it was because this weekend evening of alcohol indulgence simply followed on from other consecutive nights of Christmas and New Year alcohol indulgence, so it didn't seem like such a deserved reward as it does on other Saturdays. Maybe it was the fact that this evening somehow signalled the end of the Xmas festivities, of which I annually look forward to as an oasis of calm away from the world of work, and yet always passes in the blink of an eye. Maybe it was because I'd noticed the landlord had took down the plaque from over the bar which stated in big engraved letters, "FREE BEER".
Yes that's right. When you first see it, you can't help but be aghast. "Free Beer?" you ask, "How can this be? Surely the landlord will go out of business if he is not financially remunerated for his liquid produce. This is commercial suicide. I seriously question the man's mental health". It is only when you look at the sign closely that you notice the clever twist - smaller letters beneath this over-generous proclamation, saying "tomorrow". "Of course!" You realise that even if you do come in tomorrow, the sign will make the same promise again, and then again the next day, and then again and again until you finally realise that this 'tomorrow' is merely a hypothetical construct which never actually arrives. Initially you feel a bit cheated that you will never get your free beer, but can't help forgiving this detail because your sides are too busy erupting with uncontrollable laughter to feel angered by the landlord's false promise. Why has he removed this plaque and banished this joyous tease from the customers?
Rather typically, it is only now the sign has gone that I have realised a water-tight plan to procure that ever-elusive free beer. Had it been there yesterday, I could have taken a cameraphone photo of myself in front of it reading a clearly dated newspaper. Then today I would have the necessary dated evidence to argue his plaque as a legal promise with which to finally claim my complimentary beverage.
But then I'm not sure if an unfulfilled plan to get a free beer is really enough to be responsible for my dour mood. Whatever the reason is, it certainly wasn't aided by the final score of today's Kidderminster vs. Coventry game. The Harriers lost 2-0, meaning that Connie's banana loaf had absolutely no magical properties after all.
I suppose I was what you might call a 'fair-weather' supporter. I tried my best, but I'm simply not cracked up to be a football fan.
My enthusiasm for the game was spectacularly short-lived, but to be honest, there just seems too much disappointment and heartache involved for me to make a full-time career out of it. Why was this sweet old lady such a cheating charlatan? I can't really get to grips with her deceit. Mind you, I suppose it's for the best. Had the magic loaf been real, no doubt some 12th century Catholics would have assumed Connie was a witch and insisted she be burned at the stake.
That's the trouble with these 12th Century Catholics; they're always trying to burn people at the stake.
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