On extremely rare occasions, we have touring artistes who insist on closing all the doors around the auditorium, banishing all staff from entering the room with a signs along the lines of “Soundcheck in progress – No entry”. I haven’t a problem with this per se, as the only inconvenience to me is that it takes longer to walk the lengths of the corridors around the auditorium in order to get to the toilet. It’s just that I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. In fact it just seems rude to banish venue staff, who spent hours of their efforts helping your show to happen in the first place, from their own place of work.
Insisting everyone leaves just to play a song or two (which is just the job of a professional musician after all), seems silly when one remembers the same room will be populated with over a thousand people in a couple of hours time. And like I say – musicians are only there to do a job, in the same way that we are only there to do a job. If I insisted that colleagues left the room before I’d be willing to send an email, I wouldn’t imagine myself in employment for very long. And if I walked in to someone else’s workplace and tried to send everyone out so I could send an email on one of their computers, I’d fully expect to be escorted off the premises. But some musicians think they’ve a right to practise double standards. And such demands just make them look arrogant; like they’re imposing some sort of “legendary” status upon themselves. But ironically, it is only ever non-legendary artistes who make such insistences; the type of act that you’d rather gouge your own ears out than have to hear them play their instruments irrespective of how many people are in a room.
And that’s another problem - a closed door with a sign stuck does not tend to mask the noise of a theatre-auditorium sized amplification unit. If you work in the same building, you’ve no choice but to be subjected to their cacophonies! From my office, I can still hear every note being played. And this is often rather to my chagrin, since I have to make phone calls over that bloody row, for God sake.
When they’ve finished their soundcheck, maybe I should take my mobile phone and stand just outside their dressing room, talking really really loudly. See how THEY like it.
Wed 22nd April 2009
Had you a spare £19.50, you could have bought a ticket to see “The Best of British Mediumship” tonight, which featured the psychics Colin Fry and T.J. Higgs (the latter of whom, is of course not to be confused with the bargain basement retailer, T.J. Hughes; and to assist you with this distinction, here is a photo of TJ Higgs standing with her colleague, Colin Fry):-
And here is a photo from the Maidstone branch of the retailer T.J. Hughes:-
Another distinction is that for £19.50, TJ Hughes can provide you with a fair bit of clothing and/or electrical goods; which seems much better value than paying £19.50 to witness T.J. Higgs exploiting the grief of the bereaved. I just don’t get it. How on Earth do these psychics get away with such obvious fraudulence in the first place, never mind getting paid such huge sums of money for it? It beggars belief that people will part with twenty quid, just to be told the same old schpiel; usually along the lines of: “Your mother says she still loves you, thinks Alan is a good man at heart and wants you to carry on living in the cottage”. The way I see it, either these ‘psychics’ are simply con-artists - and therefore should be locked up, just like any other criminal would be. Or they truly believe that they have the gift of talking to the dead - in which case they should be locked up, just like any other clearly insane person would be.
But you have to hand it to Colin Fry and T.J. Hughes – they are at the top of their game. This show, after all, is “The Best of British Mediumship”, so they cannot simply just be dismissed as exploitative fraudsters, or deluded mentalists. Of course not – that would be a highly unfair disservice. These people are the BEST exploitative fraudsters and/or deluded mentalists in the whole country! They are masters of the fraudulent and/or deluded trade.
And that’s not all. Judging by their photos, they are also blessed with the accolade of being the most owl-like entertainers in the whole of the showbiz world.
Take a look for yourself:-
But you have to hand it to Colin Fry and T.J. Hughes – they are at the top of their game. This show, after all, is “The Best of British Mediumship”, so they cannot simply just be dismissed as exploitative fraudsters, or deluded mentalists. Of course not – that would be a highly unfair disservice. These people are the BEST exploitative fraudsters and/or deluded mentalists in the whole country! They are masters of the fraudulent and/or deluded trade.
And that’s not all. Judging by their photos, they are also blessed with the accolade of being the most owl-like entertainers in the whole of the showbiz world.
Take a look for yourself:-
A clever little owl
Colin Fry
'Nanny' from the 80's children's cartoon
series, "Count Duckula"
TJ Hughes
Mon 20th April 2009
My expired car park pass means that to get to work, I now have to face extortionate parking fees. Or I could take the bus in to town; doing my bit for my bank balance, the local transport economy, the environment and the world’s oil supplies. Which would be nice in theory. But who wants to have to get up earlier and traipse through whatever the British weather throws at you, just to be cramped into a herd of faces that are not driving just cos they’re too old? Or cos they’re too young. Or – worse still – cos they’re too working class. Not me. Too many training shoes, ‘iPods’ noise spillages and small change transactions for my liking.
However I kind of met my good intentions half-way today, easing myself into a greener existence by car-pooling my way to work, then catching the bus home. But I found it strange experience waiting at the stop to get home. I was flooded with feelings of nostalgia. This was the same bus stop I used to wait at as a young teenager. In the same town as when I was a teenager. Heading back to the same home I lived at as a teenager. The last time I was doing this regularly, there was time to kill by standing at bus stops. Life was just starting. There were many paths to take laid out in front, leading in all sorts of different directions; all mine for the choosing. But here I was, back again. In my home town which seemed virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Wearing the same face which was virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Fifteen years on, and following years of carving a new life through different cities, different jobs, different homes and different unsuccessful relationships, I have found myself back here again, waiting at this same damn bus stop, to get back to my parent’s home, where I find myself living again in a quiet suburban village. It is amazing how quick nostalgia morphs into melancholy. And yes, you did read that bit correctly. I am a 31 year old man living with his dad. The ultimate status symbol of a sad, stagnated existence.
In fairness, it was my own decision to move back in with my dad. But there were pressures at the time and since my parents’ divorce, it seemed more sensible and noble to financially assist my own dad with rent rather my last landlord. I also thought that living there as an adult might be a bit like Frasier, with two optimistic bachelors sharing a house and making inter-generational wry comments about each other. But in practise, it is more like Steptoe and Son; with two tragic figures stomping around a house, swearing at each other. Whilst wearing long-johns.
Eventually the bus arrived. It cost £1.80, which would make it £3.60 a day were I to regularly travel both ways. In future I have decided to pay the extra 90p to cover the £4.50 car park charge; if only to shield and anaesthetise me from having to address any further issues like the ones bought up today. The way I see it, that’s pretty good value. It’s sort of thing usually costs me a tenner in the pub.
However I kind of met my good intentions half-way today, easing myself into a greener existence by car-pooling my way to work, then catching the bus home. But I found it strange experience waiting at the stop to get home. I was flooded with feelings of nostalgia. This was the same bus stop I used to wait at as a young teenager. In the same town as when I was a teenager. Heading back to the same home I lived at as a teenager. The last time I was doing this regularly, there was time to kill by standing at bus stops. Life was just starting. There were many paths to take laid out in front, leading in all sorts of different directions; all mine for the choosing. But here I was, back again. In my home town which seemed virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Wearing the same face which was virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Fifteen years on, and following years of carving a new life through different cities, different jobs, different homes and different unsuccessful relationships, I have found myself back here again, waiting at this same damn bus stop, to get back to my parent’s home, where I find myself living again in a quiet suburban village. It is amazing how quick nostalgia morphs into melancholy. And yes, you did read that bit correctly. I am a 31 year old man living with his dad. The ultimate status symbol of a sad, stagnated existence.
In fairness, it was my own decision to move back in with my dad. But there were pressures at the time and since my parents’ divorce, it seemed more sensible and noble to financially assist my own dad with rent rather my last landlord. I also thought that living there as an adult might be a bit like Frasier, with two optimistic bachelors sharing a house and making inter-generational wry comments about each other. But in practise, it is more like Steptoe and Son; with two tragic figures stomping around a house, swearing at each other. Whilst wearing long-johns.
Eventually the bus arrived. It cost £1.80, which would make it £3.60 a day were I to regularly travel both ways. In future I have decided to pay the extra 90p to cover the £4.50 car park charge; if only to shield and anaesthetise me from having to address any further issues like the ones bought up today. The way I see it, that’s pretty good value. It’s sort of thing usually costs me a tenner in the pub.
Sun 19th April 2009
I spent the journey to mother’s staring into a horse’s anus. I was stuck behind a horse wagon and always feel a bit nervy about overtaking long vehicles.
When I eventually arrived, we went for another Sunday lunch (my mother and I, I mean – not the horse obviously). Remarkable meal it was too. Although I’m disappointed to note that the pork and crackling I ordered was actually devoid of any of the crackling which had clearly been listed as a part of the dish. Similarly my mother’s turkey and stuffing was devoid of any stuffing.
Mother wished to complain to the waitress about these glaring omissions, but I did not deem such ancillary items worth causing a scene about. Instead I made my protest by rejecting the pudding menu and influencing mother to do the same. This kind of passive/aggressive act is much better than lodging real complaints. Although they may believe they have got away with their negligence, the owners are blissfully unaware that their curmudgeonly refusal of the ancillary (but near essential) items had actually cost them £7 in desserts. And by not being vocal about our chagrin, mother & I have probably safeguarded any meal revisions from being spat upon.
Mother also cut my hair today. I am rather grateful she is both my mother and a hairdresser, as this makes her licensed to make a personal mention that my hair is getting too long. Under my hapless supervision, my sideburns have also been allowed to spread like an untamed path of weeds. I imagine you will be able to tell when mother has passed on, as you will probably see me wondering the streets like some sort of homeless vagrant. But for now I am lucky – free of the burdening necessity of self-awareness.
“Would you like anything doing to your fizzog?” she asked, after completing the craft my latest recede denial.
“If you could make it look handsome, that would be great” I joked, under the pretence of unawareness that she was referring to my chops.
“Don’t say that!” she protested. She seemed to rally against my self-deprecating sense of humour.
“Anyway”, she added, “You are beautiful on the inside, and that’s all that counts!”
Well thank you very much mother. Thanks for spoiling your unconditional motherly role of filling me with love and confidence, with all that “beautiful on the inside” schpeel. So even you believe you’ve sprung a grotesquely hideous mess from within your loins do you? I know I am 31 and you have not been introduced to many girlfriends of late (any girlfriends of late), but does that really confine us to the compensatory last-chance saloon of the “at least being beautiful on the inside?” schtick. Well cheers for that. If you’re going to say something politely vacuous, you might as well have said I was really handsome. Why not use your choice of insincere clichés to humour my sense of self properly?
And in any case, the half-hearted claim you actually opted for can’t possibly be true! I am well aware my insides are far from beautiful ,given the much documented rotten and bloody state of my bowel. What barbed compliments your have torn me with! And just how ugly do you consider me to be in any case? How visually pleasing am I in relation to, say, the horse’s anus I’d followed earlier?
That same horse’s anus I had to endure for about ten miles, just to visit you and your backhanded insults in the first place!
When I eventually arrived, we went for another Sunday lunch (my mother and I, I mean – not the horse obviously). Remarkable meal it was too. Although I’m disappointed to note that the pork and crackling I ordered was actually devoid of any of the crackling which had clearly been listed as a part of the dish. Similarly my mother’s turkey and stuffing was devoid of any stuffing.
Mother wished to complain to the waitress about these glaring omissions, but I did not deem such ancillary items worth causing a scene about. Instead I made my protest by rejecting the pudding menu and influencing mother to do the same. This kind of passive/aggressive act is much better than lodging real complaints. Although they may believe they have got away with their negligence, the owners are blissfully unaware that their curmudgeonly refusal of the ancillary (but near essential) items had actually cost them £7 in desserts. And by not being vocal about our chagrin, mother & I have probably safeguarded any meal revisions from being spat upon.
Mother also cut my hair today. I am rather grateful she is both my mother and a hairdresser, as this makes her licensed to make a personal mention that my hair is getting too long. Under my hapless supervision, my sideburns have also been allowed to spread like an untamed path of weeds. I imagine you will be able to tell when mother has passed on, as you will probably see me wondering the streets like some sort of homeless vagrant. But for now I am lucky – free of the burdening necessity of self-awareness.
“Would you like anything doing to your fizzog?” she asked, after completing the craft my latest recede denial.
“If you could make it look handsome, that would be great” I joked, under the pretence of unawareness that she was referring to my chops.
“Don’t say that!” she protested. She seemed to rally against my self-deprecating sense of humour.
“Anyway”, she added, “You are beautiful on the inside, and that’s all that counts!”
Well thank you very much mother. Thanks for spoiling your unconditional motherly role of filling me with love and confidence, with all that “beautiful on the inside” schpeel. So even you believe you’ve sprung a grotesquely hideous mess from within your loins do you? I know I am 31 and you have not been introduced to many girlfriends of late (any girlfriends of late), but does that really confine us to the compensatory last-chance saloon of the “at least being beautiful on the inside?” schtick. Well cheers for that. If you’re going to say something politely vacuous, you might as well have said I was really handsome. Why not use your choice of insincere clichés to humour my sense of self properly?
And in any case, the half-hearted claim you actually opted for can’t possibly be true! I am well aware my insides are far from beautiful ,given the much documented rotten and bloody state of my bowel. What barbed compliments your have torn me with! And just how ugly do you consider me to be in any case? How visually pleasing am I in relation to, say, the horse’s anus I’d followed earlier?
That same horse’s anus I had to endure for about ten miles, just to visit you and your backhanded insults in the first place!
Mon 13th April 2009
In an attempt to fully appreciate the spate of nice weather we’ve been having I went for a nice long walk. There is something liberating about having a really long walk, with nothing but an MP3 player for company. I headed through a pleasant wooded area on the outskirts of our village, before cutting through on to the canals.
As I stepped on the towpath, a barge was travelling alongside. I remembered I was still wearing my earphones and didn’t want to appear ignorant, so I took one of the plugs out. I looked at the driver and gave him a puffy-cheeked smile and raised my eyes to him at acknowledgement. The man pleasantly reciprocated with a nod and mumbled a quick “Alright?” It was a brief exchange between two strangers both enjoying the solitude of nature on a beautiful day. I pressed on with my journey.
I like barges. It is nice when they are moored up and you can look at the spritely names and imagine what it is like to live inside. But if there is one thing I am less keen on about barges, it is that they travel precisely at walking speed. Because after about half a mile, we were still side-by-side. And the driver & I kept catching each other’s eyes, caught in a cycle of occasional acknowledging glances. And even though neither of us seemed particularly keen to instigate a proper conversation, it would have felt rude just to put my earphones back in.
We continued to ignore each other’s presence bar a few cursory glances, until eventually I couldn’t stand the awkwardness any longer. I subtly picked up my walking pace, whilst being carefully conscious not to appear like I’d burst into some sort of spontaneously bizarre power walk. Whoever said it’s nice and relaxing to get out into the country?
As I stepped on the towpath, a barge was travelling alongside. I remembered I was still wearing my earphones and didn’t want to appear ignorant, so I took one of the plugs out. I looked at the driver and gave him a puffy-cheeked smile and raised my eyes to him at acknowledgement. The man pleasantly reciprocated with a nod and mumbled a quick “Alright?” It was a brief exchange between two strangers both enjoying the solitude of nature on a beautiful day. I pressed on with my journey.
I like barges. It is nice when they are moored up and you can look at the spritely names and imagine what it is like to live inside. But if there is one thing I am less keen on about barges, it is that they travel precisely at walking speed. Because after about half a mile, we were still side-by-side. And the driver & I kept catching each other’s eyes, caught in a cycle of occasional acknowledging glances. And even though neither of us seemed particularly keen to instigate a proper conversation, it would have felt rude just to put my earphones back in.
We continued to ignore each other’s presence bar a few cursory glances, until eventually I couldn’t stand the awkwardness any longer. I subtly picked up my walking pace, whilst being carefully conscious not to appear like I’d burst into some sort of spontaneously bizarre power walk. Whoever said it’s nice and relaxing to get out into the country?
Sun 12th April 2009
Started to feel a bit better today (thanks for asking). I don’t feel totally back to normal, but I was certainly well enough to take to the canals for a 20 mile bike ride, and abuse my temperamental belly with some delicious “Cadbury’s Creme Egg” ice cream. I didn’t get any Easter eggs, so this themed ice-cream was the closest thing to a taste of resurrected Christ this year (though I bet Deidre Barlow would have ensured my cupboards were well furnished with such seasonal treats). Nevertheless I cannot recommend Creme Egg ice cream enough. It is second only to the new Bournville bars with bits of orange peel stuck in them; which I can assure you taste a lot better than language has allowed me to describe here. Don’t get me wrong, I also really like regular Bournvilles, but generally find myself to be sated after 4 squares. With the orange stuff, I can easily devour more than that – sometimes even as much as 6 or 7 squares in a single sitting! I’m not joking either. I probably need to pull the reigns in a bit before I find myself on the rocky path to a real-life Alan Partridge-esque breakdown.
After the epic bike ride, I awarded myself with a pub lunch. I opted for “Hunter’s Chicken” - a chicken wrapped in slices of bacon. I am unsure as to why a chicken wrapped in bacon is called Hunter’s Chicken. Since the hunting of meat is the very cornerstone of the hunter’s profession, you’d think that if they are going out for a meal they’d probably prefer to try something a bit different, maybe a nice salmon fishcake or something.
Hunter’s chicken... What sort of hunter just goes after standard farmyard animals? Surely farmers already have that corner of the market sewn up? A real hunter worth his salt should present something more daring, like deer steak wrapped in a coat of bear’s fu
After the epic bike ride, I awarded myself with a pub lunch. I opted for “Hunter’s Chicken” - a chicken wrapped in slices of bacon. I am unsure as to why a chicken wrapped in bacon is called Hunter’s Chicken. Since the hunting of meat is the very cornerstone of the hunter’s profession, you’d think that if they are going out for a meal they’d probably prefer to try something a bit different, maybe a nice salmon fishcake or something.
Hunter’s chicken... What sort of hunter just goes after standard farmyard animals? Surely farmers already have that corner of the market sewn up? A real hunter worth his salt should present something more daring, like deer steak wrapped in a coat of bear’s fu
Sat 11th April 2009
Ever since I started my current job, I have not had a single day off through sickness. I have maintained this achievement through four years of employment. And this track record currently shows no signs of slowing either. Mainly cos I only seem to be ill when I am off work anyway. Like today. I am lying bed-bound with the turmoil-ridden stomach which broke out last night.
It is truly sod’s law that I am ill on the bank holiday break I have been looking forward to for weeks. It is sod’s law that we are having the brightest and warmest weather of the year so far when I am stuck in bed clutching my stomach, whilst beads of sweat glitter my body. It is sod’s law that my stomach is so incapable of accepting any content on my pre-arranged pub night. And it’ll be sod’s law when I find myself out of bog paper after yet another unprompted hot geyser erupts from my rear end.
It also seems like sod’s law that my last illness also befell me on Christmas Eve, yet another calendar holiday. I am starting to believe that maybe Jesus is punishing me for my atheist stance, by making me ill exclusively on his religious festival dates. Still, at least I got to do some reading, and when I felt intellectually sated, I had good “illness excuses” to watch some bubblegum television. It looks like Ken Barlow is looking further afield than his own wife in the Coronation Street omnibus; whilst his son Peter cannot seem to find much luck in the love department. “When am I going to find my Deidre?” he asks his father. I couldn’t empathise with his simple, honest plea enough; which arguably transcended humble soap dialogue to give a broader metaphor for the existential crisis of all human life. In a way I suppose we are all looking for our Deidre. We all want someone who is always there for us. We all want a dependable soul to forever quench our lonely existence. We all want someone to greet us when we arrive home. We all want someone to pass the time with on a longstanding contractual basis. Preferably someone who has a 40 a day gravel-pit voice and a neck which resembles a small muddy country track only frequented by a series of heavy four wheel drive vehicles. I know that’s what I’m looking for. She may not be much to look at, or even listen to, or smell (given the amount she seems to smoke per episode); but she’s at least the sort of woman who would ensure my toilet paper supplies are fully stocked. And at this moment in time, that’s the prime quality I’d be settle for in anyone.
It is truly sod’s law that I am ill on the bank holiday break I have been looking forward to for weeks. It is sod’s law that we are having the brightest and warmest weather of the year so far when I am stuck in bed clutching my stomach, whilst beads of sweat glitter my body. It is sod’s law that my stomach is so incapable of accepting any content on my pre-arranged pub night. And it’ll be sod’s law when I find myself out of bog paper after yet another unprompted hot geyser erupts from my rear end.
It also seems like sod’s law that my last illness also befell me on Christmas Eve, yet another calendar holiday. I am starting to believe that maybe Jesus is punishing me for my atheist stance, by making me ill exclusively on his religious festival dates. Still, at least I got to do some reading, and when I felt intellectually sated, I had good “illness excuses” to watch some bubblegum television. It looks like Ken Barlow is looking further afield than his own wife in the Coronation Street omnibus; whilst his son Peter cannot seem to find much luck in the love department. “When am I going to find my Deidre?” he asks his father. I couldn’t empathise with his simple, honest plea enough; which arguably transcended humble soap dialogue to give a broader metaphor for the existential crisis of all human life. In a way I suppose we are all looking for our Deidre. We all want someone who is always there for us. We all want a dependable soul to forever quench our lonely existence. We all want someone to greet us when we arrive home. We all want someone to pass the time with on a longstanding contractual basis. Preferably someone who has a 40 a day gravel-pit voice and a neck which resembles a small muddy country track only frequented by a series of heavy four wheel drive vehicles. I know that’s what I’m looking for. She may not be much to look at, or even listen to, or smell (given the amount she seems to smoke per episode); but she’s at least the sort of woman who would ensure my toilet paper supplies are fully stocked. And at this moment in time, that’s the prime quality I’d be settle for in anyone.
Fri 10th April 2009
Happy Good Friday everyone! Today I witnessed the consequences of a sacrifice; a timely sacrifice that was made for the benefit mankind. Although when I say “mankind”, I am more specifically referring to “the residents of our village” (which might as well technically count as the encompassing of all mankind, given the narrow scope of my personal inter-social existence). And when I say “sacrifice”, I am referring to the slaughter of porcine. Rest assured, contrary to the belief of some folk, our small village is not some irregular place of weird Pagan acts. I was merely at my mate’s book shop (incidentally a brilliant place with an ace stock of cheap books, which are also accessible on line from here), bearing witness to a meat delivery at the butcher next door.
A whole pig was being carried in by the two drivers. My friend asked whether it troubled me that the very same pig was probably ambling around happily on a local farm probably less than 2 days ago. This is the sort of thing people like to ask an ex-vegetarian for some reason. I guess it’s to see if they are able to arouse any sense of carnivore guilt and whether it can play on my conscience enough to drive me back into a Quorn-fed existence. But these comments are futile. Why would I be so naive as to disregard how a living animal becomes a dinner? Also, why was the fact the pig was probably frolicking with his piggy mates two days ago supposed to have any emotional leverage? What am I supposed to prefer? If a dead pig being carried into a butchers to be separated, sold and consumed, I’d rather it was alive a couple of days ago than it being delivered after a month long grieving period afforded to its piggy contemporaries. On the other end of the spectrum, I would rather it be ready killed when carried into the butchers, rather than hearing it’s curdling squeals through the walls as I’m trying to leaf through a shelf of literary gems.
Later in the evening, I came over with a slightly dicky tummy which forced me to stay in, when I really wanted to be out with my friends celebrating the bank holiday. Maybe this is some sort of irony, satirically bought on by the symbolism of a rotting pig carcass?
A whole pig was being carried in by the two drivers. My friend asked whether it troubled me that the very same pig was probably ambling around happily on a local farm probably less than 2 days ago. This is the sort of thing people like to ask an ex-vegetarian for some reason. I guess it’s to see if they are able to arouse any sense of carnivore guilt and whether it can play on my conscience enough to drive me back into a Quorn-fed existence. But these comments are futile. Why would I be so naive as to disregard how a living animal becomes a dinner? Also, why was the fact the pig was probably frolicking with his piggy mates two days ago supposed to have any emotional leverage? What am I supposed to prefer? If a dead pig being carried into a butchers to be separated, sold and consumed, I’d rather it was alive a couple of days ago than it being delivered after a month long grieving period afforded to its piggy contemporaries. On the other end of the spectrum, I would rather it be ready killed when carried into the butchers, rather than hearing it’s curdling squeals through the walls as I’m trying to leaf through a shelf of literary gems.
Later in the evening, I came over with a slightly dicky tummy which forced me to stay in, when I really wanted to be out with my friends celebrating the bank holiday. Maybe this is some sort of irony, satirically bought on by the symbolism of a rotting pig carcass?
Thu 9th April 2009
Last day of work for five whole days! Thank you baby Jesus for dying so that mankind can have a few days off. All year round we think about the little jobs we have promised to get around at some point; and thanks to you there’s a few days to fully procrastinate about them at punishing length.
As this was officially the last working day before the Easter holidays, we were allowed to bring games in. Ok, that’s a lie - we weren’t allowed to bring games in. Sadly ‘the man’ and the right-on brigade have teamed up together and stopped that kind of pre-holiday fun, because the modern kill-joys do not consider it a constructive use of time (or they might just consider it inappropriate on the grounds that I’m a 31 year old man). But we did make our own kind of light-hearted office-based fun, which was possibly one-step lower in the maturity stakes than a quick game of classroom ‘Junior Dingbats’. It consisted of sending various puerile SMS messages to each other’s desk-phones. I know on paper this doesn’t exactly sound like a barrel of laughs, but there is something I find genuinely amusing about the emotionless, mechanistic voice which reads text messages through the landline receiver. It has perfect diction of individual words, but an ill-fitting expression of the sentences as a whole. Dialogue-wise, the whole thing is probably best described as sounding like Moira Stewart doing an impression of Borat.
And there’s something genuinely quite sinister about it too. If you know any very young or very old relatives who are going to be on their own over the holidays and who do not have a savvy grasp of modern phone technology, why not text something along the lines of “Tonight I plan to slice your neck open, hang you upside down and watch your guts spill out” to their landline? Thanks to Moira’s chilling delivery, they’ll be absolutely terrified. It’ll be hilarious! The more vulnerable the recipient, the better.
So there’s one activity for your Easter break. You can have that for free. But should you need other ways to procrastinate your way out of the impending odd jobs, I’m afraid you’ll just have to think of them yourself.
As this was officially the last working day before the Easter holidays, we were allowed to bring games in. Ok, that’s a lie - we weren’t allowed to bring games in. Sadly ‘the man’ and the right-on brigade have teamed up together and stopped that kind of pre-holiday fun, because the modern kill-joys do not consider it a constructive use of time (or they might just consider it inappropriate on the grounds that I’m a 31 year old man). But we did make our own kind of light-hearted office-based fun, which was possibly one-step lower in the maturity stakes than a quick game of classroom ‘Junior Dingbats’. It consisted of sending various puerile SMS messages to each other’s desk-phones. I know on paper this doesn’t exactly sound like a barrel of laughs, but there is something I find genuinely amusing about the emotionless, mechanistic voice which reads text messages through the landline receiver. It has perfect diction of individual words, but an ill-fitting expression of the sentences as a whole. Dialogue-wise, the whole thing is probably best described as sounding like Moira Stewart doing an impression of Borat.
And there’s something genuinely quite sinister about it too. If you know any very young or very old relatives who are going to be on their own over the holidays and who do not have a savvy grasp of modern phone technology, why not text something along the lines of “Tonight I plan to slice your neck open, hang you upside down and watch your guts spill out” to their landline? Thanks to Moira’s chilling delivery, they’ll be absolutely terrified. It’ll be hilarious! The more vulnerable the recipient, the better.
So there’s one activity for your Easter break. You can have that for free. But should you need other ways to procrastinate your way out of the impending odd jobs, I’m afraid you’ll just have to think of them yourself.
Wed 8th April 2009
I saw a bit of ‘The Passion’ on TV. I found it to be a rather oddly titled series; as despite what is implied, there was very little salacious about its content at all. It was mainly just a load of beardy blokes with regional accents talking about God and stuff, then one of them ends up getting murdered. Don’t bother getting your hopes built up when the prostitute appears either. As I said, nothing even remotely arousing happens in the whole programme. Well, almost nothing. There is a kiss between two men who confusingly have similar sounding names. But the scene doesn’t seem particularly erotic (not that I am an authority on what whether a kiss between two men could be considered erotic or anything. I am not familiar with this type of thing. And even if I were, I’d probably just have as much luck as a homosexual man as I do as a heterosexual, given my granary-bap arse, and worst still, my irritable bowel and consequently putridly un-tempting state of my anal innards. The one thing that can be said about me is how I am not prejudiced - I can repulse people indiscriminately of their sexual persuasion).
Yes – it’s all pretty flaccid stuff. Though having said this, if you find pleasure in sadomasochistic acts, then there’s a chance you might enjoy the ending; which is full of torture and cruelty. But then if this sort of thing arouses you, you’re clearly a sicko, and I would seriously question whether I wish to hear from you. I only enjoy sexual acts that are completely conventional, thank you very much. I would not wish to be flogged and hung on a cross.
Unless it the only thing on offer.
Yes – it’s all pretty flaccid stuff. Though having said this, if you find pleasure in sadomasochistic acts, then there’s a chance you might enjoy the ending; which is full of torture and cruelty. But then if this sort of thing arouses you, you’re clearly a sicko, and I would seriously question whether I wish to hear from you. I only enjoy sexual acts that are completely conventional, thank you very much. I would not wish to be flogged and hung on a cross.
Unless it the only thing on offer.
Tue 7th April 2009
As I sit here typing this, I keep catching the reflection of my own face in the screen. Look, there it is again. My own stupid face.
It is amazing how irritating I find this face. Not in a Piers-Morgan-punchable kind of way. It is more in annoyance that every charming facial feature I have been blessed with seems to have been accompanied by some ghastly defect. Take my eyes for example. At first I see these kind of endearing large puppy-dog globes, full of dreamy wonder. But then as a kind of counter-balancing retribution, I also have these burdening dark sags underneath which look like someone has taken the weight of the world off their shoulders, slung them into 2 big bags, then stapled them right under my eye-sockets. For every quality I see in my features, there always seems to be a corresponding flaw. I literally might as well just replace my own head with a big cardboard cut-out of the yin and yang symbol.
Take my hair too. I was blessed with a sea of thick, shiny locks. But the tide now seems to going out, and the dry barren wasteland beneath is creeping into view at an alarming rate. There was a time when my hair would just do its job of just hanging their all undemanding of any care or attention or anything. But now I am receeding, I have to bother being all self aware about it. There’s certain looks I simply can’t pull-off anymore. For starters the effortless bushy unkempt indie-kid style is a thing of the past. If my hair hits the lengths it was in the 90’s, limp wiry strands just hang unconvincingly down the dome of my head. It’s the equivalent of hugging a widescreen telly from behind to try and shield the local vicar from seeing a sex-scene. Three days without a wash, and with the additional greasiness it suddenly becomes the very stereotype of how the media might portray the image of a paedophile staring through the school gates. If anything, the dark circles on my eyes would only compliment this style. But sadly paedophile chic is not a very popular look at the moment.
I am not yet actually bald, but like I say, I need to show a degree of self-awareness about what I can and can’t pull off. I am just ‘gone’ enough to be aware that the number of styles I can model are steadily on the decline. I need to be prepared that perhaps one day whatever style I opt for will simply just be a vane pretension of denial; and then I’ll have no choice but to shave the remainder away.
I’d argue that in many ways being a receding man is probably worse than just being downright bald. Proper baldies have at least got past watching and worrying as their forehead coverage ebbs away. It’s like they got to point, shrugged their shoulders and just accepted that they’re better off slapped than fretting. I’ve even seen some of them seem really at ease about their lack of follicles. Like the baldies at festivals who unashamedly slap exaggerated dollops sun tan lotion over their head in full public view, and jovially apply it, as if it was Brasso or something.
But at the moment I am in standing in the middle of a confused, balding abyss, not quite knowing whether the recede intends to continue or not. If it stops now, I just might get away with a few shorter-on-top styles for years to come. If it continues I will have to know when to face facts and join the baldies for good. Either way, this summer it might be good idea to start pricing up the sun tan lotions, you know, just in case.
It is amazing how irritating I find this face. Not in a Piers-Morgan-punchable kind of way. It is more in annoyance that every charming facial feature I have been blessed with seems to have been accompanied by some ghastly defect. Take my eyes for example. At first I see these kind of endearing large puppy-dog globes, full of dreamy wonder. But then as a kind of counter-balancing retribution, I also have these burdening dark sags underneath which look like someone has taken the weight of the world off their shoulders, slung them into 2 big bags, then stapled them right under my eye-sockets. For every quality I see in my features, there always seems to be a corresponding flaw. I literally might as well just replace my own head with a big cardboard cut-out of the yin and yang symbol.
Take my hair too. I was blessed with a sea of thick, shiny locks. But the tide now seems to going out, and the dry barren wasteland beneath is creeping into view at an alarming rate. There was a time when my hair would just do its job of just hanging their all undemanding of any care or attention or anything. But now I am receeding, I have to bother being all self aware about it. There’s certain looks I simply can’t pull-off anymore. For starters the effortless bushy unkempt indie-kid style is a thing of the past. If my hair hits the lengths it was in the 90’s, limp wiry strands just hang unconvincingly down the dome of my head. It’s the equivalent of hugging a widescreen telly from behind to try and shield the local vicar from seeing a sex-scene. Three days without a wash, and with the additional greasiness it suddenly becomes the very stereotype of how the media might portray the image of a paedophile staring through the school gates. If anything, the dark circles on my eyes would only compliment this style. But sadly paedophile chic is not a very popular look at the moment.
I am not yet actually bald, but like I say, I need to show a degree of self-awareness about what I can and can’t pull off. I am just ‘gone’ enough to be aware that the number of styles I can model are steadily on the decline. I need to be prepared that perhaps one day whatever style I opt for will simply just be a vane pretension of denial; and then I’ll have no choice but to shave the remainder away.
I’d argue that in many ways being a receding man is probably worse than just being downright bald. Proper baldies have at least got past watching and worrying as their forehead coverage ebbs away. It’s like they got to point, shrugged their shoulders and just accepted that they’re better off slapped than fretting. I’ve even seen some of them seem really at ease about their lack of follicles. Like the baldies at festivals who unashamedly slap exaggerated dollops sun tan lotion over their head in full public view, and jovially apply it, as if it was Brasso or something.
But at the moment I am in standing in the middle of a confused, balding abyss, not quite knowing whether the recede intends to continue or not. If it stops now, I just might get away with a few shorter-on-top styles for years to come. If it continues I will have to know when to face facts and join the baldies for good. Either way, this summer it might be good idea to start pricing up the sun tan lotions, you know, just in case.
Mon 6th April 2009
Today a few friends and I watched one of them league football matches on the telly round someone’s house. This is something I do generally every five or six years, mainly to remind myself why I only watch football every five or six years. For those who may be unfamiliar with the football, it also has different monickers like soccer and ‘footie’, and is a game in which a ball is kicked up and down the field in the name of regional patriotism, by people who are generally not from the place they’re supposed to be representing.
I am not a particularly big fan of football. It seems to antagonise the people who watch it. If you were to make a tape recording of people watching a football game with the tv turned down, it would generally consist of tutting, whinging and in some cases, the loud expression of expletives. Maybe this just happens because, at the general behest of the people I am with, I always seem to wind up watching Wolves matches. But the thought of spending my leisure time, deliberately choosing to do something that makes me feel annoyance is not something I would willingly chose to do. What’d be the point in this? For me, that’d just be like a busman’s holiday. Not that football matches have ever evoked such intensity of emotion in me personally. I just generally tend to sit watching the ball being kicked about like a dispassionate observer. This doesn’t just explain my experiences as a spectator, but as a kid actually partaking in PE football matches too. So I suppose I just don’t really have any empathy with the game. Don’t get me wrong, I would rather the Wolves had won, in order to cohese the general social atmosphere with my friends. But I certainly didn’t feel empathy with the team for having lost 2-0. The nearest I got to feeling any empathy, was on the 90th minute when one of the commentators announced they had “3 minutes injury time to be endured.”
But one thing I do believe is that as uninterested as I am, I could be some sort of bad omen, a curse for my home team. I’m not kidding either. Whenever I happen to see one of their matches, they always seem to lose. Now although this sounds a coded, snide way of saying Wolves are rubbish; I know this cannot be a true statement as they’re currently top of the league. So why would they lose this match, just like they lost the last one I accidently happened to catch in 2003? Or the one before in 1997? Or the one before that in 1991? What are the odds that they would lose all those matches, even at a time when they seem to be in a winning streak? There is no other explanation – I bring bad vibes to footballers.
It may surprise you to learn that about 12 years ago, I actually used to be employed by Wolverhampton Wanders Football Club. I used to wash up plates for rich businessmen who felt they could only properly enjoy a football match whilst seated behind a glass window, eating a big three-course meal. Sometimes I had to take the kitchen rubbish out in a little trolley and wheel it to the big skips the other side of the ground. In a strange way, this was usually a shift highlight because at least you got to get out of the windowless perpetual steam-hole of the kitchen for a few minutes. But it was simultaneously rather demeaning, having to trundle through the gaggle of supporters and autograph hunters, wearing a blue overall while pushing a trolley of stinking rubbish.
I remember one day, I had made it through the fans only to be faced by a player I would later learn to be called Neil Emblen or something. He had just burst through the player’s lounge exit, all set with his autograph signing pen, to dive into a sea of adulation of the fans. The only thing blocking the player from the fans and the fans from the player, was me and my rubbish trolley. I headed left to get around him. But at the same time, he headed right and I had to halt sharply to stop from running over his toes with my trolley. Then I pushed my trolley to the right, but at the same time he walked toward his left, and we were both stopped in our tracks again. The same thing happened a third time. By now it was just embarrassing.
I don’t know if it was just co-incidence, but the next week Neil Emblen had left the team. Had the manager seen the sorry spectacle of the player’s inability to even get round the boy who washed plates and decided to dismiss him? Sadly we’ll never know.
But just maybe, the curse has lived on.
I am not a particularly big fan of football. It seems to antagonise the people who watch it. If you were to make a tape recording of people watching a football game with the tv turned down, it would generally consist of tutting, whinging and in some cases, the loud expression of expletives. Maybe this just happens because, at the general behest of the people I am with, I always seem to wind up watching Wolves matches. But the thought of spending my leisure time, deliberately choosing to do something that makes me feel annoyance is not something I would willingly chose to do. What’d be the point in this? For me, that’d just be like a busman’s holiday. Not that football matches have ever evoked such intensity of emotion in me personally. I just generally tend to sit watching the ball being kicked about like a dispassionate observer. This doesn’t just explain my experiences as a spectator, but as a kid actually partaking in PE football matches too. So I suppose I just don’t really have any empathy with the game. Don’t get me wrong, I would rather the Wolves had won, in order to cohese the general social atmosphere with my friends. But I certainly didn’t feel empathy with the team for having lost 2-0. The nearest I got to feeling any empathy, was on the 90th minute when one of the commentators announced they had “3 minutes injury time to be endured.”
But one thing I do believe is that as uninterested as I am, I could be some sort of bad omen, a curse for my home team. I’m not kidding either. Whenever I happen to see one of their matches, they always seem to lose. Now although this sounds a coded, snide way of saying Wolves are rubbish; I know this cannot be a true statement as they’re currently top of the league. So why would they lose this match, just like they lost the last one I accidently happened to catch in 2003? Or the one before in 1997? Or the one before that in 1991? What are the odds that they would lose all those matches, even at a time when they seem to be in a winning streak? There is no other explanation – I bring bad vibes to footballers.
It may surprise you to learn that about 12 years ago, I actually used to be employed by Wolverhampton Wanders Football Club. I used to wash up plates for rich businessmen who felt they could only properly enjoy a football match whilst seated behind a glass window, eating a big three-course meal. Sometimes I had to take the kitchen rubbish out in a little trolley and wheel it to the big skips the other side of the ground. In a strange way, this was usually a shift highlight because at least you got to get out of the windowless perpetual steam-hole of the kitchen for a few minutes. But it was simultaneously rather demeaning, having to trundle through the gaggle of supporters and autograph hunters, wearing a blue overall while pushing a trolley of stinking rubbish.
I remember one day, I had made it through the fans only to be faced by a player I would later learn to be called Neil Emblen or something. He had just burst through the player’s lounge exit, all set with his autograph signing pen, to dive into a sea of adulation of the fans. The only thing blocking the player from the fans and the fans from the player, was me and my rubbish trolley. I headed left to get around him. But at the same time, he headed right and I had to halt sharply to stop from running over his toes with my trolley. Then I pushed my trolley to the right, but at the same time he walked toward his left, and we were both stopped in our tracks again. The same thing happened a third time. By now it was just embarrassing.
I don’t know if it was just co-incidence, but the next week Neil Emblen had left the team. Had the manager seen the sorry spectacle of the player’s inability to even get round the boy who washed plates and decided to dismiss him? Sadly we’ll never know.
But just maybe, the curse has lived on.
Sun 5th April 2009
Today I went to ‘Go Ape’, a simian-themed obstacle course which takes place 40-feet up in a forest. Kitted out with a harness, pulley and caribana, you traverse ladders, walkways, bridges and then shoot down long zip slides. You get a half-hour training course where there’s a thorough regard for safety. And if you’re thinking of going yourself, let me re-assure you the staff are very conscientious about safety; please don’t allow the fact that they’re not even able to spell the basic and fundamentally operative word ‘safety’ correctly on their company website disconcert you. The ‘saftey’ procedures they have in place are just as good. Although if you are of easily disconcerted temperament, then Go Ape is probably an experience best avoided. Personally I found the experience of being 40-foot high in the trees to traverse ladders, walkways, bridges and zip slides using only a harness, pulley and caribana to prevent you from falling to certain death - a disconcerting experience to say the least. In fact, having typed the word ‘caribana’, I have just noticed that my computer has drawn red squiggly line underneath it. That I have effectively had my life in the hands of something which my comprehensive spell-checker has never even heard of, is a even tad disconcerting in itself!
I am not usually bothered by thrills and spills and ‘white knuckle’ rides and the like, but kidding aside, I must admit I felt genuinely fearful. I suppose it might be something to do with having responsibility for your own safety. At least with theme park and fairground rides, you get strapped in, thrown about a bit then let off. With Go Ape, there are no instructors following you round, you have to attach the hooks (or ‘caribanas’ if you want to use the lingo) yourself, ensuring they are strapped to the each wire properly. This is not the easiest thing to do with a stinking hangover, but potentially fatal should you make a mistake. I shouldn’t really have been so worried. After all, there were even children partaking. I even overheard one lad of about 12 years old, whining to his mother about the hold up; getting genuinely impatient for the next life-risking death slide into a vertigo-inducing abyss (as he waited for me to check I’d attached my harness properly for the 512th time). But the little brat failed to appreciate my apprehension to take a literal leap of faith in my own safety preparation. It was easy for him, the horrible little git – at least he had his mom and dad on hand to check he was always attached properly.
So there – I admit it. I was scared. And the main reason I was scared must have been because I didn’t like taking responsibility for my own life. I would rather trust my own safety in the hands of some minimum wage students who are wondering how long it is till-clocking off time whilst strapping you in to the latest theme park ride and have no emotional attachment or investment to you at all, than I would in myself. What subconscious implications does this have on the way that my mind must live and work on a day-to-day basis? Is there a sadder revelation, than discovering at the core, I am a man who is effectively frightened to take responsibility for his own life? Well is there?
In real terms, yes there probably is. But then I’d probably have to strap a parachute to my back and hurl myself out of the door of a plane to find out what it might be. In what strange ways we willingly spend our leisure time!
I am not usually bothered by thrills and spills and ‘white knuckle’ rides and the like, but kidding aside, I must admit I felt genuinely fearful. I suppose it might be something to do with having responsibility for your own safety. At least with theme park and fairground rides, you get strapped in, thrown about a bit then let off. With Go Ape, there are no instructors following you round, you have to attach the hooks (or ‘caribanas’ if you want to use the lingo) yourself, ensuring they are strapped to the each wire properly. This is not the easiest thing to do with a stinking hangover, but potentially fatal should you make a mistake. I shouldn’t really have been so worried. After all, there were even children partaking. I even overheard one lad of about 12 years old, whining to his mother about the hold up; getting genuinely impatient for the next life-risking death slide into a vertigo-inducing abyss (as he waited for me to check I’d attached my harness properly for the 512th time). But the little brat failed to appreciate my apprehension to take a literal leap of faith in my own safety preparation. It was easy for him, the horrible little git – at least he had his mom and dad on hand to check he was always attached properly.
So there – I admit it. I was scared. And the main reason I was scared must have been because I didn’t like taking responsibility for my own life. I would rather trust my own safety in the hands of some minimum wage students who are wondering how long it is till-clocking off time whilst strapping you in to the latest theme park ride and have no emotional attachment or investment to you at all, than I would in myself. What subconscious implications does this have on the way that my mind must live and work on a day-to-day basis? Is there a sadder revelation, than discovering at the core, I am a man who is effectively frightened to take responsibility for his own life? Well is there?
In real terms, yes there probably is. But then I’d probably have to strap a parachute to my back and hurl myself out of the door of a plane to find out what it might be. In what strange ways we willingly spend our leisure time!
Sat 4th April 2009
Continuing with the rather impressive health regime, I went on a 20 mile bike ride with my Dad. Quite early on in the journey he found a postman’s post bag full of letters in the middle of the road, and felt obliged to pick it up so the lost mail may be returned to the post office on Monday. This meant he had to lug it round with him, with the bag balanced precariously on his handlebars; which seems an inconvenience to say the least. Such is the curse of the Good Samaritan. The worst part is that he goes to work before the Post Office opens and doesn’t get back till after it closed. So I will have to return it for him, and thus take the credit for all his bag-carrying efforts.
My Dad didn’t seem to mind, he just seemed preoccupied with pride about the length of the journey we had managed. After we finished he even said he felt “as fit as a Butcher’s Dog”. Is that a popular saying, or is it just a regional one that is spoken in our village? I’ve only ever heard it once before, and that was when the neighbour from three doors down once told me that I similarly looked “as fit as a butcher’s dog.” Having heard my Dad use it in such a self-congratulatory context, at least I now feel assured it is a phrase of politeness. Assumedly it implies that a butcher’s dog is healthy because it gets to eat prime cuts of meat. But I remember feeling unsure of the intent when my neighbour said it to me. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment. I’d argue that when assessing the fitness of a butcher’s dog relies on context to a certain degree. Is the butcher a successful businessman who manages to sell a great percentage of his stock onto his patrons? If he is not, then surely a Butcher’s Dog risks being over-fed on all the left-overs. In which case my neighbour would be implying I am obese. Conversely, if butcher the butcher has amazing business prowess then presumably the only stock left will be the stuff that is of too low quality to be sold on to customers and would otherwise need to be discarded. In which case, the poor dog would be at perpetual risk of food poisoning from rancid meat. In my experience, anyone with food poisoning generally tends to look of ill-health. Like I say, context is everything. Surely we need to learn about the butcher before we can make assumptive assess about how fit his dog is?
Putting the canine of a food retailer aside, I do feel genuinely better for all of the exercise I’ve accomplished this week. I have easily surpassed my 2000 calorie target. It is just a shame I had to spoil all this good work by going out last night and drinking my own weight in Guinness. That is the reason this blog has been posted so late. In a nutshell, I got so blind drunk I was unable to make an entry. And not for the first time; as many of my exes would probably testify (hur hur).
(I should probably apologise for finishing with such a lazy and vulgar innuendo. But I am too worn out to bother deleting it now).
My Dad didn’t seem to mind, he just seemed preoccupied with pride about the length of the journey we had managed. After we finished he even said he felt “as fit as a Butcher’s Dog”. Is that a popular saying, or is it just a regional one that is spoken in our village? I’ve only ever heard it once before, and that was when the neighbour from three doors down once told me that I similarly looked “as fit as a butcher’s dog.” Having heard my Dad use it in such a self-congratulatory context, at least I now feel assured it is a phrase of politeness. Assumedly it implies that a butcher’s dog is healthy because it gets to eat prime cuts of meat. But I remember feeling unsure of the intent when my neighbour said it to me. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment. I’d argue that when assessing the fitness of a butcher’s dog relies on context to a certain degree. Is the butcher a successful businessman who manages to sell a great percentage of his stock onto his patrons? If he is not, then surely a Butcher’s Dog risks being over-fed on all the left-overs. In which case my neighbour would be implying I am obese. Conversely, if butcher the butcher has amazing business prowess then presumably the only stock left will be the stuff that is of too low quality to be sold on to customers and would otherwise need to be discarded. In which case, the poor dog would be at perpetual risk of food poisoning from rancid meat. In my experience, anyone with food poisoning generally tends to look of ill-health. Like I say, context is everything. Surely we need to learn about the butcher before we can make assumptive assess about how fit his dog is?
Putting the canine of a food retailer aside, I do feel genuinely better for all of the exercise I’ve accomplished this week. I have easily surpassed my 2000 calorie target. It is just a shame I had to spoil all this good work by going out last night and drinking my own weight in Guinness. That is the reason this blog has been posted so late. In a nutshell, I got so blind drunk I was unable to make an entry. And not for the first time; as many of my exes would probably testify (hur hur).
(I should probably apologise for finishing with such a lazy and vulgar innuendo. But I am too worn out to bother deleting it now).
Fri 3rd April 2009
After Monday’s towel fiasco, my gym regime has been going really well. I have managed to do some exercise every other weekday so far. My target is to burn 2000 calories per week (whilst exercising that is of course – not just simply to lose 2000 calories per week all-in. I am not setting 2000 calories a week as some sort of limit in which to carry out all of my weekly tasks. That’d be ridiculous. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be typing this now, for risk of the activity taking me too far over my limit. Although it might be an interesting experiment to find out whether obesity, fatigue or boredom killed me first).
So far this week I have done 1700 cals, so just another 300 to hit my target. I hope I will stick to this regime. As you will know, I am a miser. It is a constant on-going concern that I am getting good value from my monthly gym membership fee of £28. If I can manage 2000 calories a week, that is roughly £1 for every 71.4 calories, which is great value for money!
Evidently there is only one more thing important to me than my health, and that is the health of my bank balance.
So far this week I have done 1700 cals, so just another 300 to hit my target. I hope I will stick to this regime. As you will know, I am a miser. It is a constant on-going concern that I am getting good value from my monthly gym membership fee of £28. If I can manage 2000 calories a week, that is roughly £1 for every 71.4 calories, which is great value for money!
Evidently there is only one more thing important to me than my health, and that is the health of my bank balance.
Thu 2nd April 2008
Working in the cut n’ thrust of the music industry can certainly make for an exciting life. You never know what’s round the corner. For all I know, at some point this year I could be rubbing shoulders with Radiohead. Obviously when I use the phrase ‘rubbing shoulders’, I am not implying that in a literal sense. I doubt very much that the joint Radiohead & Days of Enlightenment Massage Parlour partnership will come into fruition anytime soon. No matter how many times I propose the idea, they just keep ignoring my emails. Some people millionaire rockstars are just plain rude.
However do not let me delude you. Such moments of such high-profile glamour are few and far between. For instance, on a more typical day like today, I will get offered bands like Five Star. They were a British pop band from the eighties, comprised of brothers and sisters. Although they had quite a few successful singles and albums, you may very well be unfamiliar with them. And this is the precise reason I am likely to opt against booking them. I’m not sure many people would want to come to see Five Star nowadays. Not even two-fifths of the band even wish to see Five Star anymore; as according to their Wikipedia entry there are only three of them now. Strictly speaking they should probably rename themselves Three Star. But then, from an image-preserving point of view, this would appear like there had been a decline in quality. It is an awkward name to compromise on and one can certainly understand why it is best not to tamper with the conceptual ‘star-rating’ system. Especially when embarking upon a season performing at Butlins. Which apparently, they have recently done.
It may seem easy to pour derision on the fact the band have been playing Butlins, but surely there are worse venues in the world. Take Kiki Dee & Carmelo Luggeri for instance. This was another show I was offered today.
You may remember Kiki Dee as being Elton John’s sidekick on the Number 1 single, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”, whilst Carmello has performed and recorded with a wide variety of artists including Andy Williams, Paul Rogers, Kenny Jones, Phil 'Animal' Taylor (from Motorhead I must stress, not the darts player), Chris Rea and Ralph McTell. Yet according to their tour page, they are scheduled to play the Maidstone Pizza Express.
Now, I cannot confess to ever having been to the Maidstone Pizza Express. For all I know, it could be a very nice venue, in which pizzas play a very small role in the proceedings. Or it could be awful; like some small late night take-away in which Kiki attempts to warble to late night drunken revellers from the other side of the counter. I simply don’t know. But I’ve no reason to wish any malice or ill regard. It might have a really good production and hospitality set-up; a nice PA system, a first class lighting rig, some nice dressing rooms; like I say, I am no authority on the place so I couldn’t tell you what it’s like. Although I suspect I know what the venue’s hospitality catering might consist of.
May I emphasise again, it is not my intention to pour scorn or derision on these careers. In any case, I am in no position even if I wanted to. Five Star may not be threatening the hit parade much nowadays, but it mustn’t be forgotten that 1.2 million people once paid for copies of their album “Silk and Steel” in this country alone. This blog has been logged into a mere 1,500 times. And yet you don’t even have to pay a single penny to come and look at this shite!
However do not let me delude you. Such moments of such high-profile glamour are few and far between. For instance, on a more typical day like today, I will get offered bands like Five Star. They were a British pop band from the eighties, comprised of brothers and sisters. Although they had quite a few successful singles and albums, you may very well be unfamiliar with them. And this is the precise reason I am likely to opt against booking them. I’m not sure many people would want to come to see Five Star nowadays. Not even two-fifths of the band even wish to see Five Star anymore; as according to their Wikipedia entry there are only three of them now. Strictly speaking they should probably rename themselves Three Star. But then, from an image-preserving point of view, this would appear like there had been a decline in quality. It is an awkward name to compromise on and one can certainly understand why it is best not to tamper with the conceptual ‘star-rating’ system. Especially when embarking upon a season performing at Butlins. Which apparently, they have recently done.
It may seem easy to pour derision on the fact the band have been playing Butlins, but surely there are worse venues in the world. Take Kiki Dee & Carmelo Luggeri for instance. This was another show I was offered today.
You may remember Kiki Dee as being Elton John’s sidekick on the Number 1 single, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”, whilst Carmello has performed and recorded with a wide variety of artists including Andy Williams, Paul Rogers, Kenny Jones, Phil 'Animal' Taylor (from Motorhead I must stress, not the darts player), Chris Rea and Ralph McTell. Yet according to their tour page, they are scheduled to play the Maidstone Pizza Express.
Now, I cannot confess to ever having been to the Maidstone Pizza Express. For all I know, it could be a very nice venue, in which pizzas play a very small role in the proceedings. Or it could be awful; like some small late night take-away in which Kiki attempts to warble to late night drunken revellers from the other side of the counter. I simply don’t know. But I’ve no reason to wish any malice or ill regard. It might have a really good production and hospitality set-up; a nice PA system, a first class lighting rig, some nice dressing rooms; like I say, I am no authority on the place so I couldn’t tell you what it’s like. Although I suspect I know what the venue’s hospitality catering might consist of.
May I emphasise again, it is not my intention to pour scorn or derision on these careers. In any case, I am in no position even if I wanted to. Five Star may not be threatening the hit parade much nowadays, but it mustn’t be forgotten that 1.2 million people once paid for copies of their album “Silk and Steel” in this country alone. This blog has been logged into a mere 1,500 times. And yet you don’t even have to pay a single penny to come and look at this shite!
Wed 1st April 2009
Happy new financial year! I hope all you self employed people got your tax done in time. I used to hate this time of year when I was self employed. I feel for you. All that trying to salvage a load of creased, slightly ripped illegible scraps of paper from every orifice in your bedroom, promising yourself that you’ll be more organised next year. Yes, I certainly don’t miss that at all now I’m fully employed. I used to get really paranoid about receipts I’d lost, how much I’d end up being taxed, and whether I’d have enough in the bank to cover the balance when the bill finally arrived. By the way, this isn’t some weird boastfulness – I’m not trying to say that I’d earned such a great amount of money I would subsequently anticipate being taxed a small fortune. If anything, this is more a proclamation of how bad I always was at being self-employed; perpetually having such a small amount tucked in the bank because I earned so little. Thankfully these times are all behind me now. And perversely, rather than having my bank account damaged, I actually get some pay arrears in my pay packet nowadays, so April sees me as a payee rather than a payer. Not that I’m trying to rub it in and make anyone who is self-employed feel worse. We’ve all got our crosses to bear. For example, this new financial year sees the inconvenience of my car parking pass expiring. Due to budget cuts, they have not been replaced either. Irritatingly I only remembered this fact once I had driven half-way to work.
I considered my options (or indeed lack of them). I could park in town, but the price of city centre car parks are pretty extortionate. It would be a pretty demoralising thought, knowing that a significant percentage of my hourly wage was being earned by an inanimate car park space. I couldn’t drop my car home and use the bus either. The busses run so infrequently from my suburban village that it’d be nearing dinnertime by the time I finally got to work.
When I arrived near town, I resolved to drive around the surrounding outer areas of the city looking for a street I could park in for free. It was a pleasant morning and I was more than happy to have a nice walk into the City. I drove around for ages looking for somewhere to pull up, but of course, a good proportion of City workers have a similar idea; and seeing as my working day starts an hour later than the more typical 9am start, finding a space was nigh on impossible. Eventually I had little choice but to accept the monetary loss of using the car park (ironically had I been self-employed, the fee would have been tax-deductable).
I opted to use the car park I used to have a parking pass for. I am nostalgic like that. As I pulled up at the barrier, I fidgeted around in my wallet looking to scrabble together the vast amounts of cash required. But to my delight, as I looked up, the barrier was lifting for me, so I was able to simply drive in for free. The man in the booth must have remembered my face as someone who has a parking pass and didn’t even bother to check whether it was up to date! Not that I’m complaining or anything. It is refreshing for these entries to finish with something positive rather than being the miserable grumble-fest it usually is. If only the Inland Revenue had the same attention for detail as the Wolverhampton Car Parks staff, then maybe everyone could have a happy April 1st.
I considered my options (or indeed lack of them). I could park in town, but the price of city centre car parks are pretty extortionate. It would be a pretty demoralising thought, knowing that a significant percentage of my hourly wage was being earned by an inanimate car park space. I couldn’t drop my car home and use the bus either. The busses run so infrequently from my suburban village that it’d be nearing dinnertime by the time I finally got to work.
When I arrived near town, I resolved to drive around the surrounding outer areas of the city looking for a street I could park in for free. It was a pleasant morning and I was more than happy to have a nice walk into the City. I drove around for ages looking for somewhere to pull up, but of course, a good proportion of City workers have a similar idea; and seeing as my working day starts an hour later than the more typical 9am start, finding a space was nigh on impossible. Eventually I had little choice but to accept the monetary loss of using the car park (ironically had I been self-employed, the fee would have been tax-deductable).
I opted to use the car park I used to have a parking pass for. I am nostalgic like that. As I pulled up at the barrier, I fidgeted around in my wallet looking to scrabble together the vast amounts of cash required. But to my delight, as I looked up, the barrier was lifting for me, so I was able to simply drive in for free. The man in the booth must have remembered my face as someone who has a parking pass and didn’t even bother to check whether it was up to date! Not that I’m complaining or anything. It is refreshing for these entries to finish with something positive rather than being the miserable grumble-fest it usually is. If only the Inland Revenue had the same attention for detail as the Wolverhampton Car Parks staff, then maybe everyone could have a happy April 1st.
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