Christmas. Woo. Hoo.

There are 40-ish days left until Christmas and already plans for the day have changed numerous times. But then, that's nothing new. My wife's sister's birthday changed from going to a restaurant, to Exeter, to Bristol, to Clark's Village in Dorset, back to a restaurant and then to my mother-in-laws. There are at least 12 hours before B-Day so it may change again.

Christmas in my wife's family is a 'special' time, for a given meaning of 'special' IE we do what my mother-in-law wants, which is generally along the lines of COME TO ME MY CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT MWA-HA-HAAA--HAHAAAA. Ahem. We, that is me and my brother-in-law have to suffer under the weight of countless relatives while being bored out of our brains.

You might ask where my own relatives figure in all this. They don't, them being all the way up north. I'd consider spending this festive time with them but, you know, they're common. And my stepmum uses a vat of salt in all her cooking.

So there's 'Ben' and I generally trying to amuse ourselves by stealing one of the cousins PSP or other activities that are entirely frowned upon. And pretty much everyone except mother is bored to tears. This year, the daughters have rebelled. Hurrah. We are to go to my sister-in-laws. This is both a positive and a negative. For Ben it's a bonus. He can now drink alcohol and get merry. For me it's the same as usual. I long for a lonely Christmas: me, the wife and the TV?Internet. This would involve everyone dying obviously but I like to think I'm not that callous. I'll let the dog survive.

Saturday! Saturday!

Before I start I just want to say Strictly Dancing today. Kate Garratasaway. Yowzer. Ahem.

When I was young I used to watch television. A lot. This was in no small part to having no friends (what changes?), me being totally inept at all things social (what changes?) and there being some quality stuff on (to the eyes of a ten-year-old). Saturday's were my favourite day. I'd get up at ten and pretty much watch TV until bedtime. Depending on my age this may have been interrupted by a visit to the chip shop, a trip to town or a trip to the shops with my mum. But then it was back to the telly.

We didn't have Strictly Dancing. We didn't have the X-Factor (which is a good thing seeing as how this years contestants are uniformly awful). We had Noels House Party. Looking back it was shite although I actually believed the studio was in the Channel Tunnel at the time of breakthrough to the french side. Noel's inheritors seem to be Ant & Dec who I wouldn't watch if you paid me. Funnily enough I still watch Noel on Deal Or No Deal and it's him that makes it compelling viewing. Ant & Dec on that poker face thing they do just bleed the tension out of the moment. That may be because I'm always trying to preempt them saying to the camera "the vote has never been so close - you must vote" - yeah, feck off yer irritating tits.

So, the point of this? Bring back Noel Edmonds onto everything on TV! Imagine him on Millionaire - I'd watch again! Give the bloke a chat show! A travel show! A DIY show! You may shoot me at any point if you want but that's only because you know I'm right.

I Don't Have Time For Facebook

Aah, the good old days. In them days I read books. I talked to my wife (if she was lucky). I listened to music. I trawled the Internet. 'These' days though I go on just the one: Facebook. It has to stop.

It's taking over my life. I have four games of Scrabble on the go. I have a vampire, a zombie and a slayer. I take tests (Tests?? Not done that since I was eighteen!). I read groups.

I don't have time to contact the people I joined the site for!

I need a plan. I need to set a certain amount of time aside for Facebooking and stick to it. Except my wife will demand I have my turn at Scrabble. I'll get an email telling me someone's left me a message. There's a statistic that says 90% of Internet traffic is videos via Youtube or torrents. This is incorrect. It's actually the millions of Facebook owners pressing F5. I understand now why Facebook is hated by employers. It should be banned. I'm planning on petitioning my MP to raise the issue in Parliament. I wonder if he's got his own page....

Join Me In Misery

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I was as thin as the proverbial pencil. I was nearly taken to the doctors. Well, I would have been if my mother had cared enough. Anyway, I was so thin I could have been a model for . But the years have not been kind. The years have in fact been force feeding me sugar whilst locked in a small cube two feet to a side.

I was sat on my bed the other and looking in the mirror. I found I'd developed a new ability. I could now, much to the amazement nee disgust of my wife, life my stomach and literally place it back on my lap. Up. Down. Up. Down. This was a form of exercise in itself.

A plan was formed.

Henceforth I shall be near vegan. (For one lives next door. Ho. Ho. Ha.) I'd only eat vegetables, fruit and salad (which my actually be vegetables or salad - I've never quite got the distinction) with chicken and tuna. Yes, this was to be the start of a diet. Oh yes. That was a week ago. In that time I've lost half a stone, a lot of money and very nearly my sanity.

The weight was easy; it just kind of happens. The money was slightly more problematic in that good quality F&G&S costs a fucking fortune. But that was nothing compared to the shock of very nearly going without sugar (except in tea and that intrinsic to Frosties and Sugar Puffs, the only breakfast cereals that are edible IMO). I actually went Cold Turkey. My mood went swiiiiiiiiiiiiiinging all the way around the room, I had the shakes and I couldn't concentrate. God that first hour was hard. My normal diet consisted of a Frostied breakfast with biscuits, a cakey elevenses and mid-afternoon sugar-attack with a dessert for dinner. (I just had a whole treacle sponge pudding once. Best. Dinner. Ever.) There was left a gaping whole in my world.

It's getting easier to control though mainly due to my new addiction - Facebook . I'm a new convert having always been against FB and Myspace. No friends means an embarrassingly lonely time on there, see? Somehow though my hours are being filled with tests, quizzes, scrabble and annoying people I know (mainly those on the SFX forum) into talking to me.

I'm not sure this is a good thing.

He's Back In The Room

And....I'm back. OMG I didn't realise how much I'd miss this. It turns out that rambling about nothing is very cathartic. Which interprets as 'became a moody bastard'.

Since we last spoke I joined Facebook which it turns out really is addictive as crack cocaine. Who'd have thunk? Proper post tomorrow....

Me Get Bored

Hello

I know, I've been neglecting you. But I got bored and it's not the same anymore. I used to vent my anger but...things happened. So at the minute I'm watching far more television than is good for me as I catch up with past things that I've missed. If you want to be informed when I re-start leave a message with your email address and I'll pop a note along.

The following is just a list of terms that are relevant to me, for Google, in case anyone wants to find me.

Bulwell
Alderman Derbyshire Comprehensive.
Merchant Street
People College
Nottingham
Jamie Starbuck
City Electrical Factors

A Dietary Miracle

I used to be a scientist. I'd be sat in my Psychology A-Level class and we'd be talking about...something. "Well", said the lecturer, "Blokey had a big thought and did an experiment, whereby he found if you whack a dog enough times with a big stick, after a time, the dog will avoid the stick". Well blow me down. I'd only gone and worked that out literally days before. (Which is not today's story).

Well, recently I made another big discovery. I'm fat, see? Well, tubby. Podgy, maybe. My 'ideal' weight, being six feet tall, is 13 stone which even as a child I have never been. I currently reside somewhere between 14 and a half and fifteen stone (depending on how my digital scales feel). This is not a problem. The problem is that I also feel like shite. My general fitness is awful. SO wifey, bless her, is trying to get me fit and insists I eat 'healthily' and exercise 'every day'. Scoff.

I am now the proud owner of a stepper machine. It fulfils the joint requirements of a) being silent b) doesn't require me to leave wifey by herself and c) means I can read while I exercise. I formerly had a treadmill, went for walks, ran up and down the stairs and many others, all of which transgressed Asimov's rules of exercise.

I'm Some whole but most in smoothies in my new blender courtesy of Rosemary Conley. Yummy. Blended you tend to be able to fit in far more fruit, see? In a standard day I can get through three apples, half a punnet of strawberries, two peaches and a banana and that's without the veg in my main meals. And this is my discovery. The more fruits and veg you eat, the more you go number twos. You'd think it'd be a one for one trade. An apple in, an apple-sized amount of pooh, out. But no. See, I swear I'm going for far more than my fair share of visits to the defecation throne. Each visit could be measured in litres (note the liquid measurement). And thus I'm losing weight.

I should write this up in Nature. I could call it Fruity Pooh.

Family Dysfunction

The wife is not relatively challenged. She's got 'em everywhere. We have functions to go to on more than a regular basis. I hadn't counted on this when I became her husband. I do more than my fair share of stuff for her already, don't I? I'm not quite sure she sees it that way.

Thus, on Saturday I was dragged (rope around my wrists attached to a tow-bar on her 'chair) to a wedding. Not that we were invited to the daytime do, oh no, mere cousins were only to attend the evening buffet and disco. Chavtastic. It was the usual case of half the family not talking to the other. Luckily, I was sat facing a mirror near the door so could see all the fit birds as they walked in. It was only later that I realised I could even see them on the other side of the room. This was a first and one I put down to the simple fact of the smoking ban. What a wondrous thing that is. When I got home my shirt went straight back in the wardrobe and not to be incinerated. I didn't need a shower. The wife and I could cuddle in bed. We could breathe all night!

My god it was a boring night only enlivened by the groom's parents doing 'professional' dancing. They were shite, too. It's at times like this that realise the entertainment value of my brother-in-law. He's a twat but he's someone to talk to, to have a laugh with. I couldn't talk to my mother or father-in-law obviously. Wifey wasn't in the mood. So I was left to my own devices, sitting in my chair singing cheesy disco songs. And not once did I think of going to have a wank in the toilets.

Media Schnobs

Ever read Dan Brown's Da Vinci code? I have. It's really very poorly written and has massive logic gaps. But OMG it's exciting. I'm currently reading The Runelord series by David Farland. They're poorly written too. Truth be told I'd have stopped with book one (of four!) but it's impossible to put down. I simply must know how, with only 250 pages, Gaborn is to kill all the Reavers and destroy Raj Ahten. No doubt it'll be some massively contrived cop out but gawd I love it. Latest Harry Potter? Utter tripe, as they all have been. And yet, I've read them all because I just have to know what happens next.

Recently I've developed the ability, indeed you might call it a preference, to watch only rubbish films. I tried to watch Syriana, I did, honest. By God it was boring. So I put on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe instead. Crackin' film. Just what is happening to me lately? Formerly I'd have been of the opinion that it's populist shite (Armageddon shall forever be in this camp) but in reading certain forum opinions I've now decided to embrace all that is crap for although a lot of it is, some of it is actually quite enjoyable. If still crap.

Some people seem to campaign against the Dan Brown's for appealing to the Lowest Common Denominator. Well, so what? If more people like it surely that says something? Stop trying to be elitist. It's not that I disagree with the schnobs, I just feel disgusted at people's attitudes and want to stick up for the crud.

On Boredom

Gawd I'm fickle. I can spend days on this laptop doing absolutely nothing - where the fuck does the time go? It's the same with XBOX - I bought one and spent days (which seemed like five minutes just tossing time out the window trying to increase my power meter just one more notch.

But now I can't be arsed. I can't be arsed about a lot of things lately. I'm just so - meh. Lifeless even. See that film Trainspotting with Renton with the scene featuring Renton in the pub being clean for a change and life whizzes past? That's me that is. Content to sit and do nothing. Except, at the same time I feel I'm wasting my life. Shouldn't I be doing something worthwhile? Is there a whale somewhere that needs saving?

When I left school I was a cock. But that's irrelevant. I had one career option in mind: something to do with computers. Hmm. Bit of a wide span of options there. I just couldn't narrow them down. Programmer? Too boring. Office worker? Maybe generic enough to warrant a 'yes'. And that's as big as my list got. You see, 'ambition' wasn't in my vernacular. It's not that I don't like my current vocation. Caring for my wife enables me to perform the one thing I'm actually good at - slobbing. (Talent! Another thing I lack. I excel in being not very good at pretty much everything).

So, if anyone has good ideas of how I can make proper use of my copious amounts of spare time and you think I may enjoy it as much as watching series' of TV programs and reading the latest Sci-Fi opus, let me know. Please.

Inventions that should be invented #2

Have you ever tried to give an animal a pill? It's a very tricky procedure. At one and the same time you have to hold all four legs, open it's mouth, hold it still and, balancing the pill on your finger, force your finger to the back of it's mouth, risking life, fingers and the possibility of losing various amounts of skin.

So, I propose this: a device for holding the animal still. It shall be called Parapet (Paralysed Pet obviously).

Imagine a mitre saw. There shall be four holes, two at the front two at the back into which the legs can be placed and they're all fixed into place, with struts between them. This shall all attach to a neck collar so the head can also stay still. And a horsey type bit to keep it's mouth open. If Peter Jones, entrepreneur extraordinaire, is reading, I'll let you have 20% in exchange for £250,000.

And he's out! Yay.

He's free. Is he? Great. Nice one....but who the fuck cares? Apart from his family obviously.

He's been on the news nightly "Today is the 53rd day of Alan Johnson's capture", and the 54th, 60th, 61st and every one in between. If I was kidnapped would they do the same? They're not even still talking about sweet, photogenic Madeleine. That's what fucks me off about the media and people in general: always out to protect their own little group.

Take the police (or their televised versions anyway): someone is knifed and an incident room is set-up, knife a copper and GRRRRRRRR Inpector Knacker of the Yard brings along his 3000 mates, jack boots (for the stomping of fingers) and knuckle dusters (not for cleaning). Is the original victim less worthy? No.

Terry Waite, being kidnapped for a 'long time' should have been on the news nearly 2000 times but probably numbered his appearances in the tens (have you noticed how well researched these articles are? I could work for the Sun).

Satan is an Insomniac

Aaah, Paddy, my gorgeous kitten tom cat. You play, you fight, you look generally cute. If you could just let me have some sleep now and again I'd be most appreciative. To that end, I've got to start being not nice to you.

I am going to prod you, shake you, forcibly play with you and do pretty much anything else I can think of to keep you awake. You shan't go to sleep before my bedtime, you shall be so tired that you shall lay motionless all night. No longer will you jump on my head with all claws extended. You will not hit me in the eye. And hopefully you won't need a shit and stink my bedroom out.

You don't like punishments. This isn't to say you don't like being punished, I just really don't think you give a toss. A spray of water in the face? You don't flinch. A shout? A slap? You carry on regardless. Throwing you from the bed to the floor three hundred times a night? You still come back for that three hundred and first time. So I will play with you and by god you will play with me. You're on me right now trying to get to sleep. Your eyes are drooping. I'm going to put you on the floor now and make you walk. Soz.

Stupid Boy(s)

See that there terrorist that attacked Glasgow Airport? He was a doctor, he was. Isn't it a prerequisite that doctors have to have brains? Shouldn't his intelligence have at some point asserted itself in the form of the thought "hold on, what I'm about to do is monumentally fucking evil and stupid"?

But then, terrorists, or freedom fighters depending on your viewpoint - let's not forget Che, the original celebrity terrorist, is beloved by students everywhere - are stupid in general.

Play Pick-A-Target. Almost anywhere would be better than half the places these people come up with. Central London? Dya think they might be expecting that sort of thing? Much? Here in Plymouth we have the largest naval base in Europe and yet not a single incident happens. CND don't even demonstrate here. Drive past the base and there's an old fart on guard reading the Sun and smoking a fag. Half the time the barrier isn't even down.

Or hows about sending a one man army AKA Jimmy Suicide Bomber to a football match? Stand in amongst all those fans and KABOOM! Up goes half of the supporters for Plymouth Argyle.

Or walk around a car park, a tiny bit of dynamite per car, you could blow up thousands of the things without being caught. All those angry owners would soon lobby Parliament to pull out of Iraq or your country of preference (perhaps a handy note left under the windscreen wiper?).

But no, let's (mostly) attack the highly defended places in the country where the police and Fire Brigade practice daily for just these things. Stupid.

NB Previously you could walk into Plymouth Airport and onto the runway almost unhindered.

Not funny jokes

I'm currently being made to watch the concert being performed in memory of Princess Diana. As a sign of protest I thought it might be nice to remember the jokes that came out after her death. If you remember any, please add them.

What does DIANA stand for? Died In A Nasty Accident.

Bob Geldof is walking through Heaven and approaches the pearly gates (having just died).
"Yo, St Peter" says Bob.
"Erm...hello" Says Pete.
"So when do I get ma fuckin' halo, then?"
"Aaah. There are many years of being a junior angel before you my son for you to receive that most precious gift of our Lord".
"You what? What about her?" Bob points to his left where Princess Di is gliding serenely along, complete with ring about her head.
"Ah, no" says St Pete, "that's a steering wheel".

I look good

Toiletry Wipes

There's an advert on TV at the moment. It's been on for awhile. A young boy (I'm guessing to be honest) is sat on the loo and - oh no! - all of hi special wipes are 'all gone, they're all gone'. None of this toilet paper for this little tyke. Well, a cuter specimen of the human race you've never seen...

Yeah, right. What this kid needs is a thump with a length of wood. Not only is his voice that of [insert your own nasty voiced thing here] but he can't even synch his words with his mouth movements! It's almost like the sanitary company are using a Japanese advert the world over and dubbing it to save money. Tight bastards. I hate it when they do that.

What's worse (but only just) is the make-up adverts where Hollywood beauties are dubbed! It's like they think we won't realise they aren't their real voices. Penelope Cruz is Spanish for frig sake!

TV would be so much better if I was in charge but I don't want a job so it's not going to happen. Sorry.

A tad excessive?

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

pain (5x) gay (4x) kill (3x) porn (2x)

American censors are so...blah.

Gawd Morning

I was up, awake and downstairs at 6am this morning. As Adrian Kronauer (completely guessed at the spelling there), it was also 0600 - what does the '0' stand for? Oh my god it's early.

Why was I awoke so early? Did my wife have a yearning for canoodling? No. Was there a fire? No. Did I have a need to pee? No. My cat was tearing around the fucking house, twatting me around the face on a regular basis (every five minutes), biting my nose (no, really) and scratching my arse. So, up I got. This has been going on for four days.

He's a gorgeous cat and cute as hell when he's sat still. When he moves he becomes Satan incarnate. The sooner we can chop his balls off the better. I'm all for brotherhood solidarity but he seriously needs to lose some energy. We play with him whenever he's awake and he goes to sleep fairly quickly but come the middle of the night - bastard.

All white? All white at the back?

For the second time in a week I'm going to skirt one of the most potentially explosive subjects (no, not dynamite) that can split an audience (insert your own obvious joke about atoms 'here'). Today, we shall be asking 'Is Plymouth, indeed the South West, so far off the beaten track that only the white folks from BC (Before Cotton) bother coming?*

I've worked for two of the biggest, maybe even actual hugest, employers in Plymouth IE the local newspaper (upwards of 600 employees including reporters and advertising staff) and the local hospital (upwards of 6000 staff). How many non-whites dya reckon I saw? Here's one hand; we won't get to the thumb...Cumulatively, I worked there for four years.

What does that say about Plymouth? Either both are massively racialist or not many non-whites live here. Personally, I can't blame them but why? Don't ask me, I'm no anthropologist. At a guess though I'd say there's nothing here for migrant workers (although in Cornwall apparently if you're Polish you can pick daffodils 7 days a week 14 hours a day for approx. £0.50 per kilogram). As for the rest of the proper working population...gawd knows.

Maybe that's why Plymouth is so shite: Lack of diversity. I should picket Plymouth City Council.

Dear Ms Pengelly (for she is currently leader)

Please to run some adverts in the African subcontinent for people with some life to spice up this hell hole you pretend to govern.

Many thanks.

If all my readers could send this, I'd appreciate it. Ta.

*Obviously it's a given we have a certain amount of asians for all those Chinese restaurants.

On a lighter note, see my new kitten, Paddy.

Important questions

This was going to be an idea for an invention but I've forgotten what it was. Not much point saying so then really but I like wasting your time. It amuses me.

Let's talk dust. It gets everywhere and comes from nowhere. Take my bedroom. I dust every day and yet the next day there are literally layers of the bloody stuff. This is part of the reason we got rid of the carpet - it just lies there and you can't get it out, especially from under the bed. Get wooden floors and you can see tumbleweeds rolling along...so, why??

Most dust is human skin apparently and today I made the connection that most dust in my house is a generic grey/white colour (intellectual discussion always available here, see?) which led me to wonder, if you're black, asian or other coloured denomination, does your dust match your skin tone?

Bum fluff is the same. Except I've yet to meet someone that is actually blue. Wifey comes close sometimes (Fnarr Fnarr) but that's because of a lack of oxygen (now there's an idea for an invention - a device that helps you remember these important details...10 points to the inventor of such a device....).

A Day Off Sick

Mexico is a dirt, filthy and very poor place. Except the bit where we went to on Honeymoon (Puerto Aventura fact fans). All inclusive, large pool, 10 restaurants and not a Mexican to be seen except the staff who customarily bowed and scraped as only the very poor can. It was bourgeois heaven.

The route there was a bit circuitous, consisting of a plane from Plymouth to Gatwick, via Newquay ie going west, then east and finally back west crossing Plymouth a total of three times on the outbound journey. But all was good.

I melted on a regular basis and had to make use of the available shelter by gorging on food 24/7. I'm not sure but they may also have let us back in our hotel room during the day if we'd asked - or is that just B&Bs? The food was fir for a slightly well off king. Huuuuuuge buffets for the most part with each restaurant serving national dishes of different countries. Italian, Japanese, English etc I tried pretty much every dish available. The wife had cheese omelette and chips at pretty much every mealtime. Looking back I wish I had too.

Two weeks this cycle of food storage in my stomach and gut went on for. It was only later that I realised I hadn't been for number twos during the entire time.

We flew back on the Wednesday and I was back at work Thursday. On the Friday I woke up....no, sorry I was woken up by the most horrific pain experience by man. The kind of pain that bitch Pandora let out of her trinket box. Cramp went my stomach, cramp, tight cramp, punch, cramp and so the cycle went on. An ambulance had to be called eventually as I couldn't get out of bed. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement: I couldn't actually move. Apparently, when you breath really hard really fast (to try and control your pain - oh the memory hurts still) you hyperventilate. Do it long enough and you lose feeling in your extremities. Even longer and your hands start to curl and you can't talk. This is the state I was in when the paramedics walked in.

"Is he always like this?", they asked.

Fuck off, mate.

According to the junior doctor at the hospital I was suffering Montezuma's Revenge . Well aint Montezuma a bastard?

I lost a stone in weight that weekend as the two weeks worth of food was flushed out of me.

L.A.M.P.

Do you get your local newspaper? We have the Plymouth Herald delivered cuz we're lazy bastards - it's at least a two minute walk to the shop every day - and it often has delights. Generally it bangs on about the navy and how the local shipyard is the lifeblood of the city. Today though was an exception. Two things there were that were worthy of mention and mention them I shall.

Ever been to Cornwall? It takes forever to get anywhere and it's crap when you do eventually arrive. Its all fishing villages on the coast and Emmerdale inland, all of them with the same Fudge and Pasty shops. Liskeard is trying to go one better. With a population of 8,478 an enterprising chap from Plymouth (not me) is opening a massage parlour. Not a 'legit' one either. A full on get your norks around me plums type one. Uproar has ensued. The village is rising up: Liskeard Against Massage Parlours is acting en masse to stop it. Unfortunately no internet link exists so you'll have to take my word for this. Personally, I think a petition should be started by all the men of the village (fortunately nowhere near where I live thus negating the need for me to sign thus allowing me innocent status where the missus is concerned - Hello Darling!) clamouring for such an institution. Have you seen a Cornish woman? Gawd...And let's not forget the employment opportunities: Bar workers, door workers, slappers...

Also in the news was the rather exciting announcement regarding the new erection (snigger) at the local B&Q retail park. Plymouth, get this, is to get a second Marks & Spencer but not just a normal store, it will be, much to the orgasmic joy of the missus a food only store. M&S is just about the only reason we go into the city centre these days; their puddings are sugartastic.

On sticking with it.

I went out last night. I went out with 'Ben' my penis with a personality of a brother-in-law. I had been foisted into things as his companion to go see Paul Weller at the local village hall. I wasn't really bothered about it but tagged along. During the course of the evening I had more beer than I'd drank in the last two years IE two pints. I was a little...smashed. Well, that made the evening fly by. Until we got in the venue anyway. We stood waiting for an hour before the support came on (Brinkman - have you ever seen a decent support act? Me neither. Even when going to see Kylie - three times and counting - you'd think Kylie could have Sugababes! I'd like a Sugababe. Just one; I'm not greedy.). Well, Mr Weller came bounding on and didn't stop bounding for 90 minutes. I hope to have as much energy when I'm the same age. He also friggin' rocked, man. I only recognised four songs but still.

I write this, as I really need a pee and wanted to see how far I could go without having to divert off. As it turns out, quite a way.

As an aside it turns out 'Ben' shouldn't have gone to the pub. 'Kate' was a little peeved. He only had two pints you stroppy, immature bint! Jeez. If only you knew he lived with you 'for convenience'; that he thinks you're a bitch (which you are) and he's massively bored. Still, you keep on moaning, love.

Service shall shortly resume....

Decorators! Gone! In the process made lots of mess. And made my internet....not possible. Gah. Still, I'm back, from outer space, but I've not got, jizzum upon my face (unlike the lady I saw in a video yesterday - drowning? Nearly.)

I may post later. Before Midnight. Or I may post tomorrow. It all depends on my wife's addiction to Scrabble. Find your F5 button and keep pressing for my return is imminent...

I'm Freeee-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

to do whatever I.............whatever I choose do-do-do do deee dooooooo.

The decorators have moved in and the wife has moved out. Temporarily. To her mothers. Dust, is a bad thing for the wife. It gets, cough, right on her, choke, chest and plays havoc with her, going blue now, breathing. Which leaves me able to play, rest and do no work. For a period of about two hours at a time as I'm going back and forth. Never would I leave her in the clutches of my mother-in-law, she who makes Dr Harold Shipman look caring.

http://www.thingsmygirlfriendandihavearguedabout.com/ is a very funny thing.

A Wasted Day

NB This has nothing to do with being a) drunk b) a drunk.

We were going out. I was dressed. Wifey was making herself look pretty(err). I made a phone call.

Me: Dear BOC. Why are you so crap at delivering oxygen to my wife?

BOC: I'm sorry. Again. He came on Wednesday. Even though he has a key he did not use it for he is not allowed.

Me: Then what is the point of him having it?

BOC: Err....He'll be coming today.

And so we waited in.....and waited....still he's not here. It's lovely outside. We were going to B&Q but I was to surprise the wife with a visit to the pub luncheon department. We wait...

I'm right!

I used to love a good argument. That's why I joined an internet forum. Oh, the fights I used to have...Good times.

These days, I just can't be arsed. Over on the SFX forum right now they're having a ding-dong over wether games should be excluded from the Fun & Games section and it's getting rather over-heated. I'm not going to venture an opinion as I really don't care (although the entire debate centres around a thread I started ages ago). Formerly I may have waded in and decried all the points thus far no matter which side I stood on but now I just can't see the point; It's all a bit 'meh'. I'd rather be reading Scaryduck's Condensed Films to be honest.

A case in point in how I've changed: about a year ago I apparently sent an email to one of the forum saying I didn't like her. I can't imagine doing that now. I'm so indifferent to people I'm almost sociopathic. Look! I've killed me a catholic! Anyway, I apologised. What I was offended about is that she called me insincere! The cheek! Things I'd rather do than be insincere (I'm talking the wasted time factor not the moral obligation to honesty):

Watch Titanic.
Listen to Beyonce Knowles warble.
Read the Bible.

See? It's never gonna happen.

Princess Die

Channel 4 are apparently screening a documentary tonight and may, shock! horror! be showing pictures of the car that carried our beloved Princess Di toward her certain crushing end. There is a furore. And the question is: who really gives a toss? I challenge everyone who does to leave a comment. Lack of comments will of course vindicate this post.

Harry and Willy have requested the photos not be shown. And Channel 4 are ignoring them. Respectfully, of course. The question is being asked on the news that if it was the boss of C4's mother in the car, would he still show the pictures? Is his mother the Queen of Tarts? Is she in the nations hearts? Is, in fact, his mother the only female personality with a bigger place reserved in Heaven ie Mother Theresa? No, I don't belive she is.

I wouldn't mind my mother being shown in this program but then my mothers a bitch and I wouldn't mind her being dragged by the ankles behind a Shire Horse with diarhoea. Channel 4 are presumably a veritible cock-a-hoop at the thought of all the publicity and the swarms of viewers. I propose a compromise: they can show it and no-one watches. Ideal.

Directions

When I started this blog I meant it as a place to review SF&F books and stuff. I don't do that enough. So...

I just finished watching Alias series 1. It was good. I shall now watch West Wing series 4. Anyone that posts spoilers shall be killed in a nasty way. Note the singular 'way'; I'm not wasting good ways on your skinny/fat non-specific coloured ass.

My hands itch. Is it scabies?

Justice the American Way

Some blokes have been arrested for plotting to bomb JFK airport in New Yoik. 'Plotting' is perhaps going a bit far as they were quite a way off even finalising the planning, let alone making the molotov devices (for you can indeed do much damage with a petrol lighter). So the question is: is America, Land of the Free, now arresting people for Thought Crimes? Let's see:

I'm currently thinking of assassinating George 'Dubya' Bush, President of the United States, POTUS, DOOFUS and all round twat.

I have got thus far in my planning: I've had the thought to do so.

Bring it on CIA! Read this and weep NSA!

I'll even go one further: I'm gonna kill all the Senators and Congressmen and women (for I'm sure there is actually a difference but I've yet to work out what it is) and all the Governors except Arnie cuz....you know....it's Arnie. He'd kill me. Using grenades. They wouldn't explode; he'd just insert them with Arnie-force into any available orifice. All the mayor's deserve to die, as do all the Sheriffs. And council members. And the street cleaners. In this instance only, all the smokers will be let off as they're going to kill themselves eventually anyway.

I await the FBI knocking at my door. The clock starts.....NOW.




Justice? Legal?

Bed + Sofa = Nothing!

Next week we have some people coming to invade our house. We invited them but they will turn us upside down. I decorated my bedroom, they'll do the rest of my house. It's only fair after all.

We've been deliberating about this for quite awhile and finally took the final decision when they phoned to say they were coming on Tuesday (we're great believers in waiting until five minutes past the final minute - nobody is too big to be put out). All well and good. Hmm. The decoration sorted we have today been ordering the new furniture; we planned on getting a chest of drawers and a sofabed to help with storage and multifunctionality. We hit. A. Snag. The sofabed we'd been planning on buying was again looked at. We then noticed the section in the Next catalogue that said 'Ahem. Measure your friggin' doors before you order this thing as we're not having it back just becuase you're stupid enough to order it'. Our doors? 74 cms wide. The sofabed? 88x86 on the ends. Now our doors are standard width so either the average Next customer lives in a mansion with barn doors or there's a trick for getting them in. If it had been one door it might not be a problem but we have three doors, two sharp turns and a banister to negotiate. So, no, we didn't order it.

On to www.Sofabed.co.uk They have a lovely one for £349.99. Little do they say that's exclusive of VAT, exclusive of delivery and exclusive of your choice of fabric. The final price? £453. If they'd said that price to begin with I'd have ordered it no question but to lull me into a false sense of security (that's fucking fraud that is!) is disgusting. Avoid this company. If by saying that I stop just one person visiting their shop, I'll have a wank in celebration.

Cunty Sark descending into slagging off London

There are many things on the news that are worthy. Some actually deserve to have their legs spread open and probed before the nation. Others however should just be passed on by.

The story of the stricken Cutty Sark is one such. Who actually gives a toss? OK, the day of the fire it should maybe have got a mention toward the end of the bulletin. But all this time later is there nothing else worth reporting? Have all the famines in Africa stopped? Has no-one been raped today? How many murders haven't taken place?

I have a theory about stories like this and i t involves a formula: something happens. If 1 divided by the square of the distance from London is less than 0.1 it has little chance of appearing. This is because the majority of the media exists in London, to publicise London for Londoners of which the presenters and journalists generally tend to be. I was stuck in a traffic jam once in the Midlands. Not very newsworthy by itself but it was the biggest traffic jam ever to have happened. The police had received a phone call saying one of the supports struts on the M1 and the police closed it. At rush hour. They closed the motorway. Now Londoners like to think the M25 is the only motorway that matters but that's because they're all blinded by coolness. The M1 at that particular stretch is one of the busiest in existence. So all the cars had to find a different route down country lanes. Now, given most of the drivers had never left at that junction, most also had no idea where they were going, myself included. The result? Gridlock for over two hours. Literally. Not one person moved.

Did this appear on the news? Do I need to answer in the negative or have you guessed the answer already?

I'm sure Damilola Taylor was a lovely lad (yeah, right. Inner city youth living in a council flat. Chances of angel-dom? More chance I won't electrocute myself at least once a week.) but kids get stabbed every week in Nottingham.

London bias exists in other ways too. Major millennium projects? Stick 'em in London. The Eye, the bridge, others I'm sure. Every one on the news. How many local projects got on the news? Hmm? Anyway, other ways. Take Wembley Stadium. Surely common sense would dictate it gets put where the majority of people can get to it? Nope. An MP suggested that you can get to Wembley from anywhere in the UK within 4 hours. Try getting from Land's End to just Frikin' Devon in 4 hours, mate. Birmingham would have been a much better idea. But no, the government had to be seen to be supporting the London tourist economy.

And London wages: when I travelled the world easily half the people I met were from London and invariably could be heard declaring the cost of an item was 'nuffink'. Yes, it possibly is when you earn far higher than us plebs outside of the M25. Think about it. Shop worker in...Plymouth might earn £10k. In Chiswick he might earn...estimates....£43k. Now, when looking at Internet holidays Plymouth man might have to think twice; London man probably snaps up 3. Grr.

The kidnapped

Let's take two minutes to think about dear sweet Madeleine and Alan Johnston, both kidnapped without ransom.

....

One minute

......

Bored now.

Given they're still missing is it really possible they'll be recovered alive and whole? Whole in this instance meaning mental as well as physical. It's highly possible in my opinion that dear sweet freaky eyed Mads has been taken a paedophile ring (one for the Google searches there) and put to work on...well, lets not think about that.

At what point do you give up hope and carry on with your lives? It was highly publicised that Madeleine's parents were staying in Portugal to search for her. Of course they were! What the frig else were they going to do? Come back to the UK and continue their jobs, sitting there hoping for the phone to ring? How long can they look realistically look for? Especially when it's been speculated that she could be in the middle of Africa by now.

As for Alan Johnston...held in the middle-east, a place well known for it's hospitality, with no word since his capture - what were his captors hoping to achieve other than killing him? There's been no ransom so it's not money. They've not announced a particular group has got him so it's not notoriety. Perhaps he too has been sold into porn. It's far more likely than he's still alive.

I'm not sure what I'd be thinking if someone I loved were to be taken in the dead of night. I'd probably start at 'bugger' (which incidentally is banned on the SFX forum for it's sexual connection - a thoroughly ludicrous suggestion) and move on to Rambo. Or so I',d like to think.

Shopping? Pah!

Regular readers may realise that my wife has a terminal illness although 'terminal' is stretching things when there's no imminent departure planned. 'Terminal' in this sense means she'll die because of her condition - eventually. She could still live, in theory, until her eighties. Her specific disease is highly unpredictable and very erratic in it's prognosis.

Although the terminal nature of her condition is obviously a bad thing, it has it's advantages. Because of it we were able to convince the council to pay me to care for her via the 'Direct Payments' system. This money is supposed to be used to pay for the sort of things you can normally get from the council: bath chairs, hoists etc.

We found out not long ago that it also pays for you to get the shopping delivered from Tesco. Or Asda. Or even Sainsbury's. We live in hope that M&S get their online act together. The thinking is that while I'd be shopping, I wouldn't actually be caring. I love this mentality. The wife spends the time doing the shopping; I spend the effort putting it away. Perfect synergy.

On my DIY disaster

The cause of the recent spate of DIYness is my wife's breathing problems. A problem for her that is, not me. Obviously.

See, if you have asthma or the overly-complicated acronym COPD, dust, is Bad. In our old place we had wooden flooring throughout for the wife's wheelchair was awful for the carpets. When we moved here and found the joys to be had in carpet we thought "Hmm. Carpet". My feet hadn't felt my own carpet (Note to self: the use of a single word four times in four sentences is a crime. Stop it.) for about five years and just melted in. It wasn't bliss but it was certainly a Tesco's own victoria sponge. So they stayed.

The thing about wooden floors, and is something we realised very quickly with regards to our bedroom, is they show up how much dust gets generated. I can sweep under the bed everyday and get a good handful of dust. It kinda makes you think how much is going into the carpet.

Hence, that fateful Sunday we ripped it up. The floorboards would have been lovely varnished, if not for the paint splatters. I sanded, I scraped, I bought special paint stripper but that paint would not be moved. Wooden flooring was the way to go. In a moment of DIY epiphany I realised the current floorboards would have to be level so I set at them with a hammer and nails.

I did a very good job until I got to the floorboard with pipes beneath it. Oh dear.

What kind of numpty puts pipes directly beneath the floorboards? Everyone apparently. Standard practice my father-in-law claims. Not under the 'boards?

Well, bang, bang, ba-psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss was the noises heard that day followed by a swift 'Oh fuckery'. It took a few seconds for the realisation to kick in though. This was only after the boiler had kicked in, water had seeped up the new nail and on venturing downstairs to watch the ceiling (not in y crackpot house) only to, first hear it then, see it come from inside the walls - aaah cavity walls. It turns out 'gush' is not just a porn term. Towels! Buckets! Fire Brigade. In that order. Oh, and stopcock was in there somewhere, just a little too late to save the wallpaper. Or the plasterboard. Or the ceiling come to that.

So I now have a 'mint' bedroom and a hallway that resembles those only on the choicest council estates.

Today in my quest to finish decorating the bedroom I planed the bottom of our bedroom door. When flying on Concorde you could view the curvature of the Earth and now you can view the curvature of my bedroom door.

PS Nana has just this minute returned. I feel an ode coming on:

Nana!
You're back!
You're black!
But then you were before.

NANNANANANANANANA

It's been 'suggested' to me that I should have posted an altogether similar picture of Nana:

Maybe I too should send an email to everyone I know. It hasn't worked for Madeliene but it might for Nana.

One Note Cereal

I went on a diet once. It was what I call 'A Bad Time'.

I wasn't that overweight but I was developing a middle tyre (which to be honest is prevalent in my family - it's the family shape - so if genetics says this is gonna happen, how can I possibly fight it?) so set about making my diet slightly healthier. Exercise was, at the time, out of the question, so out was to go sugar, potato, rice, pasta and bread. HAHAHAHAHA.

Have you ever tried not eating those five? Leaving aside breakfast for the minute, what do you possibly eat for lunch if not a sandwich? What hellish universe has the concept of no: mash, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, potato gratin, chips, curry, chilli con carne, lasagne, spaghetti bolagnese or tuna pasta bake for dinner?

For breakfast there's obviously quite a choice. Nestle and Kellogg's seem to have cornered the market on dietary breakfast. I stood perusing the shelves. I glanced at my beloved Frosties, the gorgeous Honey Monster on Sugar Poofs, the only two cereals I'd consider allowing past my canines, and passed onto the...other stuff. I tried them all, honestly I did. Muesli, Special K, Special K with Red Bits (ironically the red fruity bits made it worse). See, I think eating should be fun and not a chore. It was tough for me to swallow this stuff let alone want to eat it on a regular basis.

So I pretty much carried on eating what I wanted. I just tried to cut down on the biscuits and surplus chocolate and cake I was eating. Which worked for a bit until the withdrawal symptoms started. My inner demon was unleashed. A woman without HRT had nothing on me.

The following picture is of a judge on Canada's Next Top Model (the wife's current obsession):

Firstly, I should point out that this is indeed a female of the species. I'm no Sistine Chapel myself but what the hell is this abomination doing judging modelling??

Job Done

And yay he said for the slavery of DIY had passed - two weeks to the day after I started. I have: sanded, painted (ceiling, walls, coving, skirting), created new bedroom cupboards and laid a very expensive wooden floor (we couldn't - or should I say the wife couldn't - find one cheaper that matched). Photos shall be forthcoming.

I've just turned off the bore that is Sahara. My love for films is waning. I used to be able to sit through any old tripe and find some sort of enjoyment. These days I struggle to sit through most. I judge a films quality on how long it takes me to check how much time has passed. Tellingly, I have no clock near me at the moment. Except on my laptop but I couldn't see it as I was watching the film. Anyway, Sahara = tripe. Here endeth my review.

I feel remiss in not having mentioned my black cat, Nana. She has now been missing for 11 days (assuming I finish typing in the next fifteen minutes or it'll be 12 days). The wife is distraught. No longer are we being woken in the night, to come in or to go out. No longer are we blanked. Our other cat, Alfie, has actually become more loving. So, just benefits really then. It's strange not hearing her cries though. I miss the penetrativeness of them (I'm surprised to find that 'penetrativeness' is actually a word). I miss the mice she brings home. Sometimes the mice even make it over the door threshold but more often are eviscerated before that point, being left for me to clear up the next day. How I used to love that sight first thing in the morning. So an Ode, to Nana:

Oh, Nana
How I miss you so
Though you bugged me to fuckery
I never thought you'd go

Oh, Nana
You're not a clever cat
How I hope that
You've not gone 'splat'

Oh, Nana
Come home soon
Nana let us hear just once more
Your crying at the moon

You may notice how no features are apparent except the eyes. She's like a feline black hole - you can only tell she's there due to the lack of the surrounding colour.

The adventures of Kate - part 678

The story so far:- My sister-in-law 'Kate', lives with her fiance 'Ben' and their two cats, Tiki and Jackson.

Or they did until Jackson was brutally dragged for half a mile down the road by a car. Someone that happened to be passing phoned to say they'd found the cat 'in a bit of a state' IE 'carcass' would be stretching the definition - bloody mess might be more accurate but slightly too graphic for a PG rated blog. Which this isn't - there were blood and guts everywhere gor blimey guvnor.

The cat was scraped off the tarmac and placed with much care into a Tesco carrier bag (although probably not a 10p one - more likely a free one cuz they're tight like that. I hope there was no 'spillage' through the holes onto the car seats...) and driven home where he was duly buried. Aah.

The next day they got a new cat. Just like that. As grieving processes go it's not bad is it? I can't help wondering what their secret is. It's good to know that if my wife died tomorrow, I'd be shacked up again by the time the weekend's over. I'll have the sporty model please. (This is in no way a reference to fit tennis players. Or swimmers. Hmm. Bikinis.)

Since she's had the new kitten, 'Kate' seems to have developed another medical condition. Having been relieved of her epilepsy, she now has something else which requires her not to work - Frozen Shoulder syndrome. She's in pain but won't take painkillers. She wanted a hot water bottle, so 'Ben' called us and spoke to the wife (he won't talk to me as he knows I think he's a cock) and asked her if I could go buy one. I hasten to point out: 'Kate' wasn't dying, was in no way in a serious condition and my wife is far worse every minute of the day and yet I still find myself able to leave the house.

I have no respect for either of them. And 'Kate''s got fat anyway.

Easy Like Monday Morning

My god it's early. I've already been awake for over an hour. In no way am I pointing the finger of blame at the wife but you should know it's all her fault.

She currently has insomnia, so by default, so do I. We have this little game we play: she wakes me up to tell me she's awake and I pretend to listen. Eventually of course it just gets annoying and we end up being testy. Today we ended up just getting up. It's amazing how light it is at half past five in the morning.

Later today (at least...counts...six hours away. Six??) we'll be going to look at yet more wooden flooring in the hope of being able to sleep in our bedroom once more. By rights you should buy it, let it sit for 24 hours, lay it and let it sit for another 24 hours meaning, if we buy it today, we shouldn't be in until Thursday at the earliest. Something IE the wife tells me that this won't be the way things happen. She'll be whip-cracking-away the minute we get in the door. As I'm a laminate laying virgin I may be finished by Friday. If this is the case I'll also be a eunuch by Friday.

Perhaps the insomnia and bedroom are related. The wife worries about so many things it's hard to keep track of her current stresses, so it's not outside the bounds of possibility. Pity this has been going on for months. She took a sleeping tablet once. She eventually woke up three days later. Happy memories.

I Got Served

See them dark clouds on the horizon? That would be the wife. She found me out like a prize-winning beagle. She found this blog. Hello Darling! We had 'words' earlier so thus forever more, my blog shall be a sanitised version of it's former potty-mouthed self. Henceforth my posts will resemble:

Flowers. Aren't they pretty? Aah yellows and pinks. Hmm. Nicey nice...

Please feel free to not return, don't pass GO and save yourself the effort (and possibly your lunch).

I did 'A Good Thing' today. In my decorating phase, having finished the paint job - two colours (count 'em) - I set to work on our bedroom wardrobes. I've ripped out the innards like a Hannibal Lecter type freak. In it's place I put up extra poles for my wife's clothes and I had the little bit in the corner. There's shelves and everything. Mother would have been proud. Not. Pictures shall be forthcoming when I can be arsed to faff around with the camera.

The search for a flooring solution continues - 100 B&Q staff when surveyed said NUH ERRRR.

Having been left comments in my post 'No readership', thus proving I have at least two readers, I've come to the opinion I sound like a whiny runt (Rhyming slang? Possibly). Henceforth The Quest shall be ended. In public anyway.

I'm now off to change all names on the blog. Not that I've been ordered to or anything...


Derren Brown writes me love letters

Still?

The decorating continues at a snails pace. Today I put up a new pendant light fitting. In a slothlike two and a half hours. Even then I had to phone my brother-in-law for help.

A Sudden Decision

Spontaneous decisions aren't my wife and I's forte (Bad english? Who cares). Well, for me it is. My motto is "Don't dither, do". Wifey can't make a decision to save a kipper from someone's breakfast though. Until yesterday.

Up she got (read: sitting on the edge of the bed while I fannied around). She asks "Is it me, or does this carpet create more dust than the wooden floor we used to have?". I disagreed, it wasn't her and the carpet was a hotbed of dust activity. Well, no sooner could you say hot-diggity than we were pulling the carpet up to gaze at the beautiful floorboards beneath. Gorgeous they were. Apart from the million splodges of paint all over them. So today, as well as having a pub lunch, I spent forty pounds at Homebase on various paint removal and sanding gear. Didn't work. Laminate it will be.

The next few days I shall be slaving away painting, sanding, and flooring. Think of me.

No readership?

As no-one has replied to my previous post, am I to take it I have no readers whatsoever? Am I just writing for me, to me? Maybe if I were to stop writing self-indulgent posts like this one...

I read something the other day that suggests self-publicising your blog is a bad thing - how else would you know about my words of wisdom? Silly Biffo.


Here comes the beast again.

How Lucky I Am

Yesterday I had the great privilege to do that thing beloved by Englanders everywhere: go to a static caravan on the coast. This is the wife's grandma's caravan, where my sister-in-law was staying.

I had to force the wife out of bed (anytime before midday is a struggle) at 9 (literally force - she hit the wall leaving only a small dent) to get the usual day out stress. An hours drive to St Merryn in Cornwall, a tiny hamlet near Padstowe and then did what I suspected: we sat there all day and did nothing. We could have stayed at home and done that, not spent the hour getting in the wife's chair, nor the hour driving there - that's two hours someone owes me, never mind the drive back the same day.

God it was frustrating listening to my mother-in-law (for she was there too - huzzah!) making little comments to which I'm not allowed to respond. It was fun trying to get the wife toileted though. Carrying her through the caravan doors which are narrower than my shoulders, into a bathroom the size of a postage stamp (mind her legs!) was tricky to say the least.

Still, days out with family - gotta love 'em.

Shocking

Think of an image. Think of another. Did either of those come anywhere to the image of Eddie Izzard in a micro kilt? This is the image Carol Vorderman has just put forth on Countdown. He apparently asked to try it on after seeing Carol wearing it. With that fresh in your mind let's move on...

To the film I saw at the cinema recently: Sunshine. Can't be bothered to write too much about it (go read a review!) but I thought it was much better than certain quarters have suggested. After reading the SFX forum thread though, I may have missed bits. The missing bits made the film work for me though, so who cares?

If you search for 'wee' and 'smell' I'm first on Google after the BBC.

Womble, on a bike.

See? Over there? ----->

A new Sight Wat I Lyke. Aprosexic has taken advantage of my rather generous link exchange program. God bless him (?) and God bless all atheists everywhere.

A Young Man's Passage

AKA Julian Clary's autobiography. Did you know he was gay? You would if you read this. My god the man was a slut! Are all gay men the same?? Speaking as a purely hetero male, I've got no problem with a man wanting to sleep with as many women as he wants and have to consider the possibiliy that double the blokes doubles the horniness. Jeez. Like shaggin'? Turn gay. Most of Julian's conquests seem to enforce the stereotype of homosexuals as screaming, bitchy queens.

The book goes a bit deeper than that and is literally painfully funny (his pain, not the readers). I don't normally read biographies, especially those of celebrities but a) I thought it was a novel b) it was three quid in HMV and c) I was struggling to spend a ten pound gift voucher. I'm glad I did. Despite the nauseating in-your-face (quite literally for Julian at one point, answering the door with last night's jizzum all over himself) gayness of it, it is a very funny book. It shows how these entertainer folk start with Tarzan-a-grams and elevate to TV land.

It's a good thing it was funny as it also dwells on many of Julian's darker moments i.e. 98% of his life, including the death of his soul-mate Christopher through AIDS. All in all a very revealing book on many subjects I wouldn't normally touch. Bargepoles at the ready.

Melon Farmers

Some people IE bastardy tits call me workshy. This is as nothing however compared to farmers wanting, nay demanding compensation for their cows getting TB . This to me seems to be like asking for money for old rope.

Is not your animal getting a disease a hazard of the job? My cat is currently sick, yet I don't go complaining to T. Blair for her vet money. Not only would I get summarily thrown out but I'd be laughed at. Farmers join nurses on my all time 'sucking the government dry' list.

On a happier note, last month I had 261 unique visitors according to Statcounter and 364 page loads. Those 261 may be the same 10 people with a different IP address everyday but still, not bad. If of course it's a true and accurate figure, about 258 people have visited and not left a comment! Why? Is it not true that you get a warm feeling in your heart in the knowledge of a well written response? So, for now and this time only, leave a comment and give me a true census. I love you all. Except the ones that smell of wee, obviously.

PS I've been found on a search engine with the phrase "treating needle track marks and bruises" - eh? Explain that if you can.

Super Blogger

It's a funny thing having an online identity. I used to go by the name 'Damnation' on newsgroups; now I go by the more confident 'jstarbuck' (for 'tis me). Many people aren't even who they say they are (shock! horror!) going so far as to change gender and sexual orientation (go on, have cybersex as the opposite sex in a gay relationship). It never occurred to me though to hide 'me' from the wife.

I left a comment on Scaryduck's blog today comparing my wife, as a joke, to a Nazi. Did you see the mushroom cloud? There surely was one. After five years of marriage my wife a) really needs to learn my sense of humour and b) get one for herself. I felt somewhat affronted. Let alone it was a joke, this was my internet identity I was displaying - what relevance should it have on the 'real world'? A lot apparently. All day long she's been harping on, wanting to know in what way I was comparing her to a Nazi. I should have said it was her persistent extraction of information via inhumane methods but she might not have understood that. One final thing, it was a joke! Good job she never saw my acronym for my job title: Slave To A Bitch.

NB Godwin's Law is irrelevant in this case.

Prison Break - series 2

The second season has now closed in the States with a WTF?? moment. Possibly the biggest of all time.

From the beginning of the season things have failed to reach the exciting heights generated by the first. Michael and Lincoln bounce from here to there for illogical and unclear reasons. Everywhere they go they're followed like a puppy by William Fichtner's oh-so-clever FBI agent, Alex Mahone and it just gets tiresome. Mr Kim, the face of the evil 'Company' gets more like a Paontomine Dame with every episode; to his credit he doesn't cackle. He does have the most smug face in the world though.

And the ending seems to have been written purely with a third season in mind. And is frankly, shite.

US TV Networks - keepers of ineptitude

121 pints

I know some of you are hoping I'm going to be talking about lager but no.

A channel 4 program, Human Footprint, has listed the cost to the planet of a human life and one statistic stands out for me (of those I saw in the advert anyway - there's no way I'm actually going to watch). Apparently, in the course of your life, not mine cuz I'm a double hard bastard (DHB), you will shed 121 pints of tears. No, really.

Glossing over how this could possibly be measured and massive differences between people eg the aforementioned DHB and hormonal pregnant women, who the hell could cry that much? That's about two pints a year! Poke me in the eye continuously and I wouldn't be able to do it. It might be just about possible with a particularly toxic nerve gas. Tear gas, maybe.

And so, a list of things to make your eyes water:

The Goodies on their three-way bike, stopping all of a sudden and landing balls first on the crossbar.
Extreme hayfever. (Should be a sport - throw a bit more pollen on me ya bastards!).
Wind from the north-west. On a Thursday. In Dorset.

And that's it. Suggestions appreciated.


Earthquake in Kent kills sperm

On Stupidity

Jeez. Some people just don't know they've been booted out of their mother's crotch. They think life will always be cosy and warm, little realising reality is gonna come and bite them on the scrotum. Of course, some people, like Pete Docherty, openly invite it by being a twunt. Others, think that however foolish they act, whatever obscenity they perform, they'll always be number one. And it is about these people that I shall be speaking about today. Or rather, one of them.

His name is Keven Federline. Coming from nowhere, K-Fed, as he is now stupidly known, met and married Britney Spears during her thin and gorgeous phase, having two children (let's not forget that for this he must have seen her naked and possibly had her sitting on his face) and money thrown at him left, right, centre and up the behind. All he had to do to continue sitting pretty, was keep her happy. But no. K-Fed got drunk, saw strippers and slept around. I pause at this moment to scream 'allegedly'. He must have been off his tits on drugs. The evidence? Go read this paragraph again. Someone commit the eejit to an asylum for the criminally twuntish.

Surely it can't have been hard to have fun with Britters? Great body, obviously up for fun, not at all tight with her money...no, let's go get some 'ho. Tit.



Don't forget Dylan's canine credentials

On Blog Dither

Not relevant to what follows but my nipples are hurting as I type this.

Reading other peoples blogs you get a sense that there aren't half some (self) worthy people in the world. See Big News, write Serious Discussion Piece (no joking at the back). I've been wondering if I should adopt a similar tone now and again. Rather than the bollox I write at the minute that is. (I came up with a great joke earlier about that but it's gone...).

I just can't help writing my stream of consciousness. For instance, I just have to mention I'm hungry and am dying for some chocolate (someone help me beat down my craving - It's entirely possible 'm pregant looking at the size of my belly) and on it goes.

So I'll leave the weighy stuff to others; I'm quite happy here on the Islands of made up Bollox. (That's the one on the left I'm on; the one on the right is slightly higher up.)

Blog of the moment

Sheryl Crow is the talk of most blogs at the moment. I won't be jumping on this bandwagon as I think she's full of crap.

The Quest - an update

My quest for blog domination continues unabated and unabandoned. Mr Chipen Dale has agreed to swap links (definitely no bodily fluid though). Get in.

The American Middle Class

I was watching Slither tonight (Nathan Fillon's vehicle to stardom - not gonna happen, dude) and it occured to me that America has two kinds of people - the super-rich and the immensely poor. Let's look at the evidence.

On the one hand you have a family depicted by their trailer, their disgustingly tacky decor and their redneck attitudes.

On the other, an open plan living room with the kitchen of my dreams set in grounds.

There is nowhere in between. Land of the free? My arse.

Is Lost losing it's credentials?

Many things are allowed to change. Some blend and yet more mutate into monstrosities or into swans. One thing that isn't and certainly shouldn't, is genre programming. This is my domain goddammnit and it should not be sullied by namby pamby normal things happening.

When Lost started it had questions galore, all of which it was implied had supernatural explanations: the plane crash, how the Island came into being, the others, the monster, even the frickin' button. There were theories of time travel, magnetic anomalies, of quantum flux and many more. None were denied by JJ Abrams or Damon Lindelof, the shows creators. In fact, people were encouraged to believe.

Most of the questions have now been answered and there's a perfect rationale for it all! OK there're some bizarre happenings (which I won't go into for those not near the end of series three) but, and I feel stronlgy about this, although it's still a great program, I feel I was dragged into addiction on false pretences. This wouldn't happen in the other direction. Pauline Fowler wouldn't take off her skin to reveal her family crash landed twenty years ago from planet Suifge. No right minded SF fan would suddenly start watching. In fact, it would lose viewers.

I demand we all stop watching until they bring back the SF trappings! So say we all.

My mentalist dog is a tree.

Third post of the day...

to say I've had an email from Dave Bradley of SFX. As a result of having a letter in the next magazine, I've won another book! I truly am blessed.

Readers

My ratings are gradually increasing. Hurrah.

If you like my blog, you may wish to send me money. Please feel free. At the very least you could link to my blog and in return get linked back (which is obviously a highly sought after commodity).

I am a Sci Fi Orphan

Things are equal in the battle of the sexes. The Neanderthal men have gone back to their caves dragging their Barbie by the ankle (swinging might be a better image...or perhaps not). Women are now equal in so many things I can't think of a single one. Maybe you could leave a comment to suggest one (go on. Please.) Women however don't go quite the same way. They believe us men should equal. As long as we're separate. Aah, good memories of apartheid.

My wife is a fan of all kinds of crap TV. Soaps, docudramas, Little Biddy Animals Being Rescued, almost anything to do with babies and well, shite. Amazingly not all of it is on ITV. Like a Lord of all she surveys (not that she could actually survey anything per se having the intelligence of [insert your own item here]) she has her TV Land schedule mapped out from dawn to dusk, Monday to Sunday. IN fact, what's on TV is pretty much the way and why we keep track of what day it is, each blending into the next to make a big gelatinous lump of beige days.

The perceptive among you will be asking the question "But Jamie, when do you watch your programming?". Thanks for asking. I watch my genre and 'special' programming in the small hours of my wife's bedtime and in the time when she isn't on MSN with her sister and I've finished my scrubbing for the day (which she does check on). I look forward to the days that she's ill and has to spend time in bed or go there early.

This is normally a 'good and fruitful' plan. Thursday was a bad day for it to fall on though. This is the day of Chaos at the Castle and Sea of Souls. So I wasted this valuable extra time watching the same TV as the wife. I can't help feeling she planned it that way.

My Life's Aim

LIving with my wife gives a unique perspective.

She has a 'shortened lifespan'. Like a lot of things it's akin to The Iron Man. How long will she live? Nobody knows. How will she die? Nobody knows. Will it be vastly unpleasant? Almost certainly.

For most of the forthcoming years, she'll spend a large proportion in some sort of discomfort. Hold your breath for twenty seconds, breathe for five and hold it again. Repeat ad nauseum. This is her day-to-day existence. Being her carer allows me to see first hand what a shitty stick we're all handed. Which begs the question why most people are happy to sit (or stand) doing a job that has the consequence of making other people money. Think about it: that woman in Tesco behind the check-out - she might make six quid an hour. Lord of Tesco probably makes that in less than a minute. But still she slaves away every day struggling to make enough to feed her kids, not forgetting copious amounts of nicotine obviously. She's gotta have some pleasures after all. (Hear me scoffing? Anyway...).

So, when my missus packs her bags, to pass over the coil that is mortal, I in theory should have to find a job. Which I am not going to want to do. Over and above the fact I spend my days doing a bit of DIY, sitting drinking tea and eating biscuits, reading, watching TV and generally being a lazy arsed shit (in between bits of care for the wife) do you really think I'm going to get up early, slave away 9-5, miss the great sunshine (which I'm missing by the way to type this, you ungrateful twunts) and make money for someone else? Am I arse.

My plan is thus, and forgive me if this sounds callous but it's always been my dream so get stuffed:

Grieve.
Buy a tent.
Buy a push bike.
Sell house and worldly possessions (at current reckoning about £90,000 based on profit from my house, minus mortgage, car, savings and other bits).
Travel.

When I travelled in 2000 I spent about 12k a year, and most of that was on hostels. I reckon I could get by on 8k a year or about £21 a day. A bit less if did any attractions.

My question to you is this: which direction?

North: Scotland? Always wanted to see it but once there where do you go?
East: France, Europe, the Far East: nicely varied but full of foreign speaking oiks.
West: Ireland and then a ferry to the US and Canada, trailing down to South America. This is my current favourite choice.

Make your case.

Bald Britney with Lyndsay Lohan getting a mohican. On a rope.

Do you smell like wee?

Is it you I sit next to on the bus?

With the face made of pus?

Is it you in the street?

With the honkin' size 12 feet?

WELL HAVE A FRICKIN' WASH!

God I hate having to smell other people. Having someone smoke in the same atmosphere as me is bad enough but to invade my personal air space with their dirty genital smells is, frankly, disgusting. Have these people heard of toilet paper? If you smell of wee do you, by default, smell of pooh? After all, if you don't wipe one way why wipe the other?

Obviously the general stereotype is for this to afflict the older generation. Fair enough, if your arthritis affects you so much you can't hold a really very lightweight piece of paper between your decrepit fingers but for the majority of the population it's really not too hard. I assume. I may be unique in that I'm the only person capable of wiping my knob on the curtains, for there must be endless opportunities for self-cleansing.

Ever been on a train when someone whiffy gets on? It's bad enough on a bus and that's for relatively short distances. A train can take you to the other side of the country, all the time next Micturating Mike. Excuse me Mike but are you wearing a frickin' nappy? Ever heard of femfresh?

I'd like all readers to do the following (and perhaps even leave a comment telling me how you got on - this shall be an amnesty and all charges shall be cancelled forthwith):

If you've been stinking for awhile you may not even notice the smell anymore. So ask someone. Pluck up the courage and ask a complete stranger to smell you. Not the wife, the husband or the mother (God bless 'er). They'll never see you again. Don't ask this guy though:

A Blog's life

What? Half hour later? 260 words! Piece of micturation juice this. Time for a break. KIT KAT!

See Compo, will enter

I've decided to enter, or at least try to enter, SFX's Pulp Idol competition.

I started last year with some guff about a wandering space family but ran out of steam at about 600 words. This year I have a killer idea and should easily get a thousand words; my concept is easily split up into little chunks which in total should get me there. Here's dreaming.

I'd love a writing career - I have high opinions on my use of that there grammar. My downfall though is written speech. I might be able to do it but it's such a ball ache. So and so said that, he replied sarcastcally...blah. My 'great idea' (patent here I come) is to not have any. My story will be written entirely in the second person and my character shall talk to no-one. Which is actually integral to the story. This will be The Greatest Story Ever Told. Which is a hint.

I'm a winner!

Today isn't quite so awful as ususal - I've been picked by SFX Magazine to win a full set of the Runelords series! No information has been released as to how I've been picked (echoes of Richard and Judy if you ask me) but I have been leaving lots of mesages of lurve for Ian Berriman, Deputy Editor and chief picker on the mag. I've entered loads of these things and to suddenly win like this can't be entirely coincidental.

I was always arguing with HBK on the SFX forum and elsewhere about, well, many things, but relevantly about my sycophantic naturedness where free stuff was concerned. Hell, now I know it works I'll be IB's bitch media whore. Give it to me Ian. Give it to me good. Any remote control Daleks lying around?


|Corned beef and pickle

On my unknown celebrity status

6th July 2002. That was the date of my nuptials. The day my freedom ended and my life as a eunuch-with-a-penis IE a husband started. 'Twas a great day, with not one bit of vomit and even my sister-in-law only threw a single strop (over her hair). I'd go so far as to say the cliched happiest day of my life. We went to Mexico on honeymoon. Aaah. Hot and sweaty it was. So was the weather. Fnarr, Fnarr.

When we got back a parcel was waiting for us - the wedding video. God, I thought, I'm gonna have to watch this a hundred times as we go around the relatives. If I knew what it contained I'd have burned it with petrol.

Picture the scene: my mother-in-laws living room - many people jammed in front of the TV waiting for the forthcoming feature. It starts. And there standing nee bouncing is Mr Bean. Alas, no. It is I. I'd previously been unaware of the similarity but the evidence was conclusive. OK I'd always been quite good at putting on silly voices and acting a twat but was a joke; I hadn't realised that was normality compared to my normal self. It now gets mentioned ad nauseam at every opportunity. I'm just glad we haven't had kids; every year on it's birthday I'd have had to check for the symptoms (presuming these things are genetic): silly walk? Check. Silly voice? Not yet thank god. Bad style? Just like me.

The Quest - an update

Back when I first got the Internet (seems so long ago...what did we do all day??) I spent most of time and bandwidth downloading programs to make my downloading faster. Kinda pointless really.

Now I'm doing this blog thing properly I seem to be spending most of online time just promoting this site, trying to get bloody readers - you shall read me goddamnit!

On a trawl of other blogs yesterday I noticed Smeg_Head has linked to me - he never said! It came as quite a shock to be honest as I thought he couldn't stand me (let's face it - few people can), him being a regular on the SFX forum. Maybe it's the teacher in him. How anyone finds his blog I don't know; if you look up Smeg Head on Google you just find information on Red Dwarf.

It also came as a shock to find the link as I did a Google back link search and it said not a single link was out there to be found. Which is blatantly rubbish. I now feel the need to publicise Smeg_Head too...

A Rose that is a Rose is still a Pain

Shakespeare apparently said many wise things but none more stupid than 'A rose is but a Rose' *. See, if your name's Smith it's probable that you don't get asked about it's origin, you don't get bombarded with comments along the lines of 'Do you own the well known newsagents?'

I used to work in a call centre selling advertising for the local paper; it was a good job. I liked it. Apart from the telephone work. There I'd be in my preamble, trying to get the bloke on the other end of the phone to actually talk to me (No! No, thanks! I'm dead! etc etc) and the moment would come when I'd mention my name - "Starbuck? Like the coffee?" Yes, like the bloody coffee. No, I don't have shares. No, it's not a relation. No, I don't actually like coffee. No, it's named after a character from Moby Dick.

Or the other famous connotaton - "Starbuck? The cylons didn't get you then?" Oh, watch me chortle.

You might think it's not that bad but I get it everywhere I go: petrol stations, shops, National Rail Enquiries, Insurance firms, hospitals. I could have three conversations a day that follow the exact same pattern. How I yearn to sometimes be a 'Smith'.

* May not actually be correct.

Spasm is a five letter word