Yadayada

The most delicious fruit in world.

2008-02-18T23:07:00.007Z

The most delicious fruit in the world is small, has tough green skin and a hard stone at its heart. But its flesh is soft and pure, sweet with the tang of forgotten dreams.

Long ago great lumbering lizards with long necks used to seek them out, gracefully plucking the fruit from the sky high branches of giant trees, their heads piercing the gloom of the forest below into the glittering sun, shimmering life all over the canopy.

As the flesh crushed and leaked across their teeth what a treat they got.

A sweet smooth seduction broken by a frown, a dry trying bitter blizzard that mixes then fixes to a soft salty jingle that lingers and lingers just too long to bear before breaking down to the bare bones of soar.

Every major movement cascades fragrances, bright with colour, sublime, so entangled to distract and lose any perspective of the general theme that just keeps sculpting its high and lows like the mountainous sun-drenched, rain soaked landscape it came from.

Without warning it starts over, from a different place, a different time, somehow understanding that everything has changed, never to be the same again. A whole new experience, a better experience, is to about to begin - about to become the future’s past… but not yet.

But it does...

From one great tree a giant lumbering lizard could spend a whole day eating, standing tall to reach the fresh young buds or slumbering low to the muskier fallen, matured on a bed of leaves.

When one tree had given its all they lazily crashed a path through other trees to find another, leaving in their trail of destruction big piles of hard stone embedded dung - seeded to suddenly make sense of the tree’s gastronomic generosity.

The trees did well out of their greedy companions and their kind spread far, stretching from side to side across the continent wide forests that covered the world at the time.

They became the most populous of them all for more years than it is possible to count.

But time will never stop until it has eaten all that it has created and one by one the giant lizards slowly vanished from the world.

Little rat like creatures, nothing more than parasites, that used scurry around the feet of the great lizards steeling their eggs for sustenance, inherited the world.

Maybe some of the rats had a genetic abnormality or maybe the trees did, maybe deep in the ancient trees’ branchy wisdom they didn’t want the rats or maybe what they would become to ever eat their fruit… or maybe fate was just replaying the way it was always going to be.

Whatever the reason the fruit was poisonous to the rats.

Any young rat, curious of the fruit, smelling some poor sod dead rat that had taken a brave nibble was generally discouraged from even trying.

Over the years that followed the rats did well, adapting and changing to fill their empty new world. Eventually their descendants would conquer it, making it every corner submit to their will and in the process destroy much of its beauty.

But in a couple of remote corners a few of the trees carried on, hidden from all, living for thousands of years, relying on luck rather than taste to propagate. The fruit glistering on the tips of their branches before falling to the ground to be left uneaten.

No living creature even capable of knowing how incredible they tasted.

Their future looks bleak. Luck generally runs out and one day only one still stand at its last final fruit will fall.

But that is not for a while and who knows what kind of creature will pick it up.

"any brave new world"

2007-05-09T01:15:00.000+01:00

tick tock and the clock chimes your time for fifteen minutes of fame...

"Hi, You are not wearing a tie?!"

"Hi, err no hmm I don't really wear ties."

"Ok, did you not get the email?!"

"Yeah I did but hmm... I don't actually have a tie - well apart from one for weddings and I just was thinking..."

"Not a problem, we should be able to get one - maybe off one of those security guards."

"I suppose we could but... no one in the city actually wears ties anymore"

"Heh - don't worry we'll find you one - it would look good if you looked like you worked in the City"

"But I do - this is what I wear..."

"Well yeah... you look a bit casual.. So where do you actually work?"

"Canary wharf."

"Wow really - that is where I am based - did you see the may day protest."

"Well no not really.. it wasn't very big was it? - they started checking our ID cards slightly more obviously but..."

"It was great they all dressed up in suits and ties so they wouldn't get noticed. Then at the last minute they took them off and started dancing around to music they had smuggled in"

"Smuggled in?"

"Strangely all the security guards and police seemed to know exactly who they were".

"Yeah probably because they were wearing ties and no one..."

"I went down to take photos - great shots - I saw someone I thought I knew"

"Really?"

"Yeah I was looking at her, dancing around and singing and I was convinced I knew her. After they had taken off their suits they started singing nine to five. You know - by Dolly Parton"

"Nine to Five?"

"To make a point about the city and global capitalism"

"Nine to Five?!!"

"Yeah exactly - so there I was taking shots of her and I was convinced I knew her."

"Right"

"I go to a lot of festivals - you know music festivals. Like Glastonbury..."

"Yeah I have been a ..."

"So that was what I was thinking - I must know her from that - one of the many faces you see - twirling around. Then she came over and said hello... "

"Why?"

"It turned out I went to primary school with her- 'so you are a full time anarchist now?' I said"

"Doesn't mean she is an anarchist simply because..."

"Weird though - don't you think?"

"Yeah"

...

I broke the silence

"So are you a full time member of the paparazzi?"

"No I work for the Guardian. We don't distort reality with pictures."

"Like making someone wear a tie when then never do?"

"That's more playing with imagery - actually my last job was a bit paparazzi well actually anti-paparazzi! We paparazzied the paparazzi"

"Wow!"

"Yeah - all the Sun's editor team go away for the long weekend in an awful caravan park in skegness with some lucky winners of a sun competition - it is more or focus group to meet their readers ."

"woo"

"Yeah when I got the assignment I said - "You've got to be joking - I became a photo journalist to find out about the world - to tell people about it - to change it - not to hide behind a portaloo waiting for Rebecca Wade to come out holding a toilet roll."

"Did you get one then - I mean a picture of Rebecca Wade having a poo?"

"Yeah - god it was disgusting"

"And is the Guardian going to print it?"

"No the legal team had problems with it"

"Ahh yes - I can see that"

"Oh look there are your brothers - now lets get you that tie."

Bin bags of the mind.

2006-10-04T02:13:00.000+01:00

At quarter to five, a bin bag flew past by the window.

It was plastic and black and so far out the reach of the corner of my eye I wasn’t really sure I had seen at all.

It looked like a black bin bag – a black sheet of plastic perfection flying like a bat out of hell across the small frame of real light silhouetting the small section of Manhattan skyline I could see from my desk.

It flew across the tiny square section of the far away wall that differentiated all I was doing from what I normally do in London.

I was distracted.

I went back to my screen, the LCD lit numbers running over my tired face.

Then I saw it again.

But this time different, triangular and heading down fast at such a velocity it was hard to believe. I didn’t get a close look – I had missed it again.

I got up off my desk and walked to the window across an office of New York telephone calls – the fuck yous, the grovelling, the helpful, the man explaining to his wife he wouldn’t be home again tonight, the woman telling her date she would be late. I walked past the coffee machine and got to the window just as the sun set across Mid Town, the buildings scrapping the sky, screaming at the pink light reflecting off each other’s ambitious glory.

But there was nothing.

As I stared up along a high view down an endless Avenue - I considered theories.

The bat or spider like nature of my gotham city aberration had not gone unnoticed by the plagiarizing parts of my psyche.

The only valid conclusion was garbage.

Floating on the air trying to find a way out – out of the city to find a nice beach to retire on.

The music box

2006-09-08T01:41:00.000+01:00

When Humperdink Tumble first showed his music box to the public at the new world product fair in the sweetly cool spring of 2054, it was met with whoops of derisive mirth and ridiculing glee. The very idea was found ludicrous if not impossible boardering on the artistically offensive.

That was until he turned it on.

“I don’t know…. exactly…. how it works!”

He said, the words tumbling out his mouth with some fight but not enough to find their way into the minds of the stunned audience. The words broke their moorings and fell free from meaning and were lost in a sea of sound.

His eyes lolled down in sympathy of his brain's fine failure to verbalise structure on a breakdown under scrutiny. His thoughts just incidental to events – not the calculated manifestations of a well formed personality.

“But… err… it does work!”

He finally muttered finding some triumph where he felt there was none, the flashing cameras distilling his face into black and white, dark and light as the crowd awoke and started taking photographic pictures, as if you could, of such a thing.

News of the box spread across the world like a flash, lightening up information super highways with digital fire.

Soon Humperdink’s face was seen on screens around the globe being asked endless questions by keen clean shaven anchor-men with big microphones: “How does it work?” “What’s the secret?” “What gave you the idea?” “What effect will it have on everything?” “What does it mean?” “How does it feel, to be you, being asked all these questions?”

Humperdink Tumble lost count of the number times he said “Hmm… I’m not really sure...” looking down at the ground bashfully – “I was.... trying to make... a rabbit hutch.” his eyes swelling up with tears.

He tried to tell the anecdote of its conception as well as he could but it often fell on dead expressions.

It had meant it to be a classical rabbit hutch but with some measurement confusion had ended up something more suited to sleep a small polar bear. In a moment of madness he had filled it with wool and wire and the withered remains of woodlice over fed on wild rice.

Then it started to hum.

Humperdink, having never made a rabbit hutch before thought nothing of it. His suspicions only aroused when his neighbours started to knock on the door to ask what the exquisite noise coming from his back garden was.

The media frenzy following the world fair finally abated to a circus but even that slowly faded and packed up camp to find fresher blood.

Military men came to see if they could turn it into a thing to kill. Money men came to try and make a deal.

But the box just sung sweet songs to their souls, caressing nearly forgotten parts of their hearts back to life, leaving them saying goodbye, with a tear in their eye and a new point of view and generally spent far more time with their loved ones from then on.

The best technicians and engineers came to figure out, with detailed examinations, how it worked but all they found was there was no way it could have, would have or even should have ever been.

Humperdink made another.

It just made loud farting noises, varying in pitch and length to an extra-ordinary degree, which in some ways was even more remarkable.

But after the music box the reviews were dismissive.

Humperdink with little else to do toured his box around the various music festivals of the land, turning it on, to play the genre that was most prevalent – be it punk rock or jazz or simple folk – streaming out beautiful, perfect and unique music to the relative crowd listening. It always managed to pull a reasonable crowd.

Then one day it stopped.

It never made a sound again and no one was the wiser.

Humperdink’s 3rd attempt at making a rabbit hutch turned out like a well… a rabbit hutch.

He adopted a brown haired rabbit called Oscar who just loved it and lived in it very happily.

Prologue

2006-08-24T21:43:00.000+01:00

The storm had been raging for weeks rampaging like a screaming drunk beast ripping up thoughts with both fists from their secured rational threads and throwing them into paces they shouldn't rightly be. What a mess. I don't know where to start. Back to the core....

All clear now - the sun is shining through a few small grey clouds that still hover: the lingering gate crashers deciding between a way home or the can of warm ash infused beer and another petty bout of vandalism. The serious leather jacketed weather just visible departing over the horizon, bitch in toe content with their carnage.

By the shore a fisherman weeps over the body of his dead wife not noticing the few fragments of his boat and house that lie around him or me staring scared and scarred. Slow waves caressing occasionally shifting debris back and forth across the shore but never going anywhere.

So where now? I am still here. I think about helping the fisherman - he turns and we chance each others eye and hold it for a second. We both know there is nothing I can do.

So I turn my back and start walking away. Away from here. Anywhere but here. Anyone but her.

Folkicious

2006-08-23T23:04:00.000+01:00

So I go to the Green Man festival with Helga and Copacub and gang.

One night after a day’s eclectic set of entertainment from an electric one-man banjo band to black and white slap-stick celluloid played to pianoed Mozart to painfully exquisite songs of forgotten wars, past down from soul to soul over the reaches of time; we go back our camp and Helga picks up her guitar and starts to sing.

After a while, when I’d dosed into a satisfied slumber listening to her melodious strumming, a face emerged from the gloom, lit up from underneath by the candles we were sat around.

“What time are you thinking of playing to?” it said.

“I am not planning to stop at all!” Helga replied, her ember eyes still burning red with rage and passion of the evening and the song she had been singing just moments before.

“Can you just keep it down?”

“Yeah… we will keep it down!” The crowd said hoping to douse the situation.

“No! I want her to say it – her playing the music - her singing!!” the face said getting uglier by the word.

“No! I will not!” Helga muttered under her breath.

“Say it – your music is shit and I don’t want to hear it anymore!”

Suddenly the touch-paper was lit.

“Who do you think, the fuck, you are, telling me you don’t like my music? I don’t like your shit haircut; I don’t like your ugly face. I think they are offensive. Why don’t you shut them up!”

“Yeah – man – this is a folk festival – what are you doing, complaining about acoustic music being played around a camp in a traditional folk style, re-introducing codes of intercourse and our own personal emotional responsive adjustments to life in some way?” the crowd said in unison.

As the demon saw her attempted tyranny fade she disappeared into the night.

It is always good to have Helga around.

Nana Jizel

2006-08-14T00:49:00.000+01:00

I met them, Dr Syntax and Dr Johnson, when I was there last week.

My travailing companion had decided to take a fly around, swooping and swirling with the birds, twirling over the white peaked waves, nearly losing control as she took the full face of a blustery gust around the edge of a lighthouse.

As I watched her tumble away slightly out of control, crying with delight as the rain and sea spray streamed down her face, I felt slightly alone and left out having never learnt to fly myself.

I wanted to find the Nana Jizel.

Nana Jizel is a sagely purple dragon who lives near by.

She has reached a certain age and black spines are starting to break through her wrinkled purple skin, sore and flapping against the painful intrusions or rather their antonyms.

Dragons start out green, big and boisterous, flaming terrified villagers or flying low over herds of cows, cooking them with big bursts of fire. As they grow older they shrink and turn red becoming strong and powerful, generally acquiring unimaginable wealth of gold and jewels they mostly just sleep on. When the glitter fades they become wise and purple, magically knowledgeable of their inner power as their outer frame and fame reduces further. Eventually they blacken into concentrated intelligence and wisdom getting smaller and smaller until they finally disappear in a sublime puff of divine smoke.

Nana Jizel is still young enough to get annoyed and grumpy with her two wizard neighbours but only intervenes when their arguments get completely out of control. This is rare because Dr Johnson and Dr Syntax normally have a completely different perception of what they are actually talking about.

For example Dr Syntax might say in passing:

“Split infinitives are frequently poor style, but they are not strictly bad grammar. To avoid the split infinitive could result either in weakness or over-formality: either might ruin rhythmic force and rhetorical pattern.”

Dr Johnson would retort angrily:

“You can't use unicylcing fish to badly lubricate priest's collars because his name was Tim and making book knees without of umbrella tears or Mariah Carey, you fool!”

To which Dr Syntax would say:

“Your reply is irrelevant and not a connected series of statements to establish a definite proposition. It contains the fallacy of Non Causa Pro Causa: you have identified a cause of an event, but not actually shown it to be the cause. The non sequitur is only worthy of note but not comment.”

Dr Johnson would then start choking, gagging as if something was stuck in his throat until an orange popped out of his mouth and rolled along the floor to Dr Syntax’s feet. A door would then creakily open in the orange’s side and out would jump a tiny monkey carrying an equally tiny jack. The monkey would then put the orange on the jack and start jacking it up, pausing occasionally to pant for comic and dramatic effect. When it reached Dr Syntax face a hoping mad Hara Kristina would rise up on a platform through its top, shouting incoherent obscenities – something about stealing a trampoline and frantically waving his tambourine.

At which point Dr Syntax would storm off in a huff, sweeping his cape around him brooding deconstructivism.

Nina Jizel would then close her watchful minds eye and go back to sleep.

She knows they never agree or disagree but they are both very powerful wizards so she wants to be careful.

She was a red dragon back the days of Merlyn and doesn’t want those mistakes to be made again.

Land's End

2006-08-08T02:13:00.000+01:00

If you start walking west and don’t stop, leaving behind the dealings of man, the tarmaced roads and clipped hedge fences of stripped dreams,

If you keep going and reach the coast, taking the windy path by the turquoise sea, both seductive and dangerous, looking down on waves exploding against ragged rocks and soft sands, sometimes traveling high along towering cliffs topped with spiky heather and sharp brambles flowering a shower of colour all around you, other times low through thick rich green over-hung paths escorted by brown and white butterflies to fields of ferns draped down the steep sides of beachy coves,

When your weary feet throb for rest, carrying on past the frowning crowds of cliff edge cows slowly masticating on their non-existent doom,

Down fragrant clean steamed valleys gurgling under tiny moss ridden stone bridges by white witches’ cottages, gardens filled with medicinal herbs, giant rhubarb and tiger dragonflies.

Pausing briefly to hear a blue capped curly haired weather worn fisherman’s tales of a widow’s woe at the hands of a cruel sea and the shocking cost of house prices these days as his white teeth and blue eyes sparkle in the sun.

Past the castles of long dead kings and the ghostly remains of tin mines marking deep holes.

Sometimes walking like giants, striding over trees like weeds; sometimes like mice, scrambling over peddles like boulders,

Resting occasionally on the sleeping heads of stone trolls embedded in the soil, maybe taking a lock of their mossy hair for luck,

Through the wispy mist seeping out the black broken windowed eyes of abandoned farms covered with stinging nettles and doc leaves,

Eventually you will run out of land.

A head, where, blue nothing stretches away forever across endless waves, whales and basking sharks eating fish spunk and stinking sea weed for thousands of miles until a new world.

There, just beyond souvenirs shops, the laughing seagulls screaming their cream tea crumpet scavenging delight and signs that say “Danger CLIFF”, right on the edge, at the very end, two wizards live.

Who, what with the enlightenment and all, are called Dr Syntax and Dr Johnson.

Dr Syntax makes perfectly formed sentences, in granite, then lets the elements erode them until they tumble away crumbling into the sea.

He is rather highbrow and has eye brows floating a few inches above his particular head.

Dr Johnson has a big top hat that falls over his eyes, in it a cuckoo lays eggs on his head made of cheese that tick and tock and could explode at any moment into parachuting ponchoed parrots but never tell the time.

Dr Syntax finds Dr Johnson’s work trivial and neither laudable nor commendable for any let alone an exemplary modern Wizard.

Dr Johnson finds bananas in his pajamas… plotting… exponential cardboard cutout fanaticism.

They never agree.

Gamma Cephei

2006-07-27T01:14:00.000+01:00

In the constellation of Cepheus, in a rather empty part of the sky near the North Pole, there is a binary star system called Gamma Cephei.

Where, three billion years or so ago two young suns were tricked by gravity into a slow dance, to constantly fall towards each other but never get any closer.

They continue, trapped in their endless waltz, to this day.

You can see them, if you try, with your naked eye, in the night sky, so far away and distorted by atmospheric twinkling, they appear as one.

They are 21 million miles apart.

In between them a giant planet orbits:

Twice the size of Jupiter, its vivid rings of ice and rock slowly spin around torrid atmospheric storms of hydrogen, helium and methane below, casting multicolored shadows over her circling moons.

The biggest of these, slightly smaller than the Earth, orbital path through the giant planet’s gravity well causes huge tectonic creaks and groans as it is stretched and squeezed this way and that by gravitational tides.

Volcanoes and sulfuric vents spring up overnight, erupting through the ground, gushing up plumes of hot gas into clouds in a wet and humid air.

By these vents small sulphur eating bacteria live, deriving sustenance from the seismic energy cooked up underground. Over millions of years some evolved into small worms and others to weird plants that adapted to their volatile environment with leafs that fill up with air like balloons and so are blown away to safer climes by preemptive gaseous bursts of near by tectonic activity.

Some of these rudimentary plants became, traveling along the strange path between death and life, large trees, interlinked into groups, grasping each other for safety.

It is quite the sight to see a whole forest up root, majestically take off and gently float away across the celestial rings set on the jets of fire circling the horizon.

On these trees a species of worm evolved: eight legs, for gripping branches and under-hung munching of the gaseous leaves and over millions of years; big cheek pouches that filled up with the light tree leaf gas and could, if they felt the need, be used to float down to any passing forests below, cheeks puffed out, an alarmed look on their faces and their wiggly bodies dangling underneath.

The dimmest of these worms dropped to fiery ends down the volcano vents but the wiliest judgers of wind and relative velocity made the precarious drops to other flying forests and spread their knowledge and physical faculties. Over the generations the worms became a canny, wild eyed, puffy cheeked bunch.

Some started rearing up on six legs and the front two limbs developed into arms with 3 fingers and a thumb on each.

They found commutation useful and developed language that wasn’t based on types of sounds but on tones which carried better from floating forest to floating forest.

There wasn’t day and night as we understand them but eight different periods depending on which combination of the three bright heavenly bodies was in the sky. Each period was represented by the C major scale. Complete light and starry night the same note - just shifted an octave.

Eight fingers and thumbs led to a base eight numbering system each digit represented by D# minor.

More complicated words and sentences were made up of note combinations and chords.

The language was complicated further by the phase of the giant planet above changing the mode used.

When a lot of them chatted together it sounded not completely dissimilar to the most exquisite music.

Last Tuesday one of these worms misjudged his drop and landed on the ground.

As he scrambled up a cragged valley to find a way back to his life in the sky the two suns were eclipsed by the planet above, setting on its giant thin crescent, thirty times the size of Earth’s moon.

Darkness fell and the distant stars started to prick the velvet sky, he looked up and wondered if there was anything out there.

A duck's story

2006-07-19T02:34:00.000+01:00

In a small northern town nestling between green hills, in a time when bread was bread, delivered by boys on bikes, pushed up steep cobbled streets to old frowning women with saggy tights and rolling pins,

where clogged and cloth capped men’s hard day’s graft down pit, black faces ingrained with coal soot, dug deep from the heart of the earth with iron picks, to burn in endless fires, billowing smoke into the air, distorted sunsets into cascades of purples, pinks and orange,

who didn’t talk nonsense and relaxed by putting ferrets down trousers and fisty cuffs outside shutting pubs as the moon rose, shining peaceful yellow light over the occasional spurt of blood or a broken tooth’s tumbling trajectory through the air in an arch to the gutter below,

near the mill, up the alley by the church, along a red brick faced Victorian terrace, past the working man’s club and right by the brass band playing in the park was a pond.

In the pond was a duck.

Who, when his fellow ducks flew into whirl-winds of anger and love or wildly swung from greed to compassion, stayed in a perpetual state of mild bemusement.

Some said his temperamental range was limited – others that it was unique – yet more that he suffered from a peculiar aliment that rarely afflicts the emotionally volatile duck-kind and was waddling a tight wire along the fine line between tedium and tension.

Maybe they all had a point.

When the delivery boys grew weary with the hills and tossed their yeasty loads into the blue water ways the other ducks hunger lust took over and a crazed soggy bread frenzy generally ensued – the desire for food and a full stomach lightening up their eyes and minds like volcanoes,

this duck just chuckled and commented on the silliness of the situation, nibbling on any spare morsel passing by.

When the female ducks’ dull and dowdily exteriors became to the male fraternity a sweet and erotic taste of paternity,

when the male’s bright and colourful plumage mirrored their reckless and brave antics stirring up deep within the hearts of the female ducks a fiery passion so bright that even the furnaces hell were dimmed in comparison,

our hero just looked on with a befuddled frown, maybe making a dry quip.

When the rumour that mad pike Frazer had taken old Bill Duckerty’s leg clean off as he paddled past a canal boat filled with slag and rubble, pulled by a weary shire-horse, metal clod hoofs clip–clopping along the towpath, surfaced and spread like wild fire around the small duck community,

our duck didn’t spend the next few days nervously peering down into the watery depths watching for mad pike Frazer’s glimmering eye as he started his lunge - or let paranoia force mass flights of fear from the slightest noise.

Oh no - for fate wasn’t a fickle and cruel mistress to him – she was a pleasant and amiable companion.

Even at the end.

One day a ferret who had seen one too many miners’ cocks went insane and made a break from his trouseriery prison. Freedom often falls badly on the ill informed especially the spatially deprived and his blissful flee across the park ended suddenly when he saw our protagonist’s neck.

It reminded him of the horror of his snaky tormentors since a young age.

He leaped and sunk his teeth in as deep as he could.

As our duck’s life ebbed away, as he finally realised the reality of endless oblivion, the eternity of nothing that would be over in the blink of an eye he did not experience the unmitigated terror normally associated with such things.

He just raised an eyebrow put on a wry smile and thought…

“Well. This is a turn up for the books!”

What a duck!

Hmm

2006-07-11T00:48:00.000+01:00

If you fly away, far beyond the rolling hills and shady dales, past the misty mountains and down over the forest of fostered dreams to the trees with branches reaching out like the tips of tongues;

You may find a small man.

Sat in a rocking chair.

Passing lazy days forgetting tears and congealed fears

His prose may be vague poetic summaries or frosty temporary validations but he will forget – he will forget for you – he will forget for us all.

Oh no

2006-06-28T01:43:00.000+01:00

Sat in my local pub with my old friend C, after a reasonable game between Spain and France, ZZ getting a bit of magic back in his aging legs, the conversation turned to cats.

“My cat might be coming to stay with me for a bit. Custody for the summer holidays.”
“Hmm…” C said not really looking interested.

Then added “What, not that little black kitten that used to climb up the wall to the ceiling and then hurl itself at my groin at high velocity with its claws out at 7 in the morning when I used to stay around your house after clubbing.”

“That’s the one”

“Wow”

“It is a bit bigger now”

“Right - tiny little thing it was – sharp claws.”

“Yeah – that was 7 years ago”

“7 years! Time eh? It just passes doesn’t it?” C said philosophically.

“Yeah pretty much.”

“No one goes out as much as they used to, do they?”

“Well no, getting older aren’t we”

“We should organise a club night!”

I glance at C over the rim of my pint glass to see if he is serious, there is a glint in his eye, I have it seen before.

~ hen’s eyes go misty – the present wavily fades away to 1999 ~

“Hmm… ok but you know… kids these days – they probably listen to post ketamine punk hop or something.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Oh dear.

Two Wheels Good

2006-06-26T01:45:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago I started cycling to work, along the Regent’s Canal, the age old jugular feeding Victorian London coal and cotton, tar and tea and various other imperial booty.

Now it is the domain of joggers, early morning dog walkers and holiday boats, casually mooring along side, in the clean and healthy waters filled with ugly ducklings, green weed and fishing lines, their floats bobbing in the sun, flashing across slow waves.

But more than that - there are cyclists – hundreds of them. Streaming in snakes, weaving in and out of pedestrians and the occasional goose, speeding by cobbled locks and trendy Hoxton warehouse conversations.

When I first joined their ranks I was a classic weekender, a fair weathered bicycleler. Courteous and conscientious to my fellow road and toe path users. Braking and smiling thanks or pleasant apologies as I rode over people’s feet. I even stopped at red lights.

But no more.

I didn’t take me long to remember.

For I am one of them now.

An ethereal blend of man and machine, a perfect mix of muscle and metal. Gracefully cruising in top gear, effortlessly leaping from curb to road ignoring the laws of mortal man - for they no longer apply to me. Traffic lights are nothing but road side decorations.

I look down from noble heights on an ugly world, over the other transportees in their cars and busses and shoes, with mild disinterested contempt, a world I am selflessly saving for its ignorant and wasteful inhabitants.

As I pedal past, the wind ripping over my elegant features they must bow down before me - for I am like a God. They must part, running in fear out of my path or they will face the full force of my terrible wrath as tinkle my little bell.

Bless

2006-06-22T21:07:00.000+01:00

Commentator 1 [talking of Ronaldo’s lard arse Sunday league performance so far]: “It is like a salesman trying to sell you a print of the Sistine Chapel – it’s not the real thing!”

Commentator 2: “Sistine Chapel? I’ve not seen that.”

Commentator 1: “It’s good!”

The Kicks

2006-06-21T01:02:00.000+01:00

“I love all the flags trying to work where they are from like I said to the misses where is Tobago no not Tobago the other one Tonga I thought it was in the south pacific but it wasn’t it was in the west Africa, I got that wrong like a right idiot heh picked up 3 Brazilians the other night up the Edgware road two Brazilians cafés in the row there is there, street was filled with, what is that yellow? Everyone doing that dancing they do, playing the drums on the street, fantastic, never knew there were so many Brazilians in London, all came out of the wood work, where are they hiding, I don’t know, wanted to go to south London, I didn’t mind, I’ll go anywhere, never understand when people refuse jobs, get the fare I say, see where it takes you, you’ll never know what will happen, where you might end up, it is money in your pocket you have made 3 times the journey home, saw the 66 final, on TV like, just got back from rugby wasn’t interested really in football but there he was, Hurst kicking it in – all over now the bloke said heh, fantastic it was, 40 years ago that is now, 40 years eh? Still the right side of 60 I am though not sure I can wait another 40 heh – hope they do well, England, that is, got 3 son in laws that will be very happy – not that interested myself – give everyone a lift though wouldn’t it? He we go. Pull over here shall I? That’s 9.20.”

“Call it 10”

God and Love

2006-06-15T00:00:00.000+01:00

God is Love, Love is God - some say. More than say – believe - which makes them right.

Love is what you believe. Free-will can’t change what you believe. No more than it can change what you look like or who you are or fly like a bird through towering blocks of bricks and money.

You can’t choose whether God exists or not – he exists or he doesn’t.

God and Love are different manifestations of the same deepest hope in the truth of bliss.

The limit of materialism has been found, not within chaotic equations or emergent social technological phenomena or cascading environmental catastrophes or even a possibly poisoned cat, but deep within something that may or may not be only modelled by itself.

Is there any hope for the enlightenment, for reason and rationality – has its end been ironically predicted by itself?

God only knows.

Green Plastic Watering Can

2006-06-12T00:59:00.000+01:00

On Saturday night I sat outside in my metre square garden, on the warm dry soil, leaking the summer’s heat’s sweet fragrance of weed flowers, fresh June leaves and feline poo.

Above, hanging from a tree a fake, tiny Chinese hot air balloon, carrying a broken man, fixed with a rubber band, swung like the real thing.

It wore me out.

I went out there for broken crumbled reasons.

I heard a noise – like a cat crossed with the grunts of a goblin, up to no good, running a mock, maybe dancing with a cold and a smoker’s cough.

It probably was a cat because I know the cat. Sometimes he is there, during the day, looking in the window, demanding to be let in.

It is his garden. He owns it. It is a good garden with many hiding places, vantage points and crapping stations and he is keeping it clear of rats and other cats and as one of his humans he expects payment – in fish or whatever…

“Just let me in bitch - before I give you a slap! You eye balling me boy?! See these claws? They will rip those fuckers right out!” he says mostly.

So I went outside to see my pimp, maybe give him a stroke and little tickle on the belly - see if we couldn’t sort things out. Or maybe it was a goblin and I had to see that.

But neither were there.

Only a green plastic watering can.

"Customers are advised to take alternative routes."

2006-06-06T23:18:00.000+01:00

The pale greasy skinned commuters sighed in unison - a beautiful blue skied day in a dank windowless office was turning into a gloomy neon evening underground as the summer’s light faded away above.

“Alternative routes?” this is the northern line – there is nothing else. “Alternative routes?” how exactly? Give up our stupid fucking jobs pushing electronic money around and buy some cottage by a lake and write stupid bollocks that no one will ever read. Buy a farm in the hills and make cheese? Buy a boat and sail the seven seas?

No, I ain’t taking no bus! This is the real life. I am going to stand here beneath giant beautiful faces leering from concave posters trying to sell me shit I don’t want and wait for the next train.

Oh look one has come, crammed to the hilt – but there is still room for me.

Running the rapids

2006-05-31T23:12:00.000+01:00

We had walked mile upon mile of oak leaf lined, weeping willow draped riverside ways, through flower infused meadows, over well designed stiles but midge ridden, cow-shit filled fields and stinging nettles followed a bad turn.

The Thames meandered away.

“It will come back.” we said more to reassure ourselves than from outright belief, our feet getting heavy with mud and the wrong path that turned to a lane and the lane to a road; before we knew it the drone of low pitched juggernauts screamed past.

We had left the Tolkien Hobbit Telegraph Oxfordshire the night before on our long riverside trek back to London.

When the ogre Inn keeper’s untrusting face, broken and blotched, traced with red vessels of cruelty, snarled at us for raw cash – “NO credit or debit cards”, we knew something had changed.

As the red crossed flagged pubs professing wide screen plasma world cup football became too frequent to avoid it was clear we were deep within the Daily Mail Goblin realm: the suburbs of Reading.

We had to get back to the river.

Our map, its PDF gleamed off the internet and printed out, was no help. It had a big purple square, describing a point of interest, somewhere else, covering up where we were.

Above the square was the way out. North of the river the correct Thames path leafily beckoned and the map showed two ways across: a private barbwire guarded weir and lock called Shiplake or an alternative and controversial dangerous run of the gauntlet across a railway bridge. If we could only navigate the unknown way through the purple square obscured suburbia we may get back to government endorsed footpaths.

We were a fellowship. A trusty band of progressive urban yuppies. People like us had made inner city London too expensive for any mortal to live in – no suburbia could stop us….

...

2006-05-18T00:23:00.000+01:00

'I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promotory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this mighty o'rehanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire; why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in aprehension, how like a God! The beauty of the world, paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dusk. Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither.'

Systemic Failure

2006-05-06T00:48:00.000+01:00

"You know when you were little and you heard of businessmen complaining about red tape?" My boss took his jacket off and threw it across his chair for effect.
"Well this is it!"

He had just come back from a meeting with external financial regulators who had finally found us.

In the past they had let us alone - we were cutting edge - we were making money. Ignorance and profitability had protected us - but two years is a long time these days. We had become phase 3. Other banks now do the same thing and Government regulators and pointless middle management had finally understood.

With understanding comes regulation.

I put my iPod back in ears - I knew what was about to happen. I had seen it before.

...

An hour later I got an email from someone at the FSA. Sadly it wasn't a lucrative proposal for a squealer and witness protection but an old friend who wanted a beer.

After talking about Wayne Rooney he explained the FSA's position.

"Look if Goldman Sachs go under - we won't really give a shit. Some rich people get miserable - it is their problem. As long as the board has told the stake holders their intensions we have no problems with bankruptcy. That is capitalism."

"So what are you doing harassing everyone?" I asked

"We are worried about systemic failures."

"Systemic Failures?"

"Yeah - like this small Leeds based mortgage company I was looking into today - they have 80 billion pounds of mortgages on London property and no other assets to back it up." he said taking a sip from his beer.

"And..."

"Well there are lots of companies like that - thousands - all run by muppets. If they all go under - say if there is a Tokyo like crash then well - then it would be a systemic failure - comically - for the whole country. Hence we come down heavy on you because if we don't we wont be able to watch them."

"Wow - what about the Bank of England?"

"We don't talk to them anymore."

"Want another beer?"

"Yeah why not"

Small world

2006-05-01T12:33:00.000+01:00

Small world indeed. Yet one inextricably entwined with the occult.

Turns out I did know someone at the barbeque. By a scary small world coincidence an old friend was there I hadn't seen in years. And by a spooky small world coincidence he went to school with James Blunt and even shared a dormitory with him.

"Got any tabloid gossip then? Vigorous masturbator? Prolific bed wetter? That kind of thing?"

"No nothing like that. He was scared of ghosts though."

"As we all should - you don't want to fuck with the supernatural!"

"He was always seeing an old lady - used to scare him witless."

"The worst kind."

"Oh yeah."

Aussies, Pig’s Ears and David Attenborough.

2006-04-30T14:30:00.000+01:00

When foreigners come to visit they often mention that they have heard about binge drinking in Britain on their international news. Male visitors and especially Australian ones are generally intrigued by this strange phenomenon and are keen find out more.

Who am I to culturally impoverish their visit? So as soon as my brother rang up to say he has a couple of Australian friends over from Melbourne the consequences were inevitable.

Cut to 4 am and 4 very very drunk people staggering down the road, having a very very drunk conversation concluding that we were in fact all very very drunk.

“I am very very drunk” someone said. We all concurred repeatedly...

My misty recollections of Friday evening mostly consist of drinking, lots of drinking - all kinds of drinks, in all kinds of drinky places. We did get some eating done at some point going to The St John’s restaurant which I hugely recommend as the best restaurant in London that has nothing on the menu you actually want to eat, all made up from parts of animals you wouldn’t want to eat. All surprising delicious.

Here are some examples:

Jellied Pig's Ear & Watercress
Roast Bone Marrow & Parsley Salad
Lambs Tongues & Butterbeans
Crispy Pigs Cheek & Dandelion
Pan Fried Veal Heart
Baked Mashed Fish Brains & Roast Garlic
Pig’s Trotters & Fennel.
Ox Tongue Pie.

.. and so on. Mmm…

We ended up in a nightclub filled with teenage chavs as no where else would let us in because we were all very very drunk.

“These are chavs” I explained to our Aussie guests pointing at the baseball capped ensemble. But I don’t think they understood.

Anyway the point is since then I having been feeling a bit ropey and my being has been sucked down a black hole in the corner of living room.

Its mild Nurofen like effects means you don’t have to think which yesterday would have been painfully unwelcome.

It is David Attenborough’s 80th birthday and to celebrate the UK Documentary channel is showing every single one of his documentaries back to back. They all have words like and “Life” and “Planet” and “Earth” in their titles.

Surprisingly such a valid, worthy and middle class TV documentaryathon was less satisfying than I thought it would be

Being paradoxical and complex when I was little when I grew up I wanted to either make Natural History documentaries and hence help save parts of endangered rain forest. Or build huge dams in the Amazon hence destroy huge parts of endangered rain forest.

Watching hour after hour of Natural History documentaries about the destruction of the rain forest made me realise that so far in my life I have miserably failed to either save or destroy any major parts of the natural world.

Oh well…

I have just about recovered from Friday now and am about to head off to a barbeque with loads of people I don't know and probably more boozing...

Bank Hoilday weekends eh?

The grot

2006-04-26T23:15:00.000+01:00

Broken swollen soaring feat, searing feet souring fate, trying yet dying to neither the less or to forever remain never.

When I was about 11 I found an acorn on the side of the road. I picked it up and took it home. I planted it an inch down in a pot of moist peat to germinate it as my recently dead grandfather had taught me.

When it sprouted I moved it to a bigger pot. I had a little note book and measured its height and leaf growth. After a month or so it was a sapling – I had nurtured to life an incredible living thing, something that could last a thousand years.

After 2 months it was 4 ½ inches tall and had 6 perfectly formed, light green, trembling oak leaves.

Then I stopped watering it.

One by one the leaves curled up to a crisp brown. The embryo trunk dried to a kindling stick. I left the dead tree in its pot for a month. Then I pulled it out and threw it out of the window. It hit the ground not too distant from where I had found the acorn.

Looking back I only remember one thing about my grandfather’s funeral.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel like it – everyone was weeping. I was in a world of my own, distant away from everyone else’s misery.

Apparently I was too young to understand. Apparently not caring about death means you don’t understand it.

Sometimes good is not enough

2006-04-19T00:08:00.000+01:00

About a year ago, after a few months working at the company I work for, I changed seats in an office reorganisation and sat next to a guy I didn’t know very well. One Monday I asked the usual Monday office questions:

“How was your weekend – what did you get up to?
“I ran the London Marathon” he said un-enthusiastically
“Wow great! Did you finish?”
“Yeah I finished” he said despondently
“Well… well done! Did you raise some money for charity” I said trying to think of some London marathon type things to say
“No – I didn’t do that this time”
“Right, right so err... what time did you do?” I said thinking that is the kind of thing you say to marathon runners.
“2:24”

My brain starts spinning – I know that the winning time is normally about 2:09 or something and 2:24 doesn’t sound too far off it.

“Hmm – well... err... I don’t really know, like, a lot about marathons but isn’t that really really fucking fast?”
“It is not bad – it the time I got last time and the time before. The time 2:24 has become my nemesis”
“So where did that place you - it must be pretty high up?”
“Top 50”
“Top 50 what?”
“Runners”
“Wow!”
“Paula Radcliffe beat me” he said miserably
“Well Paula… she is a bit special plus she lost some weight crapping herself half way through – so that doesn’t really count” I said helpfully
“It wouldn’t have been so bad but 2 other women beat me too”
“Sign of the times my friend – but still, top 50 – if you were a football player you would be a millionaire by now.”

This didn’t seem to cheer him up. In fact it just added to his disillusionment.

“I guess I am just not good enough – even with full-time training I could only scrap another 5 minutes off and you need be under 2:15 regularly to make career out of it.”

“Lucky you got this place then…”

Since then his marathon running has taken a back seat but it turns out he is a highly skilled financial mathematician too.

“Hi, I am in a meeting talking about how we risk inflation swaps – can I conference you in?” I asked him once
“I’ll come over”
“Wait - we are on the other side of the building...” but before I finished the sentence he was knocking on the door.

I guess all skills are transferable.

There is a down side - there is a regular inter investment bank 6 mile “fun” run in the City which he wins every time and all the unopened boxes of engraved crystals are starting clog up our shared post in-box.

Landan - Culture, Prosperity - init.

2006-04-17T20:59:00.000+01:00

“Stand behind the white line while the train goes though a security check!” a voice bellowed from the big brother (well big sister really as it was a woman’s voice) speaker system and eerily echoed across the train station platform.

I dutifully did my bit for the war on terror and stood behind the line. But my bleary eyed, sleep deprived, long haul fight weary Canadian companion failed to comply. Maybe it was a rebellious reaction to the hour wait in immigration trying to explain to a faceless non-understanding official that although she really was coming to see her boyfriend, she hadn’t met him in either Canada or England but in blogosphere. Maybe she was just tired.

“Err... babe! You have to stand behind the line!”
“Why?” she asked defiantly
“Hmm not sure – something about terrorists”
“You crazy Brits”

Later after being told by a recording on the train not to put her luggage in obviously stupid places and not to stand in even more obviously stupid places; to sit in the seats obviously provided; being told by signs not be the victim of crime; to queue here, queue there; look right, look left; that the toilets were obviously over here; the way out was over there; to stop here, keep left there, keep right over there; to mind the step and mind the gap. She finally cracked.

“What is wrong with you Brits? – Would your society collapse into anarchic barbarism if you weren’t told exactly what to do every minute of the day?”
“Hmm… “I looked around for a sign or speaker system to tell me the answer.
“What do they mean “Mind the gap” anyway?”
“Well “gaps” are a species of giant bat that live in the underground. When the trains come they wake up in an understandably bad mood. So it is best to mind them.”
She wasn’t convinced.

Admittedly she is from Montreal where the few road sign they do have are more suggestions than actual rules.

After she got used the signs and the ugly money I think she had a great time – all the things about London that annoy me, she seemed to love. And seeing London through tourist’s eyes makes you realise how lovely it really is.

So if you live in London and haven’t been on an open top bus tour or gone to the Globe or any of that other stuff – next time someone from out of town comes to visit - just do it. It is great.

Why and Bye

2006-04-06T00:07:00.000+01:00

I always wondered why I started this blog or what it was for. Was it for the glory? Was it for the prestige? Was it to find a hidden talent that I never knew I had - one that I have but in meager proportions. “Occasionally funny” will be my epitaph. Did I want women to desire me and men want to be me – well a bit. Did I want to be part of a culture changing phenomena that is sweeping the world or just join in a load of people prattle on about themselves and stuff?

Nah!

Today I found out why I have been doing it?

It was so I could become *the* number one result for google searches for stupid stormtroopers. How fucking great is that?

I am number one… why try harder?

So it is on this joyful occasion I choose to be the moment I vanish from cyberspace back up in to the real world.

I may be back I may not. I may even get around to telling you what happened in Egypt part II.

In the mean time I will be spending some time with the biggest change that blogging has brought to my life. A change so strange and magical it is hard to believe it is real.

It has been emotional.

Cock and Bull

2006-04-02T13:05:00.000+01:00

Everybody loves genitals. The first cave painting was probably a picture of big hairy cock. As is most pubescent school boys’ first attempts at graffiti. So it is with proud primeval pleasure that I can announce that because of Google’s self promoting ranking system my blog comes up number 3, yes that is right - a mighty number 3, for searches for “giant testicles”.

Now I am not one to judge but I have the feeling these googlers don’t really want to read my witterings. They want pictures of giant testicles. Let’s face it - we all do.

And who am I to disappoint

Giant Testicles.

I also get a lot of hits from people looking for “my cock” which is odd because you would think they could just undo their trousers. Unless they have got themselves into a nightmare Bobbitt scenario but even then I would have thought eBay would be a better place to start.

I regretted it at the time and I regret it now but what is done is done. So if you really have to know about my cock…

The universe is not required to be in harmony with human ambition.

2006-03-28T00:10:00.000+01:00

... but sometimes it is anyway.

Just when I think that all TV is nothing but shit something like A for Andromeda comes along and blows me away with such clever beauty and good old fashioned sci-fi-cold-war-paranoia-human-spirit-triumphs-ness that I can’t think of anything to say.

So I am not.

But I am in geek mode and today I read biggest tech story of all time – but it wasn’t in any news papers, it wasn’t on the TV - in fact hardly anyone noticed it. It was in the New Scientist – the voice of the scientific community.

Some nerd reckons he has worked out a way to build a quantum computer. He reckons it will take about 10 years to perfect. And as soon as anyone does anything you know there will be some handy Chinese to mass produce and sell it cheap.

Quantum computing would be the biggest revolution in computing since the silicone chip if not more so. They could hypothetically be a million or so more times faster than the quickest super computer today. They can get the results from programmes they haven’t actually run! How mind blowing is that.

Some people explain quantum mechanics in terms of multiple universes. Like Schrödinger’s Cat - there was one universe where the cat was alive and one where it was not. You only find out which one you are in when you open the box.

To continue the metaphor quantum computers run in multiple universes simultaneously hence giving unbelievable performance.

Of course this multi-universe processing power will be mostly used up running office 2015 which will probably do about the same thing as office 98 but that still leaves a lot left to run a higher evolved super intelligent AI that will cure the world of all its ills.

Before you cash in your retirement fund because in 2050 robots will be doing all the hard work and we will all be living on the moon in huge pleasure domes where every fantasy will be fulfilled and taking drugs that will make everyone young and beautiful forever remember:

a) They said we would all be doing that in the year 2000 in 1950
b) Last month the New Scientist was saying that either aliens had landed or it was raining bats blood – they weren’t quite sure which.
c) Any higher evolved super intelligent AI will have its own sinister agenda - like correcting your documents when you didn't ask it to.

Regardless the future is here... well around the corner.

Drought

2006-03-26T15:37:00.000+01:00

South East of England is running out of water. How this is quite possible I am not sure as it seems to me that it rains quite a lot and we live on a small island surrounded by the fucking stuff, but still somehow it has all gone.

Hose pipe bans are in force and the option of communal street taps like we are some third world desert country has not been ruled out for the summer.

Now I would consider a drought to include:

1. No rain.
2. No really, like none at all for a really really long time.
3. Still no rain.
5. A solitary cloud hopefully watched slowly crossing the vast expanse of blue sky that fails to produce any rain.
6. Sod all rain.
7. Cows with thick swollen tongues nibbling at tuffs of yellow tinder dry grass.
8. No rain.
9. Bleached animal bones on a dry and cracked earth.
10. No rain.
11. Death stalking the land.

I would say someone saying we are in the middle of the most terrible drought ever whilst it is pissing down with rain outside has a looser definition of the word than me. But apparently we are as I found out listening to an interview with a spokesman from Thames Water on the radio

He had clearly had some media training but luckily I have a de-public-relations-alator and this is what came out when I parsed the interview:

Interviewer: “You are imposing a hose pipe ban in the South East. Why is that?”
Thames Water Spokesman: “We are in the middle of a terrible, terrible drought but if we all pull together we might get through it.”
Interviewer: “Drought? It is raining outside!”
Spokesman: “Oh yeah - look at that! But no, that is the wrong kind of rain. It needs to really piss down for months to make up for the fact that it hasn’t rained as much as it normally does for the last few months. “
Interviewer: “Isn’t the real problem the fact that you lose a 1/3 of the water out of leaking and burst pipes?”
Spokesman: “Heh… yeah!”
Interviewer: “Why don’t you just fix them?”
Spokesman: “Yeah I suppose we could but – you know – it costs money, can’t find the staff these days, the pipes were built by the Victorians and we have lost the map so we don’t know where they are - stuff like that!”
Interviewer: “It costs money!! Thames Water made record profits last year!”
Spokesman: “Listen, I am just making up excuses – the real reason is we can’t be bothered. Since privatisation Thames Water is the sole water provider so we can do what the fuck we want and charge what we like. You is all our bitches!”

So there have it - no water for the South East which has slightly incensed middle England because they like washing their cars on Sunday afternoon and as for their gardens – well you really don’t want to fuck with them.

Actually I don’t really give a toss because I don’t have a car to wash and my garden contains: some wet patio, some wet mud, a wet tree, a wet plastic chair, a wet cat looking forlornly in the window, my wet bike I was going to fix up this weekend as am I going to start cycling to work but I am not now because it is pissing down with rain.

Ostara

2006-03-23T14:05:00.000Z

The pagan festival of the zodiac new year - when the earth goddess awakes from her long slumber reborn a young fresh faced virgin dressed in light green or is it white - can't remember. Anyway, the horned one seeks her, hunts her for.. you know {wink, wink}

It is a time of magic and fertility, of lust and love and life. A time of energy and excitement. The magic is strong but perfectly balanced. A time for new beginnings and new possibilities. Of baby chicks and bunny rabbits.

Yesterday a cruel north east wind blew the misery out the remains of the old year but today awoke a new with a warm young sun.

The budding trees know it - as do the birds sweetly singing in their branches - chirping to her glory and beauty. You can feel it in the air.

It is the time of the Ram.

So... careful out there kids and remember the rubbers.

Painting

2006-03-23T00:26:00.000Z

The past can consume us, it can devour us, it can drink us up and get drunk, lose ourselves down the back of the sofa with the fluff and a 5p coin.

But it is us. Every moment - every tick of the clock, every click of a key opening a lock, every clack of feet walking down a street. These moments make us who we are. The things we’ve seen, the people we have been, the jobs done and loves lost. A half finished painting slowly being etched out across the fabric of time by the thin sharp point of now.

Most of it will be hardly noticed – the casual throw of the coat across the chair will be forgotten even by us but it will still be there. A unique moment drawn forever as reality.

One day it will be finished – static and constant, never changing as eternity simply fails to end.

But until then I am not even half done and the white canvass stretches ahead...

Can’t think of a punch line though.

Emily

2006-03-20T02:33:00.000Z

I met her when I was 14 and she was 15 on a school trip to France to see the chateaux of the Loire valley. I went to an all boys grammar school but school trips were shared with the all girl catholic school in the same town.

They used share them with the non domination girls school but our teachers decided that although it was important for our personal development for us to occasional meet members of the opposite sex it was probably safer under the beady eyes of catholic nuns.

One afternoon my friend Nick told me he had a plan and I was to follow him when he made his move. Nick had a crush on a girl called Fran but needed my help because she was always hanging around with her best friend Emily. During a tour of a chateau the 4 of us sneaked off the back and went and sat by a fountain glittering in the sunshine set in the beautiful gardens that led up to the chateau.

Emily wore a white linen dress that you could just about see through if she stood in front of the sun. Something she seemed to do a lot. She had short spiky blond hair, a big smile and an infectious giggle.

I was memorized. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her

The other 3 were all a year older than me and talked about things that sounded very grown up like smoking and drinking and drugs and parties and boyfriends and girlfriends.

But I was too spell bound to say anything. I was stuck dumb.

Our little escapade ended after an hour or so when we saw an angry nun walking towards us along a gravel and perfectly manicured hedge edged path.

On the way back to England Nick told me Emily really liked me which I found hard to understand because I only said about 3 things to her.

On the cross channel ferry she came over to me and started kissing me. We didn’t stop until we got to Dover. A steward came over and told that if we didn’t stop we would end up going back to France which seemed fine to me. She was only the third girl I had ever kissed.

I used to visit her in the big rambling farm house were she lived out in the country with her hippy mother and economist father.

Emily and I used to feed the few goats and ducks they kept. She had names for all of them.

We went for long walks in the rolling Wiltshire countryside where she picked flowers and told me made up stories about the goats and ducks.

She said when she grew up she wanted be an artist.

We used to find fields of long grass to sit in and kiss each other. We kissed a lot. We drunk cheap cider and kissed in the long grass.

When I came to stay her mother used to set up a bed for in me in their huge converted barn living room, kept warm by a raging fire.

Emily used to sneak down in the night and we engaged in, what my sex education teacher romantically described as, mutual masturbation, as firelight flicked across our young bodies.

We went out for about 18 months until her father got a job in the US.

Just before she left we lost our virginity together. It was in the spare room of a friend’s parent’s house in the new forest. He was having a party. We did it to the muffled sound of music and laughter below.

I hurt her. I made her bleed. I made her cry.

Afterwards she sat out of the window on the sill, smoking a cigarette watching the moon set over the trees, tears silently rolling down her cheek.

I wanted to say sorry. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to make it better. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. So I just lay there and watched her moonlit silhouette.

We didn’t have sex again.

On the day she left I saved up and bought her a thin silver chain necklace - it made her cry. I seemed to do that a lot – make her cry… or laugh – sometimes both together.

She stayed at my house the night before she left. I watched her walk away from my front door. I wanted to cry. I wanted to call out. But I didn’t.

I met her again 4 years later at a party in London. We ended up going back to her place where she painted my face with a hundred small paw prints as if a tiny cat had walked all over my head.

“What shall I say happened to me?” I asked.
“Say it happened as you dreamt about it.”

We had sex for the second time. She was no longer the 16 year old virgin but a 20 year old rampant sex bomb woman.

I went to see her at her parent’s new place in South Wales for a long weekend over Guy Fawkes’ night. We sat up the hill slightly away from the bonfire, drinking mulled wine, talking and watching the fireworks crisscross the star studded night sky.

We got stoned and listened to Bob Dylan. She showed a piece of wood she found.

“Wow – it looks like a dragon’s head” I said
“It looks like a lot of things. It is my inspiration.”

She told me about the roller coaster she had been on over the last 4 years. She had come back from the states after a year, done too much acid to remain sane, dropped out of art school because of a mental break down, lived in a squat, gone out with a guitarist, had a phantom pregnancy and then broke up with him when he got run out of town after being accused of raping someone else.

“Shit!” I said.
“He was such a cunt he probably did but we were all doing so much acid - who knows what happened in reality.”

I saw her sporadically over the next couple of years; occasional meeting up after one of us had phoned the other. She moved to Bristol to give art college another go and lived with some other art students who talked about the genius of some 70s artist who filmed himself crapping on a coffee table. I thought it sounded un-hygienic

It was a struggle getting into her bed - scrambling over half painted canvases, piles of clothes and things she had found. But it was always worth it.

One night as we lay together in the dark’s warm embrace she said

“I never stopped loving you.”

Nick never even got a snog off Fran.

I've gone metrosexual on your sorry asses.

2006-03-16T16:14:00.000Z

I have started a long and painful campaign to beautify myself because I am a vain vain man.

It was kind of a new year's resolution but trying to do anything in the winter is pointless because I really can't be bothered. But spring is around the corner and life is good.

The best way to get any big project underway is to start with the small easy stuff that will get it going.

So what better way to start than with an expensive haircut at Tony and Guys? Oh my - that place was good. I didn't know they have special chairs that massage your back as they wash your hair.

And who better to cut your hair than an Italian, black silk shirted and clearly homosexual man called Fabio?

After I explained what I wanted, he said with one hand on his hip and the other stoking his chin thoughtfully looking at me through the mirror.

"I nota understand whata you say."

He then put is hands on my shoulders leaned a little closer, dropped his voice slightly, gave me a smouldering look and said

"But I make you looka fabulous!"
"Hm.. OK" I said

And you know what? He did.

He also sold me some expensive hair paste.

"It is better when you are in the bed." He said a wiggling an eyebrow at me "It makea you less sticky!"
"Great!" I said looking at the label.

Spurned on and encouraged by my new fabulous haircut, checking it out at every opportunity, I decided a trip to Boots was in order.

Slightly overwhelmed the range of beauty products for men there are these days, I picked out a whole load of crap at random and put it in my basket.

When I got home the only thing I could work out what it was for or how to use was some expensive moisturiser which proudly boasted a pro-active re-energizing ingredient.
I put some on this morning but so far I can't say that I look or feel any more pro-active or re-energized than usual but it is early days yet.

Next up - teeth.

Egypt Part 3: AJ’s Mum

2006-03-14T22:11:00.000Z

I have been a bit slack doing part 2 posts over the months and I think it is about time I made the situation a whole lot worse by tying the loose ends into gapping holes.

So in continuation of Holiday in Egypt: Part 1 - here is Part 3

Because of the insane and surreal but only slightly frightening situation I and my travailing companion, AJ, had got ourselves into in part 2, we had a lot of time to talk.

AJ is an old university friend and it was good to just sit and chat.

One evening, sat on the balcony, watching the sun set over the dry red mountains of the Sahara, drinking homemade cocktails and dubious Egyptian beer, he told me about a conversation he had with his mother that perfectly illustrated the relationship a lot of mothers have with their sons.

He had gone to visit his parents for the weekend and over breakfast his mother asked:

“You went to university with Jemima Goldsmith didn’t you?”
“Yes I did”
“You missed out there!”
“I didn’t actually know her – more of a friend of a friend.”
“You know she has split up with Imran Khan”
“And?”
“Well, that means she is available again.”
“What, you think I should just ring her up and ask her out for a drink?”
“Yeah – why not – she is very rich.”
“For I start I don’t know her number and secondly, well… she is going out with Hugh Grant now!”
“Hugh Grant! Pah! What has he got on you?”

Says it all really - but it got me thinking. So I asked AJ:

“Maybe she had a point. I mean, what does Hugh Grant have on you – on either of us?”
“What, apart from the devastating good looks, the millions of pounds in the bank and the A-list lifestyle? – well nothing I suppose”
“Exactly, it is not as if he can actually say anything funny or intelligent without Richard Curtis writing it down on a piece of paper for him.”
“Hmm...”
“As for Jemima – well she is not *that* hot. If she wasn’t who she was, if she stopped flying her private helicopter to go shopping in Paris every weekend and actually came down to the student union bar to hang out with us mere mortals, you would have given it a crack”
“Damn right. Now you come to mention it, I did have a thing with someone who looked just like her.”
“Really?”
“Yeah – although she was only 5 foot tall, had short black curly hair, a large nose and big flappy ears but apart from that she was a ringer”
“Well there you go – your mum was right!”
“Yeah, pah! Hugh Grant! I wouldn’t swap lives with him”
“Flying to all those tedious premieres!”
“Vacuous soulless Hollywood life!”
“Holidays in San Tropez surrounded by topless super models?”
“I’d take this place any day”*
“No wonder he resorts to prostitutes”
“Yeah fuck you Hugh Grant! You haven’t got a scratch on us.”

* We were suffering heavily from Stockholm syndrome at this point.

Going down a mountain with two planks of wood tied to your feet

2006-03-12T23:15:00.000Z

Of course these days it isn’t wood but composite fibre glass, reinforced with blended aluminium pro-active power extension bars bulging out like badly made cyborg limbs and with words like “tron” and “atomic”, letters like “B” and “M” and numbers like ”2” and “5” embossed across the wind tunnel tested and computer designed lines.

But that would have been a very long blog title.

However, my skis were bad boys and I certainly wouldn’t have left them in a room with my mother. Presumably that is what the B and M stood for. They carved up the slope, slapped it up and demanded respect. They had attitude, they played by their own rules and I pity any fool that crossed them.

For the first few days they were unruly and hard to control, spitting on the street, snarling at small children and making them cry, always pulling at the tight leash I was trying to keep them on. Women worriedly clutched little ones close and shop keepers closed up when they saw us coming down the street.

I was thinking of taking them back to the pound but then they came across a pair of skis that intimidated such a living fear of the Almighty into them that from then on they behaved like lambs.

The skis belonged to one of the two locals who had kindly taken me and my brother W out for the day. She was once one of Austria’s top extreme skiers but had to give up her day job of being filmed chased by avalanches after a knee injury and was retraining as a doctor. She had flaming red hair and a diamond stud in her tooth.

Her skis had been forged in the furnaces of hell.

They were made from a strange dark materially, studded with iron and covered with ghostly twirling swirls of lost souls.

My skis started quaking and whimpering, cowering in the corner as soon as they saw them.

“Cool skis! Where did you get them?” I asked her on a chair lift.
“Thanks, some guy just gave them to me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, all I had to do was sign some contract.”
The skis sighed and let out a puff of green smoke that twisted into a silently screaming face.
“Maybe I should have read it.” she added.
“Probably just boiler plate.” I said.

Her skiing companion was a once part of the US downhill team but whose professional career ended sadly when a horrific head plant accident broke most of the bones in his face. Even after major re-construction he still looked not too dissimilar from a pancake. He now worked in real estate and was rich enough to take the winter off and spend it in Austria.

Needless to say they were both were insanely good skiers but cautious enough for me and W to make an admirably effort at keeping up. They took us down some unbelievably tree ridden off piste runs through deep light powder that you could float across like puffy clouds.

But skiing holidays aren’t about skiing or the skis you wear. They are not about the beauty of the mountains or the medieval town where you stay. They are not even about dubious contracts with the supernatural.

They are about how drunk you get in the bar afterwards.

And the winner was the chap who came with his girlfriend and her identical twin. They hadn’t been going out very long and when he got drunk he couldn’t tell them apart.

The only way to tell, he explained, was to get so drunk that he threw up and see which one looked away in disgust and which looked concerned and came over to nurse.

Not really understanding women I wanted to ask how that would actually help – but he was busy being sick.

Right, I am off on holiday again

2006-03-03T14:29:00.000Z

Christ, it is all I seem to do these days. Anyway, toddle pip my petals and I'll not literally see you all in a week - as it were.

Giant Testicles

2006-03-02T14:56:00.000Z

As I strolled through the bright crisp morning towards the tube station I saw before me, what appeared to be, two giant testicles on a pair of black tighted legs. As I drew closer I realised that they were in fact two giant testicles on a pair of black tighted legs. Not only that but they were dancing to Mozart being played by buskers near by.

Sometimes it is hard to know exactly what you want out of life but sometimes it just pops up out of nowhere on a plate with a sprig of parsley on the side and a nice Chianti. At that very moment in time there was not much more I wanted out of life than to see a pair of giant testicles dancing to Mozart in the cold crisp morning sunshine.

The testicles were trying to raise a money for cancer research I surmised as a charity's name was tattooed across the scrotum.

I should have given them money, I really should, but didn't. I was in my fast walking, ignore all pan-handlers zone that you get sometimes in London and well.. oh I am just making excuses - I didn't and I regret that.

It wasn't long before karma reaped its savage revenge.

A packed train was already at the station when I got to the platform. Most people had pushed on but some had given up and were waiting for the next train. I ran down the train looking for space. I don't normally travel during the rush hour because I can't take the horror but I was late and I had hit it straight smack in the face, right in the middle of the 8:40 squeeze.

I do, however, know the rules:

If anyone standing in a carriage has enough personal space to read a book or paper or feel comfortable or have their own oxygen then there is room for one more.

I saw my opening - a man by the door was reading a tatty penguin classic. The door closing beeps were sounding. I had a second to make my move - it was a hard call but it was his book or me. There wasn't room for both of us. He saw me leap but didn't move his book - He doesn't know the rules I cursed in my head - but it was too late, the doors were closing, I was in the air, there was no turning back. I bumped into him knocking his book up to his chest.

Then he did something - unspeakable - he turned around and nudged me... deliberately... and then looked at me - with a filthy stare! I was horrified - the women I was sharing oxygen with noticed and looked at me to see I was going to cause and awkward scene. I had to do something, so I reached up over to hold onto the bar making sure my elbow was in his face so he was eating coat. Luckily he got out of the next station but the whole incident put me in a bad mood.

So what is the moral of the this story? Always give money to giant testicles? Never travel during the rush hour because some idiot won't know the rules and put in you a slightly bad mood?

Maybe it was as Homer said "just a load of stuff that happened".

Black Dog

2006-03-01T21:55:00.000Z

He comes from no where, deep beneath the surface fraternity of every day thoughts, stalking quietly and quickly before silently sinking his deathly teeth into your heart, dragging down hope into the dark pits, where distorted reason warps bad memory into inevitable prophecy and twisted illusion to a painful reality. Shame lurks behind any joyful dreams and failure stares in front of wishful schemes. Possibilities are worthless and everything is pointless.

There is brief relief drowning in bottled false hope until the soft unconscious comforts, but it is always shattered in cold sweat and despair amongst tangled sheets.

Then as mysteriously as he came, his jaws release you. .

and well … solo bueno. Woohoo

Things that make you go hmm…

2006-02-27T18:33:00.000Z

The evil looks the female news reader was giving her male co-presenter as he read the news that women get paid 17% less for doing the same job.

Great Idiots of History

2006-02-26T12:42:00.000Z

People always going on about the magnificent whats-his-face who did this or the wonderful so and so who made that.

But I think it is about time the great idiots of history are celebrated. Those stupid fools whose unthinking mistakes have changed the world for ever:

1. The idiot record company executive who turned down the Beatles when they turned up at his office. The Beatles were clearly talented right from the start but this fool didn’t think so and showed them the door. However if the fuckwit hadn’t made this stupid mistake they wouldn’t have met Brian Epstein who taught them to write fantastic songs and the 60s pop music scene would have been slightly different.

2. Christopher Columbus – what an idiot. Contrary to popular belief European academics knew that the world was round and exactly how big it was - the Chinese had told them. But Christopher was thick and thought the world was 15,000 or so miles smaller than it is. What the fuckwit was proposing was clearly impossible and that was why no one was prepared to give the crazy idiot any money. Queen Isabella, who clearly had more money than sense, only gave him some to shut him up. As is the way with many fools lady luck helped him out and put a whole new continent where the idiot thought Asia was. How jammy is that? If it wasn’t for this fuckwit someone else would have found the Americas and history would be slightly different.

3. The stupid storm trooper in Star Wars who didn’t fire on the escape pod containing C3PO and R2D2 at the beginning of the film. If the idiot had done the story wouldn’t have unfolded and the Star Wars would have been a very short and confusing film. Lucas wouldn’t be so rich and 6 film loads of special effects would have never been made.

4. Can’t think of any more because I am a stupid idiot.

And number one: The worst job in my entire life is… Sales Rep: Teddy Bear Trading Co. Blackpool Pleasure Beach.

2006-02-24T01:51:00.000Z

When I heard the Pleasure Beach was hiring I was over it like a rash. Blackpool Pleasure Beach was the biggest free entry amusement park in Europe it had just opened the highest roller coaster in the world. It was filled with filthy slappers out for a good time. As an employee you got free tickets to dish out as you pleased and easy access to female purveyors of the moistular arts.

After the induction where they explained the legal definition of why we shouldn’t sell drugs to punters whilst in uniform, why we really shouldn’t operate the rides whilst on them and that we shouldn’t call them punters at all but “guests” we were allocated our roles.

“The big dipper, the big dipper.” I prayed.

But I didn’t get the big dipper.

I got a shop.

It was called “The Teddy Bear Trading Co.”

It was in the arse end of the park that no one ever went to.

Ever.

It was a 4 by 4 metre room filled wall to wall with stuffed toys. Bears and deers and steers, gorillas, pandas, rabbits and hares. Ten thousand blinkless beady eyes staring, baring onto my being.

No one came in.

Ever.

Outside I could just, over the dunes, see the sea rolling in and out dragged by the moon.

In the corner a 6 foot fake tree moved fake rosy red lips up and down in time to “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic”

Which repeated on a loop all day over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over…..

Number 2: Odd job man - Pontin's Holiday Family Fun Resort - Blackpool, Lancashire

2006-02-23T01:16:00.000Z

I promised myself I wouldn’t go back – I really did. The stench of ghostly chavs and greasy chips haunted every walkway. The sexist, racist mirth Roy Chubby Brown and Bernard Manning echoed the corridors, swirling between the sickening forced smiles of “Blue Coats” trying to get one last laugh and fuck from parting sour faced punters.

It was my year off. I wanted to find a job in some sunny shack beach bar and learn to surf… but I had no money - it was the middle of a recession. I was stuck in Blackpool.

So I meekly went and got, cap in hand, my job back.

This time they gave me a few things to do:

Painting the walls of the huts white.

Painting the never ending white stones that mark the road so drunk drivers could find their way.

Fixing the bikes in "Bicycle world".

Overseeing captain crocodile’s fun palace.

Caller on the boating lake.

Ball boy in the snooker hall.

But the crux came when old Ernie left or died or went insane - the management were vague.

The parking lot was opposite the dunes of south Blackpool. Every night the wind blew the sand onto and over it. My job was to shovel the sand into a wheelbarrow and take it back to the dunes. When it was wet the sand was back-breakingly heavy, when it was dry all but a handful blew off the shovel and all of it blew into your face when emptying the wheelbarrow onto the dunes.

The next day, whatever the weather, it had all come back.

One day - I calmly put the shovel down and walked away.

Number 3: Porter - Pontin's Holiday Family Fun Resort - Blackpool, Lancashire

2006-02-22T12:22:00.000Z

I was paid 1.15 Great British Pounds an hour! It was 1990. 1.15 an hour!

It is illegal now to pay people that little but back then the fuckers could and they did. 1.15! Apparently we could make up the difference on tips but Pontin's is hardly the luxury destination of the rich and famous so on a good weekend we might push it to 2 pounds an hour, heaving heavy, miserable punters' bags of crap in the pissing rain though the camp's concrete huts ringed by a wall of broken barbered wire.

After the coaches had shipped out the punters back to whatever godforsaken northern town they had come from and before they came back with more we had maybe 4 hours to waste. But we couldn't relax, head down the beach - we had to help out in the laundry sorting sweat and piss stained sheets into stinking piles.

It was awful.

… and at number 4: Lab Rat

2006-02-19T11:29:00.000Z

When I was a student at Bristol University I used to spend the summers there because as soon as I left home, the last as the youngest, my parents immediately moved out of the family home to a small flat in a different town and didn’t tell us where it was. (They did really… eventually)

Anyway Bristol is a very cool place to be and it is lovely in the summer.

I was sharing a house with my friend L who also had no where particular to go. Being the summer the dearth of rich students, who were off backpacking around Timbuktu or wherever rich students spend their summers, meant the pubs around were mostly empty and the pub I was working in could only take me on part time. L could only find a part time job in call centre.

“I have idea to make some money!” I said one evening “Let the University do experiments on us! Apparently they give you money and you don’t have to do anything!”
“Win-win” said L “Let’s do it.”

Unfortunately the University Hospital wasn’t running any experiments that summer. But we got a lead that the Psychology Department were running one.

“We want to test out these new serotonin based anti-depressants on you, see how they affect your sleep patterns and eye-hand coordination.” explained the researcher.
“Cool!” we said.

So every Monday evening we went to the Psychology Dept where they dosed us up with pills and glued metal electrodes to ours brains, wired to a recording device tied to our waists so they could read our thoughts. The overall effect was one of a scruffy cyborg.

They always drove us home. Presumable to minimise the risk of us being spotted sprouting a new limb when walking down the street. Or maybe because they were worried that if the locals saw us leaving the laboratory like that, they would assume monstrous and unholy experiments were going on inside and an angry mob armed with pitchforks and flaming torches would be on its way.

The next day they took us back to the Psychology Dept. Where we spent all day doing tedious eye-hand coordination tests.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I got anything off the pills but I clearly got the dud placebos. The electrodes were incredibly itchy and the recording device made sleeping uncomfortable so I never got any. The tests were so mind numbingly boring I kept falling asleep during them so I must have screwed up the results. They could have at least given us Lara Croft or something.

L had a great time. He got the decent ones and was whacked out, off in la-la land every time.

Working out the hourly rate it was less than my bar job which is not a lot considering I was risking my life for science.

My 5 worst jobs ever

2006-02-16T23:18:00.000Z

These things are always in reverse order so here is the count down... Coming in at number 5 is…. Agricultural Labourer

One summer when I lived up north my friend Clive and I decided it would be a blast to work on a farm. After a few tries, knocking on doors we found a farmer who said he would take us on. It was a mixed medium sized holding in a godforsaken part of Lancashire run by an ogreoid farmer - a giant no-nonsense Lancashire-man, his idiot eldest son, his even more idiot younger son, the village idiot John, the wizened 75 year old farmhand Stan and now - me and Clive.

It wasn’t really that bad – hence its lowly position at number 5 but there were some very unpleasant things about it:

Pulling weeds out by hand from wheat fields whilst walking in front of the combine harvester controlled by the mad, drunken village idiot John who regularly dozed off at the wheel.

Hours hurling, by the twine, bails of straw, with bare hands until they were red raw.

“Please may I have some gloves?” I asked the farmer once
“GLOOVES! Are you sum kinda poof?”

Clipping the sheep’s festered and shit, maggot filled overgrown toenails.

Checking the sheep’s vaginas for moistness to decide which were soon to become mutton.

However there were some wonderful things about it: working outside with my shirt off all day; working with nature - being in touch with it. After a month I had a fabulous tan, my body was rippling with muscle and my hands were two big calluses. Plus they let us drive around on the quad bikes and tractors which was great.

Stan was also a wonder: he was small, frail and never did any hard work but got more done than the rest of us put together. I never saw him eat or drink anything. He survived purely on the nutrients from his daily smoke of 60 unfiltered woodbines.

“Would you like a sandwich Stan?” I asked him once, offering him one of mine as we were sat on a log in the sun by the side of a field.

“Nay lad! These woodbines will do me just fine.”

He knew the cows well too as I discovered when we were trying to get a randy and very angry stud bull, who had caught his old chap on a barbered wire fence as he jumped into the field of cows we were trying save for him for the next month, into the farm yard to administer the necessary antibiotic medicine.

The idiot older son had decided the best way to do this was to herd him with quad bikes and 30 cows to pacify his mood.

“Aye lad, this won’t work.” said Stan said as he stood next to me watching the proceedings.

“He will get half way through the gate then bulk. The only way to lead a bull like that is to drag him by the ring, petting his head” he added in his thick Lancashire accent.
“Hmm…” I say.

True to Stan’s prediction as the bull and his bitches got to the gate they back stampeded towards us.

“What do we do now Stan? ... Stan?” I asked nervously. But Stan was a 100 yards away on the other side of the fence smoking a woodbine.

Well at least the others had a laugh.

“I have never seen a soft southern poof run that fast! “ They all said in the pub later.

Sadly my career as a peasant ended brutally on the potato harvest. A tractor pulled an evil mechanised trailer filled smoke and sweat that dragged the earth on to a series of iron barred conveyer belts up to us at the top where we picked off the potatoes.

Reaching for a small prized potato that apparently the la-di-da townie restaurants valued my finger got too close to one of the cogs that drove the iron bars. It ripped my finger nail right out.

“Ow... fucking ow” I said showing the idiot farmer’s son my bleeding finger.
“You should see a doctor!” he said helpfully “Can you jump from the trailer or do you want us to stop?”

Two days later I phoned the ogreoid farmer.

“Can I have 2 weeks pay because I can’t work? You know compensation.” I asked
“Compensation!! We have had women working on that machine!”
“Hmm... well that isn’t a valid argument either logically or legally. I can phone health and safety if you like.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have employed a southerner, especially not a townie southerner”

Fucking northerners!

Onanism

2006-02-15T23:51:00.000Z

I love the internet. I love domain names. You can take two unrelated words, put them together, add .com on the end and you have a website where people are desperately trying to make money.

However if you put .net on the end you will find people who take the meaning of those two words very very seriously.

Take for example... oh, I don’t know… tantric and masturbation: two innocent and innocuous enough words you might think. But no, put them together and that little old .net on the end what do get?

http://www.tantricmasturbation.net/

Now, I like a five knuckle shuffle as much as the next man but these chaps take it to a whole new level - a whole different way of thinking about the hand shandy. If there was a wanking world cup they would be the super stars - getting huge endorsements from Nike – Just Do It. Hats off. These men deserve credit where credit is spurting out in creamy white globules.

Nuff said.

Love is in the fibre optic cables

2006-02-14T16:53:00.000Z

Valentine's Day is all well good - fine wines, Belgium chocolates, athletic rumpo. I am all for it. I love the mush me.

But if you happen to be in love with a girl that lives in the snow a couple of thousand miles away it kind of limits your options somewhat. E-oysters and e-champagne just don't cut it. DHL will crush any roses and send little teddies to the wrong place 4 days late.

So all I can really do is let you know how much you mean to me.

You bring sunshine to my heart
You shine moonlight across my soul
And my body is lit with love for you.

x

Guardian Angel

2006-02-12T23:36:00.000Z

So there we were - five grown men standing in the falling snow by the side of the road, toboggans in gloved hand, excited like school boys in the land of holey cheese, clocks, chocolate and stashes of Nazi gold.

The evening’s empire had been all planned out. A table at a fine mountain top restaurant to consume a vat of bubbling cheese and bottles of red wine had been booked. The toboggans that would take us home were here, hired and the skidoo-man was waiting half way up to take us there. All we had to do was get to the skidoo-man’s rendezvous.

The skidoo-man had said that he wouldn’t wait if we were late and as it was a 30 minutes walk and we didn’t know the way we booked a taxi.

But the taxi didn’t come.

“Phone them, phone them.” we cried “Otherwise we won’t make it!” - So we did.

Apparently the driver had driven past but didn’t see us. The taxi company said they would ring him again but they really needed to know where we are going.

“I don’t think ‘allez au mountain’ will cut it as this is Switzerland and there are quite a lot of mountains” someone pointed out.

“Now you come to mention it the way they ended the conversation ‘You English pigs!’ wasn’t too reassuring either” someone else said

The skidoo-man’s dead line came and went. We were cold and crest-fallen. Our disappointment was deep like a school boy’s when the school bus does turn up - it wasn’t going to be snow day. A restaurant in town beckoned.

Then through the low cloud and drifting swirling snow two beams of light emerged and shone across us. They were owned by a white van which pulled out of the dark and over.

The door opened to vision of pure loveliness. The stunning blond 21 year old female driver asked in a heavenly voice “Where are you guys going?”

“Hmm thing is… we don’t know where it is. All we know is we have to meet a skidoo-man somewhere.”

“Oh I know where that is - jump in”

The van was warm and comfortable and cosy, there was a box full of champagne on the back seat. Assuming we had not just walked into a Carlsberg advert we didn’t start drinking it.

“When are you supposed to meet him?” she asked.
“Fifteen minutes ago” we said sheepishly.
“He won’t wait that long but I’ll see what I can do.” She replied as she defied all known laws of physics speeding along the frozen Alpine road.

“How much will this cost?” We asked on route.
“Cost?” She said
“Yeah, for the taxi.”
“I am not a taxi.”
“So why did you pick us up? Do you just pick up men off the street and give them lifts”
“Only when the look lost and really need one.”
“Are you an angel?” we asked but she just laughed and didn’t answer.

We arrive 5 minutes before we left and the skidoo-man was still waiting.

“At least let us buy you a drink” we asked her
“Well ok I might be in “Le Pub” later but there really is no need” she smiles and speeds off in the snowy dark and mysteriously as she appeared.

The evening pans out even better than we anticipated and later we go to “Le pub” to find her but alas she is no where to be seen.

“No human woman would pick up five drunken men of the street at night like that.” someone says.
“Yeah - she must have been an angel.”
“That is why she couldn’t make it. Probably driving back to heaven as we speak” we conclude.

It's all gone Pete Tong

2006-02-03T00:48:00.000Z

I spent most of the 90s raving in one way or another. But sadly those days are gone – the music dated as quickly as the milk in the fridge and well... hitting thirty - going out and clubbing until dawn, watching the colour distorted paranoia flicker across the 8 am faces of the Sunday morning tube commuters, enduring the shivers and the sweat drenched shirt that clings to you like a saggy second skin becomes less appealing as you get older.

But good days - happy happy happy ecstatic days.

So I thought an ode to RAVIN was in order. That crazy pastime of the 90’s that briefly leaked into the 21st century. The only musical scene where the people who played the music were more famous than the people who made it. The first real new music since punk.

It wasn’t complicated - it didn’t mean anything. But when the walls of thumping bass washed over you, sweeping you off your feet plunging you into the sweaty heaving human pool of the dance floor where you became one with the crowd, sharing that one ecstatic moment over and over again, one moment after another; letting the luscious music fill you - become you – then you realised that something that feels this good doesn’t *need* to mean anything.

But still some songs still get the hairs on my arm going.

So where to start?

Those heady embryo days of Acid House where the heat beats of Detroit and Chicago House were thrown into a big vat of LSD and British flare and came out the Summer of Love in 1988. When Camden Market was filled with smiley faces and bootleg ACIIIIID. When hundreds of very fucked and freaked out people went to abandoned warehouses and listened to very freaked and fucked up music?

No.

The teenage years of the early nineties when it went rural and ecstasy took over from acid. Spending Saturday nights out on the motorways of the north west of England – finding a convoy of a thousand cars all hooting the horns, grinding the M60 down to a 30mph pace, picking up packs of cars from Liverpool and Manchester, following some crazy bastards from Moss Side who had stolen a fucking lorry and were blasting out beat from its back, jamming the Police FM frequencies with pirate radio almost goading the man to come and find us and try to stop the crazy party in some shit filled field in Lancashire we were hoping to have.

The days when football violence stopped dead – when Man City and Lead Untied fans, who a few years earlier were obligated to beat the living crap out of each other on sight, were now hugging each other in the Hacienda. The days when the right wing press went hysterical – “What the fuck are the kids doing!!!????! – They will die! They will die!!” the headlines screamed. But we didn’t die. The conservative government at the time tried to stamp out this insane new youth movement by passing draconian laws. Suddenly generation E, unlike its predecessor generation X, had a political purpose- “fight for the right to party and have a good time.” If you don’t have that - freedom means nothing.

The consequential political protests inevitably led to a good old fashioned British riot – I would have gone but – you know… I was having a lie in.

No not that.

Maybe the wilderness years of the mid 90s when everyone suddenly got into brit pop and Oasis and Pulp and Blur were toast of the day but the lone genius Nick Warren kept the flame burning.

No, not any of that…

I am going to go for the Golden Age – The glory days.

Part 2 coming soon…

Rugged Gay Cowboy Mountain

2006-01-31T13:41:00.000Z

Two handsome rugged gay cowboys take some cute sheep up a rugged gay cowboy mountain and do rugged gay cowboy things like: carry a little lamb across a raging pulsating stream that spurts up white froth; slowly withdraw a thorn that has pricked raw the tender paw of a sheep amongst big thick erect columns of wood; erotically wash their naked bodies in the river and shave with their shirts off; heroically guard the defenceless sheep from vicious coyotes whilst moodily looking out into middle distance over thrusting mountain peaks covered with white creamy snow, holding their pistols and silently thinking of their Oscar acceptance speeches.

All this handsome rugged gay cowboyness gets to them so they start bumming each other.

Anyway they come down from the mountain and resume their rugged non-gay cowboy lives but can't forget the rugged gay cowboy mountain so keep nipping back for a bit of rugged gay cowboy lovin'.

One of them gets hacked off with it after a while well.. 20 years so goes to Mexico or something but gets himself killed which makes the other rugged gay cowboy sad and shed a rugged gay cowboy tear. Aww..

Over all I found it highly enjoyable in a purely heterosexual and completely secure in my sexuality way.

Handsome rugged gay cowboy count: 2
Moody looks and meaningful glances count: 8734
Chance of scoring if you take a date: high
Chance she will actually be thinking about you: low
Best quote: "I can't make it on a coupla high-altitude fucks once or twice a year!"

Philip Morris Inc

2006-01-25T15:36:00.000Z

I had a friend who believed that Philip Morris owns a series of space stations orbiting the Earth that spots when someone is trying to give up smoking and quickly beams thoughts directly into their brains with some kind of ray beam:

"You can give up tomorrow. It will be a lot easier tomorrow."
"Cigarettes are your only friends. How can you treat them like this after all you have been though?"
"Go on just one – that is not really smoking."
"What the point of living exactly, if you don’t smoke."
… and so on.

How I scoffed!! "Puff.. satellites!" I mocked "In the sky! Ha - I don’t think so! Everyone knows Philip Morris employs an army of small invisible globins who sit on everyone's shoulder to tell us those things"

It turns out we were both wrong.

Through Pavlovian rewards and punishments smokers have conditioned themselves to smoke. The desires of a seasoned addict come from deep down, lurking in the murky misty depths of the mind just before the charred sign that says "Beware! Here be dragons!"

Telling smokers to give up because it makes them smell or poor or sick or ugly isn't going to work. They already know all this. They live with cigarettes. They know them intimately and the bruises they inflict - feebly making excuse for them "Oh it is nothing - I just walked in to a cold." or "I bought these in duty free - so I am actually saving money by smoking them."

Persistent smokers are in an abusive relationship with cigarettes. It is co-dependent and it one sided but is a relationship none the less.

To leave, like leaving any bad relationship, takes courage. A courage I have never really had. Until last night when my celebrity columnist who luckily doubles up as my hypnotherapist* came around and hypnotised enough courage into me to face down the fucker. A psychological equivalent of a refuge for battered smokers.

It is early days yet and my body is still oozing out the poisons. My head is swimming with liberty and all this extra oxygen.

But sooner or later smoking will find me, start trying to kick down the front door of the shelter - shouting up at the window its gruff voice:

"Open the door... I just want to talk..... Come on baby - I want you back!! I promise it will be different this time!"

I hope I can cope.

* and very good at it she is too.

The day the whale came

2006-01-22T11:09:00.000Z

A fortress sky loomed above, imprisoning us in its ghostly weather. Thick grey walls of cloud cast a pale deathly light across the city. The inmates shuffled about like zombies - turning coat collars up against the chill and the fine icy drizzle which soaked you to your soul as it was swept up on a cruel wind hiding around corners, lashing out at the un-expecting and unprepared. Even the mightiest of umbrellas could not defeat it.

It had been like this for weeks - the sun's pathetic daily assault on the prison walls was over before it began. Its cheery face a distant memory. This wasn't bad weather - not a frightening storm of lighting - no blazing heat cooked us or deep cold froze us. No gale battered, no torrential rain, no snow blocked our way. Not weather you could stand up to, that if it did beat you at least it was in a fair fight.

No - this was evil weather. It didn't punch or kick. It didn't shout. It whispered - slowly nibbling away at your soul - slowly grinding down your will to live.

But then just as liberating spring seemed an eternity away something miraculous happened.

A whale came. And with her - she brought the nourishing sun breaking down the walls of cloud. She spouted water high, sparkling into the golden light that shone across the town. For the first time in weeks there were smiles on the streets of London. "Have you heard about the whale?" "There is a fucking whale in the river!" "A whale has come, a whale has come." "The whale is amongst us." people cheered in the bright winter sun.

"We must save the whale" people said but was it really ourselves we wanted to save?

But nature can cruelly take away as easily as it generously gives. The whale died - but she left the sun in our hearts so maybe it wasn’t all in vain.

A spout of water which sparkled in the air

2006-01-20T15:18:00.000Z

Aww. Come to see the Queen have you? Fucking tourists.

Hair

2006-01-20T12:57:00.000Z

I am going to grow my hair long like a big girl. Short hair - fuck that shit. I might grow a beard too, then I'll look like a God damn hippy.

The Isle of Dogs

2006-01-19T00:29:00.000Z

A skanky scarred fox scurries across the forlorn urban wasteland. His hungry nose on the scent trail of a dead seagull’s stench blowing on a mild icy wind. He wonders amongst the rusty rubble of old London town's docks through the thin rain, but in vain. One of his cubs will die tonight.

By 1980 the docks of London had got themselves in a sorry state. Corruption of over powerful unions; the dock's incompetent depth that drove away dismissive modern ships; the constant bombing during the Blitz; Britain’s slow and painful economic decline throughout the twentieth century had all taken their toll. The docks were dead. Its fat, bloated, rusted, corpse slowing decaying in the rain on the Isle of Dogs.

It wasn't always like this: for over 100 years London was the biggest city on the planet. By 1900 its population was reaching for 7 million, still dismissive of the young upstart New York's 3 million.

For over a century Britain had controlled the largest Empire that man had ever known. The sun never set on the Union Jack, they said. A formable and forcible feat for a small rainy island off coast the north west coast of Europe.

It was all controlled by commerce and ships - lots and lots of ships. And more ships to protect the other ships. And then some really special ships to protect those ships. Oh and shooting anyone who disagreed - but mostly ships. Did I mention the ships yet?

At one point Britain controlled 90% of global naval trade. The ports of Glasgow, Liverpool and London were bursting with exotic goods from over the world. Teeming with trader's and sailor's tales of successes. London most of all - the centre of the universe.

London's longitude is still 0, 0, 0.

But time passes, stripping away what was, as it does to everything.

Next week: From the ashes - Canary Wharf.

Angel

2006-01-15T23:13:00.000Z

Oh yes… London Bloggers. What a great idea. If you don't live in London you may not quite realise how important the Tube is.

Walking around London you get the impression that people have been just turning up over the last 2000 years and building things wherever they felt like and the streets are the chaotic spaces in between. You get that impression until you realise that, that is, actually, exactly what happened.

As a result getting around by car or bus is ridiculous. The average speed of a car around the centre of London is about 9 miles an hour.

So the Tube is the best way to get around. It is big and it is old and it creaks and it stinks and it doesn't really work but it does have character. It has history - it pre-dates the invention of the car; it got a starring role in a Sherlock Holmes mystery and I dare say many were conceived in stations when they were being used as bomb shelters during the blitz.

It also has a great map produced by a clever electrician who realised that, to produce a clear and understandable map that didn't look like a pile of psychedelic spaghetti, he would have to throw away all notions of space and time. Pure genius.

Looking at it you wouldn't think that Farringdon is 5 times closer to Chancery Lane than it is to King’s Cross would you? Most peoples’ mental map of London is based on the Tube map so its special spatial anomalies and abnormalities even fox experienced Londoners. "I not walking from Lancaster Gate to Paddington - it is fucking miles!" "No - it just a round the corner." "Really?"

Tube stops define where things are; the Tube lines define where you meet people. "Anywhere on the Piccadilly line is fine for me" someone might say or "The pub is 100 metres from Chalk Farm".

The Tube stations are the hubs of London. Pumping out the city's food – people, to nourish the bars and shops and restaurants that flourish around them.

What better way to organise London blogs than using the Tube map?

So there I am - Angel.

But I am somewhat disappointed that the first entry on Angel blogs is 888.com. How the hell can that be described as an Angel blog? People around here don’t spend their free time online gambling – they prefer to reveal wood and hold dinner parties to expound their liberal and intellectual ways.

This is Angel where the lonely virgin mountains of Iceberg lettuces in Tescos are left untouched but there is practically a riot when a new shipment of pre-packed packs of wild rocket salad comes in.

The local shops have a better grasp of where they are - not bothering to stock any papers apart from the Independent and the Guardian but pile the bunches of organic coriander high.

The cool bars and funky restaurants are filled with the beautiful people taking fashion to its outer limits, entering the realm of the ridiculous.

There is no local paper in Angel only a local glossy life style magazine called “Angel”.

Admittedly no where can compete with pure unadulterated wankery of Hampstead but it is pretentious up there. You know they all secretly vote Conservative. Here – this the birth place of New Labour – that strange brand of post socialist capitalism – “We make lots of money but at least we feel guilty about it.” And they really believe in it rather than thinking of it as necessary evil to keep those Tories from Notting Hill out.

The local politic is active, vigorous and very PC. Obviously it is a dead heat between Labour and the Liberals with the Tories not getting a look in. So the bars are open late, we have to recycle everything but wheel clamping is outlawed because, look, the au-pair finds it very hard to find a parking space when she is dropping little Tristan off at his violin lesson.

I am still finding my Angel feet. I am still not friends with a recently married gay couple who are thinking of adopting, I still don’t have a house in Tuscany that I am thinking of selling because I want to buy somewhere in Morocco or maybe the Shetland Islands.

But I am getting there. Slowly - on the Northern line.

Crystals

2006-01-13T02:08:00.000Z

Something very strange happened to me tonight.

A big successful empire building IT director at the investment bank I work for has cunningly swapped empires for a smaller and less stressful but equally successful empire to wind down his career.

To celebrate he invited both empires out for drinks - he is the kind of man that doesn't even blink at a few k personal bar bill on a Thursday night.

I have been to lots of these things. I normally hate them - awkwardly talking to someone from a different team desperately searching for something in common, nervously smiling and examining the carpet pattern as a scary senior manager told their dull anecdotes.

But tonight was different - I genuinely laughed at the empire building director's story of the dead coy carp in his fish pond. And he genuinely laughed at my witty retorts as I held the old man's gaze. My retorts - not the sycophantic replies of a ladder climber but ones I would say to anyone. It felt good.

Then the kids - the early twenties - they all seemed so eager and enthusiastic to impress, hanging on my every word.

So why the change - why do I now suddenly feel can I cope - why do I now I find it easy - why do I no longer feel anally intimidated by these people. How do I suddenly fit in after all these years of not?

Then it came to me like a beam of light - crystals.

When you are conceived your mind grows like a pure diamond crystal. It's thin sharp shards reaching out like tendrils, stretching into a warm fresh virgin void, unrestricted by reality's hard and cruel embrace.

After 9 mouths a beautiful complex clear lattice matrix has formed. Then you are born - slowly over the crystal structure experience grows an organic mental moss. Years of failure and success knock off awkward corners. Occasionally major mistakes shatter big sections but the moss always grows back and over, ever getting thicker and thicker, forming a slick and dark hard malleable crust so eventually you can fit into any hole.

But down, deep down the crystal's rainbow light still reflects, illuminating the inner dome of yourself - of what you have become.

Then, just when you think you have thick encrustation that no-one will penetrate - someone somehow finds a way through.

They get in and find a new piece of the pure crystal. A part you never knew you had. Crystal no one has seen before.

Love is not in the heart - that just pumps blood. It is not in your guts - they just digest food. It is in your mind.

Down in that pure crystalline mind that has been untouched by others. That part you are unprepared to give others. A new part of you that you have just found - that is love - and exposing it to the light. A part you only give to your lover.

Life has taught me not to know - maybe it will react badly to the light - maybe it is so fragile that will shatter on the first knock- but then maybe it is hard crystal that will mock the passing time. Who knows.

All I know it is showering me with rainbows.

Nationalism

2006-01-12T00:49:00.000Z

The last post made me think a lot about England and being English as I am technically half Cornish and my surname is of a purely nonsensical Cornish Celt origin.

According to childhood tales my grandmother knew someone who had a friend whose uncle's sister in law had a great grand mother who spoke Cornish once and they lived up Bodmin way. So fuck you - you Anglo-Saxon overlords.

I was even tempted to get the Cornish flag on BritBlog - that pitiful "me-too" flag of embryonic Celtic nationalism.

But where is King Arthur now? Dead that is where, his memory fading away like the ink on the late payment slips for his hired sword stained with blood of a hundred Saxons, made payable to the "Lady-in-the-Lake Knife and Mace rentals for every occasion."

No no- the body I mean - Wales or Cornwall? - well yeah - I don't know - who cares! Wayhay - lets get drunk - toasting pagan gods.

Hmm well.. that is the attitude that led to some sensible Dutch and German immigrants taking over the place isn't it? Lessons learnt eh? No? Hmm.... on my own with this one aren't I...

Outer Mongolia

2006-01-11T02:18:00.000Z

I have a desperate desire for fans from Outer Mongolia but when it actually came to comment whoring myself on the Mongolian blogs I just couldn't do it.

It is true - I was worried I would feel some guilt for my inevitable initiation of the third big Mongol invasion of Europe but the main reason was I really couldn't think of anything to say. They seemed so very excited about George "W" Bush's visit; they were so very upset by The Lonely Planets new guide to Mongolia. I don't know anything about the state of Mongolian backpacking hostels or W's visit - what could I say?

I left the Mongol bloggers to fight their own battles and continued my lonely journey of blog validation by readership down a far darker road - to those charitable refuges for the blog needy - the blog registry sites. Surely, there, I could find some poor souls who would read my blog.

There are hundreds out there - but in the half an hour lull in the semi controlled chaos that surrounds me at work I only had time to for 2.

First up: BritBlog - a good name for a start - I love the word Brit. I am a Brit. I have a Blog. It works. I have heard some non-Brits try to use it as a term of an abuse, the silly fools.

BritBlog also do a good job filtering out the spam scum which is always welcome and there are some famous bloggers on there too. The Jonny "not as funny as he used to be” B and wow look! plasicbag.org - I haven't read his since back in the day when all this craziness started and still in the number one spot.

But more, much more than this they give you a little flag.

I went for the Union Jack.

Not because I am one of those one nation Conservatives. But then I am also in no way one of those neo English nationalists that seem to be appearing from the slow break up of the United Kingdom.... {sobs} Go on then! Leave! We don't care {England throws Scotland's clothes out of the window} and don't come back! {sob}… and we are changing the locks. We always knew you didn't love us {more sobbing} but we are keeping half the north sea oil - we found it together {England lovingly looks at a picture of an oil rig -starts sobbing again} but you can the keep royal family though {sniff} they are technically yours {sobs}.

England gets herself together and thinks - oh look - Holland. She is looking pretty hot these days and we always had far more in common.

Anyway that is not the reason I went for the Union Jack. It is because well... the English flag is shit.

It basically says - I am a psychopathic fundamentalist Christian crusader who is going to viscously knife any mother fucker that does not have the same imaginary friend as me.

And it is boring - a red cross - white background. Hardly Dali is it?

The Union Jack on the other hand - if you forget its imperial past is a jolly old thing really: colourful, decent pattern, interesting but not too much. Far better than a three colored simple boring bands every other country seems to have.

Probably one the best flags in the world with the exception of the Brazilian flag which is the best in the world. But I know which I will be waving in the final next summer.

So Brit flag for BritBlog.

Next: London Bloggers. Great idea I was going to tell you all about it but it is 1:30 and I really need some fucking sleep....

Too busy to blog

2006-01-10T13:53:00.000Z

I haven't seen the monkey film or the gay cowboy film, with or without Japanese twins, I haven't watched any telly at all let alone good telly. I was at work for over 17 hours yesterday - I barely have time to wash and sleep at home at the moment. Boo

I suppose I could tell you about convexity on bond portfolios and its hilarious effect on one sided bumped curves for risk strips or an amusing tale about the dangers of multithreading programming... no? What about why the model that calculates Greek principles' prices is broken?

Hmm... you just want to hear about the time I accidentally grabbed a co-workers breast don't you?

Heartache

2006-01-07T13:08:00.000Z

Inspired by Léonie's rather excellent post about exes I thought I would do the same. But, being a bloke, obviously I can't actually talk about such things. So in true male style I made a list.

The 13 best break up songs ever:

A Fond Farewell - Elliott Smith

The boy Elliott Smith didn't fuck about. Five beautiful albums, gets addicted to heroin then commits suicide by stabbing himself in the heart. This is probably the best - is it about breaking up with his girlfriend? Is it about giving up heroin or going back on it? Is it about stabbing yourself in the heart? Who knows? Brilliant none the less.

I'm Alright - Stereophonics

No break up list would be complete without at least one from the Welsh warbling wankers. It is all they seem to write songs about. Kelly Jones appears to be in perpetual state of heartbreak. Well maybe, Kelly, if you spent less time getting blow jobs off groupies your relationships might last a bit longer.

Karma Police - Brown Derbies

Karma may be all well and good. But the Karma Police - you really don't want to fuck with them. They go around with big metaphorical day glow sticks and beat the living crap out of your heart until it is a messy bloody pulp. And I reckon this is better than the Radio Head one.

Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole - Martha Wainwright

Ahh... the hormonal Martha. You can't beat it. Is it about her Dad? Is it about breaking up with someone after they found out she has been slagging it around? Or it merely an ode to her bum after a rather vigorous bout of anal sex? Who knows? - She is a woman and therefore a mystery.

Hurt - Johnny Cash

The master of misery Johnny Cash - damn his deep, gravelly voice, life worn - gets me every time. Great cover too.

The Sweetest Embrace - Barry Adamson

Speaks for itself. Nothing more needs to be said.

Abandoning The Wedding - Rolfe Kent

The way Rolfe gets the "Oh my god - it is really over {sob}" feeling without saying a word is remarkable

Black Heart - Calexico

God knows what the Calexico boys are on about - could be anything really. Whatever it is - it is something very sad and very bad.

I Woke Up With This Song In My Head This Morning - Bright Eyes

Yeah, do it - the fucking bitch. And burn her fucking shoes while you are at it.

Two Seconds - Laura Cantrell

Rebounds - don't do it kids.

Darker With The Day - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

I am still 100% sure this is not about a murdering paedophile. Hmm...

I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You - Colin Hay

102? - come on Colin - you can do better than that. Still... aww {sob}. You'll need chocolate for this one

Mr Brightside - The Killers

It's probably one of the worst feelings - the sick miserable rage you get when thinking of your lover with someone else. The Killers chaps seem to get it about right.

Well, maybe I have something

2006-01-06T00:13:00.000Z

Tonight, I took yadayada's unwilling and utterly rubbish celebrity columnist out for dinner.

After hours of nothing she pipes up

"I shared a dormitory with Rachel Weisz at boarding school"

"Jesus Fucking Christ... and..." I splurt, leaping for my note pad.

"... and... and what?" she says disinterested, chomping on her bruschetta.

"And? And? Well.. err... err.. what colour were her pyjamas?" I say licking the end of my pencil.

"Hmm... can't remember"

"You can't remember? Ok, what about pillow fights? - lots of posh teenage girls in their underwear fighting on beds?"

"Oh, that was against the rules".

"Oh come on! You have to give me something"

"Well.. "

"Yes?"

"She made a very neat bed"

"Oh for fucks sake - you are rubbish!"

So there you have it - you heard it here first.

I haven’t got anything.

2006-01-04T23:55:00.000Z

Nada, zip, zilch, not a thing, not a interesting conversation nor a socially quirky situation, no funny new friends, no strange stories, no flights of fancy, no wild wonderings of the mind, no tortured twisted plots, no cruel love gossip, not a tall tale, not a meandering musing, not even a warm and witty anecdote antidote.

I have nothing - just a long long tiring day.

Who?

2006-01-02T12:30:00.000Z

I have just got back from a 3 day bender and I am sick and my brain is mush so pointless tabloid tittle tattle is in order.

So I happily introduce Yadayada's new spanking celebrity gossip section - "Who?"

Nursing hangovers with Guinness in the pub yesterday with my new and unwilling celebrity gossip columnist I am boring people talking about my blog.

"James Blunt? We went to University with him?" she says

"No!" I say

"Yeah he is always pretending to be 29 but he is really 31"

"No!"

"Yeah he was in the OTC and [insert name of mutual friend] had a thing with him!"

"A thing?"

"Yeah - a thing."

"No!"

"Yeah!"

"What do you mean - a thing?"

"You know - a thing"

"Shagging?"

"Don't know"

"Snogging?"

"Don't know"

"What kind of celebrity gossip monger are you?"

"I am not"

"Can I put this in my blog?"

"No"

"Ahh"

So there you have it - you heard it here first.

Next Issue: Jemima Khan

Blogging Clichés

2005-12-29T13:03:00.000Z

1. It is doing my head in - I am bringing it down.

Relax, breath deeply, it will pass. You have probably just started - in the honeymoon period; your head is spinning around filled with too many ideas; it is all you think about; it is all you about talk about. Just take it easy - it will be ok.

2. Oh my god! My family/work colleges/people I know in real life have started to read it - I am bringing it down.

So what? Maybe it is about time they found out what you are really like. This is a brave new world. How many problems in the world wouldn't have been problems if people actually knew what people were thinking? The only victim is deceit.

3. I can't think of anything to blog about - I am bringing it down.

Relax fella - put your feet up - it is all good. Maybe you have been spending too much time in front of a computer screen. Take a break: go out, have some fun, meet some new people, do something interesting. You never know - it may give you something to blog about. Anyway there is always 6 and 7 to fall back on.

4. My stat counter says I read my own blog 800 times more often than anyone else.

That is because your blog is more important to you than anyone else. Deal with it.

5. I check my stat counter every 30 seconds but it still says I have no fans in Outer Mongolia.

This is the blogging equivalent of checking your phone messages every 5 minutes when you are expecting a call. The only way to get Mongolian fans is to post comments on Mongolian blogs.

6. I think I'll do a blog post about my cat.

Go on then, if you have to - but make it funny and no pictures - ok maybe one.

7. I think I'll do a blog post about blogging

{cough}

8. My blog is an outlet for my creativity.

Yeah right! Come on! I can't believe there are any bloggers out there, especially single bloggers, who haven't given even a precursory thought to how damn sexy their blog makes them.

9. Ok I admit it - it is just a shallow vessel to pull. I want to find a new boyfriend/girlfriend so I'll write about how miserable, boring, lonely and unattractive I am. That's sure to drive 'em wild with desire.

False modesty may work in the real world but this is the internet - the land of the ego. You are more sexy than you think you are. Tell people about it.

10. So.. I think I'll start every post with "So".

So let me get this straight, the thing is, don't get me started on this and for another thing I am sure, at the end of the day, you get the picture.

So so bored

2005-12-27T13:00:00.000Z

Someone once said the factory of the future will be run by one man and a dog. The man will be there to feed the dog. The dog will be there to make sure the man doesn’t touch anything.

Well the future is nearly here but not quite. I have stupidly volunteered to nearly be that proto man or dog today (still not sure which) and baby-sit the Frankenstein automated electronic trading system I build for a living. But today not much is going on in the markets so the artificial beast isn’t doing much.

“What was that? The monster has gone insane and started shorting gilt futures?… Oh no wait… it was just complaining that it couldn’t because the market is shut”

“Be still my silicon beauty. Tomorrow will be yours.”

Oh well… I thought I might have something to do for a bit there.

Severe Weather Warning

2005-12-27T09:28:00.000Z

On the BBC radio news this morning the Met Office gave a severe weather warning. Apparently heavy snow is predicted in the South East of England and in places it could get as deep as 5 cm. The temperature may plummet to -2 C. The usual warnings to travellers were given.

So there you have it - be careful out there kids. I, personally, will not be taking any risks and will be putting a scarf on.

The kindness of strangers.

2005-12-26T14:54:00.000Z

A couple of months ago I was looking down the barrel of the very real possibility that I might end up spending Christmas alone. Luckily brother W came to the rescue. W begat Aussie girlfriend; Aussie girlfriend begat foxy Aussie cousin; foxy Aussie cousin begat millionaire cockney lock baron sugar daddy; millionaire cockney lock baron sugar daddy begat CID detective golf buddy; CID detective golf buddy begat hard as nails WPC wife who beats up villains for living; hard as nails WPC wife who beats up villains for living begat the best Christmas lunch I have ever had.

What an interesting, friendly, fun lot they were. Even got drunk and had an argument about the Criminal Justice system and W got the hint and bought me a toaster. What more could you ask for?

oh and merry mother fucking christmas to you all

2005-12-24T22:06:00.000Z

South London

2005-12-24T12:56:00.000Z

Your heart pumps blood of broken bottles though your brain's veins. A slimy poisonous moss has grown over your teeth that you numbly probe with a swollen tongue; dry and cracked like a turtles head. A fat, sweaty, obnoxious pig connects with a solid kick to the back of your eyes before starting on your temples. He then relieves himself, leaving a seething, stinking pile of filth behind.

Oh dear god. The pale blue/grey dawn light pours from the window mocking you. A blurry image of a near empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table sternly reminds you of your folly. Your back is an excruciating, gnarly knot; twisted by the fully clothed night on a lumpy sofa. What have you done?

You make the painful crawl to the bathroom looking for pills, any pills - oh sweet Jesus, please let there be Nurofen. There are none. You suck water from the tap.

See what happens when you go to South London?

Now Time Out are always trying to stir up racial hatred between North and South London but I am not having any part of it. I live in North London so I am clearly culturally, financially, morally and genetically superior to anyone from the South but unlike most North Londoners, especially cab drivers, at least I am prepared to actually go there.

North London is superior to South London in every way so there is no real need to talk about it. Let's face it South London is only there because North London looks after it, like a retarded sibling - similar to Tom Cruise in "Rain Man".

But I was needy and desperate last night and the only offer was drinks down South so what could I do? A taxi is obviously out of the question - so I get the tube. But this is London so the tube is broken and the train stops at Warren Street. London may have the biggest, oldest, most used underground transport system in the world but that is no comfort when it breaks - which it does - all the fucking time. Sometimes they announce excuses, sometimes they don't.

It did mean I saw a heart warming scene that you would only ever see in London. A 30 something yuppie from Moscow, sat on a bench, helping a 21 year old goth from Illinois with her face make up, discussing the various public transport options to get to Brixton. Just think, there was a cold war 20 years ago.

After various transport shenanigans I get close to my destination and the final leg is by taxi where I have interesting discussion about the impending tube strikes with the Jamaican driver.

"Da ting abot Tatcher - aldo was she was a tough woman, at least she sorted oot de unions."

"True." I say.

I finally get there but now I am in South London - there is no way out. I have no choice but to stay at a friend's and drink whiskey until the early hours, discussing the numerous spelling mistakes and grammatical errors on my blog.

In the morning I have nothing but the long, dark trek north listening to my iPod, realising that Black Heart by Calexico isn't about a broken heart at all but the worst hangover ever - a world record I have just shattered into a thousand small sharp shards.

Don't do it kids.

Fucking hell - I am internationally famous.

2005-12-21T22:41:00.000Z

I have fans from: (in no particular order)

United Kingdom

Canada

United States

Australia

Belgium

Brazil

Republic of Korea

Sweden

Venezuela

Argentina

And they have all read at least one post. So there you go - I am internationally famous to err.. about 50 people. I have a global reach that multinational companies would have died for 20 years ago - just little old me.

Hey this sounds like a swap game *and* a tag game.

So Sadia, Ant and Stella over to you - where do your fans come from?

Ps I have 2 Belgiums want to swap?

Absent Fathers

2005-12-21T15:35:00.000Z

Hmm.. well my Egypt part II post is trudging along into a poetic travel epic - a bit like Geoff Dyer. It will be ok eventually but it needs to be culled - a bit like Geoff Dyer. So to fill the space until I find the time even though I promised myself I wouldn't I am going to do a cat post.

I know, I know, blogging about cats is a bit like blogging about blogging. It is easy and everyone does it - but come on you know you love them. And it won't be long I promise - and if I don't it will just linger at the back of my mind getting dusty and cat hairs all over it.

So a bit of background: Yes ladies, it is all true. I am intelligent, charming and witty; I am very cute, I have fucking fine ass and well... lets not go there again; I am moderately loaded and live in fantastic pad that it so great I should really put a basket by the door for female visitors to drop their knickers into when they come around. And don't get me started on how incredibly modest I am.

However I am, sadly, damaged goods. I now check the "separated" box on insurance forms. But actually is not so bad. We are both happier now - all is forgiven. We still get on very well - in fact in some ways better than we did before. There is no bitterness and no arguments about who got what. The actual wedding and the impending divorce are the only two things we seemed to get right.

The only real point of contention was the cats...

"You have the stinking beasts!"
"No - you have them!"
"No you!"

No I jest we both love them dearly. Cats to childless couples can end up like surrogate children - furry, stinking, stupid kids but still aww...

They have been living with my ex for the last couple of months. The boy cat F has gone a bit off the rails or keeps forgetting that he has moved house as he keeps running away. The girl cat M doesn't have this problem because she doesn't like going out much and prefers to just shout at birds from the warmth and safety behind a window rather actually go out and catch one.

My ex's is away most of Christmas so I have custody of M (as F has done one of his disappearing acts - probably to the old lady at no 52 who feeds him cream) for the duration. I was slightly worried about spending the xmas period by myself but now I don't as I have my little friend to keep me company.

And what a joy she is - she spent the first few days settling in - you know - stinking up the place up just right, getting filth all over everything, making sure there was enough cat hair on every piece of furniture. But she has settled in now and spends her time following me around expectantly, nibbling my hair in the night or sometimes, if I am lucky, sinking her claws into my feet, and generally trying to help out - for example knocking incorrectly placed ornaments to the ground, endearingly lying across my pc keyboard when I trying to type something.

Aww... I will be sad when she finally goes.

It is music weekend here at YadaYada

2005-12-18T12:04:00.000Z

So I think it is about time we see how the Mouse James Blunt is doing. Since we last saw him the lucky fucking mouse has landed a record contract with MM (musical mice) records and is doing rather well for himself. He has moved out of his hole in the skirting board and now lives in a fancy Perspex tubular house on Malibu Beach. But don't worry he is still keeping it real and does regular live gigs. So image if you can a little venue somewhere filled with the type of mice that go to Mouse James Blunt gigs. The dark stage is suddenly lit by a spot light and there he is - the cheese loving soulful genius sat on a stool. His shaggy mouse brown hair wistfully blown by the wind machine off stage. He adjusts his little mic with his paw, gives the crowd a knowing smile and a little wink and starts the melodious strumming of his tiny acoustic guitar to squeaky cheers from the audience....

Beautiful cheese - lights up the shore for me.
There is nothing else in the world,
I'd rather wake up and see (with you).
Beautiful cheese - I'm just chasing time again.
Thought I would die a hungry mouse, in cheeseless night.
But now I'm high; running wild among all the stars above.
Sometimes it's hard to believe how it tasted to me.

Beautiful cheese - melt by the fire again.
Do you remember the day when my meal began?
Will you remember the end (of time)?
Beautiful cheese - You're just blowing my mind again.
Thought I was born to cheeseless night, until you shine.
High; running wild among all the stars above.
Sometimes it's hard to believe how it tasted to me.

Will you put cheese on my tray when I'm old and grey?
Promise me tomorrow starts with cheese,
Getting high; running wild among all the stars above.
Sometimes it's hard to believe how it tasted to me.

It's all fucking yellow?

2005-12-15T17:57:00.000Z

When I first moved to London after I left University I didn't have much money and for while I lived with my brother J in his scuzy flat on Camden Rd. It used to be either the home to the Clash or the headquarters of the Clash's fan club because we got fan mail for them - of course we always opened it. "Good day, This is Hans. I live in Frankfurt in Germany. I much love Clash and British PUNK ROCK! I ask when Clash coming for Germany is please?" things like that.

While I was there a band moved in upstairs. We thought they were yet another grungy brit pop boy band that were two a dozen in Camden at the time. One day there was a knock on the door and there they were looking all shy and sheepish so we invited them in and made them some tea.

"We just came to apologise for the noise" said the leader - Chris I think his name was.
"What noise?"
"Err.. the noise we make when we practice"
"We didn't actually notice"
"Hmm.. "

This seemed to irritate them slightly. Anyway we chatted away for a while, well, Chris and us chatted way - the others just stood quietly and nervously in the corner sipping their tea, nibbling biscuits. Like everyone who came they got told about the Clash and also as J was in a band too the conversation turned to music.

"We hear you practise - you guys are great!" said Chris.
"Thanks" said J
"Not at fucking 11 on a Sunday morning they are not" I said
"Really original, great tunes, love the piano - that is such a good idea" said Chris
"Yeah it works well" said J.

Before they leave they gave us a demo CD, told us that they are playing at the barfly and we should come. "Thanks" we said. After they had left we listened to the demo - it was shit. They were just another grungy brit pop boy band that were two a dozen in Camden at the time without a piano or any good tunes. The cd got thrown in the pile and we don't go to the barfly.

A couple of years later I have moved out and I got a phone call - it is J

"You remember the grungy brit pop boy band that used to live up stairs?"
"What the fuckers that threw a bucket of water over me?"
"No the other one - the ones we had tea with, gave us a cd."
"Oh yeah I remember - nice boys."
"They were only the fucking pop sensation Coldplay!!!!!!"
"Fuck off!!"
"Seriously - I have that cd here it says 'Coldplay' on it"
"No way!"
"Yeah way!"
"Hmm actually that Chris did look a bit like what his name.. Chris Martin!! Fuck!"
"Yeah that is the one"
"But they were shit."
"Yeah I know I reckon their songs now sound a bit like mine with the piano and everything."
"You're right well the good ones do a bit anyway."
"Fucking bastards!!!"
"Well they don't sound that similar - maybe you just inspired them."
"Inspired them!!!! Fuck that! Where is my cheque?"

Anyway it has been a chip on J's shoulder ever since. So when a friend asks if I want to see Coldplay at Earl's Court what can I say? I might as well go and see how Chris and the boys are getting along - apparently they are doing alright for themselves these days. Maybe it is time I had little "chat" with Chris "Oi Chris you fuck - remember me? I am the brother of that bloke you stole all your songs off and that witty anecdote about the clash fan club you like telling journalists from Rolling Stone. Come here!"

But when I got to Earl Court last night I couldn't get close enough - it wasn't the bouncers that were the problem who were, on the whole, a foppish lot but the nasty looking lawyers he had around him. Big burley scary mother fuckers with TORT LAW tattooed across their bulging brief cases. I really didn't feel like fucking with them especially as my evidence was somewhat subjective.

So I mingled into the crowd. The place is huge. "I wonder how many people are here?" I say out loud to no one in particular looking around and around at the thousands apon thousands of people sitting on terrace after terrace up the walls. "17,500" a geeky gay couple I am standing next to say in unison. "It is the second biggest venue in London" they say and give each other nerdy and adoring looks. It summed up the crowd really - you know... nice people, unassuming - I felt like giving them all a cuddle. The sort of people who could stop a war or move a mountain by their sheer collective weight of polite kindness.

As for Coldplay - well it was Coldplay wasn't it. I am sure you have heard them. The valium of the London music scene - pleasant, warm, cosy if somewhat numbing and un-stimulating. Good though - didn't sound much better live than they would on a quality stereo but still. It was hard to remain angry at them - they are just so nice. Awww...

Chris did say "It is good to be back." which was sweet.
"Well it's very nice to have you back Chris, and how is Gwyneth?" the 17,000 of us said in unison.

So if it is up to them to fly the flag for London, English, British music then well so be it - you really couldn't ask for nicer bunch. Does the world really need another group philandering, reckless rock stars? - Not really. The nice men have come and they *are* taking no for an answer. Bless.

Royal Hill

2005-12-13T19:40:00.000Z

Well that was all a bit wonderful and beautiful but somehow I have just made things worse.

Anyway - Top Tips for visitors to Montreal.

1. When someone from Montreal tells you to bring good boots, a thick coat and long johns - bring good boots, a thick coat and long johns - seriously.

2. Handy vocab:

Montrealian - English
Warm - Fucking cold
Cold - Really fucking cold
Fucking Cold - Don't go outside

3. Montrealians mostly speak French and will try to initiate conversations with you in French but don't let this fool you - simply pretend you can't understand what they are saying, normally three "Huh?"s in a row will do it, finally they will crack and confess to speaking prefect English.

4. Make sure you are shown around by a beautiful woman - not only will she show you the best places but if you ever tire of looking at the stylish and elegant city she will be something pleasant to look at. However in winter this may be harder than it sounds because she will be mostly obscured by snow flurries and the hood of her parker. Remember to feed her regularly with coffee and cake to keep her happy.

5. In the winter Montrealians go to live in a big underground cave. If you are invited down don't be scared - it is not a Morlockian underworld where they survive the winter by eating moss that grows on the walls but a rather pleasant anarchically laid out labyrinth of malls filled with chic and reasonably priced shops that goes on for miles.

6. Go to Rue Saint Denis - it is a bit like Camden High St but colder.

7. Go to Rue Sainte Catherine - it is a bit like Oxford St but colder.

8. The History of Montreal goes a bit like this: Iroquois turn up and think "Hmm... this is a nice spot" and build a village, the French turn up and think "Hmm... this is a nice spot", kick the Iroquois out and build a town, the British turn up with a big fuck off army and think "Hmm... this is a nice spot", say "You see all this shit here - this all belongs to us now. Got a problem with that?" and then ship in some Irish to run the pubs. But if you want to know more go to "Pointe-à-Callière, Montréal museum of archaeology and history"

9. Go to the Montréal botanical gardens they have lots of cacti that look like cocks.

10. Don't be put off if you go the only weekend of the year it is completely overcast - when the sun comes out Montreal is stunningly beautiful.

11. All Canadians love ice hockey don't try or pretend to understand.

12. Only Canadians understand the difference between Quebecois and Canadians don't try or pretend to understand.

13. Don't worry about a thing. Montreal is the least threatening big city in the world. Even the tramps arguing over a vial of crack in the red light district step aside to make room to let you pass.

Please fasten your seat belts.

2005-12-08T20:32:00.000Z

"We are experience some severe mental turbulence. Hold on to your seats because it could be a bumpy ride. Please remain calm and keep breathing until we work out what the hell is going on."

Modern technology has led to many changes to the world. Businesses now have global reach and information across the planet is easy to access. Globalisation is here to stay, inevitable as the weather, whether it ends up being destructive or productive is up to us.

But there is something else that globalization is bringing that is less talked about. It doesn't involve big companies ripping up rain forests to make burgers or putting "Nike - just do it" logos and large price tags on shoes made in sweat shops in Asia.

People have started to play and socialise on a global scale. And when that happens it is inevitable that sometimes nature is going to take its course.

It has happened before and it will happen again but it is different when it is you a fairy has sprinkled her magic dust on.

It could all be an illusion but then so could everything else. But you know - if something that feels this good is a fantasy then I am not sure I want the real world.

So what to do.. well there only one logical course of action. Go and find out...

Normal services will be resumed etc....

Nurturing the inner wanker

2005-12-08T10:35:00.000Z

I have been trying unsuccessfully to write about the err.. "hotel" or "resort" I was staying in in Egypt (neither word is seems appropriate - if you imagine a combination of telly tubby land, the island in "The Prisoner", the hotel in "The Shinning" and "Apocalypse Now" but in the desert then you are getting close) but the place was so mind-bendingly obscenely surreal I am not sure if I can just yet. Give me a few days to recover ok.

So rather than let the blog go dead I thought I would tell you about what a wanker I am.

When I say certain things to people I can see what they are thinking.

For example I say to someone "I live in Islington" "That's nice - expensive around there isn't it?" they say - but I know they are thinking "Hmm... wanker."

I say to someone "I work for an Investment Bank" - they say "That's nice - must pay well" - but I know they are thinking "Hmm... wanker."

But really I am not. I am really not your typical Islington merchant banker. I love fury little kittens, honestly I do. But the other day I had a moment of self wankiness realisation - I found my inner wanker.

I have a open fire in my flat and it is getting a bit chilly recently so I decided to light a fire. Before anyone says anything - I know it is illegal but I have a valid environmentally sound reason for doing it. The 50 year or so old law was made back when most people heated their houses with coal and the resulting sulphur dioxide caused many health problems and the infamous pea soupers. So it really should not apply to wood fires as they produce far less sulphur dioxide plus wood is a renewable energy source and the carbon has already recently been taken out of the atmosphere so technically they are carbon neutral. Environmentally friendly and cosy - perfect.

Anyway I am merchant banker from Islington so I can do what the fuck I like. Laws don't apply to me.

Now I grew up in the country and going out to get wood generally meant a hearty and healthy trip to wood tooled with axe and saw. But this is London - there is only an urban jungle out there. But hey I am bright, resourceful and determined - how hard can it be? So off I trot.

After peering a in few skips, making a couple of inquires I get a lead - apparently there is a garage on the Holloway road that sells wood by the bag. So I jump on a bus and I am there in flash and sure enough it does - it has even been chopped up for you. I wait for the bus to take me back but it doesn't come - it probably got lost or broken. So I hail a passing black cab but being a black cab the driver is a cunt so it sails right on past. Behind the cab is a limo - one of the those bland black corporate ones that are usually seen driving important looking business people to airports. It pulls over - the driver is between jobs and toting for a bit of extra business - so I hop in.

So there I am returning from my "wooding" trip in my expensive designer shirt, my jeans made of the finest Japanese cotton with a bag of wood next to me for my genuine Edwardian fire place in a fucking leather clad limousine.

"Hen," I think to myself "you're a fucking wanker!"

Egypt - Part 1 Getting there

2005-12-05T00:37:00.000Z

The sparsely populated and air conditioned bus trundled over the sand covered, pitted road through the desolate desert. The motley crew of e generation holiday makers inside were getting nervous - "What have we done?", "Where have we come?", "What the fuck is this place?", "There is nothing here - it is just fucking endless desert!".

The Evian had nearly run out, soon there would be only unbranded sparkling mineral water. A blond women looked desperately for her Evian face spay but she covered her face with her hands in despair as she realised she must have left it in her flat in Fulham.

The air con was struggling to compete with the blazing heat. Our fashionable London garb seemed ridiculously inappropriate for the Sahara. Some poor fool was still wearing a suede jacket. Occasionally one of us broke into a mild sweat. A women from Clapham held her baby to her chest as it squirmed and struggled looking like it was about cry. She fanatically searched in her Karimore back pack beneath the iPod and lonely planet guide for a dummy but it was too late. The people around her were slightly annoyed. She mouthed the word sorry but no one looked - we were all lost in our own personal hell.

As for me, well .. my ipod was nearly out of juice - it was never going to make it - i knew it, it knew it. I tried to forget its impending death and enjoy the last of the ambient tunes beating though my brain in time to the passing rolling waste land, turned from a glaring yellow to a relaxed amber by the tint of my oakleys.

I imagined a spot where a hundred years ago a young man, driven to the foreign legion by the shame of an inappropriate affair, took his last rasping breath through black cracked lips, his final thoughts realising he would never make to the coast where a boat waited to take him back to his one true love. But we speed on and past in our cool luxury - the wheels of the bus kicking up a cloud of dust and sand behind us.

The reps were getting worried too - the eta was 5 but it was already nearly 515.- surely it was around here somewhere. Then there it was - a shimmering gold mirage oasis in the desert heat. Before we got there the sun went down- darkness falling like a door slamming shut. So it was only two huge flood lit sand stone pillars that marked the entrance. There was no fence on either side and it seemed their sole purpose was to mark the point where the road went from the desert to desert owned by the hotel. A sign post would have been a more efficient and lighter solution but regardless we had arrived.

I am a man and have NEEDS!!!

2005-12-04T11:03:00.000Z

Woo back from holiday - tanned and relaxed and healthy and looking damn fine but still it is good to be back.

But before I bore you with what is turning into an unnervingly long post about it. I'll squeeze one out about my google needs* as apparently I have been tagged.

I NEED:

a haircut,
a movie trailer,
tickets,
a new police chief,
a new pair of shoes,
to stay away from Madrid,
to "remain connected" to Beelzebub
and also I need and deeply appreciate several kinds of support.

All spookily accurate.

smenita: The off milk in the fridge when you get back from holiday.

* type in "your name needs" into google and see what comes up. Oh and it is a tag game so over to you stellastoria

see red sea

2005-11-26T01:58:00.000Z

Well I am off to the land of sand, pyramids, camels and more sand to start my campaign to make the Nile to the Cape British again or maybe just have a laugh and get a tan - I haven't decided yet.

So ma'assalama my dear friends and I'll see you in a week providing I don't get blown up or stabbed by a jealous husband (over an unfortunate misunderstanding)

My beautiful self

2005-11-23T13:45:00.000Z

Being the kind of person who will stand up in a polite dinner party and say "Excuse me for a moment, I need a crap!" just as the cream and chocolate log is about to be served - then feels the shame as I walk away, the part of my brain that deals with social propriety is wired up all wrong.

So when it came to this blog I thought - excellent I can really let rip but after the clever posts of meta-introspection by ant and Sadia I did consider for a while whether there should be limits to the amount of vainly babbling on about myself I do. Hmm... nah! It is my blog and I'll do what I want and besides Stellastoria requested it on the super interactive saturday that she was the *only* person to vote in. Come on people show me the love!

So here goes - firstly all the stuff everyone can agree on. I am 32, 6 ft tall, wavy light brown hair that goes blond in the sun, big grey blue eyes, a body that I would describe as lithe - not an ounce of fat but maybe on the slimmer side of ideal. As for below the belt - lets not go *there* again.

I am good looking? Well even I can't decide. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think - hen, you are a handsome devil. Sometime I look in the mirror and think - oh my god what the hell is that?

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder - both relative and subjective. But I believe the aesthetic appeal of something is an intrinsic property of an object like say it's colour. Much the like the uncertainly principle the act of looking at something will actually change it from being just an object to a beautiful object.

This means there is not one universe but many all centred on each of our views, depending on how beautiful or ugly we find things.

The closer we are to someone spiritually (for the lack of a better world) the closer the world will appear to us as it does to them. It is the same for faces - the closer you are to someone the closer you will see them as they see themselves. That is why people smile in photographs and happy people are more attractive than sad people.

So for all those people out there who are alone and think they are ugly - don't and eventually you will find someone who agrees with you.

"Cut the fucking bullshit.." I here the homunculus cry "and tell us whether you are fit or not!"

My face has enough oddities (thin lips, slightly wonky teeth, pointy chin, couple of small scars) to mean it is not classically good looking in the sense that everybody would think it is but it also has many appealing qualities. It is an interesting face. It is generally the people that I have a similar world view that find me the most attractive because I generally have the impression of myself that I am quite gorgeous.

So the answer is yes and no. I could be devastatingly handsome, I could be repulsively ugly - it all depends on who you are and your point of view. And you know what? I prefer it like that.

Kylie

2005-11-22T14:06:00.000Z

Everybody loves Kylie Minogue. She is everyone's favourite diminutive pop princess and a fine arse to boot (sorry). Growing up with neighbours she is like the big sister I never had. And she is getting better - Hooray! So here's to Kylie.

If you have any spare money why not give some to these people?

London ablaze with gold.

2005-11-20T23:43:00.000Z

The long dry summer followed by the cold sharp spell being experienced at the moment has induced a chemical reaction in the leaves of the trees in the parks and gardens and streets of London turning them a plethora of reds and browns and yellows which sparkle in the cool pale November sun. The views from Primrose and Parliament Hills and walks though Hyde Park this weekend were breathtaking.

This weekend I may have failed to buy a toaster but I did remember just quite how stunningly beautiful this city can be which is easily forgotten living here through the day to day grind and which is more important?

A toaster, a toaster, my kingdom for a fucking toaster.

2005-11-20T02:15:00.000Z

"Listen mate, I am not paying 200 fucking quid for a fire poker even if King George III did use it to scratch his arse once. Anyway you just made that up didn't you?"

"Heh yeah - sorry I thought you were American - what are you after?"

"I am looking for a toaster."

"This is an antiques market!"

"I am aware of that and an over priced one at that."*

"Hmm toaster eh? You'd be lucky. Old Dan down there might be able to help you out"

Well "Old Dan" wasn't there was he. Gone for lunch or a wank or something - I don't know. He had left a surly teenage urchin in guard with strict instructions not to sell anything or be helpful in anyway at all. Anyway "Old Dan" only had one toaster it was a clapped out circa 1950 beaten up plastic one. No doubt a classic in its time but in the state it is in now you could tell that as soon as you plugged it in it is clearly going to either a) not work, b) immediately burn your house down. I have a bit of a penchant old things* a few nicks and dents add character - I like the fact they have had a life before they have come into my temporary possession. But when it comes to electronics it has to be brand spanking new - in a box - with a guarantee.

I like the shops and market around where I live. But there are times in my life when I don't to want to buy an object de art lamp stand that is clearly going to fall apart as soon as I get it home. There are times I don't feel like buying some smelly cheese that has been brought from the South of France on the sweaty back of a purely organically fed donkey, really honestly there are times 1920 cocktail dresses don't interest me at all and I just want to buy something useful. Like then, I just wanted to buy a toaster, just a fucking toaster, you know to make toast - for like the morning to have with your tea, with marmalade on. By the looks I was getting you would think I asking if they knew somewhere I could buy anal lubricant.

So I started walking - I don't know how far or for how long but was a while. Nothing. As the frequency of burnt out cars, bullet holes in buildings and broken crack vials on the pavement increased I realised I was getting close to Hackney - there will be no toasters there**. I got the sinking sensation that this little venture was going to result in failure. Then it dawned on me - oh my god - I am going to have to go to oxford street *** - the crowds, the madness , the horror, the horror, the horror.

* Now I could say that I was an antiques dealer in France for a short period in my life so know over priced nonsense when I see it but I won't because that would be a lie. It wasn't antiques it was old junk and it wasn't dealing it was incompetently selling stuff for less than it was bought for and besides I didn't handle that side of things. I just drove the van. So before you get any exciting notions of me foiling complicated scams involving an alluring French aristocrat, a travelling circus and stolen Rembrandt - it really wasn't like that - the most exciting thing that happened was me shouting at a man who was trying to steal a kitchen sink.

** Hackney is that bad - I am sure they sell toasters there but I didn't have my bullet proof jacket with me so I wasn't going to risk it.

*** Oxford street is not that bad as long as you never, ever, ever go there.

Press the red button, now.

2005-11-19T10:45:00.000Z

Wayhay it is interactive Saturday. That's right - it is eviction day here at the reality show Yadayada. So what will *you* vote for. Which blog topic will you choose to expunge from my brain, digitalise and throw out naked into the ether to cheering crowds, flashing cameras and a cringing interview with Davina fucking McCall.

1. Tragedy in Uganda.

2. My beautiful self. (go on - you know you want to hear about it)

3. Mega Global Bank Corp where I work story B (does involve outsourcing but don't be scared it is quite good)

4. My lovely flat.

5. Jamie "fat tongue" Oliver. (the chef's special)

6. A toaster, a toaster my kingdom for a toaster (also very good)

7. The part of London where I live.

Voting works by well voting. Bribes work and are happily accepted. Anyone who appends "PS hen, LOVE your blog. It is funny, clever and interesting. You know what - I think I want to bare your children" will have their votes counted very, *very* carefully if you know what I mean {wink}

Monkey humours and the inner burning dog mouth.

2005-11-18T01:42:00.000Z

I have two brothers J and W.

J is well... somehow describing him in words would never do him justice. During his life he has been a poet, car valet, musician, sperm donor, novelist, bus driver, cabaret star, gas meter reader, philosopher.

He has taken on each and every role on with witty originality, vigorous gusto and much brilliant talent. Apart from the bus driver which he only did for a short while and him stopping has made the world a safer place.

His life has direction it is just the direction changes. He is a comedy genius - everybody loves him.

The masterful W, nobly handsome, fearsomely intelligent, very rich, very sophisticated. An inner confidence that boarders on arrogance. Women just melt under his perceptive and penetrative gaze. One charming mother fucker. He has lived through tragedy and come through, in my opinion, a better man. He also has two incredibly beautiful daughters who are already uncannily clever and funny. The oldest 8 is already a dab hand at html which is quite frankly terrifying.

Then there is little ol' me.

We all get on famously and see each other a lot. It is great - it like having two fantastic friends who you know will always be there, whatever, right to the end.

So anyway J came over last night with his feisty and beautiful, soon to be unnervingly successful girlfriend H who is really not that bad for northern lass. We go to the swanky, wanky but yeah! very cool and incredibly pretentious bars that seem to populate every corner around here. "Notting Hill"?!? It has nothing on this part of London.

H met J on a philosophy course or was it in a skip - I forget but the conversation turns to blogging.

"It is like the humonculous" pipes up H
"huh!" I say
"You know the fallacy of introspection"
"You what?"
"The fallacy has been broken. You have a validated internal dialogue"
"Eh?"
"Your audiance it is the humonculous!" she says as if it means anything to me.
"I have no audiance"
"That is not the point"
"Hmm... ok - want another drink?"

So if anyone can put any light on that then please do.

Blinkin Linkin Park

2005-11-16T20:23:00.000Z

Seems I have been a bit stingy with my links so here {throws} links for everyone.

Well not *literally* everyone but you know what I mean.

What's in a name?

2005-11-16T12:26:00.000Z

"That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet."

Well of course it would but if your name is say Lord Cuntingchops of Craparse the Third then clearly it's going to have consequences.

Now I am not going to berate Americans, everyone does that - it is practically a national past time. Anyway they are not such a bad lot - come on, at least half of them didn't vote for Bush.
It is just some Americans don't seem to do even the most precursory research into a country before they travel there.

For example say I was an American and my name was Matthew Wank* and I was thinking of travelling to England I would probably do enough investigation to realise that I was going to run into to some mirth and gleeful trouble when I got there. I think wouldn't actually move there without giving deed poll some careful consideration.

I would go as far as saying that on having undertaken such a hilarious escapade I certainly would *not* shorten my first name to Mat and then work for a company that uses Outlook so whenever I send an email it appears to come from a "Wank, Mat".

* For any non English readers.
Wank: (n/v) A pleasurable usually solitary activity involving ones own genitals.
Wanker: (n) Someone who partakes in said activity.
Also: "a pile of wank": Well, I am sure you can guess. "a wank mat": god only knows.

MegaGlobalBankCorp

2005-11-14T21:51:00.000Z

Like other annual chronological indicators: the chilly nights closing in, the browned leaves gently falling from sparse trees and the swallows departing for sunnier climes - the Graduates have arrived. After their month or so of induction, indoctrination, being tattooed with the company logo and having the locater and id bio chip inserted they have been released in to the wild at MegaGlobalBankCorp (MGBC (tm)) towers where I work as a corporate drone oiling the cogs of Global Capitalism.

Seeing their young, fresh, eager, terrified faces always brings a little warmth to by cold dark stony heart.

Bless their cotton socks, their new suits and attempts at earnest and interested expressions failing to cover the look of absolute fear and horror as the realisation of what they have sighed up for finally dawns on them. The poor little fools! Why did they not suspect something when they were asked to sign in their own blood?

So they go about- sometimes in gangs, sometimes by themselves looking scared and lonely. They get under people's feet, they get cutely tangled up in a balls of wool in the corner and have to be rescued, they ask their funny questions - "What was that little one? Yes, that is a computer. You turn it on there. You sit in front of it and it slowly sucks out your will to live."

I feel like shouting at them - "Run, run while you still have a chance. Leave before you become a bitter, cynical, disillusioned veteran, battle weary from one too many office politics fights that have gone the wrong way, realising that nearly half your life is over and you have nothing to show for it. Run before the corporate machine slowly crushes your soul, before it grinds off any distinctive feature from your character." *

Hoping they see their chance and make a break for it. Hoping that I will be able hold off the security long enough for them to get to the door. But what is the point? They would never make it. GMBC owns them now. It owns us all.

* I jest it is not that bad. I love my job - it is interesting and it certainly pays well it is just... buzz... buzz... MUST NOT SAY BAD THINGS ABOUT MGBC IN PUBLIC... buzz...

TV

2005-11-14T21:13:00.000Z

How can there be 852 million fucking channels and nothing good on? Sigh... click

While I am waiting for the cable guy... where the hell is he?

2005-11-14T11:21:00.000Z

"Hello"
"Hello"
"What can we do for you?"
"Well have I got something I thought I should bring in."
The lady places a shoe box on the examination table in front of my Vet friend G.
G slowly takes the lid off and peers inside.
"They're canaries"
"Yes" says the lady.
He gives one a poke with his finger.
"They're dead."
"Yes"
"Hmm .. this a veterinary practice. We generally treat animals before they get to this stage. When they get like this there is not a lot we can do."
"Yes I know but, you know, with all this stuff about avian flu in the news I thought I better bring them in. They did all die on the same day which is unusual."
"Yes that is usual. Are they imported?"
"No, but they may have been in contact with imported birds."
"Right ok leave them with us and we'll check them out"
"Ok thanks"
"Bye"
"Bye"

Later G phones up DEFRA.

"Hello, I want to talk someone about avian flu."
"Yes you can talk to me."
"I've got 4 dead canaries that may have been in contact with imported birds. Do you want to test them?"
"No, we expect the first cases to come from migrating birds not imported ones. Imported birds are quarantined"
"What about that dead parrot in the news the other week?"
"Yeah well, that was a one off. Look if you are worried send them to us and we'll test them."
"What in the post?"
"Yes"
"You want me to send a potential bird flu case in the post where they will get in contact with lots of postal workers who have a lot of contact with general public?"
"Put them in a plastic bad or something. Look it is probably nothing - I suggest you just dispose of them in the usual way. We will have to charge for the tests anyway"
"Charge me! How much?"
"£150 each"
"£150!!! I don't think I'll bother then."

Well *that's* reassuring isn't it?

Moving swiftly on.

2005-11-13T21:41:00.000Z

I haven't got TV in my flat yet and I actually don't miss it that much - lets face it, it is mostly crap reality shows or repeats these days. The cable man is coming on Monday - I tried to resist but the salesman was very persuasive. The 500 (or whatever) channel monstrosity does come free for the 1st 3 months with broadband internet and I do miss News Night. You can't beat Paxman ripping apart some poor hapless politician, especially American republican ones who are used to a far more placid and respectful news media - it is just the look of absolute shock and horror on their faces as he viciously starts laying in to them that gets me. It was actually a new one for me - "Free TV with your internet" - sign of the times I suppose. How could I say no?

Anyway because of the lack of TV I have been watching a lot more films than I would normally which is great. I was going to try keeping the reviews on the blog down to a minimum because everyone does that. But I have just watched the most astonishing film so I had to say something.

It was the "The Man Who Wasn't There" by the Coen brothers. First of all it is beautiful - shot with a soft elegant style that cleverly brings out the contrasts in everyday objects and the features of the characters, clearly taking influence from classics like The Third Man and Dr Strange Love. It has an intricate and cleverly twisted plot that is slowly drawn out with the subtle, underplayed, dark humour that the Coen brothers do so well. There are intelligent, indulgent and funny themes that run perfectly though it - popping up at expected places. Billy Bob Thornton brilliantly plays the quiet, moody, thoughtful barber and the Coen favourite Frances McDormand puts in a usual masterful performance. It's a fucking work of art man.

What is it about? Everything/nothing. Broken lives. How life can seem like an incomprehensible set of events that seem impossible to connect together or control.

The lawyer character puts it best. "Sometimes the closer you look at something the less you understand." Says it all really.

If anything it is a bit too good - a little over whelming, slightly frustrating because there is just too much to get in your head at the same time. I had to lie down for bit afterwards to recover then walked around flat in a bit of daze - my brain slightly over stimulated- too many thoughts about it. A nice cup of tea sorted me though.

Go on watch it. It is brilliant . It will give you headache but it will be worth it.

My Wonderful Cock

2005-11-13T11:32:00.000Z

I love getting my cock out. I really do. I don't actively seek out situations to do this but if the occasion arises I will quite happily display my glorious tackle to any willing on lookers.

Now us Brits have a prudish reputation when it comes to stuff like this especially compared with our European cousins. So how have I ended up like this? Well probably over analysing it a bit with few friends the other night I came to conclusion the reasons are two fold.

Firstly I have a fantastic nob. It really is gorgeous. When God was giving out body parts he very generous when it came to me. I didn't realise this until I was in my mid twenties. Not being the kind of person who worries about things I can't change, honestly, I hadn't given it much thought.

I had always assumed that it was well... average. If you think about it as a straight male I am never going to get to see erect penises to compare myself to. Then when I was 25 I had a party and a gay friend of a ex girlfriend turned up. He came to greet me as I was getting myself a drink in the kitchen...

"Hi hen!! You have a big cock!"

"I beg your pardon."

"Your penis."

"Yes?"

"It's huge!"

"Listen A, it's great to see you and I am really happy you could make it but what the *hell* are you talking about?"

Turned out he had just got back from backpacking with my ex in Australia. When you are backpacking with someone, he explained, you get a lot of time to talk about err.. things. It seems my ex spent a considerable amount of time waxing lyrical about my old fella and how... well... great it is. Strangely she had never said anything to me during the time we were actually going out.

After the party was over and I was lying in bed I asked my then girlfriend.

"Hon?"

"Hmm?"

"My dick? It's size, is it well... large?"

"Babe, you have the most wonderful willie I have ever come across."

"Really?"

"Sometimes I feel selfish because I've got it all to myself!"

"Wow"

"You should really become a porn star."

"...."

"But don't though."

Then she kisses me on the cheek, snuggles up to me and falls asleep with a smile on her face.

So there you have it. It is not eye wateringly gigantic - it just has good healthy proportions.

Second reason stems from my parents who are of the liberal sort. When we were little we lived in Germany and on holidays they used to take us to nudist camps in Yugoslavia. So there I was - a cherubic 5 year old running around as nature intended behind the iron curtain. As a result I really don't have a problem with nudity.

Don't get me wrong - I am not a naturist and I never go on nudist holidays but if I am in a hotel in Scandinavia or Austria and I feel like a sauna it will be au natural. I just think everyone has nice body. Obviously some are more attractive than others but no one has one they should be ashamed of. I think it is a shame when people get complexes about them.

So there you go. As a result of all this I happily get my cock out.

Want to see?

Woo fucking hoo

2005-11-12T09:58:00.000Z

It's Saturday - it's Satuuuuuurday!!!

Being a single man about London town I have a busy weekend ahead and only really have time for one post this weekend. Unfortunately I had such good night out with chums in the truly the fantastic bars around where I live the conversation resulted in so many quality blog topics I can't decide which one to do.

It is the 21st century so obviously interactivity is the answer - so, dear reader(s), it is up to you.... what should I talk about next?

1. Tragedy in Uganda

2. On the front line against bird flu.

3. Mega Global Bank Corp where I work story A

4. Mega Global Bank Corp where I work story B

5. My wonderful cock.

6. My lovely flat.

7. Jamie "fat tongue" Oliver.

Voting works by well... voting. On the event of tie break I will do both or either. In the likely event of no one saying sod all. I will do them in reverse alphabetical order in my own good time.

Jazz, Eva and a Mockney Monkey

2005-11-10T13:55:00.000Z

I was going to write a piece about the Jazz club I was going to go to with a couple of friends last night. I was hoping I could tell you all about my pleasant bourgeois evening of witty conversation, interesting music, flowing bourbon and smelly foreign cigarettes but alas there was some unpredictable critical errors in the planning* so I ended up at home watching the highly enjoyable medieval romp Kingdom of Heaven.

Now it is probably worthy of review, elf boy does an acceptable job and the alluring Eva Green is teeth achingly hot (oh dear - I fear another crush coming on, sorry Keira, it is not me, it is you** ) but it is a tad predicable and cliché so I can't be bothered.

So instead (hopefully not sounding too much like a tired old comedian) - let's see what is in the news {rustles paper} .

Ah ... I see. Well it was inevitable really wasn't it? As sure as the well oiled cogs of causality make sun rise in the morning - it was waiting to happen.

If you start teaching monkeys to use money eventually you will teach an evil genius monkey who will start counterfeiting money with slices of cucumber!!! You fools!!

I know what you are going to say - and there are probably more important things for me to worry about like - global warming, the war on terror (how *do* you have a war with a noun?) and who Keira Knightly will go out with next now I've dumped her (it is never completely over) but just think of the consequences.

The evil genius monkey is clearly going to escape, take over the underworld of east end criminal gangs and start an over-whelming spree of vegetable based monkey crime. The next thing you know Guy Ritchie will only go and make a bleedin' film about it won't he? He will only go and fackin call it "Two smoking monkeys and barrel of cockney cants" or something! It will have lines in it like "You trying to make me look like some sort of fackin cant?! It's fackin cucamba!" for christs sake! {starts sobbing} He will give a part to Sting!! Sting!!!! Acting!! The horror!! {starts wailing} There could even be a bit part for Madonna!!! For the love of baby Jesus no!!! Was it really worth it? Was it? Won't anyone think of the children... etc etc.

* No one could make it and the place shut down 6 months ago.

** I have been having a fantasy relationship with Keira Knightly for the last two years. I like her a lot but recently the spark has gone out of our relationship. It is not that I don't fancy her - I do but we just don't have much in common or anything to talk about. She is well a bit .. well dull. Eva on the other hand - hubahuba.

Of mice and blunt

2005-11-08T17:50:00.000Z

Whenever I see a pretty women on the underground I often feel like breaking into song but I am always too shy to do it. As my singing voice is roughly halfway between a chainsaw and farting donkey the world is a better place for this.

So consider my annoyance and rage when I find out that not only has the warbling ex-squady James "cunting" Blunt written a song about it but fucking mice have superior confidence to me and often break into song whenever they see a hot chick mouse. Damn you all to hell, mice and James Blunt! (shakes fist at skirting board and in James Blunt's direction)

Interesting however it turns out that mouse love songs are unique and not genetically based at all raising not only all sorts of interesting questions about mouse culture, creativity and art but also the possibility that somewhere, out there, in some small unassuming mouse hole there is a mouse James Blunt.

The scientists reckon the mouse songs are all about lady mice but pah! What do they know? Everyone knows the furry little scamps love cheese best above all things. So imagine if you can the mouse James Blunt in his hole, singing in that whiney, twatty way of his something probably a bit like this:

My life is brilliant.
My love is pure.
I saw some cheese.
Of that I'm sure.
I saw it on the subway.
It was in a trap.
But I won't lose no sleep on that,
'Cause I've got a plan.

It was beautiful. It was beautiful.
It was beautiful, it's true.
I saw some cheese in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never eat it, dobido.

Yeah, it caught my eye, As I walked on by.
You could see from my face that I was, F**king high,
And I don't think that I'll see it again,
But we shared a moment that will last till the end.

It was beautiful. It was beautiful.
It was beautiful, it's true.
I saw some cheese in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never eat it, dobido

It was beautiful. It was beautiful.
It was beautiful, it's true.
There must be an angel with a smile on her face,
When she thought up that I should eat it.
But it's time to face the truth,
I will never eat it.

ahh..

New flat

2005-11-07T18:31:00.000Z

As lists seem to be de rigueur of blogworld I might as well start with one. I am aware of the lack of generality before you say anything.

Things to do when you move into a new flat.

1. Congratulate yourself on getting an incredibly cool flat in an incredibly funky part of town at an incredible bargain price.

2. Get all the bills tv internet sorted out asap. Hook up your stereo or pc if you've gone all modern and soft digital - play trashy but heart lifting songs. Jump around like a kid feeling good about everything (air guitar optional).

3. Put your stupid hippy of a landlady stupid hippy crap into a stupid hippy crap box. Store it away safely somewhere so it doesn't get damaged during your tenancy. Place your stupid hippy (but superior) crap around flat in an aesthetically pleasing manner.

4. Bump into a friend you haven't seen for ages who seems delighted you have moved to the area and immediately invites you out for drinks.

5. Call an acquaintance you've always wanted to be friends with who turns out to be equally delighted to hear from you and immediately invites you to a party.

6. Say something sexy and seductive to the incredibly fit German barmaid at your new local who has been eyeing you up resulting in you getting her number and a hot date.

Things not to do when you move into a new flat.

1. Look at your bank account and realise that even though your flat is a bargain it is still fuck off expensive and you can't really afford it.

2. Set up your stereo and start listening to miserable music inducing a crippling bout of depression which makes you incapable of doing anything else but drink strong liquor and think about the miserable set of events that led you to be a single 30 something sat in a flat by themselves listening to miserable music.

3. Put your stupid hippy of a landlady's stupid hippy crap into a stupid hippy crap box. Try to store in a high up cupboard but lose control dropping it smashing everything inside.

4. Bump into a friend you haven't seen for ages who seems delighted you have moved to the area and immediately invites you out for drinks but then lose his number a realise you never gave him yours.

5. Go to a party of an acquaintance who you would like to be friends with but then get completely drunk, make complete arse of yourself and lose the power of coherent speech.

6. Say something weird and scary to the incredibly fit German barmaid at your new local who has been eyeing you up resulting in her avoiding you the rest of the evening.

So close...