I don't have much of a temper, really. My general demeanour stays somewhere between 'nonchalant' and 'mild'. 'Anger' isn't really a part of my daily life.
Until that is, I pull onto the M3 on a Monday morning, and onto a tightly packed boa constrictor of a car park.
Stationary vehicles stretch as far as the eye can see, like in that REM video for Everybody Hurts. How apt that the video to accompany one of the most morbid songs *I have ever heard* would be set in a traffic jam. Cars ease forward so that their bonnets are no longer visible in my rear view, just their windscreens. They are so close in fact, that I have to lean out of my window to make sure they're not touching my rear bumper.
I can see the whites of their eyes. I can feel a switch click on "simmer" somewhere in my mind and consider leaving the warmth of my car confronting the 'personal-car-space-invader' while shaking my fist. Instead, I lock my doors and wait, the temper switch clicked to 'off' once more. I consider doing some emails on my Blackberry, then nervously glance around for police and decide against it anyway. I look for another distraction. The radio perhaps? No, Terry Wogan is reading emails from his TOGG (Terry's Old Geezers and Gals) fraternity, instead of reading the producer's script, which may even be the same thing. A CD perhaps? No, I've listened to the Glockenspiel sample on Tubular Bells once too often this week.
A driver restlessly change lanes to make sure every available space is filled, rarely with an indictor light flashing, all just to gain a few metres advantage. A motorbike zigzags between the cars and the gaps between the lanes, moving far to close to lane changing car. Another disaster narrowly averted.
Then the traffic moves and you move past the same car, their lane at a standstill, and all the while making no real effort to disguise one's smugness at their failure. The traffic moves and forward on they go once more.
All of a sudden the traffic lunges forward and everyone's moving at a pace far beyond the national speed limit. Get caught in the fast lane and you will be pushed out or otherwise rammed by an aggressive oncoming vehicle. Move into a slower lane and you're left to cast the driver an evil look, only to find the only other person getting their attention is the one on the other end of their mobile phone and their face is defiant, yet otherwise expressionless. It's a wonder more accidents don't happen.
Which is why, when I leave my house in the morning and see a damp road ahead of me, even if it's no longer raining, I know I'll be in late, because other drivers just can't deal with it.
And what the flying F*** is it with rubbernecking??? Considering most drivers' flagrant disregard for speed limits, why do people slow down so much just to get a good look at someone else's misfortune??? The amount of times I've waited patiently in a painfully long queue, only to drive past an accident - moved safely off the main road - and for the traffic to open up to a normal pace, is astounding.
Another enigma is why the government imposes congestion charges in central London to keep out cars, and then allows train passengers to be charged £26 for a one day travelcard...
Saturday, 3 November 2007
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
There is just something creepy about cats
There is just something creepy about cats.
My aunt used to have one. It would disappear off for hours on end during the day, only appearing back in the house at meal times. Occasionally she would jump up and lay on my chest as I watched telly, and purr. The cat, of course, not my aunt.
That was all very well, but sometimes she’d pull at my jumper with her claws, ripping it to shreds, with no apparent motive. Always with a knowing glint in her eyes that said, “aren’t these claws damn sharp, sonny?”Then when she’d be eating from her bowl, she’d look up and grin, lifting her lip up high enough to reveal a set of long fangs, as it were just for my benefit.Then, some years later, someone told me a gruesome story that if you died in your house, your dog would yelp a bit and eventually lie down next to you and die with you. How honourable. The same person told me that if you had a cat, they’d eventually eat you. I’m sorry, but I just don’t trust them any more.
There’s ginger cat on our street called Chutney. He’s a very friendly cat, and always comes to say hello when I’m outside doing the gardening. Once he made a noise that really did sound like hello when I greeted him. Granted, it was more like “meh-meh.” but I know what he meant. He’s done a lot to change my mistrust of all things feline. Just like Gordon Brown is trying to do now with the labour party. Just recently though, Chutney's been getting a bit too big for his cat boots. For a start, he’s teamed up with this skinnier black cat next door, and loiters around our house, marking his territory by leaving tiny black pellets of shit on the path, which is nice.
One night, I walked into our kitchen before bed to get a glass of water. In our kitchen, we have a cream covered blind covering the window, so with moon shining on it, it stays quite light. Unfortunately for me, one of the cats was sitting on the windowsill outside; and the angle caused a shadow that filled most of the blind, and it really freaked me out. "Rachael! There's a giant cat in our garden!"
We have a bush in that very same garden where a robin once made his nest. We were so proud, that nature had embraced our little garden. It spent weeks building it, and we grew quite fond of seeing the tiny bird flying into the bush through a small hole, with all manner of twigs collected in his mouth. Then, one day, Chutney appeared beneath the hole, staring up into it. He used to come back three or four times a day and just sit there, patiently watching. Then, after about the fourth day, the bird disappeared, and so did Chutney from his spot on the grass.
Now, for the last three mornings at 6.30 on the dot, I’ve been woken up by the sound of a mewling cat outside my bedroom window, sounding most like it was talking to itself, speaking every five seconds or so. “Meh.” Meh-meh”. “Mahhhh.” I went out this morning, bleary eyed and ready to shoo the cat away, but he was nowhere to be found.
There is just something creepy about cats.
My aunt used to have one. It would disappear off for hours on end during the day, only appearing back in the house at meal times. Occasionally she would jump up and lay on my chest as I watched telly, and purr. The cat, of course, not my aunt.
That was all very well, but sometimes she’d pull at my jumper with her claws, ripping it to shreds, with no apparent motive. Always with a knowing glint in her eyes that said, “aren’t these claws damn sharp, sonny?”Then when she’d be eating from her bowl, she’d look up and grin, lifting her lip up high enough to reveal a set of long fangs, as it were just for my benefit.Then, some years later, someone told me a gruesome story that if you died in your house, your dog would yelp a bit and eventually lie down next to you and die with you. How honourable. The same person told me that if you had a cat, they’d eventually eat you. I’m sorry, but I just don’t trust them any more.
There’s ginger cat on our street called Chutney. He’s a very friendly cat, and always comes to say hello when I’m outside doing the gardening. Once he made a noise that really did sound like hello when I greeted him. Granted, it was more like “meh-meh.” but I know what he meant. He’s done a lot to change my mistrust of all things feline. Just like Gordon Brown is trying to do now with the labour party. Just recently though, Chutney's been getting a bit too big for his cat boots. For a start, he’s teamed up with this skinnier black cat next door, and loiters around our house, marking his territory by leaving tiny black pellets of shit on the path, which is nice.
One night, I walked into our kitchen before bed to get a glass of water. In our kitchen, we have a cream covered blind covering the window, so with moon shining on it, it stays quite light. Unfortunately for me, one of the cats was sitting on the windowsill outside; and the angle caused a shadow that filled most of the blind, and it really freaked me out. "Rachael! There's a giant cat in our garden!"
We have a bush in that very same garden where a robin once made his nest. We were so proud, that nature had embraced our little garden. It spent weeks building it, and we grew quite fond of seeing the tiny bird flying into the bush through a small hole, with all manner of twigs collected in his mouth. Then, one day, Chutney appeared beneath the hole, staring up into it. He used to come back three or four times a day and just sit there, patiently watching. Then, after about the fourth day, the bird disappeared, and so did Chutney from his spot on the grass.
Now, for the last three mornings at 6.30 on the dot, I’ve been woken up by the sound of a mewling cat outside my bedroom window, sounding most like it was talking to itself, speaking every five seconds or so. “Meh.” Meh-meh”. “Mahhhh.” I went out this morning, bleary eyed and ready to shoo the cat away, but he was nowhere to be found.
There is just something creepy about cats.
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Blog Archive Complete
Well that's all the blogs from Facebook and Myspace sorted, stretching over the last couple of years. Enjoy.
Old McGarry Had A Farm
October 2007
I’ve decided that I’m never going to buy another ipod. My negative experiences are solely based on the single model I’ve owned, an ipod mini I bought a few years ago on a trip to Amsterdam. I had to order a replacement model after the battery died on the first one. It wasn’t easy. They don’t just let you take it back to the shop, even when armed with a receipt.
I had to endure all manner of tedium, through switching on and off, system restore attempts, software installing, emailing Curry’s Digital, trying to decipher the support processes on the Apple website, until finally couriering the machine back to the states to get it fixed. Thankfully that last bit was at Apple’s cost, not mine. Thank god it was still within the warranty. Without the receipt I’d have to pay £40 for the privilege of replacing their machine.
I got a nice new model, not a reconditioned one. It’s out of warranty now so if this one breaks I’m stuffed. I’m not completely happy, mind. It keeps freezing, not allowing me to turn it off, then running out of battery. I found a little bit of witchcraft, where if I pause, unpause, pause, unpause for about six straight minutes it wakes up again. I can’t really blame Apple this time though, the metal casing on this one is covered in scuffs where I’ve dropped it so many times. I knew I should have used that rubber case I got with it.
Oh well. It’s allowed me to fall in love with Led Zeppelin again, on a train, London-bound on a wet Wednesday morning at the start of October, at the end of a summer that never even happened. When I occasionally have the misfortune of travelling into London on the train. I am usually reminded of how, deep down, we are all just really animals. Today the sensation is most similar to being some kind of farm animal.Even with the volume bar on the ipod at near full – and let’s be honest, this IS heavy metal, too - the shrill whistling of the many train guards as I patiently waited for all the non-plussed grey-faced to board before me, drilled right into the very centre of my skull. What is it with these people? I thought they only blew these whistles to signal the train was ready to depart.
I now know how sheep feel when they’re being chased by dogs around a field, barking them into enclosed spaces. My chest compacted into a tight ball, panic filling me as I rushed onto the train before the bewildering loud noises startled me further. Now I’m tightly packed onto a full train, and the sensation has switched to battery-hen like behaviour, personal space a dim memory. And I’m sure, as I join the migrating herd of suited commuters when I leave the train, pushing and undulating in their towards the tube entrance, I’ll feel similarly animalistic. I sometimes wonder if any poor traveller stumbled and fell, whether anyone would stop to notice or just continue on towards their waiting desks.
I’ve decided that I’m never going to buy another ipod. My negative experiences are solely based on the single model I’ve owned, an ipod mini I bought a few years ago on a trip to Amsterdam. I had to order a replacement model after the battery died on the first one. It wasn’t easy. They don’t just let you take it back to the shop, even when armed with a receipt.
I had to endure all manner of tedium, through switching on and off, system restore attempts, software installing, emailing Curry’s Digital, trying to decipher the support processes on the Apple website, until finally couriering the machine back to the states to get it fixed. Thankfully that last bit was at Apple’s cost, not mine. Thank god it was still within the warranty. Without the receipt I’d have to pay £40 for the privilege of replacing their machine.
I got a nice new model, not a reconditioned one. It’s out of warranty now so if this one breaks I’m stuffed. I’m not completely happy, mind. It keeps freezing, not allowing me to turn it off, then running out of battery. I found a little bit of witchcraft, where if I pause, unpause, pause, unpause for about six straight minutes it wakes up again. I can’t really blame Apple this time though, the metal casing on this one is covered in scuffs where I’ve dropped it so many times. I knew I should have used that rubber case I got with it.
Oh well. It’s allowed me to fall in love with Led Zeppelin again, on a train, London-bound on a wet Wednesday morning at the start of October, at the end of a summer that never even happened. When I occasionally have the misfortune of travelling into London on the train. I am usually reminded of how, deep down, we are all just really animals. Today the sensation is most similar to being some kind of farm animal.Even with the volume bar on the ipod at near full – and let’s be honest, this IS heavy metal, too - the shrill whistling of the many train guards as I patiently waited for all the non-plussed grey-faced to board before me, drilled right into the very centre of my skull. What is it with these people? I thought they only blew these whistles to signal the train was ready to depart.
I now know how sheep feel when they’re being chased by dogs around a field, barking them into enclosed spaces. My chest compacted into a tight ball, panic filling me as I rushed onto the train before the bewildering loud noises startled me further. Now I’m tightly packed onto a full train, and the sensation has switched to battery-hen like behaviour, personal space a dim memory. And I’m sure, as I join the migrating herd of suited commuters when I leave the train, pushing and undulating in their towards the tube entrance, I’ll feel similarly animalistic. I sometimes wonder if any poor traveller stumbled and fell, whether anyone would stop to notice or just continue on towards their waiting desks.
Hot Flush
Friday, Aug 31
I’m only writing this because I got in at 2am and I’m too tired/massively hungover to sit up and do anything. My 360 is plugged in with super-new-brill-game Bioshock waiting to be turned on, and I’m about as likely to make the effort to sit up, switch it on and play it as I am to drink my own sweat.Good things always come with a price. I need to give up drinking. My body is rebelling. It's moved my head off its 'top friends' list and has turned its back on our friendship. The peacetalks have been severed, and there's even rumours that there is troop movement somewhere in the lower intestine.
I'm at Defcon 1.I don't know what's happened to me. We got on so well.I used to be able to stay up all night and still turn up for my Saturday job at Burton fresh faced in the morning, with a cheeky smile. The only thing that would give away how much I'd drunk to my manager would be the 10 minutes I’d spend at the water cooler, guzzling down water. Now I’m 30 and things are starting to get serious.
My hangovers have moved from “mild/brief”, to “Humpty Dumpty post-fall/epic.”My wife bought me a hot air balloon ride over Hampshire for a surprise birthday treat last week. I had to get up at 5.30 to drive to a wet field and dip my brand new trainers in a bucket. It was full of some liquid that looked a bit like watered-down cranberry juice to stop the risk of Foot and Mouth. It took a while to get me into the spirit of things, but it was well worth it. I’ve never seen anything like it. The balloon was huge, it was like a circus tent once filled with air. Not the same shape though, that would be silly.
The trip in the early morning sunshine was calm and serene, which helped reduce the fear factor of being in a big open basket you can’t steer, 3000 feet above the ground without a seat-belt. It came as a complete surprise too, so I didn’t really get a chance to get scared beforehand. We travelled over the local RAF base, and peered down in amazement at the wispy clouds below us, it wasn't even cold up there.I remember actually thinking “this is easy really, such a piece of piss,” but that was before I contemplated that at some point the thing had to land, and that wasn’t a piece of piss at all.Everything was going swimmingly until we were abruptly told to keep quiet while the guy was trying to concentrate. So that gave me the jitters. We had to silently sit down inside the balloon facing a central partition and away from the direction we were going. I couldn't help but think of the brace position they show you on planes.
At the end of the balloon I could see the ground approaching – at quite some speed – through the footwells. We touched down really softly in the field beyond the one we were supposed to, about 200 yards from a main road. That was the first landing. We were then pulled several bumpy metres across the field. No-one made a sound, perhaps too terrified that we'd be dragged into the next field. The balloonist hit his head. No, I didn’t enjoy that bit, especially when the only air bag available was the one above us. I was so relieved when we finally lay, motionless, on our backs in another dewy-wet field, 60 minutes and 13 miles after the last one. I even found myself whistling when we had to pack up the whole thing like a tent and stuff it into a ridiculously tiny bag while the balloonist leaned against the van watching us. It was just like being back at Glastonbury, only with a very, very big tent.
I’m only writing this because I got in at 2am and I’m too tired/massively hungover to sit up and do anything. My 360 is plugged in with super-new-brill-game Bioshock waiting to be turned on, and I’m about as likely to make the effort to sit up, switch it on and play it as I am to drink my own sweat.Good things always come with a price. I need to give up drinking. My body is rebelling. It's moved my head off its 'top friends' list and has turned its back on our friendship. The peacetalks have been severed, and there's even rumours that there is troop movement somewhere in the lower intestine.
I'm at Defcon 1.I don't know what's happened to me. We got on so well.I used to be able to stay up all night and still turn up for my Saturday job at Burton fresh faced in the morning, with a cheeky smile. The only thing that would give away how much I'd drunk to my manager would be the 10 minutes I’d spend at the water cooler, guzzling down water. Now I’m 30 and things are starting to get serious.
My hangovers have moved from “mild/brief”, to “Humpty Dumpty post-fall/epic.”My wife bought me a hot air balloon ride over Hampshire for a surprise birthday treat last week. I had to get up at 5.30 to drive to a wet field and dip my brand new trainers in a bucket. It was full of some liquid that looked a bit like watered-down cranberry juice to stop the risk of Foot and Mouth. It took a while to get me into the spirit of things, but it was well worth it. I’ve never seen anything like it. The balloon was huge, it was like a circus tent once filled with air. Not the same shape though, that would be silly.
The trip in the early morning sunshine was calm and serene, which helped reduce the fear factor of being in a big open basket you can’t steer, 3000 feet above the ground without a seat-belt. It came as a complete surprise too, so I didn’t really get a chance to get scared beforehand. We travelled over the local RAF base, and peered down in amazement at the wispy clouds below us, it wasn't even cold up there.I remember actually thinking “this is easy really, such a piece of piss,” but that was before I contemplated that at some point the thing had to land, and that wasn’t a piece of piss at all.Everything was going swimmingly until we were abruptly told to keep quiet while the guy was trying to concentrate. So that gave me the jitters. We had to silently sit down inside the balloon facing a central partition and away from the direction we were going. I couldn't help but think of the brace position they show you on planes.
At the end of the balloon I could see the ground approaching – at quite some speed – through the footwells. We touched down really softly in the field beyond the one we were supposed to, about 200 yards from a main road. That was the first landing. We were then pulled several bumpy metres across the field. No-one made a sound, perhaps too terrified that we'd be dragged into the next field. The balloonist hit his head. No, I didn’t enjoy that bit, especially when the only air bag available was the one above us. I was so relieved when we finally lay, motionless, on our backs in another dewy-wet field, 60 minutes and 13 miles after the last one. I even found myself whistling when we had to pack up the whole thing like a tent and stuff it into a ridiculously tiny bag while the balloonist leaned against the van watching us. It was just like being back at Glastonbury, only with a very, very big tent.
Heroes
Wednesday, Jul 4
"My name is Hiro Nakamura and I'm from the future..."Ok, so this is old news, most people with Sky are already knee deep in this series...but I f***ing love it. Seek and enjoy.
"My name is Hiro Nakamura and I'm from the future..."Ok, so this is old news, most people with Sky are already knee deep in this series...but I f***ing love it. Seek and enjoy.
Cole's Corner
Went for a walk down the shops yesterday and had a first listen to Richard Hawley's Coles Corner album from last year. Liked it a lot from the start. I played it to Rachael when I got back, and even she liked it, which is saying something. It's like 50s crooning with modern production. Some really pleasant songs. Very slow pace, but great to go with that late night, last glass of wine time.Apparently - and I was really surprised by this - he was the guitarist in both the Longpigs and Pulp. Not that you could guess, you'd imagine him to be about 80 with a voice like that. Pick if you get the chance, there wasn't a crap tune on the album. Think there's another one called Late Night Final or something, and the album's out in September, apparently.
Bum Volcano
I'm sorry to be crude, but I think it's for real in this case. I went for a curry in Bath last night. As usual, I opted for something mild and inoffensive because I'm weak, and also because I like to enjoy my food instead of raping my tastebuds.
Seeing that I'd taken the easy route, a journalist, who shall remain nameless, gave me some of his super-hot curry to try. It was only a couple of pieces of chicken, so I had a go, not wanting to appear of the wuss variety. I even managed to chew and swallow without letting on to those present that an incendary device had just gone off in my mouth.
I felt quite pleased with myself. I breathed a welcome sigh of relief when the brief flash of pain subsided, and merrily carried on stuffing my face mopping my plate with Peshwari naan and soaking it down with Kingfisher. Sadly, oh so sadly, a stray piece of his 'food' (not sure what it was, perhaps some kind of seed), managed to escape my attention, and I hoovered it up. Oh my. It felt like the skin inside my mouth was peeled away and then sprayed with lemon juice. I had to leave the rest of my meal and the restaurant before anyone noticed the coughing fit that followed. I feel old. I felt even older, when, at 4am, after no less than 3 hours sleep, I discovered that Bath has a really bad problem with seagulls. Some absolute knobber had left both windows open in my hotel room. The noise of these things was *unreal*.
It was like some kind of nightmarish squealing then a bit of squawking thrown in for good measure. Not so great in my tired, still half-pissed stupor. A catapult or a bow and arrow would have come in handy. Nothing modern, you understand, these creatures deserved only medieval weapons.I went to get a much-needed coffee a few hours later, and one of the buggers had the nerve to try and shit on me with what seemed like half a pint of bird spray. What did I ever do to deserve such harsh treatment? It's not even by the sea, ffs.A bland bacon butty went by without a hitch, but when I returned to my room before checking out, out of nowhere the mother of all bum volcanoes erupted.
I was on the toilet for a full ten minutes, in sheer agony. I tried to convince my poor behind that it was a bacon butty I'd had for breakfast, and not cacti butty. I couldn't walk properly afterwards. Next time I suggest a curry, adminster a swift blow to my face with a blunt object to bring me back to my senses.
Seeing that I'd taken the easy route, a journalist, who shall remain nameless, gave me some of his super-hot curry to try. It was only a couple of pieces of chicken, so I had a go, not wanting to appear of the wuss variety. I even managed to chew and swallow without letting on to those present that an incendary device had just gone off in my mouth.
I felt quite pleased with myself. I breathed a welcome sigh of relief when the brief flash of pain subsided, and merrily carried on stuffing my face mopping my plate with Peshwari naan and soaking it down with Kingfisher. Sadly, oh so sadly, a stray piece of his 'food' (not sure what it was, perhaps some kind of seed), managed to escape my attention, and I hoovered it up. Oh my. It felt like the skin inside my mouth was peeled away and then sprayed with lemon juice. I had to leave the rest of my meal and the restaurant before anyone noticed the coughing fit that followed. I feel old. I felt even older, when, at 4am, after no less than 3 hours sleep, I discovered that Bath has a really bad problem with seagulls. Some absolute knobber had left both windows open in my hotel room. The noise of these things was *unreal*.
It was like some kind of nightmarish squealing then a bit of squawking thrown in for good measure. Not so great in my tired, still half-pissed stupor. A catapult or a bow and arrow would have come in handy. Nothing modern, you understand, these creatures deserved only medieval weapons.I went to get a much-needed coffee a few hours later, and one of the buggers had the nerve to try and shit on me with what seemed like half a pint of bird spray. What did I ever do to deserve such harsh treatment? It's not even by the sea, ffs.A bland bacon butty went by without a hitch, but when I returned to my room before checking out, out of nowhere the mother of all bum volcanoes erupted.
I was on the toilet for a full ten minutes, in sheer agony. I tried to convince my poor behind that it was a bacon butty I'd had for breakfast, and not cacti butty. I couldn't walk properly afterwards. Next time I suggest a curry, adminster a swift blow to my face with a blunt object to bring me back to my senses.
I'm the king of the garden
Sunday, May 20
Bah. I suppose I'll have to go back to work tomorrow. I've enjoyed my time off. I've found time to do all sorts of things I've never done. On Friday, Rachael set me the mini-challenge of cooking something from scratch, using only ingredients already in the kitchen. This rather panicked me as my previous experience of cooking was in Home Economics class. Still I happily accepted and spent several hours making a cracking Spag Boll, using the instructions from the back of a Tomato Puree tube. Wasn't too pleased then, when she rang up. "Don't worry about dinner," she said. "I've just had a sandwich at my mum's."Oh well, I've frozen it, so she'll have to eat it sometime...After several months of nagging about the grass being too long and the soil beds full of weeds, I've just spent the last few days mowing, pruning and weeding. The knees of my jeans are muddy and worn, and I feel shattered, but really content enough. Gardening in the sunshine is one of life's underrated pleasures. Sadly lots of spiders though...I went to church this morning to hear our banns being read for the wedding. For those of you not familiar with the term, these are the legal announcements of weddings that are called three times before a wedding. A bit like planning applications, or something. There was a russian choir visiting, and what a treat it was. There were just four of them, but the harmonies were out of this world. I should go to church more...I've also finally finished 'The Lord of The Silver Bow', the first part of the Troy trilogy by David Gemmell. I'm happy to say it was one of the most unexpectedly enjoyable reads I've ever come across. Not literally, you understand, but it was great. It's a fictionalised account of the infamous Troy, and was really well written. I think Tesco are selling it for £3.73, so if you get the chance, pick it up.Oh, and I'm now on Xbox Live, gamertag is McGARIACHI. Cheers.
Bah. I suppose I'll have to go back to work tomorrow. I've enjoyed my time off. I've found time to do all sorts of things I've never done. On Friday, Rachael set me the mini-challenge of cooking something from scratch, using only ingredients already in the kitchen. This rather panicked me as my previous experience of cooking was in Home Economics class. Still I happily accepted and spent several hours making a cracking Spag Boll, using the instructions from the back of a Tomato Puree tube. Wasn't too pleased then, when she rang up. "Don't worry about dinner," she said. "I've just had a sandwich at my mum's."Oh well, I've frozen it, so she'll have to eat it sometime...After several months of nagging about the grass being too long and the soil beds full of weeds, I've just spent the last few days mowing, pruning and weeding. The knees of my jeans are muddy and worn, and I feel shattered, but really content enough. Gardening in the sunshine is one of life's underrated pleasures. Sadly lots of spiders though...I went to church this morning to hear our banns being read for the wedding. For those of you not familiar with the term, these are the legal announcements of weddings that are called three times before a wedding. A bit like planning applications, or something. There was a russian choir visiting, and what a treat it was. There were just four of them, but the harmonies were out of this world. I should go to church more...I've also finally finished 'The Lord of The Silver Bow', the first part of the Troy trilogy by David Gemmell. I'm happy to say it was one of the most unexpectedly enjoyable reads I've ever come across. Not literally, you understand, but it was great. It's a fictionalised account of the infamous Troy, and was really well written. I think Tesco are selling it for £3.73, so if you get the chance, pick it up.Oh, and I'm now on Xbox Live, gamertag is McGARIACHI. Cheers.
Poorovision
Sunday, May 13
Eurovision is such an abomination. I love watching it, but for the wrong reasons. I used to think that music was a great leveller, and it's a universal pleasure that everyone can enjoy. Apparently, not so. Does everyone treat it as the joke that we do? Does Latvia, for example, have their very own Terry Wogan offering sarcastic comments about how England votes for Ireland, and Portugal votes for Spain?I heard many years ago that Ireland hosted it two years running and it caused the economy to nearly collapse. To be honest, that explains a lot with their entry. And what was up with that woman with the lights on her hands??? I had nightmares about her last night. Never mix Eurovision with beer.
Eurovision is such an abomination. I love watching it, but for the wrong reasons. I used to think that music was a great leveller, and it's a universal pleasure that everyone can enjoy. Apparently, not so. Does everyone treat it as the joke that we do? Does Latvia, for example, have their very own Terry Wogan offering sarcastic comments about how England votes for Ireland, and Portugal votes for Spain?I heard many years ago that Ireland hosted it two years running and it caused the economy to nearly collapse. To be honest, that explains a lot with their entry. And what was up with that woman with the lights on her hands??? I had nightmares about her last night. Never mix Eurovision with beer.
Can't believe I broke the toilet
Saturday, May 12
There I was, watching a perfectly shit film while Rachael was at college, and my pangs of conscience made me switch it off, don the marigolds and attempt to clean the bathroom. Bit of 'Lime Lite', bit of 'Mould and Mildrew' and the bathroom will be gleaming. First the mirror covering half one wall.
That mirror looks dirty, I thought, she'll really appreciate it if I clean it, I thought. Sprayed on the glass cleaner, mopped it off with the kitchen roll, it was working a treat. Shame I couldn't reach the top corners.So I stood on the toilet. Of course it broke, I'm lucky I didn't. The worst thing was, she came in about 2 minutes afterwards, so there was no fixing or running away. Feel a bit silly.
There I was, watching a perfectly shit film while Rachael was at college, and my pangs of conscience made me switch it off, don the marigolds and attempt to clean the bathroom. Bit of 'Lime Lite', bit of 'Mould and Mildrew' and the bathroom will be gleaming. First the mirror covering half one wall.
That mirror looks dirty, I thought, she'll really appreciate it if I clean it, I thought. Sprayed on the glass cleaner, mopped it off with the kitchen roll, it was working a treat. Shame I couldn't reach the top corners.So I stood on the toilet. Of course it broke, I'm lucky I didn't. The worst thing was, she came in about 2 minutes afterwards, so there was no fixing or running away. Feel a bit silly.
Glastonbury
26 Jun 2007
Having driven through torrential rain and freak storms on the way to Reading on Tuesday, I was fully expecting the site to be a trifle damp, and wasn't disappointed. We drove up via Guildford and Bristol, leaving at 5pm, in a trip lasting a good 2 hours longer than it should have done. When we eventually arrived at 10pm, we met up with the rest of the group and made the long difficult journey from the car park through to the camping site, an area called the Paines field. Thank god it was still dry when we set up our tents. Saying that though, we were a tad frustrated while helping set up Paul's tent, a tangled bastard mess of poles and guideropes. I could almost hear the chilled cans of Heineken and foldout chair calling out to me as we scratched our heads trying to figure out how to build the monster. Thankfully Gavin amused us all by shouting "Put the f*cking tent up" in a faux Nelson Mandela accent every few minutes to ease the mood. It caused a giggle whenever it was mentioned that weekend.
It took us nearly two hours before we gave up and went for a wander round the site, which is when we discovered the potent Pear Cider. Friday began with a fuzzy head and a downpour, the rain battering the top of my tent like it was there to stay all weekend. And guess what? God bless Mr Peter Storm and his waterproofs.Breakfast (and lunch) consisted of a baguette, filled with what was basically a gut-busting full english breakfast. Slightly ambitious. I couldn't eat again for around 10 hours, which is quite something for me. It also cost a whopping £5. I blame that meal that it took me 3 days before I could have a shit. The toilets didn't help. Metal latrines, with round holes dropping to a pit of shit and other savoury substances below, reminded me of a trip to a medieval village in my childhood.
The rest of Friday was spent catching brief snippets of bands before deciding we wanted to move to another stage and end up missing the set because it took us so long wading through the mud. Ali and I spent about 3 hours getting back to the car to pick up my wellies, and then took a slow stroll over to see Bloc Party and Amy Winehouse. Winehouse was the highlight of my day. I'm not particularly a fan, but this girl has talent and put on a hell of a show. We all finally settled at the Pyramid Stage to see The Fratellis, Kasabian and Arctic Monkeys in the evening. I wasn't sure what to make of Kasabian's set.
Their songs were good, sure, but something was missing. They started well, but they seemed to lose their energy half-way through the set and it didn't help with the frontman's arrogant mock Liam Gallagher attitude. The Arctic Monkeys were good live, extremely tight, but I got exhausted with listening to frantic songs I didn't know by younger, better looking and musically successful...so we went for a drink.We woke up on Saturday to find the site covered in deep mud that wasn't too dissimilar to melted chocolate ice-cream. We took ages to find the Jazz World stage in the hope of seeing The Bees, and were forced to listen to someone considerably less talented playing offensive folk songs in the Left Field tent when it started to really hammer it down. When we left, the mud was ridiculously sticky and made it virtually impossible to walk on, so it was really heavy going to get to the Jazz World stage.
We kept ourselves amused by singing songs about Liverpool's midfield. We made it to the Jazz World stage with about 3 songs left. I was in danger of starting to get a bit down at this point, thinking that my one and only stag do was going to be ruined by the weather.We sat and watched Maximo Park together on the Other Stage before everyone left Tony and I so that they could catch The Kooks on the Pyramid Stage. Next up were Editors, and they were just awesome. And that's when it started getting good. I really loved it. Sat in my foldout chair, its metal legs half buried in the thick mud, warm enough, but rain drops diluting my beer. I looked up at the distant, faded sun nestled amongst spotty clouds, scattered across the sky as if by some grand design, just as the Editors reached the epic chorus of 'Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors.' I looked back and saw the stage light up and thats when I had my Glastonbury moment. Slightly pissed, but happy, as a pig in shit.
Having driven through torrential rain and freak storms on the way to Reading on Tuesday, I was fully expecting the site to be a trifle damp, and wasn't disappointed. We drove up via Guildford and Bristol, leaving at 5pm, in a trip lasting a good 2 hours longer than it should have done. When we eventually arrived at 10pm, we met up with the rest of the group and made the long difficult journey from the car park through to the camping site, an area called the Paines field. Thank god it was still dry when we set up our tents. Saying that though, we were a tad frustrated while helping set up Paul's tent, a tangled bastard mess of poles and guideropes. I could almost hear the chilled cans of Heineken and foldout chair calling out to me as we scratched our heads trying to figure out how to build the monster. Thankfully Gavin amused us all by shouting "Put the f*cking tent up" in a faux Nelson Mandela accent every few minutes to ease the mood. It caused a giggle whenever it was mentioned that weekend.
It took us nearly two hours before we gave up and went for a wander round the site, which is when we discovered the potent Pear Cider. Friday began with a fuzzy head and a downpour, the rain battering the top of my tent like it was there to stay all weekend. And guess what? God bless Mr Peter Storm and his waterproofs.Breakfast (and lunch) consisted of a baguette, filled with what was basically a gut-busting full english breakfast. Slightly ambitious. I couldn't eat again for around 10 hours, which is quite something for me. It also cost a whopping £5. I blame that meal that it took me 3 days before I could have a shit. The toilets didn't help. Metal latrines, with round holes dropping to a pit of shit and other savoury substances below, reminded me of a trip to a medieval village in my childhood.
The rest of Friday was spent catching brief snippets of bands before deciding we wanted to move to another stage and end up missing the set because it took us so long wading through the mud. Ali and I spent about 3 hours getting back to the car to pick up my wellies, and then took a slow stroll over to see Bloc Party and Amy Winehouse. Winehouse was the highlight of my day. I'm not particularly a fan, but this girl has talent and put on a hell of a show. We all finally settled at the Pyramid Stage to see The Fratellis, Kasabian and Arctic Monkeys in the evening. I wasn't sure what to make of Kasabian's set.
Their songs were good, sure, but something was missing. They started well, but they seemed to lose their energy half-way through the set and it didn't help with the frontman's arrogant mock Liam Gallagher attitude. The Arctic Monkeys were good live, extremely tight, but I got exhausted with listening to frantic songs I didn't know by younger, better looking and musically successful...so we went for a drink.We woke up on Saturday to find the site covered in deep mud that wasn't too dissimilar to melted chocolate ice-cream. We took ages to find the Jazz World stage in the hope of seeing The Bees, and were forced to listen to someone considerably less talented playing offensive folk songs in the Left Field tent when it started to really hammer it down. When we left, the mud was ridiculously sticky and made it virtually impossible to walk on, so it was really heavy going to get to the Jazz World stage.
We kept ourselves amused by singing songs about Liverpool's midfield. We made it to the Jazz World stage with about 3 songs left. I was in danger of starting to get a bit down at this point, thinking that my one and only stag do was going to be ruined by the weather.We sat and watched Maximo Park together on the Other Stage before everyone left Tony and I so that they could catch The Kooks on the Pyramid Stage. Next up were Editors, and they were just awesome. And that's when it started getting good. I really loved it. Sat in my foldout chair, its metal legs half buried in the thick mud, warm enough, but rain drops diluting my beer. I looked up at the distant, faded sun nestled amongst spotty clouds, scattered across the sky as if by some grand design, just as the Editors reached the epic chorus of 'Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors.' I looked back and saw the stage light up and thats when I had my Glastonbury moment. Slightly pissed, but happy, as a pig in shit.
Ex-Factor
10 Jun 2007
Well boys and girls, everyone knows I like karaoke. So every year when the X Factor show is on, I daydream about trying my hand at it. I finally plucked up the courage to audition for the show for this year's fourth series, curiously in advance of my wedding, and my 30 birthday. But don't read too much into that...To save you reading ahead (or not) I didn't get through.
I guess I wasn't as good as I thought I was. Fair dos.
I was however, thoroughly surprised at how the audition was structured. Here's what happened:There are two types of audition, those you send away for and a few people randomly chosen receive an audition time to come along and sing in front of producers (not the judges as it appears on TV) from Talkback Thames or A&R Sony BMG. You don't get to see the (now four) judges until later on. I'd assume that these judges choose a set quota of people who were either really good or embarrassingly bad (to make for good TV).The other audition is the Open Audition, where everyone just turns up on the day. I got a letter about the second one (which was yesterday) and was told that I'd need to be there from 8am onwards and to expect a long day. The audition venue was at the Arsenal Emirates Stadium, which is on the other side of London to where I live, so I had a reasonably long journey. I checked the weather and saw that it was for the most part sunny. Sadly, when I stepped out of Holloway Road tube station, it was pissing it down.
I met the chap I was going with at the station, we picked up some umbrellas from a local shop, and eventually joined the end of a very, very long queue. Each person is given a coloured armband (I had orange) and this would dictate the rough order in which you got in. We were standing near to the famous football agent agent Eric Hall who was there supporting his nephew Michael. We all had quite a laugh in the rain, largely due to the, eh, colourful people elsewhere in the queue. We got bored very quickly. The sun came out, but that too started to become a bit of a problem as it was just too hot and there was no shelter. The mood in the crowd sooned turned a bit sour as we were shunted, moved, pushed back, pushed forward and asked to cheer silently (?!?) for several hours.
The announcer on the PA either catagorically lied about our progress or didn't tell us anything, so he got booed alot. What he did helpfully say, was that we should drink loads and helpfully pointed out that they were selling water for £1.50 a pop from the stadium staff. I was quite surprised at this as if the sun is ever a problem at a festival, it's not unexpected to get this free. The judges appeared on a balcony above the crowd, waving like the royal family. The restless crowd around us were freely booing at the wait they'd endured.
The two new judges, Brian Friedman and Dannii Minogue were also introduced. Simon Cowell spoke for a few minutes, displaying his customary charm. I don't remember the exact quote, but he said something along the lines of "We'll see you all today" and "It's worth the wait, and if you don't like it, go home." Nice.Eventually, seven hours later at 3.30, my face quite literally burned to a crisp, we were shuffled slowly into the stadium itself and directed to a seat pitch-side. It took ages for all the thousands of people to get into the stadium and get seated. A few people (and I mean a few) were auditioned by their seats in front of two execs.
More crowd filming, more silent cheers, more direct sunlight and more lobster faced Stef. After the filming, the proper auditions began, at around 4.30pm, an incredible 8 and a half hours after we arrived. When I say auditions, I mean X Factor staff wearing polo shirts, some looking really quite young, began working through the crowd, seat by seat- in front of hundreds of other people - and listening to a verse and a chorus. It began to get really demoralising as a lot of really good singers were publicly turned down to jeering and booing at the 'judges'. The guy I was with gave up at 6 and went home. I didn't want to give up as I'd wasted the whole day, and eventually got seen at at 7pm by a chap who looked around 21.
He asked me to sing a verse and chorus from two songs, and I was pleased with how I did, despite not being successful. So there you have it. An 11-hour day, 2.5 of which were auditions, and in a very different format to what you see on television. It soon became clear that the priority on the day wasn't to find the best singers, it was to get background shots for the filming, and we were one big (free) rent-a-crowd for the show. Oh well. I'm just hoping my poor sore looking skin recovers before Glastonbury, which begins a week on Thursday. And I really can't wait.
Well boys and girls, everyone knows I like karaoke. So every year when the X Factor show is on, I daydream about trying my hand at it. I finally plucked up the courage to audition for the show for this year's fourth series, curiously in advance of my wedding, and my 30 birthday. But don't read too much into that...To save you reading ahead (or not) I didn't get through.
I guess I wasn't as good as I thought I was. Fair dos.
I was however, thoroughly surprised at how the audition was structured. Here's what happened:There are two types of audition, those you send away for and a few people randomly chosen receive an audition time to come along and sing in front of producers (not the judges as it appears on TV) from Talkback Thames or A&R Sony BMG. You don't get to see the (now four) judges until later on. I'd assume that these judges choose a set quota of people who were either really good or embarrassingly bad (to make for good TV).The other audition is the Open Audition, where everyone just turns up on the day. I got a letter about the second one (which was yesterday) and was told that I'd need to be there from 8am onwards and to expect a long day. The audition venue was at the Arsenal Emirates Stadium, which is on the other side of London to where I live, so I had a reasonably long journey. I checked the weather and saw that it was for the most part sunny. Sadly, when I stepped out of Holloway Road tube station, it was pissing it down.
I met the chap I was going with at the station, we picked up some umbrellas from a local shop, and eventually joined the end of a very, very long queue. Each person is given a coloured armband (I had orange) and this would dictate the rough order in which you got in. We were standing near to the famous football agent agent Eric Hall who was there supporting his nephew Michael. We all had quite a laugh in the rain, largely due to the, eh, colourful people elsewhere in the queue. We got bored very quickly. The sun came out, but that too started to become a bit of a problem as it was just too hot and there was no shelter. The mood in the crowd sooned turned a bit sour as we were shunted, moved, pushed back, pushed forward and asked to cheer silently (?!?) for several hours.
The announcer on the PA either catagorically lied about our progress or didn't tell us anything, so he got booed alot. What he did helpfully say, was that we should drink loads and helpfully pointed out that they were selling water for £1.50 a pop from the stadium staff. I was quite surprised at this as if the sun is ever a problem at a festival, it's not unexpected to get this free. The judges appeared on a balcony above the crowd, waving like the royal family. The restless crowd around us were freely booing at the wait they'd endured.
The two new judges, Brian Friedman and Dannii Minogue were also introduced. Simon Cowell spoke for a few minutes, displaying his customary charm. I don't remember the exact quote, but he said something along the lines of "We'll see you all today" and "It's worth the wait, and if you don't like it, go home." Nice.Eventually, seven hours later at 3.30, my face quite literally burned to a crisp, we were shuffled slowly into the stadium itself and directed to a seat pitch-side. It took ages for all the thousands of people to get into the stadium and get seated. A few people (and I mean a few) were auditioned by their seats in front of two execs.
More crowd filming, more silent cheers, more direct sunlight and more lobster faced Stef. After the filming, the proper auditions began, at around 4.30pm, an incredible 8 and a half hours after we arrived. When I say auditions, I mean X Factor staff wearing polo shirts, some looking really quite young, began working through the crowd, seat by seat- in front of hundreds of other people - and listening to a verse and a chorus. It began to get really demoralising as a lot of really good singers were publicly turned down to jeering and booing at the 'judges'. The guy I was with gave up at 6 and went home. I didn't want to give up as I'd wasted the whole day, and eventually got seen at at 7pm by a chap who looked around 21.
He asked me to sing a verse and chorus from two songs, and I was pleased with how I did, despite not being successful. So there you have it. An 11-hour day, 2.5 of which were auditions, and in a very different format to what you see on television. It soon became clear that the priority on the day wasn't to find the best singers, it was to get background shots for the filming, and we were one big (free) rent-a-crowd for the show. Oh well. I'm just hoping my poor sore looking skin recovers before Glastonbury, which begins a week on Thursday. And I really can't wait.
Cacti Butty
01 Jun 2007
I went for a curry in Bath last night. As usual, I opted for something mild and inoffensive because I'm weak, and also because I like to enjoy my food instead of raping my tastebuds. Seeing that I'd taken the easy route, a journalist, who shall remain nameless, gave me some of his super-hot curry to try. It was only a couple of pieces of chicken, so I had a go, not wanting to appear of the wuss variety. I even managed to chew and swallow without letting on to those present that an incendary device had just gone off in my mouth. I felt quite pleased with myself.
I breathed a welcome sigh of relief when the brief flash of pain subsided, and merrily carried on stuffing my face mopping my plate with Peshwari naan and soaking it down with Kingfisher. Sadly, oh so sadly, a stray piece of his 'food' (not sure what it was, perhaps some kind of seed), managed to escape my attention, and I hoovered it up. Oh my. It felt like the skin inside my mouth was peeled away and then sprayed with lemon juice. I had to leave the rest of my meal and the restaurant before anyone noticed the coughing fit that followed. I feel old. I felt even older, when, at 4am, after no less than 3 hours sleep, I discovered that Bath has a really bad problem with seagulls. Some absolute knobber had left both windows open in my hotel room. The noise of these things was *unreal*. It was like some kind of nightmarish squealing then a bit of squawking thrown in for good measure. Not so great in my tired, still half-pissed stupor. A catapult or a bow and arrow would have come in handy. Nothing modern, you understand, these creatures deserve only medieval weapons.
I went to get a much-needed coffee a few hours later, and one of the buggers had the nerve to try and shit on me with what seemed like half a pint of bird spray. What did I ever do to deserve such harsh treatment? It's not even by the sea, ffs.A bland bacon butty went by without a hitch, but when I returned to my room before checking out, out of nowhere the mother of all bum volcanoes erupted. I was on the toilet for a full ten minutes, in sheer agony. I tried in vain to convince my poor behind that it was a bacon butty I'd had for breakfast, and not cacti butty. I couldn't walk properly afterwards. Next time I suggest a curry, please adminster a swift blow to my face with a blunt object to bring me back to my senses.
I went for a curry in Bath last night. As usual, I opted for something mild and inoffensive because I'm weak, and also because I like to enjoy my food instead of raping my tastebuds. Seeing that I'd taken the easy route, a journalist, who shall remain nameless, gave me some of his super-hot curry to try. It was only a couple of pieces of chicken, so I had a go, not wanting to appear of the wuss variety. I even managed to chew and swallow without letting on to those present that an incendary device had just gone off in my mouth. I felt quite pleased with myself.
I breathed a welcome sigh of relief when the brief flash of pain subsided, and merrily carried on stuffing my face mopping my plate with Peshwari naan and soaking it down with Kingfisher. Sadly, oh so sadly, a stray piece of his 'food' (not sure what it was, perhaps some kind of seed), managed to escape my attention, and I hoovered it up. Oh my. It felt like the skin inside my mouth was peeled away and then sprayed with lemon juice. I had to leave the rest of my meal and the restaurant before anyone noticed the coughing fit that followed. I feel old. I felt even older, when, at 4am, after no less than 3 hours sleep, I discovered that Bath has a really bad problem with seagulls. Some absolute knobber had left both windows open in my hotel room. The noise of these things was *unreal*. It was like some kind of nightmarish squealing then a bit of squawking thrown in for good measure. Not so great in my tired, still half-pissed stupor. A catapult or a bow and arrow would have come in handy. Nothing modern, you understand, these creatures deserve only medieval weapons.
I went to get a much-needed coffee a few hours later, and one of the buggers had the nerve to try and shit on me with what seemed like half a pint of bird spray. What did I ever do to deserve such harsh treatment? It's not even by the sea, ffs.A bland bacon butty went by without a hitch, but when I returned to my room before checking out, out of nowhere the mother of all bum volcanoes erupted. I was on the toilet for a full ten minutes, in sheer agony. I tried in vain to convince my poor behind that it was a bacon butty I'd had for breakfast, and not cacti butty. I couldn't walk properly afterwards. Next time I suggest a curry, please adminster a swift blow to my face with a blunt object to bring me back to my senses.
School Daze
11 May 2007
"Blogs are currently disabled for special maintenance. They will be available again in about 20 minutes." How gutted am I?
The one time I actually feel compelled to write a blog, and the bugger's down. Oh well, that's why it went on Facebook first...The summer of 1988 was amazing. I spent it over in Ballymena, Northern Ireland, with my aunts and uncles, and I have some great, great memories of it. So much happened that summer. I was 10. A month later, I was beginning a sentence of five years at a boarding school, and I hated every minute. I think.
Not a lot of people know this, but with every passing year, my fading memory of that time seems to be more and more negative. I was a bit of a monster when I was young – not in the sense you hear it nowadays, just a bit of an out of control little shit. I was getting into more and more trouble. My mum, in her infinite wisdom didn't like the way I was headed and wasn't too impressed with the school options on offer in my hometown. She decided that the only chance of sorting myself out and getting a decent education was to find a good boarding school.
A few weeks later, I found myself, suitcase in hand, being fitted out for my burgundy school uniform, grey shirt, black trousers and red and yellow tie. Needless to say, it took me a long time to get over my homesickness. The house I was in was called "Cornwall" had seven dorms, each with 7/8 beds. It had nasty brown blankets (duvets weren't brought in for a while afterwards) and was run by an older housemaster who used to scare the life out of me. One of the older kids would be designated dorm leader. They'd usually be a few years older and would tend to be quite burly. They and weren't to be messed with because they could make your life a misery. The house staff relied on them to keep order after dark, and they inevitably abused their power. One night, in dorm 5, a skinny kid with lank blonde hair was chewing a red pen lid (I still remember that night quite vividly), and it was getting on everyone's nerves. It wasn't that big a deal, but in the dark of night, that kind of noise carried.
The dorm leader, a chap called Paul, got a bit frustrated and asked who was doing it. We all knew of course, but no one wanted to rat him up, because he was bound to get a beating. So we were all made to stand at the end of our beds and balance pillows and books on outstretched arms for hours. Which was nice. It's no wonder that with memories like that I've been a bit jaded about the whole experience. We even used to have school on Saturday mornings (I know! Poor me!) and then we'd be given less than two quid (in the first year or year 7 as it later became) to go and buy some sweets from Woolworth's pick n' mix, because that was all we could afford. That was called exeat. Most of the time I had to skip this because I'd been naughty, so would have to do lines outside the maths' teacher's house. It wasn't all bad though, his daughter occasionally turned up, and she was quite easy on the eye…
Over the years, the pocket money grew, and the curfews got later. Truth be told, it wasn't all bad, but there were some utter bastards there. Without wanting to bore you with the details, the thing that struck me most was that if you didn't like someone, or they didn't like you, there was no escape from them. You'd see them in the morning at 7am, rubbing their eyes, at the breakfast table, in the classroom, and in the TV room before bedtime. You'd hear their voices in the dorm, before the staff would shout in to be quiet as it was nearly 3am. I'd gone into that school being completely ignorant of other cultures and had that beaten out of me, quite literally. Among the lessons I'd learned, was one fundamental thing, even the bullies at the school pissed their beds and cried when they got homesick.
Not all of them, you understand, but you get to realise that when you're at day school, you get to reinvent yourself as soon as you leave the house, and you get to hang that personality up on the coat-rack when you get home. This realisation was both a blessing and a curse, but it's stood me in good stead since I've left, and has had a massive on my choice of career. I learned a lot while I was there, even after spending a full day out of every month standing in the head's office. We were practically on first-name terms. The food was good though. Three cooked meals a day, plus some toast and hot chocolate in the evening for supper. The other kids used to playfully take the piss out of me because my mum used to sneak up to the school and give me a bag of what they'd call "Tuck" (basically multipack bags of crisps and chocolate). It's little wonder I've always been a bit soft around the stomach. One day there was a power cut and it took a while for the school's backup generators to kick in.
We were all in the dining hall at the time, and it coincided rather unfortunately with one of the most popular meals, 'Tom-Toms' (breaded chicken balls with scalding hot ketchup inside, not Sat-Navs) and chips. It makes me chuckle now. It was winter time, so it was dark anyway, but when the lights went out, you couldn't see anything at all. A riot ensued. Because these Tom-Tom things were so popular and we were never allowed seconds for them, everyone rushed over to the serving trays in the pitch black and scooped up as many of these little balls as they could and then ran for the exit, tripping over the benches and sliding along on trays as they went. It was utter carnage.Year 11 was the best time, I'd graduated to dorm 1, which only had two beds, and I was given much more freedom.
Still, when I finally left in 2003, gratefully declining the option to stay on for sixth form, I was somewhat relieved.Needless to say, when I received a friend invitation from one of the girls from the school, I was utterly shocked. There on her profile page was about 20 pictures of loads of people from the school and some really great memories came flooding back. It really can't have been all that bad. And no, it was nothing like bloody Hogwarts.
"Blogs are currently disabled for special maintenance. They will be available again in about 20 minutes." How gutted am I?
The one time I actually feel compelled to write a blog, and the bugger's down. Oh well, that's why it went on Facebook first...The summer of 1988 was amazing. I spent it over in Ballymena, Northern Ireland, with my aunts and uncles, and I have some great, great memories of it. So much happened that summer. I was 10. A month later, I was beginning a sentence of five years at a boarding school, and I hated every minute. I think.
Not a lot of people know this, but with every passing year, my fading memory of that time seems to be more and more negative. I was a bit of a monster when I was young – not in the sense you hear it nowadays, just a bit of an out of control little shit. I was getting into more and more trouble. My mum, in her infinite wisdom didn't like the way I was headed and wasn't too impressed with the school options on offer in my hometown. She decided that the only chance of sorting myself out and getting a decent education was to find a good boarding school.
A few weeks later, I found myself, suitcase in hand, being fitted out for my burgundy school uniform, grey shirt, black trousers and red and yellow tie. Needless to say, it took me a long time to get over my homesickness. The house I was in was called "Cornwall" had seven dorms, each with 7/8 beds. It had nasty brown blankets (duvets weren't brought in for a while afterwards) and was run by an older housemaster who used to scare the life out of me. One of the older kids would be designated dorm leader. They'd usually be a few years older and would tend to be quite burly. They and weren't to be messed with because they could make your life a misery. The house staff relied on them to keep order after dark, and they inevitably abused their power. One night, in dorm 5, a skinny kid with lank blonde hair was chewing a red pen lid (I still remember that night quite vividly), and it was getting on everyone's nerves. It wasn't that big a deal, but in the dark of night, that kind of noise carried.
The dorm leader, a chap called Paul, got a bit frustrated and asked who was doing it. We all knew of course, but no one wanted to rat him up, because he was bound to get a beating. So we were all made to stand at the end of our beds and balance pillows and books on outstretched arms for hours. Which was nice. It's no wonder that with memories like that I've been a bit jaded about the whole experience. We even used to have school on Saturday mornings (I know! Poor me!) and then we'd be given less than two quid (in the first year or year 7 as it later became) to go and buy some sweets from Woolworth's pick n' mix, because that was all we could afford. That was called exeat. Most of the time I had to skip this because I'd been naughty, so would have to do lines outside the maths' teacher's house. It wasn't all bad though, his daughter occasionally turned up, and she was quite easy on the eye…
Over the years, the pocket money grew, and the curfews got later. Truth be told, it wasn't all bad, but there were some utter bastards there. Without wanting to bore you with the details, the thing that struck me most was that if you didn't like someone, or they didn't like you, there was no escape from them. You'd see them in the morning at 7am, rubbing their eyes, at the breakfast table, in the classroom, and in the TV room before bedtime. You'd hear their voices in the dorm, before the staff would shout in to be quiet as it was nearly 3am. I'd gone into that school being completely ignorant of other cultures and had that beaten out of me, quite literally. Among the lessons I'd learned, was one fundamental thing, even the bullies at the school pissed their beds and cried when they got homesick.
Not all of them, you understand, but you get to realise that when you're at day school, you get to reinvent yourself as soon as you leave the house, and you get to hang that personality up on the coat-rack when you get home. This realisation was both a blessing and a curse, but it's stood me in good stead since I've left, and has had a massive on my choice of career. I learned a lot while I was there, even after spending a full day out of every month standing in the head's office. We were practically on first-name terms. The food was good though. Three cooked meals a day, plus some toast and hot chocolate in the evening for supper. The other kids used to playfully take the piss out of me because my mum used to sneak up to the school and give me a bag of what they'd call "Tuck" (basically multipack bags of crisps and chocolate). It's little wonder I've always been a bit soft around the stomach. One day there was a power cut and it took a while for the school's backup generators to kick in.
We were all in the dining hall at the time, and it coincided rather unfortunately with one of the most popular meals, 'Tom-Toms' (breaded chicken balls with scalding hot ketchup inside, not Sat-Navs) and chips. It makes me chuckle now. It was winter time, so it was dark anyway, but when the lights went out, you couldn't see anything at all. A riot ensued. Because these Tom-Tom things were so popular and we were never allowed seconds for them, everyone rushed over to the serving trays in the pitch black and scooped up as many of these little balls as they could and then ran for the exit, tripping over the benches and sliding along on trays as they went. It was utter carnage.Year 11 was the best time, I'd graduated to dorm 1, which only had two beds, and I was given much more freedom.
Still, when I finally left in 2003, gratefully declining the option to stay on for sixth form, I was somewhat relieved.Needless to say, when I received a friend invitation from one of the girls from the school, I was utterly shocked. There on her profile page was about 20 pictures of loads of people from the school and some really great memories came flooding back. It really can't have been all that bad. And no, it was nothing like bloody Hogwarts.
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
The Stef Factor
28 Apr 2007
 | Rachael says I'm a geek. I've seen most series and films of Star Trek, and I think Star Wars is great. I'll draw the line at accepting that games are geeky though. I'm going to go against the grain here and say I don't like this new generation of Doctor Who. Just watching the latest episode with complete indifference, and find myself actually looking forward to the Joseph show afterwards, which is just strange. I've caught a handful of episodes since Christopher Ecclestone came back as the new Doctor, and most of them have featured Daleks. Most of them have involved flying (!) Daleks being destroyed forever and yet still they come back, every few episodes. Rachael gets freaked out by them, but I think the series could do with a new enemy. So I'm sitting here with an ice cold Asahi. I can hear Rachael stirring a sizzling pan in the kitchen and I've just caught a whiff of the battered prawns being stirred into a sweet 'n' sour sauce. My stomach has woken up and is making all sorts of yearning noises. I'm thinking back on an interesting week. By interesting, I mean hellish, for a number of unconnected, but no less significant reasons. I'm not going to go into any of them here, I'll just assure you that I don't wish to repeat it, ever again. So anyway, it's Joseph Vs Grease Is The Word, both of which I can take or leave. I have to say that for all its faults, I really like X Factor over all the 'reality TV' out there, and am looking forward to its return. I'll let you into a little secret here, I applied for the last series, but the audition date coinciding with a heavy jetlag from LA, a lack of sleep, and no bottle last year. So I watched the last series thinking of what could have been, imagining ever hopeful and hopeless auditionee was me and wondering how I'd have done. Don't get me wrong, I'm realistic about my chances, I'm approaching 30 and my gut isn't exactly pop. But, I enjoyed the daydream. Ever since leaving the band a couple of years back, I could never psyche myself up to starting something new. The X Factor seemed like a fastrack way to competing on a grand scale, which, however uncool, is something that really appeals. This year I applied in good faith, fully intending to attend the audition this time, even spending a bit of time practising for it. I gave the application to a friend in the hope that he'd send mine off with his, and he told me he did. I have to take his word for it, as nothing's come through and I know that the auditions are imminent or may have already gone, so I've missed out. How bleeding ironic. And considering the week I've just had. How gutting. Still, there's always the open audition, if I haven't missed it. Wish me luck. Better go, I can hear the plates clattering in the kitchen and the sizzling's stopped. Which means only one thing, my stomach can finally stop doing its own auditioning. |
Return to The Glastonbury Fortress
04 Apr 2007
| Last Sunday morning was spent with the laptop on my knee, and phone balanced precariously next to my ear. Fumble for the on button, feel for the redial button, then: "This is a BT announcement, the network is currently busy. Please try later." And repeat. Apparently the website went down half an hour before the lines opened, which is nice. It wouldn't be so bad if I could have sat and listened to some hold muzak instead of getting RSI on my left thumb. It still doesn't feel quite right. Eventually someone I know got through *miraculously* and ordered the tickets. Great success. It took nearly eight hours to get the confirmation email through and the money's not come out of my account yet. Until it does I'm not going to get my hopes up, but it looks like I'm going back to Glastonbury after 4 years, for my stag do to boot. I've been twice in the past, and to Reading back in 1996. I can't say I liked Reading much at all. It rained a lot and I ended up going home early, foolishly missing one of the last ever Stone Roses gigs (apparently it was one of their worst, but how was I to know they were any good???), so my only experience of festivals prior to Glasto was somewhat negative. Nestled deep in the Somerset countryside, Glastonbury is a small town in the middle of nowhere. It's the kind of sleepy little place you wouldn't even notice passing through. 27 years ago, the 'mother of all festivals' first opened its doors to a bunch of free-loading hippies. It's changed A LOT since then. According to the ever-faithful Wikipedia, "the town is particularly notable for the myths and legends surrounding a nearby hill, the Glastonbury Tor (with a strange looking narrow tower at the top of it), which rises up from the otherwise flat landscape of the Somerset Levels." It's allegedly the location of the first church in England, that was also meant to house the Holy Grail, 30 years after the death of Jesus. It's supposed to be the inspiration for William Blake's poem/hymn Jerusalem and the burial place for King Arthur and Guinevere. Lastly, it's also said to be the centre of several ley lines, which follow the locations of historical monuments and megaliths like Stonehenge. And it's easy to believe all that. As I stepped out of my tent in the early hours of Friday morning, back in 2002, I looked out across the Vale of Avalon, to see the tor rising out of the mist, like something out of the Lord of The Rings. Anyone who's been to the festival will tell you that there's certainly an odd sensation about the area. Something quite mystical, and it's got nothing to do with nearby dope smokers. Something ancient. This year is the first one since 2005, because they wanted to repair some of the countryside from all the damage that the crowds tend create on the farmland. The first year I went was in 2002. The festival was cancelled the year before due to problems with gatecrashers, so 2002 was the year of the evil fence, modelled like something out of Colditz. Glastonbury was always open to mockery from students who'd never bother buying tickets and would vault over (or through) the makeshift fences and flood the site. Not this time. They spent £2 million on extra security measures, including a massive 'impenetrable' enclosure. It was quite imposing, but if it served to create the feeling of safety and family atmosphere of the festival, then great. The first year I saw, amongst others, an acoustic performance from Robert Plant, lead singer of seminal rock band Led Zeppelin, Rod Stewart and Roger Waters. I also stood in a field pogoing in synch with 50,000 others to a euphoric Faithless anthem as the sun went down in the valley. That night I lay, my head resting on my jumper, feeling completely safe and warm, and watching 24 Hour Party People on an inflatable projector in an empty field. Lying on my own, but loving it. See you there. Can't wait. |
Mid-Morning of The Dead
29 Mar 2007
| Many feet below the surface of At over 140 years old, there is something inherently unnatural about the I found myself at
I stood and patiently waited as three tube trains came and went, each packed the brim. The queue ahead of me slowly reduced as the people at the front voluntarily stumbled into a seething crowd where there was literally no space left. One guy next to me dropped his coffee – mercifully far away enough for it not to hit me, although not far away enough to miss the woman in front's ivory coat. Apparently oblivious, he then stood on the cup, further distributing its contents across the platform before barging past said soiled woman to get a space on the impossibly crowded train. This woman then squeezed on herself and narrowly missed being decapitated as she crammed in her head at the last minute.
The thing is, they're not the undead, they're real people. But this is an environment where it really is everyone for themselves. I'm surprised there aren't hordes of psychologists on the platforms making notes at how every single established social etiquette is abandoned in these ancient tunnels.
I'm not claustrophobic by any means, but I find that there's something deeply uncomfortable about being surrounded by strangers that wouldn't think twice about backing you into a corner if it means they get to hold onto one of the hand rails - or even knocking you to the floor if they were in danger of not being able to leave the train at their stop.
It makes me laugh to hear stories about how we're a nation of queuers. That's bollocks, we're a pack of mindless animals when it comes to the morning commute. What a horrible, soulless place to start your day. |
Gardening at Night
26 Mar 2007
| Day off today. Tried a bit of gardening. Started off with mowing the lawn, the most underrated treatment for stress, in the world, ever. Sometimes I forget how lucky we are to have a garden. I pruned a few bushes and trees, then I stared at the overgrown mess that used to be a flower bed for about two minutes, wondering how to tackle it without knackering my back and not being eaten alive by the entire race of spiders who live there. I didn't figure it out and so returned to the relative safety of the sofa and remote control. I inadvertently killed one the other day, something I hate doing. It's either karma or the belief that if I kill one, then I'll wake up one night with a ton of them crawling all over my face. Unfortunately whenever we open the patio door, about six young black spiders bolt for the door. They're harmless enough, but Rachael will freak if she sees one in the house. Cue comedy leaping into house and slamming the door before you can even say "pest control." But can I ever find any spider deterrant? No. At least nowhere I've looked, because apparently people want them around to get rid of flies. Stranglely, we don't have a problem with those. I'm not brave enough to look at the industrial poisoning agents online so we're stuck with the evil little bastards. I also saw a big fat luminous green spider be toyed with and then eaten by the local cat. It keeps hanging around our house and mewing in the patio door. He's a friendly ginger fellow called Chutney. He's owned by a man over the road, yet has a pink heart as a name tag. Go figure. Cats are weird creatures. I've never really liked them much, to be honest. I'm more of a dog man, even though I've got more scars from dog attacks than that of cats. I once heard somewhere that if a dog's owner dies, then the dog will lie next to the owner, howl a bit, then lie down next to the owner until it dies of starvation. Cats on the other hand, would apparently wait a while, then eat the owner. Part of me thinks that this is incredibly resourceful and the sign of intelligence. The other part thinks that this is creepy and strange. Although it's probably bollocks. |
The search for Mr Burns
20 Mar 2007
| When I was very young, my heart stopped twice. I'm lucky to be alive. I had a brain scan afterwards to check everything was ok. The scan-man told my mother, to her delight, that I had in fact registered an abnormally high level of brain activity. My mum was obviously rather pleased to hear this. He's going to be a genius, she thought. I'm sure.
Unfortunately, nearly 30 years on, I've seen no hard evidence of any benefit. If anything, it seems to be a curse. I'm restless and get bored very easily. I've never had a formal IQ test, but the Fisher Price one in Uncle Pete's Psychology A Level class told me I'd be lucky to get about 110, which means I'm not a genius by any stretch. Worse still, I have an over-active imagination. I always think of every possible outcome to everything and usually focus, unwillingly on the worst.
It was with sheer, abject terror, then, that I sat back down in the dentist's chair – something that now feels so familiar, I think it's moulded to match the contours of my back.
I gazed up at the Simpsons poster on the ceiling again, knowing full well that it wasn't going to distract me for long as I only had one character that I knew left to look for. And there he was, grinning at me from the corner of the poster. Monty Burns. Before I'd even opened my mouth.
So there I am, knowing that the whole sorry show was going to last at least an hour, and I had nothing to concentrate on but the tools. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't hope for a nicer dentist. The problem was that when he would use a new tool, be it needle or drill, he would raise it to his eye level – approximately three inches away from my own eyes so I could see the finer details of the serated edges of the drill. None of it actually hurt. The only pain I've felt (so far, please god, the anaesthetic hasn't properly worn off) was the first needle numbing my mouth. However, it was the commentary that I loved the most.
"This is just a small drill, you'll hear a tiny buzzing and your mouth will vibrate a little."
"This is a bigger drill, the noise will be a bit worse…"
And so on. When you tell people you're going to have a root canal, they look at you with the face they save for reactions to really bad news. I've just had my second, and the fact is, it doesn't hurt. I can feel a dull throbbing that I know will pass soon.
The real pain is in the mind. Psychological trauma. What if the drill slipped? Would he catch it before it ripped out the inner wall of my lips, or will it just leave a slight gash? What if the needle goes right through my mouth and out the other side? Why the hell are both the dentist and the dentist's assistant wearing the same masks that Pneumatic drill operators wear? The 'funniest' bit was when he told me that he'd just put some pins in my mouth and had to sear them away with a torch. A torch. For real. You won't feel a thing, he said, that burning session is the pins. Now just hold your breath for ten seconds… |
The Dementrist
13 Mar 2007
| I've been in the office for nearly 4 hours and I can safely say that today is not a good day. Rach's not well. I've had a really nice trip cancelled and a cover's gone down the swannie. All in all, a bunch of arse with lumpy gravy on top. I've just had a corporate photo done. Here's how it went. "Hello Stefan…please sit down…if you could just start drawing on this pad to get you relaxed…no, no, not like that…that's too serious looking…just smile a bit – oh, well, perhaps that doesn't work…these are coming out a bit too shiny...Oh, and could you just hold that smile for a few more MINUTES…? Talking of smiles, I've got my second of three dentist trips in just over a week tonight. I really can wait. Oh bugger, I'm starting to get the little cloud back above my head. It's starting to rain... |
Let them eat cake...
11 Mar 2007
| Can't believe MySpace has sold out to overlay banners that you can't switch off. Even if it is for Lost. I'm shattered. I've done a housework and gardening marathon this weekend and just had a KFC, so the diet's out the window. Rachael's on the other sofa watching The O.C. Saw Marie Antoinette last night, with Kirsten Dunst in it. Another film that's ended abruptly when it could just have easily carried on and finished the story. Directed by Sofia Coppola, who did Lost In Translation. This film is way poorer, featuring American actors playing austrian-born French royalty without disguising their accents. Another incongruent niggle was a modern soundtrack, nice as it was, but completely out of place and not too dissimilar to LiT. That said, I didn't like LiT the first time I saw it at the cinema, and now it's one of my top ten films. Oh well, another 500 Nectar points well spent in Blockbuster. Tonight we're going to watch Children of Men. Picked up two new albums recently, 'Pocket Symphony' by Air and 'Yours Truly Angry Mob' by the Kaiser Chiefs. I've only listened to the Air album a couple of times, but I have to say I'm really disappointed with it. I loved Moon Safari and still listen to Talkie Walkie, but this seems to be one of their more soundtracky efforts, to its detriment. Track 8, Mer du Japon is the best of the bunch, but it's upbeat groove is sadly out of place in an overwise lo-fi mumbling affair. The Kaisers seem to be a band that people love to hate, possibly because they're successful and not indie enough for most. I actually quite enjoyed most of the tracks of the album, it's far better than most recent difficult second albums I've heard. I love the Angry Mob track, which should go down well in the festival season... More dentist this week. Two appointments in one week. Kids! Don't eat sweets |
Yours truly, angry mouth
07 Mar 2007
It's not that it's painful, you understand. The only painful thing you feel is the slight prick when Mr Nice Dentist produces a couple of "sizable" needles and pushes them into the wall of your gum, leaving them in there for several seconds for effect. The drilling was the worst bit. There's a massive "The Simpsons" poster on the ceiling with all the characters on it. I found most of the ones I know, but not Mr Burns, he was elusive. Every time I saw the dentist's hand moving towards my mouth, I had to force my eyes towards the poster, concentrating really hard on the poster to try and find Mr Burns in the vain hope I wouldn't notice the industrial drill the man with the access to the arsenal of heavy artillery he was wielding. Nice.
Note to readers. Dentists can be scary. Perhaps not nightmare-inducing scary, but if you leave it for too long, you may well incur some pain as punishment. My advice is to bite the (soft and squidgy rubber) bullet and go. Now. Before it's too late.
The worst thing is that I'm going back next week and have the same thing done again. Which means I have to sit at my desk next friday morning and try and look composed when I'm drinking my tea, where it threatens to leak out of the corner of my mouth that I can't feel. Worse still, I sound like a complete twat when I speak as my tongue feels whale-like. Yes, a bit like that chef. I have to go now, the numbness isn't so numb anymore. Oh well, least I can eat something after I've picked out the filling debris that I can't feel yet.
Nintenblogs
05 Mar 2007
There's an ancient mountain in Japan, its peak high above the clouds. There's a path up the slope of the mountain that leads to a hidden cave. Only a chosen few know of the cave's location and even fewer know about the significance of what lays inside. Every year, a lone office worker makes the treacherous journey, carrying a small briefcase. When he reaches the mouth of the cave, he is greeted by a small monk, and exchanges pleasantries before being ushered in. At the far side of the cavernous interior, there lies a font carved out of the rock, its contents a swirling, gold mist. The monk walks slowly over to the font and unhooks an old stone ladle from the cave wall, and dips it into the mist, scooping out some of the contents. The office worker is summoned over to the font and kneels on the floor before it, unlocking his briefcase. The bulk of the briefcase is made up of specially made padding, with a small mould for a single white disk. He lifts the disk out of the casing and hands it to the monk, who showers it with the mist. Soon, the mist clears enough for the Japanese characters on the disk to be visible. Twilight Princess. The worker bows and leaves.
I've never been to Nintendo's offices in Japan, and I've no idea if they sit next to an ancient mountain, with a hidden cave and some magic dust. What I do know though, is that given the universal gameplay of many of their games, I'm wouldn't be at all surprised.
It was with mild annoyance then that I recently sat in the company of a chap describing the likely forecasting trends for the next generation of consoles. The gist of the his point was that the Wii would be at a disadvantage because gamers want immersion through graphics. Just because the games doean't look like Gears of War on a monster TV, doesn't mean the Wii's graphics are poo. Has this guy even seen Super Mario Galaxy? It may have bypassed the realism angle and gone for an entirely different artistic format, but isn't that just as easy to appreciate? Gaming for me can be just as much about escapism through art as it can be about immersion through realism.
At 29 and ¾, I might not completely represent the entire game buying public, but even so, is everyone else really that shallow? Of course not. And if the last four months and the success of the DS is anything to go by, then maybe Nintendo are onto something, whether you appreciate the graphical style or not. Delve a little deeper into the Wii's World and you'll find a rich heritage developed over a hundred years that once discovered, you'll be a fan for life.
There's an ancient mountain in Japan, its peak high above the clouds. There's a path up the slope of the mountain that leads to a hidden cave. Only a chosen few know of the cave's location and even fewer know about the significance of what lays inside. Every year, a lone office worker makes the treacherous journey, carrying a small briefcase. When he reaches the mouth of the cave, he is greeted by a small monk, and exchanges pleasantries before being ushered in. At the far side of the cavernous interior, there lies a font carved out of the rock, its contents a swirling, gold mist. The monk walks slowly over to the font and unhooks an old stone ladle from the cave wall, and dips it into the mist, scooping out some of the contents. The office worker is summoned over to the font and kneels on the floor before it, unlocking his briefcase. The bulk of the briefcase is made up of specially made padding, with a small mould for a single white disk. He lifts the disk out of the casing and hands it to the monk, who showers it with the mist. Soon, the mist clears enough for the Japanese characters on the disk to be visible. Twilight Princess. The worker bows and leaves.
I've never been to Nintendo's offices in Japan, and I've no idea if they sit next to an ancient mountain, with a hidden cave and some magic dust. What I do know though, is that given the universal gameplay of many of their games, I'm wouldn't be at all surprised.
It was with mild annoyance then that I recently sat in the company of a chap describing the likely forecasting trends for the next generation of consoles. The gist of the his point was that the Wii would be at a disadvantage because gamers want immersion through graphics. Just because the games doean't look like Gears of War on a monster TV, doesn't mean the Wii's graphics are poo. Has this guy even seen Super Mario Galaxy? It may have bypassed the realism angle and gone for an entirely different artistic format, but isn't that just as easy to appreciate? Gaming for me can be just as much about escapism through art as it can be about immersion through realism.
At 29 and ¾, I might not completely represent the entire game buying public, but even so, is everyone else really that shallow? Of course not. And if the last four months and the success of the DS is anything to go by, then maybe Nintendo are onto something, whether you appreciate the graphical style or not. Delve a little deeper into the Wii's World and you'll find a rich heritage developed over a hundred years that once discovered, you'll be a fan for life.
Blog Shorts
04 Mar 2007
In answer to your question, here's what I'm up to, in brief...
...You might notice I am now 99 years old. Don't be alarmed. I saw on the news, as many will have done yesterday, that these sites are being targeted by identity fraudsters looking for enough personal info to apply for credit cards in your name. Be vigilant and don't give away too much personal info...
...Someone told me the other day that I sound like I'm a manic depressive in my blogs. I'd never really thought of it like that, so I'm going to try and sort that out. It's hard though, because I enjoy being grumpy. There's something immensely satisfying about moaning...
...However, good news! Got nominated for an industry award and I'm very happy about it. I'm realistic of my chances, given who else is on the list, but it's really nice to be nominated.
...Started to read Black Swan Green by David Mitchell the other day. Picked it up from the library. I'm not anywhere near enough of the way through it to have formed much of an opinion, but it's a bit different to the other books I've read of his. It's set in the early 80s and is about a teenager from a dysfunctional family, struggling to be accepted by the cool crowd. It doesn't have the same mystique that his other books have, but it features lots of cultural references from the time, a lot of which is familiar to me. It's also a reminder of how plain weird the 80s were...
...I'm under the illusion that I'll get tickets to Glastonbury this year, so I'm brushing up on my new music by listening to a lot of new albums by The Shins, Midlake, Kaiser Chiefs and The Gossip, just in case any of them are there. They're all pretty half decent. I picked up the Mika album, but I'm not sold yet. It's got a sound much like the Scissor Sisters and I can't tie down the genre. Still can't get to grips with the second Killers album, although it's growing on me. Slowly...
...I'm in the very early stages of a diet and exercise regime atm, which happens to be my worst nightmare. I even went for a four mile walk into town yesterday. Forgive me if I get a little cranky over the coming months...
In answer to your question, here's what I'm up to, in brief...
...You might notice I am now 99 years old. Don't be alarmed. I saw on the news, as many will have done yesterday, that these sites are being targeted by identity fraudsters looking for enough personal info to apply for credit cards in your name. Be vigilant and don't give away too much personal info...
...Someone told me the other day that I sound like I'm a manic depressive in my blogs. I'd never really thought of it like that, so I'm going to try and sort that out. It's hard though, because I enjoy being grumpy. There's something immensely satisfying about moaning...
...However, good news! Got nominated for an industry award and I'm very happy about it. I'm realistic of my chances, given who else is on the list, but it's really nice to be nominated.
...Started to read Black Swan Green by David Mitchell the other day. Picked it up from the library. I'm not anywhere near enough of the way through it to have formed much of an opinion, but it's a bit different to the other books I've read of his. It's set in the early 80s and is about a teenager from a dysfunctional family, struggling to be accepted by the cool crowd. It doesn't have the same mystique that his other books have, but it features lots of cultural references from the time, a lot of which is familiar to me. It's also a reminder of how plain weird the 80s were...
...I'm under the illusion that I'll get tickets to Glastonbury this year, so I'm brushing up on my new music by listening to a lot of new albums by The Shins, Midlake, Kaiser Chiefs and The Gossip, just in case any of them are there. They're all pretty half decent. I picked up the Mika album, but I'm not sold yet. It's got a sound much like the Scissor Sisters and I can't tie down the genre. Still can't get to grips with the second Killers album, although it's growing on me. Slowly...
...I'm in the very early stages of a diet and exercise regime atm, which happens to be my worst nightmare. I even went for a four mile walk into town yesterday. Forgive me if I get a little cranky over the coming months...
The end of the innocence...
22 Feb 2007
I'm going through a bit of a change at the moment. My hair's going gently grey, and the dreaded THREE-OH has now appeared on my doorstep. It's wiping it's feet on the doormat, ready to enter my life whether I like it or not. I've only just realised I'm not likely to be a rock star and I'm certainly not going to be an astronaut. I spend much of my time, between frantically busy bouts of work, daydreaming about youthful dreams like these and all I do all day is moan about my lot in life. With the gradual receding of these dreams, comes another, scarier thought: that none of us are invincible; eventually I'll have something real to moan about and that's really scary. So I sit, quietly and frown, and I've even been given the nickname 'little rain cloud' because of it. I sometimes tell myself that I've lost my joie de vivre.
But if that's the sum of my problems, then I really should be ashamed.
A friend of the family got diagnosed with a brain tumour the year before last. He's gone through quite a significant change in appearance due to the steroids in his treatment. I can't begin to understand the daily pain that him and his family has gone through over the past 16 months or so. They've just been told that they're likely to lose their house, as they can't keep up with the mortgage. There doesn't appear to be anything they can do about it, and it strikes me as being really unfair.
I saw a girl with two heads the other day. Not in real life, but in a documentary on Channel Five earlier in the week. The girl(s) was sixteen years old, and lead a relatively normal teen existence, but with two necks, and two heads. It had to be seen to be believed. We were talking about it at lunch yesterday, and one of the chaps I was with pointed out how all that most girls had to worry about was their hair or their weight - this seem like something so insurmountable it was a wonder they didn't just curl up and go mad.
It was our anniversary on Sunday. Nine years ago I met a beautiful student named Rachael in Southampton and we've been together ever since. I look at her, across the room, watching 10 Years Younger on the box, wrapped in a white faux fur throw and find myself wondering what I'd do without her and hope I never have to find out. I asked her to marry me last year and I was simply overwhelmed when she said yes. I look at her and realise that my joie de vivre isn't gone, it's just hibernating. I look at her and, in fact, I need to finish now, there's a space next to her on the sofa.
I'm going through a bit of a change at the moment. My hair's going gently grey, and the dreaded THREE-OH has now appeared on my doorstep. It's wiping it's feet on the doormat, ready to enter my life whether I like it or not. I've only just realised I'm not likely to be a rock star and I'm certainly not going to be an astronaut. I spend much of my time, between frantically busy bouts of work, daydreaming about youthful dreams like these and all I do all day is moan about my lot in life. With the gradual receding of these dreams, comes another, scarier thought: that none of us are invincible; eventually I'll have something real to moan about and that's really scary. So I sit, quietly and frown, and I've even been given the nickname 'little rain cloud' because of it. I sometimes tell myself that I've lost my joie de vivre.
But if that's the sum of my problems, then I really should be ashamed.
A friend of the family got diagnosed with a brain tumour the year before last. He's gone through quite a significant change in appearance due to the steroids in his treatment. I can't begin to understand the daily pain that him and his family has gone through over the past 16 months or so. They've just been told that they're likely to lose their house, as they can't keep up with the mortgage. There doesn't appear to be anything they can do about it, and it strikes me as being really unfair.
I saw a girl with two heads the other day. Not in real life, but in a documentary on Channel Five earlier in the week. The girl(s) was sixteen years old, and lead a relatively normal teen existence, but with two necks, and two heads. It had to be seen to be believed. We were talking about it at lunch yesterday, and one of the chaps I was with pointed out how all that most girls had to worry about was their hair or their weight - this seem like something so insurmountable it was a wonder they didn't just curl up and go mad.
It was our anniversary on Sunday. Nine years ago I met a beautiful student named Rachael in Southampton and we've been together ever since. I look at her, across the room, watching 10 Years Younger on the box, wrapped in a white faux fur throw and find myself wondering what I'd do without her and hope I never have to find out. I asked her to marry me last year and I was simply overwhelmed when she said yes. I look at her and realise that my joie de vivre isn't gone, it's just hibernating. I look at her and, in fact, I need to finish now, there's a space next to her on the sofa.
A Day In The Life
13 Feb 2007
I find the news is usually depressing, but I found myself I was really angered by the headlines today.
Main headlines:
1) A gunman killed six people in a mall
2) Iran are the bad guys again (allegedly)
3) Lots more people killed in Iraq
What is the world coming to?
Get rid of all weapons full stop.
I find the news is usually depressing, but I found myself I was really angered by the headlines today.
Main headlines:
1) A gunman killed six people in a mall
2) Iran are the bad guys again (allegedly)
3) Lots more people killed in Iraq
What is the world coming to?
Get rid of all weapons full stop.
The Day I Caught The Train...
08 Feb 2007
On Monday, I got the train into London from Aldershot station. I was going to be travelling around London a bit so I needed a travelcard.
Twenty-six quid it cost. And, I spend just over that a week in petrol.
I'm not tight or anything, but £26 for a train ticket is an absolute disgrace - especially given the state of the 'dusty' (although we all know what kind of dust this is) seats, mucky floors, broken air-con and puke (yes, puke) in the toilets, this is no reasonable alternative to congestion in London. I was lucky enough to get a seat, but I managed to get sandwiched in between commuters who talked loudly into their phones a lot. Now I know why I drive into work.
Especially given how this morning was a dream. Don't get me wrong, the blanket of snow that greeted me before I left the house was horrifying, but it actually turned out well (for a change). After struggling to steer my car up and out of our road, I managed about a mile down the road before getting a call from Rachael and being asked to come back and push her car up the very same hill. So that was nice, feet sliding in tracks of fresh slush, wheels spraying wet snow at my face. Still, I can't really say no to this particular young lady. After that, though, it was plain sailing. The M3 was eerie, almost completely empty. Most people, I guess, decided not to bother coming in because of the snow.
Went to lunch at Fifteen, after seeing it on telly last night. We went to the Trattoria part downstairs, and I enjoyed a nice bit of garlicky bread with rosemary on top for nibbles before the main meal. I like my food, those of you who know me will probably know this very well, given my rotund middle. It was packed out, but actually quite reasonably priced, even if that part of North London did look a bit like eastern europe in the snow today...
Saw Apocalypto the other night. It's a brutal film. Didn't like the ending much, but it's well worth watching, if you don't mind the gore. It's like The Last of The Mohicans on LSD.
Tonight, well I'm just going to veg as much as I can. Now, I wonder what's for dinner?
On Monday, I got the train into London from Aldershot station. I was going to be travelling around London a bit so I needed a travelcard.
Twenty-six quid it cost. And, I spend just over that a week in petrol.
I'm not tight or anything, but £26 for a train ticket is an absolute disgrace - especially given the state of the 'dusty' (although we all know what kind of dust this is) seats, mucky floors, broken air-con and puke (yes, puke) in the toilets, this is no reasonable alternative to congestion in London. I was lucky enough to get a seat, but I managed to get sandwiched in between commuters who talked loudly into their phones a lot. Now I know why I drive into work.
Especially given how this morning was a dream. Don't get me wrong, the blanket of snow that greeted me before I left the house was horrifying, but it actually turned out well (for a change). After struggling to steer my car up and out of our road, I managed about a mile down the road before getting a call from Rachael and being asked to come back and push her car up the very same hill. So that was nice, feet sliding in tracks of fresh slush, wheels spraying wet snow at my face. Still, I can't really say no to this particular young lady. After that, though, it was plain sailing. The M3 was eerie, almost completely empty. Most people, I guess, decided not to bother coming in because of the snow.
Went to lunch at Fifteen, after seeing it on telly last night. We went to the Trattoria part downstairs, and I enjoyed a nice bit of garlicky bread with rosemary on top for nibbles before the main meal. I like my food, those of you who know me will probably know this very well, given my rotund middle. It was packed out, but actually quite reasonably priced, even if that part of North London did look a bit like eastern europe in the snow today...
Saw Apocalypto the other night. It's a brutal film. Didn't like the ending much, but it's well worth watching, if you don't mind the gore. It's like The Last of The Mohicans on LSD.
Tonight, well I'm just going to veg as much as I can. Now, I wonder what's for dinner?
Thank God
02 Feb 2007
Thank god Martin and Sonia have left Eastenders. I was beginning to feel suicidal.
Anyway. 'Apparently,' whenever I write blogs and mention Rachael, I take the piss and make it sound as if we're not suited and our forthcoming marriage will be a disaster. So, perhaps now it's time to redress the balance, as I lie on the sofa attempting to be oblivious to the trash on BBC2 about homegrowing vegetables. I've just had a large glass of wine, so forgive me if this blog is a little gushing or rambling, or oozing plain bullshit.
Despite the fact I stuffed my face with an extremely messy garlic and mayo burger at the Gourmet Burger Kitchen in Chiswick this lunchtime, I returned home after a frankly testing day to a lovely smell eminating from the oven. I later discovered, after sitting through Hollyoaks, that it was a chicken breast stuffed with cream cheese and sundried tomatoes, wrapped in parma ham, with asparagus. Simple, but damn effective. And you people wonder why I don't go out much?
I suspect next week is going to be quite trying, so wish me luck. But, if I've got one person on my side, and ready with a smile and a genuine hug whenever I need it, then it can't all be that bad, and thank god.
Thank god Martin and Sonia have left Eastenders. I was beginning to feel suicidal.
Anyway. 'Apparently,' whenever I write blogs and mention Rachael, I take the piss and make it sound as if we're not suited and our forthcoming marriage will be a disaster. So, perhaps now it's time to redress the balance, as I lie on the sofa attempting to be oblivious to the trash on BBC2 about homegrowing vegetables. I've just had a large glass of wine, so forgive me if this blog is a little gushing or rambling, or oozing plain bullshit.
Despite the fact I stuffed my face with an extremely messy garlic and mayo burger at the Gourmet Burger Kitchen in Chiswick this lunchtime, I returned home after a frankly testing day to a lovely smell eminating from the oven. I later discovered, after sitting through Hollyoaks, that it was a chicken breast stuffed with cream cheese and sundried tomatoes, wrapped in parma ham, with asparagus. Simple, but damn effective. And you people wonder why I don't go out much?
I suspect next week is going to be quite trying, so wish me luck. But, if I've got one person on my side, and ready with a smile and a genuine hug whenever I need it, then it can't all be that bad, and thank god.
The Blogger's Guide to The Galaxy
31 Jan 2007
What a tough day. Need a holiday...
So here I am, beer in hand, ready to embark on another marathon blog that about three people in the world will read. Oh well.
Hmm, what's new in my world? Well, for a start, I haven't logged my expenses yet, I haven't written the life-changing novel I've been promising to write for years, I haven't booked in my car for a service, I haven't booked our honeymoon yet, and I certainly haven't had time to play games for what seems like ages.
What I have managed to do though, is revisit some old friends. Not real friends you see, rather wee nuggets from the past in the form of my "All-Time Favourite Cartoon," Ulysees 31, and another blast from the past in the form of Rocky Balboa.
Anyway, this nice chap from work has lent me the box set of Ulysees, with all 6000 episodes on it. I've managed to watch the one, and I've left the box on the telly, in the vain hope that it will encourage me to watch more. Sadly, though, it's dawning on me that I'm actually going to be seeing more of Eastenders, than this classic cartoon. The first episode brought back a few happy memories, and a few unwelcome facts that I'd somehow forgotten over time. Firstly, the animation is shocking. It's one of those cartoons where there's about six characters in any one shot, but the only thing that's actually moving is the jaws of the characters in dialogue, and even then, they look as if they're dubbed. That's the main problem. Well, the only problem really, as the rest of it was as good as I'd remembered.
For those of you (he muses, pretending there's a captive audience out there somewhere) who don't know the series, it's about the captain of a large ship, called the Odyssey. They leave the planet Troy on a routine mission to Earth, and end up routinely killing the Cyclops and accidently angering Zeus in the process. Zeus punishes Ulysees by sending his crew to sleep, until he manages to find the underworld of Hades. Cue big voyage through space, some cracking rock music torn kicking and screaming from a Deep Purple MKII drunken jam session, and some moral lessons thrown in. Miss this at your peril, but bear with the ropey animation.
I can't not mention The Chronicles of Narnia here. That's one thing that didn't translate well into adulthood. A year or so ago, I ventured into 'smiths to pick up The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, due to the hype surrounding that film. I spent about five years of my life, re-reading the whole series between Famous Five novels and the Roald Dahl books, which I loved. TLTWATW (found in the kids section, I might add) just seemed so kiddified compared to books like The Lord of Rings and the Pullman books. I still started to watch the film a few months later, and managed about 45 minutes of the film before I switched off, even though there was nothing else to watch. It was shocking too. Hope no-one wastes their time and money making another one. Quite sad really.
Anyway, back to the present. Last week, a friend of mine took advantage of the "Orange Wednesday" deal at Guildford Odeon, and off we trotted (well, if I'm honest, caned it down the M25 to get there before the film started) to see Rocky Balboa. I wasn't really expecting much, so I wasn't disappointed. What I encountered was a surprisingly charming effort from Stallone, and I came away unexpectedly nostalgic about the series. Sure, the script is utter trash, the acting little better, and one-liners that were more tragic than funny, but when the theme music came on when the 56 year old (ahem) Rocky starts punishing the meat in his training schedule, you're reminded of how inspiring the Rocky formula has been, and made me yearn for those simpler times. Not for Rocky V though, that was sh*t. You can certainly do a lot worse than a Rocky film.
I was on TV the other day. How fun. I nearly crapped in my pants though.
Better go soon, I think I'm starting to get RSI. I was shocked to find that someone had sent me a gift through the post yesterday that wasn't a videogame. It was series four of Family Guy (thanks Keith!). I'd mentioned once lunch that I hadn't seen the series and someone thought I needed educating. Aside from some very obviously American political injokes, I found it really funny, so that's another thing on the 'must watch this year' pile.
And finally, I got The Secret of Crickley Hall for Christmas. It's another large hardback book from James Herbert that will take me six months of reading for ten minutes before bedtime. I'm about 7 pages in, but got told today that it's rubbish. They then gave it 2/10. What do I do now? Do I read it, fully expecting it to be sh*t, or do I cut my losses and pick up something else? No, I shall embark on Day 26 of my honeymoon research before the nervous breakdown kicks in.
Or perhaps, I'll just sleep. Good night.
What a tough day. Need a holiday...
So here I am, beer in hand, ready to embark on another marathon blog that about three people in the world will read. Oh well.
Hmm, what's new in my world? Well, for a start, I haven't logged my expenses yet, I haven't written the life-changing novel I've been promising to write for years, I haven't booked in my car for a service, I haven't booked our honeymoon yet, and I certainly haven't had time to play games for what seems like ages.
What I have managed to do though, is revisit some old friends. Not real friends you see, rather wee nuggets from the past in the form of my "All-Time Favourite Cartoon," Ulysees 31, and another blast from the past in the form of Rocky Balboa.
Anyway, this nice chap from work has lent me the box set of Ulysees, with all 6000 episodes on it. I've managed to watch the one, and I've left the box on the telly, in the vain hope that it will encourage me to watch more. Sadly, though, it's dawning on me that I'm actually going to be seeing more of Eastenders, than this classic cartoon. The first episode brought back a few happy memories, and a few unwelcome facts that I'd somehow forgotten over time. Firstly, the animation is shocking. It's one of those cartoons where there's about six characters in any one shot, but the only thing that's actually moving is the jaws of the characters in dialogue, and even then, they look as if they're dubbed. That's the main problem. Well, the only problem really, as the rest of it was as good as I'd remembered.
For those of you (he muses, pretending there's a captive audience out there somewhere) who don't know the series, it's about the captain of a large ship, called the Odyssey. They leave the planet Troy on a routine mission to Earth, and end up routinely killing the Cyclops and accidently angering Zeus in the process. Zeus punishes Ulysees by sending his crew to sleep, until he manages to find the underworld of Hades. Cue big voyage through space, some cracking rock music torn kicking and screaming from a Deep Purple MKII drunken jam session, and some moral lessons thrown in. Miss this at your peril, but bear with the ropey animation.
I can't not mention The Chronicles of Narnia here. That's one thing that didn't translate well into adulthood. A year or so ago, I ventured into 'smiths to pick up The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, due to the hype surrounding that film. I spent about five years of my life, re-reading the whole series between Famous Five novels and the Roald Dahl books, which I loved. TLTWATW (found in the kids section, I might add) just seemed so kiddified compared to books like The Lord of Rings and the Pullman books. I still started to watch the film a few months later, and managed about 45 minutes of the film before I switched off, even though there was nothing else to watch. It was shocking too. Hope no-one wastes their time and money making another one. Quite sad really.
Anyway, back to the present. Last week, a friend of mine took advantage of the "Orange Wednesday" deal at Guildford Odeon, and off we trotted (well, if I'm honest, caned it down the M25 to get there before the film started) to see Rocky Balboa. I wasn't really expecting much, so I wasn't disappointed. What I encountered was a surprisingly charming effort from Stallone, and I came away unexpectedly nostalgic about the series. Sure, the script is utter trash, the acting little better, and one-liners that were more tragic than funny, but when the theme music came on when the 56 year old (ahem) Rocky starts punishing the meat in his training schedule, you're reminded of how inspiring the Rocky formula has been, and made me yearn for those simpler times. Not for Rocky V though, that was sh*t. You can certainly do a lot worse than a Rocky film.
I was on TV the other day. How fun. I nearly crapped in my pants though.
Better go soon, I think I'm starting to get RSI. I was shocked to find that someone had sent me a gift through the post yesterday that wasn't a videogame. It was series four of Family Guy (thanks Keith!). I'd mentioned once lunch that I hadn't seen the series and someone thought I needed educating. Aside from some very obviously American political injokes, I found it really funny, so that's another thing on the 'must watch this year' pile.
And finally, I got The Secret of Crickley Hall for Christmas. It's another large hardback book from James Herbert that will take me six months of reading for ten minutes before bedtime. I'm about 7 pages in, but got told today that it's rubbish. They then gave it 2/10. What do I do now? Do I read it, fully expecting it to be sh*t, or do I cut my losses and pick up something else? No, I shall embark on Day 26 of my honeymoon research before the nervous breakdown kicks in.
Or perhaps, I'll just sleep. Good night.
The Chronicles of Bigot Brother: The Wag, The Witch and The Songstress
18 Jan 2007
Finished both Lisey's Story and Yoshi's Island DS today. Took the day off. Wasn't feeling well, but ended up doing emails for most of the day. The only difference being that I was slouched on my sofa, rather than in my chair at work. But with less distractions.
Before last night I'd had less than 9 hours sleep since Sunday night. Which is nice. Must be the man flu.
Have to say that I was disappointed with the book. Well, at least 555 of the 562 pages in it. I'm sure on some level it's subtle and clever and maybe even got above average reviews somewhere. Perhaps in my late-twenties I've lost all appreciation of decent fiction. Maybe not. Don't get me wrong, Stephen King is still the 'Greatest Living Writer(TM),' but it's like a short story with one end that's been tied to a lampost, and the other to a motorbike, and stretched it. A lot.
When did I turn into such a cynical twat?
Yoshi was fun. Like Super Mario World, but shorter and with dinosaurs and babies in it. Now I'm watching Hollyoaks and no doubt a bit of Bigot Brother later on. Lost Planet is lying on my bedside table. I can hear it now, "Oi you, pull off this cellophane wrapper and let's get started!" but I've got rampant inertia and can't be bothered to move.
Ooh, there's an advert for Rocky Balboa on telly. It's got to be ace. It has to be. I'm ignoring the fact that it could be farcical though. How old must that guy be? Bet Rachael can't wait to see it at the cinema. Twice. She just hasn't mentioned it to me yet.
Big Brother's Little Brother is now on. Big Brother is probably the most topical subject in the country today, bigger than politics and everything. There's a mention of the show on the cover of every national paper today. I hear they're burning effigies in India after Jade, Jo and the other one were less than sociable towards Shilpa. Dermot O' Leary just mentioned that it's been covered in the New York Times. What the f?
The funniest thing is that they seem to have forgotten they're being filmed.
Perhaps these girls are actually culturally ignorant and this is a mistake that they'll suddenly realise and profusely apologise for their behaviour when they leave. Bollocks.
I believe that whether you love the show or hate it, its purpose as a mirror into society has always brought about some interesting results and should be applauded for bringing these issues to the fore. We've had aging sex symbols in the form of Brigette Neilson and Cleo and a homosexual in 'H.' That's just the celebrity show and many more examples will go unmentioned.
The normal show has had Brian, Nadia and the gay, tory, black Derek. It's very deliberately including minorities that have at some point incited hatred from ignorant people. Anyone in their right mind must see that this scenario could not have gone unforeseen by the show's producers.
Planned or not, Big Brother has shined a rather bright spotlight on the ugly subject of racism in our so-called harmonious multicultural society. It's interesting that this victimisation comes seems to come in two forms. The Witch, The Wag and The Songstress are openly racist behind Shilpa's back, however, to her face, it's reduced to just nastyness and bullying, apparently bourne from jealousy. One of these so-called 'celebrities' was made famous by the same show and should know better. One of them was a pop star and no doubt potently aware of the damage that tabloids do. And so soon after Mel Gibson's alledged anti-semitic remarks and the resulting worldwide furore, too.
Unfortunately the show has proved to be a microcosm of a society where a dangerously large amount of people believe its ok to be racist in private. The same people would vehemently deny it if anyone mentioned such a dirty term as racism, and would express mock horror at being found out. Watch them when they leave. Wait for the boos.
The sad fact is that these same people are now even more famous and will still be forgiven over time. Did I mention that Mel Gibson's Apocalypto grossed $49 million at the US box office during six weeks in the charts? Watch this space.
Finished both Lisey's Story and Yoshi's Island DS today. Took the day off. Wasn't feeling well, but ended up doing emails for most of the day. The only difference being that I was slouched on my sofa, rather than in my chair at work. But with less distractions.
Before last night I'd had less than 9 hours sleep since Sunday night. Which is nice. Must be the man flu.
Have to say that I was disappointed with the book. Well, at least 555 of the 562 pages in it. I'm sure on some level it's subtle and clever and maybe even got above average reviews somewhere. Perhaps in my late-twenties I've lost all appreciation of decent fiction. Maybe not. Don't get me wrong, Stephen King is still the 'Greatest Living Writer(TM),' but it's like a short story with one end that's been tied to a lampost, and the other to a motorbike, and stretched it. A lot.
When did I turn into such a cynical twat?
Yoshi was fun. Like Super Mario World, but shorter and with dinosaurs and babies in it. Now I'm watching Hollyoaks and no doubt a bit of Bigot Brother later on. Lost Planet is lying on my bedside table. I can hear it now, "Oi you, pull off this cellophane wrapper and let's get started!" but I've got rampant inertia and can't be bothered to move.
Ooh, there's an advert for Rocky Balboa on telly. It's got to be ace. It has to be. I'm ignoring the fact that it could be farcical though. How old must that guy be? Bet Rachael can't wait to see it at the cinema. Twice. She just hasn't mentioned it to me yet.
Big Brother's Little Brother is now on. Big Brother is probably the most topical subject in the country today, bigger than politics and everything. There's a mention of the show on the cover of every national paper today. I hear they're burning effigies in India after Jade, Jo and the other one were less than sociable towards Shilpa. Dermot O' Leary just mentioned that it's been covered in the New York Times. What the f?
The funniest thing is that they seem to have forgotten they're being filmed.
Perhaps these girls are actually culturally ignorant and this is a mistake that they'll suddenly realise and profusely apologise for their behaviour when they leave. Bollocks.
I believe that whether you love the show or hate it, its purpose as a mirror into society has always brought about some interesting results and should be applauded for bringing these issues to the fore. We've had aging sex symbols in the form of Brigette Neilson and Cleo and a homosexual in 'H.' That's just the celebrity show and many more examples will go unmentioned.
The normal show has had Brian, Nadia and the gay, tory, black Derek. It's very deliberately including minorities that have at some point incited hatred from ignorant people. Anyone in their right mind must see that this scenario could not have gone unforeseen by the show's producers.
Planned or not, Big Brother has shined a rather bright spotlight on the ugly subject of racism in our so-called harmonious multicultural society. It's interesting that this victimisation comes seems to come in two forms. The Witch, The Wag and The Songstress are openly racist behind Shilpa's back, however, to her face, it's reduced to just nastyness and bullying, apparently bourne from jealousy. One of these so-called 'celebrities' was made famous by the same show and should know better. One of them was a pop star and no doubt potently aware of the damage that tabloids do. And so soon after Mel Gibson's alledged anti-semitic remarks and the resulting worldwide furore, too.
Unfortunately the show has proved to be a microcosm of a society where a dangerously large amount of people believe its ok to be racist in private. The same people would vehemently deny it if anyone mentioned such a dirty term as racism, and would express mock horror at being found out. Watch them when they leave. Wait for the boos.
The sad fact is that these same people are now even more famous and will still be forgiven over time. Did I mention that Mel Gibson's Apocalypto grossed $49 million at the US box office during six weeks in the charts? Watch this space.
Review.
29 Dec 2006
What a wet, windy 'puddle' of a season. It's been wet in many ways. Over November and December, I've turned into a binge-drinking monster. This has to end soon. I've offended countless people by doing it. Now my poor stomach is bloated (more than usual) by snacking on tins of Celebrations that never seem to end, and overall feeling quite rotten. The New Year's Resolutions are going to be a doddle.
There's radio silence on the mobile, but the return to work is drawing ever closer.
I've grown a full beard and am currently mentally hibernating, cocoon-style, trying to drown out the sound of the Jeremy Kyle on the TV by tapping on the keyboard extra-loud.
It's not all been bad though. Apart from a few professional achievements, I've discovered lots of cool things and places. Went to Tokyo for the first and second time and discovered a fascinating place about as far away from the common stereotype as it could possibly get. I'm not going to regurgitate my accounts of the second trip, but if you want to see them, scroll down a bit. Apologies for the grammar, I didn't get much sleep.
I also started reading loads again this year, and I've picked up some real gems. Perhaps the best read in recent times for me is a book called Cloud Atlas by a chap called David Mitchell. Can't remember what made me pick it up, but I believe I got it in the £3.77 range in Tesco. And what a gem it was. It's a collection of interconnected stories beginning in the recent past and finishing in the far future. It's basically a study in human nature throughout the ages. It can be little heavy at times, but give it a chance, it really is worth picking up. Next I tried out the new Nick Hornby novel, A Long Way Down, but it was the first book in about three years that I couldn't finish. I just couldn't get into it.
So, next up, when I went on holiday, I bought David Mitchell's first book, Ghostwritten, which was always going to be a risk, considering how much I enjoyed the first, and surprise! it wasn't quite as good. It felt like it was trying to be too clever. It also fell apart because the sun melted the glue binding the pages to the spine. Not a big loss. The third book of his that I started to read was Number9dream, about a boy from rural Japan who tries to make a life for himself in Tokyo. It starts off really well, but I lost it on a plane, along with my favourite Farnham bookmark, so now I'm going to have to wait until I can be bothered to spend another £7.99 just to read the end of it. It was good though...
More recently, I read the His Dark Materials series. I got the first book as a gift through work, but I later bought the second, and rented the third from the library. Without meaning to detract too much from my flow, my advice is to go and join your local library whenever you can. The people there are really nice, and there's lots of DVDs there now too. Which reminds me, I must take that back soon.
Anyway, I found the first book a bit of a slow starter, but it gets very cool as the story develops, especially the daemons. It's been described as an adult Harry Potter, although I've never read the Harry Potter books and only seen the first film. I can say that it gets quite heavy later on...There's a film next year, with Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman.
Right now I'm reading Lisey's Story by Stephen King, I'm about half way through, and have to say that I'm still waiting for it to get exciting. There was a waiting list of about seven people at the library, so I had to buy the hardback for £10, which is a shame. I'll let you know how I get on. I might have mentioned in a previous blog (apologies if I'm doubling up here), but Stephen King would have to be my favourite author, however, I'm disappointed by his last couple of books. The Cell started off really well, but slowed down to a crawl before an unsatisfactory end. I did borrow a audiobook called LT's Theory of Pets recently though, and thought that was a great way to spend a boring commute.
Anyway, that's me and books.
Films-wise, I've also watched lots of films, the most recent being Pirates of The Caribbean 2 on DVD this morning. The first film was shown on terrestrial telly the other night, so I thought I'd pick up the sequel. It's 'ok' but ends on a cliffhanger. That's one of my pet hates - ending a film without a resolution. I may be a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to stories, but really can't stand forking out for a DVD rental and getting no ending from it.
My favourite film this year has to be Pan's Labyrinth. I wasn't sure what to expect from a Spanish fantasy film with subtitles, but it's excellent. It follows the story of a young girl who has to go and stay with her evil stepfather. She is put to the test by a faun from the nearby forest who believes she is the reincarnation of the queen of the underworld. Against the backdrop of Spanish Civil War, this was an enchanting and very well made film. Other gem I saw a week or so ago was Munich, starring Eric 'The Hulk' Bana, and Daniel 'Steely-Eyed Bond' Craig. Directed by Steven Spielberg, it's a story about the aftermath of the 1972 Munich Olympics, where some Palestinian terrorists laid siege to the Olympic village and captured some members of the Israeli Olympic team. The film is about a mission to avenge the subsequent deaths of the athletes. Rachael thought it was rubbish and went to bed, but I persevered and found the moral message presented by the finale to be very gratifying.
Next year I'm looking forward to Bobby, about the time of the death of RFK, a subject I read up a lot on when I was younger, following the Oliver Stone movie about JFK, his older brother. The trailer for the new Will Smith film, The Pursuit of Happyness actually looks ok, but I really can't wait for the new Transformers movie in the summer. It had better be good, it's been a long time coming.Anyway, better go and rescue Rachael from the pulp on TV. Jeremy Kyle is still on somewhere on another channel, but now she's started watching the shopping channel, so it's time to finish up.Enjoy it, whatever you have planned.
What a wet, windy 'puddle' of a season. It's been wet in many ways. Over November and December, I've turned into a binge-drinking monster. This has to end soon. I've offended countless people by doing it. Now my poor stomach is bloated (more than usual) by snacking on tins of Celebrations that never seem to end, and overall feeling quite rotten. The New Year's Resolutions are going to be a doddle.
There's radio silence on the mobile, but the return to work is drawing ever closer.
I've grown a full beard and am currently mentally hibernating, cocoon-style, trying to drown out the sound of the Jeremy Kyle on the TV by tapping on the keyboard extra-loud.
It's not all been bad though. Apart from a few professional achievements, I've discovered lots of cool things and places. Went to Tokyo for the first and second time and discovered a fascinating place about as far away from the common stereotype as it could possibly get. I'm not going to regurgitate my accounts of the second trip, but if you want to see them, scroll down a bit. Apologies for the grammar, I didn't get much sleep.
I also started reading loads again this year, and I've picked up some real gems. Perhaps the best read in recent times for me is a book called Cloud Atlas by a chap called David Mitchell. Can't remember what made me pick it up, but I believe I got it in the £3.77 range in Tesco. And what a gem it was. It's a collection of interconnected stories beginning in the recent past and finishing in the far future. It's basically a study in human nature throughout the ages. It can be little heavy at times, but give it a chance, it really is worth picking up. Next I tried out the new Nick Hornby novel, A Long Way Down, but it was the first book in about three years that I couldn't finish. I just couldn't get into it.
So, next up, when I went on holiday, I bought David Mitchell's first book, Ghostwritten, which was always going to be a risk, considering how much I enjoyed the first, and surprise! it wasn't quite as good. It felt like it was trying to be too clever. It also fell apart because the sun melted the glue binding the pages to the spine. Not a big loss. The third book of his that I started to read was Number9dream, about a boy from rural Japan who tries to make a life for himself in Tokyo. It starts off really well, but I lost it on a plane, along with my favourite Farnham bookmark, so now I'm going to have to wait until I can be bothered to spend another £7.99 just to read the end of it. It was good though...
More recently, I read the His Dark Materials series. I got the first book as a gift through work, but I later bought the second, and rented the third from the library. Without meaning to detract too much from my flow, my advice is to go and join your local library whenever you can. The people there are really nice, and there's lots of DVDs there now too. Which reminds me, I must take that back soon.
Anyway, I found the first book a bit of a slow starter, but it gets very cool as the story develops, especially the daemons. It's been described as an adult Harry Potter, although I've never read the Harry Potter books and only seen the first film. I can say that it gets quite heavy later on...There's a film next year, with Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman.
Right now I'm reading Lisey's Story by Stephen King, I'm about half way through, and have to say that I'm still waiting for it to get exciting. There was a waiting list of about seven people at the library, so I had to buy the hardback for £10, which is a shame. I'll let you know how I get on. I might have mentioned in a previous blog (apologies if I'm doubling up here), but Stephen King would have to be my favourite author, however, I'm disappointed by his last couple of books. The Cell started off really well, but slowed down to a crawl before an unsatisfactory end. I did borrow a audiobook called LT's Theory of Pets recently though, and thought that was a great way to spend a boring commute.
Anyway, that's me and books.
Films-wise, I've also watched lots of films, the most recent being Pirates of The Caribbean 2 on DVD this morning. The first film was shown on terrestrial telly the other night, so I thought I'd pick up the sequel. It's 'ok' but ends on a cliffhanger. That's one of my pet hates - ending a film without a resolution. I may be a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to stories, but really can't stand forking out for a DVD rental and getting no ending from it.
My favourite film this year has to be Pan's Labyrinth. I wasn't sure what to expect from a Spanish fantasy film with subtitles, but it's excellent. It follows the story of a young girl who has to go and stay with her evil stepfather. She is put to the test by a faun from the nearby forest who believes she is the reincarnation of the queen of the underworld. Against the backdrop of Spanish Civil War, this was an enchanting and very well made film. Other gem I saw a week or so ago was Munich, starring Eric 'The Hulk' Bana, and Daniel 'Steely-Eyed Bond' Craig. Directed by Steven Spielberg, it's a story about the aftermath of the 1972 Munich Olympics, where some Palestinian terrorists laid siege to the Olympic village and captured some members of the Israeli Olympic team. The film is about a mission to avenge the subsequent deaths of the athletes. Rachael thought it was rubbish and went to bed, but I persevered and found the moral message presented by the finale to be very gratifying.
Next year I'm looking forward to Bobby, about the time of the death of RFK, a subject I read up a lot on when I was younger, following the Oliver Stone movie about JFK, his older brother. The trailer for the new Will Smith film, The Pursuit of Happyness actually looks ok, but I really can't wait for the new Transformers movie in the summer. It had better be good, it's been a long time coming.Anyway, better go and rescue Rachael from the pulp on TV. Jeremy Kyle is still on somewhere on another channel, but now she's started watching the shopping channel, so it's time to finish up.Enjoy it, whatever you have planned.
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