Shopping the other day and I was browsing the latest DVDs when I noticed a little addition to all the main comedy releases.
It's a little sticker on the packaging with a simple phrase. It says "Everyone Loves a DVD". That's all.
Now I got thinking about this, and I started to disagree on several levels. Firstly, I don't need someone to tell me that a product is so universally liked that it would clearly make a great Christmas present. Because that's what at work here. The sticker is supposed to act on behalf of your brain.
It's like you'd be stuck for a Christmas Present, see the 'Lee Evans Best Routines' Boxset and think 'Should I get that? Well, everyone loves a DVD, don't they?' but the sticker has got there first - you've reached the conclusion before you've asked the question.
And I don't like that one bit. I don't need to be told. I'd like to make my mind up. Sausages don't have a label on them saying "Phwoar. You'd be mental not to love these bangers" or plasters with "These are so brilliant you'll want to cut yourself open just to try them." It's more dumbing down. It's implying we can't think for ourselves.
And besides which, the statement is factually incorrect because there is absolutely no way that 'everyone' can 'love' a dvd. What about:
(a) people who work in the DVD business and spend hours pressing the discs - they must be fed up of seeing them
(b) the same people, who have just been made redundant
(c) anyone who has suffered a bereavement because of a dvd related death (decapitated by disc, electrocuted plugging dvd player, watched 'Lee Evans Best Routines' and shooting themselves out of despair)
(d)Blu-ray machine owners
(e)People who can't afford dvd players.
You get the idea. So technically it should be "Everyone Loves a DVD ,don't they?
By the way, if you still need to get me a present then I've made a new sticker which simply says "Everyone loves £50 notes or cocaine" that I'll be happy to forward to you to help you with your choice.
Monday 30 November 2009
Thursday 26 November 2009
My brain is at it again
I wrote a while back about how I struggle to keep the bad thoughts in my brain and not out in the world. Well today it's been at it again. And once more the bowels of Hell await me I'm sure.
See, I've been trying to write a round-up about Children in Need that happened across the business I work for. And no matter how I tried starting the article, my brain just wanted to write awful stuff. Here's some of the versions I had to delete:
"We love Children in Need. Not the charity you understand, the concept of needy children"
"Children in Need is great isn't it, all that brill telly? Shame they ruin it by putting those sad stories up inbetween James Corden and Terry Wogan doing a conga"
"It's time to see what you've been doing for Children in Need. This year we wanted to do a sponsored 'push Myleene Klass into a pit of razor blades' but some red tape got in the way"
"Lets find out what you did for that luminous one-eyed bear Pudsey"
"Children in Need. A great charity. Helping those in need of a pension, like Terry Wogan"
So, you see, it wouldn't stop coming. All But then thankfully I got an email that beat everything hands down, completely unintentionally. It was from my contact in Bury who simply sent a file with the title "Bury children in need". That's a harsh way to deal with them I thought.
And then I laughed so loudly I snorted and was able to write something sensible instead. Phew.
See, I've been trying to write a round-up about Children in Need that happened across the business I work for. And no matter how I tried starting the article, my brain just wanted to write awful stuff. Here's some of the versions I had to delete:
"We love Children in Need. Not the charity you understand, the concept of needy children"
"Children in Need is great isn't it, all that brill telly? Shame they ruin it by putting those sad stories up inbetween James Corden and Terry Wogan doing a conga"
"It's time to see what you've been doing for Children in Need. This year we wanted to do a sponsored 'push Myleene Klass into a pit of razor blades' but some red tape got in the way"
"Lets find out what you did for that luminous one-eyed bear Pudsey"
"Children in Need. A great charity. Helping those in need of a pension, like Terry Wogan"
So, you see, it wouldn't stop coming. All But then thankfully I got an email that beat everything hands down, completely unintentionally. It was from my contact in Bury who simply sent a file with the title "Bury children in need". That's a harsh way to deal with them I thought.
And then I laughed so loudly I snorted and was able to write something sensible instead. Phew.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Mary Poppins after a heavy drink and drugs session
Good god, It's wet here. I mean really. Stupidly wet. Biblical wet. Wetter than John Inman's handshake, liqufied, diluted into water, mixed with more water and then put in a water wetness accelerator if such a thing existed.
And it's lovely. Well, it's lovely to look at from the 2nd floor of this Glasgow building I'm in with big glass windows and gale force winds battering the side. Being outside is about as sensible as watching more than 18 seconds of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisp (you know who you are).
The wind is blowing so hard that small dogs are being knocked off their feet - not good news, especially if you happen to be a small dog.
Umbrellas are exhibiting that classic FAIL that they do where they blow inside out (there must be a Dragon's Den invention here that would stop the outty-inny situation) and people look like Mary Poppins after a heavy drink and drugs session.
Sometimes being out in the rain can be a joyous experience. I remember playing games of football in utter chaos as the rain hit your face so much it stopped having any feeling and you felt like a god. Games that ended up 32-28 and you had mud inside your body for days on end. And then I remember standing on the open terraces at Accrington Stanley whilst the rain hit my eyes like mini-anvils as Torquay United slumped to a 2-0 loss - with nothing more than a scarf for protection. I shouldn't have gone naked, I know.
And it's like that outside the window right now, whilst I cower here. A coward. But a dry one at that.
So in summary, it's wet. And I ain't looking forward to the journey home neither.
And it's lovely. Well, it's lovely to look at from the 2nd floor of this Glasgow building I'm in with big glass windows and gale force winds battering the side. Being outside is about as sensible as watching more than 18 seconds of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisp (you know who you are).
The wind is blowing so hard that small dogs are being knocked off their feet - not good news, especially if you happen to be a small dog.
Umbrellas are exhibiting that classic FAIL that they do where they blow inside out (there must be a Dragon's Den invention here that would stop the outty-inny situation) and people look like Mary Poppins after a heavy drink and drugs session.
Sometimes being out in the rain can be a joyous experience. I remember playing games of football in utter chaos as the rain hit your face so much it stopped having any feeling and you felt like a god. Games that ended up 32-28 and you had mud inside your body for days on end. And then I remember standing on the open terraces at Accrington Stanley whilst the rain hit my eyes like mini-anvils as Torquay United slumped to a 2-0 loss - with nothing more than a scarf for protection. I shouldn't have gone naked, I know.
And it's like that outside the window right now, whilst I cower here. A coward. But a dry one at that.
So in summary, it's wet. And I ain't looking forward to the journey home neither.
North and South
I'm a shandy drinking Southerner, well - weak lager really, but I'm a pariah in my homeland for moving away.
Alright, I'm being dramatic, but I sometimes do feel a part of the wider world rather than having strong roots. I still see Bath like Barrrth, and on certain wurrds I sound a bit Westcountry. But living in Wolverhampton for 3 years means I say buus and I've taken to using the word chuck a lot from being in Yorkshire.
Bascially, I'm a mishmash of my experiences and geographical habitats. If I was found as a fossil I'd probably confuse the scientific community before being put in a drawer and left alone.
Right now, I'm up in Glasgow for a bit of work and the wind and rain is howling - yet people are walking around in tshirts. Seriously, you could hang coats on my nipples but these people are getting on with it. Fair play.
Having lived in the south, middle and north of England I can report the important sociological fact that 'people are all roughly the same'. Some things are different. I find Scottish people the friendliest. Midlands people the most socially active. And people in the Westcounty the oddest - must be the cider.
But overall there are nice people and nasty people everywhere. And if you're reading this, then I count you in the former.
Right, enough soppiness, I'm off to find a radiator and a duvet before it freezes and falls off.
Alright, I'm being dramatic, but I sometimes do feel a part of the wider world rather than having strong roots. I still see Bath like Barrrth, and on certain wurrds I sound a bit Westcountry. But living in Wolverhampton for 3 years means I say buus and I've taken to using the word chuck a lot from being in Yorkshire.
Bascially, I'm a mishmash of my experiences and geographical habitats. If I was found as a fossil I'd probably confuse the scientific community before being put in a drawer and left alone.
Right now, I'm up in Glasgow for a bit of work and the wind and rain is howling - yet people are walking around in tshirts. Seriously, you could hang coats on my nipples but these people are getting on with it. Fair play.
Having lived in the south, middle and north of England I can report the important sociological fact that 'people are all roughly the same'. Some things are different. I find Scottish people the friendliest. Midlands people the most socially active. And people in the Westcounty the oddest - must be the cider.
But overall there are nice people and nasty people everywhere. And if you're reading this, then I count you in the former.
Right, enough soppiness, I'm off to find a radiator and a duvet before it freezes and falls off.
Monday 23 November 2009
Seasons greetings
Merry Christmas. Seriously, Merry Christmas. Isn't it Christmas? It isn't yet? Surely it must be?
Now, you can read that in a number of ways - like an excitable child who can't wait to get presents (Darth Vader Star Destroyer in 1984 - best present ever) or you can read it in my grumpy old man voice that declares it must be Christmas because the decorations are up everywhere.
Seriously, you'd think that Christmas was an 8 week long festival that starts in early November. Still, my missus has done all the present buyin and wrapping, despatched 99% of them and has even written the cards. Were it just me, I'd only be considering looking at Play.com about now. It pays to get married I say.
Anyway, I'm hoping that this year I'll see one of the most bizarre Christmas sites, like I did last year...
I work in Leeds and we are next to the joy that is the White Rose Centre, one of the biggest shopping centres in the area. They always have a lovely line in Christmas decorations with elves and workshops and the like. But last year I finally got to see Santa walking around. But he wasn't alone. Did he have a reindeer? An elf?
No. He had a security guard. Yes, Santa has a security guard in Leeds. I don't know the background to it, whether he was duffed up by a burly grinch or, more likely, had his sleigh driven into on the m62.
It seemed a little sad to me that he had to be protected in this way. Instead of the "What do you want for christmas?" line I imagine he is obliged to say "And what would you like to tell Father Christmas you would like, bearing in mind I am only a represenative of the real santa and - as such - cannot make a legally binding contract with you over what you will/will not recieve."
Anyway, I want Keplunk and the Doctor Who annual. So if anyone is reading and wants to help Santa out then get in touch.
Now, you can read that in a number of ways - like an excitable child who can't wait to get presents (Darth Vader Star Destroyer in 1984 - best present ever) or you can read it in my grumpy old man voice that declares it must be Christmas because the decorations are up everywhere.
Seriously, you'd think that Christmas was an 8 week long festival that starts in early November. Still, my missus has done all the present buyin and wrapping, despatched 99% of them and has even written the cards. Were it just me, I'd only be considering looking at Play.com about now. It pays to get married I say.
Anyway, I'm hoping that this year I'll see one of the most bizarre Christmas sites, like I did last year...
I work in Leeds and we are next to the joy that is the White Rose Centre, one of the biggest shopping centres in the area. They always have a lovely line in Christmas decorations with elves and workshops and the like. But last year I finally got to see Santa walking around. But he wasn't alone. Did he have a reindeer? An elf?
No. He had a security guard. Yes, Santa has a security guard in Leeds. I don't know the background to it, whether he was duffed up by a burly grinch or, more likely, had his sleigh driven into on the m62.
It seemed a little sad to me that he had to be protected in this way. Instead of the "What do you want for christmas?" line I imagine he is obliged to say "And what would you like to tell Father Christmas you would like, bearing in mind I am only a represenative of the real santa and - as such - cannot make a legally binding contract with you over what you will/will not recieve."
Anyway, I want Keplunk and the Doctor Who annual. So if anyone is reading and wants to help Santa out then get in touch.
Friday 20 November 2009
Live toenail surgery
You join me as the needle goes into the toe. A slight sting, like an annoyed junior wasp has been around and then I chat with fiona (podiatrist) whilst my toe numbs to form a sort of swollen sausage.
Five minutes on and it needs more injection, because my toe is so massive apparantly (i feel pleased to know that). Fiona says I could have up to eight more if needed.
Numb now and scalpel going in. Pressure but nowt else. It's basically a big incision down one side and then tugging. Alesha Dixon's The Boy Does Nothing comes on, I'd toe tap if I could.
"that's not good news" fiona says, and is back in to find a rogue bit of nail. Ah, all sorted now.
In with the Phenol, which chemically burns the nail away at the root. Much cotton bud action.
Halfway done, just taken a pic and posted to facebook.
Part two is much the same, no fiddly nail this time and it's right out. God that nail was as long as a chipstick.
More phenol cotton bud fun and were on the home leg. I didn't even mean that pun.
Lots of blood as the tourniquet comes off and first dressing on. Fiona kindly bottles up the nails for me to take home. I'll get a nice dip to go with those.
Bleeding has calmed and Fiona is happy. Now the real pain, the £250 bill. Which I have to foot. Bwah ha ha.
Right. Recovering now and all seems good. That was fun.
Five minutes on and it needs more injection, because my toe is so massive apparantly (i feel pleased to know that). Fiona says I could have up to eight more if needed.
Numb now and scalpel going in. Pressure but nowt else. It's basically a big incision down one side and then tugging. Alesha Dixon's The Boy Does Nothing comes on, I'd toe tap if I could.
"that's not good news" fiona says, and is back in to find a rogue bit of nail. Ah, all sorted now.
In with the Phenol, which chemically burns the nail away at the root. Much cotton bud action.
Halfway done, just taken a pic and posted to facebook.
Part two is much the same, no fiddly nail this time and it's right out. God that nail was as long as a chipstick.
More phenol cotton bud fun and were on the home leg. I didn't even mean that pun.
Lots of blood as the tourniquet comes off and first dressing on. Fiona kindly bottles up the nails for me to take home. I'll get a nice dip to go with those.
Bleeding has calmed and Fiona is happy. Now the real pain, the £250 bill. Which I have to foot. Bwah ha ha.
Right. Recovering now and all seems good. That was fun.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Toe-morrow
I'm having an operation this Friday. No, I'm not having my face ironed, I'm having toenail surgery.
I wasn't really worried about it until this week a friend told me that it was the worst operation she'd ever had. And she had open heart surgery about 2 months ago as well. I hope she was joking - she's Scottish, they're funny like that.
Actually, I'm quite looking forward to it. For one it will sort out the recurring pain/swelling/pus I've had on and off for the last three years. I can trace the problem back to honeymoon where I banged it in the swimming pool (no laughing at the back), since when I've periodically limped round with a big bandaged foot like a disabled cyberman, marching one one foot - dragging t'other.
I'm also quite looking forward to the whole process. I don't mind the injections - 13years of being addicted to heroin* sorts that fear out and I'm quite curious to watch the human body being messed about with. I popped my knee in football once and it swelled up so much that I had to go to hospital where they drained it using a needle the size of a chipolta and a piece of rubber tubing into what looked like my kitchen measuring jug at the time. I remember two things - utter relief and uncontrollably laughing as a bizarre red, brown and white fluid came out of the joint. A nice mix of colours for an East European flag.
And once done, I like the post-op time. Again, I had a lump removed from my shoulder under local anaesthetic and watched the whole thing. But in recovery they refused to let me go until I had a cup of tea. Thing is, I don't like tea or coffee. So I spent about an hour convincing them I was fine, and that not liking either beverage was not a sign of a reaction to the op - just my own personal choice.
Had they offered me red bull and frazzles, I'd have jumped at the chance.
Anyway, the op is at 3pm tomorrow - so hopefully my doctor will let me blog during it and I might throw some pics in too.
Oh, and I will ask the question "will I be able to tap dance after this op?" and when she says "Yes" I shall say "Blimey. I can't tap dance now, so that will be brilliant." That joke c/o Gyles Brandreth's Big Book of Jokes 1982.
Speak to you toe-morrow.
*not really - it was just 4 years.
I wasn't really worried about it until this week a friend told me that it was the worst operation she'd ever had. And she had open heart surgery about 2 months ago as well. I hope she was joking - she's Scottish, they're funny like that.
Actually, I'm quite looking forward to it. For one it will sort out the recurring pain/swelling/pus I've had on and off for the last three years. I can trace the problem back to honeymoon where I banged it in the swimming pool (no laughing at the back), since when I've periodically limped round with a big bandaged foot like a disabled cyberman, marching one one foot - dragging t'other.
I'm also quite looking forward to the whole process. I don't mind the injections - 13years of being addicted to heroin* sorts that fear out and I'm quite curious to watch the human body being messed about with. I popped my knee in football once and it swelled up so much that I had to go to hospital where they drained it using a needle the size of a chipolta and a piece of rubber tubing into what looked like my kitchen measuring jug at the time. I remember two things - utter relief and uncontrollably laughing as a bizarre red, brown and white fluid came out of the joint. A nice mix of colours for an East European flag.
And once done, I like the post-op time. Again, I had a lump removed from my shoulder under local anaesthetic and watched the whole thing. But in recovery they refused to let me go until I had a cup of tea. Thing is, I don't like tea or coffee. So I spent about an hour convincing them I was fine, and that not liking either beverage was not a sign of a reaction to the op - just my own personal choice.
Had they offered me red bull and frazzles, I'd have jumped at the chance.
Anyway, the op is at 3pm tomorrow - so hopefully my doctor will let me blog during it and I might throw some pics in too.
Oh, and I will ask the question "will I be able to tap dance after this op?" and when she says "Yes" I shall say "Blimey. I can't tap dance now, so that will be brilliant." That joke c/o Gyles Brandreth's Big Book of Jokes 1982.
Speak to you toe-morrow.
*not really - it was just 4 years.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
The music of my childhood
Nowadays, I like lots of music. Mainly with guitars. Mainly sung by men around my age. Mainly blokes with beards it seems too. Anyway, I got here through an education that began with novelty records, chart music, took indie rock from my brother, added in classic rock from friends, a bit of punk too, and then there was the proto-jungle phase of mid 1997 (I often forget that), american indie, Johnny Cash, and now I have my own filtered and happy tastes.
Except, that isn't how it started. Yes the first single I bought was Ray Parker Jnr's Ghostbusters. And I did help The Firm keep Star Trekkin' at number one. But what I really used to love is symbolised on the right. I loved theme tunes to tv series. If you know that's Streethawk (very very shortlived american action TV show) then you are halfway there.
Basically, I would sit near the TV when my fave programmes were on, get as close to the speaker as possible, and press the record/play button on the little cassette deck we had. Often I would get the station ident before the programme - nowadays that might be considered a remix I guess - and sometimes you could hear my mum in the background or me telling people to be quiet.
I had all my faves. Streethawk - a programme about a fantastic souped up motorbike that was used to fight crime. Airwolf - a programme about a fantastic souped up helicpoter that was used to fight crime. Manimal - a programme about, erm, a bloke who could turn into different animals which were then used to fight crime. Basically, unusual power crime based thrills. (Looking back now, Streethawk could go at 300 miles an hour and turn corners at said speed - and I believed that totally).
So then I would take my tape, and listen to it on my personal stereo - with it's 3 buttons of play, stop and ffwd - until I either got bored (never) or the tape unwound (often) and I had to thread it back in with the skill of a souped up crime fighting cassette tape detective.
There were other tunes and you can listen to them yourselves if you want and discover the Treasure Hunt gone evil forboding of Interceptor the scary BBC micro meets classical stylings of The Tripods.
Eventually the tape, and indeed my voice, broke and I moved on to other things. But I won't forget the delight I used to have with my c60 tape and the imagination that I too could fight crime in some form of souped up manner.
Never grow up ladies and gentlemen, never grow up.
Except, that isn't how it started. Yes the first single I bought was Ray Parker Jnr's Ghostbusters. And I did help The Firm keep Star Trekkin' at number one. But what I really used to love is symbolised on the right. I loved theme tunes to tv series. If you know that's Streethawk (very very shortlived american action TV show) then you are halfway there.
Basically, I would sit near the TV when my fave programmes were on, get as close to the speaker as possible, and press the record/play button on the little cassette deck we had. Often I would get the station ident before the programme - nowadays that might be considered a remix I guess - and sometimes you could hear my mum in the background or me telling people to be quiet.
I had all my faves. Streethawk - a programme about a fantastic souped up motorbike that was used to fight crime. Airwolf - a programme about a fantastic souped up helicpoter that was used to fight crime. Manimal - a programme about, erm, a bloke who could turn into different animals which were then used to fight crime. Basically, unusual power crime based thrills. (Looking back now, Streethawk could go at 300 miles an hour and turn corners at said speed - and I believed that totally).
So then I would take my tape, and listen to it on my personal stereo - with it's 3 buttons of play, stop and ffwd - until I either got bored (never) or the tape unwound (often) and I had to thread it back in with the skill of a souped up crime fighting cassette tape detective.
There were other tunes and you can listen to them yourselves if you want and discover the Treasure Hunt gone evil forboding of Interceptor the scary BBC micro meets classical stylings of The Tripods.
Eventually the tape, and indeed my voice, broke and I moved on to other things. But I won't forget the delight I used to have with my c60 tape and the imagination that I too could fight crime in some form of souped up manner.
Never grow up ladies and gentlemen, never grow up.
A bit of training
My lack of blog has been due to a few days away - firstly in London, latterly in Scotland. It was like a very low-budget Michael Palin adventure. And that included the trains.
Ah the trains. The trains. When I was young the trains were an adventure. I grew up in Devon so the trains to me were the route to adventure, the connections to the world, the only real way I could run away to Tiverton if I every felt so inclined (I didn't, I had a ZX Spectrum so was quite happy).I was obsessed with trains from an early age. Apparantly I had train wallpaper which, when I had a fever at age 4, I hallucinated that they were coming off the wall at me. Nowadays I would hallucinate they were delayed by a shortage of staff or didn't have an at-seat trolley service until Peterborugh.
I loved them so much I wrote to the Rev W Awdry, creator of The Railway series of books which latterly became known as Thomas the Tank Engine and friends. That later rebranding always rankles with me, as Thomas was a bit of an idiot really and never truly the star in my eyes.
Anyway, my point is that I used to love trains, there was a romantacism to them - a beauty and majesty. Sadly, as I've got older they've just become a source of frustration, something I remembered as I stood in Kings Cross on Sunday morning watching the boards as my train - along with no others - pulled in during a 45 minute period. Trains as an adult are rubbish. Less about travel, more about survival.
My train nightmares over the years have included having a viola dropped on my head, sitting next to a man who spent 3 hours flicking through several pornographic magazines (presumably for the articles) and, on Sunday, being told that the ticket I had booked in advance - whilst correct for the train - was for over 65s only, so I had to pay more. I did think for a minute saying "I am over 65" to see his reaction, but from the look of the ticket inspector he had left his personality at home that day.
Yes, trains. The sooner we get jetpacs the better.
Ah the trains. The trains. When I was young the trains were an adventure. I grew up in Devon so the trains to me were the route to adventure, the connections to the world, the only real way I could run away to Tiverton if I every felt so inclined (I didn't, I had a ZX Spectrum so was quite happy).I was obsessed with trains from an early age. Apparantly I had train wallpaper which, when I had a fever at age 4, I hallucinated that they were coming off the wall at me. Nowadays I would hallucinate they were delayed by a shortage of staff or didn't have an at-seat trolley service until Peterborugh.
I loved them so much I wrote to the Rev W Awdry, creator of The Railway series of books which latterly became known as Thomas the Tank Engine and friends. That later rebranding always rankles with me, as Thomas was a bit of an idiot really and never truly the star in my eyes.
Anyway, my point is that I used to love trains, there was a romantacism to them - a beauty and majesty. Sadly, as I've got older they've just become a source of frustration, something I remembered as I stood in Kings Cross on Sunday morning watching the boards as my train - along with no others - pulled in during a 45 minute period. Trains as an adult are rubbish. Less about travel, more about survival.
My train nightmares over the years have included having a viola dropped on my head, sitting next to a man who spent 3 hours flicking through several pornographic magazines (presumably for the articles) and, on Sunday, being told that the ticket I had booked in advance - whilst correct for the train - was for over 65s only, so I had to pay more. I did think for a minute saying "I am over 65" to see his reaction, but from the look of the ticket inspector he had left his personality at home that day.
Yes, trains. The sooner we get jetpacs the better.
Friday 13 November 2009
The door to politeness
I like to think I'm well mannered, although saying that these days effectively means 'I've only been cautioned for a knife crime, not imprisoned' (yeah, right on, bit of politics etc). By that, I mean I do the basics - I say thanks, I say please, I don't scream and point if people are ugly or punch those wearing FCUK branded clothing (no matter how much I want to).
My firm belief is that if we were all a bit more polite, the world would be a better place. Oh and hats, if we all wore hats it would be a better place too. No idea why, just seems like a good idea to me.
Anyway, politeness is a tricky game to play. Like when you are holding a door for someone. Where I work, there's a long corridor with about 4 swing doors, and inevitably you are either just in front or behind someone.
So there are two situations that arise. The rude one is when someone doesn't hold the door, four times. It's rare, because they hear my annoyed heavy breathing after the first indescretion and get the message - either that, or think I'm some sort of sex-pest pervert with the muttering I do. The men do anyway.
The second situation is almost as bad, this time for the person following. How many times can you say thanks for a door being held before it becomes a pisstake? Are there even four ways to say thanks in a different way? I've gone with 'Thanks', 'Ta', 'Cheers' and finished with 'It's been a pleasure' for a bit of a flourish.
For the holder, it becomes tricky. Do you increase pace to avoid the need for holding the door four times? Is that rude? Because I'm British, and can't deal with this sort of thing, I've even gone into offices that aren't mine, just so I can curtail the four door situation.
I like the idea that you take turns. So if you're in the lead, hold the first door, slow down and let the person behind overtake (they can signal by holding out their hand if they want) so they have to reciprocate. Then get ahead of them again before the next door. It creates parity and in a way is not unlike Do-Se-Doing in Country Dancing (don't ask how I know that).
There are other politeness tips that I won't go into much detail on - always stand two urinals apart if you can, never interfere with another mans beer and for gods sake never hesistate when a woman asks you a question that involves her personal appearance - perhaps you can give me more next time you're overtaking/being overtaken by me in the corridor.
My firm belief is that if we were all a bit more polite, the world would be a better place. Oh and hats, if we all wore hats it would be a better place too. No idea why, just seems like a good idea to me.
Anyway, politeness is a tricky game to play. Like when you are holding a door for someone. Where I work, there's a long corridor with about 4 swing doors, and inevitably you are either just in front or behind someone.
So there are two situations that arise. The rude one is when someone doesn't hold the door, four times. It's rare, because they hear my annoyed heavy breathing after the first indescretion and get the message - either that, or think I'm some sort of sex-pest pervert with the muttering I do. The men do anyway.
The second situation is almost as bad, this time for the person following. How many times can you say thanks for a door being held before it becomes a pisstake? Are there even four ways to say thanks in a different way? I've gone with 'Thanks', 'Ta', 'Cheers' and finished with 'It's been a pleasure' for a bit of a flourish.
For the holder, it becomes tricky. Do you increase pace to avoid the need for holding the door four times? Is that rude? Because I'm British, and can't deal with this sort of thing, I've even gone into offices that aren't mine, just so I can curtail the four door situation.
I like the idea that you take turns. So if you're in the lead, hold the first door, slow down and let the person behind overtake (they can signal by holding out their hand if they want) so they have to reciprocate. Then get ahead of them again before the next door. It creates parity and in a way is not unlike Do-Se-Doing in Country Dancing (don't ask how I know that).
There are other politeness tips that I won't go into much detail on - always stand two urinals apart if you can, never interfere with another mans beer and for gods sake never hesistate when a woman asks you a question that involves her personal appearance - perhaps you can give me more next time you're overtaking/being overtaken by me in the corridor.
Thursday 12 November 2009
Stupid stuff I know #1
I know rubbish. Seriously. Can't do other languages. Struggle with sums. But nonsense? I've got loads of it. Line up her and fill your boots with bilge.
I had a fitful night's sleep last night - about four hours in total - and found myself awake processing ridiculous information. Stuff like this, which for some reason had been on my mind for a while.
Reg Varney, star of On The Buses, was the first person in the UK to use a cashpoint. Handy to know eh? I think I read it online a while back and at around 5.03am, it was the only thing I could think about. I didn't even like the ruddy programme, but there you go.
On The Buses, for those of you too young to remember, was about lecherous bus drivers, daft inspectors and a woman called Olive who effectively looked like Harry Hill. It made a star of Reg and that might be why he probably got the gig for a rather bizarre job and the answer to a cracking pub quiz question.
Yes, this is utterly true, Reg Varney was the first person to ever use a cashpoint. Back in 1967 he used the first one in a branch of Barclays in Enfield, North London. Reg Varney used the first cashpoint. It's worth repeating, as it just seems bizarre.
But there's more.
Did you also know that the person who made the first ever mobile phone call, utterly true again, was Ernie Wise of Morecambe and Wise. He called from London to Vodafone's Newbury headquarters. Quite why, I have no idea, but its true.
I'd like to think that more comedians should have been the first to do significant things or trial important services. How great would the world be if the first ever search on google was made by Russ Abbot, if Griff Rhys Jones had invented pritt-stick or Lenny Henry had taken the first brick from the Berlin Wall.
And why do I know these things? Why is this the sort of stuff I remember when I can't sleep? I haven't a clue, but based on what the missus told me when I mentioned it, it's quite clear.
I'm mental apparantly. Nice to know.
I had a fitful night's sleep last night - about four hours in total - and found myself awake processing ridiculous information. Stuff like this, which for some reason had been on my mind for a while.
Reg Varney, star of On The Buses, was the first person in the UK to use a cashpoint. Handy to know eh? I think I read it online a while back and at around 5.03am, it was the only thing I could think about. I didn't even like the ruddy programme, but there you go.On The Buses, for those of you too young to remember, was about lecherous bus drivers, daft inspectors and a woman called Olive who effectively looked like Harry Hill. It made a star of Reg and that might be why he probably got the gig for a rather bizarre job and the answer to a cracking pub quiz question.
Yes, this is utterly true, Reg Varney was the first person to ever use a cashpoint. Back in 1967 he used the first one in a branch of Barclays in Enfield, North London. Reg Varney used the first cashpoint. It's worth repeating, as it just seems bizarre.
But there's more.
Did you also know that the person who made the first ever mobile phone call, utterly true again, was Ernie Wise of Morecambe and Wise. He called from London to Vodafone's Newbury headquarters. Quite why, I have no idea, but its true.
I'd like to think that more comedians should have been the first to do significant things or trial important services. How great would the world be if the first ever search on google was made by Russ Abbot, if Griff Rhys Jones had invented pritt-stick or Lenny Henry had taken the first brick from the Berlin Wall.
And why do I know these things? Why is this the sort of stuff I remember when I can't sleep? I haven't a clue, but based on what the missus told me when I mentioned it, it's quite clear.
I'm mental apparantly. Nice to know.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Cats Rules
Today's a sad day for me and the missus. It's a year since our first cat, Samson, died. He went just after 11am on the 11th of November last year. He couldn't have picked a better time to be remembered really - I like to think the whole nation stops just to think of him.
And whilst he didn't fight in a war or walk around on two legs using cutlery, he was a lot nicer than 98% of the humans I've met. And on a par with the other 2%.
Since then we've missed him dreadfully, and although it's supposed to get easier with time the anniversary is always going to be a rotten day. But it's also a time to remember what he taught me.
When my wife and Samson moved in back in Nov 2004, I hadn't really been a pet owner. But from day one, I was hooked. He actually moved in 2 weeks before the wife, and by the time she finally got down from Scotland it was like Men Behaving Badly, with Martin Clunes and a cat (funnier than Neil Morrissey, and less likely to wee in public).
Sam had been a rescue case and was very timid. As a result he didn't really trust strangers and it took a while to get used to him. But the minute he climbed on my lap to watch me playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, I knew we would be chums.
Being with him taught me some rules about life that cats have. I'm not doing this to descend into lolcat style japery, just a few honest things about what you learn going from non-cat owner to obsessed with the little bundles of fur.
Rule 1. See that stuff there. That's mine. Whatever it is, it is mine. I may sit on it, chew it, rub my backside against it. I may ignore it. But rest assured: it is mine. I am merely loaning it to you. And that goes for the woman too.
Rule 2. What time is it? Whatever time I want it to be. Dark outside, everyone in bed? Probably time to run around and yell. Bright and sunny, hoovering around the house, I'll be sleeping thanks. I'm more reliable than Greenwich thank you.
Rule 3. If it's not there, I can see it. I need to stare at that wall, up those stairs, in that cupboard, because I can see the spirits of the netherworld. I am one with them, and they commune with me. However I can sleep through pretty much anything tangibly real, including that mini-earthquake we had a few years back.
Rule 4. I don't smell bad. I smell different to you.Get used to it.
Rule 5. Cuddle me, stroke me, but give me too much love and I will swipe you and bite you. You actually can have too much of a good thing, alright. Besides which, you're the one getting the enjoyment - this is like a job for me.
Rule 6. No matter how many times I annoy you, wake you up, slap you in the face with my paw, eat too much, be sick on the carpet, create monstrous shapes in the litter tray, disappear for hours on end, put fur on your clothes, eat your slippers and wail at Iron Maiden style levels as 4am, you will love me in the end. That's just the way it is.
And on Rule 6, I really can't argue.
Happy anniversary big guy. We still miss you x
Tuesday 10 November 2009
And they all turn out to be robots
A few posts back I talked about my brain leaking ridiculousness. Now, you might think that fortunate for someone who has to be creative for a job (I'm a corporate writer btw, not a sculptor or something) but the insanity often ruins the simple creative process.
Like now, for the four thousandth time, I've been writing stories to form a book. Yes, honest I have. I've been scrawling down plots and characters and hilarious cliffhangers involving erm...robots. Yes, robots. That's all my brain ever seems to add at the end of a sentence.
It happens all the time. I can be writing the most uplifting passage of human bravery and wisdom but my brain always has an idea, at the front of my mind, that at least one of my characters should turn out to be a robot. That's not particularly good in the short story I'm writing about a 1960's dustman who finds a haunted golf club. 1960's robots, even the ones in the films, were rubbish. Either giant blocks with clown shoes or obviously sex-ed up femmedroids.
I try to reason with my head, talk it down from it's automaton ledge by explaining that to rationally place a human-life android into any story would require so much explanation it might as well be ruddy magic. Perhaps that's why JK Rowling stuck to wizards. Can't be explained? Oh, because it's magic. Or time travel. Or a spell or something. She was very clever.
Anyway, I know you're all dying to know what the stories are about. There's a children's novel about a young lad, originally called Alberto Thrumpton and now probably Sam Rockitt who discovers that all is not what it seems in his sleepy seaside town. It's got mysterious goings on, bombs, escapes from ledges, dastardly spies and now a volcano. I call it a children's book, because it sounds like the thing I would come up with if I was still 8 years old. There might as well be a hospital made out of cheese for all I care. Hang on. Not a bad idea for the sequel...
For the more mature reader (teengager/young adult) a book of 6 short stories including an addictive internet search engine (honest), a sinister cat and something about the 2100 new year's eve event in America. And in the last of one they all turn out to be robots.
There I go again see? Damn brain.
Anyway, look out for them appearing in the bookshops sometime before I die. Maybe even sooner.
Like now, for the four thousandth time, I've been writing stories to form a book. Yes, honest I have. I've been scrawling down plots and characters and hilarious cliffhangers involving erm...robots. Yes, robots. That's all my brain ever seems to add at the end of a sentence.
It happens all the time. I can be writing the most uplifting passage of human bravery and wisdom but my brain always has an idea, at the front of my mind, that at least one of my characters should turn out to be a robot. That's not particularly good in the short story I'm writing about a 1960's dustman who finds a haunted golf club. 1960's robots, even the ones in the films, were rubbish. Either giant blocks with clown shoes or obviously sex-ed up femmedroids.
I try to reason with my head, talk it down from it's automaton ledge by explaining that to rationally place a human-life android into any story would require so much explanation it might as well be ruddy magic. Perhaps that's why JK Rowling stuck to wizards. Can't be explained? Oh, because it's magic. Or time travel. Or a spell or something. She was very clever.
Anyway, I know you're all dying to know what the stories are about. There's a children's novel about a young lad, originally called Alberto Thrumpton and now probably Sam Rockitt who discovers that all is not what it seems in his sleepy seaside town. It's got mysterious goings on, bombs, escapes from ledges, dastardly spies and now a volcano. I call it a children's book, because it sounds like the thing I would come up with if I was still 8 years old. There might as well be a hospital made out of cheese for all I care. Hang on. Not a bad idea for the sequel...
For the more mature reader (teengager/young adult) a book of 6 short stories including an addictive internet search engine (honest), a sinister cat and something about the 2100 new year's eve event in America. And in the last of one they all turn out to be robots.
There I go again see? Damn brain.
Anyway, look out for them appearing in the bookshops sometime before I die. Maybe even sooner.
Monday 9 November 2009
Queued up to the mince in the name of war
I've been in a few crowds in my time. I walked through trafalgar square about 5 mins before the poll tax riots. I lost my shoe at the first ever uk foo fighters gig. And I was in the forefront of the wall's Funny Feet shortage at Butlins in 1982. All unexpected. Not tonight. Tonight I'm behind 120 people in Asda. No, there isn't a special on Findus Crispy Pancakes, it's all about a computer game. A silly computer game. Tonight I'm queuing for the new Call of Duty game and it's utterly surreal.
Surrounded by youths and the types who should be out murdering or whatever people do at midnight these days. Queued so far back from the till that were past the till, all the way along the vegetable aisle and into the chilled fresh meat section. Mince to the left of me, sausage to the right, my very own hamburger hill.
And guess what? It's really quite fun. As more people pass me with incredulous expressions at the length of the queue and the odd late night shopper furious I'm blocking the view of the mince. Why am I bothering? It's only a game right? Yes. But you do silly things for love and Call of Duty is my mistress. The wife is tucked up in bed, the cats long since fed and asleep and me here.
It was never like this for Jet Set Willy.
Surrounded by youths and the types who should be out murdering or whatever people do at midnight these days. Queued so far back from the till that were past the till, all the way along the vegetable aisle and into the chilled fresh meat section. Mince to the left of me, sausage to the right, my very own hamburger hill.
And guess what? It's really quite fun. As more people pass me with incredulous expressions at the length of the queue and the odd late night shopper furious I'm blocking the view of the mince. Why am I bothering? It's only a game right? Yes. But you do silly things for love and Call of Duty is my mistress. The wife is tucked up in bed, the cats long since fed and asleep and me here.
It was never like this for Jet Set Willy.
Would you like to bash my face in?
I love technology, you may have got that already. Whether it's smartphones, blu-ray players or anything funky like that - I'm up for it. I often wish my bellybutton was a USB port. Don't ask where I'd install the printer.
Anyway I was quite pleased to try out the last version of EA Games (sports software publishers)Gameface. It works with their Tiger Woods, FIFA and (best of all) Boxing games.
Basically you upload a picture of yourself to their server via your pc, then download it into the game. Give the XBOX 20 minutes to do some calcuations and it then creates a hairless 3d model of your own head. You then add hairstyle, tweak the 40 odd settings on the face (I didn't know my face had that many settings) and add a body underneath.
So I scanned in a picture and this is what it came up with:
Scared yet? Members of my family really don't like it - saying that, I'm not sure they like seeing the way I really look. My brother simply told me "make it go away". I think it gets quite a lot right. The eyes, the slightly crooked nose, even the acne pockmarks - all quite good. The skin tones, don't ask. I appear to have been drinking the blue stuff you put in toilet cisterns to turn my face that colour - whilst having neck shave burns that look like I used a the new Gillette Blunt Sausage & Chicken Wire Max razor.
Now, I know it's not real. But seeing the virtual me run out for Torquay United and score and run and leap and swear at the ref - sent a little shiver down my spine. Perhaps it's the face I was able to tweak my physique (you can't add man-boobs it seems) and skills (I don't run like C-3P0 with bowel issues anymore) that made me love the brand new me.
On the downside, after playing late one night and haveing few drinks I kept imagining a Tales of the Unexpected story in which the clone of me comes to life and I get stuck in the game instead.
And if you don't like me? Well, as the title of this post suggests, you can import my face into EAs new boxing game and literally beat your own face to a pulp, as it will simulate the damage of being in a heavyweight boxing contest.
My advice? Get your face scanned. Upload and learn to love the (un)real you.
Anyway I was quite pleased to try out the last version of EA Games (sports software publishers)Gameface. It works with their Tiger Woods, FIFA and (best of all) Boxing games.
Basically you upload a picture of yourself to their server via your pc, then download it into the game. Give the XBOX 20 minutes to do some calcuations and it then creates a hairless 3d model of your own head. You then add hairstyle, tweak the 40 odd settings on the face (I didn't know my face had that many settings) and add a body underneath.
So I scanned in a picture and this is what it came up with:
Scared yet? Members of my family really don't like it - saying that, I'm not sure they like seeing the way I really look. My brother simply told me "make it go away". I think it gets quite a lot right. The eyes, the slightly crooked nose, even the acne pockmarks - all quite good. The skin tones, don't ask. I appear to have been drinking the blue stuff you put in toilet cisterns to turn my face that colour - whilst having neck shave burns that look like I used a the new Gillette Blunt Sausage & Chicken Wire Max razor.
Now, I know it's not real. But seeing the virtual me run out for Torquay United and score and run and leap and swear at the ref - sent a little shiver down my spine. Perhaps it's the face I was able to tweak my physique (you can't add man-boobs it seems) and skills (I don't run like C-3P0 with bowel issues anymore) that made me love the brand new me.
On the downside, after playing late one night and haveing few drinks I kept imagining a Tales of the Unexpected story in which the clone of me comes to life and I get stuck in the game instead.
And if you don't like me? Well, as the title of this post suggests, you can import my face into EAs new boxing game and literally beat your own face to a pulp, as it will simulate the damage of being in a heavyweight boxing contest.
My advice? Get your face scanned. Upload and learn to love the (un)real you.
I'm going to burn in hell aren't I?
My brain. My mouth. Thankfully, there's something inbetween that stops a lot of the nonsense leaking out like Capri Sun from it's flimsy space-age packaging.
I've always had so much going on in my brain. I'm not saying I'm clever, just that it never seems to stop. Paul Merton talked about having the same condition once, and that it meant he had to go to a psychiatric hospital for a week. Nice. I had a similar experience in an old job, where I managed (honest) an image library of stick characters.
I found myself lying awake in the small hours listing all the numbers of the stick characters and what they were doing "Number 134 - Stick man on bike, Number 148 - Stick man talking on phone." I felt I was going absolutlely mad. For the only time in my life, I rang the Samaritans. And they were engaged. I thought they were never engaged. I went back to bed, but started making new images in my head "Number 189 - Stick man lying bed thinking about stickmen". How I got to sleep, I'll never know.
Anyway. That's at night. During the day I have a stopcock (no sniggering at the back) that sits between my brain and my mouth, that stops the nonsense flowing out. Although sometimes it doesn't work. In school I was once reprimanded because when the teacher asked "What came after the stone age and the bronze age" I genuinely shouted out "The saus-age". I really did.
Once, when a (now ex) girlfriend said to me "I'm fat aren't I", I just said "Well, technically yes", almost as a reflect. We split up a week later
As I've got older I've got more of a handle on it, but at times it's like a form of tourettes, and some of things I come up with, even thinking them, means I am a very bad man.
Case in point, there's a chap who works in our offices who is blind and has a guide dog. One evening, I was walking along the long corridor from our wing to the exit and found myself walking alongside him and his dog. He stopped near his office and, clearly feeling for the door, said to the dog "Is this the right one?".
I virtually had to stuff my fist in my mouth as my brain told me "Go on. Do a doggy voice and go 'No. Not this one'." I was convulsing with laughter, guilt, shock, disgust that my head would do that.
Thankfully I stopped just in time. But I know I was thinking it, and now so do you. And for that, surely I will burn.
I've always had so much going on in my brain. I'm not saying I'm clever, just that it never seems to stop. Paul Merton talked about having the same condition once, and that it meant he had to go to a psychiatric hospital for a week. Nice. I had a similar experience in an old job, where I managed (honest) an image library of stick characters.
I found myself lying awake in the small hours listing all the numbers of the stick characters and what they were doing "Number 134 - Stick man on bike, Number 148 - Stick man talking on phone." I felt I was going absolutlely mad. For the only time in my life, I rang the Samaritans. And they were engaged. I thought they were never engaged. I went back to bed, but started making new images in my head "Number 189 - Stick man lying bed thinking about stickmen". How I got to sleep, I'll never know.
Anyway. That's at night. During the day I have a stopcock (no sniggering at the back) that sits between my brain and my mouth, that stops the nonsense flowing out. Although sometimes it doesn't work. In school I was once reprimanded because when the teacher asked "What came after the stone age and the bronze age" I genuinely shouted out "The saus-age". I really did.
Once, when a (now ex) girlfriend said to me "I'm fat aren't I", I just said "Well, technically yes", almost as a reflect. We split up a week later
As I've got older I've got more of a handle on it, but at times it's like a form of tourettes, and some of things I come up with, even thinking them, means I am a very bad man.
Case in point, there's a chap who works in our offices who is blind and has a guide dog. One evening, I was walking along the long corridor from our wing to the exit and found myself walking alongside him and his dog. He stopped near his office and, clearly feeling for the door, said to the dog "Is this the right one?".
I virtually had to stuff my fist in my mouth as my brain told me "Go on. Do a doggy voice and go 'No. Not this one'." I was convulsing with laughter, guilt, shock, disgust that my head would do that.
Thankfully I stopped just in time. But I know I was thinking it, and now so do you. And for that, surely I will burn.
Friday 6 November 2009
Blu-movies
A while back a very a generous friend bought me, a Playstation 3. This was very exciting. Not for the games, that's a given, but the fact that is has a Blu-Ray player in it.
I wasn't convinced I needed extra sharp quality on my tv until now. I'd been happy enough when I got my own DVD player in 2000 that things could never look any better. Then I saw Blu-Ray on screen and I was astounded. The clarity is unreal and I urge anyone who is remoted interested in film or tv to get hold of one as it's like looking through a window at real life - only real life with the colours balanced properly. It even boosts DVDs to make them look as good as possible.
But, as James said in their 1991 hit 'Sit Down' "If I hadn't seen such riches, I could live with being poor". By that, I mean everything in comparison looks ropy. I'm seriously considering having some Blu Ray eyes put in, so I can see the world in HD. I'm currently just viewing in, well, D.
I look at regular tv broadcasts with disdain. I can't get HD channels at home due to the huge technological issue of "the trees have too many leaves on them" and "Sky can't be bothered making a big enough pole to put the dish on" so I have to get Freeview. I was watching football on Saturday night and the picture was really quite blocky.
I am also faced with the task of getting my fave films on Blu-Ray now, after having had them on DVD and VHS (how long before George Lucas realises he can milk us all again?). Curse you progress. Curse you perfection. And especially curse you George Lucas (I'll come back to him at a later blog date).
Where next for TV? Direct downloads into the brain? Holographic 3D? TV that you don't actually watch, but feel it in your body (if so, don't let Watchdog loose on that, I might end up lynching myself). Whatever it is, can someon let me know now so I can start saving up.
I wasn't convinced I needed extra sharp quality on my tv until now. I'd been happy enough when I got my own DVD player in 2000 that things could never look any better. Then I saw Blu-Ray on screen and I was astounded. The clarity is unreal and I urge anyone who is remoted interested in film or tv to get hold of one as it's like looking through a window at real life - only real life with the colours balanced properly. It even boosts DVDs to make them look as good as possible.
But, as James said in their 1991 hit 'Sit Down' "If I hadn't seen such riches, I could live with being poor". By that, I mean everything in comparison looks ropy. I'm seriously considering having some Blu Ray eyes put in, so I can see the world in HD. I'm currently just viewing in, well, D.
I look at regular tv broadcasts with disdain. I can't get HD channels at home due to the huge technological issue of "the trees have too many leaves on them" and "Sky can't be bothered making a big enough pole to put the dish on" so I have to get Freeview. I was watching football on Saturday night and the picture was really quite blocky.
I am also faced with the task of getting my fave films on Blu-Ray now, after having had them on DVD and VHS (how long before George Lucas realises he can milk us all again?). Curse you progress. Curse you perfection. And especially curse you George Lucas (I'll come back to him at a later blog date).
Where next for TV? Direct downloads into the brain? Holographic 3D? TV that you don't actually watch, but feel it in your body (if so, don't let Watchdog loose on that, I might end up lynching myself). Whatever it is, can someon let me know now so I can start saving up.
Can I ask you a question? Erm. Technically you just have.
Mobile phones have amazing functionality. However, its most useful function is being able to use it to avoid people in the street or shopping centres pestering you.
All you do, when you spot a canvasser, just hold your phone up to your ear and pretend you are on the phone - it hasn't failed yet, they don't touch you. Better still, you can then pretend to have amazing conversations by making your statements as bizarre as possible
"What? Well tell Mr Sniddles that he'll have the diamonds by sunset"
"As I said before, I'm only prepared to do the deal if he releases the robot"
"No. The money must be in Belgian coins"
Well, it keeps me happy. And all thanks to my mobile, hurrah.
I've always had a love-hate relationship with canvassers.
It used to be charity collectors who used the line "Can I ask if you'd like to help orphans in Eastern Europe?". Quite hard to say "no" to that one, you look like a monster (especially if you say "no...mwah ha ha ha"). Or the gas supply switchers who use "Would you like to save money?". Again, you look foolish replying with a negative.
The new tactic is for someone to say "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?", which is surely a tortology as they've already asked me a question in doing that. They don't understand if you tell them that. One of them cried actually.
Still, it's worth complaining if you do get messed about.
I once got harrassed by a woman working for a credit card company. I had said "no thanks" quite politely twice and she wouldn't let it lie. When I passed her again she made some snide comment about me being too busy.
I complained to her company (Virgin), expecting nothing. I got a letter of acknowledgement in 2 days. A full apology, £30 of megastore vouchers and the information that "the individual has been removed from her role to undertake 2 days of retraining."
Maybe it is worth speaking to them after all then...
All you do, when you spot a canvasser, just hold your phone up to your ear and pretend you are on the phone - it hasn't failed yet, they don't touch you. Better still, you can then pretend to have amazing conversations by making your statements as bizarre as possible
"What? Well tell Mr Sniddles that he'll have the diamonds by sunset"
"As I said before, I'm only prepared to do the deal if he releases the robot"
"No. The money must be in Belgian coins"
Well, it keeps me happy. And all thanks to my mobile, hurrah.
I've always had a love-hate relationship with canvassers.
It used to be charity collectors who used the line "Can I ask if you'd like to help orphans in Eastern Europe?". Quite hard to say "no" to that one, you look like a monster (especially if you say "no...mwah ha ha ha"). Or the gas supply switchers who use "Would you like to save money?". Again, you look foolish replying with a negative.
The new tactic is for someone to say "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?", which is surely a tortology as they've already asked me a question in doing that. They don't understand if you tell them that. One of them cried actually.
Still, it's worth complaining if you do get messed about.
I once got harrassed by a woman working for a credit card company. I had said "no thanks" quite politely twice and she wouldn't let it lie. When I passed her again she made some snide comment about me being too busy.
I complained to her company (Virgin), expecting nothing. I got a letter of acknowledgement in 2 days. A full apology, £30 of megastore vouchers and the information that "the individual has been removed from her role to undertake 2 days of retraining."
Maybe it is worth speaking to them after all then...
Thursday 5 November 2009
The things you think about at 4am
I don't have any children. Hopefully, one day, I will be able to afford to have them. By that, I mean the expense of taking care of a child, not buying them online from an orphanage or anything. I've often wondered how parents get through the night with the regular crying etc.
Last night I wondered that a lot, not being able to sleep from 4am after our youngest cat decided that the nighttime was the best time to go mental. He thundered up and down two flights of stairs, he divebombed our other cat, he attacked any moving protrubance under the duvet (toes mainly). And as a consequence, I got no sleep from 4am.
That's when I do my most astute thinking, and often my scariest. I remember the first time I stayed up until 3am at University and one of my friends said "Imagine if you were walking back to your room and looked out the window and just saw a nun with no face pointing at you from the distance". Yeah, thanks for that. And that's the sort of thing that comes back to me in the small hours.
I tend to think about the sheer amount of electrical equipment I have left on in the house. I turn off the tv at the switch but there are digital boxes, and broadband and the like that I daren't turn off for fear of them breaking. They hum in the silence and their lights shine brighter than ever, as if they are taunting me saying "look, we turn our lights up to use more power at night." The fridge rumbles and squeaks and even the toaster looks at me funnily.
I struggled to work out why I was so aware of all of this and then remembered that our electricity company told us last week that our direct debit was going up from £30a month to £85. That seems steep and more than likely means we'll run up a massive credit with British Gas and struggle to get it back. Maybe that's what spurred me into doting on technology.
Loads of other things ran through my head, about work and such. Thankfully I can't remember a huge amount about them as I eventually lapsed into unconsciousness around 6am (I don't class it as sleep). The only thing I did remember was to blog about it. So that's what you've got here, the best prepared (2 hrs solid thinking time) blog ever.
Last night I wondered that a lot, not being able to sleep from 4am after our youngest cat decided that the nighttime was the best time to go mental. He thundered up and down two flights of stairs, he divebombed our other cat, he attacked any moving protrubance under the duvet (toes mainly). And as a consequence, I got no sleep from 4am.
That's when I do my most astute thinking, and often my scariest. I remember the first time I stayed up until 3am at University and one of my friends said "Imagine if you were walking back to your room and looked out the window and just saw a nun with no face pointing at you from the distance". Yeah, thanks for that. And that's the sort of thing that comes back to me in the small hours.
I tend to think about the sheer amount of electrical equipment I have left on in the house. I turn off the tv at the switch but there are digital boxes, and broadband and the like that I daren't turn off for fear of them breaking. They hum in the silence and their lights shine brighter than ever, as if they are taunting me saying "look, we turn our lights up to use more power at night." The fridge rumbles and squeaks and even the toaster looks at me funnily.
I struggled to work out why I was so aware of all of this and then remembered that our electricity company told us last week that our direct debit was going up from £30a month to £85. That seems steep and more than likely means we'll run up a massive credit with British Gas and struggle to get it back. Maybe that's what spurred me into doting on technology.
Loads of other things ran through my head, about work and such. Thankfully I can't remember a huge amount about them as I eventually lapsed into unconsciousness around 6am (I don't class it as sleep). The only thing I did remember was to blog about it. So that's what you've got here, the best prepared (2 hrs solid thinking time) blog ever.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
The call of nature
I'm not sure if I can bring myself to cover this topic. If you are of a nervous disposition, look away now. I'm not doing this for shock value or to be crude, I just really want to know the answer.
Still here? Right, don't say I didn't warn you.
If your phone rings when you are on the toilet, do you answer it? That's it really. I only ask because attending to the call of nature here at work is a little like being part of a switchboard team. You can hear texting going on, phones bleeping and every now and again a ringtone. That's then followed by those dreadful seconds where I hope, beyond hope, that I don't hear anyone answer.
To me, it's a no-no. You should turn your ringer off the minute you enter a convenience as it's just plain wrong in my eyes (and ears). I think it goes back to hearing the entire theme tune to The Avengers once boom out from a cubicle that still haunts me. I don't want to think of Patrick Macnee at a time like that.
I know we are all pressed for time, and making the most of every minute is crucial for so many of us, but come on - you can take a few minutes out for bodily functions. Aren't we a developed enough society to do that? And isn't that also what voicemail is for?
I just checked online and, according to a survey (for what ever that is worth) around 30% of Britons have said they do it. Thats around 1 in 3 people. Look round you now, because statistically it must be at least one of the people working with you. So the next time they disappear for five minutes, give them a ring and find out.
Still here? Right, don't say I didn't warn you.
If your phone rings when you are on the toilet, do you answer it? That's it really. I only ask because attending to the call of nature here at work is a little like being part of a switchboard team. You can hear texting going on, phones bleeping and every now and again a ringtone. That's then followed by those dreadful seconds where I hope, beyond hope, that I don't hear anyone answer.
To me, it's a no-no. You should turn your ringer off the minute you enter a convenience as it's just plain wrong in my eyes (and ears). I think it goes back to hearing the entire theme tune to The Avengers once boom out from a cubicle that still haunts me. I don't want to think of Patrick Macnee at a time like that.
I know we are all pressed for time, and making the most of every minute is crucial for so many of us, but come on - you can take a few minutes out for bodily functions. Aren't we a developed enough society to do that? And isn't that also what voicemail is for?
I just checked online and, according to a survey (for what ever that is worth) around 30% of Britons have said they do it. Thats around 1 in 3 people. Look round you now, because statistically it must be at least one of the people working with you. So the next time they disappear for five minutes, give them a ring and find out.
Tuesday 3 November 2009
What this world needs...is a KFC app
I'm a corporate tart, I'll admit that. I've got an iPhone and I don't care if you hate me for it. Apparantly there are people called "ibores" who bore people with their phones. Frankly, I just like being able to watch videos and read the internet on a screen bigger than an oxo cube.
And the apps are great, that's where phones are going. As you probably know they are a bit like that bit in The Matrix, where they download info straight into your brain so you can fly helicopters, drive cars or 'know kung-fu'. Tons of smart programmes, on demand, on your phone, and most of them either dirt cheap or even free.
I wish I was techy, so I could make a few myself. But if anyone with that level of intelligence is reading, and knows how to make my following suggestions come true, then I'll split the money if we go on Dragon's Den. But we ain't dealing with the woman on it, she puts the willies right up me.
My suggested iPhone apps (all patents pending, rights reserved etc.)
- Excusearama: Late for a meeting? Forgot someone's birthday? This app instantly comes up with an excuse for you, and even displays fake messages and internet pages to back your story up. Type in a few details and before you know it the phone will ring your boss and put on a phone filter that sounds like you have a nasty cough.
- Drinkiefoodchoice: Detects the level of booze in your breath and automatically suggests what you would like to eat, guiding you to the nearest place with GPS. 4 pints? How about a chinese? 6 pints? let me find you a nice madras? 8 pints? You want KFC.
- Stopbadideas: Artificial Intelligence based app that automatically tells you when you are doing something stupid and delivers a small electric shock to the phone. Never again will you eat a Pot Noodle, rent a Steven Seagal DVD (apart from Under Seige), buy a jazz cd or buy clothes from Wilkinsons.
- Autoblog: Automatically writes a contrived blog about relatively up to the minute events and publishes it for you, making everyone think you've put the effort in again.
I tell you, this time next year, we'll be millionaires.
And the apps are great, that's where phones are going. As you probably know they are a bit like that bit in The Matrix, where they download info straight into your brain so you can fly helicopters, drive cars or 'know kung-fu'. Tons of smart programmes, on demand, on your phone, and most of them either dirt cheap or even free.
I wish I was techy, so I could make a few myself. But if anyone with that level of intelligence is reading, and knows how to make my following suggestions come true, then I'll split the money if we go on Dragon's Den. But we ain't dealing with the woman on it, she puts the willies right up me.
My suggested iPhone apps (all patents pending, rights reserved etc.)
- Excusearama: Late for a meeting? Forgot someone's birthday? This app instantly comes up with an excuse for you, and even displays fake messages and internet pages to back your story up. Type in a few details and before you know it the phone will ring your boss and put on a phone filter that sounds like you have a nasty cough.
- Drinkiefoodchoice: Detects the level of booze in your breath and automatically suggests what you would like to eat, guiding you to the nearest place with GPS. 4 pints? How about a chinese? 6 pints? let me find you a nice madras? 8 pints? You want KFC.
- Stopbadideas: Artificial Intelligence based app that automatically tells you when you are doing something stupid and delivers a small electric shock to the phone. Never again will you eat a Pot Noodle, rent a Steven Seagal DVD (apart from Under Seige), buy a jazz cd or buy clothes from Wilkinsons.
- Autoblog: Automatically writes a contrived blog about relatively up to the minute events and publishes it for you, making everyone think you've put the effort in again.
I tell you, this time next year, we'll be millionaires.
I was once nearly arrested for dropping ham under a train
I went on a writing workshop the other week and it was really quite enjoyable. A lot of work based courses go into hilarously long-winded role playing elements to try and get over really obvious point.
Have you ever done that thing when you have to let the person standing behind you catch you when you fall back. It's about instilling trust etc. Only in the one I was in it ended up being about spinal injuries and personal injury claims.
Anyway, the writing course was about taking quite factual stuff and turning it into stories that could be told. Because we all love stories - especially if they involve killer robots, jetpacs and hotpants (my cybernaut-hover-pants books are going to sell like hotcakes when I get round to them). What was really nice was where we had to write down a profile of ourselves as a story as interestingly as possible.
So in mine I wrote down : I love ironing, I was a member of the first ever youth government and that I was nearly arrested for dropping ham under a train. All true. The first - it's so damn enjoyable and calming, the second - I was a swot at school and when I got older I resigned and thirdly.
Well. I dropped some ham under a train at Birmingham New Street when I was student. Some M&S processed ham. And I lay on the platform to pick it up, as I had very little money and it formed the basis of my tea. Within 3 minutes I was surrounded by british transport police and staff who dragged me up like I was a suicide case and then fished the ham out with a specialist pole for removing track debris (let's call it the 'ham clamp'). After a dressing down and being shouted at I was allowed on the train and my ham was released from the ham clamp.
All of this I had quite forgotten until that course and now I think back (it happened in 1994) and really wonder if processed ham was really worth all that fuss.
Course it was, it was M&S.
Hurrah for the ham clamp.
Have you ever done that thing when you have to let the person standing behind you catch you when you fall back. It's about instilling trust etc. Only in the one I was in it ended up being about spinal injuries and personal injury claims.
Anyway, the writing course was about taking quite factual stuff and turning it into stories that could be told. Because we all love stories - especially if they involve killer robots, jetpacs and hotpants (my cybernaut-hover-pants books are going to sell like hotcakes when I get round to them). What was really nice was where we had to write down a profile of ourselves as a story as interestingly as possible.
So in mine I wrote down : I love ironing, I was a member of the first ever youth government and that I was nearly arrested for dropping ham under a train. All true. The first - it's so damn enjoyable and calming, the second - I was a swot at school and when I got older I resigned and thirdly.
Well. I dropped some ham under a train at Birmingham New Street when I was student. Some M&S processed ham. And I lay on the platform to pick it up, as I had very little money and it formed the basis of my tea. Within 3 minutes I was surrounded by british transport police and staff who dragged me up like I was a suicide case and then fished the ham out with a specialist pole for removing track debris (let's call it the 'ham clamp'). After a dressing down and being shouted at I was allowed on the train and my ham was released from the ham clamp.
All of this I had quite forgotten until that course and now I think back (it happened in 1994) and really wonder if processed ham was really worth all that fuss.
Course it was, it was M&S.
Hurrah for the ham clamp.
Monday 2 November 2009
The simple things that seem so difficult
I wish that people were just a bit smarter. I'm not asking for everyone to be able to do sudoku in 2 minutes or be able to answer questions on University Challenge.
I just wish that there was more common sense in the world.Technology has grasped this. My phone knows that if I get in a panic I can press the one button on the front and return to the main screen. My laptop sensibly locks itself if I'm away too long.
Those sorts of things are simple and basic and make life easy. Humans on the other hand, have difficulty doing the simplest things.
Key examples? Queuing up for petrol behind people refusing to use the free pump because it's not on the same side as the petrol cap. I've wasted hours of my life whilst people do this. Listen, I'll let you in on a secret. It stretches across. Seriously, it will reach both sides. The petrol people appreciate that and have given you more than a foot of hose. It will reach. Believe me. I've sat there and seen people take so long to sort their petrol out that the prices have gone up in the meantime.
Another one. Nice and simple. When you've put your shopping on the conveyer belt at the supermarket, just pop down the divider that seperates my shopping from yours. That'll stop any confusion. Yet so many people just stand there, triumphant that they have managed to negotiate a supermarket and get the things they want, forgetting there are others behind them.
I have two solutions, the first is to start putting your items down really close to theirs. Ooh, they don't like that. It becomes a little turf war as your Muller lite threatens their Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire Puddings. The barrier soon comes down.
My second solution is for a law to be passed whereby, if you haven't put the 'next customer' break thing down within 15 seconds of your last item hitting the belt then a buzzer goes off and any item now placed on the belt, regardless of who is buying them, is bought by you. That'd soon stop people.
These are just two examples. I could go on, but I don't have the time (I spent most of it at the petrol pump this morning). I can't work out if its laziness, stupidity, igorance, rudeness or just a general obliviousness that causes these little things. If we all just took a little bit more of a pro-active and sensible apprach then surely the world would be a better place.
There is of course another possiblity. That it's just me. That I'm the problem, the one who can't fit in with these absolutely negligible issues, and that I shouldn't be so damn impatient all the time.
I do hope not.
I just wish that there was more common sense in the world.Technology has grasped this. My phone knows that if I get in a panic I can press the one button on the front and return to the main screen. My laptop sensibly locks itself if I'm away too long.
Those sorts of things are simple and basic and make life easy. Humans on the other hand, have difficulty doing the simplest things.
Key examples? Queuing up for petrol behind people refusing to use the free pump because it's not on the same side as the petrol cap. I've wasted hours of my life whilst people do this. Listen, I'll let you in on a secret. It stretches across. Seriously, it will reach both sides. The petrol people appreciate that and have given you more than a foot of hose. It will reach. Believe me. I've sat there and seen people take so long to sort their petrol out that the prices have gone up in the meantime.
Another one. Nice and simple. When you've put your shopping on the conveyer belt at the supermarket, just pop down the divider that seperates my shopping from yours. That'll stop any confusion. Yet so many people just stand there, triumphant that they have managed to negotiate a supermarket and get the things they want, forgetting there are others behind them.
I have two solutions, the first is to start putting your items down really close to theirs. Ooh, they don't like that. It becomes a little turf war as your Muller lite threatens their Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire Puddings. The barrier soon comes down.
My second solution is for a law to be passed whereby, if you haven't put the 'next customer' break thing down within 15 seconds of your last item hitting the belt then a buzzer goes off and any item now placed on the belt, regardless of who is buying them, is bought by you. That'd soon stop people.
These are just two examples. I could go on, but I don't have the time (I spent most of it at the petrol pump this morning). I can't work out if its laziness, stupidity, igorance, rudeness or just a general obliviousness that causes these little things. If we all just took a little bit more of a pro-active and sensible apprach then surely the world would be a better place.
There is of course another possiblity. That it's just me. That I'm the problem, the one who can't fit in with these absolutely negligible issues, and that I shouldn't be so damn impatient all the time.
I do hope not.
Roger Moore and the IKEA tiger
ITV are currently making the most of their deal to show Bond films and have been running Roger Moore for the last few weeks. It reminded me that I have always had such a soft spot for the spy, even in the face of ridiculousness.
I think growing up I used to love watching them on ITV (or as I knew it - TSW, Television South West) for the glamourous locations and stunts. I don't think I paid much attention to the plots, but watching them again I can understand why in some cases - they were rubbish.
Anyway, here are my top (00)7 bond moments. They aren't the best, they are just the bits that I always remember for all the wrong reasons.
1 - Octopussy - Roger Moore and the IKEA tiger
Bond is being pursued by hunters on Elephants somewhere in India. He evades them by ducking into dense jungle. Suddenly a tiger leaps out of the bushes. Bond evades and manages to escape in heroic fashion. Brilliant when I was 11 years old. Even better now when I watched it on DVD, the initial moment that Bond is attacked by the tiger it's clearly a stuffed one ON WHEELS being shoved in by a stage hand. It then cuts to stock footage of a Tiger snarling at a camera. Utterly brilliant. I can see the director now "Yes, you run into the forest and at that point we'll wheel in the Tiger". "Then we pay you".
2 - Tomorrow Never Dies - When Time Goes Bond
The best Brosnan film and a cracking opening sequence where Bond has to escape an arms bazaar with nuclear weapons before a cruise missile arrives. Tense and full of great lines as Mi-6 watch back at base "What the hell is he doing?" asks Admiral Roebuck "His job!" snaps M. Even better because the two are played by national treasures Geoffrey Palmer and Judi Dench - who are normally the happy elderly couple in When Time Goes By.
3 - Goldeneye - Bond UTTERLY DEFIES THE LAWS OF PHYSICS
Bond escaping secret Soviet bunker, already has improably survived explosions, gunfights etc. but has to catch the only plane out. Chasing after it on a motorbike, the plane topples off the edge of a cliff. Bond follows on his bike of the cliff. Leaps off the bike. Then, UTTERLY DEFYING THE LAWS OF PHYSICS, catches up with the plane in mid-air. Gets in, steers it away from certain doom and flies off. Any secret agent who can, and I repeat, UTTERLY DEFY THE LAWS OF PHYSICS in a mission is one that I want on my side
4 - Moonraker - Oh, come on, you're really called that?
Bond meets implausibly beautiful CIA agent. "My name's Doctor Goodhead". I was 10. I didn't get it. I saw it again when I was 19 and can't believe they got away with that. Makes the "I think he's attempting re-entry" gag at the end seem like a vicar giving a sermon in comparision. Most ludicrous Bond name until they merge Blofeld with Oddjob...
5 - The Man With The Golden Gun - The flying car, honest
Christopher Lee, as 3 nippled hitman Scaramanga, is cornered by Bond after a mammoth car chase. But what's this? Suddenly his car zooms out of a garage with wings and an engine attached and takes to the skies. Amazing. Sadly, like the Tiger on Wheels, the cut to a model plane with dolls in is about as subtle as Dr Goodhead's birth certificate and you can see the poor thing flapping around like a £1.99 kite in the wind on a Torquay beach.
6 - Diamonds Are Forever - I'm Bambi, I'm Thumper and I'm confused
Bond is attacked by Bambi and Thumper, two gymnastic lovelies employed by Blofeld. Now, I'm no oil painting and I don't know what the 70's were like, but they'd clearly run out of dolly birds by this. They appear to be being played by Hungarian shot-putters and dressed like The Flintstones. It's like an awful 70's skin-flick and you can even see Connery thinking "Has there been a casting mistake?"
7 - A View to A Kill - James, I love yo...Oh, I've been captured
Bond's girl Stacey Sutton is relieved to see Bond is alive after thwarting a bomb plot. She waves at him, not noticing or hearing the MASSIVE AIRSHIP about 500 yards behind her. Bond shouts back, but by now the MASSIVE AIRSHIP has snuck up on poor Stacey and a henchman has leant out and grabbed her. How a MASSIVE AIRSHIP sneaks up on anyone, I don't know. Still, they blew it up over the Golden Gate Bridge and that made me want to go to San Francisco, so good job.
I think growing up I used to love watching them on ITV (or as I knew it - TSW, Television South West) for the glamourous locations and stunts. I don't think I paid much attention to the plots, but watching them again I can understand why in some cases - they were rubbish.
Anyway, here are my top (00)7 bond moments. They aren't the best, they are just the bits that I always remember for all the wrong reasons.
1 - Octopussy - Roger Moore and the IKEA tiger
Bond is being pursued by hunters on Elephants somewhere in India. He evades them by ducking into dense jungle. Suddenly a tiger leaps out of the bushes. Bond evades and manages to escape in heroic fashion. Brilliant when I was 11 years old. Even better now when I watched it on DVD, the initial moment that Bond is attacked by the tiger it's clearly a stuffed one ON WHEELS being shoved in by a stage hand. It then cuts to stock footage of a Tiger snarling at a camera. Utterly brilliant. I can see the director now "Yes, you run into the forest and at that point we'll wheel in the Tiger". "Then we pay you".
2 - Tomorrow Never Dies - When Time Goes Bond
The best Brosnan film and a cracking opening sequence where Bond has to escape an arms bazaar with nuclear weapons before a cruise missile arrives. Tense and full of great lines as Mi-6 watch back at base "What the hell is he doing?" asks Admiral Roebuck "His job!" snaps M. Even better because the two are played by national treasures Geoffrey Palmer and Judi Dench - who are normally the happy elderly couple in When Time Goes By.
3 - Goldeneye - Bond UTTERLY DEFIES THE LAWS OF PHYSICS
Bond escaping secret Soviet bunker, already has improably survived explosions, gunfights etc. but has to catch the only plane out. Chasing after it on a motorbike, the plane topples off the edge of a cliff. Bond follows on his bike of the cliff. Leaps off the bike. Then, UTTERLY DEFYING THE LAWS OF PHYSICS, catches up with the plane in mid-air. Gets in, steers it away from certain doom and flies off. Any secret agent who can, and I repeat, UTTERLY DEFY THE LAWS OF PHYSICS in a mission is one that I want on my side
4 - Moonraker - Oh, come on, you're really called that?
Bond meets implausibly beautiful CIA agent. "My name's Doctor Goodhead". I was 10. I didn't get it. I saw it again when I was 19 and can't believe they got away with that. Makes the "I think he's attempting re-entry" gag at the end seem like a vicar giving a sermon in comparision. Most ludicrous Bond name until they merge Blofeld with Oddjob...
5 - The Man With The Golden Gun - The flying car, honest
Christopher Lee, as 3 nippled hitman Scaramanga, is cornered by Bond after a mammoth car chase. But what's this? Suddenly his car zooms out of a garage with wings and an engine attached and takes to the skies. Amazing. Sadly, like the Tiger on Wheels, the cut to a model plane with dolls in is about as subtle as Dr Goodhead's birth certificate and you can see the poor thing flapping around like a £1.99 kite in the wind on a Torquay beach.
6 - Diamonds Are Forever - I'm Bambi, I'm Thumper and I'm confused
Bond is attacked by Bambi and Thumper, two gymnastic lovelies employed by Blofeld. Now, I'm no oil painting and I don't know what the 70's were like, but they'd clearly run out of dolly birds by this. They appear to be being played by Hungarian shot-putters and dressed like The Flintstones. It's like an awful 70's skin-flick and you can even see Connery thinking "Has there been a casting mistake?"
7 - A View to A Kill - James, I love yo...Oh, I've been captured
Bond's girl Stacey Sutton is relieved to see Bond is alive after thwarting a bomb plot. She waves at him, not noticing or hearing the MASSIVE AIRSHIP about 500 yards behind her. Bond shouts back, but by now the MASSIVE AIRSHIP has snuck up on poor Stacey and a henchman has leant out and grabbed her. How a MASSIVE AIRSHIP sneaks up on anyone, I don't know. Still, they blew it up over the Golden Gate Bridge and that made me want to go to San Francisco, so good job.
First up
Right. So I should finally get round to doing this properly and blog, instead of posting facebook and twitter and whatever the rest of it is.
So if you're reading this, then welcome - take your feet off, and rest your weary shoes. I don't mean to do anything more here than throw down the random elements that come into my brain or when I can make poor quality puns with little effort. I'll try to make them funny, or if not then about something vaguely important.
So, to start with. I'm me - 34 years old, writer by profession, married with two cats. I like to make myself and others laugh. And that's about it really. What do I like? What do I hate? I'll find out here and let you know.
The first thing I want you to know, is that I am most definitely me. And I'm sure of this, despite others trying to be me. I shall explain.
I had an email the other day from Facebook simply saying:"Tim Colman would like to be your friend".
That was a bit odd, because I'm Tim Colman. Well, I think I am.It was a request from another Tim Colman who, I can only presume, is trying to link up with his namesakes.
Thankfully, you are able to look a bit at his profile before you say yes or no and that may have swung it.This Tim Colman is a bit weird. He lists his religion as Buddhist-Klingon. His political views are "just to the right of Attilla the Hun". I don't think we're going to get on - no matter how funny he thinks he is.
Thing is, I'm Tim Colman. Always have been, always will be (I hope) so I'm a bit reticent to think of there being other Tim Colman's in the world.
When I left a previous town I lived in, my friends told me that a bloke appeared who looked a lot like me. They started calling him "Fake Tim Colman" as a joke. Then one night he appeared in the same pub as them and had a t-shirt on with three letters - FTC. Was he aware of his status and was mocking them? Or was it just silly co-incidence.
I find it all a little strange, not unlike my non-facebook-friend Tim Colman.
There can be only one - and that is me.
So if you're reading this, then welcome - take your feet off, and rest your weary shoes. I don't mean to do anything more here than throw down the random elements that come into my brain or when I can make poor quality puns with little effort. I'll try to make them funny, or if not then about something vaguely important.
So, to start with. I'm me - 34 years old, writer by profession, married with two cats. I like to make myself and others laugh. And that's about it really. What do I like? What do I hate? I'll find out here and let you know.
The first thing I want you to know, is that I am most definitely me. And I'm sure of this, despite others trying to be me. I shall explain.
I had an email the other day from Facebook simply saying:"Tim Colman would like to be your friend".
That was a bit odd, because I'm Tim Colman. Well, I think I am.It was a request from another Tim Colman who, I can only presume, is trying to link up with his namesakes.
Thankfully, you are able to look a bit at his profile before you say yes or no and that may have swung it.This Tim Colman is a bit weird. He lists his religion as Buddhist-Klingon. His political views are "just to the right of Attilla the Hun". I don't think we're going to get on - no matter how funny he thinks he is.
Thing is, I'm Tim Colman. Always have been, always will be (I hope) so I'm a bit reticent to think of there being other Tim Colman's in the world.
When I left a previous town I lived in, my friends told me that a bloke appeared who looked a lot like me. They started calling him "Fake Tim Colman" as a joke. Then one night he appeared in the same pub as them and had a t-shirt on with three letters - FTC. Was he aware of his status and was mocking them? Or was it just silly co-incidence.
I find it all a little strange, not unlike my non-facebook-friend Tim Colman.
There can be only one - and that is me.
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