Eddie Izzard is one of my favourite comedians and I was trying to think of a way to shoehorn in one of his best routines, so I thought it through and this routine makes you think of what else is going on that you don’t see in a movie…well, it makes me think anyway.
Some things that you probably won’t see in any of the sequels or behind the scene DVD extras:
The Matrix:
During the film, they make a big deal about what the mind experiences, the body makes real. O….K…… with you so far. blood out of the mouth in the Matrix - blood out of your mouth in the “real world”….I get it. What if you were to eat a stupidly hot curry though in the matrix? They never show it, but are those chairs they all sit in actually comodes?…and could they put them in a refrigerated area?
What about sex….you remember the woman in the red dress and that the little guy was trying to pimp her out. That would be embarrassing for the operator back in the real world surely? It would be very difficult to look Neo in the eye..post ejaculatory glow and all.. when he just blew a wad in your hair…
Superman:
We saw him get drunk in one of the early movies when he was bad Superman for all of 5 minutes…we never saw him drunk dialling Lois…or trying to extricate himself from the ridiculous pants on the outside ensemble. They could have had fun with an old joke though don’t you think?:
A guy is in a bar at the top of a skyscraper and gets talking to the guy next to him
Guy in bar: You know, there are some amazing thermal currents around this building
Guy next to him: Really? What is so good about that?
GIB: Well, you can actually step outside of the window, float around for a while and come back in
GNTH: No way, that’s bullshit
GIB: I’m serious, want me to show you?
GNTH: This I gotta see…..go for it
So the GIB walks over to the window and steps out. Sure enough, he just floats around for about a minutes and gently floats back into the bar.
GNTH: Holy shit, I gotta try this
GNTH walks over to the window and steps out…..where he falls 48 floors to the ground and dies.
Barman: Superman…you can be such a wanker when you are drunk, you know that?
I like my superheroes to have a dark side…
Batman:
You never see Bruce Wayne having to stay at work late and leave Gotham to deal with the criminals itself due to an anti-trust lawsuit or some other stressful project that he has to deal with. Or even having to call a technician to the batcave because the computers got a virus and bluescreened.
What about getting the various bat vehicles through their MOT and then insisting to the insurance company that a batcave is more secure than a garage and he should get an extra discount. Speaking of insurance, he never stops to exchange details during the inevitable trail of crashed cars he leaves behind.
A short while ago, I visited Zurich, and was very surprised to realise that (at the time of writing) the smoking ban hasn’t been adopted. Not only that, they positively embrace it.
See, smokers aren’t 2nd class citizens after all, just ask the people at Zurich Airport.
It’s quite rare that we are welcome anywhere really, but it’s true. What’s better though is that the rooms are air conditioned, designer furniture strewn comfort zones. The non-smokers are stuck on plastic school chairs in a corridor with no air-con. This place is genius.
Sure, we have to ignore the same warnings that we get on all the packs…when the call came to board the flight, I was that comfortable, I didn’t want to leave.
I had strolled across the uncomfortably hot non-smoking area to purchase an ice cold beverage and a piece of literature to peruse. Sauntered jauntily back to the comfort zone that is the smokers lounge to relax and await my boarding call. Trouble was, I was that relaxed and comfortable, not only did I smoke half a pack in just over an hour…I almost missed my freakin’ flight.
Totally worth it though.
Then…a week or two back…the German government cave to pressure from small bar owners and go partway to revoking the smoking ban. Basically, any bar that is less than 75 meters squared and doesn’t serve any food that doesn’t get served in a packet, can smoke again….which includes my living room!!
Thankyou German government, I can now calm myself properly during those stressful Liverpool matches and not have to walk out for a calming smoke..just as a goal is scored.
On my most recent “White Van Man Excursion” I was a little early again for my train, but was hungry and thirsty and decided to stop at the Eurotunnel terminal for a bite to eat. Whilst outside sucking down a “Fatal Friend” I noticed this sign.
Now, ok, it is easy to laugh at a foreign language sign…Germany has many of them, so why shouldn’t France? The big issue I have with this is that the entire terminal is decked out in both English and French….you would think they would have at least asked someone…….
That said, it is fair to say that I wasn’t bloody hungry anymore - I mean seriously, a Gout burger…with Maxi Gout and Mini Prix….my Prix is mini enough thanks very much…I don’t need a French fast food outlet reminding me of the fact, especially when I am eating. Not only that, but they are using crousti chicken. That just can’t be sanitary.
What next? A salmonella sausage sandwich? Botulism Bacon Burger? Scampi with added scurvy? A Fillet’ o’Fish? Ok so that last one is real, but it is still a valid point…
The sign to the left is just as bad if you are a German…Oma means Grandmother in German, so Grandma Fred? That must be a special kind of family unit they have going on there for crying out loud. Hi, meet Grandma Fred and Grandad Denise, Uncle Catherine is coming soon and my brother Sally will be downstairs in a minute
I probably have to stop being awake for so long before undertaking these journeys.
Once again though, customs were too scared to unpack my overfilled van and they let me whoosh straight through, same on the way back….even though they literally stopped every car and caravan in front of me. I never should have turned down that family of 27 refugees….damnit.
I only fell asleep twice this time though and both times I managed to pull over before it happened….which is a minor improvement on the last journey where I slept around 4 times…whilst doing over 140 Kph on the motorway. Sometimes my caffiene addicition really doesn’t help, if I get tired and decide to get a coffee for that necessary “jolt” that most people seem to get…my body thinks it is bedtime and tries to bloody sleep more. If I drink loads of water (which actually keeps me awake bizarrely), I have to stop every 10km for a toilet break.
I don’t think I am cut out for this white van man thing after all…..so thats me done. I have hung up the road rage and coveralls and will never drive one again…until someone bloody asks me and I agree before I have managed to switch off my mouths autogabble feature.
Ok, I will admit that I got the idea for this post from another blog….I don’t remember the blog, just that they did a post about ouija boards when they were a kid.
This reminded me about the time at school when our R.E. Teacher (Religious Eductation) decided to cave to the constant questioning from us all about the beyond and ghosts etc. Let’s face it, there probably aren’t that many kids of 12 or 13 that are genuinely interested in religion….well, there certainly wasn’t at our school. So, in honour of halloween, she caved and agreed to setup a Ouija board to dispel the myth once and for all. In return, we all faithfully promised to listen and pay attention to the rest of the classes she would deliver.
I am sure, with hindsight, she realises that it wasn’t a great idea and could never really end well. If I recall though, she was quite new to teaching and keen to impress. I think that was her biggest downfall. Taking advantage of her willingness to go the extra mile, we persuaded her to allow us to dress the room up for the event…including the table that would ultimately be used for the demonstration…..of nothing according to her.
So the windows were duly blacked out, various halloween type ornaments adorned the doors/windows and hung off every available surface and, crucially, a large black curtain covered the table with stars and moons crudely marked upon it. The Ouija board was duly placed on top and I made sure that the object to be used for “channelling the spirits” was predominantly metal. At lunch, I snuck in to the room and placed a seriously powerful magnet under the table that I stole from the Science department. A quick test revealed that I could move the object around with relative ease and almost no noise from under the table. 10 minutes later with an incredibly dull light and some chalk, I had pretty successfully recreated the Ouija board on the underneath of the table.
The plan was hatched and was easy to carry out….I stayed under the table where I couldn’t be seen and when the teacher called out my name…one of my friends responded for me. The room was dark and eery, so noone was really sure anyway.
Then came the time of the Ouija board….a few people put their hands on the object and I let them do all the build up and everything…and did nothing. So they tried again…nothing. I think I let them try a few times and as soon as the teacher started to talk about how she was right etc, I chose that moment to move the object. I couldn’t have planned it better though, I had waited until noone had their hands on it.
After the screaming subsided (mainly the girls and the teacher, but a couple of lads too), some of my mates started asking questions about who the ghost was etc.. I duly answered, very slowly of course.
Everyone freaked out and in the ensuing panic, when the teacher was turning the lights on and tearing down the window blackout stuff…..and most of the class were legging it outside…I calmly removed the magnet and ran out with the rest of the class.
I honestly don’t know if the teacher got in trouble for it, certainly she was still teaching long after I left. I also can’t be sure how many people were scarred for life by the experience. All I know is that my mates and I had a bloody great laugh, got out of a seriously boring lesson early and scared the bejesus out of loads of or classmates.
Good times. Irresponsible and mentally disturbing times….but good nevertheless.
I don’t remember where I heard that phrase, but it is true don’t you think….sometimes you are the dog, other times you are the hydrant.
I was making myself the hydrant until recently and that has all changed now - So all of the passworded posts have gone and I am on the hunt for material….which will put anyone that knows me on alert….Especially SP.
I have to tell you about his most recent spectacular fail.
We were out at the weekend, when a Hen party turned up at the bar…fairly early in the night. Now, there is a tradition out here, that Hen Parties (and some Stag parties) get the bride to be dressed up in some bizarre clothing and normally a T-Shirt with embarassing photos or slogans on them. It is also traditional that the bride to be (with the assistance of the hundreds of other women with them) sells various bits and bobs to fund the evenings festivities.
Things they sell range from sweets through condoms, shots and even kisses. Now most groups of this type, storm up…spend 5-10 minutes trying to persuade your group to part with cash for various things and when they either get your cash, or realise it ain’t happening, they disappear into the night.
This particular group were fairly unique, insofar as they seemed to genuinely be having a good time and decided to stick around for a laugh, well after they realised we weren’t giving them any cash. Invariably, most of them were swarming around SP like ants on a picnic table, so G and I leaned back and watched the action unfold. A pathetic attempt to get SP to remove his shirt by spilling a drink on him later and one of the party starts whispering to SP and then disappears. 5 minutes later, she is back and glaring at SP from the other side of the bar. Eventually they all leave, run back in a minute later to ask if we are staying all night and then run off again.
It turns out that this particular lovely lady was inviting SP to meet her in the toilets (not the most romantic place, but still)….he didn’t show and she got annoyed.
Later, they came back and he didn’t even notice….
SP - FAIL - Spectacular Fail some might say (yes, the capitalisation is required).
I think the funniest thing for me is, by the end of the night, SP was saying things like “There has to be some women in here somewhere”…. I don’t know if he realises what a comic genius he is sometimes.
Once again, another passworded post. I feel like Bruce Willis’s character in friends, now I have opened up…I can’t bloody well stop. Ah well, at least making them passworded allows me to retain a small amount of dignity
Over the years, we all hear things that are beyond belief stupid. They make no sense, but we accept them as normal and proper.
Where did you lose it?
This one is particular genius and normally first introduced to you by your parents. If it was “Where was the last place you remember having it?”, that could work…but let’s be honest here…if I knew where I lost it….IT WOULDN’T BE FUCKING LOST NOW WOULD IT?
Do you want a smack?
Like the answer will be yes….well, certain types of people in certain “goth’esque” situations may be inclined to say yes, but not many.
Stop crying before I give you something to cry about
This one has been used and will continue to be used for many many years to come. As a parent, I have said it..as a child it was said to me.
It. Makes. No. Sense.
If the wind changes you will look like that forever
My parents and my grandparents used to use this one if I ever pulled a funny face…oh..wait…they were right…damnit.
Are you ok?
Not normally a bad thing, but seems to be an almost tourettes based response in certain situations. A bit like the uncontrollable urge to ask a taxi driver if he has been busy, if you see someone you know in a Doctors surgery or hospital…you are guaranteed to ask them if they are ok.
It could be worse
Normally said to you after some personal tragedy has befallen you. Let’s face it, at the point that someone says this to you….it could be bloody better!
I can’t read my own hand-writing
Seriously? How do you know it’s your handwriting then?
Tell me in your own words
What? You think I have my own words…that I have spent time inventing a language of my very own. Who the hell would I speak to, and if I had, how would you know what I was saying?
If it tasted nice, it wouldn’t be doing you any good or If it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be doing you any good…
Who comes up with this crap? Why does medication have to taste like shit, we pay enough for it these days for them to make it in a variety of flavours. And who decided on child proof screw tops? I know loads of people that actually need their child to open the bloody bottle for them. Even worse is why things that are designed to make things better, hurt like hell. Surely with the technology advances available to us these days…..
And of course the all time favourite of blokes everywhere….
If you don’t know what you have done, then there is no point telling you…..’Nuff said
So another day, another passworded post. I was going to remove the last one, and in fact I did for a short while. But then I thought, screw it…noone can read it so it doesn’t matter. Then I went through some stuff last night and lo and behold…another one pops out this morning.
Feelings are strange things aren’t they? They totally screw with your mind and often the minds of those around you that you care about. When it’s the latter, it is often too late when you realise what you are doing.
I have been quite selfish for some time…could be that I needed to be, but when realisation hits and things are too late to deal with, I wish I had stayed how I was…ignorant and avoiding admittance.
Now I feel zoned out and in limbo. Nothing seems to be moving and with how tired I am at the moment, I just want to sleep. I apologise if this is a bit of a depressing post, but as I have said before, my blog my rules.
Did you ever sit down and reflect on yourself over the last few years and actually be able to spot where things should have been done differently? I know I have and I am left with feelings of regret and an uneasiness I am not used to.
20/20 hindsight is wonderful, but completely useless I guess.
Now I have to try and look forward and to be honest, I just don’t know if I have the energy… or desire… to bother.
All I would say is, think, think long and hard about your decisions before you make them. They almost certainly will come back and bite you in the arse at some point, and you have to be prepared to live with them and sleep at night…something I have failed to do for the last 2 nights running.
I don’t think you can make it through life without some regrets…just try everything you can to make them small and trivial.
That’s what I will aim for from now on….if possible anyway.
Sorry about the last post being password protected anyone who might be reading this. I needed to get some shit down and it’s particularly private. I hope you understand. Anyway, onto the random babblings…
When I am tired, I am known to ramble. People seem to find this quite amusing, although they could just be humouring the big, scary looking geezer…
I rarely remember these rambles, other than the general subject matter, but yesterdays ramble has stuck with me. I did a ridiculous amount of travelling at the weekend and am exceptionally tired, just to explain in some small way the dire nature of what I am about to vomit out here.
Basically, a few of us were stood at the smoking booth at work and all of us clicked our lighters in sync. Nothing strange there, until it was pointed out to us by a new arrival at the booth…this was amusing to this person and threw me straight into ramble territory. My ramble…as best I remember it:
“Ah yes well, we are in training for a new Olympic sport, the synchronised smoke. We hope to progress to more advanced and difficult 360 degree cough with a half wheeze..it’s difficult, but only the Swiss have managed it thus far, and as their smoking ban will hit soon, they will have difficulty in adjusting to having to practise outside. We are used to practising outside, so we should be ok…” and so on, and so on.
This got me thinking though, what with the Olympics just around the corner, what other “alternative” sports could there be for the unfit and non-dedicated. Things that require little or no effort and still allow you to achieve something. Let’s face it, in the current climate of non-competitive sports days at school, where everyone wins a prize…regardless of how they suck in actual competition, why not?
We could have “Remote control wrestling” - A mixed event where husbands and wives grapple in a ring that contains a TV, the remote (obviously), a 3-2-1 sofa setup and possibly a number of potted plants and possibly a small cat/dog. We could make it hardcore, anything goes rules too like in the WWE.
What about the “Change the cat litter dash (could also be the do the dishes, take the rubbish out dash) - where the first person to get successfully out of the front door of a mock house is the winner, leaving the loser to perform the chore.
Then there could be the “Get the key in the door challenge” - This would required the contestents to be drunk and the arena would need to be pitch black and recreating 4am. Bonus points would be awarded for opening and subsequently closing the door quietly and without waking up the sleeping referee within.
Crockery Discuss anyone? Where partner A launches various pots/pans and dinnerware at partner B (normally male), whilst screaming incoherently about how partner B never replaces the loo roll once it is finished. Points wouldn’t be awarded for distance, but for accuracy and damage dealt.
The Cat High Jump - Male event only - Participants would be made to step out of the shower whilst drying themselves off and deal with a playful kitty looking at the dangly bits. Points awarded for height and damage avoidance.
I could go on….what would be your ideas for an alternative Olympics?
So, over the years I have thought of many ways I can turn my hobbies into money..which invariably means looking for ideas that noone else has thought of on the web…what with me being the consumate geek and all.
I tried LAN parties and it ended up costing me money, I tried to get an “Adult” site off the ground, but wasn’t ‘dreamy’ enough to entice attractive, nubile young ladies to strip off (more’s the pity )…just kidding, but it could have worked…honest. It would have been tasteful and arty and….heh, who am I kidding, I would have just been the lecherous photographer. And let’s face it, there are more than enough online sex toy emporiums.
I did however stumble on an idea for 2 websites and an invention…the only problem is my normal method of using procrastination to achieve…well…nothing I guess.
So I will post the ideas here, as some form of proof that they were my idea first, I will then sue anybody that successfully starts one of these, therefore making all of the money that such enterprises could make, with none of that actual effort stuff. Genius eh? I thought so…
Andy Winters: Ok, so there could be some copyright type issues, but think Anne Summers, but targeted at men…. Ok, not the greatest idea..moving swiftly on
Youungratefulwench.com: This one really could work. You know how (for most blokes anyway) presents we buy for the ladies in our lives are invariably returned for store credit? Well, this website would offer boxed, framed, gilt edged reciepts, that the missus can type a number into the website and be re-imbursed, via paypal the value of the reciept. They can then use this money to buy something Gucci from ebay, or at least the knock-off Guccci, Rolox or parda versions. Of course, the re-imbursement web address would be something like iloveyousnuffikins.com or something else equally squeamish and vomit inducing. The only downside that I can see is that cheapskate guys wouldn’t be able to buy something that looks expensive, yet wasn’t…
The invention I will keep to myself as, if this procastinating spell ever dwindles, I will need something to keep me busy (other than my lawsuits against whichever one of you stole my websites)
Why am I thinking about this crap? I am bloody skint as always, and tired… Essentially I decided to perform a 39 hour, 1100 km sleep deprivation, white van man challenge. Then had 5 and a half hours sleep and headed back.
I don’t recall being this tired since…well the last time I did this challenge a couple months ago.
That’s it though, I am hanging up the White Van and changing my name to Rip Van-bloody-Winkle in an effort to get some sleep soon. Still, at least I didn’t have to get up at 6 this morning to get to work…
…oh wait
Damnit
**Side note: I apologise for how crap this post is, I am sure that other bloggers will relate. You have an idea for a post, and it feels good, it feels right, then half-way through it you realise that it is rapidly going nowhere…then you almost feel compelled to delete it, but are too tired after your sleep experiment to come up with another idea, so you post it anyway and hope noone notices.
Ok ok, I admit it, the senility post was probably a little closer to home than I was previously willing to admit.
Depending on which life expectancy study you read, I am technically middle aged. When did that happen?? 35 years young thank you very much. Or as I have more recently taken to saying…21 with 14 years experience.
I am quite pleased though, as of 15:00 today, my total of real “Happy Birthday” messages had gone beyond the automatic ones I recieved from every forum I subscribe to. So there is still a part of me that isn’t completely geeked out.
Thanks everyone by the way
I got a voicemail from my daughter Ellen last night and will hopefully talk to her and Ethan tonight, I got a text message from Zak and Brandon this morning and will be talking to them tonight too. I have had facebook messages, text messages and even actual cards. It’s almost like it is my birthday or something.
Due to my latest “White Van Man” adventure to the UK taking place tomorrow night, I won’t be getting wrecked tonight, although I am certain of at least 1 or maybe 2….litres of the German Ambrosial brews they serve around here.
That’s right ladies and gentleman, in celebration of my rapid march towards middle age, I decided to take a white van full of furniture back to blighty when I could have been out getting wrecked. I will get somewhere in the region of 6 hours sleep between Friday and Sunday and will drive around 2200km.
I am an idiot.
A generous idiot…but an idiot nonetheless.
What is it though with the “Birthday Boy/Girl” having to be the one to supply goodies in the office?…surely it should be the other way around…it cost me..no wait, it would have cost me loads of cash…had I bothered to do it. Not that I am a skinflint or anything, but seriously, shouldn’t everyone buy me stuff??
Ah well, at least noone got me a cake with candles on, I don’t think I would have been able to handle it being brought in with an honour guard of firefighters, surrounded by a heat shield and requiring a veritable pack of big bad wolves to blow the damn things out…
Now I know that technically a claim to fame is only really valid if you have done something yourself, but I couldn’t think of another way to start this.
I suppose I do have 2 claims to fame in the truest sense of the term. When my first long term partner and I got married, the run up and the wedding itself was fimed and broadcast by Sky for their Bride of the Day program. We had to be interviewed and were filmed at home performing mundane activities that we shared together etc, all the normal contrite crapola associated with a couple in love. We also had to play football together and “have fun” like two kids or something….totally false, but hey…it meant a free professional wedding video….and that’s valuable cashola that could go behind the bar at the wedding reception
The 2nd time I got on the tele, was at Anfield during a Liverpool match. We were sat directly behind the goal when Michael Owen struck the tamest shot in the history of football towards goal and I…noone else you understand….was caught on camera breathing in HARD in an effort to get the ball to get into the net. I was particularly noticeable due to the fact that I had forgotten my jacket, it was 5 degrees and pissing it down…so I had to buy a rather expensive….and 2 sizes too small….jumper from the LFC shop. I seem to recall looking like an inverted version of “larger” ladies that insist on wearing skin tight leggings at any given opportunity….oh god, I just threw up a little in my mouth.
That all said, I have been fortunate to meet some famous people in my time. When I was a kid, Justin Fashanu had just been signed as the first 1 million pound black footballer to Nottingham Forest and we were staying with my Grandparents for a while. Now Justin got banned from training by his manager and was wandering the Meadows area of Nottingham looking for something to do, when he heard the unmistakeable sound of people playing indoor football. He stuck his head in the door and ended up training with my Dad, Uncles and Grandad for a 5 a side tournament. If you ever read up on Justin, it was an absolute travesty the way he was treated, especially by his own brother. Whilst I was very young, I still remember him vividly, I was sat at the side of the Gym, wearing his gold chains, watch and rings and watching this amazing footballer having a laugh and coaching my family…it was freakin’ amazing if I am honest. He came by every day for 2 weeks if I remember correctly and was just this amazingly upbeat person.
Thanks to my Dad organising a football week when we lived at Guetersloh, I got to meet Murdo Macleod on a trip to Borussia Dortmund. We trained (albeit briefly) at the Borussia facilities and got walked around the whole place. Murdo was a great guy and was quite happy talking to a bunch of starstruck kids. That said, I am disgusted that SP, as a Scottish man who claims to like football…has no idea who Murdo Macleod is…pah I say PAH!
Whilst on a course for work where I ended up staying in a hotel in the center of Manchester, I bumped into and ended up having drinks with Davey Boy Smith…the British Bulldog of WWE(F) fame. I remember being completely shocked that he was there and even more shocked that he invited me for a drink with him. I have never asked a famous person for an autograph, most of them I have seen when they are clearly having time to themself and I always feel that the last thing that they would want is people hammering them to sign stuff. So my approach was a simple “I hope you don’t mind, I just wanted to say that I admire your work and to say hello, sorry to have bothered you”. With that he invited me for a couple of drinks and we talked about all sorts. A genuinely nice fella that guy, not in the slightest bit conceited about his fame.
I sold Jonah Lomus cousin (I think, could have been his brother..bloody eggchasers) a PC, this only stands out to me as his knuckle was horribly swollen and black n blue. I found out later that he had gotten in a fight with a bouncer. I sold Colin Jackson a fax machine, and in the process discovered that I lived about 2 minutes walk from his place. I sold John Toshack a PC and barely spoke the whole time as I was completely awestruck. I was the senior member of staff on duty when Rod Stewart wanted to close the bloody store down so that he could wander around….and refused
I used to live down the road from Duncan Norvelle (he of “Chase me, chase me” fame. Oh, and my mum had a McDonalds at the next table from that fat black woman who broke the garden table in Big Brother 93 or whatever.
Not bad eh? Although I have to say that my fave claim to fame isn’t even about me. A friend of mine (we shall call him J) is responsible for Gary Glitter being arrested. I was the technical center manager at PC World Cardiff, and my friend was the same in the Bristol Branch. Mr Glitter brought a PC in for some software issues and (as usual), to test software issues you basically go to the application and load something from the recent documents history…what he saw made him throw up whilst phoning the police…followed shortly after by a phonecall to me.
I am just glad that aswell as being a sick pervert, he was stupid too.
So we have already established my fear of public speaking, and it got me thinking about other things and situations that keep me rooted to the spot.
How do you define a phobia? Wikipedia says “A phobia (from Greek: φόβος, phobos, “fear”), is an irrational, intense, persistent fearof certain situations, activities, things, or persons. The main symptom of this disorder is the excessive, unreasonable desire to avoid the feared subject.”
Now, other than public speaking, I don’t have any phobias….according to Wikipedia anyway. Clearly, my aversion to things as large as my head that have more legs than me is completely rational. There is nothing irrational about screeching like a 1950s woman that has just seen a mouse when one of these evil monstrosities roams the apartment..is there?
That reminds me, I need to buy a broom. A military grade one, preferably supplied by the guy that gives Bond his gadgets…
I don’t know the official name…but I do have another irrational fear, the fear of looking like an idiot. Quite an ironic one though, as I probably do this a lot without even realising…but that’s the key isn’t it, the not realising it. I try to be funny but avoid being moronic, I deliberately avoid putting myself in situations where I can look foolish. Which is funny really as a lot of my humour centers around taking the piss out of other people, therefore putting myself “in the line of fire”, so to speak.
I knew someone sometime ago that would become rooted to the spot and end up in a gibbering wreck when birds were flapping their wings anywhere near her. Sarah used to become almost paralysed with fear whenever she was forced to look down from a height…something I very delicately and considerately dealt with by getting her to go on the biggest, baddest rollercoasters and fairground rides that I could find…oh and I made her go up to the top of the revolving telecomms tower in Berlin….See, aren’t I considerate
I personally am terrified of paralysis…a lot of people will relate to this I am sure, but the concept of being trapped inside my own body really gives me the heebies..
So what am I scared of now? I don’t know really, my career seems to have stalled..I am 35 in a couple of days, I see my kids via webcam or talk to them by phone and I live alone. I should probably be scared of myself if I am honest. I seem to hurt people close to me and push them away. I have even done this to my family over the years (albeit mainly when I was younger…some things are best left unblogged). All I know is that I am tired. Not tired in a “you should be worried about my state of mind” kind of way. More tired in a self-absorbed, drained kind of way. There feels like some sort of malais afflicting me, who knows though, this is probably normal for someone approaching 35. Ageing has never bothered me before though, so I can’t (with any honesty) blame that.
Maybe I will look to new horizons, maybe.
Or maybe I should just buy a sports car, get liposuction and hair implants and rock it with 18 year old nymphomaniac contortionist porn star triplets…
So I am still recovering from all the travel that I have done recently, but wanted to post about what a great time I had with Sarah and the kids last weekend.
I left home at 02:00 on Friday morning to catch the 02:30 bus to Hahn Airport (yep, I am a cheapskate when it comes to travel). For some reason I can’t sleep on the bus, neither can I sleep in the airport or on the plane. Sarah meets me at Stanstead Airport at around 7am and we wend our merry way to Notts. I fail to sleep in the car too. Damnit mind, give me a break.
I manage to get around 3 hours or so kip when we get to Sarahs, the kids were at school so the rest was nice. Around 15:30 we head off to pick the kids up from school. They have no idea at all that I am visiting, so I am expecting shock and surprise…I wasn’t expecting Zak to spot me out of his classroom window. The first thing I saw was a vigourously waving hand and realising it is Zak, I turn away and try to pretend that it isn’t me…no joy however, as when he comes out of his class, he is smiling his head off and waving to me. Brandon, however, hasn’t noticed me and Sarah quickly instructs Zak not to say anything. Brandon is totally distracted and doesn’t spot me at all. To the point where Sarah tells him to look up, which causes him to look directly up into the sky….
Still he eventually sees me and I am mobbed by both kids
We go on a run to Tesco…can I just add decent supermarkets to the list of the few things I miss about the UK? I can?….thanks :-) I get the kids a magazine, the choice of which is based entirely on the free toy on the front. You gotta love that about kids, up to a certain age, brand and quality has nothing to do with the entertainment that can be garnered by a toy. I also don’t recall the magazines being read at all…but *meh*.
That night, Kenny comes over to fit Sarahs living room carpet, but looks more knackered than I do and decides to leave it until Monday. I thank Jesus and all his Apostles, as I would have had to help move stuff around and frankly I had less energy than a sloth with MS.
Saturday morning we get up and head over to see my folks, I discover that my mum is now officially old….she tells Sarah that she will get in some “Special Ham” for the visit. I mean, when sandwich meat becomes special for visits, you are only 1 step away from the special tea china and then it is game over….. I discover that I own at lawn darts…though only when I am using a broken dart for some reason. Oh, and whatever team Zak is on…wins. “Special Ham” sandwiches are consumed and we head back to Sarahs where I try and eat an entire chocolate cheescake unsuccessfully after taking a trip to Big W to buy the kids a toy each.
Sunday morning, Sarah is late for a rounders tournament because I didn’t wake her up. So we head over, she plays 1 game and we leave. The kids are spending loads of time on the trampoline that Sarahs mum bought for them and I eventually get roped into getting on there.
After being impressed that it didn’t collapse under my weight, me and the kids were messing around play fighting and knocking each other over….it is at this point that Sarah decides to get Brandons toy (a giant water pistol) and start soaking us whilst we are all trapped on the trampoline. The camera didn’t want to work, so I have no photographic evidence of my tomfoolery, but I haven’t laughed that much in a loong time.
I do some homework with the kids, and I can honestly say that the British schooling system for their age group is superb. They have come on in leaps and bounds and are spelling, reading and counting to a really good level now. I am very very proud of them, and the way that Sarah encourages them is fantastic. It is an absolute joy to see how much they both love their homework and want to progress more and more.
Later on that day, Sarah drives me back to the airport. Bren turns up to look after the kids, and I am glad he did as he was able to distract them (and to some extent me aswell) and we didn’t have the horrible crying and sobbing that typifies this kind of goodbye.
To finish off, my cheapness comes back to bite me when Ryanair are announcing delays to practically every flight from Stanstead…they don’t announce them though, until I am at the gate waiting to board….damnit
I eventually arrive home at 02:30 on Monday morning and have to be up 4 hours later for work.
Happy 4th of July to all of our friends across the pond. Happy 4th of July to all of our friends across the pond who now live across the pond…with us..umm.
To the non-American amongst you, Happy Friday.
Every time this date comes around and the good wishes start flying, I honestly keep getting the Independence Day movie stuck in my head. Now I am fairly certain that this is unlikely to be required, but I will be scanning the skys for moon sized vehicles up ahead, and then wait in earnest for the US to figure out the best way to save us all.
I have to say though, it is a little strange for us Brits, certainly for the English as we don’t particularly celebrate any day as such. The Irish have St. Patricks Day, the Welsh have St. Davids Day and we have St. Georges Day. Unlike the Irish (and to a lesser extent, the Welsh), the English don’t celebrate St. Georges Day at all. I am not even sure when it is, I think it is the 23rd of something, possibly May or June
That isn’t to say we aren’t patriotic, generally quite the opposite is true. I just realised the irony of that last sentence…being as it is made by a guy that left England at a veritable sprint as soon as the first opportunity arrived.
Christ…I have absolutely no idea why I started this post. I think the efforts of last month have removed what limited blogging ability I actually had.
I think it has something to do with envy, about how you guys are completely comfortable with celebrating how proud you are as a nation, whilst us humble English folk are slightly embarrassed about ours in general. We don’t have redneck white trailer park trash, but we do have Chavs. We do have trailer parks, but ours tend to be full of old people that actually want to live there.
We have taken everything that makes fast food great in America, and then removed all elements that make it good, like the speed for a start. We gave the world football (note the word FOOT) and now suck badly at it, same with cricket and rugby.
Anyway, I guess I just wanted to say “Happy 4th of July America” and I will leave you red blooded Americans with this, whilst I go an drink some freedom bagwater.
So, I promised myself to deliver a post every day this month….I seem to have achieved it with this very post. Now, I don’t think that making a post about making posts is necessarily cheating….
It was bloody hard, totally lacking in quality and did I say hard? I stepped over to a blog the other day that had over 50 posts a month….without guest posters. Ok, some of them were only a couple of lines long, but still…. OVER 50 a month….
I don’t think I could come up with that amount of posts, unless I live (more than I do already) at my keyboard and post every thought I have (which isn’t many, I *am* a bloke after all).
See thats the thing, as a bloke, there are many many times where I am genuinely not thinking about anything. That doesn’t mean anything in particular, which suggests I am thinking about unimportant things, it literally means nothing is going through my mind.
It’s an almost zen like state, and completely incomprehensible to women.
Ladies (in my limited experience) tend to be thinking about something at all times. This view is therefore transferred to the simpler of the species (ie men), which is where it goes wrong. The question “What are you thinking?” when responded to with “Nothing” tends to create the “So what’s wrong?” comeback. This is presumably due to the fact that nothing must be something, which must be something we don’t want to talk to you about, therefore we are hiding something from you and there really is something big. When you work it the other way round, it works though. If I ask a woman “What are you thinking?”, the response “nothing” always means something…..something that they don’t want to get into right now, but will do so…..as I fall asleep.
I’m with Ed Byrne on this one, women seem to store up information throughout the day, just to use it in the designated speaking area that they see the bed to be.
Anyway, now I have alienated half of my (very limited) readers, I am off to continue my celebration of managing to post at least 1 piece of meaningless page vomit per day for an entire month. I will probably take a 3 month haiatus to allow me to find something to write about…
I was sorting my photos out on the PC the other night, when I stumbled across these 2:
They reminded me of many moons ago, when I was into Paintball in a big way. The pictures you see were from Airsoft, a different kind of game, but more of that later.
I played paintball regularly and had a great time….sometimes painful….but always great. I do remember the first time I ever went though. I was going with a group of regulars that had finally persuaded me to go, when one of the lads dropped out. This meant I was able to save the £20 equipment hire and spend more on paint and gas cannisters. Back then the guns were pistol type affairs with individual gas cannisters that you changed and could hold a tube of 10 paint pellets. I think they called them Splat guns, much better than the bent scaffolding tubes with a toilet cistern on top. Anyhoo, enough with the older is better malarky….
So I borrow my friends camouflage gear and facemask. I didn’t really see any issue in borrowing a mask from a regular…who played in a team…whos team were recognisable by the way their facemask was painted…..no issue at all.
So after I donned my equipment, and went to the instruction area to get…well instruction really, I noticed that a number of people were looking in my general direction and motioning toward me. I thought nothing of it until I realised that everyone was basically going to take me out first, firmly believing that I was a team member of a very successful team. Damnit.
My lasting memory of my first ever paintball excursion though, was being chased through the woods, paint pellets whizzing past my ears and spotting an overturned tressle table. I dived over the table to get to cover, only to land…knee first…onto a rock that nature had chosen to hone into a knee destroying pyramid affair. The reason that this is so memorable is my reaction. Instead of screaming (like I was in my head) in pain, I was more focussed on changing the gas cannister and reloading the paint. Paint! ffs, you would have thought I was pinned down under heavy fire in ‘nam or something. I am an idiot.
So, back to the photographs. No, they aren’t from some sort of terrorist training camp and that is not Colonel Gadaffi on the right. On the left we have my good self, attempting a menacing look but failing whilst looking at Lee, hidden under a mountain of camo gear and full face mask. On the right, we have Ross and this was the day I went to Airsoft for the first time.
Now Airsoft (or Softair as it is occasionally known), differs from paintball in a number of ways, firstly - there is no paint, secondly - the guns are replicas of real weapons and thirdly - the name is a LIE. Whilst paintball is basically shooting balls of paint at each other, airsoft is most definately not shooting soft air at one another. What you are shooting in air soft are 6mm 0.20g plastic pellets. You also shoot these in rapid succession as your average airsoft rifle will hold 250 of these things in a single magazine. A high capacity magazine will hold 500+.
In short, pain.
Imagine the joy of my teammate, when, in a pressure situation I didn’t recognise him…and proceeded to shoot about 200 of these things at the top of his head. Another joyous moment came when myself and another guy were making our way over to two guys that had reached cover. They were refusing to admit that we had hit them, which made us apretty annoyed to tell the truth. So we decided to get closer. I must explain at this point that their is a rule that says that if you get too close to someone, they will surrender and you shouldn’t open fire. We definitely got the drop on these two guys, and in fact were the other side of their cover. So we jump up and start screaming for them to surrender, which makes them panic and the guy holding a shotgun shit himself and pulled the trigger. Right into the face of my mate…who had chosen that game to go with shooting goggles instead of a full face mask. I saw the three holes in his cheek start oozing with blood and we both opened fire on this guy.
My fave moment from this day out though, has to be “Defend the base”. The “base” in this sense was a garden shed. The rules were simple, team A would attack the shed and team B would defend it. The game was over if all of team A were “dead” or if team A managed to get inside the “base”. We defended first.
It was decided that I would have the dubious pleasure of being the last line of defence…I would be “In the Shed”. Lee decided, in a show of solidarity I guess, to put himself on top of the shed…and build what can only be described as a nest up there. The shed opened away from the attackers and the door was open. I spent most of my time watching my defense standing up and yelling “hit” and walking away. It started to get quite lonely in there. I then noticed a small hole had been cut out of the wall facing the attackers, so decided to poke the barrel through and take some pot shots. This basically served to highlight where Lee was hiding, and shortly afterwards he was climbing off the roof.
I could see that I was rapidly running out of teammates, and decided to stop wasting ammunition, when I heard a small thud above me. I look at the hole in the wall, and see a BB grenade teetering and almost entering the shed….WITH ME IN IT!!. These things contain around 500 pellets and explode with quite a bit of force. Fortunately for me (and my underpants) the BB grenade fell on the outside of the shed just as it exploded. It did not, however, place me in a calm state of being. The shout went up from the marshalls that there was a minute to go. After they then shouted “30 seconds!” I heard them…the unmistakeable sound of someone charging towards me in my garden shed of fear and doom. The guy slipped and fell down just in front of the open door….as he was falling, I unloaded a full 500 pellets into his chest. I seem to recall it took him around 5 minutes to get up again…we had won!
So then it was our turn to attack and lets just say that we started pretty badly. By the time we had even advanced a short distance…we were already pinned down. It did not look good. We countered these tactical bastards by singing…always look on the bright side of life…if I recall. All of a sudden, Lee decides that he can take some of them out and allow us to move forward, he will run from tree to tree and we will lay down covering fire to allow this to happen. Good plan. Lee prepares himself and then runs full tilt at the first tree, skids to a halt and recovers himself. We lay down suppressing fire and he charges to the next tree…only he actually charges AT the next tree and basically runs full steam into it. After he picked himself up off the ground, he realised that he had left his guns at the first tree.
At this point it was over for us…none of us could see the opposition because of the tears streaming down our faces. Still thinking it was a good idea, he now sprints back to the first tree and slams into that one too.
That lad is an accidental comedic god.
So to finish this ramble, we head back to Ross (he of the Colonel Gadaffi pic above). He has the dubious pleasure of appearing in this blog due to his very own moment of accidental comedic genius.
Now, I have mentioned that Airsoft guns are essentially replicas of real guns and they look pretty damned realistic….especially to the untrained eye. Say for example…the untrained eye of a neighbour.
So Ross and friends are cleaning their various airsoft guns and decide to pose for some photographs. To do this, they get dressed in all their gear and head into the garden. Around 20 minutes later it happened. The back gate was kicked down, the front door smashed open, SO19 (Britains SWAT) swarmed the place. Ross told me that they were screaming for him to drop the weapon and he froze completely, he couldn’t speak…he certainly couldn’t put the weapon down.
It was soon put down as a misunderstanding, it would appear that a neighbour had looked out of their bedroom window and saw terrorists in camo gear with a crapload of weapons in the garden. I think I would have called the police too tbh…. I may call them now
Here we go, a perfectly British thing to talk about. We Brits love nothing more than discussing the finer points of the weather. This isn’t indicative of age, no longer is discussing the weather a purely old-age pastime. As proven last Saturday night.
4 guys, all British, out drinking (a lot), subject moves onto the differences between British and German weather. The general concensus being that Germany is like Britain…but extreme.
This seems to be ingrained in our psychy as British people. A lull in conversation…where that desperate need to fill the void of silence causes us Brits to go with the most basic of conversation continuation devices…the weather.
We will talk about how hot it is, which could be a good thing or a bad thing. To quote Peter Kay: “I like it warm, but I don’t like it this warm”. We will mention how cold it is, how windy, damp, humid, muggy etc etc, and when this all fails us we can revert to how hot/cold/humid/windy/damp/muggy it WAS or that it WILL BE.
We have approximately 72 different types of rain to describe, although we can never agree on which one is the worst. 19 types of snow (none of them equate to the lovely powder on European ski slopes). Practically every ailment that afflicts the British public is attributable to the weather in some way. If your knee is aching, it is always the cold/rainy/sunny weather that caused it. This actually extrapolates out to some sort of injury based Met. Office. People believe they can predict the oncoming weather based on their aches and pains. Ignoring the bloody obvious that the black sky and thunder suggests rain is coming…no no no, it is their dodgy hip that is the real indicator.
Basically I can only surmise that, being an island nation, there isn’t much to talk about. Particularly as our island is essentially a dreary drizzly place at the best of times. Let’s face it, anyone who has ever visited a British beach will instinctively pack sowesters and umbrellas in the boot, hoping amongst hope that they won’t be needed, but preparing for the inevitable downpour. Your garden is a bit dry? This can be cured by planning a barbequeue, washing the car or hanging out 2 loads of washing on the line.
Weather is the cause of our crappy public transportation system too. We have had trains delayed due to:
The wrong kind of snow
Slippery rain
Dew on the tracks (a morning train)
Excessive heat on the tracks
Leaves on the track (in Autumn…go figure)
I can only guess from this lot that our train tracks are made of some form of paper chocolate…although I struggle to understand what the right kind of snow would be….probably the non-slippy, not too warm, leaf resistent kind…
Is it bad when your boss starts sending emails that end with things like “Ask them to change it, but try and be nice”?
Sure, I can argue and I can do it pretty well. At work I can get quite aggressive, which is in direct contrast to what a soft cuddly teddy bear I am outside of work…no honestly.
But my boss has recently started adding lines much like that one to emails…and more recently in direct conversation. I wouldn’t mind, but he regularly drags me into meetings I have neither the desire nor inclination to attend, specifically so that he can utilise me as some form of verbal weapon in the war against more work heading to our section.
Initially I thought it was as a result of my general knowledge and skills, however, I now realise it is simply because I am an opinionated and obstinate bastard. Not that I am complaining, it is nice to have members of senior management in fear of me.
My rants are fairly well known in the office and I think that most people just humour me until I inevitably fall back from the ceiling.
The thing is, generally I am not argumentative outside of work. I can have debates or disagreements, but rarely do I get as vein bulgingly irate as I do at work. I am not sure why this is, maybe the fear of personal injury is somewhat enhanced outside of work.
I have a philosophy, based entirely on my opinion of myself as reasonably intelligent (read: Not stupid), which centers around the fact that I am right…until you prove me wrong. I am willing to be proven wrong (sometimes) and in fact openly tell people that if they want to beat me in an argument they just have to be able to backup their facts. I will then admit defeat and add the knowledge to the future argument munitions dump.
I like winning arguments. I win a lot of arguments. I especially like winning unwinnable arguments. Back in my college days, we had a class entitled “Communications”. Quite a vague name for a class, but I enjoyed it. Basically, I discovered really early on that I could start an argument amongst the class, sit back and wait for the lesson to end. It was here that I found my joy at going for unwinnable arguments. I am not sure how or why, but some of the guys in the class were talking about cars, one of the guys mentioned how getting anything and driving it above 60mph was pointless due to fuel consumption. I argued that you may use more fuel, but you get there quicker, so it all evens out.
To qualify the statement, I entered into the ridiculous. I posited that if a car (for arguments sake) travels 100 miles at 50mph arrives in 2 hours and uses half a tank of fuel, the same car travelling at 100mph will use twice the fuel but arrive in half the time, therefore still only using half a tank of fuel.
It is quite possibly my most favourite argument as it is utter, utter bollocks.
I won, and had 25 other classmates convinced that it was true.
In the same class I argued that the British Armed Forces should pay Poll Tax (The old Council Tax) when away on Aircraft Carriers. My statement was centered around the fact that another country stepping foot on a British Aircraft Carrier without permission could constitute an act of war. Therefore, a British Aircraft Carrier is considered to be British soil. The same argument works for British Embassy buildings and their grounds. The best part about that argument (which I won btw) is that I disagree with my own argument entirely.
I do this a lot, I argued recently with a Linux fan, from a stance where I really know very little about Linux. I got the guy so flustered that he couldn’t argue his point.
I could be a politician, but I enjoy telling the truth too much….to tell the truth
In true form, I have no idea where this is heading so let me try and drag it to a succinct and informative close
My name is Dave, and I am a nicotineoholic. It has been 5 minutes since my last cigarette and it is difficult.
Ok, so it isn’t quite that bad, yet, but I have my moments. Anyone that has smoked will more than likely know that when you drink alcohol, you smoke more. Oh, and when I say “Anyone” that excludes occasional smokers….I don’t know how you do it, well those of you that inhale anyway.
So most smokers will have, on occasion, woken up to the feeling that someone has parked a small articulated lorry on their chest. We resolve this by “kickstarting the lungs” with a cigarette. Genius eh? Normally intelligent folks performing random acts of moronity.
Now, before you shun me as the social outcast you now know me to be…I understand my problem. Yes cigarettes are addictive, but that isn’t it. They also do have some side benefits. They are an appetite
)…just kidding, but it could have worked…honest. It would have been tasteful and arty and….heh, who am I kidding, I would have just been the lecherous photographer. And let’s face it, there are more than enough online sex toy emporiums.
