Thursday, January 15, 2009
2009 and Still Single
Well, here we are. I've been away for a while. There have been several things that I wish I could change in the past 2 years. There were a few conquests. Even more credit card debt. But the great thing is that I landed a new job. Also, I'm pretty stoked about the Obama inauguration for the United States. 2008 had me getting in a lot of political arguments. I'm not sure what party I belong to, but I was certainly hoping for a change for the Americans. I wish I could be at the inauguration. I think it will be one of the most important moments in their nation's history. I guess I could go, but I'd have to get out the ol' credit card. I've done some damage with that thing lately. Especially over the holidays. There's a few bar owners who probably bought new plasma TV's because I was a patron at their bars. I mean, I didn't mean to pick up the entire bar's tab for the night.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
What I Did On My Holidays Part 83
And so I went skiing again. As with last year, I spent a drunken christmas with the family and set off shortly after. This time it was 26/Dec, thus managing to miss that entire dead-zone between christmas and new year.
However, unlike last year I didn't spend 8 hours in the plane to find myself greeted by a cute girl in Vancouver. No, this year I spent 1 hour in one of EasyJet's finest (yes, I am cheap. I'm not proud) and found myself greeted by a hairy French customs guard, which really wasn't the same thing at all. This time, of course, I'd brought a cute girl with me instead.
We nearly didn't make it. One of our party had partaken of the bar at the airport a little too freely and thus the following exchange took place at the x-ray machine:
"Oi! You! Mate! I've got a bomb in my bag" (giggle) "Oi!! Look!! Bomb!!" (snigger)
And so it went on, right up until a well placed elbow delivered a bruise and a warning. The warning not being that continuing in this way would result in ejection from the x-ray queue and some quality intimate time with a big man called Alan and a rubber glove he calls "Betty" but that The Lovely B was reaching the point where a targetted knee would cause the witty rant to continue in a much higher octave.
I, alas, could not calm my nerves in the usual way (pills and alcohol) - I had to drive. In France. In the dark. In the snow. Up A Fucking Mountain.
It didn't start well - I got lost in Toulouse leaving the airport. Yes - Toulouse, the current record holder for most car torchings in a month. Not really where one wants to get oneself lost at midnight. The French don't really go in for road-signs that show up in the dark. Or many streetlights, it would seem. Which is my excuse for hitting a speed bump at 60 miles an hour. Every light came on on the hire car's dashboard. And then went off again.
I chose not to tell my passengers. The Lovely B was attempting to decipher a stereo so complex it could only be fitted to a car from Japan while The Boy M sat in the back, drunkenly humming to himself. No need to worry them. Hertz might be a bit upset about the bent front suspension though...
Tomorrow - how I managed to freeze toothpaste, and when 50 percent isn't 50 percent at all...
(The picture somewhat gives away the fact that we made it... nice view isn't it?)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Fun In The Office
My we're a wacky bunch in the clinical trials industry. A trial for a new arthritis drug has the following question for patients to answer every day:
"Rate your stiffness this morning"
Snort.
"Rate your stiffness this morning"
Snort.
9 Out Of 10 Cat Owners Who Expressed A Preference Said...
Before I launch into 'What I Did Between Christmas And New Year', a question for you:
Last night I was watching the commercials sandwiched between the increasingly unpleasant 'Celebrity Big Brother' (an addiction that I hate myself for afterwards. A bit like cheap tequila on a Tuesday night.) Loreal aside (where American actresses are given hilariously dubbed English voices) the commercials are usually more fun than the show itself ("Tonight in the Big Brother house, Michael is picking his nose") but this time there was a wierd one. Hundreds of thousands of women striding purposefully down a city street.
What could it be for?
A variant of that annoying coloured bouncing ball advert for LCD TVs?
A trail for a new Lads Mag?
Something exciting on the wash-and-go theme?
Yet another 'We give women discounts because they aren't as bad at men at driving!' car insurance scheme?
No, the voice-over announced that '2 out of 5 women experienced seepage from their sanitory products in 2005. But not any more with new (insert name here)!'
Which survey extracted *that* particular statistic from the population at large?
Last night I was watching the commercials sandwiched between the increasingly unpleasant 'Celebrity Big Brother' (an addiction that I hate myself for afterwards. A bit like cheap tequila on a Tuesday night.) Loreal aside (where American actresses are given hilariously dubbed English voices) the commercials are usually more fun than the show itself ("Tonight in the Big Brother house, Michael is picking his nose") but this time there was a wierd one. Hundreds of thousands of women striding purposefully down a city street.
What could it be for?
A variant of that annoying coloured bouncing ball advert for LCD TVs?
A trail for a new Lads Mag?
Something exciting on the wash-and-go theme?
Yet another 'We give women discounts because they aren't as bad at men at driving!' car insurance scheme?
No, the voice-over announced that '2 out of 5 women experienced seepage from their sanitory products in 2005. But not any more with new (insert name here)!'
Which survey extracted *that* particular statistic from the population at large?
Monday, January 23, 2006
Christmas Redux
Christmas chez Newly was an extravagant affair. Mainly due to the tree.
Last year I entirely failed to acquire a tree. Or any decorations. Or even the compulsory Perry Como Christmas CD to be purchased, listened-to and then quietly disposed of with the aid of a potato peeler after an aged relation puts the damn thing on for the tenth time at the highest possible volume.
Tch, I mean - if I happen to play a little bit of Thievery Corporation too loudly in my car, I get stern looks. Possibly more down to my dubious taste in music rather than the rattling of the Golf Of Doom's windows. But when my grandmother sticks on her bloody "El Divo" operatic nonsense and blasts next door's cat into the neighbouring suburb, she seems to get away with it. Doubtless by pretending to be deaf, which is, after all, the only way to truly enjoy any sort of opera.
But I digress. This year, following much urging from First-Born, I acquired a tree. Sadly artificial, but magnificent nonetheless.
It was epic in its dimensions. One of those purchases that look so much smaller in the shop, and then consume your flat like someone pulled a ripcord in its base. Kind of like what happens to mediterranean women exactly three days after marriage.
First-born was suitably impressed. More so that I'd managed to assemble it wrong and stuck all the big branches on the top and the little ones on the base on my first attempt.
"No-one's got a tree like this!" she enthused, gazing in awe at the bizarre upside-down green plastic pyramid.
"Indeed" I muttered, and submitted to the shame of having to read the instruction manual for assembling a Christmas tree.
Last year I entirely failed to acquire a tree. Or any decorations. Or even the compulsory Perry Como Christmas CD to be purchased, listened-to and then quietly disposed of with the aid of a potato peeler after an aged relation puts the damn thing on for the tenth time at the highest possible volume.
Tch, I mean - if I happen to play a little bit of Thievery Corporation too loudly in my car, I get stern looks. Possibly more down to my dubious taste in music rather than the rattling of the Golf Of Doom's windows. But when my grandmother sticks on her bloody "El Divo" operatic nonsense and blasts next door's cat into the neighbouring suburb, she seems to get away with it. Doubtless by pretending to be deaf, which is, after all, the only way to truly enjoy any sort of opera.
But I digress. This year, following much urging from First-Born, I acquired a tree. Sadly artificial, but magnificent nonetheless.
It was epic in its dimensions. One of those purchases that look so much smaller in the shop, and then consume your flat like someone pulled a ripcord in its base. Kind of like what happens to mediterranean women exactly three days after marriage.
First-born was suitably impressed. More so that I'd managed to assemble it wrong and stuck all the big branches on the top and the little ones on the base on my first attempt.
"No-one's got a tree like this!" she enthused, gazing in awe at the bizarre upside-down green plastic pyramid.
"Indeed" I muttered, and submitted to the shame of having to read the instruction manual for assembling a Christmas tree.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Sign Of The Times
I read somewhere that "To Modernise" meant "Make Crapper" and "Outmoded" meant "Works Perfectly Well, But A Bit Expensive"
A case in question - the town sign for Horsham, where I used to live (I now live in a town called Dorking, much to the ongoing amusement of my trans-atlantic friends.) Its an old wooden sign with some ornate carving and the word "Horsham" carved into it. Its been there for over a hundred years, probably considerably longer than the councillers who have taken it upon themselves to add a shiny new sign with the same basic information, namely "Welcome To Horsham" coupled with the opening times of the shopping centre and the fact that Horsham is open on Sundays.
This may be progress, but replacing the old signpost with something clearly designed by someone more used to creating notices for hospitals saying "Rectal Examination Unit, This Way" doesn't do it for me.
Tomorrow: what I did over Christmas and New Year. Now that the hangover has finally come to an end.
A case in question - the town sign for Horsham, where I used to live (I now live in a town called Dorking, much to the ongoing amusement of my trans-atlantic friends.) Its an old wooden sign with some ornate carving and the word "Horsham" carved into it. Its been there for over a hundred years, probably considerably longer than the councillers who have taken it upon themselves to add a shiny new sign with the same basic information, namely "Welcome To Horsham" coupled with the opening times of the shopping centre and the fact that Horsham is open on Sundays.
This may be progress, but replacing the old signpost with something clearly designed by someone more used to creating notices for hospitals saying "Rectal Examination Unit, This Way" doesn't do it for me.
Tomorrow: what I did over Christmas and New Year. Now that the hangover has finally come to an end.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Mystery guest spot
Somebody close to me is currently serving in the British Armed Services in the Middle East. This person's tour of duty is almost up (in fact, their military career itself is almost over, so jaded have they become by the general experience.) Every now and again I get an email giving an insight into the conflict. Here's this week's one. From Kabul...
"The armed forces from the land of the free continue to astound me in their general ignorance and lack of subtlety. Worse still, they nearly interfered with my lone night of luxury.
"Let me explain.
"For the last few days we have been gun running across the Pakistan boarder from Islamabad to Kabul. This morning I was setting off to work before you guys had even watched the News At Ten and had the great pleasure of watching the sun come up over the Khyber pass. The red morning light reflecting off the bowl of the snow covered mountains that surround the west of Kabul was magnificent and enough to hold me outside in -12.
"I mumbled a very unwarlike comment to the American refueller about the beauty and inspirational nature of the whole scene.
"He replied that it was good news indeed, since the snow over the last few days had prevent the transport aircraft from the USA landing, and so the dining hall burger supplies were at a critical level. The Americans, you see, fly all their food in from the USA to prevent any poisoning by Bin Liner or his friends. We, of course, make do with what we can scrounge up from the local markets.
"But I digress. During our shuttling, we managed to wangle a night in a hotel in Islamabad.
"Now, I have never stayed in this city before and was slightly anxious that we could end up in the Pakistani version of a TravelLodge since accommodation is at a premium in the city (Islamabad is the control centre for the Kashmir earthquake relief and many buildings in the city were damaged by the tremors.) Luckily for us the British High commission had booked us into a hotel that it uses. It was a throw-back to the days of Empire; my somewhat low opinion on the British Empire is of course based purely on what I have read, but the service was excellent and the rooms were palatial. The old boys certainly knew how to live.
"But once again disaster nearly struck! The Americans, thinking they had located one of Bin Liner's deputies, bombed a whole village. This village happened to be in Pakistan as opposed to Afghanistan, and in their excitement they forgot to ask permission to enter Pakistan let alone the bombing of the unfortunate locals. Then they refused to apologise blaming the war on terror.
"The effect on me? The British high commission were worried that there might be a backlash against Europeans and we would have to cancel our trip. Thrown out of our palace!
"However, I bravely, even courageously, locked myself in my room. And ordered a curry on room service.
"We left at 3am local time feeling pretty sure that we were safe since by then, any aggrieved Pakistani would have found an American (who were still walking around in their uniforms, blissfully unaware of the situation in their ignorance) to take their annoyance out on.
"If only they spent more on a good cause such as the earthquake relief, rather than chasing Bin Liners around the mountains, then maybe the world might like them a little more. But then thinking about it, as Pakistan is an Islamic country, the hamburgers they fly in probably don't go down too well either.
"I guess the refueller in Kabul doesn't need to worry about his burgers ending up in north Pakistan."
"The armed forces from the land of the free continue to astound me in their general ignorance and lack of subtlety. Worse still, they nearly interfered with my lone night of luxury.
"Let me explain.
"For the last few days we have been gun running across the Pakistan boarder from Islamabad to Kabul. This morning I was setting off to work before you guys had even watched the News At Ten and had the great pleasure of watching the sun come up over the Khyber pass. The red morning light reflecting off the bowl of the snow covered mountains that surround the west of Kabul was magnificent and enough to hold me outside in -12.
"I mumbled a very unwarlike comment to the American refueller about the beauty and inspirational nature of the whole scene.
"He replied that it was good news indeed, since the snow over the last few days had prevent the transport aircraft from the USA landing, and so the dining hall burger supplies were at a critical level. The Americans, you see, fly all their food in from the USA to prevent any poisoning by Bin Liner or his friends. We, of course, make do with what we can scrounge up from the local markets.
"But I digress. During our shuttling, we managed to wangle a night in a hotel in Islamabad.
"Now, I have never stayed in this city before and was slightly anxious that we could end up in the Pakistani version of a TravelLodge since accommodation is at a premium in the city (Islamabad is the control centre for the Kashmir earthquake relief and many buildings in the city were damaged by the tremors.) Luckily for us the British High commission had booked us into a hotel that it uses. It was a throw-back to the days of Empire; my somewhat low opinion on the British Empire is of course based purely on what I have read, but the service was excellent and the rooms were palatial. The old boys certainly knew how to live.
"But once again disaster nearly struck! The Americans, thinking they had located one of Bin Liner's deputies, bombed a whole village. This village happened to be in Pakistan as opposed to Afghanistan, and in their excitement they forgot to ask permission to enter Pakistan let alone the bombing of the unfortunate locals. Then they refused to apologise blaming the war on terror.
"The effect on me? The British high commission were worried that there might be a backlash against Europeans and we would have to cancel our trip. Thrown out of our palace!
"However, I bravely, even courageously, locked myself in my room. And ordered a curry on room service.
"We left at 3am local time feeling pretty sure that we were safe since by then, any aggrieved Pakistani would have found an American (who were still walking around in their uniforms, blissfully unaware of the situation in their ignorance) to take their annoyance out on.
"If only they spent more on a good cause such as the earthquake relief, rather than chasing Bin Liners around the mountains, then maybe the world might like them a little more. But then thinking about it, as Pakistan is an Islamic country, the hamburgers they fly in probably don't go down too well either.
"I guess the refueller in Kabul doesn't need to worry about his burgers ending up in north Pakistan."
Thursday, January 19, 2006
King Kong vs Newly Single
I have a confession to make. I saw King Kong a couple of weeks ago and... I didn't like it.
Working in an office of computer geeks who mostly worship the ground on which Peter Jackson thanks to his bladder-testing Tolkien epics, this is a dangerous thing to say. Its a bit like asking the direction to Mecca and unrolling a prayer mat anywhere near Dubya or his good ol' boys.
So where did this lavish film fail? Interestingly, I rather enjoyed the first chapter, before they arrived at the island. None of the characters were particularly appealing, but the film bumbled along happily enough. Maybe it was just that I hadn't finished off my Hagen Daas by that point. It all began to get tragic when the island appeared. This is where the Lucas effect kicked in.
"But what, Newly, is the Lucas effect?" I hear you cry. Its quite simple. This is where a director makes a film so wildly successful and popular that no-one dares to tell him that what he's doing at the moment is really a little bit rubbish. Hence nobody told Peter "Lord Of The Rings" Jackson that what he was churning out would embarrass a student film maker, and no amount of gloss is going to cover up the cracks. Instead they said "Its jolly good, Pete! And my, haven't you lost weight."
I shudder to think how many great low budget films got sacrificed on the altar of the big Gorilla.
Maybe next time he'll remake "Bad Taste". Particularly the bit with the chainsaw and the puke.
Working in an office of computer geeks who mostly worship the ground on which Peter Jackson thanks to his bladder-testing Tolkien epics, this is a dangerous thing to say. Its a bit like asking the direction to Mecca and unrolling a prayer mat anywhere near Dubya or his good ol' boys.
So where did this lavish film fail? Interestingly, I rather enjoyed the first chapter, before they arrived at the island. None of the characters were particularly appealing, but the film bumbled along happily enough. Maybe it was just that I hadn't finished off my Hagen Daas by that point. It all began to get tragic when the island appeared. This is where the Lucas effect kicked in.
"But what, Newly, is the Lucas effect?" I hear you cry. Its quite simple. This is where a director makes a film so wildly successful and popular that no-one dares to tell him that what he's doing at the moment is really a little bit rubbish. Hence nobody told Peter "Lord Of The Rings" Jackson that what he was churning out would embarrass a student film maker, and no amount of gloss is going to cover up the cracks. Instead they said "Its jolly good, Pete! And my, haven't you lost weight."
I shudder to think how many great low budget films got sacrificed on the altar of the big Gorilla.
Maybe next time he'll remake "Bad Taste". Particularly the bit with the chainsaw and the puke.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Supermarket Rage
I don't get it. It happens every year at around this time. The supermarkets get mobbed.
Now, way back when I was knee-high to grass-hopper and spent my time staring at arses and groins (actually, some things haven't changed as I've gotten older) British stores generally shut down for the christmas break. You really could find yourself in the situation where after December 23 you wouldn't be able to buy much of anything until January 2.
Not so any more. The local store is open 24 hours a day right up until the end of Dec 24. In fact, the only days its closed are 25 December and 26 December and I'm pretty sure we can all go 2 days without needing to restock on turkey, beer or badly made christmas pudding.
So why was it mobbed today? Trolley-rage reigned supreme in the aisles as people replaced their festive spirit with a murderous desire to buy as many boxes of Paxo and tins of Quality Street as humanly possible. Old ladies were trampled and small children bounced from trolley to trolley like balls of wailing snot in a giant pinball machine.
Get the picture?
I'm pretty sure I only thought: "What the f**k are you people doing???" rather than yelling it at the writhing throng. I'm sure I only thought it. Really.
My own festive purchase was a box of washing powder and a can of something to stop my nasty old trainers running away by themselves. Very christmassy, yes?
In other news, top kudos to The Sun newspaper for the following headline celebrating the marriage of Elton John to his partner David Furnish: "Elton Takes David Up The Aisle". Attaboys.
Now, way back when I was knee-high to grass-hopper and spent my time staring at arses and groins (actually, some things haven't changed as I've gotten older) British stores generally shut down for the christmas break. You really could find yourself in the situation where after December 23 you wouldn't be able to buy much of anything until January 2.
Not so any more. The local store is open 24 hours a day right up until the end of Dec 24. In fact, the only days its closed are 25 December and 26 December and I'm pretty sure we can all go 2 days without needing to restock on turkey, beer or badly made christmas pudding.
So why was it mobbed today? Trolley-rage reigned supreme in the aisles as people replaced their festive spirit with a murderous desire to buy as many boxes of Paxo and tins of Quality Street as humanly possible. Old ladies were trampled and small children bounced from trolley to trolley like balls of wailing snot in a giant pinball machine.
Get the picture?
I'm pretty sure I only thought: "What the f**k are you people doing???" rather than yelling it at the writhing throng. I'm sure I only thought it. Really.
My own festive purchase was a box of washing powder and a can of something to stop my nasty old trainers running away by themselves. Very christmassy, yes?
In other news, top kudos to The Sun newspaper for the following headline celebrating the marriage of Elton John to his partner David Furnish: "Elton Takes David Up The Aisle". Attaboys.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
From the department of "Oh - My - God"
It seems there are some benefits of marriage to a blind man. The Ex continues to revel in the fact that the chap can't see anything. Unfortunately, sometimes she forgets that the rest of us can.
A couple of examples for you. One thats a bit "eww" and another that is even more so.
Example The First: "The Pebble-Dash"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me: "Sure"
The Ex was collecting First-Born. First-Born and I continued to play Snakes and Ladders; she cheating outrageously and me pretending not to notice. The Ex emerged and whisked First-Born off to wherever they go when they leave chez Newly.
As for the bathroom - it looked like The Ex had stood at the door and aimed. Obviously after a seriously hot curry the night before. Ew.
Example The Second: "Through The Keyhole"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me (warily): "Ok..."
First-Born was drawing a picture of herself and an impossibly thin stick-figure that I took to be me (she knows how to flatter, does that girl.) I remembered the events of the previous day and rushed from the lounge to shout "...and flush the toilet this time!" through the bathroom door... except that The Ex had failed to close the door. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.
First-Born glanced up from her work as I hurried back into the lounge making gagging noises. "Mummy left the door open again, huh?" she said, not looking up from her drawing.
Sometimes a bit of temporary blindness would work wonders.
A couple of examples for you. One thats a bit "eww" and another that is even more so.
Example The First: "The Pebble-Dash"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me: "Sure"
The Ex was collecting First-Born. First-Born and I continued to play Snakes and Ladders; she cheating outrageously and me pretending not to notice. The Ex emerged and whisked First-Born off to wherever they go when they leave chez Newly.
As for the bathroom - it looked like The Ex had stood at the door and aimed. Obviously after a seriously hot curry the night before. Ew.
Example The Second: "Through The Keyhole"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me (warily): "Ok..."
First-Born was drawing a picture of herself and an impossibly thin stick-figure that I took to be me (she knows how to flatter, does that girl.) I remembered the events of the previous day and rushed from the lounge to shout "...and flush the toilet this time!" through the bathroom door... except that The Ex had failed to close the door. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.
First-Born glanced up from her work as I hurried back into the lounge making gagging noises. "Mummy left the door open again, huh?" she said, not looking up from her drawing.
Sometimes a bit of temporary blindness would work wonders.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Ice Ice Baby
"Navy SEAL? More like Navy Walrus..." was the comment from one of the chaps upon viewing Ice Cube's performance in the latest (and hopefully last) entry in the XXX film franchise.
Goodness me, the sight of a short, fat rapper kicking righteous bottom was something to warm the heart of all those with a slight weight problem. Although the decision to use stuntmen in considerably better physical shape than the star led to some slightly odd transitions: "Is that the same chap?"
Highlight of the film? Oh there were so many, but the tank chase in the bowels of an aircraft carrier is certainly top ten material. Especially when Ice (I hope he doesn't think thats too familiar of me) swung his tank around to dodge an oncoming shell. The boys could use some of those tanks in Iraq, you know.
Most signposted moment? As the star waddled through the corridors of the said aircraft carrier, he passed a door marked "Steam Catapult". Within half an hour he'd launched a tank across the deck of the carrier with the catapult in a kind of heavy-metal version of conkers.
Advice to the glittering stars of Hollywood: If Vin Diesel refuses to get involved in a film because someone read him the script and he thought it sounded a bit crap, its probably not the best vehicle on which to hitch your star.
Still, it was a gloriously bad film. Bad, but strangely hilarious. Unlike 'Doom', which was just bad. Really, really bad.
Goodness me, the sight of a short, fat rapper kicking righteous bottom was something to warm the heart of all those with a slight weight problem. Although the decision to use stuntmen in considerably better physical shape than the star led to some slightly odd transitions: "Is that the same chap?"
Highlight of the film? Oh there were so many, but the tank chase in the bowels of an aircraft carrier is certainly top ten material. Especially when Ice (I hope he doesn't think thats too familiar of me) swung his tank around to dodge an oncoming shell. The boys could use some of those tanks in Iraq, you know.
Most signposted moment? As the star waddled through the corridors of the said aircraft carrier, he passed a door marked "Steam Catapult". Within half an hour he'd launched a tank across the deck of the carrier with the catapult in a kind of heavy-metal version of conkers.
Advice to the glittering stars of Hollywood: If Vin Diesel refuses to get involved in a film because someone read him the script and he thought it sounded a bit crap, its probably not the best vehicle on which to hitch your star.
Still, it was a gloriously bad film. Bad, but strangely hilarious. Unlike 'Doom', which was just bad. Really, really bad.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Going Underground
I sighed. Contrasting nicely with the general down-at-heel and overall griminess of the London Underground was a huge poster cheerfully advertising Canada's Whistler ski resort with the assistance of an impossibly attractive woman and man perched on a rock high up on a snowy mountain; a blameless blue sky sparkling behind them.
I did New Year at Whistler last year. This year my plan is to spend christmas somewhere snowy. I had hoped to get into the Ice Hotel for New Year, but it seems you need your parents to make a reservation for you some time before your conception if you want a New Year's eve for a cost at anything less than the price of a small French village.
And so it is that I shall be taking my erratic driving to a cottage in France, a mere hop, skip and a jump from a resort called Saint Lary Soulan. I don't know who Saint Lary is, but his name appeals.
But, in the meantime, I must spend my days on the London Underground. I wonder what the architects of the warren-like tunnels would make of the fact that in this age of air-travel and space-craft, we Brits still feel the need to cram ourselves like sardines into Victorian tin cans.
Probably with not a small amount of smugness.
Another week or so and I'll be back in the snow, terrorising snow-boarders with ski-poles that double as kebab sticks for anyone unfortunate to get in the way of my usual out-of-control weebling down the slope.
Heh.
I did New Year at Whistler last year. This year my plan is to spend christmas somewhere snowy. I had hoped to get into the Ice Hotel for New Year, but it seems you need your parents to make a reservation for you some time before your conception if you want a New Year's eve for a cost at anything less than the price of a small French village.
And so it is that I shall be taking my erratic driving to a cottage in France, a mere hop, skip and a jump from a resort called Saint Lary Soulan. I don't know who Saint Lary is, but his name appeals.
But, in the meantime, I must spend my days on the London Underground. I wonder what the architects of the warren-like tunnels would make of the fact that in this age of air-travel and space-craft, we Brits still feel the need to cram ourselves like sardines into Victorian tin cans.
Probably with not a small amount of smugness.
Another week or so and I'll be back in the snow, terrorising snow-boarders with ski-poles that double as kebab sticks for anyone unfortunate to get in the way of my usual out-of-control weebling down the slope.
Heh.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
The Trouble With S
My friend S has watched too many Kung-Fu movies. I know, I know - its hard to believe that such a thing is possible. I mean, when one is bored of Kung-Fu, one is surely bored of life. However, young S has reached the tipping point.
It happened just last week, as we were walking back from one of the many local curry houses to his car. Excessive beer consumption on my part meant that the Golf Of Doom wasn't an option. But I digress.
What happened was this: a group of kids (probably enjoying their first christmas of drinking) decided to give us some abuse. My approach in these matters is usually to laugh it off and walk on. S, on the other hand, took offence. The problem was that the kids were right - he does have a bit of a silly beard. One of those beards men grow to emphasise their jaw-lines. I, on the other hand, take great pride in my flab.
And thus it was that I found myself in the slightly comedy role of saying "Leave it, mate! They're not worth it!" as S balled his fists and adopted "the position."
All the way home, as we drove back, he muttered "I could have taken them all down. I'd have got 2 and the rest would have scattered. I didn't though - you looked a bit vulnerable and they might have gone for you. Next time though..."
Great. Thanks, mate. I prefer my "out-run the buggers" approach.
The Way Of The S indeed.
It happened just last week, as we were walking back from one of the many local curry houses to his car. Excessive beer consumption on my part meant that the Golf Of Doom wasn't an option. But I digress.
What happened was this: a group of kids (probably enjoying their first christmas of drinking) decided to give us some abuse. My approach in these matters is usually to laugh it off and walk on. S, on the other hand, took offence. The problem was that the kids were right - he does have a bit of a silly beard. One of those beards men grow to emphasise their jaw-lines. I, on the other hand, take great pride in my flab.
And thus it was that I found myself in the slightly comedy role of saying "Leave it, mate! They're not worth it!" as S balled his fists and adopted "the position."
All the way home, as we drove back, he muttered "I could have taken them all down. I'd have got 2 and the rest would have scattered. I didn't though - you looked a bit vulnerable and they might have gone for you. Next time though..."
Great. Thanks, mate. I prefer my "out-run the buggers" approach.
The Way Of The S indeed.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
I Hear Dead People
This isn't a funny post... if you came here for laughs today, I suggest you check back tomorrow...
My day job involves working with trials of medicines before Joe Public is allowed to get his undeserving hands on them. As chief purveyor of bad taste, I often joke (when confronted by people who might instinctively think: "Medical Research = Torturing fluffy, media-friendly bunnies" before voting Dubya in for another term) that I kill humans, not animals.
The joke came home to roost last month (which is one of the reasons why I've been so busy.) A programmer introduced an error that could have killed someone. While recovering from that, the next week I got a call from a panicked helpdesk member that a doctor was trying to get medication for a chap currently in surgery, and couldn't access the system.
Neither incident turned out to be as bad as they first appeared. No-one got hurt.
But now I have nightmares.
Since I'm on-call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week I sleep with my mobile phone by my bed. Now, at least once a night I have the following dream.
I'm sleeping, and the phone goes off. Blearily I reach out, pick it up and answer it. All I hear on the other end of the line is people screaming. Screaming and screaming. And it goes on and on until I wake up with a start with that awful sick sensation that comes with not being sure if it all was a dream or not.
Career change, anyone?
My day job involves working with trials of medicines before Joe Public is allowed to get his undeserving hands on them. As chief purveyor of bad taste, I often joke (when confronted by people who might instinctively think: "Medical Research = Torturing fluffy, media-friendly bunnies" before voting Dubya in for another term) that I kill humans, not animals.
The joke came home to roost last month (which is one of the reasons why I've been so busy.) A programmer introduced an error that could have killed someone. While recovering from that, the next week I got a call from a panicked helpdesk member that a doctor was trying to get medication for a chap currently in surgery, and couldn't access the system.
Neither incident turned out to be as bad as they first appeared. No-one got hurt.
But now I have nightmares.
Since I'm on-call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week I sleep with my mobile phone by my bed. Now, at least once a night I have the following dream.
I'm sleeping, and the phone goes off. Blearily I reach out, pick it up and answer it. All I hear on the other end of the line is people screaming. Screaming and screaming. And it goes on and on until I wake up with a start with that awful sick sensation that comes with not being sure if it all was a dream or not.
Career change, anyone?
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Fear Of Flying
From Copenhagen to Switzerland...
"There is no way you're getting me on that thing" I insisted.
"Oh come on, its not going to hurt. It'll be fine" wheedled the boss.
"No! Look at it! It practically came out of the ark! Its looks marginally more knackered than my old Volvo and only slightly more airworthy."
At work, my fear of flying has become legendary. Its compounded by my encyclopeadic knowledge of air disasters and their causes, which is why I like flying on certain aeroplanes and certain airlines.
A cut-price outfit called Cimber-air, flying out of Copenhagen to Basel on ratty looking Brazillian built plans did not meet either the "reputable carrier" or "reliable aircraft" requirements.
"Nonsense," insisted the boss, "Its fine. Look the cabin crew are getting on. It must be ok."
As we watched through the window of the bus (Copenhagen airport had wisely not let the corroding hulk anywhere near the terminal building) all the lights in the plane flickered and died. They flickered on and then died again.
I gave the boss a "well?" look. "Its fine," he said, a little less sure, "They're just testing the lights."
After a few more abortive attempts, the lights went out with a finality made clear by a popping noise that even we in the bus could hear. The cabin crew and pilots emerged from the door, coughing and blinking at the runway lights like moles waking from a seriously good hibernate. A thin vapour of smoke followed them out.
"A slight electrical problem" explained the chap at the terminal, "We'll have it fixed in no time."
We flew to Basel on a nice shiny new jet courtesy of SAS. One nil to Newly, I think.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Copenhagen Cabana
No, I'm not dead - but thanks for asking. Its been an... interesting month.
Yes, I survived the flight back from Florida. Sadly, the food served on the plane made it all a bit touch and go towards the end. Unfortunately, my employer demanded his pound of flesh for my two weeks off. Much travelling, tugging forelocks to clients (an action which can result in the severing of several important anatomical components in some parts of the world) and general aggravation later, you find The Bear and I in "Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen".
I've been to Denmark before, on an ill-advised "cruise" across the North Sea. The relentlessness of the scenery was offset somewhat by the cheap beer onboard the boat and the joy of not getting sea-sick while all around you are looking greyer than the skyline: "Bacon sandwiches anyone? No? Just me then?"
The Bear and I partook of some Turkish food and peered at a "Gentlemen's Club" opposite. Why does the woman responsible for booking my hotel always (a) Put me in a hotel in the red-light district, and (b) Make sure my room is next door to the Shagging Couple? Is she trying to tell me something?
We elected to return to our room - the Amsterdam Experience had ticked that particular box once and for all - and attempt to drown out the increasingly enthusiastic antics of the lucky girl and boy next door with something so unmusical it hurts. I'm sure one of these TV channels must have a Pop-Idol variant going. Hopefully in German.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Even At Seaworld...
...I can't escape The Ex. How was I to know she'd be performing in a giant saltwater tank in one of Orlando's most popular resorts under the stage name 'Shamu'?
Killer Whale - geddit?
I'm such a wag sometimes.
Goodness, Seaworld is a terribly worthy place though isn't it? Even worse than Animal Kingdom. I've never been a big fan of zoos, and thats what these places are no matter how they may preach about their environmental credentials.
Seaworld has taken this worthiness one step further with their 'Salute to the heroes' - namely the armed forces unfortunate enough to carry out Dubya and Blair's latest adventure. Evidentally everyday heroes like doctors, nurses, teachers, firemen, parents and so on don't count in Anheuser-Busch's world.
My cousin, a pilot in Iraq, finds all this sort of thing tiresome. Rather than this jingoistic fervour he wishes that the energies were better spent in applying pressure on the relevant world-leaders to sort out the mess they've got themselves into.
In fact, Seaworld is certainly waving the flag. Budweiser, it trumpetted, is the only major American-owned beer. Oddly, it was a little quiet about the other important fact regarding Budweiser: it has the colour and flavour of frog's urine.
I'm going home today.
Florida, I've had a great time. But I think I need another holiday to get over this one.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
The Meaning Of 'Bling'
After the transport experience to KSC (remember folks - 'Gator Tours' feature exceedingly nasty buses) I was somewhat leary about last night. A trip to 'Chef Mickey' at Disney's Contemporary Resort (the ugly Thunderbirdesque triangle-shaped building that the Epcot monorail goes through.)
I'd been assured that transport would be provided by a different company and so I was taken aback to see the biggest stretch limo I'd ever seen cautiously pull up in front of the hotel. A man who looked better suited to the football field rather than squeezed into a penguin suit unfolded himself from the driver's seat and opened the door. Waiting within were a bottle of champagne on ice and a selection of sodas for the kid.
"Wow!" said First-Born, "This is really bling!"
Quite a surreal thing to hear in the squeaky tones of an 8 year-old with an accent often posher than the Queen's.
Of course, she was right. Dahlings, its the only way to travel.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Blind Man's Buff
Ok, so whats with the brail on the signs for the Men's bathroom (or toilet, as we Europeans call 'em, owing to the fact that there's not a bath to be had, unless you're particularly small and brave) ?
It baffles me. Every restroom has had some brail beneath the symbol indicating the gender that may use the facilities.
How does this work? I mean, if you can see well enough to find the symbol on the wall or door, presumably your vision is good enough to understand it?
I have visions of some unfortunate soul, bent over, walking along a wall with one hand frantically moving up and down the paint in search of the brail while the other clutches at their groin in an act of desperation until they stumble across the symbol or set off a fire alarm (in which case the torrent of water from the ceiling will conceal any embarrassing seepages.)
The Ex's new husband is nearasdammit blind, so allow me a moment to enjoy that image before I start feeling guilty.
It baffles me. Every restroom has had some brail beneath the symbol indicating the gender that may use the facilities.
How does this work? I mean, if you can see well enough to find the symbol on the wall or door, presumably your vision is good enough to understand it?
I have visions of some unfortunate soul, bent over, walking along a wall with one hand frantically moving up and down the paint in search of the brail while the other clutches at their groin in an act of desperation until they stumble across the symbol or set off a fire alarm (in which case the torrent of water from the ceiling will conceal any embarrassing seepages.)
The Ex's new husband is nearasdammit blind, so allow me a moment to enjoy that image before I start feeling guilty.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Tightening The Belt
I love it here.
I love the commercial radio. I've yet to find a BBC Radio 4 equivalent and so have been amusing myself listening to the commercials in between the mostly forgettable soft-metal medalies.
One particular ad was particularly strident:
"Looking for a good quality church in your area for you and your family?" (uh, no - I'm looking for one for my dog. Idiot.)
"Then your searching is over! Acme Super-Church is the Church for you!"
I waited in vain for the rider "Your soul may be at risk if you do not keep promises made in the Lord's name. Particulary that one after the Jagermeister incident" to be said in doubletime at the end of the ad.
I love it though. Advertising a church on radio. No mention of demonination, nothing at all. Just show up and get saved.
First-born is a devout girl and didn't understand why I was laughing. I had to explain why I found a "Bible Factory Outlet" store in the Mall hugely amusing too.
I love the commercial radio. I've yet to find a BBC Radio 4 equivalent and so have been amusing myself listening to the commercials in between the mostly forgettable soft-metal medalies.
One particular ad was particularly strident:
"Looking for a good quality church in your area for you and your family?" (uh, no - I'm looking for one for my dog. Idiot.)
"Then your searching is over! Acme Super-Church is the Church for you!"
I waited in vain for the rider "Your soul may be at risk if you do not keep promises made in the Lord's name. Particulary that one after the Jagermeister incident" to be said in doubletime at the end of the ad.
I love it though. Advertising a church on radio. No mention of demonination, nothing at all. Just show up and get saved.
First-born is a devout girl and didn't understand why I was laughing. I had to explain why I found a "Bible Factory Outlet" store in the Mall hugely amusing too.
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