I forgot. Its one year since I sat in a bland hotel room wondering what I was going to do and, with the aid of my good friend beer, decided to start this thing as a form of therapy.
Did I succeed with my stated aims?
* The trips to Amsterdam and Barcelona certainly scored highly on the hedonism scale, with the added bonus that there's been more sex in the last year (indeed, even in the last week) than in the seven years before.
* I recorded the divorce process from start to finish and I hope that the many people who found this site by searching for divorce-related topics found some useful information amongst the whinging and angst.
So yes. I think I did.
Happy Birthday Blog.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Twenty Bore
I watched '24' for the first time over the last week. My friendly neighbourhood DVD store had the box-sets on sale for a nominal fee, so I decided to see what all the fuss was about.
It was tough, but I stuck with it all through season 1. I watched slack-jawed as the story became progressively more bizarre and outrageous. My treacherous imagination distracted me from the antics of Jack Bauer and his crazed crew of well-dressed morons by speculating on the script meetings:
Script robot 1: "Look, we've got 2 hours to fill for this character. What can we do with her?"
Script robot 2: "How about amnesia? It worked in Dallas."
SR1: "2 hours? Who gets amnesia for 2 hours? We're asking the audience to suspend disbelief, not launch it into orbit"
SR2: "Hmmm... ok, how about we do a reveal that she's really a male Serbian agent under heavy disguise posing as Jack's wife who is dead which is good because it means we get to make Jack cry and what the audience was told was her unborn baby is actually an explosive device which she/he will try and detonate when close to Senator Palmer but Palmer's wife throws herself in the path of the explosion redeeming herself but dying in the process until we do another reveal showing that Palmer's wife was actually Palmer himself and the Senator character was in reality a clockwork toy derived from a Burger King kids meal gift under the control of a generic bad guy perhaps from one of those crazy ex-Soviet states who has a grudge against Jack because he looked at him funny fourteen years 8 months and 17 days ago to this very day and wants to replace the whole of congress with wind-up toys to show just how annoyed he is and..."
(pants into a breathless silence)
SR1: "Ok. We'll go with the amnesia line. I've written the script on the back of this cigarette packet. Go get the cocaine and we'll go for lunch."
There was a trailer for the current season of 24 before a film I watched yesterday at the cinema. It consisted of approximately 30 seconds of Jack Bauer sitting in the SUV in which he seems to spend much of his life, crying about something. Doubtless his daughter had got herself into Peril again.
A few too many Long Island Iced Teas in the bar beforehand made yell some lines for Jack: "Oh fuck, not another season. I don't wanna be typecast..."
It was tough, but I stuck with it all through season 1. I watched slack-jawed as the story became progressively more bizarre and outrageous. My treacherous imagination distracted me from the antics of Jack Bauer and his crazed crew of well-dressed morons by speculating on the script meetings:
Script robot 1: "Look, we've got 2 hours to fill for this character. What can we do with her?"
Script robot 2: "How about amnesia? It worked in Dallas."
SR1: "2 hours? Who gets amnesia for 2 hours? We're asking the audience to suspend disbelief, not launch it into orbit"
SR2: "Hmmm... ok, how about we do a reveal that she's really a male Serbian agent under heavy disguise posing as Jack's wife who is dead which is good because it means we get to make Jack cry and what the audience was told was her unborn baby is actually an explosive device which she/he will try and detonate when close to Senator Palmer but Palmer's wife throws herself in the path of the explosion redeeming herself but dying in the process until we do another reveal showing that Palmer's wife was actually Palmer himself and the Senator character was in reality a clockwork toy derived from a Burger King kids meal gift under the control of a generic bad guy perhaps from one of those crazy ex-Soviet states who has a grudge against Jack because he looked at him funny fourteen years 8 months and 17 days ago to this very day and wants to replace the whole of congress with wind-up toys to show just how annoyed he is and..."
(pants into a breathless silence)
SR1: "Ok. We'll go with the amnesia line. I've written the script on the back of this cigarette packet. Go get the cocaine and we'll go for lunch."
There was a trailer for the current season of 24 before a film I watched yesterday at the cinema. It consisted of approximately 30 seconds of Jack Bauer sitting in the SUV in which he seems to spend much of his life, crying about something. Doubtless his daughter had got herself into Peril again.
A few too many Long Island Iced Teas in the bar beforehand made yell some lines for Jack: "Oh fuck, not another season. I don't wanna be typecast..."
Friday, March 25, 2005
Geek Out, Baby
I am a bit of geek. I work in IT. I was part of the first pilot of ADSL Broadband in the UK back in 1999. I display all the classic symptons of internet addiction (well, aside from the whole 'obese, lives with parents, never had a girlfriend' thing)
Which is why, when my DSL went down last week and stayed down, I felt like someone had cut my arm off. I was snappy to coworkers and downright rude to engineers. And pity the poor guy who tried to blind me with science:
"Ah, Mr Single. We've checked your line and its fine. No problems. Must be your Windows configuration."
"Really? How did you check?"
"Oh well, we were able to connect to your router and get a LCP and VCI reponse. Therefore the line must be up."
"My router is switched off and unplugged."
(silence)
"You haven't tested anything, have you?"
"no... sorry..."
"Right. Either this line is up by the time I get home tonight, or I'll rip your legs off and beat you to death with the bloody stumps."
Ok. I didn't really say that. I thought it. And thankfully, the short-circuit didn't cut in. At least I don't think so.
Although the line was restored that very night. Hmmm.
Which is why, when my DSL went down last week and stayed down, I felt like someone had cut my arm off. I was snappy to coworkers and downright rude to engineers. And pity the poor guy who tried to blind me with science:
"Ah, Mr Single. We've checked your line and its fine. No problems. Must be your Windows configuration."
"Really? How did you check?"
"Oh well, we were able to connect to your router and get a LCP and VCI reponse. Therefore the line must be up."
"My router is switched off and unplugged."
(silence)
"You haven't tested anything, have you?"
"no... sorry..."
"Right. Either this line is up by the time I get home tonight, or I'll rip your legs off and beat you to death with the bloody stumps."
Ok. I didn't really say that. I thought it. And thankfully, the short-circuit didn't cut in. At least I don't think so.
Although the line was restored that very night. Hmmm.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
For Chris
I love one-sided conversations.
The office Trainee was using a speakerphone in his office. The other side of the conversation was somewhat indistinct, but his voice came through the walls loud and clear:
"Hello, is that...?"
"Warble farble"
"Oh good. Erm. I think I might be in a spot of bother..."
"Farble?"
"Yes. I didn't have one - my priest says they're a sin"
"Farble? Warble farble?"
"Well, I just put it in. That was all. I didn't - you know - or anything"
"Warble, warble."
"Oh really? Oh dear. When shall I come in?"
"Farble... farble warble?"
"I'll see you then..."
Like me, you're probably wondering if there was an entirely innocent explanation for that telephone call. Perhaps he was talking about chocolate, or microwave meals.
I'm afraid not. Our 19 year-old trainee (who is a member of a particularly cultish religious organisation) had had his first sexual experience and called the STD clinic in a panic, firstly because he had failed to use any sort of preventative measures ('they're a sin') and secondly because he wanted to check that because he'd failed to ejaculate, did that mean it didn't count and that his virginity was still intact?
Where was this man when Bill Clinton needed him?
The office Trainee was using a speakerphone in his office. The other side of the conversation was somewhat indistinct, but his voice came through the walls loud and clear:
"Hello, is that...?"
"Warble farble"
"Oh good. Erm. I think I might be in a spot of bother..."
"Farble?"
"Yes. I didn't have one - my priest says they're a sin"
"Farble? Warble farble?"
"Well, I just put it in. That was all. I didn't - you know - or anything"
"Warble, warble."
"Oh really? Oh dear. When shall I come in?"
"Farble... farble warble?"
"I'll see you then..."
Like me, you're probably wondering if there was an entirely innocent explanation for that telephone call. Perhaps he was talking about chocolate, or microwave meals.
I'm afraid not. Our 19 year-old trainee (who is a member of a particularly cultish religious organisation) had had his first sexual experience and called the STD clinic in a panic, firstly because he had failed to use any sort of preventative measures ('they're a sin') and secondly because he wanted to check that because he'd failed to ejaculate, did that mean it didn't count and that his virginity was still intact?
Where was this man when Bill Clinton needed him?
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Not For The Devout
Don't read this if you're liable to be offended by mockery of an upcoming important date in the Christian calendar.
I mean it.
All gone?
Ok, so its just you and me...
Easter is approaching. Its a celebration of an individual faking his own death for publicity.
Kind of like Elvis.
Except Elvis wasn't nailed to a cross and didn't inspire a cult following, the more extreme elements of which were prone to committing random and increasingly extreme acts of violence.
Ok, maybe he did inspire the cult following thing. But he quite definitely wasn't nailed to a cross.
But I digress. What I need to know is how the giving of chocolate eggs is related to what Easter is supposed to be celebrating. What is that all about? Any ideas?
(And in case anyone thinks I have a downer on The Church... well, you're probably right (see posts passim.) But lets face it, an organisation that took until 1992 to pardon Gallileo for suggesting that the Earth went around the Sun deserves a bit of a poking with the funny stick. And at least I didn't suggest that Jesus's mode of death was the same as Elvis's. The nails would have cracked the porcelain.)
I mean it.
All gone?
Ok, so its just you and me...
Easter is approaching. Its a celebration of an individual faking his own death for publicity.
Kind of like Elvis.
Except Elvis wasn't nailed to a cross and didn't inspire a cult following, the more extreme elements of which were prone to committing random and increasingly extreme acts of violence.
Ok, maybe he did inspire the cult following thing. But he quite definitely wasn't nailed to a cross.
But I digress. What I need to know is how the giving of chocolate eggs is related to what Easter is supposed to be celebrating. What is that all about? Any ideas?
(And in case anyone thinks I have a downer on The Church... well, you're probably right (see posts passim.) But lets face it, an organisation that took until 1992 to pardon Gallileo for suggesting that the Earth went around the Sun deserves a bit of a poking with the funny stick. And at least I didn't suggest that Jesus's mode of death was the same as Elvis's. The nails would have cracked the porcelain.)
Monday, March 21, 2005
Look At The Pretty Waitress
Another example of the Short Circuit phenomenon.
The Ex and I remain on good terms (although I've just about worn my teeth away through excessive gritting.) So much so that I called in a favour and got a lift back to my house having inadvertantly stranded myself through my own stupidity.
As she drove, she was babbling away about what she and The Boyfriend get up to when I take First-Born away for the weekend.
Get your minds out of the gutter. I gather they don't really have much in the way of, er, that sort of relationship any more (much to The Ex's increasingly obvious annoyance.)
She: "Oh yes, I'm showing him around Sussex - he hasn't lived here long"
Me: "*showing* him around?"
She: "Yes, we went to Ditchling last weekend, and saw Chailey the week before. Lots of pretty villages."
(pause)
Me: "The guy is blind. Why not save some fuel by simply sitting him the car and making 'vroom' noises, take him back into the house and pretend its a picturesque Olde Englishe Tea Shoppe? He's not going to know the difference..."
Oops. Shouldn't have said that. See what I mean about short circuits?
The Ex and I remain on good terms (although I've just about worn my teeth away through excessive gritting.) So much so that I called in a favour and got a lift back to my house having inadvertantly stranded myself through my own stupidity.
As she drove, she was babbling away about what she and The Boyfriend get up to when I take First-Born away for the weekend.
Get your minds out of the gutter. I gather they don't really have much in the way of, er, that sort of relationship any more (much to The Ex's increasingly obvious annoyance.)
She: "Oh yes, I'm showing him around Sussex - he hasn't lived here long"
Me: "*showing* him around?"
She: "Yes, we went to Ditchling last weekend, and saw Chailey the week before. Lots of pretty villages."
(pause)
Me: "The guy is blind. Why not save some fuel by simply sitting him the car and making 'vroom' noises, take him back into the house and pretend its a picturesque Olde Englishe Tea Shoppe? He's not going to know the difference..."
Oops. Shouldn't have said that. See what I mean about short circuits?
Short Circuit
One thing I've noticed in the last few months is that consumption of alcohol tends to introduce short circuits into my brain, where I'll say exactly what I'm thinking, that remain for a good 24 hours after I've sobered up.
For example: yesterday I was looking at the new bar-food menu at the after-work pub used by me and my colleagues. Where once there was "Hamburger, Cheeseburger, Veggie-burger" there is a no a huge variety. A conversation with the barman ensued:
Me: "This 'Australian Burger' - what has it got to do with Australia? Its just chicken and bacon; is that a noted national dish?"
He: "Er..."
Me: "And the 'American Burger' - from what I can tell the only difference between this and a cheese burger is that this has deep fried onion rings in it. Onion rings are surely an international delicacy, why should they be associated with one particular country?"
He: "Look, do you want to order or not?"
Me: (sensing that if I carry on, this man will spit in my food) "Yeah. I'll go for the Indian Burger. With Naan."
The menu had actually said "The Indian Burger - Full Of Eastern Promise". If my experience with eating at that establishment was anything to go by then the only guaranteed promise of that burger would be the urgent need to spend some quality time in the bathroom, gripping the toilet seat with both hands.
Since every person I know who has been to India has said the same thing:
(dreamily): "Oh, it was a wonderful place, such culture, such sights, such smells, such sounds..."
"Uh huh. And for how long were you ill?"
"...er, just the first week. Maybe two."
...the Indian Burger is surely the most representative of the bunch.
For example: yesterday I was looking at the new bar-food menu at the after-work pub used by me and my colleagues. Where once there was "Hamburger, Cheeseburger, Veggie-burger" there is a no a huge variety. A conversation with the barman ensued:
Me: "This 'Australian Burger' - what has it got to do with Australia? Its just chicken and bacon; is that a noted national dish?"
He: "Er..."
Me: "And the 'American Burger' - from what I can tell the only difference between this and a cheese burger is that this has deep fried onion rings in it. Onion rings are surely an international delicacy, why should they be associated with one particular country?"
He: "Look, do you want to order or not?"
Me: (sensing that if I carry on, this man will spit in my food) "Yeah. I'll go for the Indian Burger. With Naan."
The menu had actually said "The Indian Burger - Full Of Eastern Promise". If my experience with eating at that establishment was anything to go by then the only guaranteed promise of that burger would be the urgent need to spend some quality time in the bathroom, gripping the toilet seat with both hands.
Since every person I know who has been to India has said the same thing:
(dreamily): "Oh, it was a wonderful place, such culture, such sights, such smells, such sounds..."
"Uh huh. And for how long were you ill?"
"...er, just the first week. Maybe two."
...the Indian Burger is surely the most representative of the bunch.
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