‘Wallpapering the ceiling?’ I hear you cry, ‘Am I reading this right? Wallpaper… on the ceiling? Surely that’s just madness. Insanity, even.’
That’s exactly what I thought when the Stead announced that he wished to put woodchip wallpaper on the ceiling of his hallway. There is a story behind it.
It’s all part of the ongoing Saga Of The House Of Stead. When he moved into his new house, there were ugly beams on the walls and ceiling. When I say ‘beams’, what I mean is nasty bits of brown painted 2x4, replete with 6-inch nails. They were foul. Dire. I would go as far as to say… ‘awful’. Yes, I said ‘awful’.
Anyway, most of them came out of the walls and ceilings without too much hassle, despite the overly large nails. Each beam left a nasty brown stain on the ceiling – a problem that could be easily masked with many layers of paint. Sadly, however, upon removing the very last beam (which had an extra nasty nail in it), Stead managed to create a sizeable hole in his ceiling.
Being a terribly clever bloke, Stead masked this hole by putting a bit of metal gauze, usually employed in the car-repair business, in the hole and used layers of filler to create a new bit of ceiling – which is now probably stronger than the rest of ceiling. This still created the problem, however of an odd looking flat patch on an otherwise stippled ceiling. Too big to be painted over and ignored.
Stead’s suggestion: Let’s put woodchip wallpaper on the ceiling. After a coat of paint, It’ll look just like any stippled ceiling.
I was understandably dubious. Wallpaper on the ceiling sounds like a bad idea. My concern lay around its adhesion to the ceiling and our ability to put it up. And that it’d look like woodchip wallpaper. On the ceiling. The alternative, Stead told me knowingly, was getting the ceiling re-skimmed, which would cost about £300. The wallpaper would cost about £10.
Well, Stead was insistent. So we reached a consensus that went something like ‘Well it’s your ceiling, Stead. If it looks stupid, you’re then one that’s gonna have to look at it every day.’ I thought that was a reasonable statement.
So we spent most of yesterday afternoon putting woodchip wallpaper on the ceiling. And, I have to say, it looks pretty damn good. It went up with no major problems (apart from Stead’s mini-tantrum when the first piece didn’t go quite right) and, despite the lack of paint, doesn’t look bad at all! We have to leave it a few days (i.e. ‘til next weekend) before we can paint it, but I am now confident that it will look very reasonable.
Do you hear that, Stead? I’m conceding your point. Retracting my objections. It would seem that, this time at least, you were right. I suspect this is due to blind luck more than anything else but I am willing to give you this one. Well done.
See you for more painting fun next weekend.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
1985
My dad just sent me this rather blurred family photo from 1985:
Clockwise from the top-left: Dad, Mum, Me, Chris, Russ (in a dress).
Damn. I was a good looking kid. Bit...er... sulky there, but good looking! Nice hair. Some things just don't improve with age!
Clockwise from the top-left: Dad, Mum, Me, Chris, Russ (in a dress).
Damn. I was a good looking kid. Bit...er... sulky there, but good looking! Nice hair. Some things just don't improve with age!
Monday, May 23, 2005
The Rest Of The Weekend
Well. Having assisted Russ with the moving duties, I spent the rest of the weekend at Mum's. Well that's not true. I was so mind numbingly bored (to the point where my brain melted and flowed out of my ears) that I found as many excuses to go out as possible. A quick visit to Vic's mum's (no, there's nothing odd about visiting your ex's mum) and an evening over at Stut's were in order to provide some relief.
Although there was nothing to report from my ex-mother-in-law's (actually, technically not an ex-M.I.L. yet...) the visit to Stut and Dan's was somewhat more interesting.
We popped out to a small pretentious french cafe in Westbourne. That's all it was, a cafe. But it seemed to have a a very high opinion of itself. The waiter had a preposterous accent and appeared to be hard of hearing. My saussicons a la something or other turned out to be sausage and mash, which was fine by me, but the waiter didn't seem to appreciate me asking for Sausage and Mash, or even Sausage a la Mash. Eventually, stubbornly refusing to even attempt to pronounce the unpronouncable, I had to point to the menu. It would seem that I'm not allowed to speak English in my own country. We then had a discussion around our drinks order.
"You want wine?" asked the waiter, frenchly.
"No, thank you" we said.
"The house red is very good," he informed us.
"That's nice. Just a coke, please."
"It is imported from the owner's vinyard in France."
"Very good. Coke, please."
"Just coke?"
"Yes."
"No wine?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Coke. We're very thirsty, now."
"I shall leave you the wine list in case you change your mind."
"We don't need it." Dan leaned conspiratorially to me, "We don't like the wine here. I can get better in the Offie, later."
Unsurprisingly, the waiter went off in a huff at this point. The service was amazingly slow. We waited about 30 minutes for our meal and it wasn't exactly busy in there. After waiting almost 10 minutes for mayonnaise, Dan eventually had to go to the bar and organise it himself. Meanwhile, the waiter continued to flaunt his pythonesque french accent around the cafe.
After the meal, which was perfectly tasty, we had terrible trouble attracting the attention of the waiter for the bill. Eventually, once again, we had to approach the bar and request it, somewhat curtly. A few minutes later, it was dumped unceremoniously on the table. Having added exactly the right amount of cash - we didn't feel that the accents were quite convincing enough to warrant a tip - the waiter collected our money with a decidedly un-french 'Cheers' and we went on our way.
Although there was nothing to report from my ex-mother-in-law's (actually, technically not an ex-M.I.L. yet...) the visit to Stut and Dan's was somewhat more interesting.
We popped out to a small pretentious french cafe in Westbourne. That's all it was, a cafe. But it seemed to have a a very high opinion of itself. The waiter had a preposterous accent and appeared to be hard of hearing. My saussicons a la something or other turned out to be sausage and mash, which was fine by me, but the waiter didn't seem to appreciate me asking for Sausage and Mash, or even Sausage a la Mash. Eventually, stubbornly refusing to even attempt to pronounce the unpronouncable, I had to point to the menu. It would seem that I'm not allowed to speak English in my own country. We then had a discussion around our drinks order.
"You want wine?" asked the waiter, frenchly.
"No, thank you" we said.
"The house red is very good," he informed us.
"That's nice. Just a coke, please."
"It is imported from the owner's vinyard in France."
"Very good. Coke, please."
"Just coke?"
"Yes."
"No wine?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Coke. We're very thirsty, now."
"I shall leave you the wine list in case you change your mind."
"We don't need it." Dan leaned conspiratorially to me, "We don't like the wine here. I can get better in the Offie, later."
Unsurprisingly, the waiter went off in a huff at this point. The service was amazingly slow. We waited about 30 minutes for our meal and it wasn't exactly busy in there. After waiting almost 10 minutes for mayonnaise, Dan eventually had to go to the bar and organise it himself. Meanwhile, the waiter continued to flaunt his pythonesque french accent around the cafe.
After the meal, which was perfectly tasty, we had terrible trouble attracting the attention of the waiter for the bill. Eventually, once again, we had to approach the bar and request it, somewhat curtly. A few minutes later, it was dumped unceremoniously on the table. Having added exactly the right amount of cash - we didn't feel that the accents were quite convincing enough to warrant a tip - the waiter collected our money with a decidedly un-french 'Cheers' and we went on our way.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Another House Move
My Southampton based big brother moved house on Friday. He moved from a dingy flat in Shirley to a brand new posh 'luxury apartment' in Ocean Village. there are a number of reasons for this move, not least of which was his old flatmate's obsession with the massively multiplayer online role playing game 'World of Warcraft'. Apparently he was spending all of his time on it, stopping only to pee and put ready meals in the microwave (but only the sort one can eat whilst playing). His obsession was so bad, it seems, that he started call in sick to work and, worst of all, his parrot died beacuse he 'forgot' to feed it. Well - quite frankly I couldn't live with a guy who puts a computer game over the life of a pet. Russ' concern, however was more practical. He was worried that his flatmate was about to lose his job and therefore his income. Rent was therefore then primary issue. Sadly, the parrot seemed to be more of a laughing point.
Being a kind and dutiful brother, I offered to go down and help him move. My offer was accepted. Not gratefully, I might add, but accepted nonetheless. So I got up bright and early and drove the hundred odd miles from Bristol, to Southampton. The day, however did not go well.
First off, I found myself unable to follow the instructions that Multimap provided. I'm still not sure whether it was me or them, but I found myself utterly utterly lost in the centre of Southampton and had to drive around in circles 'til I saw something I recognised - and given that it's been about 5 years since I last visited the city, it took a while. Eventually, I found my way to a bit I recognised and from there located Russ' flat.
Next problem. They needed to get stuff out of the garage. Unfortunately, there was a nasty old BMW with flat tires parked in the way. So we had to move it by hand. Fortunately the handbrake was also knackered. Garage sorted.
Next, although Russ was... kind of organised, his friend and new flatmate, Dec was not. The half-laden van was driven to his house where we had to pack his stuff and load it into the van. Everything was then taken to Ocean Village where we had to transfer everything via a tiny, tiny lift to the 5th floor. Not only was the lift tiny, but the doors wouldn't stay open for more than about 10 seconds at a time. So whilst manhandling computer desks and other bulky items out of the lift, we were assaulted by the closing doors and subjected to a barrage of barked instructions from the 'Lady of the Lift' who told us repeatedly and in no uncertain terms to stop blocking the doors.
Following that, it was decided that we would drive over to Mum's (about 30 miles away) to collect a couple of chests of drawers and a wardrobe. Which we did. Whilst there, Mum forced us to eat pasty pie and chips. Actually there wasn't much forcing about it. It was about 3 o'clock by this time and I for one hadn't eaten since about 6am. The pie was foul and the chips were greasy and horrible. But when you're hungry, you're hungry.
Before leaving for Southampton again, Russ decided that we still had to take some old furniture from the old flat to the tip. This was something of a concern as we were 30-40 minutes from the flat, a further 20 from the tip and it was getting on for 4 o'clock. Now I don't know about Southampton, but here in Bristol, the tips close at 4.30 on the basis that if they closed any later then people would have time to actually use them after work which would generate... work! Anyway. Turns out that the tip closes at 5.30 in Southampton, so we made it... just.
Anyway. At the end of the day, Russ and his mates decided that is was necessary to go to see Star wars. They had in fact booked tickets in advance for themselves, which was nice. I, however had not been factored into their plans. So an additional ticket was required. Fortunately, when they block-booked their tickets, there was one seat left on the end of the row that had not been booked, so I was able to purchase a ticket. Hooray.
The upshot of the day was that I left home at about 7am to do lots of heavy lifting for my brother. Not only did he fail to buy me any food (I though it was a accepted that when you spend the day doing physical labour for someone free of charge, they paid for your tea) but he also failed to say the magic 'Thank you'. not that this surprises me.
As a footnote to this story, I had an interesting discussion with Russ, where he tried to convince me that his knackered old 'K' reg BMW was better than a brand new Ford Focus.
"My car is more fun to drive," he said. "The Focus practically drives for you. It's boring."
"Er. Okay," I said. "By 'fun', presumably you mean that you have no power steering or ABS and you enjoy the thrill of the risk inherent in driving without airbags."
"And," he told me, "the suspension is all soft on a Focus. You can't 'fee' the road."
"Hmmm," I mused as the knackered old BMW shuddered across another slightly bumpy section of road, making my teeth clatter together painfully. "You don't think that the sensation I'm feeling now has something to do with your knackered shock absorbers. Oh. Did we stall?"
Needless to say, when I finally get my promotion and am faced with a choice of company car, it won't be a knackered old K reg BMW I'll be choosing...
Being a kind and dutiful brother, I offered to go down and help him move. My offer was accepted. Not gratefully, I might add, but accepted nonetheless. So I got up bright and early and drove the hundred odd miles from Bristol, to Southampton. The day, however did not go well.
First off, I found myself unable to follow the instructions that Multimap provided. I'm still not sure whether it was me or them, but I found myself utterly utterly lost in the centre of Southampton and had to drive around in circles 'til I saw something I recognised - and given that it's been about 5 years since I last visited the city, it took a while. Eventually, I found my way to a bit I recognised and from there located Russ' flat.
Next problem. They needed to get stuff out of the garage. Unfortunately, there was a nasty old BMW with flat tires parked in the way. So we had to move it by hand. Fortunately the handbrake was also knackered. Garage sorted.
Next, although Russ was... kind of organised, his friend and new flatmate, Dec was not. The half-laden van was driven to his house where we had to pack his stuff and load it into the van. Everything was then taken to Ocean Village where we had to transfer everything via a tiny, tiny lift to the 5th floor. Not only was the lift tiny, but the doors wouldn't stay open for more than about 10 seconds at a time. So whilst manhandling computer desks and other bulky items out of the lift, we were assaulted by the closing doors and subjected to a barrage of barked instructions from the 'Lady of the Lift' who told us repeatedly and in no uncertain terms to stop blocking the doors.
Following that, it was decided that we would drive over to Mum's (about 30 miles away) to collect a couple of chests of drawers and a wardrobe. Which we did. Whilst there, Mum forced us to eat pasty pie and chips. Actually there wasn't much forcing about it. It was about 3 o'clock by this time and I for one hadn't eaten since about 6am. The pie was foul and the chips were greasy and horrible. But when you're hungry, you're hungry.
Before leaving for Southampton again, Russ decided that we still had to take some old furniture from the old flat to the tip. This was something of a concern as we were 30-40 minutes from the flat, a further 20 from the tip and it was getting on for 4 o'clock. Now I don't know about Southampton, but here in Bristol, the tips close at 4.30 on the basis that if they closed any later then people would have time to actually use them after work which would generate... work! Anyway. Turns out that the tip closes at 5.30 in Southampton, so we made it... just.
Anyway. At the end of the day, Russ and his mates decided that is was necessary to go to see Star wars. They had in fact booked tickets in advance for themselves, which was nice. I, however had not been factored into their plans. So an additional ticket was required. Fortunately, when they block-booked their tickets, there was one seat left on the end of the row that had not been booked, so I was able to purchase a ticket. Hooray.
The upshot of the day was that I left home at about 7am to do lots of heavy lifting for my brother. Not only did he fail to buy me any food (I though it was a accepted that when you spend the day doing physical labour for someone free of charge, they paid for your tea) but he also failed to say the magic 'Thank you'. not that this surprises me.
As a footnote to this story, I had an interesting discussion with Russ, where he tried to convince me that his knackered old 'K' reg BMW was better than a brand new Ford Focus.
"My car is more fun to drive," he said. "The Focus practically drives for you. It's boring."
"Er. Okay," I said. "By 'fun', presumably you mean that you have no power steering or ABS and you enjoy the thrill of the risk inherent in driving without airbags."
"And," he told me, "the suspension is all soft on a Focus. You can't 'fee' the road."
"Hmmm," I mused as the knackered old BMW shuddered across another slightly bumpy section of road, making my teeth clatter together painfully. "You don't think that the sensation I'm feeling now has something to do with your knackered shock absorbers. Oh. Did we stall?"
Needless to say, when I finally get my promotion and am faced with a choice of company car, it won't be a knackered old K reg BMW I'll be choosing...
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Revenge of the Sith
Thursday 19th May
Well, I went to see the new Star Wars movie. What a great movie. Now before anyone shouts me down and declares me a fool for enjoying a movie with dodgy acting and a hackneyed plot that relies far too much on special effects, I'd like to explain in simple terms just why I thought it was a great movie: I was entertained for 2 hours. Yes, that's it. No deep and meaningful discussion of it's complex and intriguing plot or it's overal deep meaningfulness as a reflection of he current state of the world. A movie is only good if it entertains you for it's duration - which it did. Lots of cool lightsabre swinging, some great maniacal giggling from the bad guy, more lightsabres, a spectacular space battle, yet more lightsabres and finally, a monty python sketch (if you don't get that last bit, try watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail and then the end of Revenge of the Sith again. It'll come to you).
The single best part of the evening - the part that made the whole deal sweeter for me was that I didn't pay for the tickets. Not even slightly. Ol' TA Temp made good with his promise to provide free tickets. There was a bit of an issue when we turned up with tickets that showed a price of £0.00. The monkey on the door used his walkie talkie to call over the manager, who attempted to interrogate us over how we obtained the tickets.
"Who gave you these tickets?" he demanded.
"One of my workmates," I replied.
"We've had to sack 3 people over this and we need to know who gave you the tickets," insisted the Manager.
"Well done," said I. "Given that he doesn't work here, his name's hardly going to mean anything to you."
"And," the Stead interjected, "we wouldn't tell you anyway."
"Um," countered the Manager, obviously more used to dealing with compliant monkey-like chavs than people of great intellect and charisma like the Stead and I.
"Look at it this way," I suggested, "As far as I'm concerned, these tickets have been obtained legitimately. Either you're going to let us in or not, so you'd better make a decision. Prefereably," I added hastily, "before the film starts."
"Er..." stated the Manager, confident in the quality of his argument.
"I don't think I like it here, it's a dump." mused Stead before unleashing his ultimate doomsday weapon: "If you don't let us in, you won't be getting our business again."
Well that did it. In these customer-focussed, customer-centric and more importantly, profit-maximising days, the thought of having to explain to his boss why he turned away 2 customers, even if it was for having dodgy tickets, was just too much. In we went without further ado.
And it was great.
Well, I went to see the new Star Wars movie. What a great movie. Now before anyone shouts me down and declares me a fool for enjoying a movie with dodgy acting and a hackneyed plot that relies far too much on special effects, I'd like to explain in simple terms just why I thought it was a great movie: I was entertained for 2 hours. Yes, that's it. No deep and meaningful discussion of it's complex and intriguing plot or it's overal deep meaningfulness as a reflection of he current state of the world. A movie is only good if it entertains you for it's duration - which it did. Lots of cool lightsabre swinging, some great maniacal giggling from the bad guy, more lightsabres, a spectacular space battle, yet more lightsabres and finally, a monty python sketch (if you don't get that last bit, try watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail and then the end of Revenge of the Sith again. It'll come to you).
The single best part of the evening - the part that made the whole deal sweeter for me was that I didn't pay for the tickets. Not even slightly. Ol' TA Temp made good with his promise to provide free tickets. There was a bit of an issue when we turned up with tickets that showed a price of £0.00. The monkey on the door used his walkie talkie to call over the manager, who attempted to interrogate us over how we obtained the tickets.
"Who gave you these tickets?" he demanded.
"One of my workmates," I replied.
"We've had to sack 3 people over this and we need to know who gave you the tickets," insisted the Manager.
"Well done," said I. "Given that he doesn't work here, his name's hardly going to mean anything to you."
"And," the Stead interjected, "we wouldn't tell you anyway."
"Um," countered the Manager, obviously more used to dealing with compliant monkey-like chavs than people of great intellect and charisma like the Stead and I.
"Look at it this way," I suggested, "As far as I'm concerned, these tickets have been obtained legitimately. Either you're going to let us in or not, so you'd better make a decision. Prefereably," I added hastily, "before the film starts."
"Er..." stated the Manager, confident in the quality of his argument.
"I don't think I like it here, it's a dump." mused Stead before unleashing his ultimate doomsday weapon: "If you don't let us in, you won't be getting our business again."
Well that did it. In these customer-focussed, customer-centric and more importantly, profit-maximising days, the thought of having to explain to his boss why he turned away 2 customers, even if it was for having dodgy tickets, was just too much. In we went without further ado.
And it was great.
Episode 60 Something: The Numpty Strikes Back
Oh yes. Remember that key-loss episode a few months ago? Well now I can go one better.
I had a plan last night. A cunning plan. So cunning, in fact that you could tie a piece of string to it and use it as a kite. Yes, really. It was really that cunning.
The plan was this: Go to Woolies for Dude and a DVD
Stead was in London until 2.30. He was then planning to catch the train home, arrive back in Bristol at around 4.30 and return to his house, where he would get changed.
I was in the office as normal. I planned to return home at the normal time, returning at round 5pm, whereupon I, too would get changed. I then planned to do my 'training', phone the 'Dude' (remember him?), nip over to Stead's to pick him up, collect said Dude at 7.30 and head over to the Woolie's where we would rendezvous with the Vicster and, obviously, the Woolies.
A stellar plan. Excelling in it's simplicity.
Sadly it all went horribly wrong. And here's how.
At around 5pm, I received a call from Stead, who was still in London. "I'm not gonna be back 'til 7.30," he whined.
Ok. A minor setback. But no biggie. I'll get Vic to pick up the Dude. Of course, that means nipping over to her house to provide cash. Free cuppa. No problem. I'll just be picking Stead up a little later.
Whilst at the Vicster's however, my cleverly reorganised plans came crashing down around me. At around 6.10 he was on the phone again. "C*ck!" he exclaimed. I feel it's important to quote him exactly at this point. Sorry if it gets offensive. "C*ck," he said again, before following up with a "C*ckweasels!".
There was obviously something he needed to get of his chest.
"I'm on the train," he told me (I'm not quoting any more - this is kinda from memory and may or may not be accurate). "I've left my c*cking keys in London. I can't get into my car or my house."
"No problem," says I. "You were clever enough to instigate a contingency plan for this very reason, a few months ago. I have a set of keys for your house in my kitchen drawer." Confident that all would be well, I set off to collect him from the station (a little earlier than planned).
Upon reaching my house, it became obvious that Stead's contingency plan had on weak point.
Me.
I'm positive that I put the keys in my kitchen drawer. That's where all the keys go. All of them. My mothers keys are in there. My spare car keys are in there. My Gran's key, the window keys, the gerden box padlock keys... yup. They're all in there too. there were even a few unidentified keys squirreled away at the back. But Stead's. Not a chance.
So. Unable to access either Stead's house or his car until at least Friday, it became neccessary to accomodate him at my house. A sleepover, if you will. Sadly, he had only the clothes in which he was dressed. No change of underwear, no toiletries. Nothing. So - in true bloke style, a mad dash to Marks & Spencer ensured, whereupon a new shirt, socks, underpants, toothbrush, razor etc were purchased.
We finally arrived at the Woolies' just 20 minutes late. Not bad. We watched The Bourne Supremacy, which was pretty good and had a very cool car chase. Much pizza, tea, beer and cola products were consumed and a good time was had by all.
Interesting development on the free Star Wars ticket front yesterday, as well. Simon the Temp - who promised me a ticket for tonight's show right before he got sacked, and then came up with the goods like a true hero - phoned me to say that he was in Nottingham. Training with the TA for his trip to Kabul (although where you get desert training in Nottingham is beyond me). Anyway the upshot is that he can't make it tonight. But, star that he is, he's getting a mate to drop the ticket into the office some time this morning. So hopefully I will have a spare (and more importantly, FREE) ticket to Star Wars which i can give to Stead to make up for the key issue.
It's gonna be great.
I had a plan last night. A cunning plan. So cunning, in fact that you could tie a piece of string to it and use it as a kite. Yes, really. It was really that cunning.
The plan was this: Go to Woolies for Dude and a DVD
Stead was in London until 2.30. He was then planning to catch the train home, arrive back in Bristol at around 4.30 and return to his house, where he would get changed.
I was in the office as normal. I planned to return home at the normal time, returning at round 5pm, whereupon I, too would get changed. I then planned to do my 'training', phone the 'Dude' (remember him?), nip over to Stead's to pick him up, collect said Dude at 7.30 and head over to the Woolie's where we would rendezvous with the Vicster and, obviously, the Woolies.
A stellar plan. Excelling in it's simplicity.
Sadly it all went horribly wrong. And here's how.
At around 5pm, I received a call from Stead, who was still in London. "I'm not gonna be back 'til 7.30," he whined.
Ok. A minor setback. But no biggie. I'll get Vic to pick up the Dude. Of course, that means nipping over to her house to provide cash. Free cuppa. No problem. I'll just be picking Stead up a little later.
Whilst at the Vicster's however, my cleverly reorganised plans came crashing down around me. At around 6.10 he was on the phone again. "C*ck!" he exclaimed. I feel it's important to quote him exactly at this point. Sorry if it gets offensive. "C*ck," he said again, before following up with a "C*ckweasels!".
There was obviously something he needed to get of his chest.
"I'm on the train," he told me (I'm not quoting any more - this is kinda from memory and may or may not be accurate). "I've left my c*cking keys in London. I can't get into my car or my house."
"No problem," says I. "You were clever enough to instigate a contingency plan for this very reason, a few months ago. I have a set of keys for your house in my kitchen drawer." Confident that all would be well, I set off to collect him from the station (a little earlier than planned).
Upon reaching my house, it became obvious that Stead's contingency plan had on weak point.
Me.
I'm positive that I put the keys in my kitchen drawer. That's where all the keys go. All of them. My mothers keys are in there. My spare car keys are in there. My Gran's key, the window keys, the gerden box padlock keys... yup. They're all in there too. there were even a few unidentified keys squirreled away at the back. But Stead's. Not a chance.
So. Unable to access either Stead's house or his car until at least Friday, it became neccessary to accomodate him at my house. A sleepover, if you will. Sadly, he had only the clothes in which he was dressed. No change of underwear, no toiletries. Nothing. So - in true bloke style, a mad dash to Marks & Spencer ensured, whereupon a new shirt, socks, underpants, toothbrush, razor etc were purchased.
We finally arrived at the Woolies' just 20 minutes late. Not bad. We watched The Bourne Supremacy, which was pretty good and had a very cool car chase. Much pizza, tea, beer and cola products were consumed and a good time was had by all.
Interesting development on the free Star Wars ticket front yesterday, as well. Simon the Temp - who promised me a ticket for tonight's show right before he got sacked, and then came up with the goods like a true hero - phoned me to say that he was in Nottingham. Training with the TA for his trip to Kabul (although where you get desert training in Nottingham is beyond me). Anyway the upshot is that he can't make it tonight. But, star that he is, he's getting a mate to drop the ticket into the office some time this morning. So hopefully I will have a spare (and more importantly, FREE) ticket to Star Wars which i can give to Stead to make up for the key issue.
It's gonna be great.
Friday, May 13, 2005
An Update
Sadly little of interest had occured over the past few days, so this post may be slightly dull. I shall attempt to spice it up somewhat by adding a teaspoonful of my sparkling wit and humour and a dash of... er cayenne pepper.
Actually - something of mild interest happened on tuesday or wednesday night. I forget which. Having popped to the cinema with a couple of the guys from work, they came back to my house for a post movie cuppa. One of them, who shall remain nameless, decided that she wanted to cuddle the rabbit.
This, as you may or may not be aware is something of a dangerous proposition as Bitsy is a biter. I have many scars. Anyway - having been duly warned about the danger of death by pointy rodent teeth, the rabbit fancier promtly stuck her hand in front of Bitsy's inbuilt Weapons of Mass Destruction and suffered the inevitable injury. It bled. A lot. Apparently it was still bleeding the following morning!
Other exciting things that have happened to me. Hmmm.
Oh, yes. We had a temp in the office. Nice guy, memeber of the TA, but absolutely bloody useless. But we kept him round for ages. Anyway, he said he's be able to get hold of free tickes to the new Star Wars movie on the 19th. Very cool. Sadly he managed to get himself sacked a couple of weeks ago, so I kinda thought that was that. I wasn't overly concerned.
Well - he turned up at the office yesterday with my ticket. Good man!
Umm.
Played pool last night. I lost. It was embarrasing. Stead had some amazing lucky shots. There was jam all over the table. I snapped a picture of him in action with my phone:
Well, I think that's it. Nothing further to report. I shall be assisting Stead with the ongoing decoration of his residence and the disposal of a load of junk into a skip on Saturday. It's gonna be great.
Actually - something of mild interest happened on tuesday or wednesday night. I forget which. Having popped to the cinema with a couple of the guys from work, they came back to my house for a post movie cuppa. One of them, who shall remain nameless, decided that she wanted to cuddle the rabbit.
This, as you may or may not be aware is something of a dangerous proposition as Bitsy is a biter. I have many scars. Anyway - having been duly warned about the danger of death by pointy rodent teeth, the rabbit fancier promtly stuck her hand in front of Bitsy's inbuilt Weapons of Mass Destruction and suffered the inevitable injury. It bled. A lot. Apparently it was still bleeding the following morning!
Other exciting things that have happened to me. Hmmm.
Oh, yes. We had a temp in the office. Nice guy, memeber of the TA, but absolutely bloody useless. But we kept him round for ages. Anyway, he said he's be able to get hold of free tickes to the new Star Wars movie on the 19th. Very cool. Sadly he managed to get himself sacked a couple of weeks ago, so I kinda thought that was that. I wasn't overly concerned.
Well - he turned up at the office yesterday with my ticket. Good man!
Umm.
Played pool last night. I lost. It was embarrasing. Stead had some amazing lucky shots. There was jam all over the table. I snapped a picture of him in action with my phone:
Well, I think that's it. Nothing further to report. I shall be assisting Stead with the ongoing decoration of his residence and the disposal of a load of junk into a skip on Saturday. It's gonna be great.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Test
--
This Orange Multi Media Message was sent wirefree from an Orange
MMS phone. If you would like to reply, please text or phone the
sender directly by using the phone number listed in the sender's
address. To learn more about Orange's Multi Media Messaging
Service, find us on the Web at www.orange.co.uk/mms
I'm just trying a thing. I'm posting this as a multimedia message from my phone. Not sure how (if at all) it'll turn out.
The picture, incidentally is of the top of my Dangermouse pencil. It was sent to me by one of my workmates, who kidnapped him a week or two ago. In order to secure his well-being and release all I had to do was admit that girls are better than boys.
Alas... DM remains missing.
Friday, May 06, 2005
In which Stead gets promoted, pizza is eaten and the use of the word 'Dude' is contested. Oh, and there was something about an election...
Congratulations are in order for my man, Stead. After months of hard work, boss-baiting and general arse-licking (which I hear he really enjoys), he's finally got the promotion he's been angling for. That means a decent pay rise and, more importantly, A COMPANY CAR!!! You may recall that he's been driving a Nissan Micra around for a couple of years, now. That's pretty bad, even by my standards.
So, yeah. As of Monday(ish) he'll be one grade ahead of me. Doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, since we don't work in the same part of the organisation, but I feel sure that he will take the opportunity to rub my nose in it as often as is sub-humanly possible. For my part, I will remind him that I, at least own my own car (could have planned that sentence better) and his is, at best, borrowed from the company. Which makes him some sort of sponger. A really limp one, I expect.
Anyway. Those best laid plans. (There's a great Eddie Izzard sketch about best laid plans... but I digress) Stead phoned me up on the way home to give me his amazing news. After his initial confusion about the amount of background noise the public transport on which I was travelling (the concept of which he is unfamiliar with), he soon got down to the important business:
"Dude," he said, "is on me tonight."
Now. Before I go on, I know how that phrase must have looked to those people who are unfamiliar with our use of the word 'Dude'. Pretty damn odd, I should think. I shall explain:
'Dude' is, of course used in place of 'Mate', 'Buddy' or 'Pal' in our circles. It is also used however , in place of 'Pizza'.
'Why?' I hear you ask. 'Why in God's name would you call pizza 'Dude'?'
Well there it is. Pizza Dude. The man who delivers the pizza is the 'Pizza Dude'. Hence, in our warped little minds, 'Dude' equates to pizza. So the guy who delivers the dude, is known as the 'Dude Dude'. Only we get our dude from the dude van by Tesco, which doesn't deliver. So we, as Dudes have to go to the Dude Dude to get the dude ourselves.
So that's sorted then. Clear? Good. I shall continue with my anecdote.
Fantastic. Someone's buying me dinner. I had a nice tuna salad lined up for my tea but, Dude - well that kinda wins hands down. And it's only right that the Stead, who now earns some grands more than me and gets to borrow a car from the company should pay. Only, and here's the kicker, when the time came to hand over the cash, Mr Now-I-Earn-Mega-Bucks-And-Have-A-Considerably-Better-Car-Than-You announced that he had forgotten his wallet.
So there it is. The type of person that our Stead is. Basically a sponging scumbag.
Seriously though... There's no-one more deserving of a Band 4 than my man, Stead. Not only does he actually do some work when he gets to the office, but he does it amazingly well. Congratulations, Dude.
There was something else as well. I'm sure there was. Something really important. But it slips my mind.
Oh yeah. That election business. I trust all you UK readers went out and voted. If you did, whatever your political views... well done. You've done your civic duty and you should be proud of your contribution to the wonderful thing that is Democracy. If not, and you don't have an amazingly good reason... well, quite frankly you don't deserve a government. You're obviously shite or intellectually stunted and should bloody well sod off.
So, yeah. As of Monday(ish) he'll be one grade ahead of me. Doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, since we don't work in the same part of the organisation, but I feel sure that he will take the opportunity to rub my nose in it as often as is sub-humanly possible. For my part, I will remind him that I, at least own my own car (could have planned that sentence better) and his is, at best, borrowed from the company. Which makes him some sort of sponger. A really limp one, I expect.
Anyway. Those best laid plans. (There's a great Eddie Izzard sketch about best laid plans... but I digress) Stead phoned me up on the way home to give me his amazing news. After his initial confusion about the amount of background noise the public transport on which I was travelling (the concept of which he is unfamiliar with), he soon got down to the important business:
"Dude," he said, "is on me tonight."
Now. Before I go on, I know how that phrase must have looked to those people who are unfamiliar with our use of the word 'Dude'. Pretty damn odd, I should think. I shall explain:
'Dude' is, of course used in place of 'Mate', 'Buddy' or 'Pal' in our circles. It is also used however , in place of 'Pizza'.
'Why?' I hear you ask. 'Why in God's name would you call pizza 'Dude'?'
Well there it is. Pizza Dude. The man who delivers the pizza is the 'Pizza Dude'. Hence, in our warped little minds, 'Dude' equates to pizza. So the guy who delivers the dude, is known as the 'Dude Dude'. Only we get our dude from the dude van by Tesco, which doesn't deliver. So we, as Dudes have to go to the Dude Dude to get the dude ourselves.
So that's sorted then. Clear? Good. I shall continue with my anecdote.
Fantastic. Someone's buying me dinner. I had a nice tuna salad lined up for my tea but, Dude - well that kinda wins hands down. And it's only right that the Stead, who now earns some grands more than me and gets to borrow a car from the company should pay. Only, and here's the kicker, when the time came to hand over the cash, Mr Now-I-Earn-Mega-Bucks-And-Have-A-Considerably-Better-Car-Than-You announced that he had forgotten his wallet.
So there it is. The type of person that our Stead is. Basically a sponging scumbag.
Seriously though... There's no-one more deserving of a Band 4 than my man, Stead. Not only does he actually do some work when he gets to the office, but he does it amazingly well. Congratulations, Dude.
There was something else as well. I'm sure there was. Something really important. But it slips my mind.
Oh yeah. That election business. I trust all you UK readers went out and voted. If you did, whatever your political views... well done. You've done your civic duty and you should be proud of your contribution to the wonderful thing that is Democracy. If not, and you don't have an amazingly good reason... well, quite frankly you don't deserve a government. You're obviously shite or intellectually stunted and should bloody well sod off.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
You'd be proud...
Well... it kinda depends on how easily impressed you are.
My morning shower was cut short by the insistent ringing of my phone. At 6.15 in the morning, I ask you.
Anyway... me good mate Woodsie was on the other end, wondering if I wanted a lift in this morning. I considered it for about a picosecond (carefully weighing the pros and cons of waiting in the rain to share a damp uncomfortable bus with 40 odd people, at least 2 of which are desperate to share their cold/cough/other ailment with me against a comfortable ride to town in a nice warm car) before stating 'Yes'.
The down-side of accepting the generous offer of a lift was encapsulated in the phrase 'Ok, mate. We're leaving now. See you in a couple of minutes.'
So... there's me - nekkid, still wet, unshaven, unbreakfasted, even. With about 3 minutes (which co-incidentally is the time it takes a Vauxhall Zafira to cover the 3 miles between Woodsie's house and mine) to dry myself, shave, brush my teeth, dress and be out the front of the house.
I made it.
Just.
My morning shower was cut short by the insistent ringing of my phone. At 6.15 in the morning, I ask you.
Anyway... me good mate Woodsie was on the other end, wondering if I wanted a lift in this morning. I considered it for about a picosecond (carefully weighing the pros and cons of waiting in the rain to share a damp uncomfortable bus with 40 odd people, at least 2 of which are desperate to share their cold/cough/other ailment with me against a comfortable ride to town in a nice warm car) before stating 'Yes'.
The down-side of accepting the generous offer of a lift was encapsulated in the phrase 'Ok, mate. We're leaving now. See you in a couple of minutes.'
So... there's me - nekkid, still wet, unshaven, unbreakfasted, even. With about 3 minutes (which co-incidentally is the time it takes a Vauxhall Zafira to cover the 3 miles between Woodsie's house and mine) to dry myself, shave, brush my teeth, dress and be out the front of the house.
I made it.
Just.
Monday, May 02, 2005
All Night Gaming
I think I must be officially addicted to City of Heroes.
Me, Stead and the very cool people in our SuperGroup, The Jam Busters, decided to do a Task force last night. We started shortly after 4pm and finished at... er.. about 2 in the morning. It was bad.
And we never beat the vicious bad guy (guyette) at the end of the mission, either.
I need closure, dammit!
Me, Stead and the very cool people in our SuperGroup, The Jam Busters, decided to do a Task force last night. We started shortly after 4pm and finished at... er.. about 2 in the morning. It was bad.
And we never beat the vicious bad guy (guyette) at the end of the mission, either.
I need closure, dammit!
Sunday, May 01, 2005
HHGTTG
Heh. Went to see it today. What can I say? Very cool. Stop whatever you're doing and go see it right now. Yes... NOW!
Thunderbolts and Lightening...
...Very Very Frightening.
Something that's always struck me a mildly amusing is the attitude that people in Bristol have towards Thunder and Lightening.
During the 5 years I have been in this strange little city, I have not experienced a single thunderstorm. Not one. Oh, there has been the odd rumble of thunder and an occasional flash of lightening. But no real storms. They ususally last about... oh 10 seconds. At most.
After we've had one of these 'storms' I hear people in the office saying things like 'Did you hear the storm last night?'. and 'I couldn't sleep beacause of all the thunder' and so-on.
Laugh, I do.
These people don't know what a thunderstorm is.
Now... when I lived on the sunny south coast, we had half decent thunderstorms. Ones that lasted more than 10 seconds and gave you plenty of rumble for your buck. Theys loiter around the solent, bouncing backwards and forwards between the Isle of Wight and and mainland all bloody night, sometimes. Right proper forked stuff 'n all.
My point? I have to have a point? Oh all right then.
Well we had a bit of a storm last night. It lasted about half an hour. And it was very cool. A pretty constant stobe effect accompanied by the sound of someone dropping wardrobes down the stairs. It was great.
I wouldn't be surprised, however if many people failed to come to work on Tuesday on account of the Apocalypse happening last night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)