Made it
Indeed I have. I'm now in (not so ) sunny Sydney. I've met up with Glanners and I'm kipping at his place for the time being. Good news for andy is that he might have a job starting on the 11th so if he does get that I'll leg it and probably go find Katy and Fi. Hostel is booked for the 20th to the 29th (crimble) and I think KAty's booked us in to a place in Coogee for New year (well done that lass).
My bag arrived today having been left in Singapore (muppets). Andy got woken up at half 6 this morning by the courier as I'd given them his phone number. Haha! And the kindly gent even went downstairs and picked it up for me. Int that good of him.
Jet lag has taken on a whole new meaning. My body clock's absolutely ruined but I guess it'll be alright soon enough.
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Thursday, November 27, 2003
oooh it's cold and it's dark most of the time and it's altogether not the best time of year to be in England. Hmm, how to solve this problem? I know, I'll leg it to Australia. Yes that's right folks, I can't stand another British winter and why should I when an Australian summer is only on the other side of the world?
So tomorrow I fly to Oz. Marvellous. I must apologise to those of you that know me if I've been a little rubbish (well totally rubbish actually) at getting to see everyone before I go to say proper goodbyes. I know it's a terrible excuse but I have been really really busy sorting out affairs before I leave.
As for the blog, well I suppose it will morph back into the travel journal thingy of old. Many of you may wish to unsubscribe as tales of sun sea and sand may well make your winter here less bearable than it would've been. Be happy for me though. It's not all roses anyway, the flight's really long! I'll blog next when in Sydney. Ciao for now!
So tomorrow I fly to Oz. Marvellous. I must apologise to those of you that know me if I've been a little rubbish (well totally rubbish actually) at getting to see everyone before I go to say proper goodbyes. I know it's a terrible excuse but I have been really really busy sorting out affairs before I leave.
As for the blog, well I suppose it will morph back into the travel journal thingy of old. Many of you may wish to unsubscribe as tales of sun sea and sand may well make your winter here less bearable than it would've been. Be happy for me though. It's not all roses anyway, the flight's really long! I'll blog next when in Sydney. Ciao for now!
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Not that I'm xenophobic
But our american cousins can be quite daft can't they? Slightly old news that our waistband challenged cousins have been getting up to silly yanctics concerning law suits and a certain Scottish restaurant. Personally I'm not adverse to munching on the highly unhealthy products of Ronalds' boys but I am also not unfamiliar with PMT*.
Our American friends must have experienced PMT on more than one occasion, although looking at the average volume of the US belly this could have taken a very long time. So their law suits have prompted a change in the marketing plan of the fast food giant. Let's be heathy, lets go to Mcdonalds. Doesn't sound right does it? Neither does, "I'll have a and a pasta salad please."
It appears to me that fast food is fast food. It is an indulgence but not sustenance. If people are stupid enough to eat it all the time then that's their fault but really, suing them? Idiocy. Still this outbreak of greed (monetary not gastric) could have had an unintentional knock on effect. A scared marketing team at McDonalds are pushing the healthy stuff. Great idea, but no one's eating it. Carry on at this rate and we might see the collapse of the Golden Arches.
*PMT = post McDonalds trauma. A direct result of taking an American appetite to a British belly
Friday, November 21, 2003
Word on the street, or more truthfully in the kitchen, has it that the subscription service has once again gone down. It does have a really annoying habit of doing that, but after a bit of jiggery pokery, I think I've sorted it. So yes, once again you can be innundated with your little bloglet mails alerting you to the fact that is groundbreakking, sharp, topical literature on the revolicktion. Of course, you may not see it that way but who's counting.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Winning Isn't Normal
For me at least. But this time I have won. Haha! Get me! You may remember that I entered a competition a little while ago, to make Mrs Duck laugh. Well it seems I made the old girl giggle quite a bit, as I won first place. So a copy of Roger Mellie's wonderful and inspired new edition of the PROFANISAURUS is currently winging it's way to me. For those of you wondering what made Mrs Duck laugh so, wonder no more as here is the winning entry. Be warned it's quite long but apparently worth a read.
[::..The Dog Lady..::]
The age of fifteen was a very important one for me. I was nearly allowed to buy cigarettes without breaking the law, I had my first ‘proper’ girlfriend and I moved house for the first time in my life. Being fifteen, I didn’t know much about the house moving lark, but luckily my mum was in control of that so I only had minimal stress from the whole operation.
We moved into a quaint end terrace in a (semi) desirable area of my home town, Whitefield. With my two brothers having recently left home to go to university, I had first choice in bedrooms, and being a fifteen year old rebellious type I chose to set up shop in the cellar. Although it had no windows it was extremely comfortable and was big enough for a double bed. Bear in mind I had my first ‘proper’ girlfriend at this stage and so had high hopes for this bed.
After the excitement of the move I was straight to sleep on my first night. It was absolutely pitch black in that cellar, an unforseen bonus of having no windows, and I slept like… well, like a knackered fifteen year old in a pitch black room on a questionably comfortable, but very large, bed.
I wasn’t sure if I was having a nightmare or what, but suddenly I was wide awake. I couldn’t tell what time of day or night it was but, as I was convinced the end of the world was nigh, it didn’t really matter. Coming from somewhere was a noise that could only be described as a jackal being raped by the Hound of the Baskervilles whilst running repeatedly up and down a flight of stairs. I fell up my concrete staircase and burst through my door to be greeted by my mum’s horrified face. Horrified as I’m not a pretty sight first thing in the morning but also because she was hearing the same thing I was.
After much deliberation and investigation all became clear. Our new neighbour, Lynda, was something of a dog lover, and worked shifts in a nursing home. This explained why we were only allowed to view the house at certain times before buying and possibly why the devious gits that lived there before us had wanted out. Lynda had eleven dogs at this stage. All were mongrels and all did stink. However, having just moved there we couldn’t do much about it so we lived with it.
For two years we lived with it and by now I was seventeen. In those two years certain things came to light concerning Lynda and, it has to be said, just how mad she was. Every morning breakfast would be cooked for the dogs (or her ‘children’ as she referred to them). Eggs and bacon usually, slopped onto the kitchen floor. Whilst working her shifts at the nursing home, Lynda would lock up her dogs for twelve hours in her two up two down terrace. As dogs do they would relieve themselves when and where they felt like it. Lynda would then return home and go ballistic shouting things such as, ‘What have you done you filthy bastards?’ Well, they’d done what dogs do. Lynda’s dogs had also been given disturbingly human names, such as Barney, Philip, Lewis etc. Perhaps the most disturbing fact of all was that none of the bitches in her pack had been spade. So by now she had twenty of these inbred hell hounds running amuck in her stinking hovel of a home. Oh yes, the smell. I haven’t mentioned the smell have I? The thin walls that allowed us to glean all this information also let us know what Lynda’s house must smell like. Less than pleasant as I am sure you can imagine.
Despite the dogs, things were looking up. My mum was going on holiday for two weeks and leaving me to house sit. Imagine my joy, seventeen and a pad of my own for a fortnight. My best mate, James, decided this was too good an opportunity to miss and promptly moved in. We didn’t have parties every night and the music wasn’t on that loud all the time. So I don’t know what it was but Lynda seemed to have taken a certain dislike to us, often beating the walls and shouting nonsense through them, such as, ‘I’ll tell your mother you’re smoking those drugs of ecstasy!’
James and I decided we’d had enough of her and her dogs. So we took action, as any self respecting, mischievous seventeen year olds would. The first stop was the butchers and the second the chemist. Lynda was on day shifts, which was fortunate, and so when she was gone for the day, my friend and I posted five premium scotch beef steaks, laced with laxatives, through her door. Twenty dogs, all with the screaming ad dabs, locked up for twelve hours; imagine the mess.
That night we knew it had had the desired effect. She went mental; absolutely, undeniably crazy. ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! AAAAARGH!’ At which point she broke down. I must say I felt a pang of guilt for a second but then she pulled herself together and seemed to be preparing to clean the place. Only Lynda’s idea of cleaning was as twisted as her idea of ‘children’. From what we could hear it sounded like she was filling a bath. But then the sound of sluicing water told us she had filled a tin bath and just chucked it on the floor. What a way to clean your house.
Despite our previous and momentary guilt, James and I felt our mission had been accomplished. Surely now she would get rid of at least some of the inbred mutts. But one must never assume and we were not dealing with a rational being here. The dogs stayed, and after our little prank, the stench increased exponentially.
When my mum returned from holiday she too must have felt it was time to do something. The environmental health were called in. After a preliminary investigation they decided Lynda’s house was a) the worst case they’d had in a private residence and b) rotting from the inside out. They proposed to gut it and give it a full new interior. Lynda, mentally challenged as she is, had failed to buy any house insurance. As a result, hard earned tax payers’ cash was used in the form of a council grant to give her a brand spanking new house, including double glazing!?. In a few years she’ll probably get another free refurb as she now has twenty five dogs. I realise it’s not the dogs’ fault but still, I can’t help thinking that perhaps my mate and I should have used poison instead of poo powder.
Suggestions
As you all recall (shamefacedly) I did ask for suggestions as to what to write about for this story. Not forgetting Ben's suggestion (1000 pages on being short... cheers Ben) I might make this a (semi) regular thing. What do you reckon?
For me at least. But this time I have won. Haha! Get me! You may remember that I entered a competition a little while ago, to make Mrs Duck laugh. Well it seems I made the old girl giggle quite a bit, as I won first place. So a copy of Roger Mellie's wonderful and inspired new edition of the PROFANISAURUS is currently winging it's way to me. For those of you wondering what made Mrs Duck laugh so, wonder no more as here is the winning entry. Be warned it's quite long but apparently worth a read.
The age of fifteen was a very important one for me. I was nearly allowed to buy cigarettes without breaking the law, I had my first ‘proper’ girlfriend and I moved house for the first time in my life. Being fifteen, I didn’t know much about the house moving lark, but luckily my mum was in control of that so I only had minimal stress from the whole operation.
We moved into a quaint end terrace in a (semi) desirable area of my home town, Whitefield. With my two brothers having recently left home to go to university, I had first choice in bedrooms, and being a fifteen year old rebellious type I chose to set up shop in the cellar. Although it had no windows it was extremely comfortable and was big enough for a double bed. Bear in mind I had my first ‘proper’ girlfriend at this stage and so had high hopes for this bed.
After the excitement of the move I was straight to sleep on my first night. It was absolutely pitch black in that cellar, an unforseen bonus of having no windows, and I slept like… well, like a knackered fifteen year old in a pitch black room on a questionably comfortable, but very large, bed.
I wasn’t sure if I was having a nightmare or what, but suddenly I was wide awake. I couldn’t tell what time of day or night it was but, as I was convinced the end of the world was nigh, it didn’t really matter. Coming from somewhere was a noise that could only be described as a jackal being raped by the Hound of the Baskervilles whilst running repeatedly up and down a flight of stairs. I fell up my concrete staircase and burst through my door to be greeted by my mum’s horrified face. Horrified as I’m not a pretty sight first thing in the morning but also because she was hearing the same thing I was.
After much deliberation and investigation all became clear. Our new neighbour, Lynda, was something of a dog lover, and worked shifts in a nursing home. This explained why we were only allowed to view the house at certain times before buying and possibly why the devious gits that lived there before us had wanted out. Lynda had eleven dogs at this stage. All were mongrels and all did stink. However, having just moved there we couldn’t do much about it so we lived with it.
For two years we lived with it and by now I was seventeen. In those two years certain things came to light concerning Lynda and, it has to be said, just how mad she was. Every morning breakfast would be cooked for the dogs (or her ‘children’ as she referred to them). Eggs and bacon usually, slopped onto the kitchen floor. Whilst working her shifts at the nursing home, Lynda would lock up her dogs for twelve hours in her two up two down terrace. As dogs do they would relieve themselves when and where they felt like it. Lynda would then return home and go ballistic shouting things such as, ‘What have you done you filthy bastards?’ Well, they’d done what dogs do. Lynda’s dogs had also been given disturbingly human names, such as Barney, Philip, Lewis etc. Perhaps the most disturbing fact of all was that none of the bitches in her pack had been spade. So by now she had twenty of these inbred hell hounds running amuck in her stinking hovel of a home. Oh yes, the smell. I haven’t mentioned the smell have I? The thin walls that allowed us to glean all this information also let us know what Lynda’s house must smell like. Less than pleasant as I am sure you can imagine.
Despite the dogs, things were looking up. My mum was going on holiday for two weeks and leaving me to house sit. Imagine my joy, seventeen and a pad of my own for a fortnight. My best mate, James, decided this was too good an opportunity to miss and promptly moved in. We didn’t have parties every night and the music wasn’t on that loud all the time. So I don’t know what it was but Lynda seemed to have taken a certain dislike to us, often beating the walls and shouting nonsense through them, such as, ‘I’ll tell your mother you’re smoking those drugs of ecstasy!’
James and I decided we’d had enough of her and her dogs. So we took action, as any self respecting, mischievous seventeen year olds would. The first stop was the butchers and the second the chemist. Lynda was on day shifts, which was fortunate, and so when she was gone for the day, my friend and I posted five premium scotch beef steaks, laced with laxatives, through her door. Twenty dogs, all with the screaming ad dabs, locked up for twelve hours; imagine the mess.
That night we knew it had had the desired effect. She went mental; absolutely, undeniably crazy. ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! AAAAARGH!’ At which point she broke down. I must say I felt a pang of guilt for a second but then she pulled herself together and seemed to be preparing to clean the place. Only Lynda’s idea of cleaning was as twisted as her idea of ‘children’. From what we could hear it sounded like she was filling a bath. But then the sound of sluicing water told us she had filled a tin bath and just chucked it on the floor. What a way to clean your house.
Despite our previous and momentary guilt, James and I felt our mission had been accomplished. Surely now she would get rid of at least some of the inbred mutts. But one must never assume and we were not dealing with a rational being here. The dogs stayed, and after our little prank, the stench increased exponentially.
When my mum returned from holiday she too must have felt it was time to do something. The environmental health were called in. After a preliminary investigation they decided Lynda’s house was a) the worst case they’d had in a private residence and b) rotting from the inside out. They proposed to gut it and give it a full new interior. Lynda, mentally challenged as she is, had failed to buy any house insurance. As a result, hard earned tax payers’ cash was used in the form of a council grant to give her a brand spanking new house, including double glazing!?. In a few years she’ll probably get another free refurb as she now has twenty five dogs. I realise it’s not the dogs’ fault but still, I can’t help thinking that perhaps my mate and I should have used poison instead of poo powder.
Suggestions
As you all recall (shamefacedly) I did ask for suggestions as to what to write about for this story. Not forgetting Ben's suggestion (1000 pages on being short... cheers Ben) I might make this a (semi) regular thing. What do you reckon?
Friday, November 14, 2003
Well, that was very strange. Just lifted a picture perfectly innocently to see if it would load up. And it did. This I must try again!
 |
Well blow me down. There's a wonderful set of bobbins! Mercy me, and all I did was nick it. Oops. I suppose it might be under copyright. I'd better link it then. Here we go: a full and proper reference.
Erm, my HTML is still a bit duff so any of you bright sparks out there wanting to tell me how to get the text aligned right next to the picture, feel free to do so. Thanks. No Smart Alec remarks please. It may not look astoundingly beautiful but I've sort of worked it out. Ain't I clever? |
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Spencer 'one face' Moon
Anyone ever noticed that Spencer out of Eastenders always pulls the same face. That worried sappy looking thing that he does usually when concerned with his Nana. I think the wind must have changed when he was taking a particularly stubborn toid.
Cheapskate Frustrations
Having looked around at a few other blogs I've noticed that people don't pay for the pleasure of using blogger (like myself) yet seem to have made it possible to upload pictures direct to their blog. How do you do it? Call me a dumb git if you like but I can't work it out. I'm just sick of having to put in links like this that I'm sure no one clicks on anyway. Go on, tell me how to do it. Go on... go on.. go on go on go on.
End Games
Although still incomplete the TBT (tiresome bloody thesis) is closer than its ever been to completion. I'm just rediscovering what it feels like to try and work all day, and how much other stuff it's possible to do when you've got something you should be doing. My room's tudy, I'm drinking more tea than ever before, smoking far too much and I've been 'working' all day, yet still seem to have done nothing. Ho hum.
Get the Hell Out of Dodge
Despite troubles with the TBT I now have an end of limbo in sight. The plan is to flee the country before my birthday. Wish me luck!
Anyone ever noticed that Spencer out of Eastenders always pulls the same face. That worried sappy looking thing that he does usually when concerned with his Nana. I think the wind must have changed when he was taking a particularly stubborn toid.
Cheapskate Frustrations
Having looked around at a few other blogs I've noticed that people don't pay for the pleasure of using blogger (like myself) yet seem to have made it possible to upload pictures direct to their blog. How do you do it? Call me a dumb git if you like but I can't work it out. I'm just sick of having to put in links like this that I'm sure no one clicks on anyway. Go on, tell me how to do it. Go on... go on.. go on go on go on.
End Games
Although still incomplete the TBT (tiresome bloody thesis) is closer than its ever been to completion. I'm just rediscovering what it feels like to try and work all day, and how much other stuff it's possible to do when you've got something you should be doing. My room's tudy, I'm drinking more tea than ever before, smoking far too much and I've been 'working' all day, yet still seem to have done nothing. Ho hum.
Get the Hell Out of Dodge
Despite troubles with the TBT I now have an end of limbo in sight. The plan is to flee the country before my birthday. Wish me luck!
Sunday, November 09, 2003
Something has just been brought to my attention that I'd completely forgotten about. Anybody see Jonathan Ross chat show the other night. That Alex Parks was singing her new single on it (well, about 45 seconds of it). Some people appear to think it was a good rendition, but for those of you who did hear, check out what technology today can do for someone's voice. Of course, those of you raving about the about the girl may have a point but in my mind it's just more of this 'churn out a popstar, make a shitload of cash, and fill up prime time viewing with this trash'. Discuss at the forum if you can be bothered, but it's honestly worth a click just to see the quote I found from one of Alex's fans.
Friday, November 07, 2003
Bloody brilliant. The new computer has arrived. And I have to say not soon enough. It was meant to be delivered on Wednesday but imagine my dismay when it didn't show. Boo. But then today it did show up. So I've been wasting away infront of it pretty much all day. Sad bastard? Well that may be but I do enjoy it so leave me be. Office will be installed this evening and then the dreaded thesis can be kicked into touch. Oh the joy that will give me.
Competition
As you know, I entered Scaryduck's competition the other day. I chose the form of a short story to tickle Mrs Duck's ribs. So I've sent it off to him (I think, but the dodgy old computer was acting very strangely prior to its demise) and shall await the result. I was just wondering if anyone would like to peruse my efforts and if you do then let me know in the usual way and I'll post it on here or elsewhere.
Time Wasting
Proctor has pointed me in the direction of this most foolish game. I think it's been out for ages though so forgive me if I'm telling you nothing new. Its name is celebdaq. It works on the very simple premise of celebrities being viewed as the equivalent to companies on the stock market. However, their value is dictated by the column inches of news coverage they receive. So you can buy, trade and sell as you wish. Sound inane? It is. But I bet you have a look anyway. Personally I prefer real shares, even when you've got no money to invest you can still get a trial portfolio up and running.
Competition
As you know, I entered Scaryduck's competition the other day. I chose the form of a short story to tickle Mrs Duck's ribs. So I've sent it off to him (I think, but the dodgy old computer was acting very strangely prior to its demise) and shall await the result. I was just wondering if anyone would like to peruse my efforts and if you do then let me know in the usual way and I'll post it on here or elsewhere.
Time Wasting
Proctor has pointed me in the direction of this most foolish game. I think it's been out for ages though so forgive me if I'm telling you nothing new. Its name is celebdaq. It works on the very simple premise of celebrities being viewed as the equivalent to companies on the stock market. However, their value is dictated by the column inches of news coverage they receive. So you can buy, trade and sell as you wish. Sound inane? It is. But I bet you have a look anyway. Personally I prefer real shares, even when you've got no money to invest you can still get a trial portfolio up and running.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
1, 2, 3..... Awwwww. Poor Pogo! The guy took the trouble to let me know that he'd (or she'd, actually) come in at 'revolicktion viewer' number 106. Well at least Pogo let me know! Which ever muppet came in at 100 could now be enjoying an all expenses paid cruise around Australia but I'm afraid that the closing date has come and gone and so that prize has been forfeited.
I can sense the gasps all round, 'But I thought he said the prize would be shit?' Well personally I can't inmagine anything worse than cruising around Australia , but then that's me. Besides, cruises are usually full of old people (not that I'm ageist or anything, they just don't tend to like me very much)
After giving Pogo a much deserved round of applause for utilizing the commenting system, I did notice that the mysterious Pogo had failed to suggest short story topics. I guess I can't have everything. Perhaps a clue was in the name though and a subtle hint was to write a story about a pogo stick. Then again, maybe I'm just being overly optimistic.
But I have had a suggestion for the short story. Oh yes indeed. A Mr Ben Moon from Slovenia of all places took the extra care to call me big nose and suggest writing 1000 pages on being short because it would 'be ironic'. I'm beginning to think that this Moon character may bknow me and is using a psuedonym to hide his true identity. As if anyone would have the surname Moon anyway. Regardless, it's all a bit creepy. But my request for you lovely reading populous this time is to barage the Slovenian postal service with abuse. I sent Ben some lovely postcards ages ago and he never received them, not that I know this Ben Moon or anything, honest.
The poll about Kill Bill has been a disastrous failure. Largely due to the fact that no one has posted an opion about the film one way or the other. I am therefore resigned to believing my initial reaction; that it was a bag of shite. Go on, prove me wrong.
As a final note, I'll not be posting anything for a little while....
...
...
...
(just waiting for the whoops of glee to subside)
...
...
...
as I'm getting a new computer tomorrow. It may take me some time to set up and piss around on before I can be arsed to write here again so come back in a week. Make the most of your time and do some work instead of reading this diatribe. Who knows, you might even get employee of the month!
I can sense the gasps all round, 'But I thought he said the prize would be shit?' Well personally I can't inmagine anything worse than cruising around Australia , but then that's me. Besides, cruises are usually full of old people (not that I'm ageist or anything, they just don't tend to like me very much)
After giving Pogo a much deserved round of applause for utilizing the commenting system, I did notice that the mysterious Pogo had failed to suggest short story topics. I guess I can't have everything. Perhaps a clue was in the name though and a subtle hint was to write a story about a pogo stick. Then again, maybe I'm just being overly optimistic.
But I have had a suggestion for the short story. Oh yes indeed. A Mr Ben Moon from Slovenia of all places took the extra care to call me big nose and suggest writing 1000 pages on being short because it would 'be ironic'. I'm beginning to think that this Moon character may bknow me and is using a psuedonym to hide his true identity. As if anyone would have the surname Moon anyway. Regardless, it's all a bit creepy. But my request for you lovely reading populous this time is to barage the Slovenian postal service with abuse. I sent Ben some lovely postcards ages ago and he never received them, not that I know this Ben Moon or anything, honest.
The poll about Kill Bill has been a disastrous failure. Largely due to the fact that no one has posted an opion about the film one way or the other. I am therefore resigned to believing my initial reaction; that it was a bag of shite. Go on, prove me wrong.
As a final note, I'll not be posting anything for a little while....
...
...
...
(just waiting for the whoops of glee to subside)
...
...
...
as I'm getting a new computer tomorrow. It may take me some time to set up and piss around on before I can be arsed to write here again so come back in a week. Make the most of your time and do some work instead of reading this diatribe. Who knows, you might even get employee of the month!
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