Saturday, July 31, 2004

It took a lost weekend... 

Spent the day making a minidisc for Amsterdam - The One and I go on Thursday, there to spend a long weekend with her friends... They're having a party and wanted me to DJ - I couldn't be bothered schlepping all my records over, so instead have compiled two and a half hours worth of live mixed minidisc, which I can simply plug in to their stereo and dance away myself. Kids, it might just be the future of DJing.

Anyway, I love making a minidisc (or compilation tape if you're still in the 20th century). Every time I do it something mad pops up in the middle and I think: my God! Why don't I play that every time...?

So here's the tracklisting. "Eclectic," I think is the word. Also, "genius".

Lloyd Cole and the Commotions - Lost Weekend (always had to start with this - "it took a lost weekend, in a hotel in Amsterdam..."
Len - Steal My Sunshine
Jackie Wilson - Sweetest Feeling
Emotions - Best Of My Love
Stevie Wonder - Superstition
Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince - Summertime
Kings Of Tomorrow - Finally
Moloko - Sing It Back
Gerling - Enter Space Capsule
Beats For Beginners - Summer Lovers
Beach Boys - Wouldn't It Be Nice
Beatles - I Feel Fine
Stone Roses - The Hardest Thing In The World
Doors - Touch Me
Fun Lovin' Criminals - The Fun Lovin' Criminal
Primal Scream - Loaded
Happy Mondays - Step On
The Las - There She Goes
Byrds - Mr Tambourine Man
Bobby Darin - Somewhere Beyond The Sea
Neil Diamond - Cracklin' Rosie
Eddie Cochran - C'mon Everybody
Fine Young Cannibals - Suspicious Minds
Pet Shop Boys - Always On My Mind
Human League - Together In Electric Dreams
Outkast - Hey Ya!
Dee Lite - Groove Is In The Heart
S Club - Don't Stop Movin'
Abba - Does Your Mother Know
Pulp - Disco 2000
Primitives - Crash
Mock Turtles - Can You Dig It?
Supergrass - Alright
Madness - House Of Fun
Chas n Dave - Rabbit
Junior Senior - Move Your Feet
Jackson 5 - I Want You Back
Beyonce - Crazy In Love
Billy Joel - Piano Man
Kinks - Sunny Afternoon

They'll dance, they'll laugh... and at the end, they'll cry.


Friday, July 30, 2004

Smoking harms you and others around you 

Conversation on the way back from the pub just now:

Homeless Person (HP): Got any spare change mate?
Me: Sorry...
HP: Got a fag then?
Me (I always give cigarettes to homeless people - god knows why): Sure mate, here you go...
HP: Is that Marlboro red?
Me: Oh. Er, yes.
HP: Have you not got Marlboro light?
Me: Um, no. Just these.
HP: Here - have it back. Too strong for me, those things - they'll kill you, you know...

In the pub tonight there was a band of wandering head masseurs. No, seriously. There were two chicks of vaguely East European extraction (I'm guessing Serbia, but could be the lowlands of the Rhine - either way they were quite foxy) and they were going round the pub offering "back, neck and head massages" for a small fee. What did we do? We clubbed together and got P a head massage. How long before the first "you know his groin is quite stiff, love" comment got made? Oooh, about 30 seconds. To be fair, P did look very relaxed afterwards. Relaxed and (frankly) aroused, if such a thing is possible.

But you know, in my day, the beer was considered relaxing enough. (And arousing enough.) Well - the beer and the fags. The beer, the fags and the conversation. And the kebab on the way home, of course.


Thursday, July 29, 2004

Wake up! It's a beautiful morning 

The cricket's on the box, the kids are playing in the square from 9am till teatime and the pubs are full from midday. Yes, Summer's here and the time is right... for remembering the point of freelance journalism: ie grabbing a book and a minidisc, a couple of cold beers and a pair of sunglasses, and heading to the park to "think of ideas to pitch". Or failing that, spending the afternoon supine on the grass with New Order in your ears and the sun on your face and nothing to look at but the au pairs and young mums of North London...

Me, I'm about to don a pair of shorts and an England top, get a haircut and head for the green. But I'll be thinking of the rest of the country, sweating into their shirt-and-tie combos, cramped in their shiny suit trousers, locked in their suffocating offices till the evening. Oh yes, I'll be thinking of them. Thinking of them and laughing: suckers!


Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Phyrric victory 

And now, predictably, I can't sleep. It's 3am. That's what I get for trying to be healthy.


Monday, July 26, 2004


Wake up and smell the Ribena: for tonight I blog sober. Having been dosed up on Sudafed and alcohol every night since last Thursday - and given that tomorrow I'm down (and out) with a Sarf Laaandan crew - I figured this was my big chance for a night off.

And so... so we have the usual ingredients of a night off. We have a good half a litre of Ribena despatched already, we have The 101 Most Embarrassing Sexual Accidents (no, really) on TV and I've mostly been listening to William Shatner sing Pulp's Common People (courtesy of this amusing Welshman) on my computer. Well it beats looking for porn...

But then the whole day has been quite sensible. Today was a work day; today was one of those left-it-till-the-deadline days. And when I'm on deadline I can be a serious young man. Deadline days mean a near-continuous supply of weapons-grade coffee, a chain of cigarettes you could almost measure in dead bronchioli, and a constant background roar of The Clash and The Libertines. All of which help focus the mind to the job in hand and distract one from thoughts of PlayStation, cricket on the telly, or cute chicks in the park.

And so the upshot of all this impeccably focussed behaviour is that a fortnight after it was commissioned and some five or six albums and a whole shitload of caffeine and nicotine after I sat down this morning, the Fathers Who Kill piece is finally done.

Come Wednesday of course they'll be wanting changes, but for now I'm free from any commissions, sober as a baby... and don't really know what to do with my hands without work or wine to keep them occupied.


Sunday, July 25, 2004

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I sing not loud or long 

Last night we went out for dinner.

Picture the scene, gentle reader: the south bank of the river Thames at Tower Bridge, gateway to London, entrance to the Western World. A table outside a bistro in the dying light of a balmy summer's evening; some chilled white wine, some velevety red, a glass or two of champagne, a bottle or two of Italian beer. Gnocchi, pizzas, monkfish and penne picante... me, The One and the Siblings, toasting ourselves and each other and all the happy chances that brought us to this moment. There was laughter, anecdotes, memories old and new; there were birthday presents given out (to my sister) and there were promises of presents to come (for me, as it happens). There was toasting and there were moments of silence. It was... lovely.

After dinner we repaired three minutes walk along the river to All Bar One. And there, amidst the council throwouts and the nasty haircutted city bankers, the Ben-Shermaned boys and the denim-skirted girls, the shouting and staring and bitter taste of sex and violence, we drank fat pints and remembered that for every beautiful example of European Cafe Society that London can offer, you're never very far from real English culture. The apple doesn't land far from the tree, kids: and we'll die in the class we were born.


Amidst the rock 'n' rollness, some reality 

So you know what I did today? I bought a pot of mint. From a farmer's market. And then I took a cutting of basil from The One. And then I brought them both home and put them on my windowsill, next to my pot of rosemary. I later used some of the mint, when I boiled some potatoes for my dinner.

Just in case I was looking at all cool for a while back there... I thought you should see the flipside.


Friday, July 23, 2004

When in doubt, make a list 

Pretty bored today. Bored and hungover. Last night ended with me and The One throwing ourselves around the dancefloor to the Buzzcocks and S Club 7 whilst my siblings, friends, pretty much everyone else at the party and even the DJ looked on in bemusement. Still, at the time I thought it was ace - such is the power of Guinness and vodka/lime chasers.

Anyway, got a whole bloody feature to write today and I'm too bored to start it. Someone said that only boring people get bored... and that could be true. But it reminds me of the ace story of Prince Boothby, the decadent aristocrat who murdered himself because it had become such a bore getting dressed and undressed each day...

So instead of writing useful and informative things about familial homicide, I'm going to think of a list of things to which I'm currently addicted. As someone cleverer than me once put it: you've heard of the rogue male? Well I'm his modern descendant, the junk male.

1. Booze (obviously).
2. Marlboro cigarettes. Breakfast of goddamn champions.
3. Coffee. Strong, sweet, milky. Lots of everything is the golden rule for a cup of coffee. At least three cups to be served with the first two cigarettes of the day before dressing, washing, etc.
4. Television. The tackier the better. Especially the mildly titillating quasi-pornographic kind, as evinced by the likes of Hollyoaks or Beverly Hills 90210.
5. Championship Manager 03/04 for the PC. This has replaced Final Fantasy Tactics for the GameBoy and Vice City on the PlayStation as my current biggest source of wasted time.
6. Public adoration. I despise them... but I need their love.
7. The One. I can't get enough of her.
8. Nasty undercooked fried food served by unhygienic-looking Turkish fellers and smothered in limp salad and mayonnaise. But only between the hours of 11.30pm and 3am.
9. Lemsip/Nurofen/Sudafed. Anything with paracetamol in, basically.
10. My own name in print. Especially with accompanying photograph.

Having just reread this I've come to the conclusion that I'm probably not a very nice person. Please don't believe that. I'm ace, really. Trust me.  


Thursday, July 22, 2004

The Fastest Shower Ever Taken 

Quick, hurry, quiiiiick...

I'm in a rush. Got a party on a boat to go to, complete with free booze, barbequed food and assorted siblings, friends, aquaintances and The One. Fifteen minutes ago I finished writing a problem page ("my mum doesn't approve of my boyfriend...") and now I'm squeezing you in before The Fastest Shower Ever Taken.

Last night I finished writing about the modern Premiership footballer's preference for a Bentley (no, really - it seems you can buy class, just like they teach in America) about 2-30am... and this morning I was up at 9am to talk to a forensic psychologist. Kids, I barely had time to squeeze in a couple of hours on Championship Manager 03/04 amongst all the work: life is hard.

Anyways. Gotta split. The soap, the shampoo is calling...


Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Spice o'life 

Here's a thing. I love my job - I love the fact that I don't (usually) have to get up especially early in the mornings and can keep writing all night if I want, that I don't (really) have to answer to anyone on a daily basis, that I don't (normally) need to take on commissions that I don't fancy doing too much... but most of all I love the transience, the flimsiness of my job.

I love the fact that I take a commission, I write it, it's out there, it's gone. I love the fact that few things last longer than a couple of weeks and nothing ever longer than a month or so. I love the fact that one day I can be writing about something important, fundamental, life-changing... and the next I can be banging on about shopping, or Big Brother, or my ex-girlfriends. This is what I thrive on, this is the reason it's the only job I've ever stuck at, the reason I'm so goddamn good at it.

However, sometimes things can get a bit silly. Here's my to-do list for tonight:

* Write a 600 word intro to a feature on footballers and their cars (rest to be written tomorrow when the pictures come in).
* Research some figures on domestic violence for a 2,000 word report on "familicide" - the phenomenon whereby a woman (and/or her children) are murdered by her husband/their father - full report due in monday.
* Outline a brief for a first-person piece on why lads are scared of having their hair cut. 

I mean, really. And they say boys can't multitask?


Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Drinking with the Lord 

On the Simpsons today:
Homer: So they think I might have a drinking problem...
Marge (reading from an AA pamphlet entitled: Is Your Spouse a Souse?): Homey, do you ever drink alone?
Homer: Does the Lord count as a person?
Marge: No.
Homer: Then yes.
The funniest thing about drinking alone is that you somehow manage to drink an awful lot more than usual... without getting drunk.
Without any social interaction, you have nothing to measure your drunkenness against - and so you can find yourself sitting on the sofa polishing off a bottle of wine in front of Big Brother (for example) thinking: I'm sober as a Judge! It's only when you try to get up to go to the toilet or make some more chips or text The One to tell her you feckin love her you do, that you realise that somehow, despite your self-evident sobriety, all motor skills, reasoning and grasp of basic verbal communication seem to be malfunctioning somewhat...


Monday, July 19, 2004

There's good and bad in everyone 

On the downside:
1. I'm suffering with the flu: my sinuses are so bunged up with cold and shit that I feel like I've been repeatedly punched in the face. There's a slim chance I actually was repeatedly punched in the face last night (I was very, verrrry drunk), but as The One hasn't mentioned anything, I'll assume I wasn't.
On the upside:
1. The Christening was beautiful, the baby was cute and didn't cry, the booze was free and plentiful and we even made our train back on time.
2. Belle and Sebastian at Somerset House was incredible. I mean, literally, incredible. The second-best gig I've ever been to. (First best? New Order, Manchester G-Mex, 1988, supported by A Certain Ratio and the Happy Mondays. But I was 16 then, and the world was a different place.)
3. I found my Birth Certificate. Get down! (It was cleverly hidden amongst the details of a rent agreement from 1998 at the bottom of a wardrobe. I'd obviously put it there in a state of some paranoia.)


Saturday, July 17, 2004

Tripoli, south east London 

Hurray! Colonel Gaddafi wants to buy Crystal Palace football club! This has cheered me up no end.


Whatever happened to Saturday night? 

Okay, so nothing bad happened in the end. Well, not to me anyway. (Floods in India, bombs in Baghdad, war, famine, death, pestilence... it all passed me by yesterday.) Perhaps Newly Single was right. Perhaps I just needed a drink.
But if something bad happened to you last night... I told you so. I tried to warn you, and you didn't bloody listen, did you? Now who's sorry, eh?
Anyway. Last night was a welcome home dinner for The One: we ate Chinese on the sofa, we drank Pinot Grigio by the bottle, we watched action films until we fell asleep. When I woke she had her head buried in the gap between my arm and my chest and I watched her until she opened her eyes. The first thing she did was smile. We both fell asleep again listening to the radio and with the morning rain drumming on the windows. She was only gone ten days or so, but Jesus, I missed her.
Tonight was going to be an engagement party in London's fashionable (though dangerous) Hackney. Sadly The One is still wiped out from her trip abroad and I'm doing the sensible thing and having a night off the sauce. (I've amended my previous one-night-on, one-night-off drinking strategy into a one-night-off-a-week plan. It's going well so far - tonight is to be my first night off.)
Besides. Tomorrow we're on a train at 8-40am, speeding through the English countryside, northward-bound, to a Christening. We'll be toasting the baby by 10, and drunk before midday. Tomorrow night it's back to London for a Belle and Sebastian gig. Really - I need a night on the Lemsip* tonight, if only to fortify me for the long, painful, boozy road ahead. 
Fairly ironic of course, that it's Saturday night on which I choose to abstain. There I am, shitfaced through much of the working week... and the one night when everyone else cuts loose I stay at home with a mug of hot lemon and Big Brother on the box. Ironic? It's quite literally like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. Or not, Alanis.
*Lemsip: a popular cold remedy available over the counter in England, comprising of sachets of lemon, asprin and paracetomol, to which you add hot water. Also excellent as a hangover cure, or just if you need some kind of mild, sweet hit on a night without alcohol. Ignore the bit on the packaging about only taking one every four hours. 


Friday, July 16, 2004

By the pricking of my thumbs... 

Ever have one of those days when you've just got a bad feeling? When - for no discernible reason - you're struggling under a growing sense of impending... badness?
I've got that feeling. I've got a bad feeling about today... 

The One flew back into the country this morning (about three o'clock this morning). Hurrah! It feels like years. 


Thursday, July 15, 2004

Bad head today. The worst head in fact. Ooh, my head!

It was P's birthday last night, and to celebrate the fact that he shares his anniversaire with the whole French nation, we duly repaired to... er, a Belgian bar.

The only problem with Belgian bars is they serve ludicrously strong beer. Like, 8 per cent strong. And they serve it by the pint. That's the same as drinking a pint of wine. Naturally, after a few hours' toasting:
(a) P's 33 years and the subsequent end of his Earthly Ministry
(b) The manifold and subtle skills of Belgian brewers
(c) Gustav Eiffel (Belgian (not French) Tower builder, kids), Enzo Schifo (extravagantly gifted Belgian footballer from the 80s), Hercule Poirot (amusingly-moustachioed Belgian detective), and
(d) Ourselves for being able to think of three famous Belgians
it became clear that we had downed the equivalent of seven or eight pints of wine each. Alas! Clear heads gave way to muddled thinking, reason to emotion, and the evening collapsed like P's dodgy ankles. By closing time we were well and truly Banjaxed. Zeebrugged. Poiroted.

One of my exes was there too. I've not seen her since we split up, back in about 2000. I have a foggy memory of using the phrase "the years have been kind" when I spoke to her last night. I can't remember what she said in return.

Of course, as I left the bar at closing time - hugging and back-slapping and shaking hands all the way - I felt bloody great. I felt like Mr Big Goddamn Invincible Belgian Man. I felt like the King of Belgium. "I'm the King of Belgium!"

One bus ride, bag of chips, and seven hours fitful sleep on the sofa later, I felt... like I feel now.


Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Perfect. I appear to have lost my birth certificate.
There I was this morning, happily and very grown-uply filling in a form to register my change of address (after six years) on my driver's license... and then it gets to the bit where I have to send in my birth certificate as proof of ID.

Now I know I had my birth certificate last November, cos I renewed my passport. I know exactly where it should be... or failing that, another two places it might be. I even know a third where it could have ended up. Nope, nada, rien, zero.

Three hours later the flat has been turned upside-down and I haven't a clue where the bastard is. (What I did find is a whole lot of letters from my time with the Anti-One (see posting for Tuesday May 4th somewhere around here if you don't know to whom I am referring) which obviously helped my good mood enormously.)

I've got the feeling that losing one's birth certificate is rather serious, no? At the very least it's another shining example of just how shambolic my life is.

This is about the best thing I've read in years. Seriously.

Oh - and as for my one-on, one-off policy booze-wise... well that's all gone to hell. Today was such a non-achieving day that I figured I might as well drink another bottle of red and at least go to bed feeling I've done something with the last 24 hours.


Tuesday, July 13, 2004

So then, this Dutch girl has a good game: she's asked me five questions - I give five honest answers. If you want me to ask you five equally pertinent questions in turn, then read on...

1. So how much DO you drink?
I drink every day. Or at least most days. Technically I suppose I had my first drink when I was a baby - my Dad used to dip his little finger in his whisky and then have me suck on it to get to sleep... but I didn't get properly, seriously, blacking-out-and-throwing-up drunk until I was 14. I'm currently trying to initiate a "one on, one off" policy - meaning that (for example) because I drank a bottle of wine last night, and I know that tomorrow I'll be getting mullered for P's birthday, tonight I'll limit myself to maybe a quiet pint or a single whisky before bed. I love drinking: I think it makes me a nicer, funnier, better-looking person all round. I only wish I could remember more of what happens when I'm drunk.

2. So what would you do if you could be God for a day?
Anyone who answers a question like this with an answer like "eliminate poverty and war and injustice" deserves to be crucified. Me - I'd quit wasting time and cut straight to Armageddon. I'd be one vengeful, omnipotent motherfucker.

3. What is it that you have done that you regret the most?
When I was four I made a mother's day card at playgroup (I later got expelled from playgroup for making a parachute out of a Corn Flakes packet, a handkerchief and some string... and then jumping off the slide onto another child. I think I may have broken her arm - but I didn't mean it, and frankly I can't help feeling that the kind of precocious intelligence it takes to fashion a (semi) working parachute aged 4 deserved praise, not condemnation. Anyway...) and I proudly took it home and gave it to my Mum. She was delighted. It was, after all, a beautiful card, and made with love. Later that afternoon she wouldn't let me watch TV or eat a biscuit before dinner or something and in a rage I fetched the card from the mantlepiece and ripped it up in front of her. She burst into tears. Technically I've done nastier things in my life, I've fucked people up mentally and physically... but of all the horrible things I've done in my 31 years, that's the one that keeps me awake at night.

4. What is the greatest invention of all time?
Not the car, not the telephone, not the computer, or paperclip, or biro or anything invented in the last 200 years. The greatest invention of all time is the alphabet. Everything begins and ends with the alphabet. Full stop.

5. Who would you call if you only had 30 minutes left to live?
In this order:
1. A priest. I'd confess everything, beg for forgiveness and hope for the best. If ever there was a time for hedging one's bets God-wise, this would be it.
2. My mum. To apologise about the mother's day card incident.
3. The people who kicked me out of Oxford University. To finally tell them to go fuck themselves.
4. The priest again. To confess about phone call 3.
5. The One. Because I want her voice to be the last thing I ever hear.

And that's that.
So here are the rules, as I've understood them. If you want to play too:
1. Leave a comment (with email address) saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond with five pertinent questions.
3. You'll update your blog with my questions and your (searingly honest) answers.
4. You'll include this explanation.
5. You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
Bob, as they don't say in Holland, is your uncle.

That'll be about right then...

Forrest Gump!

What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla


Monday, July 12, 2004

Right then. The vino tinto is slipping down a treat, there's 45 minutes before Big Brother and after reading an excellent rant here by a hot Californian chick about the over-riding gaeity of Spiderman's seemingly-straight lovelife, I think it's time to share with you...

The Grand Theory of Heterosexual Gayness
(with particular reference to popular films and music)

First of all: it's not a gay vs straight thing - the theory could equally be called: The Grand Theory of Homosexual Straightness. Or Straight Homosexuality. Or Gay Heterosexuality. Or whatever. The crux of the matter lies here: popular culture's portrayal of Romance (capital R) is increasingly almost wholly devoid of sexual tension. Like a romance between a straight person and a gay person.

Now it can't be just me, and I can't be so soused in pornography and violence and the general casual degredation of sex to be numbed to the beauty of pure, innocent lurve... but every single time (every single time) I'm confronted with a 12-rated heterosexual on-screen love affair these days, I can't help thinking - is that the gayest thing, like, ever?

I'm not talking about prancing hobbits here either. The old electricity of boy-meets-girl has been totally lost in a morass of feelings and sensitivity and sweetness...

Look at Lord of the Rings (seeing as you've brought it up): they were so busy on concentrating on the ideals of duty and integrity and fidelity in the Romance between Aragorn and Guinevere (or whatever her name was) that they forgot to add any pizzaz. Where was the charge, the spark, the look in his eyes that said "Once I'm King I'm gonna give you what you've been waiting for, baby..."? Where was the look in hers that said: "And once Mr Frodo gets his shit together I'm going to show you just why it was worth waiting for..."?

Cast Richard Burton and Liz Taylor in those roles - or Kirk Douglas and, well, anybody - and you'll have known EXACTLY why she didn't sail into the East.

Now... now the boys have to be as girly as the girls. Why? Because the big market for Romance now lies squarely with the pre-teens. And (for obvious reasons) you can't introduce sexual tension into that equation. You can't have kids looking at Liv Tyler at the wedding scene and thinking: "she's gonna get the banging of her life tonight".

The same is true - in fact more so - with pop music. Pick a boyband, any boyband. Sure, they're pretty: but can they fuck? The answer is almost certainly, no. Look at them - these aren't boys any girl wants to actually get down and filthy with: they're boys they want to take home and have tea with, boys they want to play dressing-up with, boys they want... to actually be girls.

Pop Idol winner Will Young is openly gay - and yet gets thousands of screaming girls at his concerts. He's the apotheosis of Gay Heterosexual Love. "We love you Will!" read the banners - and it's cool for these 12-year-olds to love him, because he's never going to love them back in any unsavoury, physical, way.

(Meanwhile, poor Will can't actually find himself a boyfriend. Now there's irony for you.)

Not to put too blunt a point on it: Spiderman, Aragorn, etc, plus just about any young male pop star, are being presented in a way that robs them of any overt sexuality. They're men who never fuck their girlfriends.

Anyway, I rant. The point is this: without that tension, that fizz, that unspoken promise of raw animal lust to come (offscreen, natch, post-credits, backstage)... we're left with Romance. And nothing but Romance. Romance without lust. Heterosexual Gayness. We're left with Will and Grace. They love each other... but they're never going to actually have sex - like, ewwwww!

Sadly, any kind of romance, gay or straight, that doesn't involve lust, is doomed to be pretty short-lived. And that - more than any evil octopus men - is why Spiderman is doomed to die alone.

Oh my little ones, I feel terrible for abandoning you like this. It was neither sunshine, moonlight, good times or indeed boogie that has had to shoulder the blame for my extended silence... but a good old fashioned rash of viruses. Virii? Virux?

My computer (my NEW computer) has been reeling from the blows, staggering under the assault of every goddamn trojan horse, dropper and dialler known to man. From whence they came I do not know... but thanks to an all-out deployment of nuclear weaponry last night (till 3 this morning actually) with assorted anti-virus, anti-spybot and anti-annoyingtwatforplantingthemthereinthefirstplace software, the war, it seems, might finally be over. Good has triumphed over evil. It would almost be inspiring if it wasn't such an almighty pain in the arse.

Anyway. My apologies. I'm sure you've all moved on in my absence. Me? I'm going to cook some dinner now, open a bottle of Merlot, start on the second carton of duty free cigarettes, find some Spirtualized LPs and once I'm getting comfortably drunk, resume the important blogging business of education, information and entertainment... or failing that get back to trying to convince you that my seemingly dissolute existence is actually unremittingly big and clever.

Some things change; some stay the same.


Tuesday, July 06, 2004

So I've been home on terra Angleterra for less than a week and already The One and I are back to a texting relationship... after a blissful weekend together, she flew to Ibiza this evening with work. She won't be back for 10 days.

A blissful weekend means... I cooked her dinner on Sunday and we watched the football and bet on which player would be the Lid Twat*; she cooked me dinner last night and we stayed up till the early morning listening to punk rock 45s and drinking cheap white wine. Where I'm concerned, Love means shouting Stiff Little Fingers songs and downing Pinot Grigio straight from the bottle and falling asleep in each others arms as the neighbours bang on the walls.

And now it's a week of old skool existence for me. The lads, the pubs are calling...

*Lid Twat (noun). The player who, at the conclusion of any major championship or cup competition, will be the first to "amusingly" detach the top part, or lid, of the trophy and place it on his head, all the while grinning like he's the first man to ever think of such a thing, and often, upon spying TV cameras, accompanying the gesture with an impromptu dance.
My money was heavily on Portugal's Christiano Ronaldo. Alas, the Greeks won, and we had no idea how to pronounce any of their names. I did win a small side bet on young Christiano crying though, which he duly and lustily did...

Is it just me or is blogger straining under the pressure somewhat these days? Every other time I try to access a page it tells me I can't and logging in can take the best part of a Beach Boys record some mornings (that's about three minutes 30 seconds for the uninitiated). Perhaps it's the summer. I get like that when it's warm outside too. Sometimes it's all I can do to make it to the fridge to pour another glass of white before the exhaustion drives me back to the sofa and the soothing bliss of another Marlboro...


Sunday, July 04, 2004

Well, I'm back.

(1,000,000 Nerd Points to the person who knows what film ends with that line.)

Anyway, this is just a quick one to say...
1. Portugal was blissful
2. Despite the fact they beat us at footy
3. I'm quite literally brown - lazing around a pool for a week does that to a boy, apparently
4. I hope you missed me
5. I'll post something proper when I've had some sleep

One other thing - where are Tamara and Allie? Whither goest though, hot American chicks, in thy shiny car in the night...?

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?