Friday, June 30, 2006

No more Mr. Whingey

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Well it’s funny how and hour of cycling in the sunshine listening to my MP3 player, a splendid dinner of lasgne (including my own patented home made lasagne sheets) and a good night’s sleep can improve one’s outlook on life. No more Mr. Whingey. I unequivocally apologise for moaning like I did in my last blog. I was weak and depressed. The lack of World Cup entertainment had a sad and profound effect on me, I assure you that no one was as surprised as I when I found myself in the pits of despair over my financial short comings, however I am happy to point out this ‘glitch’ has now passed and it’s business as usual.

I knew I was back to my old self when I found myself rolling my eyes and sticking the V’s in the direction of the TV when another cavalcade of terrible adverts ensued. Being relative novices to the world of non-terrestrial television I must report my dismay at the amount of poor quality commercials that are shown on these channels. Notably there has been an insurgence of piss poor breakfast cereal adverts for no reason. One of the main culprits was my old ‘favourite’ Sheddred Wheat Bite Size advert- you know the one with the annoying teenager who says “Sarah’s mum …” whilst the mother looks no- plussed at her daughter’s enthusiasm towards her friend’s dear old mum. I’d hoped that this advert had died painfully, but alas it is my sad duty to report that it lives on in the world of UKTV Gold. This shameful display of trying to convey to us viewers the healthy properties of the cardboard flavoured roughage is literally ‘too annoying’ to watch. Surely the mum after hearing all these toe curling comments about how Sarah’s mum is so cool- does she not tell the daughter to “Shut the f**k up!” whilst she tried to eat her breakfast? It also begs the question “just how great is Sarah’s mum?” Who is this woman of which the advert is based around- and if she is so wonderful, the why didn’t the folks at Nestle use her for the advert?

The more excruciatingly bland advert is the couple- Tony & Helen who display their adulation for weetabix. “Today I’m eating my Weetabix with Blueberries and Yoghurt” Who gives a flying f**k? Can you imagine trying to eat a weetabix with yoghurt? How painfully dry would this be. Wheatabix- my stable breakfast cereal since the eighties should be enjoyed as the weeabix bunch (see above pic) intended- with lots of effing milk! God this couple annoy me. It’s done in that irritating video diary manner with their bland boring looking home wearing a smug look on her face as she takes a bit of the cereal in her annoying hotel style dressing gown (I hate the sight of dressing gowns anyway) as she talks to the camera. Is this the lifestyle today’s couples aspire to be like? A big house, blueberries in the fridge and a skin headed husband who no doubt met her when he was a coke dealing bouncer. She can shove her f**cking Wheatabix up her arse and that’ll fill her up till lunch.

These adverts put the quasi irritating “they’re gonna taste great” Frosties advert into perspective. Granted these appear to be the only adverts on the telly that don’t refer to football in someway which I suppose can only be a good thing.

Unlike so many of my learned friends, ( it’s pronounced; “learned”) I’m never interested in the product being advertised, rather my interest lies in the entertainment values of the advert, after all it rudely interrupts my viewing pleasure so why shouldn’t they make it as stimulating for me as possible. E,g the Honda advert- you know the one with the guy dressed in the colour’s of St. George singing to the camera whilst travelling of a series of bizarre modes of transportation. I love this advert- but couldn’t give a toss about the product. I’m never going to buy a Honda. I don’t like Hondas- who does? But the adverts itself fills 45 seconds of advertising space with an entertaining series of images and music. Of course this opinion has been contradicted by Mark’s blog
- and although he’s correct with every thing he states, I still love it for its sheer daftness. Though it’s not as good as my current favourite: Becks Advert. Fraturing the animated man/puppet etc dancing.. Pure. Simple…gggggggrrrreat!

There has also been somewhat of a resurgence of good quality music on adverts. Long gone are the ‘Stiltskin’ and ‘Babylon Zoo’ days when no credible artist would never have one of their precious songs bastardised into a advert, but the times they have a changed. Of course it’s not all good- for example effing Moby appearing in just about every advert.

I’ve come to notice several long lost tracks being re-born on today’s advertisements. The fist such example of this was when I heard Vashti Bunyan on an Orange (I think it was Orange-see no attention to the product) commercial. The women’s music had been left forgotten about for some thirty years and now her sugary and blissful voice can be heard coming through millions of goggle boxes nation wide. A few weeks back I was sat in the flat as usual watching the TV when an advert featuring a song by the undisputed King of Skiffle Lonnie Donnigan (RIP) came on. Genuine shock and pleasure at hearing it. John Peel –the voice over to many an advert would have been thrilled I’m sure. The very next advert that came on featured the music of another old Peelie favourite Louden Wainright III’s . Alas the original song ahs been butchered and what was once ‘Dead Skunk in the Middle of The Road’ has now bizarrely become ‘Dad’s pants in the middle of his roll’ which I think is an advert for Ribena or other children’s beverage. This butchering of an original song is surely worse than the Suede track ‘Fashion’ which has been re-worked for a DFS advert. Granted I didn’t like the original either- but obviously B-r-r-r-ettt Anderson needs to pay the bills somehow.

Anyhow- I talk about adverts too much at the best of times- so I’ll let it go for the time being, after all a good weekend lies ahead, and for once I’m optimistic of its outcomes. The smell of my own flatulence has never smelt as sweet.

Whilst on a high- this track came up on my MP3 whilst cycling endlessly around Sefton park last night, man I forgot how good it was. Let’s share the love

  • Holy Fuck – Cadio Bossa Nova
  • Thursday, June 29, 2006

    mo money- mo arse!

    Despite my best intentions not to accelerate my decent into a miserable old c**t, I’m afraid that recent events have left me with little choice. My main point of angst of unhappiness is the fact that after spending the best part of three weeks without a penny to my name, I was paid on the 15th of this month. I was temporarily happy and relieved that after what was a torturous few weeks I was back on top. Alas, this joy was short lived after a pre cautionary check on my funds with my friendly bank who took great pleasure telling me that after this month’s rent I’ll be left with £20 until the 15th of next month. Great. Not even a week gone and I’m flat broke…again.

    Checking my account I’ve spent over £800 on bills etc- and alarmingly £145 on my mobile. I assumed, nay, hoped this was an error and that a phone call to my phone provider would straighten out this oversight. After waiting on hold for the best part of 15 minutes a cheerful girl asked how she could help me. I calmly explained my predicament to her. She checked my account and asked if I’d been abroad recently? Damn it- BLOODY GERMANY! I’d spent a small fortune receiving phone calls and call my nearest and dearest. She asked if there was anything else she could do and I asked if she could lend me £145. She laughed and politely declined my suggestion. Of course after the mix up with the bank last month when I forked out £96 for my ridiculously expensive 6 month’s worth of car Tax, I was already over my £1.5K over draft by £100- plus the two £30 fines they issued me.

    To make matters worse it’s my father’s birthday next week, I’m going on holiday next month and I’m supposed to go to Scarborough at the weekend for my auntie’s 50th- once again I’ll no doubt have to survive on my credit card. Right now, I just want to stay in the house drinking tap water and wait for the 15th. As much as it pains me to say- I think I’m going to bite the preverbal bullet and have to sell/get rid of my car. After all, I managed to survive without a car for 7 years; it just makes life easier now especially when going further a field that this crap hole city. Of course I’m positive that I would have got more money for it if it wasn’t for my newly acquired dent when a big bastard skip jumped out at me whilst reversing last weekend.

    I know money isn’t supposed to make you happy, and invariably I never had any- although I genuinely had more money when I was a student- but it would be nice to be able to buy a CD every now and then or perhaps find the funds to get my damned haircut, get more contact lenses or even dare I say perhaps purchase some new jeans/shoes as the ones I’ve got are both on their last legs. I’ve only bought two items of clothing this year. 1. A jumper in Jan sales and 2. A Buck 65 T Shirt at the gig in May, which in all fairness is more than I’d usually buy in a year! Perhaps this folly into being a clothes’ horse has proved to be my un-doing.

    I’m going to have to broach the idea of getting shot of the car and/or getting a part-time job with Lisa tonight, but with the exception of the last few weeks she doesn’t see that much of me ‘cause of band commitments so I’m sure this plan will go down like a lead balloon.

    On a plus note though, I’ve continued my thinly veiled attempts of getting fit now for over three weeks which is two weeks longer than I usually can stomach. I’ve gone through this exercise malarkey many times before throughout my life. Usually it consumes my life totally for about two weeks, then sacking it off. I would like to say that 15K on an exercise bike a day and the repetitive cycling around Sefton Park have improved my disposition and my waistline. However neither has. I’ve resorted to desperate measures now and have cut cheese out of my diet and given up drinking anything other than water in the evening, which other than making me piss like a racehorse has done very little to my general disposition. With the potential loss of my car it may be the excuse I need to cycle to work- it’s only 6ish miles- it’s the sweat factor that has put me off. When/if I get myself healthy I can perhaps sell some body organs then but a new car?

    What about a different career- the usual suggestion I receive from those around me when they see me despondent with my financial situation? Despite studying hard (or moderately hard) at School/6th Form/College/University I’m sadly coming round to the idea that Office Dog’s body is the fitting station in life for me- after all I did such a good job scraping tip-ex off the fax machine the other day that I must have endeared myself to the upper echelons of the Council’s hierarchy. I only went to University in order that I didn’t get an office job, but have been kidding myself that being in a band made everything okay and I have now mortgaged my future by doing so. Ho hum. I think my next plan of attack is to follow my real dream and become a professional Kick Off 2 player, showcasing my skill around schools and hospitals and taking part in the international Amiga Computer Games Tournament failing that I’m sure I’d make a great soldier….the question is how do I get in touch with the Taliban?

    Monday, June 26, 2006

    “We knew he had a problem- and tried to help him…I blame myself”

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    Well at long last, Lisa and I have finally got with them’s times and got ourselves hooked up to this thar’ internet. Not only that but we have also opted to get cable and (gulp) a telephone line. All this extra technology and stimulus hasn’t of course come without its draw backs, but aside from a few hours of my life wasted flicking through a possible 250 channels to see how many we can received-sadly it transpires that we don’t get that many- it’s cool. On a plus note, we may not get MTV, Sky Movies or any Sports Channels except the pointless Sky Sports News, we do get ‘Teachers TV’. Should you not have heard of this, then you’ll be surprised to know that it isn’t in fact a channel devoted to the Channel 4 comedy/drama ‘Teachers’, rather a guide for crap teachers who can’t devise a lesson plan or take control of their kids…(insert your own obvious witty retort here) Anyway, despite the excitement proceeding the installation it hasn’t really affected our lives in any way shape or form.. In fact, we’ve had the telephone line now since last Wednesday, and as of yet we haven’t actually received an incoming call. Perhaps it may be frugal of us to inform the assorted rag tag bunch of losers and misfits we call our friends and family what the number is- but the thought of receiving a call without knowing as to whom is calling seems too terrifying to contemplate at present.

    The weekend last, was another good one. To surmise: on Saturday I watched me a lot of football and did some other stuff which at this moment escapes me. During the night we were in attendance for Janet’s birthday and headed out of the safe surrounding of Lark Lane and ventured forth to The Tavern on Allerton Road for some muchos nice-ious mexciana food-e-o, and quelle surprise I ate way too much, developed menu dyslexia (ordering a made up beer) and finally hauled myself home where I lay on the bed like a sad beached whale, and eventually after trying to remedy this situation by having a large poo, I decided being sick was my only option and thusly did so. Not a proud moment. We all have our vices; mine appears to be Chicken Enchiladas to the point of excess. As I held on to my glasses and tried to quietly puke so as not to let Lisa know of my condition, I drifted off into another Walter Mitty type death scenario, imagining the look of horror as my boss takes a call from Lisa informing him that I couldn’t say “no” to that last piece of succulent chicken dripping in cheese and sour cream. His disconsolate reply being something along the lines of “We knew he had a problem- and tried to help him…I blame myself” before the emotion of my passing got too much for him and a colleague- oh lets say Gerry, would take the phone and get the last bit a information regarding my decline and as they clear my desk of my unkempt paper work and doodles they’d find a half eaten fajita that I used to nibble on when it all got too much. Anyway, as the rather large piece of chicken that was worrying lodged in my windpipe and caused the puke s to dribble down my nose, blew out of my mouth and into our toilet I felt much, much better.

    Sunday was built around the watching of the England game, which the viewing was held around our gaffe. This of course meant tidying the flat and me scrubbing the toilet to remove any traces of last night’s Technicolor yawn. The proposed idea was for the male contingency to close ranks and discuss the matters in hand on the useless manager’s selection policy and discussing a wide range of football related topics, but despite all the best intentions being made, at kick off I was surrounded by five women and Steve. Ho hum. Of course Lisa took great umbrage when I explained my need for male company during this sporting festival, as to be fair Lisa has watched/let me watch most of the games and aside from her curious repetitive questioning, it’s been good. I guess I was always destined to enjoy football on my own.

    The same bad luck occurred when I was a football crazy youth, banished to the kitchen to watch the majority of the Italia 90 tournament on a small 10” black and white screen. I genuinely wasn’t aware that Holland played in Orange if it wasn’t for my weekly subscription to Shoot! Magazine. I can also remember the seething frustration of watching England’s pitiful displays in the presence of my mother, who bless her, would always ask stupid-yet naively insightful questions like “why aren’t they playing better?” or “why don’t they just pass it to Gazza?”. Obviously trying to suppress a thousand swearwords for the benefit of my mother whilst watching our National team fail to deliver at the big stage once more as had it’s worrying effects on my health and hair line.

    Of the vast majority of matches I’ve attended Spurs have usually been defeated in a humble manner not befitting the team which I have followed since my Primary School days, with the exceptions of those games I went to on my own (only happened twice) or when I have only been able to get tickets for the opposition’s supporters’ end, which is as bitter sweet as it gets- to see your team play like Gods, yet you can’t jump up and down a stick two fingers up the rival supporters. Worse than that was when I last attended a Premiership game : Newcastle Utd vs. The not-so-mighty Tottenham Hotspur. I was sat with my brother and my Dad in the Newcastle end up in the nose bleed section, and we lost 4-0. Of course there is greater feeling of unhappiness than seeing your beloved team let in another soft goal and being hugged by some gap toothed Geordie Neanderthal.

    It was all in consequential in the end as England won, and despite my muttered complaints it was cool to share the frustration with others especially as the obligatory watching through the fingers for the last ten minutes applied to all.

    Monday, June 12, 2006

    Awww, I’ve only seen this film 7 or eight times, yet I see YOU every night

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    Well, the weather is over cast and not particularly nice, yet I still feel lousy. Despite my best efforts in convincing myself that it was the hot weather that was making me feel miserable, (see last blog) I now realise that the diagnosis was incorrect unfortunately, as it was most convenient to explain the reasoning’s of my long face to the weather. Moreover, I have enjoyed the benefits of the pleasant weather this weekend and despite my earlier reservations enjoyed a most pleasant BBQ on Saturday night. I am also reluctant to admit that the football, as great as it is to see, has hardly raised my spirits. I’m now more inclined to believe that it is the sight of other people having fun and/or a good time that makes me feel miserable. I mean, I used to be a most perky and cheerful sod in the mornings, almost to the point of being irritatingly so. Lisa on the other hand would arise from a night’s slumber in a most foul and unsavoury manner. Now, as she has adapted to working life and the early mornings and thusly she is a different person in the a.m, yet I have become a irritable and grumpy bastard in the morning. Why the change- could it be the fact that I’m only truly in good form when those around me are miserable?

    This theory can also be proven when you take into my account the joy I used to feel on a Monday morning. Arriving at work with a spring in my step and the familiar McPartlan jaunty swagger, I used to love the fact that everyone in the office was in a bad mood and suffering at the hands of the Monday morning Blues. Honestly, I would get such pleasure watching them skulk about and avoid conversation with anyone unless absolutely necessary. Alternatively, on a Friday, I would more often than not find myself in a most unsavoury mood, whist my colleagues looked as happy as Larry knowing they’re soon to be home and enjoying the weekend. Perhaps I just have a problem interacting with other people and the only joy I get is seeing people pissed off? Of course it’s not as simple as this, but there must be something in it. Perhaps I have more issues that I first imagined. Perhaps I am more of a twat than I first imagined.

    On the other hand, looking at it objectively; surely there is nothing funnier than seeing someone in a bad mood- and of course there is nothing more depressing that some happy-go- lucky-sunshine and lollipops- ‘cheer up it might never happen’ type of person.

    Anyhow, sticking to the positives of the weekend, like I mentioned previously it was good. Friday, I decided to throw caution to the wind and leave early and I was home in plenty of time to watch the World Cup’s opening game. Later that evening, Lisa and I enjoyed a night of food prepared by Eve-e-o, which was bloody great. Saturday I arose feeling crappy again, but my sprits were lifted when I realised that England’s road to glory *cough* *cough* was due to start.

    After donning my ’66 style shirt we headed back over to J & E’s and were greeted by Scottish Steve and his daughter Mia. Steve has often proved himself to be a sign of bad luck during England games, as of course he follows what ever team England are playing against. However, this time even his support for Paraguay wasn’t enough to help them, and despite the nervy second half we breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
    By this stage I’d already drank about 6 bottle of Grolsh, and it would be fair to say that ‘I was on my way’. After the crowds dispersed Lisa was most insistent to going to the park, however I remained resolute that I would stay in doors. This was bolstered when the Italian Job started straight after the match was over. Luckily a compromise was reached whereupon Lisa and I stayed at their house whilst Lisa sunned herself in the back yard and I monged out in front of the TV. Ahhh, the Simpsons’ line “Awww, I’ve only seen this film 7 or eight times, yet I see YOU every night”.

    So after all this excitement Lisa and I went home-got changed washed etc (watched the end of another World Cup match) then toddled along for our first BBQ of the summer round at JK and JK’s (see above photo taken at 11.20pm after all my beer was gone and I was starting to get bored) . Suffice to say it was coolio, though I wasn’t in the best of forms. My usual fear of being in a back yard struck home. A stranger also encroached our inner circle of friends as Kelly invite a friend from work to come along. I didn’t catch her name. I felt as though she would be intimated when facing a room of strangers and feel a bit weird as I tend to do in those situations, however it was hard to shut her up. Nice as she was, she told some excruciatingly long and boring stories, one of which was in essence and argument with a Smack Head, whereupon after a minor fracas she told them “I hope you die in the next year” and she was totally shocked that she’d said such deplorable thing. She then went on to state how a friend of hers is one of those faith/spiritual healer type persons (note: that everyone seems to have one of these friends whom, in certain circles –usually women- are often regarded as highly as a Shaman or village witch doctor, and invariably get in to drunken arguments with someone’s husband/boyfriend about their beliefs and the validity of their *cough * : art, during very boring dinner parties etc- I have encountered these types of fracas on numerous occasions much to my annoyance and displeasure, and usually when I get asked about my beliefs I just tell them what they want to hear as if they had real aura reading abilities they’d know I think they’re all crystal reading crackpots with the physic powers of a telephone) who upon being relayed this dull story told her, that because she said this is the way in which she did then, this poor unsuspecting soul will very probably die now.
    It was at this point I started to kick Lisa’s ankles as my little code for “I wanna go home”.

    Anyway, once again please find another MP3 for your pleasure. Casio Tome for the Painfully Alone. Another story from the keyboard bard. Frustration is always a song topic I can always relate to.

  • Casio Tone for the Painfully Alone- young Shields
  • Friday, June 09, 2006

    There ain't no cure for the Summer time blues- except free tapas

    Ahhhh, at long last, the World Cup starts today over in Germany.
    If like me you consider yourself a scholar of the beautiful game then the next month you will be submerged in your own personal utopia, however should you have no inkling towards Association Football, then I suggest that you find a darkened hole and hide away there until it’s over. I don’t want to go on about it too much, after all it’s already become apparent that there’s going to be somewhat of an overload in relation to the tournament, but watching the ‘World Cup greatest wonder goals’ on Channel 5 this week, really got my juices flowing.

    I’ve also had some time to recently to ponder on a few of my little quirks, namely my newly diagnosed Summertime Blues. The last three days I’ve woken after a relatively sound night’s sleep feeling incredibly low and deflated. Granted, I’m never terribly excited to come into work, as just in case you didn’t get it; I hate this job with an unbridled passion, however recently it’s been more than that. It is possible for people to have an affiliation that makes them unhappy and depressed during the winter months, in fact many people I know claim to suffer from this seasonal mood swings. Surely it is plausible for me to hate the summer. There is something about the summer in a city such as Liverpool that just doesn’t feel right. Don’t get me wrong, there are of course many enjoyable activities to pursue in the sunshine, and often I’ll relish to opportunity to go a toss by boomerang about on the park, or a blowing the froth of a couple of ice cold beers. I really wish I could put my finger on why I get anxious in the summer, but alas, despite racking my worried and unhappy brain I can’t.

    Of course, being of Ginger stock, sunshine is one of my main weaknesses. Many summer holidays I would remain in the shade with an oversized hat greased up in factor 50 sun block, whilst the remainder of my family and friends (most notably family friends and childhood holiday companions The Dysons) would laze about in the sun without a care in the world, browning themselves silly. I just watched the wretched freckles appear on my arms. These unsightly blemishes though served me well during those long and boring Science lessons where I used to join the dots, but it wasn’t exactly a fair exchange.

    For those who know me well and are aware that I am a sun cream Nazi (embarrassingly I declared this at a loud and obnoxious voice whilst walking down a street in Dresden without realising my gaffe).
    Too many occasions in my youth I had fallen foul to the sun’s heat. The worst occasion came on a hot day in late June ’89 during the school sports day. Sat on a grassy slope with my sports vest on with no hat or cream almost killed me. So afflicted by the sun that I spent the next two days in bed with sunstroke. Not a pleasant experience.

    It’s more than the heat that annoys me, as I love going abroad and enjoying the good weather, or even out in the countryside in the UK, I think it’s the city. This coupled with my recent problems of couchpotatoeism. I have been particularly taken to watching TV rather than doing something of interest. This I feel, will be my downfall.
    Hot cars don’t help. Neither does the fact that all the houses I’ve ever lived in have been designed for the purpose of keeping the heat in, and have done that job relatively well-with the exception of our current abode. However, as soon as the hot days kick in, you can’t open enough windows.

    In our current flat, the windows are nice and big and opening them does provide some pleasant breezes, however as we don’t actually have a window in our front room that you can open it gets a tad sticky.

    BBQ’s in terraced houses aren’t great either. Firstly there is absolutely no privacy in the back yard. Every alcohol-fuelled word can be heard reverberating down the street much to the local residents’ annoyance. There is also little shade and the concrete just reflects the heat, making it feel like an unpleasant urban kiln.

    So one of the main reasons that I’m looking forward to the impending World Cup is that I have a plausible excuse to stay in and watch TV, or alternatively go to the pub, which by the way brings me to the exciting news that we have now found a deceent pub to go to this summer! Yey!

    Last night, Lisa actually got back from work before 6.30 to find me sprawled on the sofa preparing myself to watch Holllyoaks for the first time in an age and declared that we shouldn’t waste the sun and go for a pint. As I was in the middle of a summer blues bought of depression,my face dropped and I mumbled words along the lines of “yeah, If you want.”. Lisa looked excited as she said it would be great to sit outside in the sun and enjoy a early evening ale. As the sun was scorching outside, I didn’t exactly have high hopes that there would be any space in any beer garden near by, and I flat out refused to go to the Inglenook. I admired Lisa’s optimism that we could enjoy the benefits of a beer garden. After dragging my heals, and smearing my body in the precautionary sun cream we heated out. At Lisa’s suggestion, we went to Que Pasa on lark Lane- you know the one that was a Mexican Restaurant, then wasn’t, then is again…sort of, as Lisa had heard they have a beer garden. Would you Adam and believe it, there was space. “hmmm” I thought, not band. It’s got shade and big tables. Lisa of course was looking to be sat ‘in the sun’ but I persuaded her to stay. She returned with the beers (I have no funds until the 15th, another reason why I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to visit the pub). My face lit up when I gazed upon the chosen beverages…Staropramen, my favourite beer on tap! Woot! Also Lisa’s favourite tipple; Hoegarden also on tap. We chinked glasses in happiness. Whilst we sat their enjoying the shade, we were presented with some tapas too…for free.(woot X2). Then Sweet Jonny, Eve-e-o and Kelly whom were on route to get some Frisbee action in the park soon joined us. T’was awfully pleasant. Perhaps, I mused, the summer won’t be so bad after all. After lamenting the closure of Lark lane 52, I think we can safely say that its replacement is a finer establishment, with it is worth noting, vastly superior toilets.

    I arose this morning to a ridiculously bright room, sobriety, The Dock Road traffic and the inane banter of Chris Moyles soon put pay to that notion this morning and once more the summer blues set in. Roll on Autumn!

    Anyway, a nice cheery song to keep one's spirit's up. Contain one of my favourite upbeat lyrics ever "That's why people O.D on pills, and throw themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge"

  • Handsome Family – Weightless Again
  • Tuesday, June 06, 2006

    the hot car factor

    Well isn’t it a lovely day….

    Yes, once more though I rue the fact that I’m stuck in an office which harbours no natural light, though I’ve been fortunate enough to be sent out on a few errands and felt the hot sun caress my skin. The downside of course, is the hot car factor which is most unpleasant especially when one’s car doesn’t have air con. Oh well, I ought not to complain so readily.

    Since I’ve been dragged into the digital age kicking-and-a-screaming’, I’ve wasted my lunch break trawling through a plethora of MP3 blogs and downloaded what hopefully should be something worth listening to. I thought, quite reasonably to myself; that as a homage to this noble form of music sharing that I shall endeavour to have a stab at it myself.

    Being the aforementioned sunny day please find a short selection of lazy summer tunes for your pleasure.

  • Buck 65- Dang

  • Goodnight Monsters- 20 Fingers 20 toes

  • Smog- Stranger

  • Pet Politics- The Spring

  • Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci- Spanish Dance Troupe
  • Monday, June 05, 2006

    Date with Ikea-not Ali Bastian (alas)

    As if sunny weekends couldn't be any worse, Lisa and I plummeted to the pits of weekend petit-bourgeois blandness and ventured down the road to hell, (or is that Hull?), and paid a visit to Ikea on Sunday.
    The plan had been to visit the place on Saturday, as Lisa's clothing piles around the flat have reached an all time dangerous high., with the several hundred chest of drawers and an obscenely chokka’ wardrobe fit to burst, Lisa quite reasonably decided that we (her) needed to acquire some more bedroom furniture. Alas, I was as disinterested in this as you'd imagine, and for some reason I thought she knew the make, model etc of the ones she wanted as not so long ago I recall her talking about it. I hang my head in shame that I lived up to the 'useless male domestic partner' I am rapidly becoming and paid no attention. I just nodded and pretended to look interested whilst watching the World's Wildest Police Videos or something equally as amusing.
    I appreciate this isn't the most sensitive way of sharing household responsibilities, however I guess it is a pre-determined inevitability that I become the Jim Royle-esq man about the house, or flat; if you will. Anyway, on the Saturday morning as I awoke from a most tranquil and restful slumber, I lay on my back thinking that on a sunny day such as this, nothing would be finer than staying in the flat and watching the TV-especially as there was the last England football match before the forthcoming world cup. Once more I was in the dog house as I had neglected to remember that I had inexplicably agreed to Ikea for a mission to purchase a decent sized wardrobe.
    After it became apparent to my beloved that I hadn't actually listened to her previous lecture on the 'wardrobe dilemma', harsh words were spoken. Granted, it didn’t exactly take a shrewd mind to deduce this as she caustically remarked “what did you think I’d done all the work and we’d be in and out in 30 minutes?” My look of surprise/guilt and optimism said it all. After 20 minutes of my clearly and painful over zealous wardrobe enthusiasm, ie. “lets just go and get one now and we can make it back intime for the kick off” Lisa decided to postpone the visit until Sunday as my interest was clearly too little- too late. She trudged off in to the front room to make a start on the mountain of work she 's currently embroiled in, slamming a series of doors on her way.
    Perhaps it was guilt, or more likely fear, i decided to tidy the mounds of receipts/clothes/plethora of pieces of paper with my drawings on that seem to follow me wherever I go. I then set about giving the kitchen a thorough clean whilst listening to mix tape CD of Buck 65 I purchased at his latest Liverpool show until the 2pm kick off..
    The rest of the day was spent in front of the TV despite the lovely weather. After the England game (Lisa watched the second half) I suggested, for kicks, that we place a small wager on the Derby, which at the time of suggestion was due to start in 10 minutes. Lisa agreed, and we darted out of the flat and headed to the local Turf Accountant and hastily placed a £1 each way bet. Granted, this isn't a big bet, but due to bills and recent vehicle taxation, I've been left with £4 in my account until the 15th.
    We then rushed to the local Lark lane paper shop and I got to use the 'Stroganoff' code word for the first time (see old entry regarding its origins). Yes, the purveyor of a million early morning errections for students up and down the country- Becky (Ally Bastian)from Hollyoaks as chatting to a friend (or maybe acquaintance-I'm not sure and don't wish to cast aspersions) wearing a vest top and extremely short denim mini skirt. I got dangerously close to her, whilst waiting for Lisa to return from the shop. I sure as hell wish I had my mirrored sunglasses on though.

    Anyway, to keep it brief: quelle suprise Lisa's horse won...again. This put the whole Ikea problem into context, and the cold bottles of Grolsh we were supping, easily made me forget about the wardrobe. The day then flew past, except in a bit to appease Lisa and her wish to venture outside, I agreed to play Bullseye, a board game based on the 19780's cult quiz show, with her. This game was of a poor quality, and the several bottles of booze we had consumed made the learning of the rules remarkably difficult and stressful.

    Sunday morning- the first thing through my mind was - "crap, Ikea!!!!"
    I really wished that we'd have gone on the Saturday now. I tried persuading Lisa that we go after work this week, but gave up quickly when the look of thunder flashed across her face.

    Ikea is a boring place at best, but I do prefer it than Asda, so despite what you're thinking I wasn't too discontent/grumpy. I was helpful and insightful in the decision process surprisingly.
    This sunny disposition soon changed as after spending an hour in the wardrobe section and finally settling on the one we wanted only to find there wasn't any left in their warehouse. After asking the *Cough *Cough* lovely Customer Service folks, who told me that a new shipment would arrive on Monday. I was even more shocked to learn that you can't order stock over the phone/internet, which of course means that I've got to drive there again this week.
    Lesson learned. Don't do today what you could easily put off until tomorrow...nuff said.

    Friday, June 02, 2006



    Okay- it turns out that one of my previous entries has caused some controversy and caused offence to some folks up in Scotland and here in Liverpool. After reading the particular blog in question I did think "oh- that's a bit too much” and I have subsequently taken the offending article down.

    The band in question, whilst still not particularly liking their music (a mutual feeling no doubt) where genuinely nice enough guys.

    Most of what I said about the night wasn't 100% accurate- I was just trying to get cheap laughs (moi?) from what was a particularly crappy night for me. My ramblings are mine and mine alone- now’t to do with the other guys in the band.

    Anyway- humblest apologies all round- I feel seriously and sufficiently guilty- sorry guys.

    Steven Pastel's Idiot Brother (Matt)