social butterfly

Suitable festivities ensued last Saturday night in an 'official' night out in celebration for ole sweet Johnny's 29th birthday.

T'was a frightfully odd night odd, something you should expect once one makes the decision to venture in to the sticky floored sweat house that is Liverpool's infamous Krazy House, and for once I was genuinely looking forward to it. Once more I was accosted by several strangers throughout the night whom decided that they had some salient information that they wished to share with me. Not that I condone this sort of thing, but it begs me to ponder; why do strangers only choose to converse with me?

The first of the night's stranger conversations was partly my own fault. This twenty something woman was sat in the same vicinity as where our 'party' were festering away in the night's first bar: The Kubrick inspired Korova (http://korova-liverpool.com/), without doubt one of the finest bars this fair city has to offer- if you don't mind the gaggles of meffy Russel Brand esque student sorts, complete with scruffy beards and wooly hats, but the place is c-c-c-cool man.

This woman stood up momentarily and from my standing position I glanced over to see if she was leaving or in fact going to the bar etc. Her gaze caught mine and she sat down quickly. I immediately assumed she'd sat down quickly in order to keep her beloved seat, so I leaned over and said "I wasn't going to knick your seat you know". Alas she didn't hear me, and looked uncomfortable. I tried to redeem myself, and leaned over a second time, this time trying to laugh it off, apologising for the confusion and repeating what I'd said seconds earlier. She laughed awkwardly and said she was going to the toilet, but she loved the Suzie and The Banshees song that had just started so she'd decided to wait. Her boyfriend and her then decided to chat to0 me about Suzie and her God damned Banshees and Blondie, eventually offering to move up in order for me to get my sizeable ass on the chair. I declined and politely killed the conversation before it got out of hand, imagining the pair of them wanted to befriend me, take me home asking me to shag her whilst he filmed it on his mobile phone, or the otherway around (cue Homer style shudder).

Some ten minutes later whilst waiting at the bar a young man and young lady (both early twenties) were holding a conversation. Sadly, my head was between the two chatting kids, and as they failed to understand each other they moved their heads closer and closer so that I had to bend backwards to stop them from spitting in my ears. The chap then decided that he'd talk to me asking me if I was here to see any of the bands, which of course I wasn't. I explained away my predicament regarding the birthday felicitations and the pre-arranged shindig at the aforementioned Krazy House. He went on to explain that he was one of the promoters that night and the band were going to be huge. He explained to me that this band comprised of a drummer and a singer/guitar player. I replied "A la The Black Keys?". This was an error, as no doubt it showed too much knowledge of music, as he told me he thought I was going to say The White Stripes.

This costly error of judgment resulted in a very boring conversation about bands. I just stood smiling politely until he mentioned Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah, and which point I proceeded to tell him that I'd seen them the night before (if only he'd mentioned ...And You'll Know Us by The Trail of Dead so I could have a second stab at the joke-see last entry). Unimpressed he told me he'd seen them when they played the tiny Academy venue in Liverpool. I told him I had too (this was a lie). Before I got caught out, I made some ramshackle yarn about a friend of a friend getting me in for free, but we were rather late and only got to see two songs. It worked and there was no follow up questions on the gig. He then proceeded to tell me about some of the band he was friends with. I'd not heard of any of them and smiled inwardly at this braggart's unimpressive boasts. My drinks arrived, he shook my hand and told me his name. I think I told him my name was Ruben or something like that, either way bullshitting strangers has always amused me and is a sure fire way of knowing that the Guinness is having an effect. Perhaps it was the years of lying to women in the numerous bar/pubs and clubs during my formative years in a vain attempt to persuade them I was cool, and/or interesting. (one such occasion I spent an entire night lying about my love for Oasis, stealing my friend Burdy's anecdotes- including having the back of my T-Shirt filmed by The O-Zone, presenter Jane Middlemass stating that "this was the nearest we'll come to meeting the band"- she said she had this on video at home- it came as no surprise that she ignored me the following week)

I collected my drinks and the girl my hapless new friend had been chatting to asked me if I wanted a hand. I declined but thanked her anyway. She said “you’re very well spoken” which I took as a compliment, and proceeded to talk like Charles Hawtrey/Russell Brand for several minutes, remarkably she giggled and laughed throughout. This made me feel ill at ease as she was young and pretty, so I made my escape. She asked me something as I walked away, but couldn't quite make out what she'd said and pretended I hadn't heard her imagining that she was checking out my arse as I returned to my friends.

Upon my return, Jane mockingly referred to me as a "social butterfly", and Lisa proceed to regale her with the many incidents whereupon totals strangers bore the pants off of me with inane chit chat (not literally of course).

After we were all fairly tanked up, we decided to head towards The Krazy House. When we arrived the bouncer said something and I immediately laughed out loud, but the look on his face meant that I'd probably misheard so I turned around quickly and waited to pay.

After paying, Janet looking annoyed with herself, informed me that she'd dropped a pound on the floor, and being the gentleman that I often pretend I'm not, proceeded to retrieve it. This meant crouching down at the exact same point that some emo kid was queuing up, and my head was only centimeters from his groin. I made light of this, so he didn't get the wrong impression, and I hope he understood what I meant, when I said "don't worry I've only got my head in your crotch to help my friend". From then on in, the night became something of a blur to me. I recall my usual feeling of contentment when I looked across the dance floor seeing 50 or so goth/emo/punk girls shaking their booties. Not to mention the few teenage Elvira look a likes, complete with two bald men hiding in a vest type cleavages.

As the night drew on I drank heavily, and proceeded to throw some shapes on the dance floor from Rage against The Machine to The Foo Fighters to The Proclaimers, whilst topless men danced with teenage black mascara-caked young things stripped to their bras (one such bra sporting young rock chick had one of the largest racks I’d ever been up close to before and was wearing a white bra which glowed in the dark- very hard when drunk not to get hypnotized by it shaking their thing to Led Zep’s ‘Rock n’ Roll’ ) trying avoid the hundreds of discarded glass bottles on the dance floor ; it was quintessential Krazy House. I felt a bum ‘bump’ into mine, and turning around to see as to whom had done this discovered it was the emo kid who’s crotch was rather too close to my face. I smiled and slow danced backwards through the crowd and went to the toilets. “It’s like the last days of Rome” I thought.

I discovered that their so-called newly installed toilets don’t have any facilities to wash your hands with, which came as a shock; just two massive urinals. This alarmed me to think that ¾ of the men on the dance floor hadn’t washed their hands. I decided to head back and drink some more and avoid shaking hands with anyone.

These toilets were sacred to me, as the venue was the host to my first snog on Merseyside some 11 years ago. I remember thinking I was going to get lucky so acquired a condom from the machine in these hallowed toilets. I can still recall my infuriation when the damned thing promptly swallowed my pound coin. Luckily, thanks to assistance from a stranger we bashed the thing until a Whiskey Flavored condom popped out. I never used it as a friend of hers was comatose and I helped carry him to a taxi, so instead proceeded to blow it up on my long walk home to my Halls of Residence, and instantly regretted wasting it when I arrived back in my Prison cell like room beered up and horny.

Anyhoo; something weird went down at 1.30am ish as it was rumored that Sweet Johnny had gone home in a huff following a row with his nearest and dearest. Eve-e-o was in floods of tears and surrounded by concerned friends. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to dance with Jon’s brother Sweet Benny and his sister Sweet Janey who also rightly assumed that everything would be “all-l-l rigg-g-ht”.

It wasn’t long before I was fucked and had to take a break. I then spent and estimated hour and a half glued to the big screen TV which was playing Match of the Day –Classic Matches of The Eighties. I was completely engrossed by mustachioed premed stars of yesterday playing it what now looked like Speedos, and on the occasion when cohorts and the like came over to chat, I could hear them but couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

The night continued, but once things had calmed down and Jon had been found, we decided that a journey home via a kebab shop/pizza shop was in order.

The Pizza shop was as crowded as an establishment like that could be and resembled a mosh pit at a Music Festival. I chatted to Sweet Benny about the poor quality Liverpudlian Pizzas, bragging about the excellence of Harrogate’s best asset; Chico’s Pizza. Sweet Benny told me that Sweet Johnny had informed him that “I was obsessed with this topic”.

Pizza King was the food outlet of choice. We waited patiently until Lisa spotted some rogue scally pushing in and proceeded to inform the rest of the hungry masses, who didn’t take to kindly to this. An argument ensued between an emo chick and this pilled up, skin headed little shit. The take way owners repeatedly asking, fairly timidly for him to stop swearing, but he was having none of it, and they served him quickly to try and get him out of their establishment. After receiving he chips, and continuing his shouting at these poor girls he called the kebab shop workers “bag heads”. This resulted in a cacophonous booing and people telling him to fuck off, and the smallest of the workers removed him, riding on the crest of people power. I was drunk, and continued to boo, and get my phone out and film it.

I scoffed my pizza in record time, whilst Lisa once again decided that she would wait until she got home before unwrapping her chicken kebab. This precious and over protective approach to her food consumption has always caused friction between the two of us, as I see little point in not devouring it immediately as her food is always cold when she gets back, and she always laments her decision drunkenly and often loudly.

Eventually a taxi was located. As we boarded it, I heard a fella shout “Fuck you- you knob head” in my direction. I innocently pointed to myself and asked if he was talking to me. He bounded over to where I was stood:
”What are you looking at?” he eloquently asked me.
“Where you calling me a knob head?” I asked affably.
“Who are you calling a knob head!!?” he screamed.
“No one- sorry, I thought you were talking to me?”
“What’s it got to fucking do with you? I was talking to him (taxi driver)”

Lisa, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me in the taxi and he sped off. I was quickly informed that the taxi had stopped from these two aggressors, and were quickly ejected by the driver. As we drove past them we all vigorously flicked them the ‘vs’ mouthing “wanker” and the like. I could only assume that they’d said something to the driver, who as Lisa retorted was “the only clam person we’ve met since leaving the Krazy House”.

Upon return to the flat, Lisa lied and said her Kebab was still warm and we watched Krypton Factor until 5am, both in awe of on particularly inept contestant called Marjory and how young Gordon Burns looks, with his Alan Partridge regalia.

Clench your fist and say 'fuck you'

Last night I was in attendance for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Manchester Academy and it t’was a fine night of music, public transport, drunkeness and ‘Clockwise’ style comedy disasters, but at least for the first time in an age both my contact lenses stayed put on my eyeballs.

As Tom astutely observed, it was good to see that the singer from said band, talks like he sings, though his squeaky New Yorker accent did bring to mind Marge Simpson’s ex Boyfriend Artie Ziff. Unusually, we were also witness to two fights, both involving some Mancunian (citation needed) ladies. Certainly an odd sight to behold, especially considering the many gigs I’ve been to I’ve never seen a fight, well one that didn’t involve any members of the band. They were very good though, but not having listened to their new album my mind did wander slightly whilst they performed, this way partly due to the beer that we had been chugging throughout. Their support band, Cold Water Kids too were very good, though I sadly missed most of their set whilst trying to buy some drinks for me and my cohorts.

Whilst waiting at the bar a young scruffy kid whom was stood next to me started a conversation regarding the song the band were currently playing. As I wasn’t in the best frame of mind for conversation at that point due to the calamitous journey to Manchester, which left me feeling so exasperated (perhaps an by-product of my newly found work ethos), I did little to keep the conversation going until he started talking on the subject of getting tickets that day to see …And You’ll Know Us From the Trail of Dead.

As he regaled this fairly boring anecdote about meeting the singer at recent Leeds festival, and all I could think was I could at last crack my ‘Who are Hansel and Grettlel’s favourite band? And You’ll Know Us by the Trial of Bread’ joke, which once he had come up for air I put to him. He laughed and then proceed to tell me how he always cracks bad jokes at funerals—though I suspect, or should I say hope, that he was in fact not being exactly truthful and trying to be funny. He then thought it would be appropriate to crack unfunny and extremely racist joke.

Eeek. I didn’t laugh and said “oh dear- that’s a bit out of order isn’t it Jade?”. He looked awkward and then sneaked in front of me in the queue. With any luck it was he whom we saw get punched in the face by the fiery berry hat clad young lady later on during the show.

After, being away from all that interest me on the internet I've been catching up with the various music blogs I enjoy reading. One such, Aquarium Drunkard (see link to right) has posted news about the now sadly defunct Arab Strap, and it brought to mind just how much I love Arab Strap, and the first time I saw them supporting Mogwai in The Duchess of York in Leeds back in the summer of '97, and the magical moment when Adian Moffat joined Mogwai on stage for 'Now We Are Taken' which he co-wrote and recorded with them on the '4 Satin E.P'. Anyway, I couldn't resist posting it:

MP3
Mogwai- Now You Are Taken

golden shower of kudos

As per post on 26th January, the buggering Council thought Police have heightened their internet filters and security, which under normal circumstances would make my life intolerable; however I have been enjoying the relative satisfaction of busting my hump and proving my worth at work. Naturally, I expect this new found zeal for corporate servitude to disappear shortly, but for the meantime I’m revelling in my newly discovered self–a lean, mean Excel Spreadsheet producing machine.

Alas, the reason for my increased office stimulation has little to do with the fact that I can’t access ANY decent websites with the exception of the BBC and Wikipedia, and more to do with the D-Day for the culmination of four years work in our department and the serving of some 500 legal notifications across the country. I had very little to do with this, but my closely honed skills of quick efficient spreadsheet (complete with decorative colour schemes- my art degree NOT going to waste thank you!) compiling and the set up of a monolithic mail merge.

As the suckers in my office are not exactly IT savvy, they have all bowed their heads in wonderment and befuddlement at my ability to produce a list of names and addresses on a spreadsheet, moreover they have all been over zealously convincing me that I shouldn’t be so modest when they scratch their heads at words like ‘filters’ and ‘mail merge’. I was at one point nervous that they may consider this work to be witch craft and proceed to lock me in the smaller of our two stationary cupboards, only occasionally prodding me with rulers until they could fathom a way of destroying me or perhaps imprisoning me in one of them’s odd flat prisons a la Superman II.

Of course this work was literally a piece of piss to do and despite protests from me that any dolt could perform these tasks; it has certainly been a while since I’ve basked in a golden shower of kudos from the upper echelons of our department. The only conceited member of the office staff not happy or wowed with my work was of course my nearest rival in the office, the fax machine, who has now had his keys to management toilet taken away from him, and I believe has started his own blog regaling his disenchantment with its station in the office pecking order.

I have also enjoyed two days of serving these notices by hand to businesses and residents alike. Of course any excuse to flee the confines of our office is always appreciated, but I especially enjoyed strolling into offices, legal documents in hand chatting to a variety of very attractive receptionists. This proved to be a most enjoyable and unexpected perk. If I was the wearer of a rimmed hat in the vein of a trilby, bowler or porkpie, I would tilt in a jocular manner to signify contentment. I don’t, so upon my return to the office I enjoyed putting my feet up on my desk, leaning back and eating a packet of crisps rather noisily.

I had also, for the first time in an age, stayed at work until after 5pm! Ye Gads!!!
This meant I had to board a much later train filled with new faces. One such train was inexplicably filled with a plethora of strangely beautiful office attired hotties, rather than the usual familiar surroundings of dour and sour faced losers. Perhaps only the disenchanted office plebs catch my usual train home, which would of course explain why there is usually a lack of any joy in the eyes of my fellow commuters. The vocationally satisfied obviously burn the midnight oil (I will not be posting any Midnight Oil tracks okay!?) preferring to stay later at work and perhaps this satisfaction and diligence increases their beauty? Of course my better half would come under that bracket, only she stays at work because it appears the shit hits the proverbial fan on a daily basis, but she is beauty no less.

Can't buy me lunch

After an impromptu three day weekend from the ole millstone that is the daily grind of the office, I enjoyed the relaxed pleasure of loafing about the flat, drawing, playing guitar, listening to records and drinking some recently acquired hippie type fruity tea.

I also acquired myself for the pricesly sum of £3.99 the DVD of ‘The Rutles- All You Need Is Cash’ from one of the more infuriating high street establishments. Being, as most people I know are, a Beatles aficionado, and a fan of parody (my dissertation was on this subject titled: ‘A Thin Line between Stupid and Clever’- Parody in films’ and I frequently quoted the film, despite never actually seeing it) Anyhow- at £3.99 it was too much of an opportunity for me to miss out on.

I was, to be honest, expecting the film to be a let down, but was greatly surprised just how well the film has dated, and just how well crafted Neil Innes’ song are. Obviously, there are many classic moments throughout and some beautifully observed Beatles-esque tunes (‘Go Home’ had me laughing out loud so much that I had to rewind this scene several times), however one particular song stood out- notably because I knew all the words. It didn’t take me long to remember that I had in fact heard a version of this song previously as a B-side to Teenage Fan Club’s ‘Mellowed Doubt’ CD single, and had featured it on many of the Mix Tapes I’d done for friends and family back in the mid nineties. Naturally I have since dug out this CD, which also features a version of ‘Have You ever Seen the Rain’ by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and posted both of these tracks below:


MP3:
Teenage Fan Club- Have You Ever Seen the Rain
Teenage Fan Club- Between Us

I also moseyed on down to the local monthly flea market in an attempt to purchase some cheap vinyl. Alas, it appears that increased Market for cheap old records has resulted in a price hike and beardy student types swarming around the record boxes so much so that despite spending at least half an hour in the smoke filled church hall I was unable to get any where near the table containing ‘the better records’ from the chap I usually buy from. Instead I was left to flick through reams of bilge, but spent a tenner on two albums that caught my eye; Kid Ory’s Creole Jazz Band’s 1954 ‘Good Time Jazz’ and Original Soundtrack Recording from Carl Foreman’s Victors. Both were disappointing beyond belief, partly because they were scratched to buggery and partly because they’re just a bit rubbish really.

The Kid Ory album, was a chance purchase because I liked the cover and because on the back of the cover had two recipes for Shrimp Jambalya and Creole Gumbo Filé and needless to say that I have learned not to judge a record on it’s Deep South recipes.

Sorrow

Shock News!

My kind employees have decided to put a filter on our internet and, suffice to say, I can't gain access to any My Space site or any Blog site as they're deemed to be "inappropriate as per the terms and conditions blah blah blah".

Thankfully I can at least peruse my e-mail accounts and wikipedia, but this is scant concilation.
I have now got to find another way of using my time constructively whilst in the office, although it has certainly encouraged me to find employment elsewhere. It is a very sad day indeed.

It reminds mre of the dark ages when the only thing to keep me entertained whislt in the work pllace was communicating to my colleagues and working, occasionally spending weeks at a time using 'Paint Box' to amuse myself.

This will be my first ever blog from the dimly lit surroundings of my cold, cold spare room, where I find it too difficult to write anything, what with all the distractions I have littered about the place, and this computer is a big pile of tosh.

Dark times.

Mp3 David Bowie - Sorrow

Pol Pot & Khmer Rouge 1- Media/Ugly Betty 0

Has Russell Brand been reading this blog? (Despite the obvious connection that Russell Brand and Miss Goody have the same agent, which somewhat confuses the issue, and the fact he uses the term 'silly' rather than 'fucking stupid' which as i think you'll agree is more apt given that she was well aware that there was some 5-8million viewers watching her...but anyway.)

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/24012007/344/russell-brand-says-jade-silly.html

Have the Indian Government/Channel 4 been reading this blog?

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/24012007/140/race-row-jade-s-plan-save-career.html

Word to the wise to Jade's Agent, would be not to visit India. Seriously, with the best intentions in the world she will at somepoint say something that will re-open the ‘racist debate/debacle’. I’ll give odds of 2:1 that she makes some remark about ‘it smelling like curry’ or something else equally as crass (or should I say 'silly'?)

Mp3Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy- Ain’t You Wealthy, Ain’t You Wise

In other exciting news: I forgot my glasses today and have noticed a stark contrast in the way I've been treated by colleagues and fellow commuters. Could it be that despite the years of progress, the wearing of glasses is still considered as something funny? C'mon surely those cliches don't exist anymore do they?

Consider this: As moderately enjoyable as 'Ugly Betty' is ,as far a high camp and sillyness before the last five minutes of American schmaltz that seems to be mandatory in any US comedy- she isn't really that ugly though is she? As quoted in the Simpsons : "I wanted TV ugly, not Ugly Ugly!"

America Ferrera (yes her real name is America!) who plays Ugly Betty seems to be some form of spokeswoman for the 'uglies' in US TV, and had already starred in the HBO show 'Real Women have Curves' where she tries "to balance her mother's traditional view of women with her own contemporary ideas while dealing with self-image issues and exploring a new romantic relationship" (The sound of puking and yawning at the same time). Also, international 'hottie' Salma Hayek (gratuitously pictured below) is the executive produer of the show- discrediting it somewhat. I'm sure she can relate and empathisie to the Betty's plight though can't you.

It's a bit like ole ''Plain Jane Superbrain' in Neighbours...put some glasses on her and some frumpy clothes and she's 'ugly' too (allegedly). Why is it most 'TV ugly' folks wear glasses? They're installing the thought to the Populus that if you're a 'specky' then you're ugly. Let's not forget how fickle Lousie Lane wouldn't look twice at Clark Kent, but got a wide-on every time Superman flew into the vicinity. "Down with their cynicism and cliches" I say. (Lazer Eye Sugery is the work of Satan etc etc)

(note/trivia: Jim Robinson is in Ugly Betty!!)

At least the former policies of crackpot dictator Pol Pot suggested that all glasses wearers were intellectuals, which is not funny especially considering his regime had anyone wearing glasses executed, (well it kind of is funny I suppose - his hired goons waiting with big sticks with nails through them outside Specs Savers) but he never denounced them as Ugly (Pol Pot & Khmer Rouge 1- Media/Ugly Betty 0)

I actually went to have my eyes tested this week, and Lord be Praised! my right eye has improved marginally! Woot! I don't know how this is possible, perhaps I've used that eye less? Perhaps I've got moderatly prettier?




Whilst at the Opticians I was toying with the idea of purchasing a new pair of glasses, I noticed that the models in Glasses Advertisements don't look like 'proper' glasses wearers? i.e. people who wear glasses. This is difficult for me to explain succinctly, but they almost look like generic photos of models that someone has drawn a pair of 'bins' on them. I'm guessing that these models are too vain to wear glasses (I repeat 'Down with their cynicism and cliches!') and perhaps it's the image of beautiful man/woman with a pair of Hugo Boss angular glasses on his/her face that just looks out of place. I'm not sure how this could be resolved. By me suggesting that 'ugly' people should model the new range of designer glasses is essentially admitting that glasses wearers are, for the most part; ugly. It's a mystery, shrouded in an enigma, shrouded in a mystery for sure. My solution would be to re-cast the role of Ugly Betty with Kathy Burke playing the role- similar to that of her character Linda La Hughes in the brilliant 'Gimme Gimme Gimme'. That'll learn em! (plus it will make the program infinately more viewable without having the sick bucket on hand)

Of course the way in which my colleagues are treating me could be down to the fact that I can't see them very clearly or that I in fact look worse without my glasses. On thing's for sure, there has been no presumptions that I am an expert on all IT matters and hence a little more time at work to concentrate on writing these 'ere blog rather than showing the same colleagues how to find their Word documents on their computer, how to change the toner and more annoyingly how to send an e-mail! (these are GENUINE requests I get on a daily basis, much to my discontent!)

MP3 The Annuals - Bleary Eyed

Bus hero no more (alas)

"What do I know, whom am I?
My two left feet my big dumb face.
I'd so the same if I had the chance; cheat the system, rig the race."

I awoke this morning with the discomfort of being absolutely freezing and waking up alone. I decided the only course of action to prevent myself from catching hypothermia was to fully submerge me body under the two duvets that were doing an especially poor job of keeping me warm. Sadly, this prevented me from hearing my alarm, and after clambering out of the duvet to breathe I heard the usual inane and unfunny rumblings of Chris Moyles and I knew I'd be pushing it to make it to work on time. I eventually mustered the will to get up, and a scolding hot shower eventually defrosted me.

I dashed about the flat like a loon determined to arrive at the office before 9.30 and rushed out in to the beautifully sunny and crisp Tuesday morning. Gorky's Zygotic Mynci and Teenage Fanclub kept my spirits up until I encountered the depressingly familiar sight of the Office clad walking away from the train station. One of the more friendly commuter types informed me that once again the trains were cancelled.

I looked at it pragmatically, as my MP3 despite having it set on the usually unreliable 'Random' selection was spitting out some great tunes. I'll just catch the 60, and if I'm lucky I'll make it to work before 10am I reasoned.

I caught the next available bus and sat near the front so I could feed my curiosity and pleasure at watching the bus driver waving to the other bus drivers. For the first 5 or so minutes I was in heaven. The MP3 random selections included The Fall's 'Groovin' with Mr. Blow/Green Eyed Loco Man' -Peel Session (which I played twice), Lift to Experience's 'These are the Days' (I skipped the 3 minutes of noise at the end though), and The Broken Family Band's 'Behind the Church'. It was turning into a good morning despite all the obvious set backs.

It wasn't long into the journey when some Scally lads got on the bus. This of course didn't bother me (why would it?) but about a minute after they had boarded the bus, the foul stench of cigarettes wafted its way towards me. I subtly looked around and could see that the smoke was coming from their direction. I thought about confronting them. I really did. Sadly I figured that this could be an unwise move. Usually my travels on public transport increase my blood pressure massively, and I have in the past shouted at conductors, staff, drivers and other passengers. However, after another dose of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci I was feeling at peace.

I looked around on the bus and it was mostly women with young children and a few elderly ladies and gentlemen. They gave me a look of "...well aren't you going to say something?". Shit I felt awkward. I stopped the music in my ears, and prepared myself for the oncoming barrage of abuse I would no doubt be inflicted to. Then, as luck would have it, an American (or possibly Canadian) woman boarded the bus. After paying the driver, she took a few steps-clocked the Scals and stormed up to the driver.

"Why are you letting them smoke on the bus!!?" she demanded.

I could see the driver looking in his rearview mirror in their direction.

"Come on, no smoking on the bus please" he said timidly. No doubt the vast amount of times he's been spat at and physically abused by little fuckers like these had taught him to turn a blind eye. I immediately felt a wave of sympathy for the driver. The woman was made of sterner stuff however.

She barked at them:

"What's the point in me showering and putting on perfume if as soon as I get on the bus I stink like an ashtray!! I don't mind you smoking but please not on the bus, its not fair!"

This was very noble and brave, and had her American accent not sounded so whiney I would have given her a slow respectful clap.

The little fuckers reply was not what I'd come to expect.

"Were not smoking" was their pathetic response.

"I can see you, please, just have some consideration for the other passengers who don't want to stink of smoke"

She took her seat and looked at them with scorn.

Moments later the smoke had stopped.

'Shit' I thought; it worked! Why didn't I do that? I slumped back into my chair and put my MP3 back on. I had no right to refer to myself as a 'Bus Hero' as I had done since my altercation with a bus driver in town on the Friday before Christmas last. I was patted on the back by and applause from other commuters then. Granted I'd had a few pints in town prior to this, thus accelerating my bravery. I just won't tell any of the 50-60 people that I'd regaled that story to, about my recent act of cowardice.

Thank fuck my MP3 continued it's fine selections and I slowly began to cheer up.

I did, though see a rare treat in the 'bus drivers waving to each other' department. The driver, whilst maneuvering around the t Queen's Drive/Walton Church round-a-bout, proceed to flick the 'Vs' in a violent manner in the direction of another bus. I caught his face in the rear view mirror creased with juvenile pleasure.

BINGO! I thought.
I would have made it to work before 10am as I'd hoped, but chose to walk a longer way to listen to 'Blood of a Young Wolf' by Buck 65 a few more times with a sloppy grin on my face, eyes squinting from the bright sunshine. After all I’m sure they’ll be able to cope without me, after all the instructions about how to change the toner is etched onto the printer/fax and photocopier. I’m sure they’ll survive.

Oh, the Jade Goody debacle continues. Obviously humility isn't one of her strong points http://uk.news.yahoo.com/23012007/140/jade-goody-thugs-attacked-home.html

Buck 65- Blood of a Young Wolf
The Broken Family Band -Behind the Church
Gorky's Zygotic Mynci- This Summer's been good from the start
The Fall- Grooving with Mr. Blow/ Green Eyed Loco Man (Peel Sesh)
Lift to Experience- These Are the Days

Gee thanks gran!

After the entire country was embroiled in the most overblown media panic in recent times (need I mention it?) I was most optimistic that the conversation on the topic would be forgotten. That is not to say the overarching topic of racism and bullying ought to be forgotten, however the trail of Jade Goody and Channel Four ought to be today’s fish n’ chip wrapping. Sadly, I awoke to the exclusive news on Sunday that Miss Goody’s own grandmother has gone on record (no doubt for a princely sum) to sate that her Granddaughter IS a racist and IS a bully (Gee thanks gran!) and awoke to further more excuse making and grovelling this morning.

As a person whom in the past has enjoyed the public executions of BB contestants as they leave the house to a barrage of hate and venom, I found the whole deal quite scary on Friday’s show. Millions watched it all shaking their fists at the telly hoping that the usual sunny Davina McCall would somehow have transmogrified into Jeremy Paxman and give Jade a firm telling off, pointing out her ills-which without actually slapping her across the face she did okay, just leaving Jade with enough rope to hang herself and had Channel 4 persuaded her to model her hair for that night on Adolf Hitler? Conversely, there was a large portion of the public, who believe that it’s political correctness gone mad (the usual signal that someone is infact a bit of a racist )

Anyway, instead of crawling under a rock to eat humble pie (which she ought to do to in order to give us a ‘effing break from her annoying face) she is now even more of a news story blubbering away on just about every TV station about her harsh upbringing being a young mother etc etc and admissions that she is a bully and she is a racist! I’m probably right in thinking there is some slimy money grabbing agent out there telling her to admit to everything, assuming the public will grant her forgiveness. I sincerely believe this will backfire massively as if she keeps harping on about how hard her life has been, and trying to excuse her way out of it- she’ll end up turning into Ron “I’m not a racist” Atkinson soon. No doubt a TV documentary where Jade visits India will be winging its way over to the TV in the not too distant future “Oh I ‘fought tha Taj Mahal was a take away hehehehe”.

Above all, for me the worst part of the whole incident is the fact that Jade’s mother Jackiey (sic) repeatedly referred to Shilpa as “The Indian” in the weeks proceeding the media furore, when it was widely reported about the plummeting viewing figures the ‘show’ was receiving. This, for the most part was widely ignored by our sensitive and wizened cultural commentators- though from the snippets I saw, it made me feel extremely ill at ease that no one pulled her up about this.

The worst part is that the Nation, who as you should remember were petrified about Muslim women wearing veils in the months leading up to Christmas in a display of massive racial intolerance, now suddenly turned into moral guardians; are once again glued to trials and tribulations of a collection of irksome fame seekers confined into a house with no stimulation. Kudos to the folks at channel 4 for doubling their viewers so quickly – but the very worst of it is the conversation at work continues to revolve around the bloomin’ program. I arrived at the office in a poor mood after suffering at the hands of the cunts at Merseyrail once again. After I had taken my seat and looked depressingly at my screen saver, I was given some un-requested information regarding the relationship between Teddy Sheringham and “the scouse-one” off of the aforementioned TV program. A colleague reliably informed me that he’d dumped her.

Thanks for letting me know that.

Really though, who cares? What a start to the morning. What a start to the week.

Anyway, as the public get their pitchforks at the ready for another public lynching of the other two racist instigators to leave the BB house (whom have both obviously been made aware of the situation and decided to blame Jade for their actions) sit waiting for the inevitable public vote laughing themselves silly watching Borat, 24 and The Simpsons.


Dinosaur Jr - Repulsion
Spearhead – Television The Drug of a Nation
The Ramones-The KKK Took My Baby Away

Give me hope Joanna

I had only my second "one to one" in three years with one of the many managers whom grace my hallowed work place.
I lied through what's left of my teeth on my "progress" "ambitions" and on how much work I have to do. I felt no remorse for the blatant porkies I told.

As mentioned yesterday, I went to see Joanna Newsom last night accompanied gracefully by the sublime Northern Symphonia- a 24 piece orchestra. Suffice to say I was humbled and inspired to witness it. The venue, Manchester's Bridgewater hall, certainly played a significant part and aided the experience. During the coda of 'Sawdust & Diamonds' my arms resembled a kiwi fruit, and despite the warmth of the theatre, I could prevent myself from shivering.

Awesome (in the truest sense- not Bill& Ted/Frat boy overkill sense)

I've tried to find some footage of last night's gig, but the best I could come up with was footage of her from the night before in Glasgow, though rather dissapointingly it doesn't show her performing with the orchestra (note- she did comment that she was quite tense the night before and although it was good she was enjoying/enjoyed last night so much more...bless). I tried up in the nose bleed section to record some footage but gave up after a few seconds as I knew it was futile- but have attached it none the less.

A Tree Surgeon called Ashley

My most recent and enlightening career's advice came in the form of Michael J. Fox this weekend in his 80's aspirational film 'The Secret of My Success'. I'm all ready fixed in the lowly position within the hierarchy, all I need to do now is find an empty office and proceed to make bold and enigmatic decisions bowling over the upper echelons of management with my charm, wit and boyish good looks.

Funny ole film though. As likeable as Mr. Fox is, you can't help but shudder at the ideals of his dreams of wealth and decadence, and having successfully ousted his evil "coat tail" relative as the director of a major company, his first idea is to use the company jet to fly out to Kansas to show his girlfriend off to them. Surely this is a blatant mis use of his shareholder's money and should be in-dighted at the earliest opportunity and removed so ironically from his new acquired office. It also teaches us that without any experience at all, someone can get a job (providing a relative runs that company) and lie and blag your way up the ladder of achievement -providing you manage to be successfully seduced by your relative's wife. It gives hope to us all, it really does. Aside from, what now appear to be very dated aspirations of career success it was good to watch though.

I recall watching it in my teens and remembering a conversation which takes place in the early scenes of the film, something which I remembered throughout my early post-university days.

Whilst in a job interview:

Interviewer:"I'm sorry, we're looking for someone with some experience"
Brantley Foster: "I've got experience- I've got college experience!"
Interviewer: " Yes, but we're looking for someone with practical, real world experience. If you'd joined us as a junior when you left High School, you'd have the right amount of experience by now."
Brantley Foster: " So why did I go to College for?"
Interviewer: "You had fun didn't you?"

Knowing this, I ensured that I did have fun whilst at Uni- and for the most part I did. Sadly after proudly graduating from university my first job was working as a gardener for the local council. Okay, the term 'gardener' may be pushing my job description somewhat, but I didn't think the term 'Weed remover' would have looked so good on my C.V. Oddly enough this was without question the greatest job I have ever had. I loved every minute of it. The fresh air, summer time in the valley gardens and being at one with nature was sheer bliss. So much so, old folks used to walk up behind me as I was trimming the edges of the lawns and say "you must really love your job". This made me appreciate it more so. I also got to meet Johnny Ball, who actually told me to "clear off for a minute" whilst he demonstrated some fancy pants invention that assisted bin men in their carrying of wheelie bins up stairs-conjured up by some geeky looking local school kid. When I was told to clear off, it was said in a jocular manner, rather than a vicious manner which in writing it may appear. Though when I did decide (for those three months) that I wished to pursue a career in the arts, it was disconcerting to read on every advertisement "Minimum of Two Year Experience required".

I often think back to that job in the sweet summer of 99 with rose tinted specs, and recall how I would joyfully remove the contents from the dog shit bins, whilst dressed in my scruffiest attire; so we resembled members of some Southern American chain gang, how my supervisor called me Max by mistake for four weeks and I spent three days weeding a round-a-bout in on Leeds Road. I also was befriended by an odd fellow who was the new Tree Surgeon called Ashley (or as male Ashley's for some reason prefer: 'Ash'), who at weekends would find a forest and just climb and sit in a tree- at one with nature. He also told me how he goes out on his own on a weekend and that he see's no shame in procuring prostitute when he felt the need was required. Despite the picture I'm painting of him, he was a top fellow and when he was told (by way of punishment for his cheeky nature) to spend the day with me pruning a rather large thorn bush by Harrogate College, we spent most of the day chatting about films and music. I think I left an impression with him too: as we started work at 7am, we used to have a break at 9am where everyone would whip out their Thermos flasks and read their copies of the Daily Star/Sun etc (there was always someone who thought they were above reading the 'red tops' and because they had a NVQ in badger burning or something, they'd read the Express.) Anyhoo, I used to bring some cereal in a tupaware along with small bottle of milk, have my breakfast then. To my amazement, everyone there was shocked by this innovation of packed-breakfast. It was prbably akin to when the Earl of Sandwich brought out of his picnic hamper, a Sun Blessed bread bag containing some soggy cheese and marmite butties. Ash was genuinely stunned. He said that he'd being trying to figure a way of preserving breakfast for years. He said he'd tried toast, cold bacon, sausages, porroge in his thermos etc. I didn't know what to say really. I got the idea when I worked in a Mattress Factory, where the hours where the same, and everyone did it there. But seriously, and alarmingly Ash and the other gardeners were amazed. During my short time there, I saw this innovative method catch on and I felt something of a pioneer. I often think that they ought to have a statue of me eating some Weetabix from tupaware in my honour.

It wasn't all a laugh a minute though, there was a tragic story I learned about whist working there. Every morning for the previous 5 years, the Council workers/Gardeners etc removed from the same bin, a carrier bag full of sick. I too had to remove it and can testify to this- in fact I saw a younger colleague who was unfortunate enough to resemble footballer Peter Beardsley lifting this carrier bag and it bursting on him. At the time, witnessing this was one of the funniest things I've ever seen, but the origins of this vomit appear to be quite tragic. For years, the carrier bags where surrounded by those giant Diary Milk wrappers, but as time went on, the Dairy Milk wrappers became Morrison's own branded milk chocolate, but more recently, they were accompanied by bun cases. The general opinion was that some wretched soul would gorge themselves on chocolate then regurgitate it into a plastic bag, tie a knot in it and leave it in the bin. Clearly judging from the decline in quality of the food substances, money was running out to fuel this obsession and in desperation would bake his/her own cakes to gorge on. Harrogate Council (so I was told) was spending thousands of pounds to install CCTV cameras to catch this culprit. Perhaps ole Michael J. Fox could make a movie about this? Perhaps he could use his patented charm, wit and boyish good looks to get himself promoted from round-a-bout weeding duties to become the mayor? Certainly the supervisor who called me Max, was very much of the same kind of "I'll be watching you, you snot nosed punk" types, that makes films like that so much more enjoyable.

Off to see the delectable and fascinating Joanne Newsome tonight, jealous? You ought to be.


Dinosaur Jr. - Pebbles + Weeds
All Smiles - Pile of Burning Leaves
Mudhoney -Touch Me I'm Sick

beeping slag

This footage was discovered on my mobile last whilst I was bored waiting for our flight from Prague last week. It was a pleasant discovery indeed. I don’t remember recording it, but it has proved most insightful about what happened that night and why I felt so rough on Christmas Day. Granted, I’d only had 4 hours cat disturbed sleep on my brother’s living room floor in my beeping slag* (thanks again bro) after a long night of ales (including Oyster Stout) and waking up with a pizza in my pocket etc..

The footage is a little grainy and it is quite hard to make out what’s going on, but it appears Dom’s heavily tattooed ‘girlfriend’ (please note my use of irksomely ironic quotation marks used to highlight the fact he didn’t consider her to be). Anyway, this is footage of her trying to audition as a lap dancer- and as Lisa astutely observed “she’s not very good is she?”. I recall vaguely that she asked us all if we’d want her to perform a lap dance for us- most of us politely decline, however there was one amongst us who was asleep and therefore it seemed an appropriate way to wake him.








Unless something goes tits up next Christmas, I won’t be in Harrogate and will miss the annual ritualistic Christmas piss up and Chico’s Pizza. I shall miss it and is usually the highlight of the whole Christmas weekend. The best ever Christmas Eve involved me being carried out a pub by a bouncer holding my throat, Luke falling down a hill with his hands in his pockets and helping a guy start his car- giving us a lift then realising as he was swerving across the traffic that he was drunk and that the car was stolen. The year before that on Christmas Eve Eve (23rd) I puked on myself in Harrrogate’s reprehensibly bad night club Jimmy’s decided to stay and dance it off (a sure sign that I wasn’t at my best) then, unable to walk –collapsed in a gutter on King’s Road leaving friends incoherent phone messages on their answer phones- all of which were played back to me the next day.
Falling flat on my face but managing not to drop my pizza a few years back with my brother was another highlight.

Anyhoo- every now and then Pitchfork bring us news that is actually of interest rather than some tit bits and gossip about some band I’ve never heard of, and in all probability won’t like- instead they bring news of a new Smog…sorry Bill Callahan record!

There isn’t too many artists/musicians that I wait with genuine anticipation for, but Mr. Callahan is certainly top of that pile. His last outing ‘A River ain’t Too Much too Love’ was easily my favourite record of 2005 and ‘Supper’ was my favourite record of 2003 (see ‘Feather by Feather’ MP3 below) anyway as if this news wasn’t enough to wet ones appetite, SFA front man Gruff Rhys is going to be performing at Liverpool’s Philharmonic Hall to promote his new LP ‘Candilion’.
Should you never have been lucky enough to have stepped foot in this hallowed venue – it is really special-. We’ve seen, Gorky’s, Yo La Tengo, and Lambchop (including their amazing ‘Sunrise’ performance.

Judging from the other venues on his tour, he; or the people representing him, must be fairly confident of good turn out especially as the other city’s venues are so small we’ve played most of them!

Reasons to be cheerful indeed!

Gruff Rhys- Gwn Mi Wn

Smog - Feather by Feather

*"Beeping Slag" Copyright McParty 2005

Suit yourself (I was nearly blown off my feet)

Once more the heavy dark clouds of discontent loom above my head. I feel like a prisoner passed up for parole, knowing that his destiny is to spend the remainder of his time in a torrid hell-hole such as this office. No doubt you may gather that I was "unsuccessful" in my job application.

It looked so positive though I thought to myself after receiving the call. Where did I go wrong? Upon reflection and regaling how it went with Lisa, I can perhaps spot a few errors of judgment on my part:

Firstly, putting my suit on yesterday morning it had become clear that I have perhaps put on a couple of extra pounds over the festive period- all that Goulash and Straropramen in Prague no doubt. The jacket was so tight that I could barely do the buttons up. No matter I thought, I just wouldn’t fasten it.

I arrived at work with my suit jacket concealed under my coat so my nosey colleagues wouldn't suspect anything. I craftily removed my coat and jacket simultaneously and hung it up. “He He - the perfect crime!" I muttered like an old style film villain twirling my beard manically.

The whole day I was trying to mentally prepare myself for it i.e. doing bugger all at work. I did sadly have a rather unexpected nose bleed which alarmed me somewhat, especially as I was wearing a white shirt for the first time in an age as opposed to my usual rotation of black and dark grey shirts. This change of clothing was picked up on by one of my more astute colleagues, I explained that all my dark shirts were "in the wash". The wool was indeed over their eyes! Anyway, I rushed to the toilet and discovered that I had several large drops of blood on my shirt on my stomach. Considering the situation I remained fairly calm reassuring myself that as long as I buttoned up my suit jacket I would be fine. Going home to get a new shirt was not an option.

I sat at my desk with tissue up my right nostril for 15 minutes to ensure that the bleeding had ceased. “You’ve spilled some blood on your shirt” was a comment needless to say that I could have done without.

As I'd pre booked the afternoon off, so no one was suspicious when I fled out of the back door at 1pm. I stepped out into the middle of a hurricane- I mean Holy shit the wind was strong, proper strong! I struggled the few hundred meters to the Offices whereupon the interview was being held and did the ole, sit down and wait thing; which I did patiently- chatting to the receptionist on fairly trivial matters-mostly how windy it was “I was nearly blown off my feet I said”.

There was something a miss though. My usual confidence, which I rely upon in these situations, had deserted me and I was actually feeling nervous. Realising this made me more nervous and I could feel my palms getting sweaty- very sweaty!

When I was beckoned, I followed up some bored office clerk with 4 earrings up the stairs making polite chit chat regarding the strong winds “I was nearly blown off my feet” I said. I was asked to wait in a different office which was deserted except for a secretary and repeated the same conversation regarding the weather as I had done previously with the receptionist and the bored office clerk “(sigh)I was nearly blown off my feet”. I could hear laughter from the other side of the door which I took as a good sign until another interviewee came out of the room laughing and giving the thumbs up sign to the secretary who gave him a beaming smile. Fuck.

The secretary asked me if I wanted to take off my coat, I stood up to do so and remembered the blood so I suspiciously turned my back on her to remove my coat and quickly fasten up my suit jacket. Zoot Alores! I'd forgotten that I was a fat(ter) bastard and that my jacket was too small! I sucked in my gut the best I could and fumbled with the buttons the jacket eventually succeeding. I turned around, sweaty and resembling Penfold from Dangermouse and sat down cautiously knowing that any sudden movements would no doubt cause irreparable damage to my beloved suit. “As long as I don’t bed over or breathe I’ll be okay I thought.”

It wasn't took long that before I was invited into the "interview room".

In the office/makeshift interview room there was three managerial types sat behind a desk. Not wishing to lean over and shake hands because of the sweatiness and the jacket situation I sat down slowly and craftily undid my buttons safe in the knowledge that the blood stains would be out of sight under the desk. Flop- my belly popped out. I knew the 'non handshakingness' was an error, as they immediately started scribbling notes down whilst the chap in the centre of the three of them waffled on about what was instore for me for the afternoon (AFTERNOON!??).

Sadly my nerves got the better of me, and was unable to string a succinct sentence together. I ummed and erred and digressed majorly but I think I'd managed to answer the questions to their liking, so I still felt I was in with a chance. Alas, the next question about Equality Impact Assessment (a buzz word in the Council at the moment) caused me some discomfort. Having already brought the matter up myself in a previous question- the interviewer asked me why it was important and to give an example. Now having listened to an esteemed colleague moan non stop about having to go on a days' training about learning Muslim customs (in case he ever inspects their property- which he wouldn't and of course there are no Muslim households/families in our area- hence his "this is madness" bemoaning). I went on to answer this question the following way:

"Well...ummmm, it's naturally important to not exclude any members of the community as we want a erm... unified borough and community...and harmony - I'm mean I know everyone moans about Equality Impact Assessment, saying "why do we need to know about the Muslims blah blah blah" ....not me though of course, you know? As I think it's very important, but erm...it's important to know their customs and respect them for urm...their beliefs and errr....diet..... like taking your shoes off before you enter their property apparently and this will go a long way in building bridges and not exclude anyone from our community....creating harmony etc."

Bugger, I knew I'd blown it! I was on the ropes big time but that was thankfully the last question. He then went on to go over Council policy- all of which I knew already; that took twenty minutes. Then the time came for me to ask any questions I may have in regards to the position. Now, as I didn't know what exactly the job I was applying for was I tried to get around this by asking what the day to day tasks would be. The proceeded to waffle and go on about how good their team was, what I'd be doing and essentially I would be processing Licensing Applications. Oh joys. But was the money was far better and it was only for a year, it sounded pretty darned sweet to me.

They then went on about the new gambling regulations, which will be coming into effect soon. The chap said "We are all having to under take training on gambling which should be fun".

As soon as he said it, I could feel an obvious joke shooting it's way from my crap gag file in my brain to my dry mouth. There was little I could do to stop myself from saying it....."I bet you'll be no good at that". There it was, I said it. As at the last second I tried to stop myself I managed to keep the volume of this "joke" down- but all it did was make it sound like I was making a snide comment about him. There was a pause and a confused look on all their faces...without thinking (again) I said "Apologies I lied about having a sense of humour on my application" which was met by an even awkward silence. I could feel myself blushing and sweating. I'm pretty sure I saw the woman interviewer mouth "cock head" to me.

The interview was over, and I was informed that I would be required to partake in a typing test. "Great" or should I say "fiddle dee dee" (see previous post http://dogsbodydreadnought.blogspot.com/2006/11/fiddledeedee-im-fucked.html). I stood up and just tried to pull me jacket (which I was sure was shrinking by the minute) over the blood stain with my right hand. They stood up too and offered me their hands. I had to switch hands so that my left hand was pulling the jacket over the blood so I could shake their hands. It must have looked weird. The first guy's handshake I missed and ended up with him shaking my fingers (wet hand shake that I loathe- will write about this at some point) the second guy was a wet hand shaker anyway and I ended up crushing the woman's hand- and she did 'ouch' hand movement after I let go. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Anyhow I walked out of the office with my chin up and proceeded to take the typing test in another room. This was a piece of piss and I breezed them both exceeding the required 30 WPM and attaining my P.B of 42 WPM (small victory), however farting in this small room didn't exactly help, especially as it hadn't cleared by the time the secretary had come back to the office. –she said she’d check back on me in 15 minutes- but came back after 5!
I think it must have been the typing test success that gave me that glimmer of false hope. I honestly punched the air when I saw my score. After I’d said goodbye and collected my coat I went straight to the toilet as I was effing bursting. At the point I noticed that the bleedin’ winds had done something quite unusual to my hair! I let out a sorrowful whimper and my truly awful and bizarre hair.

Four hours later when I received the confirmation phone call I’d actually convinced myself that I was definitely going to get the job- and was a bit shocked with the "bad luck" phone call. Hilariously he said "we all enjoyed your interview but there was- on the day- a better suited applicant". Blown off my feet I was.

I am Kloot -Storm Warning
The Pernice Brothers- Crestfallen
Billy Bragg -Sulk

Lubos

(pic- busker's on St Charles' bridge- Czech Blues Band)

Lubos was the name of our Puffa jacket clad taxi driver in his early forties who picked Lisa and I up from the airport in Prague. He approached us as I was persusing a map of the city trying to locate where our Hotel was. Naturally both Lisa and I were extremely dubious as we clearly looked like tourists and felt especially vulnerable to be hoodwinked by such crafty local types. He seemed genuine enough to me though and more importantly Lisa thought so too. We shrugged our shoulders and let him push our luggage trolley to his taxi.

Despite everything appearing Kosha with Lubos, as we drove towards the city I felt increasingly uncomfortable. This anxiety was heightened when his mobile phone started to ring. His ringtone was the theme to Kill Bill (the whistled tune) and he laughed heavily as he conversed via his speaker phone in Czech. Despite learning some key phrases in Czech, these proved useless in trying to ascertain what he was talking about. I convinced myself that he was explaining that he had two stupid English types in the back of his cab and he was on route to ritualistically rape and violate us, or sell us as meat or sex slaves perhaps on the black market. I mulled over the idea of being a sex slave for several minutes- and decided it would be a poor career choice.

After his conversation he apologised for having to take the call. Nervously and perhaps foolishly I whistled his ringtone theme (I have always excelled in whistling like an old man) and he went to answer it and realised the rouse. He proceeded to look back at us both with his phone in his hand and play the irritating theme back to us- raising his eyebrows and smiling inanely as if we should be impressed- a little like jangling keys to an infant or early American settlers giving the Native Americans shiny objects to pacify them. We politiely pretended we found it amusing- raising our eyebrows in feigned interest. He then continued to play his other theme song, some dodgy Czech White Metal nodding his head from side to side in time with the music. At that moment the rape and violation seemed a decent alternative.

Lubos, kept the conversation going throughout the journey pointing out key buildings in the city and explaining the historical significance to boot- I started to relax. No sooner as I had begun to lighten up Lubos stopped the car down some dimly lit back street on the city's outskirts. My sphincter closed as tight as a drum. I contemplated fleeing the car and leaving him and Lisa- of course this would mean sacrificing Lisa, but I figured she would distract him and this would give me a nifty head start.
He kept the engine running and leaned back and asked us what time our return flight was- offering to collect us should we wish.
"what no rape" I thought to myself somewhat disappointed.

I felt it rude to decline him and proceeded to give him my phone number and arrange a time for him to pick us up from the hotel but again I was dubious of his motive. I figured that if it had transpired that he'd overcharged us- which I would ascertain once in the safety of our Hotel, I'd give him one of my patented bad lies/excuses and then destroy my phone to prevent any threatening phone calls. He insited on calling me then- to see if I had given him a false number no doubt.

After him telling us about his love for Ice Hockey and his pride that his son played in the 2nd Division National league we soon arrived at our Hotel. Like a pro, he insited on lifting the bags into the Hotel for us and shook both of our hands before driving off into the busy traffic. After asking around it transpired that he'd charged us fairly and I felt a modicum of guilt as I thought of the way I was fairly cautious- but at least my sphincter opened up again.
I thought about Lubos quite a lot over the next few days. Not in a sexual manner of course- why would you even think that? but rather in an inquisitive way. I knew little about him except he loved to play Ice Hockey and his English was way better than he thought it was. Also he said to us that "Budvar" was his favourite beer.

When it came for us to go home and the end of the week, a weary Lisa and I waited with our luggage in the Hotel reception chatting to hairy lipped but thoroughly pleasant receptionist. We made small talk and she clarified some of our observations on the Russian WAGS we'd seen and both she and her colleagues had both commended me on my Czech- notably my pronunciation. Granted I only learned several polite phrases but showed them off to her as if I was the first Englishman to ever try his hand at the lingo. As ever,during our conversation I spoke to her in a Allo Allo-Czech accent, and as ever was ridiculed by my better half. I was slightly worried that Lubos may not collect us, but Lubos seemed a man of his word. Our rendez vous with him was at 6.30pm and low and behold he called me at 6.35pm- no doubt wanting to double check to see if we were actually there.

I was in a far better mood to converse with Lubos this time around, and infact received several nudges from Lisa in a way that would make me believe that I was talking to him a bit too much. I asked him about his games of ice hockey, the weather and driving conditions and rules of the road over there. He seemed distant this time round. It was clear to me that he hadn't pondered my existence as i had with him, this, pragmatically speaking, was fair enough I thought. On route to the airport he pointed out his home town- a set of lights on the horizon. It looked fairly industrial and fairly unpleasant- no doubt he was happy with it as long as he has his ice hockey and Budvar.

Once again, arriving at our destination he insisted on taking our luggage out of his car's boot and I noticed an ice hockey stick was there and his full name was written on his car's door proudly. Once more he shook our hands and felt like giving him a hug. I didn't though- we had a plane to catch.

Oddly enough once we'd collected our baggage from the respective carousel in Manchester airport we were due to be picked up by a taxi that I'd pre- arranged. I couldn't see him anywhere, and wasn't sure how he'd identify me? I called the taxi company- simply noted as 'Taxi' in my phone and asked embarrassingly what the name of the taxi company was. "Penny Lane Taxis? really?". I spotted a silver Astra sporting this company logo and the driver was on his phone having a fag. He watched Lisa and I struggle in the heavy rain getting our bags in the car and didn't help. This made me think of Lubos- king of the taxi drivers. A small tear was shed in his honour.

This cabbie turned out to be a decent chap though, and it wasn't long before I'd forgotten about Lubos and his Puffa Jacket, however every time I see my tattoo declaring my love for him that I got whilst over in Prague, and the subsequent treatment for hepatitis I got whilst having it done will always somehow remind me of him. sigh.

Anyway, my job interview (the one which I don't know what the job's for) is in a few hours. I must mentally prepare myself. Adieu!

Pavement - Transport is Arranged (live)
Pearl Jam -Rearviewmirror