Juvenile dementia

Hey

2012-01-30T21:35:00.001Z

I know I'm not posting these days, but if you have a literary bent, why not go to http://beautifullyput.blogspot.com/ and email your favourite bits of books for everyone to enjoy.

Go on, you know you want to.

Just remember

2011-06-28T20:46:00.005Z

When the time comes, exhale slowly and squeeze the trigger.

A busy day

2011-06-22T20:31:00.007Z

Gosh, you know it's a big day when you discover 2 new heroes.

The first, proving that you find your heroes in the unlikeliest places, is a Republican politician. Imagine that!

So the story is that Roy McDonald, a Republican State Senator for New York is going to vote for gay marriage.

And he's doing it in style. When pressed, he had this to say on the matter...

"You get to the point where you evolve in your life where everything isn't black and white, good and bad, and you try to do the right thing,

You might not like that. You might be very cynical about that. Well, fuck it, I don't care what you think. I'm trying to do the right thing.

I'm tired of Republican-Democrat politics. They can take the job and shove it."

Honest to God, I actually had a tear in my eye as I typed that.

There is still hope for the world.

And now, to take that hope away, there's a tweet from some dude in today's Metro.

The twittersphere/twatterati/idiots online are all abuzz with a new potential Harry Potter thingy called Pottermore somewhere on that internet. Don't ask me any more than that, I neither know, nor care.

Point being, the Metro, like all lazy news outlets, decide to add colour to their news reporting/fill a few column inches on the cheap with quotes from the man on the street.

LunaHP15711 tweeted: '#PotterMore announcement!! Can't wait!'

also

alysonmiers wrote: 'Tomorrow morning we get #pottermore! It just might be enough to get me out of bed early!'

but most amusingly,

StuartDP22: 'I hope JK Rowling's "Pottermore" is an online pottery store, not because I like pottery, but because I like millions of disappointed people.'

Har.

Short, short stories

2011-06-21T05:41:00.002Z

For sale: One parachute. Bargain. Only used once. Never opened.

If lesbians didn't exist, men would have to invent them

2011-06-15T15:34:00.002Z

It's been a busy week for fake lesbians. Hot on the kitten heels of the Gay Girl in Damascus who turned out to be not nearly as gay, as much of a girl or as near damascus as advertised (Tom MacMaster, married man in Edinburgh), comes Paula Brooks (Bill Graber) executive editor of LezGetReal.com.

Personally, I think these are lovely stories. After all, it puts to rest the notion that you have to be a member of a community to understand or comment on issues that affect them - because presumably if someone can, over a period of years, convince people that they are a lesbian, then they must have a reasonable understanding of things.

Or do they? This notion presupposes that any of The Blogging Lesbians (which would be a brilliant name for a band, now I think about it) are actually real.

Maybe there are no lesbians blogging? Maybe they're too busy putting up shelves and moving in with each other (*irony alert* of course this is just another boring stereotype. Everyone knows lesbians actually spent literally all their time showering).

This would mean that the internet is full of men posing as lesbians flirting with other men posing as lesbians whilst, in the final irony of all, the actual, real women in their lives wait for them to get off the damn computer already and come back to bed.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel like I've been given a tiny glimpse into God's plan.

Quote of the day

2011-06-14T21:06:00.003Z

From my weekend in Iceland (feel free to add your own Kerry Katona joke here. Everyone else did):

Whilst on a bus touring some of the major scenic sites of a large, volcanic island:

"Ok guys, we're next going to stop off in the town of Geysir. There's some sort of natural feature there. I think it might be a waterfall."

A waterfall. Jeez.

Fun fact: Almost every language in the world uses the word 'geyser' for the hot water spouty phenomenon - and all of these are named after the town of Geysir. The quirky result of this is that one of the few languages for which the word for a geyser is not 'geyser', is actually Icelandic.

You're welcome.

I guess that one's answered

2011-05-26T15:04:00.002Z

So, nights resulted in:

1. A total loss of awareness of what day it was.
2. Wandering round in a zombie-like state.
3. An embarrassing tendency to bump into things.
4. No blogging.
5. And when you do blog, it's just not funny.

...

...

...

I'm serious about number 5.

Night eyes

2011-05-19T21:42:00.003Z

So I appear to be working this weekend - and I've volunteered for the night shift. So expect either loads of posting as there's nothing to do, or nowt for a bit as I ruin my body clock and run myself into the ground.

Wish me luck.

Health and Safety gone mad

2011-05-15T17:18:00.002Z

"...erm, I'm not exactly sure how you've managed this Mr Peterson, but I'm afraid to inform you that you have failed this element of your driving test."

This is why I don't get more work done

2011-05-15T17:16:00.001Z

Screen burn

2011-05-11T21:41:00.000Z

Oops.

Just spent five minutes padding at, wiping and eventually scratching a mark on my laptop screen.

It was a full stop.

Where's Waldo - Pakistan Military Edition

2011-05-10T21:52:00.002Z

Decathlon and on

2011-05-10T20:33:00.004Z

Question:

In athletics, they have the skinny long distance runners, the chunky shot putters, the muscly sprinters and the lanky high jumpers.

And in motor sports, there are crazy low-slung formula one cars, robust rally cars and super-stretch drag racers.

But also in athletics they have the decathlon, which looks for the best all-round, quite good at everything athlete.

So where is the motor-racing equivalent? Surely someone could invent a race that included a 24 hour road race, a 1/4 mile sprint, a cross-country challenge and, I don't know, a who can tow the heaviest weight contest.

Move aside Bernie Ecclestone, I'm inventing the Global Motor Supreme Challenge - only the strongest cars survive.

Who's up for it? Sponsors?

I'd like to tell you, but I'm not allowed

2011-05-09T19:46:00.006Z

Poor old Jemima Khan. First she gets saddled with the name of one of the Play School toys (although it could be worse of course - Hambel Khan anyone?), now she's the victim of rumours that she's taken out a super injuction.

And it's worse than that. Supposedly the injuction is to prevent the publication of photographs of her in a compromising situation with... wait for it... wait for it... Jeremy Clarkson!

Good Lord, no wonder she's upset.

"Jemima Khan described weekend rumours that she has taken out a gagging order preventing "intimate photos" of herself and Jeremy Clarkson being published as a "bloody nightmare"."

Frankly, this can only be a heroic understatement, as I'd describe even seeing photos of Clarkson naked and on the job as a bloody nightmare.

And if you were actually with him, you'd have to endure not only the commentary ("the body is exquisite, great in the curves, she's a romantic ideal... with great tits."), but he'd no doubt want James May and the Hamster to have a go too.

Needless to say, I don't believe a word of it, due to having seen her, then taken a look at him. That's all it takes folks.

Still, it does rather reveal a fun aspect of the super injuction, as we can now make up any rumour we like, however absurd, and then claim they've taken out a super injunction to hide the terrible truth.

Like that video of me and Christina Aguilera in the hot tub.

For my part, I'm looking forward to the development of the mega injuction. It's like a superinjunction, but even the person who takes it out is not allowed to know what they've done.

But maybe they do exist already. Maybe I've taken one out myself. Maybe the paperwork is followed up with a dose of flashy-thing in a Men In Black style.

Who knows what I might have been up to?

No, wait, that's just heavy drinking isn't it?

Caption of the day

2011-05-05T19:46:00.005Z

Lloyds Banking Group came under fire for its method of announcing staff redundancies

Weather or not

2011-05-04T19:33:00.002Z

Ok, I'm sure we're all familiar with the annual whinge 'crikey, a few flakes of snow and the country grinds to a halt' right?

But how about this? Three days without rain and the nation is on fire.

That's right. One short, dry, spell and Britain is in flames. Brilliant.

Now this seems like a new one to me. Would you agree?

But the real question is, is this because this Great British Barbeque is actually a new phenomenon, or is it in fact, simply that we've never actually had three days without rain before.

What next? A thick fog and Britain gets lost in the Atlantic Ocean? A couple of hailstorm shatters us into a million different islands, all voting for independence and squabbling over who owns Watford? A summer, which we'd have no idea what to do with?

Or just more rain.

Place your bets.

Up that chimney, titch!

2011-05-01T21:13:00.003Z

Turns out it was 'bring your child to work' day last week.

Big mistake.

Little did they predict, what with all the people off sick and the huge amounts of work to do, a short photoshop job took place and, lo and behold, it was 'put your child to work' day.

Poor blighters, they never knew what hit them.

I think there's a twelve-year-old girl after my job now though. I'm not sure I can compete.

May the force be with me

2011-04-28T16:38:00.002Z

It has been brought to my attention by certain keen-eyed observers that I appear to be going a bit mental.

Putting this down to the various stresses and strains of work, piled up with the 10 hours every weekend spent on trains, I have decided to endeavour to give up the booze for the unaptly named merry merry month of May.

Wish me luck.

In other news, it appears that, having attempted to reserve hotel rooms for 11 people for Wig's stag, I have left it too late and there are now no rooms in the inn.

I suspect the attendees will not be sympathetic to the Bethlehemic resonance and will instead just hate me for making them sleep rough.

Anyone know any good Rejkyavikian abodes?

Nordic conspiracy

2011-04-23T12:24:00.004Z

Can anyone tell me why a) whenever I log on using the wireless network on the train, I get google in Swedish and b) why all my error messages on my phone when online, are provded in Norwegian?

The Scandos are after me, I'm sure of it.

In other news, apparently the writer of Only Fools and Horses, John Sullivan, has died.

We can only hope that, for one final laugh, they use his funeral for a recreation of the legendary bar scene from the show, slowly toppling his upright coffin into the grave through an unexpectedly open countertop.

Trivial Office Emotions #32

2011-04-21T20:35:00.001Z

e-mbarrassment: That sinking feeling you get when, in the middle of phoning and berating your colleague for not responding to your really important email you sent literally hours ago, you realise that the email is still sitting, unsent, in your drafts folder.

neglect

2011-04-18T21:09:00.002Z

Sorry folks, I've really not been keeping you entertained have I?

No doubt you've spent the last week slumped glumly over your keyboard, listlessly clicking 'refresh' in vain hope of a new post, pausing only to nibble at the edges of a spicy chicken Ginsters, letting the flakes fall where they may.

But cheer up, faithful audience. I'm back.

In a quest to return to some faint shadow of fitness, I went for a run today.

Oh the shame. For although my eyes can see the expanding belly that keeps nudging for attention at the bottom of my eyeline, my brain remains convinced that I am a svelte, road-eating, running machine.

So, when I finally pull on the lycra and get out onto the streets, the effect was one of my brain playing the eager-to-win jockey and my poor body the overworked, ageing racehorse.

'Faster. Faster. Faster.' bade Brain, whipping the foaming flanks of Body.

'Neigh' said body (see what I did there?).

Body did his best. He sweated. He strived. He failed.

I think the best I can say of the experience is that I was not shot by a vet at the end.

Still, there's always tomorrow's run, right?

Caption if you can

2011-04-05T18:06:00.006Z

And yet, when the hairdresser finally held up the mirror, Mrs Peppington-Smythe still found herself just saying, "Yes, that's fine thanks."

Happy Cleavage Day

2011-03-31T19:39:00.005Z

I'm reliably informed that today is National Cleavage Day, an ancient and traditional holiday not even slightly made up by (probably) a bra company.

Since time immemorial man has celebrated this splendid festival which originated as the pagan festival of Czechemout, a holiday in honour of Eyborl, the ancient god of staring. In those days, druids would wander through the village with strands of ivy and, if you were favoured by the heavens, one of these would be popped between your tender, firm young breasts and 9 months' good luck was assured to you. (Hey, don't complain to me, it's not my fault the ancient ones liked firm, young breasts).

Gradually, of course, Christianity overtook the land.

At this time, much like they did with the pagan Eostre which was to become the Easter we know today, the newly arrived Christians thought it simpler to adapt the festivals they found, rather than build an entirely new holiday schedule from scratch and force everyone to buy new Gary Larson desk calendars.

Thus, the Christians introduced Ogletide, a holiday devoted to Mary Magdalene. Or parts of her, at least.

In Ogletide, people would come together and share the traditional meal - two hard boiled eggs, to be eaten without utensils - and then play the parlour game 'I's Here' in which players have long, fascinating conversations with each other without ever making eye contact.

Thus it was until the time of Henry VIII and the separation of the church of England from the Catholic Church. Henry declared this day a time to contemplate the great division, and renamed it in honour of England's being cleaved from the Church of Rome.

Of course, being Henry VIII, he also kept all the stuff about boobs. And so began the National Cleavage Day we celebrate in modern times.

Of course, as you know, thanks to advances in agriculture, the age-old boiled eggs have been replaced by celebrants feasting on a lovely, juicy pear. Also, thanks to advances in social thinking, the game of 'I's Here' is generally replaced by several rounds of 'Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Just As Well Because Sexual Role Allocations Are A Largely Social Construct And Strength Differentials Mostly Irrelevant In The Modern Technological World'. Or sometimes Boggle.

So there it is. Happy Cleavage Day!

Have fun everyone.

And send topless pics. After all, it's tradition.

Sometimes I love the people of the internet

2011-03-31T16:52:00.002Z

In today's Comment is Free, there is a piece by/about the violent Black Bloc people who smashed some stuff up and overturned global capitalism at the weekend.

Throughout the comments are the 'they're heroes' 'no they're just twats' comments you would expect.

But throughout these comments, every now and then there's a little thread of conversation that starts with the observation that the caption on the picture saying 'a chair' is thrown at a window is wrong and it is actually a stool, that culminates with a discussion of when a chair becomes a stool - is it height related or backlessness, and when is a back not a back*.

Isn't the internet great?

*A chair has a back support. To qualify as back support must reach higher than 5th vertebrae up the back of a six foot adult male.

Any shorter than the 5th vertebrae then it's a stool with a coccyx rest. Apparently.

2011-03-31T15:44:00.002Z

So poor old Madonna's school in Malawi isn't doing too well.

Maybe the uniform, of short tartan skirt, navy blazer and pointy conical bra put students off.

Lazy blogging - picture caption

2011-03-30T20:29:00.003Z

Pinocchio's excitement at becoming real diminished somewhat when he came home early and surprised Gepetto and his My Little Pony

Today, I made this

2011-03-30T20:10:00.003Z

Mother, you must be so proud.

Also Mum, re. bukkake, DON'T GOOGLE IT! DON'T!

Non sequitur of the day

2011-03-29T20:26:00.006Z

"I'll never go back to drugs, but I'd love another baby" declares Kerry Katona in what seems like two rather unconnected statements.

But now, imagine the evil Katona sitting in a large leather armchair across from an interviewer. The interviewer, knowing Katona's weakness for innocent human flesh has a bowl of helpless babies in her hands.

"Thanks for giving me this interview Ms Katona. Snack?"

"Don't mind if I do."

*munches on tender infant*

...interview carries on for a while...

"So Kerry, don't you worry about slipping off the wagon and going back to the narcotics?"

"Oh I'll never go back to drugs, but I'd love another baby."

*reaches out with hungry, bloodstained grin*

Makes a horrible, frightening sense doesn't it?

On the other hand, maybe she's not an evil cannibal and by 'baby' she simply meant 'headline'.

I guess we'll never know.

Raise a stein

2011-03-21T20:37:00.003Z

Thanks to the Adamski for getting an impressive plus 3 for the live multimedia happening, Frankenstein, broadcast on BBC 3 live from Kirkstall Abbey this weekend.

For those of you who didn't see it, which would be all of you (key words 'BBC 3') it was a modern updating of the Frankenstein story, set in a society wedding that was being broadcast live on BBC 3 (you see what they did there?).

What's more, this being BBC 3, there was tweeting.

As an evening, it had everything - lovely scenery (gothic horror in a ruined abbey, what's not to like?), free wine (I was on a press pass, one toe in the lovely bubble), a shipping container (where the free wine was served), a view of the bubble within the bubble ('sorry mate, sponsors only'), celebrities (apparently, I didn't recognise anyone, but I'm old, so it's allowed) and artsy stuff.

Fantastic.

Thanks Adam. And BBC 3. And Mary Shelley - we couldn't have done it without you.

Little bit of politics

2011-03-21T20:22:00.003Z

That Arab League eh? What are they like.

Arab League: "Hey, The West, that situation in Libya is looking really grim. We'd really love it if you helped out. A no fly zone, perhaps?"

The West, "Well, you don't normally like us fiddling around in your area, but if that's what you want. You know that involves blowing up air defences right?"

Arab League: "Yeah, yeah. Sure guys, go ahead."

*Boooooooom*

Arab League: *looks at smoking wreckage*

"What did you do that for?"

The West: "Ffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!"

Novel idea

2011-03-14T21:19:00.002Z

Hey you lot.

I've been reading a book I wrote a while back (extract below) and I have realised 2 things.

1. What I thought was a comic romp is actually a really sad book full of sadness.

2. I want to self publish it and give it to friends.

So if you're interested in becoming the proud owner of a copy of Shaking the Snowstorm, let me know (you can put something in the comments).

Thanks

Book extract - Shaking the Snowstorm

2011-03-13T13:59:00.002Z

The problem with going on a date with the person to whom you’ve been married for six years is that it’s not really a date at all is it?

Dating is, let’s face it, a time when you go out with someone who barely knows you and make every effort to make sure that it stays that way.

Dating is when you spend an evening portraying the person you want to be, the person you could be, or in a lot of cases, the person you suspect you should be if you made a bit more effort.

When we’re dating we remain well-dressed, shiny and clean. When we’re dating we’re thoughtful, interested and we smell nice.

And we maintain that illusion for as long as is possible. But eventually, so slowly that we don’t even notice it happening, we all make the transition from dating to a relationship. And the rules change.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad thing at all. Nobody could maintain the hygiene requirements of a date on a 24 hour, 7 day a week basis. Your skin would fall off from all the chemicals for a start.

It’s not only natural, it’s a great thing that you start to become comfortable with one another. That you still love the other person even though you’re more likely to see them in jogging bottoms than lingerie is beautiful and necessary.

But when it comes to recreating those special first dates, whilst you can put on the clothes and spray on the requisite fragrances, what you absolutely cannot recreate is exactly what made those first dates so exciting.

You can’t recreate the mystery.

And so Alicia sat opposite me and I sat opposite her and we couldn’t think of anything to say.

Still, I was determined to make this thing work out and, as the saying goes, where there’s a wine, there’s a way.

I ordered another bottle with a hand gesture, just as Alicia broke the silence.

“Are we turning into one of those couples?”

She sounded genuinely worried and I knew what she meant. Those couples who sit in the pub or at the restaurant, eating and drinking in dead silence, proving the physicists right when they wondered if two separate but parallel universes could exist side by side.

I finished my wine, “Nah,” I declared, “ We’re just a bit ring-rusty that’s all. We’ll get used to this. What’s the best thing that happened to you this week?”

“I got a letter from a client who’s dog got run over and we paid for all the surgery. She was really grateful.”

“Excellent. Let’s drink to that,” I refilled our glasses and we clinked again.

By halfway down the second bottle, the conversation was flowing freely, if a bit slurrily and it seemed like we were out of the woods. We were clearly enjoying each other’s company and it almost felt like a real date.

I was certainly doing my best to act like a man on a date, as I could hardly drag my gaze out of the beautiful cleavage that was on display.

“You know what we should do?” I suggested.

“Go on,”

“Nip to the toilets for a quickie. Like that time in the Prince Albert. That was so sexy.”

“Simon, don’t. This is supposed to be a date.”

“Well isn’t that what people are supposed to do on dates?” I countered.

“No. Well eventually yes. But there’s supposed to be a seduction. You don’t just meet someone for the first time and say ‘fancy a shag in the bogs’ do you?”

“I don’t remember. It does sound like something I’d say, though.”

“Before you met me perhaps. About which time I also remember you saying you didn’t have much success with ladies. Do you think there could be a correlation?”

“Oh well, just forget it then,” I said, quite aware that I was starting to sound like a thwarted adolescent.

“No, don’t forget it,” she replied, putting a hand on mine, “You just have to, you know, make an effort. You remember how it used to be.”

I pulled my hand away. “I remember the Prince Albert. But that apparently doesn’t count.”

Alicia folded her arms. “Ok, fine, you want all the romance of a quickie in a restaurant toilet, let’s do it,” she snapped, “Let’s go right now.”

“Oh come on, it’s not going to work now is it? I want you to be there. I don’t want a pity shag.”

“Well make up your mind Simon,” she huffed, “First you want it, then you don’t. How can I win?”

At this point, of course, she couldn’t, any more than I could. Because we’d crossed the line.

In 1777 a bunch of Irishmen drew up a list of rules for duelling the Code Duello (I don’t know why they gave it an Italian name. Maybe the Italians were particularly keen duellists).

These rules pretty soon came to be an international duelling standard. Kind of a Marquis of Queensbury for people who want to actually kill each other I guess.

Now it would seem sensible to take a look at some of these rules and see if there was anything useful we could learn about the conduct of disputes in the modern world.

To take a few examples, the first rule of the Code Duello states that a properly worded apology could eliminate the need for a duel at all.

Then there was the rule in which it is suggested that a night should elapse between the offering out of a duel and the subsequent combat, in order to give everyone a chance to cool down.

And then there is also another rule, which stated that, once begun, there should be no firing in the air or deliberately missing, on the grounds that if the beef was serious enough to warrant a duel in the first place, then it was no time for buggering around.

Guess which was the one rule I decided to follow at that moment in the restaurant?

“You could win by realising that maybe there’s a little more to being a wife than nagging. There are plenty of women out there who’d like to be with me. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be rejected over and over again by the only person in the world you are allowed to be intimate with?”

“And do you have any idea of what it’s like to feel like the person you love has no interest in you as a person and feel like you could be replaced at any moment with a pair of talking tits and he wouldn’t notice. And to have your hair done and buy a new outfit only to have him not even notice any of it?”

She had a tear in her eye and as she lifted the glass to her mouth I noticed that her hand was shaking.

According to the Code Duello, any wound sufficient to shake the opponents nerves enough to make their hand shake marked the end of the duel.

Which meant, I suppose, I’d won.

Funnily enough though, it didn't feel like that at all.

They're real

2011-03-08T21:51:00.003Z

The best thing ever has happened. Wig and I were watching a show about the predator release scheme...

"hmm, I've got a good idea, let's release panthers and bears into the wild. Near this village looks like a good spot."

Sharp eyed observers may have already spotted the flaw in this thinking.

Anyhoo, the bear starts eating farmers' animals, then the beekeeper was none to pleased when the bear stole his honey - and now the man who runs the pic-er-nic basket warehouse is terrified he's next.

So, they go off hunting for the bear. And what do they use to hunt these bears?

Beardogs.

It's official, beardogs exist.

Thanks, real life.

(with apologies to those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about.)

Happy International Women's day

2011-03-08T20:39:00.002Z

I'd just like to say a big 'happy international women's day' to all the international women I have been lucky enough to have in my life.

Nathalie Hollander, Frances, Kate, Carrie, Tanya and the rest of you, have a great day.

And as for all you domestic women - pull your fingers out, and maybe one day you'll have a day of your own, too.

Interestingly, The Guardian goes quite heavy on the International Women's Day theme, whereas the Metro has opted for the revalation of Posh Spice's baby bump and the news item of crucual public importance, Dwarf pulling vacuum cleaner with his penis banned by Oxford University.

I'm frightened to even look at the Daily Mail.

...ok, for you guys, I'll do it.

Right, turns out the Mail is keen to take up as much space as possible with the snappy headline: Pressure piles on Prince Andrew: Friend reveals he was 'very, very worried' he would lose envoy job as disturbing phone logs emerge from friend's sex den

Why haven't I got a sex den?

If you're so busy trainspotting you forget to eat...

2011-03-07T20:45:00.002Z

...are you suffering from anoraksia?

Apparently years ago Kate Moss got in trouble with the anti-anorexia crowd (which I'd like to think was most of us) for saying "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."

Was just talking with Wig, and it turns out that both he and I had the same reaction when we first heard it. "Hmmm. I wonder where I can get a packet of Skinny Feels."

So, business idea of the day (my normal 10% commission applies) - start a new brand of snack called Skinny Feels and, voila, one instant celebrity endorsement.

I just can't understand why I'm not rich yet.

I like this

2011-03-06T22:55:00.000Z

(nicked from here)

A butterfly flaps her wings

2011-03-01T22:15:00.005Z

The lovely Butterfly has drawn my attention to the excellent site www.meinmyplace.com, in which a photographer goes round to lovely young ladies' apartments to take slightly naughty pictures of them in their smalls.

First up, dude who thought of this, I salute you. You get women to actually invite you round to their house to take pictures. Genius! I've been following a similar hobby but a) it's hard to get a good shot when crouching in a privet hedge and b) if you do get to go inside, there are only so many pictures you can take before they wake up and call the police.

Secondly, it's superbly sexy to see real (albeart real, fit) women looking like, well, women, rather than painted inflatables.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not against painted inflatables either, but there's sort of an extra humanity to these pics.

I guess it doesn't hurt that they're more titillating than revealing, which makes a nice change after the bombardment of extreme online material, which has its place, but gets old.

Finally, I'm thinking of submitting a picture of me in my place.

From comments a colleague made at work today, that would be a snap of me in the corner of the room, shutting up. With a dunce cap on.

Of course, if you're looking for a website for real perv value, can I suggest meinmyplaice.com.

You've never seen more graphic man on fish action.

Oh, and if you are going to go to meinmyplace.com, I highly recommend Chelsea.

You can thank me later.

Rubbish blogger

2011-03-01T21:31:00.002Z

I do apologise everyone. It's been rich pickings of late, what with Charlie Sheen's totally spectactular public spazzout/most entertaining resignation ever and all, yet my blogging is drying up.

What can I say? Sorry, just getting busy at work.

I'll try to get better, I really will, but in the meantime, just hum a merry little tune to yourselves until I return.

Thank you.

This makes me wonder

2011-02-23T19:13:00.002Z

An inmate of one of Britain's highest-security jails has been arrested on suspicion of murdering a child killer, Colin Hatch, in his cell.

How do you arrest someone who is already in jail? Where do you take them?

Happy Valentine's day

2011-02-14T18:20:00.003Z

Have a splendid day of love one and all.

I, for one, do not intend to let my girlfriend down this Valentine's.

Well, it's a special day, isn't it? And it takes ages to blow her up.

Boom! Boom!

You can have that. Really, feel free to use it.

You're welcome.

Discovery

2011-02-08T22:31:00.002Z

I have just discovered Hannibal Buress, a comedian.

If you've got Spotify, look him up, I don't think you'll regret it.

Good news

2011-02-08T19:04:00.006Z

Finally, now you too can smell like make up and big boobs* because Katy Perry has launched a fragrance.

The California Girl rocked up to the launch demonstrating her commitment to recycling by wearing a dress made of three discarded Dairy Milk wrappers cunningly knotted together.

If she had been able to find a fourth wrapper in her search of the park, doubtless the dress would have been less revealing - so thank you, tidy people of Mexico.

Mind you, it's not clear why she is selling her perfume contained in what appears to be a designer butt plug.

In other news, this weekend I made the mistake of watching Biutiful and Never Let Me Go. Both great movies, don't get me wrong, but pretty heavy going, emotional stuff.

By the end of it all, to be honest, I really wanted to see someone in a bikini blow something up. In space.

Incidentally, if you Google the phrase above, rather brilliantly, it brings back Princess Leia's Wikipedia page.

Anyway, both films remain recommended viewing.

But one at a time though eh?

*to be clear here, this is absolutely a good thing.

Football focus

2011-01-31T19:21:00.003Z

Ha, just kidding, I'm not interested in football. I do know, however, that tonight is the deadline for the transfer window.

Now I don't see why this should be restricted to just football. Wouldn't life be a little bit more interesting if you could transfer characters from one film to another, every now and then.

And in that spirit, I present:

3 Movie Transfer deals I'd pay good money to see

1. Bridget Jones, new and improved with the addition of Sigourney Weaver as Ripley from the Alien films. *slap* "Buck up you stupid woman. Grow some backbone."

2. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, with added Edwart Norton as the Hulk. "Use your anger my young appren... whoa, whoa, that's enough. Oh bugger."

and of course (with thanks to the internet for inspiration)...

3. Twilight - now featuring Wesley Snipes as Blade.

So, who would you like to see snapped up in the movie transfer window?

damp update

2011-01-26T22:34:00.002Z

Good news, or not, I'm not really sure.

It's not damp. It's a leak!

So yes, my back wall is, apparently 98% water which is more water than the human body is made of. But more importantly, it's an insurance claim.

Hurrah!

If only I had insurance.

But fear not, Peter's flat finance fans (ok, I doubt there are many of them) it's an upstairs leak. So it's probably their fault.

Either way, I have some buildings insurance. I think. Or not.

Fuck it, who cares. At least it's not rising damp eh? I just couldn't have handled the Miss Jones jokes.

Now that's comedy

2011-01-24T20:41:00.002Z

I love this picture...

I can only imagine the meeting.

"We need something funny for the British Comedy Awards."

"Right... How about a very funny comedian."

"I like it. I like it a lot. But..."

"But?"

"But, this is the British Comedy Awards. Literally the funniest awards since that one where Ricky Gervais was rude to famous people. We need something even funnier than a very funny comedian."

"An animated meercat?"

"No,"

"Someone falling over?"

"No. you're not getting it. I like the very funny comedian. But we need something to make him even funnier."

"I know..."

"Tell me."

"A very funny comedian... with a midget on his head."

"I love you."

In other news, I have a movie recommendation for you. The Fabulous Mr Fox. It's rather marvelous.

Riddle of the day

2011-01-22T12:44:00.003Z

Q: When is a ceiling not a ceiling?

A: When it's collapsed and is all over your kitchen floor.

Ok, not a riddle as such, but it's what happened on my arrival home this weekend. The ceiling had clearly had enough of the floor's snippy attitude and jumped down to sort it out.

'Leave is ceiling, he's not worth it' cried the walls, but it was too late, ceiling had launched itself down onto floor.

But floor was tougher than he looked, and ceiling ended up smashed into little plastery bits all over floor, whereas floor was smug and no more than a little dirty.

And the moral of this story is, I don't know, something about damp proofing I would imagine.

Movie recommendation

2011-01-18T21:04:00.004Z

If you enjoy being baffled and entertained in equal measure, and have a fondness for the musical stylings of Duran Duran, but not so much you don't mind constant interruptions in their songs, then I highly recommend Arena (an absurd notion).

It is, according to Wikipedia, "a concept concert video"

In other words, it's what happens when you give a hugely successful pop band and art school graduates too much money and freedom.

"The film's villain, the evil Dr. Durand Durand (played by Milo O'Shea, reprising his role from Barbarella) has crash landed on Earth and is surprised and confused to find teenagers chanting his name. When he discovers that they are not chanting for him, but for an upstart pop group, he sets up shop beneath the concert arena and attempts to wreak havoc on the band that stole his name. Of course, he and his henchmen fail at every turn and Duran Duran continue to perform, seemingly unaware of the evil doctor's plans"

Why was I not told about this before?

*update* ok, fifteen minutes in and I have my answer - because it's rubbish, that's why.

Running out of steam

2011-01-18T20:31:00.002Z

I don't know if you were aware, but Halifax and its environs are so far North they only get about twenty seven minutes of daylight at this time of the year.

I get up in the dark, go to work in the dark and go home in the dark. And is there even one hunky, sparkly vampire around to keep me entertained? No. You'd think the nosferatu would love it wouldn't you?

Still, to make up for that, there is a new company operating the staff canteen. All the menus are still more or less the same and they seem to have retained whatever machine it was they installed that deflavourised any and all foodstuffs, leaving only a range of textures to tell the meals apart, but there are new inspirational pictures on the wall instructing us to 'relax' and 'enjoy', so that's nice.

So all in all, I'm bored and gloomy. I need a new project. Maybe something new to learn.

Any suggestions?

2011-01-12T22:05:00.001Z

20 Things I learned by fleeing Christmas and going to Tenerife

1. A huge boozing bender is non-ideal preparation for a flight that turns out to be rather longer than you think.
2. The man sitting next to you on that long flight most definitely agrees with that.
3. Rented motorbike helmets are largely for cosmetic purposes. You might as well duct tape a waste paper bin to your head for protection.
4. You shouldn't let that stop you getting up to 113mph though. No sirree.
5. Tenerife resorts are mostly pretty boring.
6. …unless, apparently, you're a elderly Brit
7. …who doesn't want to go without a daily full English breakfast and Coronation Street.
8. For just 10 Euros you can buy a genuine designer watch from a friendly African street retailer.
9. …just look at my new Gemporio Harmani for proof.
10. …it only loses about three minutes a day. Quality.
11. Surfing is hard
12. Or perhaps I'm just rubbish at it.
13. If you have a photographer who takes 260 pictures of your two hours surfing, one of them, and one only, will make it look as if you can do it.
14. I am an ace surfer. I have pictures to prove it.
15. Marmite chocolate – gag-making when hung over. Strangely tasty when in full health.
16. Yes, you read that right. Marmite chocolate.
17. Travelling nearly 2,000 miles to Tenerife to escape Christmas and the New Year doesn't mean you won't bump into someone from work.
18. If you go for a massage and they ask you if you want 'extra', say 'yes'.
19. …but don't complain when you then get ten more minutes of the same massage.
20. It was totally worth it.
21. No 20 refers to the holiday, not the massage.

what are the odds?

2011-01-10T22:02:00.005Z

The other day I was in a bar that shall remain nameless (it's the best place to drink, bar none, I'd say) with Child Bride and we noticed a 'local interest' magazine being given away.

On the front of this cover was a woman who was starring in the local pantomime. I don't know who she was. I'd never heard of her.

But she'd been in Hollyoaks. And EastEnders. That's impressive, right?

So, at a loose end, we drew the traditional beard, moustache and glasses on her picture. Then added a speech bubble saying 'You know me right? I've been in Hollyoaks. Remember that? EastEnders? No? Screw you then.'

All brilliantly hilarious I think you'll agree.

Ok, maybe not, but we were bored.

So, just before leaving, we popped the magazine back in the 'please take one' rack.

Then, we stood up to leave. As we walked to the door, who do you think walked in?

Yes, the very woman from the front of the magazine. She'd stopped off for a drink, presumably after a hard days rehearsing and thigh-slapping in the theatre, which was over the road.

So suddenly a mostly unamusing piece of graffiti had become an unpleasant personal attack.

I have committed a panto-based hate crime.

happy ny

2011-01-05T17:27:00.000Z

No laptop. Back next week. Lotsaluv, p the g

this is not staying up long

2011-01-01T21:27:00.000Z

12 bombers bombing

2010-12-21T10:21:00.002Z

So a band of 12 alleged terrorists have been arrested on suspicion that they were about to carry out attacks on britain.

Presumably they were intent on bringing chaos to the nation, disrupting travel on the rail and roads and bringing airports to a standstill.

Hmm.

Stephanie Jones

2010-12-15T18:54:00.002Z

I think this may be the last post before Christmas, and I am already grey and flagging from the repeated nights, lunchtimes and early evening events that are part and parcel of the drift into Christmas.

So that's why there's no jokes in this one, just a wish that you all have a super Christmas, Kwanzaa or Winterval and a New Year as befitting a person of your character and standing.

I thank you. See you in 2011.

A right Penn state

2010-12-08T18:30:00.003Z

When I have an idle moment, I like to peruse the pages of The Guardian's Comment Is Free section (aka CIF).

For those of you not familiar with it, essentially it is a section of the website where a columnist or writer of some kind writes and article, and then everyone is free to chip in and say their bit 'below the line' as it were.

Now, people being people and this being the Internet, this usually results in three groups of people arguing amongst themselves.

The first is people with some opinion on the matter, seeking to resolve whether their view is sound through the medium of civil debate. There are usually about three of these.

The second is people who think the author is absolutely self-evidently right and want to celebrate their point/share their outrage (generally the latter) as loudly as possible. There are a lot of these.

The third group is people who think it's patently obvious the author is an absolute moron, totally wrong in every respect and with significant doubts as to their parentage into the bargain. There are even more of these.

The first group of people then talk amongst themselves whilst the latter two abuse one another, pitching insults from their deeply entrenched think-holes to little or no effect on either side.

Whatever the topic, whatever the point being made, it seems the people of CIF would always fall into these groups and start warring.

Northern Ireland – vicious infighting.

Gordon Brown vs Tony Blair – vicious infighting.

Kittens are cute – vicious infighting.

Until today.

Today a topic arose that achieved what I had previously thought impossible, uniting the warring tribes of CIF into a single, harmonious consensus.

And that topic? Apparently Hershey is bringing the Hershey's Kiss to the UK.

Now having lived in America for a bit, I am quite aware there are many fine, admirable and downright brilliant things to be found there.

The Hershey's Kiss, however, is not one of them. I think they are simply foul.

The writer of today's piece agrees with me too, using phrases including "flavour notes of regurgitated milk", " the taste of ming" and "Conical filth-bombs."

And the commenters, for once, were as one in their agreement. Admittedly I have only read the first 50 comments, but every single one is not just slightly against this chocolate, but really quite passionate.

So well done Hershey's for you have, in ways nobody could foreseen, brought together a nation.

Take note, Middle East peace negotiators.

And here's what they said…

"They're sh*t."

"The first and only time I ate them, I thought someone was playing a joke shop trick on me."

"It tastes like vomit."

"Hershey's chocolate tastes like earwax."

"I agree, these are disgusting!"

"they are terrible."

"Have they fixed the sick taste?"

"Absolute filth."

"They're absolutely rancid"

"It's a lot of hard work to wrestle that tiny chocolate turd from the foil wrapper, too."

"Seriously, how can anyone like these?"

"They're pure nasty."

"How this sh*t passes for chocolate, I have no idea."

"Hershey chocolate does not taste like vomit. It's more diarrhea-like."

"I have to say they are one of the most disgusting things I have ever tasted."

"Recently my young daughter found a chocolate coin that had fallen down the back of the sofa last Christmas and as she took a bite, she remarked that it tasted as vile as a Hershey's kiss."

"Always found Hershey bars and kisses to be rather nice. Mind you, I like chewing my own earwax after I've rubbed it in my bum crack."

People of The Guardian, I salute you.

spoiler Dumbledore dies

2010-12-07T21:17:00.002Z

Apparently, someone has paid 7 million quid for a copy of John James Audubon's Birds Of America.

This bodes well, as I have a Spotter Book of Birds somewhere in the flat that I'm pretty sure hasn't had all the birds crossed off yet, so I reckon I should be in the money fairly soon.

"Mr Tollemache was bidding in the room at the London sale and described the work afterwards as "priceless"." pausing only to turn to the Sotheby's guy, say 'what's the price on that book?' and get the answer, 'Seven million quid sir.'

Personally, I like to think that the second he got home, he carefully blew any excess dust of the jacket, slowly lifted the binding to reveal the inside of the front cover and then slapped a sticker saying 'this book belongs to Mr Tollemache' on it.

And folded over the corner of the page to mark where he'd read up to, of course.

Oh, that's interesting, I've also just spotted the line "Sotheby's said the hammer price for the book was £6.5 million."

Apparently the 'hammer price' is the auctioneering term for the price at which the auctioneer's gavel falls to indicate the final bid for an object, sold or not.

Which must be particularly confusing for collectors of rare and precious hammers.

So presumably, there was half a million quid for postage and packing. Stitch that eBay!

Also question of the day, arising from a hot debate this weekend. Toffee hammers - genuine tool for the fracture of delicious sweets, or functionless novelty designed to boost sales, like a happy meal toy?

Turnabout is fair game

2010-11-30T22:54:00.002Z

Original post:
Tonight I am attending a concert by The Human League, who are performing at the Victoria Theatre, Halifax, in what Wig has described as a 'career defining low'.

I'm not sure that is necessarily the case, having taken a quick look at the band's itinerary and learned that they will also be setting the stage ablaze at Leas Cliff Hall, Folkestone and Clumber Park, Worksop.

Update:
In fact, the night was super fun with a sellout crowd out for a great time despite the relentless snow. Which just goes to prove that cynicism is easy, but true enjoyment blows it out of the water.

Thank you and well done Human League.

Thought for the day

2010-11-29T22:49:00.001Z

If you sent someone a really crazy present for Christmas, would you have to send it in a padded envelope?

Commuting - the truth

2010-11-24T20:58:00.002Z

You sit there on your way to work, thinking 'I am an individual. I am not like the others.'

You are, in fact, the one in the middle.

Not me. I am a unique, creative, one of a kind individual.

Who works in a bank.

Oh.

I'd rather have an Xbox

2010-11-23T19:32:00.002Z

I know the kids of today have pretty much everything, but this advert is just taking it too far, don't you think?

Honestly, I'm all for gift ideas during the festive season, but this is sick.

The return

2010-11-22T20:08:00.006Z

Due to a tsunami of popular demand (3 people, and only one of them a parent of mine, no less), I have returned.

And I come bearing good news. I have made an exciting new purchase.

That's right, there I was, visiting the Erotica Exhibition at Olympia when I saw something I just couldn't resist.

I'll give you a clue. It's quite long. And black.

Need another? OK. It's something you wear.

Still guessing? Alright, I'll put you out of your misery.

I got a top hat!

Yes, I am now the proud owner of Sir Reginald Hattington-Smythe (for such is his name), a beautiful top hat.

Well sort of. Because my first action on acquiring this millinery marvel was to immediately leave it on the train.

But fear not, hat fans (to be read in the voice of Roland Rat), Sir Reginald has fetched up at lost property and I have despatched an agent to recover him.

Which is lucky, because without him I will be unable to carry out my plan to wander through Halifax town centre, behatted and smoking a cigar, demanding that the locals doff their caps as I pass and declaring 'Ee, where there's muck, there's brass, I tell thee'.

I know. I do expect a beating. But still, fun eh?

My inspiration

Monday night movie

2010-11-01T21:40:00.003Z

If, like some people, you enjoy nothing more than to settle down to a film comprised of incomprehensible action sequences strung together with illogical dialogue delivered by 'characters' driven by inexplicable motivations, then I can highly recommend GI Joe: Rise of the Cobra.

As well as all of the treats cited above, the film feature Sienna Miller who, although extremely pretty, it occured to me has a face so devoid of character, I've seen her in several films and still wouldn't recognise her if I saw her again.

In other good news, the film is so packed with action, I feel physically exhuasted having watched it. And my head hurts.

Life in The Bubble

2010-10-25T18:12:00.002Z

Had a super weekend back in Croydon, featuring, among other delights, a trip to see Mark Ronson in concert.

Yes, I am on record as being no fan of live music. But I think you'll find I am also on record of being very much a fan of Free Things.

So when an invite to the gig came along, who was I to say no?

And boy am I glad I did, for on arrival, I was furnished with a green wristband that transported me to another, magical, beautiful world.

Beyond the VIP's-only velvet rope lay free booze provided by the sponsor, for whom I am happy to shamelessly shill in gratitude - Russian Standard vodka (thank you Russian Standard).

I know what you're thinking. "But Peter, what is the point of free booze at a free concert if you have to walk all the way across the room to the bar and all the way back, using your own legs?"

Fear not, the drinks were being distributed on trays by waitresses, so no such effort was required.

I know what you're thinking. "But Peter, what is the point of free booze being brought to you at a free concert if you have to look at potentially average looking waitresses?"

Sorry, did I say 'waitresses'? I didn't mean to alarm you. Of course, I meant 'six foot tall fashion models'.

For a few sweet, sweet hours I experienced life in The Bubble.

And then I came back to Halifax.

:(

PS drink Russian Standard Vodka.

Post-man Pete

2010-10-18T21:15:00.002Z

Hey, guess what?

That's right, this is officially the 1,000th post on Juvenile Dementia.

Five years or so of sharing what on my mind. Well, the top of my head anyway. Gosh, it's been a journey hasn't it, my lovelies.

So, to honour this special occasion, I'm not going to drivel on about how wonderful you are, my beloved readers, or how I will soon be appearing on your doorstep to claim payment for all this entertainment you've greedily gobbled up on the faulty assumption that it is free.

No. I'm going to open the floor to you all. I've been tracking the site visits for a wihle and I'm pretty sure there are at least three of you.

So I'd like you to introduce yourselves. You don't have to use a real name, but you can if you like, just a line or two to say 'hi', where you're from maybe, and a fact or two to let us all know what you're like.

And by 'fact' I mean 'something you just made up' if you like. I'm easy.

If you're struggling to think of something, try answering one, none or more of these questions.

What would you say if suddenly confronted by Katie Price in a squirrel costume?

What has been your most unusual pet (siblings kept in a basement don't count).

Are you, or have you ever been a communist?

Do you believe in Bod? Or were the Atheist Penguins right?

What's it like where you live. Compared to Halifax.

There, that should get you started. So come on people, open up, this is the Internet after all, how could it possibly go wrong.

And why not leave us your social security number, address and bank account details too. You know, just for fun.

Thanks all.

And thanks for reading.

Pop quiz

2010-10-17T21:37:00.001Z

Just watched The Faculty (quite good, best part being the bit where you go 'Is that... Jon Stewart?'. It is).

In it there is a goth-ish girl who, by the end seems to have a lot lighter hair - symbolic of the fact that she is now 'well adjusted' and happy.

Which reminded me of The Breakfast Club, in which the goth gets turned into Barbie to show how happy she is now.

So tell me, can you name a film in which the goth at the beginning gets to learn and grow, but still stay a goth at the end?

Inquiring minds need to know, people.

For me - the smell of freshly baked bread

2010-10-17T20:01:00.004Z

I was in That London this weekend, on the tube, where I saw a poster that I found rather disturbing for two reasons.

The first was that it was a poster that (and I'll admit I only glanced at it) seemed to be against rape.

Don't get me wrong, I am against rape too. In fact I'd go so far as to state that all my friends and colleagues are against rape as well. As far as I was aware, it was something society at large was agreed was A Bad Thing.

So the existence of this poster means one of two things. Either I am tragically mistaken and it is necessary to remind our population 'whilst you're out tonight, try not to do any raping eh?' or it means there are ad execs out there having meetings that go:

'Rape happens and our research has come back pretty sure that this is bad. Brainstorm everyone, what can we do to stop it?'

'A poster?'

'Brilliant.'

*cashes large public sector cheque*

Still, assuming that better minds than mine know why this poster was a good idea, I remain disturbed by the advertisers' choice of strapline. For on the poster is a model sporting a tee shirt with the slogan for this campaign. And the slogan is...

"Wake up to rape."

Sorry, what? Really? That's your slogan?

Don't you pay people to look for dangerous misinterpretations of these things? Or did it come out of some twisted focus group.

"Ok everyone, in order to earn your sixty quid for the session, we'd like to know how you like to wake up in the morning."

"I like to wake up to birdsong and the rosy-fingered dawn."

"I like the smell of freshly brewed coffee."

"The sensation of a lover gently nuzzling the back of my neck, what do you like to wake up to Evelyn?"

"Rape."

I was going to end the post there, but it just doesn't feel right ending a lighthearted post with that word. So I'll end by reminding you, don't rape. It's not ok.

Don't forget that 'no' means 'no'. Unless you're into BDSM of course, in which case, 'banana' means 'no' or whatever your safe word might be. Still, same point applies.

Four seconds

2010-10-11T20:04:00.002Z

As part of the 'settling in' process, I decided to lock myself out of the flat on Sunday.

This was, of course, part of a brilliant plan in which I teach myself not to do such a foolish thing by making the error on a sunny Sunday afternoon, so I could wait for the locksmith whilst having a beer in the sunshine.

Overall, it cost me over a hundred quid to have a guy come round and then, to add insult to costly injury, he got into my place in less than five seconds, using a bent stick.

A bent stick. Honestly.

Jesus, I'm a burglar's dream.

Never mind, it's not like I leave the place empty five nights a... oh.

Shine on

2010-10-05T22:10:00.003Z

Just got a text.

It reads "Just figured out who you remind me of. Alfie Moon."

Now I don't actually know who Alfie Moon is, so I was forced to assume she meant some combination of Alfie (as played by Michael Caine, not that other, screen-interest-draining plank) and Keith Moon.

So I checked on Wikipedia.

Shane Richie?

For fuck's sake.

Read the small print

2010-10-03T13:53:00.006Z

Some of you may know I moved into a flat I bought this weekend.

You may also be aware that I got the seller to send me an inventory list of all the stuff she had and made an offer on it all, so I could just move right in without all that horrible bit where you sit in an empty room on an armchair made of pizza boxes staring at a blank wall and wondering if it was all such a good idea after all.

Overall, I think this approach has worked well, although the woman could probably have used the word 'rickety' rather more often in the descriptions.

On the other hand, maybe she did do just that, because I really didn't pay too much attention to the inventory list.

Which I now regret, as after arriving at the flat, I soon became aware of this...

... have I accidentally bought a cat?

Inherit the Earth

2010-09-29T14:55:00.004Z

You might be a geek if...

When asked the question "what's your favourite language?" you answer, "Java."

You're definitely a geek if...

you think the reason that joke is funny is because COBOL is clearly a much better language than Java.

It's the taking part

2010-09-26T11:33:00.002Z

So the accomodation for the Commonwealth games isn't quite up to snuff eh?

I'll admit I'm finding it difficult to sympathise. These are, after all, suppposed to be the finest physical specimens of our modern world. They are, to all intents and purposes, civil society's version of the warrior.

And as such, I find it rather depressing that they're put off their running and jumping by the prospect of living with a leaky roof. Backpackers endure far worse every single day with few ill effects, aside from a propensity to bore the tits off everyone with their stories of the 'real' India when they get home and start work in an investment bank.

What if our ancient forbears had been such pansies...

"THIS IS SPART... oh dear me. Oh no, that won't do at all. Have you seen the state of that battlefield? I'm sorry, that's totally unfit for human slaughter that is. I wouldn't send a pig to do battle in that mess. No, It really isn't good enough, we're going home."

Sort it out athletes.

Question of the day

2010-09-24T06:59:00.003Z

What happens if you set up an auto forward on an email account to send all mail onwards to another email account, and then set up an autoforward on that account to send all mail onwards to the first account again?

Verification delectation

2010-09-22T22:14:00.000Z

OK, I know you lot all prefer to read and pontificate on your word verifications than actually read the posts I labour long and hard over, so here's a little something to satisfy your perverse needs.

http://your-free-photos.org/Make-Art-With-Your-CAPTCHA.html.

No need to thank me.

Oil's well that ends well

2010-09-22T19:23:00.004Z

Maybe there's something in that homeopathy business after all. (*spoiler* there isn't).

In order to tackle the first of my inevitable winter of repeated colds and sinus buggerings, I have purchased some Olbas Oil.

Having only ever dripped a load of it on a tissue and sniffed before, I never rated it too much.

This time, though, I put several drops into boiling water to inhale the steam.

Now, I have never actually rammed a pre-heated knitting needle up my nose and thrust it deep into my frontal lobe before, but if I were to hazard a guess as to what it might feel like, I'd say 'steamy Olbas oil'.

True, it cleaned me out fairly effectively, but I think it's taken most of my childhood memories and about forty seven IQ points with it.

So who knew, water makes Olbas oil stronger. Next, I shall try whacking the watery mix against a leather saddle fifty times between dilutions and see what that does.

Lunge time over

2010-09-16T22:27:00.006Z

I have bought a new battery for my laptop.

I know, I know, and the Laptop Lunge sounded like such fun right? Problem was, it really started to get boring after the battery reached a life of less than a second - I just couldn't stand the repeated losing.

So, the new battery arrived today, and in my excitement I tore open the box to find that, in addition to the battery itself, it comes with a handy sheet of instructions that includes the following advice:

Never expose the battery pack to direct sunlight. Ooh, good warning. I could see myself doing that. Thanks battery company.

Never disassemble the battery pack. Sounds reasonable. I could see myself 'having a quick look' if unwarned.

Never expose the battery pack to any liquid. Good advice again.

Never drop or throw the battery pack. Hmm, ok, dropping I understand, but was I really going to throw the battery pack? Why? Did I forget to take a frisbee to the park but had a laptop handy? I'm not convinced.

Never throw the battery pack into fire. Sorry what? I wasn't sure why I'd be throwing my battery pack at all, now you're specifically warning me not to chuck it in a fire? What am I an, idiot?

Never hammer a nail into the battery pack. Apparently yes, I am an idiot. (And yes, it genuinely says that).

What I find particularly intriguing is that they opted to advise me against hammering a nail into the battery pack, yet say nothing against running over the pack with a car, chipping it across my lawn with a golf club, swinging it around my head tied clumsily to a length or rope, firing it out of a circus cannon or any of the many, many other things it would never occur to me to do with a battery pack.

We are forced to conclude, then, that this warning exists because someone, somewhere actually thought it was a good idea to hammer a nail into their battery pack, and when informed that this would indeed kill the thing, then also presumably complained to the company 'well there was nothing in the instructions to tell me not to hammer a nail into it' and then demanded a refund.

I wonder if he got it.

The Laptop Lunge

2010-09-15T18:04:00.003Z

My laptop, or Mr Samuel Samsung as he is known (Sammy to his friends), is apparently getting on a bit.

A lifetime of being left plugged in and never properly drained and recharged has led to an ever diminishing battery capacity.

It has now reached the point where my laptop has a battery life, from fully charged, of just over seven seconds.

This has led to the invention of a sport known as The Laptop Lunge. In this, competitors (for a competition it indeed is) have to unplug the laptop in the living room, then run, trailing power cables, a mouse and, frequently a dangling mobile phone, up the corridor into the bedroom and leap to plug it in again, before the battery dies.

If you have to reboot after plugging in, you lose.

If you have to buy a new mouse or, worse, mobile phone after the game you lose.

And if you get to the plug in time and with all your peripherals intact, you still lose, because you've got a knackered laptop battery.

Well, I didn't say it was a good sport, did I?

ps to Pellet. Yes, it's already ordered. Thanks for the tip.

Quotes of the day

2010-09-12T20:30:00.004Z

I was on the tube today, when I noticed one of those posters they put up from time to time to entertain commuters and cover up the fact they're not selling ad space.

The theme of this one was (presumably one of many) inspiring quotes from famous people.

In this case, the famous person in question was Mahatma Ghandi.

And the quote?

"There is more to life than increasing its speed."

Thanks Transport for London, but isn't that just a tiny bit self-serving?

Also, overheard outside whilst I was in the toilets in the bar I was in last night, a woman shrieking at her weeping friend "You shouldn't be talking to him. You're eighteen and he's thirty two. He's old enough to be your father."

I've never seen all the blokes talk to each other spontaneously in a toilet before, but once we'd all taken a second to do the maths, we were all in accord.

No love, he really isn't.

I can't imagine the sound of all of us laughing helped her case much.

And finally, on the way home as we reached the cab rank, a bloke came up to us and the conversation went like this...

Him: "Are you from London?"

Us: "Yes."

Him: "Do you want to come with me to Kentish Town for a cocaine party..."

Us: *blinks*

Him: "with celebrities..."

Us: *blinks twice*

Him: "But if you're journalists, YOU CAN FUCK OFF!"

Us: *get into cab*

Now I don't really know what a cocaine party is or why you have to be from London to get invited, but it was nice of him to offer.

Of course, this morning the front page of the Daily Star featured Ricky Hatton snorting coke off a table.

Two Roasts Ryan pointed it out and said, "You don't think that was last night do you?" before adding, "ah no, it can't be. Ricky Hatton's not from London."

Cheeky snaps

2010-09-06T18:26:00.002Z

You may have read in the papers that the tax office has discovered 4 million people have underpaid their tax and now, suddently and without warning, owe possibly thousands of pounds.

Good job these aren't tough economic times for people then eh?

Meanwhile, in a small act of rebellion, I myself forgot to pay my tax for about a month, due to various complex reasons as fluctuating tax codes, the reminder going to an old address, and my not being arsed.

Fortunately for me, it turns out that if you don't pay the tax people, they really don't mind. Because they stick a bunch of interest on the amount you owe them, so they are still doing just fine, thank you very much.

And wouldn't you know it, the rate of interest they charge is really, really high.

So I have decided to massively overpay my tax next time, because that way, the extra money will earn a much higher rate of interest than if it was just in some crappy bank account.

Right?

In other news, I used to think I was a keen photographer. But today I discoverd that, thanks to my not locking my touchscreen phone before putting it in my pocket from time to time, over the last month my right buttock has taken more photos than I have.

And they're better than most of mine too.

The return

2010-08-30T12:36:00.002Z

Ok, so I didn't actually come home from Turkey at all.

In actual fact, faced with the prospect of returning to Halifax, I decided to extend my trip by buying a ticket to, well, anywhere actually. In the end, I landed in Copenhagen, where I spent the week not being in Halifax and loving it.

Mind you, there's only one 'must see' thing in Copenhagen right? Yeah, that stupid mermaid statue.

And the bloody Danes have only gone and uprooted it and sent it on a holiday to China, haven't they. Bastards.

Still, I had a super time, although I'm not going to blog it, due to it being 'me time' and therefore not available for public consumption.

Anyway, I am now back, and will endeavour to blog a bit more because, amazingly, we are approaching ONE THOUSANDS POSTS!

Holy cats, that's a whole lot of crap to read.

So, anything you'd like to see for 1000th post special?

sorry

2010-08-25T13:19:00.000Z

All the holiday posts are backwards, so you have to go down to the first one and read up.

I'm sure you'll manage it. We're all competent adults, right?

Sunday bloody Sunday

2010-08-25T13:08:00.002Z

So most of Sunday morning was spent in bed, grumbling. But that was ok, we'd more or less overdosed on sights in the preceding week, and according to our calculations, we now don't need to look at another ancient ruin for approximately three holidays.

Fortunately, being cunning, we had organised a nice low-impact cruise up the Bosphoros for the afternoon, which required us to simply sit and look as a boat chugged up the waterway that had caused so many wars (Troy, Constantinople, Gallipoli, to name just three we've mentioned in this blog).

We chugged past the high-end nightclubs that we hadn't even bothered trying to go to on account of being too poor.

We chugged past more sights we felt entirely entitled to ignore, having already achieved our quota.

We chugged past really, really expensive houses on the shores of the Bosphoros. But were the wealthy people who lived there really happy? Probably yes. Bastards.

We chugged under the two suspension bridges over the Bosphoros.

We chugged past so much. And Wig slept for the entire thing.

I don't blame him though. Frankly it was just the chuntering around on the water that I enjoyed. It was super.

After this, we thought we'd best check out Taksin square, scene of the most recent historic conflict, between Leeds and Galatasaray fans, which resulted in the death by stabbing of two Leeds fans.

I decided against buying a souvenir Galatasaray shirt and taking it back to Yorkshire with me.

So now it's Sunday night. Tomorrow we were to fly home, so we opted for a nice, quiet high-end meal to mark the final evening.

So after a cab ride in which the driver was going so fast we may actually have gone back in time a little bit, we had dinner at a place called Djazzu (nice, quiet, recommended and quite reasonable) and returned to the hotel.

And so, the next day, we boarded our bus and headed back to the airport.

Lads' holiday 2010 was over.

One night in Istambul - hot men humbled

2010-08-25T12:57:00.002Z

OK, so it's Saturday night. We stop off for a quick chicken shish to set us up - not because it was what we wanted, but the dodgy canteen we stopped in seemed to have literally nothing else available.

And on to the bar. We chose the lovely rooftop bar/club Dogstars and, contrary to our usual tactic of 'pay a fiver to get in, decide we don't like it, move on to another bar, repeat until broke' we elected to stay in one place for the evening.

And a jolly good time was had by all.

I made one attempt at a local lady, who was taking a picture with her friend...

'Hi, would you like me to take that for you?' *smiles*

'No.' *looks horrified*

'Right' *leaves*

Then, mysteriously, just as the place started to get busy, they put a ceiling over the previously-open roof terrace.

This would have been fine, except for the fact that everyone on the roof terrace was there because they wanted to smoke. And they didn't stop smoking either.

I'd forgotten how uncomfortable it can be in a really smoke environment.

Fortately, there was no smoking downstairs, where two dour Turkish youth were fiddling with a range of electronic items to create what I am informed was Dubplate, in which a single song was played for about eight bars, just enough to think you might want to dance to it, before changing to another song, interspersed with a selection of electronica effects, all of which were created with no regard for what the people on the dance floor wanted, in a cold, soulless exercise in pointless technical mastery. Which was fun.

Still, a good night was had. I left a bit early with Patrick, where I developed a new and cunning method for negotiating with cab drivers, which consisted of simply saying 'fuck off' at every ridiculous price they suggested (I may have been drinking at this point).

Meanwhile, the others, through sheet tenacity managed to convince the dj to play the music they all wanted to hear, and Istambuls one-night-only indie disco was born.

Once again, before retiring, everyone heard the siren sound of the call-to-kebeb and individually headed to Notdonalds for a midnight snack (ok, 4am, but you get the idea).

And then to bed. Because tomorrow we were going to have a massive hangover. And a cruise.

Naboo to a goose

2010-08-25T12:10:00.005Z

One thing I've forgotten to mention so far is Wig's tendency to shout 'Naboo' every time we passed a mosque.

Because he's culturally sensitive like that. Of course, sci-fi imaginary worlds are absolutely nothing like the architectural triumphs of ancient Islamic civilisation.

The planet Naboo from Star Wars

Istambul's blue mosque

Hmm, ok he might have a point there. Nevertheless, let's move on.

Today was to be another big day of sights. Fortunately for us, the people of Istambul had arranged their top tier things to see in a handy cluster where the city juts into the Bosphoros.

So, what did we see?

It starts with the Blue Mosque - an ancient mosque so named after the blue tiles inside which, sadly, we did not see because prayers were taking place at the time and apparently they don't take too kindly to tourist poking around and shouting 'Naboo' whilst they are trying to commune with God. For some reason.

So far, so impressive. Next up was the Hagia Sophia mosque, just across the park.

Actually, this isn't a mosque anymore and is classed as a musuem. And whilst we're at it, it was actually built as a church.

In fact, this was once the largest enclosed space in the world and marked the peak of glory for Constantinople, which the city was known as when it was part of the Christian Byzantine empire.

Gradually, the Muslim Ottoman empire grew into Turkey and beyond into Bulgaria until the city of Constantinople was a small Christian enclave right in the middle of a load of Ottoman space.

Problem was, for centuries armies had tried to take the city, but the formidable natural defences of the coastline and a bloody massive wall on the land side had stopped literally every attempt at seige and invastion, except those that had inside help to open the gates and other such treachery.

Until 1453 that is. In that year, the Ottoman sultan Mehmet invaded with a massive army and laid seige to the town, eventually succeeding in taking the city, turning the church into a Mosque and earning himself a place in history.

So what was it that made Mehmet victorious after centuries of failure?

Some say he was appointed by Allah to spread the world of the faithful.

Some say he was a young genius, with a military mind unmatched in his time.

And other say he lived at a time gunpowder really got going, had built a bunch of fucking massive cannons and blew the shit out of the previously impenetrable walls with a technology that had not previously been available.

I'll let you decide which school of thought you favour for yourselves.

So anyway, that's how Constantinople became Istambul and that song came about.

Right, on with the sightseeing. Next we popped in to the Cistern. Yes, I know it sounds like a massive toilet, but it was in fact an underground reservoir, supported by hundreds of columns in which water, that was brought to the city by aqueduct was stored.

'But wouldn't it become yucky and stagnant' I hear you cry. Indeed yes, but to keep the water clean, they filled it with, er, golfish.

Not sure how that works to be honest, and the issue of fish shit springs instantly to mind. But nevertheless, we went into the cistern and wandered on a walkway over the water around the columns.

I loved it. It was all cool and peaceful and full of fish. Highly recommended.

And still, there are more sights on our doorstep.

After successfully taking Istambul, Mehmet II started building a palace, known as the Topkapi Palace. This is just behind the Hagia Sophia mosque and constitutes a number of courtyards and buildings, making it feel more like an ancient holiday camp than a castle of any kind.

I have to say, at this point my enthusiasm for sights was flagging, but when I got in there, it was totally worth it.

Firstly, the palace is laid out on a great location, with some amazing courtyards overlooking the Bosphoros.

Secondly, the palace houses a number of old Ottoman treasures. And let me tell you, those Ottomans loved their bling. Puff Daddy would be shamed into an embarrassed silence by some of this stuff, my personal favourite of which was the Topkapi dagger.

The Topkapi dagger, bitches

Thirdly, there were also a range of holy relics on display in the palace, including some hair from the beard of Mohammed, and the staff of Moses (it looked like a stick).

So if that's not enough to keep you interested, I don't know what is.

Oh, yes I do. There is also the harem (from the Islamic 'haram' for 'forbidden') in which not just all the Sultan's hos lived (it gets more hip hop cliche by the minute doesn't it?) but also his sons.

Yes, the Ottomans had a fine tradition of succession. Unlike our boring old 'eldest son gets it' system of old, the Ottomans did it far more excitingly.

Quite simply, when a sultan died, all his sons were expected to try to kill each other until only one of them was left. He was then the new sultan. Simples!

Unfortunately, being kept in isolation in the harem in their early years wasn't great for the proto sultans' mental health, culminating in the reign of Ibrahim the Mad (clues are in the name, folks), who was obsessed with fat women and sent his agents all around the empire in search of fatties.

This was good news for the larger lady, but not as good as it looked, as he later had 280 of his harem drowned in the Bosphoros.

Still, we all make mistakes, don't we?

So that was Topkapi palace. Well worth a visit if you're in town.

But wait, there are yet more sights. On the way back to the hotel we stopped by the grand bazaar.

It was a big shopping centre. OK, the building was ancient and the site has been active for centuries, but that still doesn't make me want to buy a fake Gucci bag or a pair of Turkish slippers or a backgammon set. Sorry guys.

The best part of the grand bazaar was when one guy pointed at Dump and declared 'You guys don't keep your promise!'

We have no idea why.

OK, that's the bazaar out of the way, let's get back to the hotel for some dark time before going out for our big Saturday night.

Our new life

2010-08-25T11:20:00.002Z

Another day, another drive. Everyone took their positions in the respective cars and we drove onto the ferry that was to take us across the strategically important Dardenelles and towards Gallipoli, starring Mel Gibson.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Pellet made his one navigational mistake of the trip, not noticing the sign for Anzac cove, to which were were headed. Instead, we rolled up the coast until we realised something was not right.

Then, on the age-old principle of 'never go back', we headed inland on a small road.

The road wound and ribboned across the peninsula, through villages where chickens roamed free and men sat around on plastic lawn chairs doing, as far as we could see, nothing.

This all came to a head as our convoy missed another turn and roared into the smallest village yet, past the village cafe (old men, check. Plastic garden chairs, check) and into a dead end.

Foxed, we prepared ourselves for our new lives, sitting in chairs and looking out at the dusty road, presumably waiting for something to happen to possibly rival the excitement of two cars appearing in the village, an event I am convinced the villagers will be talking about for years to come ('do you remember that day with the cars? Two of them, there were. I'll never forget it')

So it turns out there are exceptions to the 'never go back' rule. We went back, got onto the 'main' road again, and hammered round the windy tarmac to Anzac cove, slowing down only for the ocassional tractor and a cyclist we nearly killed (sorry).

We stopped off at a memorial to the Anzacs who landed at this point and stared up at the sheer slopes that faced them when they landed.

It must be said, we could not have got up those slopes in trainers and tee shirts, let alone loaded with equipment and with angry Turks shooting down with machine guns into the bargain.

Truly the Anzacs were brave and bold. Which sadly in war is not much of a substitute for being led by competent generals. They lost.

So, after paying our respects (consisting largely of being glad it wasn't us), we were back on the road to Istambul (or Constantinople, if you're a particularly intransigent Christian).

A few short hours later, we were pulling into the suburbs of the rather large city of Istambul. Dropping the cars off and, having seen the state of the traffic, opting for a metro over a cab, we were soon at the station nearest out hotel.

Problem was, we coulnd't quite figure out how to get from the station to the Hotel. Thus began our first experience with Istambul cab drivers.

Now I'm the first to say the Turkish people were super nice to us, friendly, kind and generally super. Even the ever-present 'do you want to buy my stuff' hawkers would leave you alone if you asked them.

Which is why you can be sure I'm not being racist or Xenophobic when I tell you Istambul cab drivers are lying, chiselling bastards.

The first one we met insisted it was a forty five minute walk from the station to the hotel (it was ten to fifteen). Still, we had our luggage and it was hot, so we decided to get cabs anyway.

Deciding we didn't trust that guy, we got into two other cabs.

Big mistake.

The one chosen by myself, Wig and Beardog was a twitchy, crazed crackhead who, we concluded, hadn't slept for five days and sustained himself by eating cigarettes and smoking meth.

It was one the hairiest drives, punctuated with sudden stops, jerky and apparently unecessary turns of the steering wheel and lots and lots of shouting.

After fighting through the traffic, we came to our stop, where the drive simply came to a halt, blocking not just the road we were on, but a side road into the bargain.

Cue more hooting and hollering as we got out, paid and ran off. For all I know, he's still there, shouting at the traffic and seeing things.

Anyway, we'd made it alive and celebrated with a few cheeky beers in the hotel before having a little dark time and heading out into the city for dinner and drinks.

There is, in Istambul, an area known as Beyoglu (outside old Constantinople, on the Galata side, where there was an old Genoese settlement and to whom St Paul wrote his epistle to the Galatians, if you're interested) where most of the going out happens.

So there we went. And ther we learned a) Chicken shish. Everywhere. b) all the good bars were rooftop numbers, so be prepared for stairs and altitude c) a terrible shortage of indie clubs. Who knew.

We drank and talked in a range of bars, which isn't that interesting for you. So I'll just add the highlight of the night for me, in which Patrick went out on his own for a short while, during which the town apparently did a 'Dark City' and suddenly he was lost.

Out of the blue Wig gets a call from Pat. 'I'm lost'.

No problem. I have a map and start to talk him in from where he'd found himself. We were just on the brink of locating his whereabouts, when he suddenly cries, 'Oh no, my battery is running out!'

I haven't heard anyone sound so forlorn for a long time. He was, he told me later, convinced he was about to get cut off and lost forever in Istambul.

Fortunately, I am the Mapicon and nobody gets lost on my watch. Minutes later, his phone was indeed dead, but we'd spotted his head in the distance.

Leave no Beardog behind.

Eventually, deciding an indie club was not to be found, we headed back in various taxis (all paying wildly different sums for an identical ride) and went to bed.

But wait, what is that sound? That wailing noise coming from the tower?

Why, it's the 'call to kebab'. Yes, there was just enough time for another chicken shish at the cafe around the corner which had a logo consisting of strangely familiar golden arches which we consequently designated Notdonalds.

They were going to see a lot of us over the next three days.

Blood on the sand

2010-08-25T10:34:00.002Z

8.30 am and we were boarding a bus bound for Troy. Who said we weren't diligent tourists?

On the way to the location of the ancient city, our guide refreshed our memory of the mythology - how Paris was called upon to judge a beauty contest between Hera, Athena and Aphrodite.

Hera offered a bribe of power, Athena offered a bribe of wisdom, and Athena offered a bribe of beauty.

Paris, being young, chose beauty - which ended up having the hottest chick in the land, Helen, fall in love with him. Unfortunately, at that time she was the wife of the Spartan king Menelaeus, who didn't take too kindly to strange men talking to his bird and kicked off the Trojan war, starring Brad Pitt.

Of course, a lot of people in Sparta thought it was actually all about oil and protested in the streets, but to no avail.

The reason I've gone over all this old ground is that the guide said something that really stuck with me. He claimed he asked all the men on all his tours which they would have chosen.

In general, he said men in their twenties, they choose beauty.

Men in their thirties and forties, they choose power.

In the fifties and sixties, men choose wisdom.

And in their seventies and upwards, they choose beauty again.

What would you choose? (I said beauty, for the record.)

Anwyay, we drove down a surprisingly small road until we came to the site of the legendary Troy.

And there, we learned much.

Apparently, there were 9 cities on the site (2 more than we were taught at school, because they turned up another couple in the eighties, apparently).

The site was discovered by a German amatuer architect/treasure hunter called Schliemann, who hired a bunch of locals to dig a massive trench across the hill.

Apparently this had the advantage of discovering the site of the ancient city, and the disadvantage of destroying it in the process. But Schliemann probably didn't care, because he was searching for gold.

And gold he found.

When he discovered the treasury, realising nobody else had spotted it, he gave all his workers the day off, then snuck in, stuffed all the loot down his pants, and smuggled it back to... you guessed it, Berlin.

Mind you, it's not there now. In World War II, the invading Soviet army decided they quite fancied a share of the treasure and it later popped up in a museum in Moscow.

And there is now some bickering between Berlin and Moscow as to who it belongs to, which is a bit bloody rich, when you think about it.

Anyway, now a bunch of proper archaeologists are on the case and the site is being rather more carefully excavated, revealing some fairly interesting ruins, none of which seem to get the attention of the tourists as much as the big wooden horse which has been built on the site.

There was a bunch of other fascinating stuff, like steep ramps, six cornered stones, a lack of corners on the outer walls, and a sharp turn around which you couldn't get a battering ram, which you can look up on the internet or ask me about, if you're that interested.

And with that, we were back on the bus and to Cannakale.

Crikey, it's only noon and we've done a world quality sight already.

Unwilling to waste an afternoon, the other five headed off to an island some miles away.

I was willing to waste the afternoon. Also, some work had come in that I had to do, so I stayed in the hotel.

Which is why I can only report second hand the fact that at the island, Dump managed to slip whilst in the toilet, gash a fairly large hole in his head and land, face down, worryingly near a Turkish squat toilet.

Leaking a lot of blood, he heads back to the group, who offer a range of home remedies, including spit, salt and the blood of a virgin sacrificed during a full moon.

Also, some lovely helpful passers by provided tissues, wet wipes and sympathy, which is rather more than he would have got from us, so now Dump is, officially, a friend of the Turk.

Finally, the chaps returned, having spend approximately three hours travelling for a twenty minute swim and a headwound.

Good work everyone.

And so to dinner (yep, chicken shish again, becoming something of a staple by now) a couple of beers and another early night.

On the road

2010-08-25T09:59:00.004Z

We saddled up the motors and allocated the people to the cars (each car was assigned 1 driver, 1 person with a sense of direction to navigate and 1 person to tug on the driver's sleeve and complain about the air conditioning).

And we were off.

One of the joys of driving in Turkey is realising that, if you really go for it, you can actually triple the speed limit. Although as my Mum may be reading this, I'd like to stress we wouldn't do anything irresponsible like that of course, and we drove sedately all the way to Cannakale.

And one of the joys of navigating in Turkey is that once you are out of town, there are only about three roads, so it's a pretty straightforward business.

So much so, we decided we even had time for a bonus site, and slipped off the main highway and up to Pergamon to witness the Acropolis.

The Great Altar of Pergamon is an amazing sight, huge, impressive and in Berlin.

That the Germans had showed up, admired the ruins and then taken them home turned out to be something of a theme of this trip, although being English ourselves, we thought it best not to make too much fuss about it.

Fortunately, I've been to the Pergamon museum in Berlin (albeit twenty years ago, but I can't imagine it changed much), so a short mental jigsaw later I could imagine the acropolis in all its glory.

Or at least I would have, if one of the other tourists on the site hadn't been an incredibly attractive young lady who was taking all of my attention.

The other particularly cool thing on the site was an amphitheatre, which I can confirm if you run from the bottom to the top in 36 degree heat, is quite tiring.

OK, it's too hot to be out in the sun any longer, let's get back in the air conditioned car and on the road.

A couple of hours later, we were in the outskirts of Cannakale.

That was when Pellet declared 'I've got good news and bad news. The good news - we have the address of the hotel. The bad news - I don't actually have a map'.

Great. Good work Pellet.

Fortunately, the spirit of Serbia prevailed ('what do you mean you don't have a map, this is a massive city, we'll never find... oh, there it is') and we were soon pulling up in front of our hotel, a historic customs house where we were soon installed in the courtyard drinking beer.

Ah. Holiday.

Oh wait, I've just remembered something about our guide from yesterday. In describing the city of Izmir, and metropolitan Turkey in general, he was quite insistent on two facts.

Firstly, the rate of divorce was very high.

And secondly, despite being a Muslim nation, they were also very liberal. He illustrated this fact by pointing out that they were pretty relaxed about supposedly haram activities like smoking, drinking booze, and heroin.

Heroin?

So, putting two and two together, we concluded that Turkey must be packed with divorcees toting bags of heroin, desperate for a night of our company.

Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, Cannakale. We popped out for a lovely fish supper (including a range of delicious octopoid, which is what happens if you let Beardog do the ordering) and then, noting that neither the promised exponential rise in people going out nor the hoped-for army of antipodean tourists had materialised, we popped into a bar for a beer and a hookah (insert hooker gag here).

Actually, the Turks call them Nargile, and we enjoyed a rather lovely apple, strawberry and coffee flavoured pipes before retiring to bed.

Tomorrow was going to be a big day with an early start - for we were invading Troy!

Onwards and upwards

2010-08-25T09:51:00.002Z

With one of our number holed up in the hotel puking and remaining remarkably positive, all things considered, the rest of us headed into town in order to 'get in amongst them' despite the fact that the previous evening had been, well, dead.

This was predicated on the promise from Wig that Tuesday nights were guaranteed to be exponentially busier than Monday nights.

Because there's no reason the rules of going out in London in the late 1990s shouldn't apply precisely to a medium sized town in Thracian Turkey ten years later, is there?

As it turns out (and this may shock you), Wig was entirely wrong and the main outcome of the evening was the invention of a new super hero - Captain Priapus. I'll leave you to guess the exact nature of his superpower.

Never mind, for tomorrow we were to Cannakale (pronounced Cher-knacker-lay, we discovered), home of the Anzac Hotel and doubtless thousands of eager, up for it young Australians and Kiwis.

(Can you guess how this is going to end yet?)

Oh, almost forgot

2010-08-19T17:39:00.001Z

Here’s a picture of a little man with a big penis. It was found in what they think was the brothel at Ephisys. Presumably it was used to frighten the clientele ‘You must be this big to ride”.

This is how we say 'thank you' in my country

2010-08-19T14:45:00.002Z

Right, so where were we?

Ah yes, in the coach on the way back from the tour. Everything was going swimmingly until we reached the town centre where, just after we paid the guide (with a pretty decent tip), and minutes from the safety of our hotel, one of our number declare, 'er, I think I'm going to be sick'.

And sick he was. We managed to get him a small bag, but it was simply too small.

So, um, thanks for the lovely tour mate, here's a load of vomit to remember us by.

The tour guide was super nice about it and we were super pleased we'd tipped him before the incident.

Still, no harm done, except for the night of puking and illness that the poor, sunstroke-afflicted member of our band endured.

And that's why everyone else on the tour was wearing hats.

Bootiful

2010-08-18T17:37:00.003Z

Hurrah! We have made it to Turkey. Day 3, no deaths, little humiliation and a tremendous number of columns doric, ionic and of course, Corinthian.

Managed to fly to Izmir airport in fairly short order and got ourselves a couple of hire cars.

We then proceeded towards Izmir.

Did you know, Izmir is also known as Smyrna? We didn't, which is why we failed to follow the few road signs the Turks bothered to put up, as they pointed to Izmir.

On top of that, it turns out the people of Izmir have a pathological aversion to allowing cars to turn either left or right, which is why, after a mere hour and a half driving (including a nice trip to way the other side of the bay), when we passed right by the front door of our hotel, we still managed to get filtered for another four or five miles because the bastards wouldn't let us get off the road.

Never mind, we made it, that's the main thing.

So we arrived and checked in.

To my horror, the room included a picture window. Not, in and of itself, such a bad thing, you might think. However, this was a window between the bedroom, and the bathroom, affording me an unrivalled and equally unwanted view of Exflatmate Mark soaping up his salty balls in the shower.

Thanks Hotel Movenpick.

Fortunately, it tuned out there was a blind in the window which we managed to figure out in the end, so there was no need for careful eye aversion.

So, we popped out for a nice dinner before an early night, because we are tired and old.

Day 2 - Efes. Not the beer (for such is the local brew name), the site. Not just any site either, this was a trip that encompassed a world class ancient ruin, an honest to goodness wonder of the ancient world, and a fashion show in a darkened hut. Of course.

First up, we jumped into our tour bus which took us to the house of Mother Mary. That's right, the birthplace of the mother of God herself.

All I can say is, if that's where she had to live, then she clearly lacked the nagging ability of the stereotypical Jewish mother. It was a tiny little shack, identical to a number of other tiny little shacks.

But apparently, some nun in Germany yada yada yada, probably a miracle, yada yada yada, loads of tourists rather conveniently visiting the area.

It wasn't all disappointing though, this was also the location of the finest toilet I have encountered since Riga. It was a beautiful little urinal with a glassless window (aka hole in the wall) looking out over the valley (Mary lived on a hillside, y'see). Quite lovely.

OK, moving on, our guide took us to Ephisys aka Efes aka about two hours in the baking sun with barely a mulberry tree for shade.

It was, in fairness, a super amazing site and the first time I've really been able to imagine how it was in ancient times. There were two amphitheatres, a classical toilet (not as nice as the one at Mother Mary's), a library and a brothel - what more could a person possibly want?

So, after photos of us posing classically in a number of locations, it was on for a nice spot of lunch and a carpet making demonstration. This demo went like this...

"Here are some silk cocoons. We boil them, scratch them a bit with this brush then unravel the silk. Then we make carpets. Would you like to buy one? Oh go on. Look at the weave on that. That's silk on silk, that is, and a double knot too, not like the single knot those lazy Arabs use. Free shipping? No? Really? How much you ask? A bazillion pounds. Ok goodby thanks for taking the tour."

The carpet were beautiful and unaffordable (like certain women of my acquiantance - ooh, zing!).

Right, now it's off to the museum (mostly boring but air conditioned - did I mention it was 40 degrees! Also, a good statue of Artemis wearing the ever fashionable bulls' testicle waistcoat.)

See? Bulls' balls

Then next door to see one of the amazing wonders of the ancient world... a single old pillar!

Yes, that is basically all that is left of the Temple of Artemis. But I've now seen it, so big air tick for us and our travels.

Now what could finish a day of the finest sightseeing the classical world has to offer? Why yes, your absolutely right, a fashion show in a leather emporium in a darkened hut in the middle of nowhere.

The guide was, to his credit, mortally embarrassed that he had to take us to this thing.

We, on the other hand, didn't care because they gave us free drink. We took our seats and the show began.

There was a little catwalk where a handful of models strutted up and down, looking about as enthused to be there as if they were about to ask us 'would you like fries with that'.

Then, suddently, one of the women came off the catwalk and offered me her hand.

Now one of my key rules in life is 'when a fit woman says 'would you like to come with me?' you say 'yes'' because let's face it, she probably isn't going to take me backstage and get me to join in a model-based sex orgy - but would you want to spend the rest of your life wondering if that was maybe, just maybe, what it was about?

I wouldn't.

So, she took me backstage... and put a leather jacket on me.

Don't forget, it's 40 degrees, and now I'm wearing a fucking jacket. Jesus!

Anyway, it turns out I'm due to walk down the catwalk with fit girl,which is something I'm totally ok with. So down I went, modelling the (ugly) jacket and generally laughing heartily at the absurdity of it all.

Oh, and Atul has the tail end of it on video if you want to ask to see it when we're back.

So now I am, officially, a catwalk model. Well, an ex-model to be honest, as I've done all I wanted to do in the modelling world now, so it's time to move on I think.

So, perhaps unsurprisingly, we were then taken into another room and offered more unaffordable and unattractive leather goods.

We didn't buy any.

Right, gotta go for dinner. More later (maybe).

Toodles!

Bobbing along

2010-08-12T21:50:00.004Z

Bob Neill, the minister for Local Government, has spoken out against the profligacy of our local councils.

"They were living it up at the taxpayers' expense whilst thousands of households were struggling to make ends meet." he froths.

"It's unforgivable that a culture of excess was allowed to flourish for so long." he rants. And then, presumably, he exploded in a ball of hot indignation.

Now, I'm against waste as much as the next taxpayer. So let's have a look at the crazy spending spree these people have undertaken.

"Today's figures show the communities department spent more than £1,600 on massages for staff and £539 on an awayday trip to Blackpool pleasure beach. It also spent £626 on a trip to the Attenborough Nature Centre, near Nottingham."

So the staff got to go to Blackpool and had a trip to a Nature Centre (about as close as you can get to a 'cracking owl sanctuary' without actually becoming post-modern and ironic).

'living it up at the taxpayers' expense' eh Bob.

If that's your idea of living it up, I pity your friends and family, Bob.

Is it just me, or do you get the feeling that the Tories are actually getting turned on by all this austerity? I suspect they relish a return to the good old days of rationing, spankings by strict Nanny and regular bombing of the East End.

Hmm, maybe that last bit might be ok.

And finally, theyworkforyou.com informs me that our austerity minded Bob has "Voted very strongly against a transparent Parliament."

And finally finally, I'm off to Turkey for a couple of weeks, but will try to post whilst I'm there, assuming they let you have the internet in Turkish prison.

Review of the day

2010-08-12T21:48:00.001Z

As many of you already know, I harbour ambitions to take a show to Edinburgh in the next couple of years.

As a result, I often read the reviews of other shows. And so, I present, my favourite line of a review so far...

"It’s a cynical and ill-judged career suicide note without any redeeming features"

Wow. Just wow.

2010-08-08T19:30:00.007Z

Apparently, at the world gay games in 2009 in Copenhagen, a spokesman declared that one of the aims of this prestigious event was that 'We hope to break down stereotypes'.

And now, twelve months has passed and we are having a new gay games, this time in Germany.

Let's see how the breaking down of stereotypes is going with a series of pictures from the event shall we?

(scroll down...

...

...

...

Right. Mission accomplished then I think.

Well done everybody.

Oh, and finally, in answer to the comments of the last post, I shall end with a recent picture.

Sometimes this stuff just writes itself

2010-08-04T23:36:00.004Z

Exchange between me and another woman on the sort of but sort of not dating website I am on...

Her: "Like the profile - and I am certainly not looking for a nice guy although a pompous overbearing control freak might be a bit much! I am guessing you were exaggerating a bit....

I am actually a scientist by trade so you never know we might confuse each other just the right amount - you with your ridculous pomposity and me with my quantum mechanics."

Me: "That is an excellent subject line. (it was. It said 'right then' which I rather liked. Ed.).

For the record, I do not consider myself a pompous overbearing control freak, but it is indeed what someone on here called me (as a result of one of my journal entries, as I recall).

What is it they say about quantum mechanics? If you understand it, then you haven't really understood it. Or something.

What flavour scientist are you? Do you drip cosmetics into bunnies' eyes?"

Me again: "ah, just read the profile, chemistry and physics right?

Sorry, should have done that before writing."

Her: "You already seem quite annoying and up your own arse just from the language you use!

Oh dear. Later"

Me: "Wow. Good job i didn't go with my first instinct and reply with a sonnet in elizabethan courtly verse then eh? "

End

So thank you, kind woman - you totally saved me the effort of thinking up a new blog post.

Later.

Model Behaviour

2010-08-03T20:30:00.004Z

Good to see Gisele Bundchen fighting the old 'pretty women must be stupid' stereotype we cling to because we're trying to justify why they're not interested in us.

"I think there should be a worldwide law that mothers should breast-feed their babies for six months. Breast-feeding really helped me keep my figure,’ she tells Harper’s Bazaar magazine."

I love tbe absolute specificity of her convictions here. Not just a law, but a worldwide law.

Admittedly there are not as yet any worldwide laws, due to you know, all those different countries and everything.

But if there were a legislation with global juristiction, you can be darn sure their first order of business would be the enforcement of breast feeding.

You've got to have priorities, after all.

Then she really is very specific - six months of breast feeding. Presumably this is as a result of her extensive research into the subject and not a nice round figure plucked out of the air.

And finally there's the beauty of the non-sequitur "Breast feeding really helped me keep my figure," leaving one with the nagging suspicion that Gisele is not interested in the health of the ickle babies at all, she's just part of the supermodel beauty fascist regime - better figures for mothers by law!

That said, can I be the first to volunteer for the breast feeding police?

Another big one

2010-08-03T01:04:00.003Z

Gosh darn it - another long day at work. I'm not sure I can keep this up. It's certainly not helping the blogging is it?

Still, the money is good and I've heard that's what makes the world go around. Or was that love? Or gravity? Oh I don't know, I was never very good at physics.

And contract

2010-07-29T19:47:00.002Z

I got my mid year review today, which was a bit odd in general as I am a contractor and 'review' generally consists of 'we're extending your contract' or 'are you still here?'

Anyway, the bulk of it consisted of feedback from the lucky souls I work with. And rather impressively, they came back with two pages of feedback.

The result? Turns out my core skill is 'easy to get on with'. On the other hand, areas for development include 'planning' 'project management' and 'doing my job'.

Sounds about right.

to a tee

2010-07-29T16:55:00.002Z

I don't normally go for 'amusing' tee shirts, but this had me genuinely laughing out loud.

Today's learning

2010-07-26T20:06:00.003Z

When booking the hotel in Gallipoli, take an extra minute or so to check... is this Gallipoli in Turkey, where you are going, or is it, perhaps, in Italy, literally hundreds of miles from your destination?

Damn you Gallipoli!

This wouldn't have happened if the ANZACs had won - it'd be called something sensible instead, like Woolabungaroo Flats.

So I suppose, like Fosters lager, Walkabout bars and the inexplicable popularity of flip flops, it's all the Aussies' fault.

Bastards.

Talking Turkey

2010-07-20T20:20:00.002Z

I have finally booked this year's lads' holiday. Huzzah!

We have rather brilliantly decided to go to Turkey. During August. In the hottest summer for years.

Don't worry though, we're sure to have a great time boozing and pulling birds.

Oh, and it's smack in the middle of Ramadam.

Oh dear.

Never mind, I'm sure our brand of charm - staggering drunkenly around the streets of Istambul shrieking 'let's go Ottomental' will be taken in the spirit of fun with which it is intended.

Juvenile dementia

Hey

Just remember

A busy day

Short, short stories

If lesbians didn't exist, men would have to invent them

Quote of the day

I guess that one's answered

Night eyes

Health and Safety gone mad

This is why I don't get more work done

Screen burn

Where's Waldo - Pakistan Military Edition

Decathlon and on

I'd like to tell you, but I'm not allowed

Caption of the day

Weather or not

Up that chimney, titch!

May the force be with me

Nordic conspiracy

Trivial Office Emotions #32

neglect

Caption if you can

Happy Cleavage Day

Sometimes I love the people of the internet

Lazy blogging - picture caption

Today, I made this

Non sequitur of the day

Raise a stein

Little bit of politics

Novel idea

Book extract - Shaking the Snowstorm

They're real

Happy International Women's day

If you're so busy trainspotting you forget to eat...

I like this

A butterfly flaps her wings

Rubbish blogger

This makes me wonder

Happy Valentine's day

Discovery

Good news

Football focus

damp update

Now that's comedy

Riddle of the day

Movie recommendation

Running out of steam

what are the odds?

happy ny

this is not staying up long

12 bombers bombing

Stephanie Jones

A right Penn state

*spoiler* Dumbledore dies

Turnabout is fair game

Thought for the day

Commuting - the truth

I'd rather have an Xbox

The return

Monday night movie

Life in The Bubble

Post-man Pete

Pop quiz

For me - the smell of freshly baked bread

Four seconds

Shine on

Read the small print

Inherit the Earth

It's the taking part

Question of the day

Verification delectation

Oil's well that ends well

Lunge time over

The Laptop Lunge

Quotes of the day

Cheeky snaps

The return

sorry

Sunday bloody Sunday

spoiler Dumbledore dies