The weekend is over and, yet again, the week has already decided to give me a load of shit. It’s bad enough that the organisational magazine has published a “story” by me illustrated with a picture of me looking like a a homeless simpleton (something that many people have gone out of their way to tell me), but also that it consists of my face under the word “failure”. Thanks.
As the article was published this morning, our mail server: scorpio, decided to get all fucked up. As I was almost crying whilst trying to fix it, and Sue was doing her best to keep my spirits up. It became obvious that I’ve been here too long.
Well we got it sorted in the end, but to most people it will have been a crappy outage that occurred while they were reading an article about how well CS cope with systems problems. I resign.
Sunday is the day we spend a few happy hours with my parents. This week, not only was my sister going to make one of her rare appearances, but we decided to bring Humph over with us. How fortunate then that my dad’s newly purchased car decided to really piss everyone about by breaking down on Lewisham Way. BTW – if you too fell for the “Privilege” ads then picture this: you break down, phone their number and get told that the office is now closed…and the worst part is that you get told it by a recording of Joanna Lumley. That’s just too much.
In the end I called Orange DQ and got the number for “Green Flag”. Annoyingly, Green Flag were really bloody good, and their (sub-contracted) engineer was not only knowledgable, but also friendly and helpful. It was almost an example of why privatisation/outsourcing works! Bastards! OTOH it is the only example I can think of that supports the arguments.
More tomorrow (See you wednesday Tobes if I haven’t written already 🙂
A very talented friend of mine, Andy, has made a song out of this thing I sent him, and I think it sounds excellent!. Michele’s only comment was “why isn’t Andy famous?”. Nice one Andy.
Eating fresh anchochovies, croquettes and squid, with a litre of Spanish beer, in the sun, with the squawks of the native parakeets is a lovely experience. During the day we walked miles over those two days. Not just in 2d either, we also climbed to the highest tower in Gaudi’s Cathedral – a very scary experience for me. Not only were the safety standards far less rigourous than anything I’ve ever seen before, but I was climbing the trecherous stairs with a scary piss-taker (Andy) who kept pretending to fall over the side, and the world’s clumsiest person (Tony) who did his best to put me at rest before nearly killing himself. It was great to reach terra-firma afterwards. Regretfully I was persuaded to sing the theme tune to Blakes 7 after this without realising, until far too late, that Dave was videoing it on his all-too-clever camera. So, I will always be blackmailable from now on…
In the evenings we walked miles between bars and generally laughed our arses off. The place was full of stag and hen nights, however we chose not to adopt their policies of reinforcing the stereotypes of the English as a bunch of drunk, threatening fuckwits. Sadly, we failed.
On the subject of stereotypes, it would appear the Spanish are quite proud of their outrageous animal abuse reputation. After seeing the third stall of parrots in disgustingly tiny cages in La Ramblas I couldn’t take it any more and fucked off with tears in my eyes. Michele would have gone postal.
It was very odd to be with old schoolmates on a holiday. The last time we all went on holiday I was 16 and the venue was a canal boat on the Warwickshire ring canal. Despite the fact that we have all changed beyond recognition, nothing had changed. We laughed, argued, drank and overall had a great time. I needed a holiday so badly and didn’t even realise it. This was perfect. I deliberately didn’t check my email until monday, despite the billion or so cybercafes about the place, and it really helped my state of mind. The only problem was Michele: I missed her and Humph so much.
It’s nice to be home, but crap to be back in the deadlock of New Cross/Work/Penury. And work was really unforgiving today. So busy with so many tedious jobs… fortunately there are quite a few colleagues under similar pressure and we can get together after work in the Union to drown our sorrows.
Coming back to England from anywhere else can be a very depressing experience, especially when you live in New Cross and “anywhere else” is Barcelona. This morning we were sitting on a beautiful beach [ a seaside town, the name of which escapes me. All I know is that it is next to another seaside town called “Tossa” – Fnarr ] in the hot sun. A few hours later I was freezing my arse off outside Euston station.
BTW – to those that foolishly thought that Stanstead airport was in, or near, North London.
It’s right next to bastard Colchester. It took me and Andy over an hour to drive back to Euston. After the next struggle with public transport it was lovely to get home of course: I’d missed Michele and Humphrey.
It was Dave’s stag weekend and it was pretty bloody brilliant. Despite feeling like an ignorant English wanker becakse I can’t speak Spanish… I just think that it’s so rude, arrogant and insulting to spend time in a country and not make the slightest effort to learn at least some language. O-Level (GCSE) French hardly makes someone fluent, but I don’t feel a pratt in France when I order some food in a restaurant.
There’s too much to write now, so I’ll write more tomorrow.
You didn’t see it, I’ll put money on that, but I’ll bet you didn’t see it last time either: Home based on a J.G.Ballard story.But you’d love it!Last time it was on, it did something to me. This time it did more. Probably the most affecting film about life, pain and insanity I have ever seen. Both times I got the shivers…but this time I (pretty much) forced Michele to watch it…and she was extremely distrubed by it – because she is right. Tears and everything. I defy anyone to watch it without becoming very disturbed indeed. Anyone who has had it anyway.
It’s beautiful, yet one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen. The next one is the trip scene from Easy Rider. The one after that is Videodrome…Anyone who got affected by these will find this very difficult watching. Blair Witch my arse.
The whole thing is particularly weird because we’re in…on a saturday (reeeeeeeally cool according to the Grauniad – pillocks) and missing a really top party hosted by a friend in Greenwich. And we would have gone too. Nowadays we tend to like staying in on a saturday together. Also for the last two nights I haven’t slept due to nervous-birdishness and the idea of leaving the house rather than staying in with the flock seems ridiculous.
Please find, get and watch Home. Otherwise this blog will seem line a load of old toot.
Prince Harry has had to apologise for attending a friends “natives and colonials” party as a Nazi. Would that be a native nazi or a colonial nazi ? I’d love to see what other people went as…they probably made Harry look PC.
Anyway, at last this solves the mystery of Harry’s parentage – he’s definately the got some of Prince Philip’s genes in him…not to mention a touch of Saxe-Coburg.
And on the subject of nazis, the fucking NF are planning to march in Woolwich on saturday. So I hope you’ll join the UAF demo there. We can’t afford to be outnumbered by the scum again.
It would be dreadful if you started to think I had anything but contempt for advertising, but there is something about this Toyota ad that cheers me up. Also, and I may be wrong about this, wasn’t that the same truck Top Gear repeatedly tried and failed to destroy ? Even after being dropped off a building, into the sea, crushed, smashed and set on fire, it still started up [picture courtesy of Rakesh].
Despite the fact that last night was a brazen pissup, I remained relatively sober. The pictures pretty much say everything that can be said.
Nice day today too. OK it was another day on the dreaded sofa with the evil ibook writing Java, but:
- a cup of tea, a banana and a plate of cockles for breakfast
- watching a bit (enough) of Airport 1975
- watching Brewsters Millions
- watching Jeeves and Wooster with Michele
made the day seem like a good one. The anti-TV middle-classes may sneer, but they don’t know what joys they are missing. And while I watched them, my Java started generating better XML and Humphrey craved attention on the keyboard…
Germaine Greer on Big Brother! Oh hells fucking bells!
Caprice – of course. John McCririck – what else has the odious, cunty, right-wing, racist arsejam got left ? Brigitte Nielsen – mad as arseholes. Bez – is he intellectual enough ? Myleene Klass – born to do it. But Germaine Greer ?
OK, she shagged Jonathan Aitkin…we all make mistakes…but perhaps this revolutionary person is actually a total wanker! What if “The Female Eunuch” was a fluke, or the result of some really strong acid ? Maybe she’s a complete arsehole!
I don’t know who’s up next, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Noam Chomsky, Nelson Mandela and the spirit of Ghandi make an appearance.
There is a spectacularly brilliant piece of advertising running on TV at the moment, hawking some cold remedy or other. In order to avoid inadvertently promoting this crap we’ll call it “Coldaway”.
It goes like this:
Bloke gets called into the office of this (clearly sexually frustrated) woman. She calls him by his first name; how well do these people actually know each other we ask. She tells him that, despite knowing he has had flu, she was depending on his report. What is he to do ? With flu, he surely would have been incapable of producing a report of any quality! No report means he has let her down! He will surely be punished! All of the workaholic office worker viewers will surely identify with this dreadful predicament.
But, there’s a twist! “Haven’t you seen my email ?” he asks, immediately shifting the fault back to her – brilliant. “I’ve already done it!”. “But how ?” she and the audience ask in unison, clearly astonished. He then explains how Coldaway cures the common cold, flu and cancer probably, so that he could work on this vital project. Not only that, but he was fit enough to book a table at a, probably very expensive, restaurant for him…and her. His uppity female boss is therefore put firmly back into her place and, like all women, realises she is no match for a tall intelligent man. So she offers to make him a cup of tea as she kneels in front of him and starts to unzip his flies.
Acually the last bit isn’t in the advert, but I think that’s just because it would be unnecessary as the message has already been made clear.
Here’s a game for you. Go to this trivial, sycophantic fart of a website and try to find one sentence that isn’t either:
- trying to whore the author out to anything that pays
- pretending that it has serious readers outside of the “editorial staff”
- trying to whore the authors friends out to anything that pays
- totally devoid of actual content
- simply an advert for some shitty product/service/person that has asked for a plug in return for a freebie
and I’ll send you a prize: a flying pig, together with some egested remnants of my hat.
My favourite section is the “Celebrity Fashion, Fitness & Beauty” section, which is merely a vehicle for the talentless, Frankenhooker-wannabe Sally Farmiloe [Update 2008 – latest website at http://sallyfarmiloe.com/] to brag about her pathetic, tawdry lifestyle. In fact, on her website, Sally herself describes this section as “by far the most popular and covers international stars and products”. No point being falsely modest is there ? The best quote concerns her doomed “mini it-girl” daughter: Jade. Sally declaimed:
We didn’t have a butler at JADE’s recent 13th birthday party cruising down the river on board THE EDWARDIAN (welcome to teenagerhood, JP) but we did have the best cake anyone’s ever seen. Made by the delightful VICKY at [blatant, corrrupt whore-plug supressed] the beautiful chocolate cake was in the shape of a LOUIS VUITTON handbag, just the right symbol for today’s designer-mad young gels.
Those designer-mad young gels eh ? Tchoh! I blame the parents. Personally I favour the creams over the gels any day.