To celebrate the end of work for a couple of weeks, my body has given me a nice shit cold to ruin my free time. It’s one of these new 21st century ones that just hang around making you feel a bit crap, snotty and coughy without ever knocking you out for months.
The only cure seems to be red wine, which has a miraculous effect. Either it cures it every day or makes me ignore it. Regardless, highly recommended.

The last week of college was totally OTT.
Tuesday was the Information Services Christmas Meal. As the organiser, I decided to take the afternoon off – a good idea. We started at mid-day. At midnight Zap and I left after behaving very, very badly to all in insulting distance.
Everyone said they enjoyed it which is all that matters, despite having totally fscked up my magic tricks by being forced to reveal how they were done. The worst one was when I went to the bog, leaving a small magnet that I had ‘cleverly’ concealed under my behind on the chair, behind. Kind of gave that one away.
Wednesday: the IS staff party. Exactly as everyone involved expected. As an added bit of excitement we vacated the “Library Staff room” and relocted to the Warmington kitchen. You may think that this sounds like a really crap, work-based, tedious, drunk-too-much type work event. Well it was. We really tried, honest, to make it good. But what can you do when you work in a fucking library ?

The finance party on thursday was pretty good. Mainly because they can afford a really good selection of drink and food. In fact, an excellent selection. We even had a choice of wine where each option was quite good, rather than cheap crap.

Friday was the last day before christmas….pub…nuff said.

So over the weekend I just rested and tried to fight off my bastard cold. Failed. Sunday was pretty fun. We had an early christmas at My mum and dad’s place because frances, my sister, was up. It was genuinely good! Even though the situation in the extended family is generally shite, we managed to have a good laugh at the expense of an utterly insane relation (whom I can’t mention for legal reasons – seriously) whose letter they had just received…..
Frances managed to buy totally appropriate, thoughtful presents for everyone. Why does she do this ? She never used to… she used to be reassuringly crap at present buying. Just like me. Now I just feel crap because I gave her a bloody WHSmiths voucher. How wanky is that ?

Well, tomorrow is christmas eve. I’m trying to make a digital clock for my mum, but like all jobs, it’s taking longer than expected. Not helped by the fact that I only started today….

The christmas party season has started and so has my annual optimistic plan to stop drinking…at some point in the future. It was going to be december, but Ian pointed out what a stupid idea that was. So it moved to January. After careful consideration this too has been ruled out on grounds of stupidity; the coldest, greyest, miserable month of the year needs to be fought off somehow. So the current favourite is now February.

Ian was right, giving up drinking in the build-up to the let-down of Christmas would be a mistake, if not impossible. The start of the festivities was a weekend in Brighton to celebrate Mod’s birthday. Mod’s friend Claire had rented an excellent little house in the south lanes and a bunch of us went down there on friday night. Needless to say it was one long pissup and very, very enjoyable. Michele only stayed one night and went home on saturday to nurse a hangover. Persevering, I stayed another night…not that I had a choice. Ben, Ian and I had spent the day in various pubs avoiding Christmas shopping with Mod et al, and so by the evening I was in no fit state to catch a train anyway. Ben introduced me to a bar called “ali-cats” or something. You know sometimes you get a feeling like you are really in the right place ? OK it could be the fact I was quite “merry”, but there was more to it. For a start, when we got there half the bar was turned into a mini cinema and they were showing easy rider. It’s been years since I’d seen it and all of these nostalgia neurons started to fire. Even Plumstead can look nice through rose coloured specs. Not only that but there was a poster on the wall for an upcoming hawkwind concert – supported by Arthur Brown and Gong! Damn. This was ultranostalgia. After the film, the bar went back to being a bar and they decided to put a CD on of really rather groovy music. All good.
In the cold grey light of sunday morning I woke up feeling the usual aches of post-alcohol depression and shame and decided to bail out. I get this frequently but two days on the trot was probably enough. Mod and the others bravely stayed another night and went back to work early monday morning. They win.

After the excess of Brighton I needed a break. But didn’t get one. The Language resource centre had a party after work on tuesday. It was probably very good because I can’t remember most of it. Just shocking flashbacks involving being an obnoxious twat – I tried apologising to people the next day but luckily they couldn’t remember anything either.

Finally, thursday was the Staff Ball at the glamourous Rivoli Ballroom. Usual thing, nuff said. This year I managed to bore the arse of people demonstrating a magic trick I’d learned that day in the Magic shop in London: making a hankie disappear and then reappear.

Tired and emotional I was woken up, surrounded by detritus from a carribean takeaway, on Colin’s couch by Michele telling me the cab had arrived. A good night all in all. Next week is the I.S. christmas meal in the pub, followed by the I.S. party. Oh dear.

Three days off work. What am I doing today, the last of them ? Sitting front of a computer and worrying about still not having done my tax return. How crap is that ?
If you are wondering ‘why not just do it ?’ then please fuck off right now.
I knew I shouldn’t have had that coffee from the Bagel factory this morning. It was only because they had an offer where you get it for 50p when you by the eggfast-brekkie-bacon-bagel – a massive saving of 50p, for something that I didn’t even want in the first place because of the nervous shaking and panic it induces. Oh well, at least the egg-n-bacon-mcbrunch-bagel was pretty bloody gorgeous. Perfect brekkie material especially after a train ride up from Brighton.

Last night I went down to stay with Ben – he had tickets to see Mark Thomas on stage and it was a really good night. Most entertaining. He’s another one of these blokes like Mark Steel and Jeremy Hardy that can make a serious point, that they obviously feel strongly if not passionately about, and at the same time make it funny…how do you do that ?

Afterwards we and several of Ben’s mates went for a Thai (meal ;), which was superb. ‘Drunken Duck’, egg fried rice and two bottles of the vino collapso. What could be better.

On the way down, a bloke in a suit sat next to me and got out a non-descript black laptop. Just before I got onto a real downer, and started to contemplate switching career away from computers to plumbing or lion-taming, I noticed he was running Linux. A warm, hopeful, optimistic feeling came over me and banished all negative thoughts. Unfortunately I was so excited I couldn’t resist conveying my happiness to the guy, and just got a mumbled, and slightly scared-sounding, acknowledgement from him. He probably went straight home and installed XP over the top of it to reduce the risk of more scruffy, unix-twat loonies trying to talk to him on public transport…oh dear.

Yay! A good mood!
Not only did we manage to wrap up a really tedious web job today, but this evening I went up town to finish this PIC programming job – and it seems to work! Cool!

Had an interesting chat with the guy I’m working with on the PIC project – he was telling me some rather scary things about Computing in the 60/70s that involved the FBI and the CIA and I was telling him about HAL 2001 (on my mind as the University of Twente’s NOC caught fire today…very sad). We discussed the possibility of a “locksmith gene”: some kids are really into keys and locks, some just don’t care. The former end up as hackers (as opposed to h4c|<3Rzz), the latter don't.

What a waste of time…I’ve just finished wasting far too long on writing a totally pointless program: a windows keystroke logger….like there aren’t millions of keloggers about all over the place. Even more bizarre considering how much I dislike Windows programming. Maybe it’s time to leave the house.

What a nice saturday. Met up with a good, old friend, Toby, and his Girlfriend Petra. It’s been a while since I went to the Hogshead in Lewisham (or whatever the fuck it’s called now). Such a good pub. An ideal place for a pub argument. Petra was tired and seemed pretty irritated by the idea of an argument…however they are key to healthy body and mind and therefore very important. So there! Went back to toby’s parents house and spent the rest of the evening in pleasant conversation, lubricated by a botttle of Jameson. His parents’ dog Jack, was detemined to have sex with my arm, but I managed to persuade him otherwise.

Funny, but I’m looking forward to Christmas now!

Africa is on the verge of a famine so big that Bob Geldorf will this time be forced to call everyone a ‘cunt’ on national telly. But there’s nothing anyone can do. Even though they only need money in the order of millions of dollars, the world just can’t afford it. We can’t ask private companies like Microsoft, Phillip Morris and Starbucks to bail them out…where’s the business sense in that ? The government certainly can’t afford it – they have to save up to buy guns for the exciting war on terror so that they can protect their oil interests. I know these bleeding-heart liberals will suggest we overturn our freedoms and insist that we give the heard-earned wealth of capitalism to the lazy poor…but these people are simply against democracy.

Earlier this evening I had the misfortune to go to Eltham. While there I popped by my mum and dad’s place to drop off a book. I’d given my keys to Kathleen, a friend who’s staying with us for a while, and so couldn’t let myself in, and rang the bell. The lights were on. The car was there. No answer. I rang again. I called them on the phone. No answer. A bit perplexing, and also a little disturbing. Being honest it was also a bit irritating because I was damn hungry and was looking forward to a slice of toast…but I got the bus home.

Later, once I’d got home, I rang to make sure everything was ok. It turns out my mum was in, but not answering the door. Earlier this week they’d had a house call by the brothers Dodgy, who told her that they needed to come in to “check the walls”. Did they learn nothing from Fawlty Towers ? She told them where to go, slammed the door and now lives in fear of their return with chainsaws.

To me, my mum and dad are mum and dad. To other people they are pensioners. Weird feeling realising that. As my mum was telling me I realised that some scum had seen them as pensioners…and so vulnerable.

It made me realise that I could kill a man in cold blood.

What inspires someone to write their blog ? It would be nice if it was the general warm, comfortable feeling of a pleasant evening…but usually it’s not. Usually it’s a passion of some sort, and I’m afraid that is the inspiration behind this entry. Despite being in the warm, with my lovely warm wife, with a lovely bottle of warm wine, a lovely warm computer network and a lovely warm telly (including a recently purchased warm digital broadcast receiver available from Dixons for only 79.99 and supplying an extra 30 channels to your TV, containing only 3 that are worth watching and even then it’s only after 7pm..) I’m feeling passionate. Sadly it’s about estate agents.

Firstly there was the BBC Holiday programme. Some gaffawing twat was describing her wonderful year-long holiday in Sri Lanka where she was looking after elephants.

How is she, a 30 year old shitgirl, able to afford such a holiday, we, the viewers asked ?

She explained that it was because she’d managed to buy a house in London and was renting it out. That was how she was funded…nice.

Now, she couldn’t afford the holiday without this extra money. Presumably she was also paying the mortgage on the place. That means she was not only charging the poor bastards who live there the mortgage, but also the the cost of her year long extravagant slothathon.

Well done young lady. Margaret Thatcher would be proud.

After this disgusting spectacle was a ‘documentary’ about Estate Agents. Not a real documantary, hence the quote marks, but one of these 7pm BBC trash tabloid scumfests that masquerades a serious journalism: 4×4.

The odious scum in this programme are beyond description. Needless to say they were all unwilling to entertain the idea that they were doing anything but a good service to society.

The investigative journalists discovered amazing news:

• London houses are ludicously overpriced
• Estate agents can sometimes be dishonest
• Some poeple are getting screwed by the whole system
• Estate agents never lose
• Estate agents are scum

Thanks BBC1 – we’d never have known.

A nice evening. After yesterday’s drinkarama it was mild by comparison. Hopefully tonight I won’t have to go staggering about trying to find pain killers at 3am…

Some nice work at Daydream followed by a few pints with Roland in a pub called ‘The Barley Mow’ near smithfield market. A proper pub. The sort of pub that other pubs should use a role model. Cosy, wooden, small, full of nooks and quiet enough to allow pub-theses to be formed.

The older I get, and the more buggered my brain becomes, the more I seem to like RRRROCK type music (this includes all musical genres that have a brainless sort of “yeah man lets rock” attitude). Maybe this is one of the reasons why the death of Jam Master Jay upset me so much this week. Run DMC (and the Beastie Boys) was the first proper concert I ever went to see. I always though JMJ was the coolest member of RunDMC too – in fact maybe that’s why he had to die.

Well it turns out that SpecSavers are as good, as Vision Express are (in my opinion) crap. Today I had an eye test and managed to

• Get a new pair of frames and lenses
• Get another new pair of frames with my old, lovely lenses cut into them
• Not have the piss taken out of me for being a fatty

all for less than I paid for that pair of wanky memoflex.