Scab

It's things like this that bother me. In days of old, I'd have run it past the Minister of Good Sense for a second opinion, but she ain't there to ask, so I'm left with my own judgement which is shakey at the best of times.

The Strike. The whole civil service is supposed to come to a grinding halt tomorrow for a day, as the union walks out. Now, the problem is... of the eight on my team, five of them are non union; one is part time and has been advised to attend, and the boss is coming in anyway, which leaves me with a problem. I've never scabbed in my life. I don't like it. But neither do I like losing a days pay, which I can't afford to do , through pissing in the wind... which really is all one single person among a team striking is going to achieve. Isn't a right answer to this one really. Damn, damn, damn.

Anyways up, on return from work, I noticed that horrible black and white cat that's been intruding here making his exit from the catflap. I've no idea how he's getting in; possible his folks use the same model as me, I suppose. But I'm going to have to have words with him. Giz clearly can't clear him off the premises. My job then.

While I sleep, awful things happen

What a great day. Wake up in the morning, sun streaming through the windows. Birds singing outside. Dead mouse deposited, chewed at the head end and eaten at the arse end left right where the cat knows my line of sight is going to be. Awwww bless. A gift.

Kitchen's full of trash and recyclabes. Can't get to the back garden to put them in the proper recepticals 'cause the drive's full of Christine to a point where I can't actually get past her. This build up of rubbish is actually annoying me lots. There's also the issue of an incredible amount of broken glass in my vac that I need to access the garden to dispose of and can't. Sods law dictates that if I try to sort this in the kitchen, something will go horribly wrong and I will shower the whole house in fragmented toughened glass. Gah. Of this I am certain. I know my sods law, I do.... See? Not content with bankrupting me, the satanic evil bitch is now trying to screw up my domestic organisation. I'm going to donate her to Clarkson, with the instruction "make it fun, make it hurt".

Christine

I'm renaming my car. Rechristening is not appropriate, unless it's a satanic ceremony. The bastard is cursed, I'm sure of this. Or should that be bitch? So, Crap Gay Coloured Honda is no more. Say hello to Christine*. The devil's daughter.

This morning. Baz the Bike, my mate and mech' turns up at Fortress Shadey to start the engine rebuild. We push the dilapidated bitch off the road where "the man who can" left her, and onto the drive, under the car port for covered working. To do this, we wind down the windows so we can push. Nothing especially complex or new there. I get back in to wind the drivers side window back up. Something inside the door has zigged where it should have zagged, there's moment of small resistance and "PHOOMecksxxxxx", the window explodes covering me in toughened glass. Various bits sticking out of me. No, nothing important hit, thanks for asking.

But this is bloody silly. Within one month, the battery, the exhaust, the radiator, the cylinder head and now the window. Decision made. Patchup repairs to get me back on the road in the short term, then this bitch is being replaced. I might even take a hit of a couple of hundred quid to not sell it onto some other poor sucker, but to petrol bomb the evil cowbag myself.

Anyway. Quote of the day from Clarkson. Well, quote of yesterday really, but I was too knackered to think about writing yesterday. "Jade Goody is a racist, pig faced waste of skin and organs". No Jezza, don't sit on the fence mate, tell us what you really feel. Enjoyed the return of Hamster to Top Gear; although the bloke was clearly very embarrassed by the attention, and the fact that they made him walk down a staircase flanked by showgirls. Heheheh. Although his bit to camera just before his crash that "possibly the biggest accident you've ever seen in your life" when describling the 10,000bhp afterburner was unfortunate :o).

*By the way, shame on anybody that thought from the title that this was going to be about some local slapper I'd run into, or simla. You know I lead a life of monastic simplicity here up north and don't do anything like that, avoiding the evil machinations of women....

Don't wanna, can't make me

Ride the Mile Eater that is. Currently car-less, pretty skint and there's things in town to be done. Not recommended to walk, 'coz of the lung thing. Running out of supplies here, in fact as I'm out of milk, can't even make bread on the premises. I'm going to hold out for an hour or so, as I'm on a course away for two days as of tonight... doesn't seem a lot of point getting perishables in today.

Of course the riding reluctance makes sense, never want to get on again after something bad happens. Didn't ride it for months after I had a really bad trip in September whereupon I nearly smashed it four times; and after Sunday night's near hyperthermia experience, I don't much feel like getting on again. Freezing night, boots and socks soaked through with freezing rain and by the time I was approaching Grantham I couldn't see a damned thing as the visor was terminally fogged. All style and smoothness of riding went out of the window, just a case of surviving one corner into the next. Horrible. A hundred miles of nastyness, which when you're out there, you doubt you'll see the end of. But I suppose when your car goes phut, it's nice to have a spare option. Anyways up, I'm ignoring the classic premise that when it gets bad, get back on again at the first opportunity or you'll blow it forever.

So anyway, get on the bike I must. And strap silly things to it, I must. And being a cunning sort of bloke, I'm shoving a spare holdall into my course luggage so I can do a supplies run on the way home in the official motor, then stuff it on a bus :oD.

Well, that's me f*cked then

CLICKY LINKY

In case you're wondering, I'm sitting here lurgied, building up the energy and body heat to go out, get on the bike and get some supplies in. Good job it's a cold and not a broken leg. Stayed up late last night with a glass of single malt and a DVD which probably is the last thing in the world you're supposed to do when lurgiefied but it beats sleeping. Bubba ho Tep was the night's movie, an unusual story of Elvis and JFK secretly living in an old peoples home in Texas fighting an ancient undead monster. Works suprisingly well, but then anything that's got Bruce "the chin" Campbell in it is going to be a slice of fried gold.

And for those of you who are regular followers of the doings of Gizmo the Cat, eviscerator of the rodent population of North East Lincolnshire since 2004... he's off to a start for the 2007 carnage season. Half a mouse found in the lounge this morning. Nice. Whether he meant that as a gift or my breakfast, who knows. He ain't tellin'.

London part 2

So, made it to the theatre with time to spare. Of course, if folks had have told me it was Cambridge Circus and not Shaftsbury Avenue it might have effected my choice of station. But then again I could have researched it better. Fact is, last few weeks I've been off colour and not really putting the effort into these things. Cambridge Circus. Interesting for me. I'm a fan of the Le Carre "Smiley" spy books, and this is where "The Circus" or MI6 was located. Fictionally of course. Took a look around and wondered which building JLC visualized as being the haunts of Control, Guilliam, Connie Sachs, George Smiley and the scene of Bill Haydon's treason. T'was like when I once visited the village of Sarratt for a bike meet; was almost wishing into reality a manor house with old barbed wire, the old training school... Anyway folks, this is another one of those Shadey digressions.

So.... Spamalot. Worth it?

Someone thinks so; it's currently the hottest ticket in London. Simon Russel Beale as King Arthur, quite camp in places, very funny. Still would have liked to have seen Tim Curry though. Most of the important bits from the original film are in there in some way, shape or form. Lots of piss-taking of musical theatre and it's standard features. Possibly the best live raspberry blowing I've ever seen from the French Taunter. Fantastic. Fish slapping dance included. All costumes from the film faithfully reproduced, including rabbits (Killer and Trojan). The Black Knight was properly dispatched, and I still haven't worked out how they had his limbs off. Oh, and we know the Lady of the Lake was only the understudy, but we didn't feel at all short changed and in fact were very pleased to see her. Excellent singer. And so very well cast as well, no chance at all of drowning with built in life preservers like that.... huge, just huge......
Basically felt that the old stuff worked really well, much of the new stuff didn't work as well but I suppose that's what you get with only one Python writing. Liked the Lady of the Lake's satirical songs about Broadway, which was both amusing and very well sung. And she did have really big knockers. Did I mention that? Anyway, summing up.... some bits work very well, other bits not quite as well; I didn't feel my effort in getting there was wasted. Beer was expensive though, but the French girl on the souvenir stand was very nice indeed. A good day out.

Retreated to the bars of the west end later, for a cheeky one before dinner. Traumatised by drinks prices; eleven quid for two Sambucca's. OW ! ! ! Pleasant bar, very modern and artilly* lit, but HELL ! ! ! There's no justification for that sort of price !

*As opposed to artillery lit, which would have been a different kettle of rubble indeed...

Driver had a bit of a struggle finding our next destination, but we found it eventually. It was quite amusing; all the roads we were busy getting lost down were familiar to be as the routes of the pro-shooting demonstrations and marces I went on in the in the mid '90's. Last saw them under very different circumstances. We wandered into The Savoy via the wrong entrance and a wander around to the proper way in; then got bounced around an awful lot of restaurants inside until we found the one that had our booking. All very nice; but I can't get used to attendants in the gentleman's, erm, "cloakroom" though. In my past experience it's normally an illegal immigrant in a nightclub who charges you a fiver to spray some muck on you that melts the fabric of your coat, if you're lucky. Not in the Savoy. Different world. Restaurant was jolly.... food was small but immaculate, staff were of course spot on. I was given the wine list to choose from, but bottled out... couldn't accept responsibility for selecting wine that cost THAT much ! ! ! Cheapest bottle was around £25, now I hope I'm not being a prole here but I just can't deal with that sort of number!

And while you're waiting...

If you're of a political bent, this was quite interesting....

So where does the weekend start

And how do I come to be sitting here with dreaded lurgy, pondering paracetamol and housework? Dunno, but in the absence of Dr Fraud's couch, I'll tell you about my weekend instead of my mother.

So, with broken car - the problem is, how to get to Ipswich, a distance of roughly 150 miles from here, in time to meet a bunch of mates going to London for a show. The answer has two wheels and answers to the name of Kawaskai. So the night before, a bag was packed and motorcycling clothes laid out, fuel was placed in the tank so that no farting about was required in the morning. At a suitably early hour, the cat's dish was loaded for bear, a coffee was had to fuel and heat the rider, the MileEater was pointed in the right direction and a certain amount of twisting motion applied to the throttle control. Two hours fifty minutes later, in what was an equalled speed record I arrived on the borders of Ipp-land. Got up to Chez Kev where I'd arranged to garage the bike overnight, but realised I wasn't going to make the station in time. Although texts indicated that it wasn't the station at all but a "coach to London". Now at this point, it would have been useful to know that the coach was in fact a private minibus they'd hired, and it wasn't a scheduled eleven o clock departure, and could wait. But no. I made what I thought was a logical assumption, got on a train and spent another thirty five quid to meet the folks in the middle of the smoke.

Now, when I was an up and coming teenage beer monster down south in Ippo-on-Orwell, London was what you aspired to. That's where life was, money was, fame was, cosmopolitan society was. Nowadays, I have to go there every five years or so to remind myself how much I hate the place. When I was a kid on the tube system, I was facinated with those balls on springs that hang from the ceilings. Now I can reach them, they're no big thing. And what's with the picture of the drooler's grinning face on a charity poster on the tubes? Like we actually WANT to see that? Like that's going to have any affect other than "no thanks"? And why, in one of the busiest tube stations in the country, do they give the PA to some bloke with a West African accent who not even the late Dr Idi Amin could have understood? And why do they have only three guys serving tickets, with a dozen automated ticket machines, all with long queues, all with guys at the front saying "Ugh? What does this mean? How do I work this?". I know a song about that.....

Anyway. I'm digressing again. I do that when I'm ill. In fact I do that when I'm well. The city of London was indeed reached in good time, via the buses as the train line in between Ippo and Colchester was up on blocks. I struggled through crowds of persons, before strapping myself to a tube train device and heading across town; was supposed to be connecting with the Bakerloo at .... erm.... somewhere.... but the whole Bakerloo was closed to to vandalised trains. Necessary to replan. At this point we were close enough to the surface to get text messages, argh, everybody else is in the pub! Bastards! And now they're leaving to get to the theatre! Agh! No beer for me! Sod sod sod! And so.... Picadilly Circus was reached, the tube system was left, the A-Z was consulted and bad chest or no bad chest, a rapid run was undertaken to ensure lateness was not going to be a factor this day......

TBC.

Intruder

OK, identified the source of the strange smell... after I posted that last entry, I went into town on a foraging mission and returned home in a very manly manner to my manor, wearing my best lumberjacks shirt after much trial with a freshly killed chinese takeaway slung over my shoulder. Ah, the wilderness life. Ray Mears has nothing on me, I tell yer. Anyway Shades, stop digressing. "OK, schizophrenic false personality, as you say".

Wandered up to the house; the cat's in the window waiting for me. Hang on a mo.... the size is right and the shape is right but since when did my cat have white patches on his chest? Has he been sniffing tippex again? Clearly not. The stranger cat in the window takes one look at me, realises I actually intend to enter the house and buggers off sharpish, to the kitchen and presumably out of the cat flap which one would assume was not as secure as it's advertising material would have you believe. Giz is upstairs, holding onto the upper territory like a dervish. There's actually blood on the divan cover. No visible injuries on my cat, a little bit of examination suggests no harm; could it be he actually won a scrap? But he's a wuss. All he normally beats up is dogs.

Can this get worse?

I realise I'm taking a risk by saying that....

But having just spent £140 on getting the car radiator fixed.... the head's blown. Towed home by the AA after the car spent time making vile smoke, smells and no va va vroom whatsoever. The guys at work, where it happened after I'd stopped to pick up some keys I'd left behind say I'm being incredibly calm about the whole thing. Fact is, there's no point getting cross. It's blown my night on the beer with mates in Ippo though; phoned and apologised. Will have to be up at stupidoclock tomorrow to make London in time.

And what's more there's a strange smell in this house that I can't identify.....

Strange day

A different day today.... a small drama or two. Due to the surgery on the car that's happened today, I shoved the dead beast out of the way and pushed the now resurrected two wheeled Mile Eater back on the road. Huzzah! Started with a flourish, mounted up and off I went. For about three quarters of a mile, where the engine died showing signs of fuel starvation. Of which more later. Soddit. Immediately phoned the Fun Factory to tell them I was going to be late; they said there were things happening, I was needed, they'd dispatch a car. Nice to be wanted.

So onto work, quickly get into ship boarding gear and off for the business of the day, a little bit of manly lurking on the end of a radio, and then off to have a poke around a frieghter. It's on my way to this that we have a little bit of an ooops.... turns out the road I'm driving on crosses another, and there's a couple of worn invisible things where there used to be stop lines. So over I sail at some speed, focussing on where I think the crossroads actually is, which is about fifty yards from where it was.... and there's a Scania artic' standing on his brakes ten yards from my passenger side door, and another doing exactly the same about ten yards from my right ear. A bit of a fruity experience that one. Made more so by the fact that my boss is a mask of terror in the passenger seat. Oh well. So; the ship promptly has the things done to it that we need to do to it. And everyone back to the office for tea, ginger beer and medals. Jolly wheeze!

Back to a fixed car. Yay! Oh, and the bike? The fuel starvation? Sabotage. Some little bastard has cut my feeder pipe and half inched the petrol out of it. Theiving little scrote. Hope it rots his skin off.

Did ya miss me ?

Heh! Been in Lincoln for the past few days, knocking lumps out of my fellow drones and in turn having lumps knocked out of me in return. The annual fighting course. Like to think that the lumpage equasion balanced out in my favor in the end. Knocked at least one trainer flying this morning. Hey, they said to hit them with full force. The jolly news is that my lungs held out pretty well and I'm not dead yet; going to see the quack very soon to get this gym ban lifted if I can, very much enjoyed and benefited from the extra exercise, actually feel a lot better in myself at the moment. Enjoyed plenty of excellent food and drink, pleasant to get away with the mob and actually ran into a few old faces from previous lives, as it were... one dog handler and one analyst from down south whom I used to work with. That's the joy of the training centre, always a face from old, hidden away in there somewhere. A very enjoyable sess' on the beer last night, finished up with a couple of rather nice malt whiskeys they'd got hidden away out of the light at most reasonable prices too. If they'd have sold big chuffy cigars, I might have had to have been pretentious!

Well, back at Fortress Shadey again. Gizmo's pleased to see me, but doesn't appear to have left me any presents around the place. Good. There's a strange smell somewhere, but I'm not sure that it isn't me. And there's crisis. The bike battery does not appear to be charging. That's more potential expense on top of the car radiator crisis. Fantastic. Not. And come what may, I need a set of wheels in time for Friday afternoon as head south, I must. Down to Ippo, and then off to London for Mrs JH's birthday fun and games, and plenty beer. All of which actually involve me BEING there, rather than sitting in Helltown on Sea hitting bits of Honda with a hammer, and trying to start a 1997 Kawasaki with a starting handle....

Saturday night.

What in the name of arse am I doing indoors typing this?

It's nights like this where I come to think that life's gone seriously pear shaped. But as the alternative is to boldly go where no Suffolk bloke has gone before and survived*, ie Beyond the Valley of the Codheads, solo drinking in Helltown on Sea. Arrrgh! It's nights like this where I would carve off a limb of your choice with a rusty letter opener for a night in Alberts. Parsnip crisps are required. But as Fine Dine don't travel out this far, I'll have to make do with Chinese takeaway and wine. Although actually, I quite fancy pizza. Pizza it is. Wooo, living the high life again ! Hmmm. Takeaways and wine. I am turning into Bridget Jones. I shall have fun impersonating her. Good boobs as I recall. I may never leave the house again....

Oh, the car. Radiator's leaking like a leaky thing on St Swiss Cheese's day. Bum. More expense, but probably not fatal. Bit of a bummer though, off to the city for a course tomorrow. Currently got the Fannymagnet, erm, I mean the bike on a battery charger hoping that it'll go VROOOM at the appropriate time tomorrow rather than clickclickcwh...., ah sod it, you know the drill by now, I don't need to repeat that sound effect. It's nice to have a spare vehicle. When it works. Right now, the battery charger's giving the same readings as it was last year before I had to replace the battery, and if that's gone phut after only a year, I shall be cross.

*without Syphillis**

** At least in this town catching crabs isn't so bad. They're heavy bastards to have hanging off your gonads of an evening, but at least you've got something to put in the paella for later.

Without stress, my life would be meaningless...

Why is it, that when you're rolling back home with the engine seriously overheating, the temperature reading bumping off the stop, serious doubts as to whether it's going to make it or not, and you really need to get some speed so you can get air in that intake to cool as best you can that you encounter every dawdler, every granny, every drunk driver determined not to show out to the police, none of which want to go over 25mph?

So....

Is this the end for the gay coloured green Honda? Watch this space. I seriously hope so...

This woman ain't gonna die a natural death ! ! ! !

Watch out for her in the obit's column in a while !

Darwin by nature in the making here !

LINKY!!!

Ugh !

Hmmmm, dry pain at the very back of the throat.... hmmm, could this be lurgy stalking me?

Could be.

"Ooooooooooh! Yakkaboul!!"*



*See "Lurgy strikes Britain, (The Goon Show)

Wildlife "Awwwwww" moment

Here's something I didn't get around to posting from last month.... breeding Atlantic seals, just down the coast from at the unfortunately named Donna Nook.

"That's the problem with a fish based diet, it gives you rank guts !!!!"

Dr Zoidberg......

Fear and loathing tribute for the pussycat minded...

Was sent this....

Liked this....

Shared this....

A Hooley. A "yay!". A gripe. And a bad taste picture.

Blowing a hooley that is, aaars we say back in Sarrfolk, boi. Big storm, heavy rain, a real blaster. That's what I've woken up to today. Generally entertaining, as long as they don't expect me to be out working in it.

Quite a good one yesterday. Been informed my forthcoming course in Whybother Training Centre has been cancelled; this is enormously good news. It clears the decks to go down to London that day, where an old friend of mine whom i've not seen for a few years is doing a presentation at the Army Museum at Chelsea; I wanted to go down so see the old boy again and support but once you're booked on a course in my firm, it's easier to get out of a money loan with the mafia then get taken off it again.

Overslept - I earn the right - did some funky joyful domestic stuff then phoned my mum to wish her a happy buffday... it's the time of year for it, that's two in two days. Cards and presents are in the hands of the post office I fear, but it's good to make the effort to just ring a person on their day. If an old slacker like me can manage that, there's no excuse for anyone else. Walked in the door from the fun factory to a ringing phone (ah it's nice to be in demand), it seems back home Kaz has had another crisis and I'm ear #01 for these things. Big Chinese scoff for tea (yum), off for a small beer at Swigs then back to base for Fear and Loathing on the DVD with more Chinese food. I'll be getting slitty eyed. Or slitty arsed from passing all that rice...

Moving on; slightly annoyed with the F board at the moment; having some difficulty removing my old blog. My blog was of what's called "gold" status until next August, all paid for... extra pages, extra room. Hovever my main account's reverted to ordinary status as of new year. Which, it would seems knacker me for accessing aforementioned expensive blog to retreive it and has caused minor grinding of teeth; I resent having to pay again to get two years of my life preserved as I actually have no intention of interacting with that board again in any way - hell, I won't even name it on here as I don't want to give it free publicity - and I really don't want to have to deal with the bloke that runs it in any way either, since I find him a creepy little b*tard who I've had more than enough of. I hate it when my morals and stubbornness play hardball together. Once I dig in my heels, I'm not known for my flexibility on issues. Can't get anything done.

Oh yeah. The picture. A tribute to the late American felon, spouse batterer and sometime singer James Brown. Made oi larf anyway.

Heppy burpday....

To Biro Jules.... have a good one, don't do anything I wouldn't.

So, what of this day? Well, it's an odd one! Went over to Lincoln for a course in how not to offend doris's, n*ggers and poofs.* Woooo Hoooo! Load up a bus with busy people in uniform, drive them over forty miles for a course, arrive. The trainer's standing in reception looking stressed... material hasn't turned up. Course can't run without it. So we sit there for three hours in comfy chairs and drink an incredible amount of coffee, waiting for this material to arrive by courier, safe in the knowledge that if it does, there isn't any point going back to the office in the meantime 'coz it'll mean just turning around and heading straight back the second we arrive to join in with the second class of the day. So we sit and we wait, we caffinate, it rhymes, hurrah, don't be late! I bump into a bloke I last worked with ten years ago, which was nice. Confirmation is received that the material won't be delivered today, so we pack up again and head back, pausing only to confirm that we aren't actually needed for anything as the training means we've got an embarrassment of riches staffwise. So, being very professional officers... we went to Blyton for excellent luxury ice cream intead, before returning to the fun factory and POE'ing**.

Certain amounts of housework, long over due have been dealt with. Plenty more to do. Not in til late tomorrow, so I shall crack on in the morning and get muchos stuff dealt with. No, honestly.

*OK, before you all report me to the thought police for that, bear in mind that is SATIRE! Gawd, this country....

**P*ssing off early

So where are we?

Ah yes. Back at the factory of fun. Pretty nondescript really, although I've got another session on the Cushyjob van booked for tomorrow, walking about with boxes that go "beep beep beep beep", I've got to be on the other side of the water to do it. Never mind.

Thanks are due to Miss J and her most excellent partner for hospitality above and beyond the call of duty the other night; don't know why, I get the best sleep in the world up there. It's just possible that she may have deliberately gotten a house on a Ley Line; it may also be the gargantuan amount of wine and beer we drink every time I go up there. Maybe one day science will tell. Anyways up - I have some lovely friends in the world; glad you guys are among them.

Been doing a bit of socialising in the past day or so, some sensible, some extremely surreal. All socialising is good of course. Some is just madder than a box of frogs on LSD. Had gotten out of the going out habit before chrimbo. I'm rather glad to have rediscovered it. Have to see if I can get some of the southern posse up to this northern sweatpit of a town for beer and foolishness before the month is out and I'm crawling the wall again.

A further thought on rooftop messages to the airbourne plod

Of course, such ideas are bound to end in tears.

One is reminded of a certain welsh farmer. Sick and tired of jet aircraft oo' be scarin' 'is sheep, he painted "PISS OFF BIGGLES" on his roof in an attempt to get his point across. However...

The Buccaneer squadrons at Lossimouth spotted this. They told their mates on Jaguars at Coltishall. Coltishall told the Phantoms at Wattisham and Leuchars. Wattisham told the Tornadoes at Honington, who then told the Tornadoes at Coningsby, Bruggen, Laarbruch and all over the european subcontinent who then told the F-111's at Upper Heyford and Lakenheath. Someone told the Hawks at Valley, Brawdy and Chivenor. You can see where this is going. The entire damned northern flank of NATO congregated over the poor sod's house for the next two weeks, to have a look and take photos.

He painted out the sign.


What's slightly more worrying is that knowing this story verbatim, I've been able to find picture evidence....

Nocturnal notice placement

Bloody Police helicopter is hovering near my street. At this time of night. Don't they know some of us are working earlies? Don't they know the killer of Ipswich prozzies has been caught?

Time to go out into the shed and work on the sign with big fifteen foot high luminescant letters that say "F*CK OFF PLOD ! ! ! "

Trips back in time... a strange summers evening...

As a small antidote to all this cold stuff, foggy mornings, freezing winds that are about at the moment, I'll share with you a pretty much non-story from an evening some years back.

A summers eve in Ipswich. My mate Jon's house up on the hill by the railway line on the north west side of town; the sun's dipping in the sky, bathing the whole area in that brilliant golden evening light. Clear blue skies, hardly any cloud at all and we're out in the garden in deckchairs, drinking beer and enjoying being alive. High in the sky, we can see vapour trails. He wanders into the house to get the big birdwatching telescope, and we settle down to pay these serious attention.

We both know our planes, and indentify what we're looking at as B-52's. American Stratofortress heavy bombers. Three of 'em. At vapour hight, around 30'000 ft, ice visible glistening on the wings. Beautiful. Except it's 1999 and the war in Kosovo's happening. These boys have beeing based at Fairford, in Gloucestershire for a month or so, and are going out on business, loaded for bear. We're looking at heavilly armed aircraft that'll be coming back empty. Somebody still breathing right now is going to die in a few hours time.

It's one thing to see war and death live on CNN. It's another to see it over your back garden, while you watch from a chair with a pint. Would have been a matter of routine for our grandparents of course, look out of the window and there's three hundred armed planes off to do their thing over Germany, with the fighter escort buzzing beneath.

The funny thing was, as we watched them at a distance until we'd had enough, I just returned to my beer and deckchair, entertained for the evening, with just a feeling that I couldn't, and still can't fully identify; maybe that I felt I should be feeling more; that my facination with flying and military jets had brought me to a point where big questions were being asked of me. That to give me my interesting bit of spotting with my mate in this comfort, on this nice evening meant that real explosions would be happening on places that would be filled with real people who wouldn't be getting up again for the repeat on Sky2 an hour later. A little disquietening. But interesting none the less. Maybe FLoH is right, maybe I do just think too much.

Anyway. Enough of that. Back to the cold !

Slowly bimbling about, not doing a lot

Today's a day of rest - it says exactly that on my roster - so it's a shame to use it for anything other than that. A slow roll out of bed at a civilised hour; cast a contemptous eye over the mess in the kitchen, lounge and bedroom. Pick it up, dust it off and put it back in it's socket...

Today's the day of pain. A few hours ago, wandered up to town where at a certain address, in exchange for gifts of money, an attractive young lady dressed in white will rip all the hair off your back without anesthetic. No, I'm not being pervy, it's backwax time again. Actually, not as hurty as it was when I first started this foolishness. Still hurty though. Is there any particular reason I'm keeping this painful insanity up? No, not really. It's just that once I've been through that nastiness once, I'm damned if I'm going to revert to square one. It's sometimes a more than a metaphorical pain to be such a bloody minded male! If you're horroscope bound, you can put it down to me being Scorpio.

Anyway, I must toodle soon. There is wine to be drunk, somewhere in the world. Several bottles of it. And I must drink the stuff, to protect other people from damaging themselves with it. See, I'm a pretty selfless heroic type when it boils down to brass tacks...

Lunchtime lunatic

And hello again. A progress report in my day of a million small domestic jobs. I have so far progressed my domestic nirvana by a) drinking very many cups of tea from my new christmas mug b) eating an incredible amount of cheese from my selection box. Not enough Wensleydale. And.... c) comedy stack from my newly arrived Black Books box set. Thank you Amazon. I may not be getting much done but I'm laughing more and I'm not hungry.

Here's an oddity.

0947 and sitting at home. I've taken a day off, folks; was up again at 0230 with a buzzing brain and no way of shutting it off before 0500 when I had to be up. After a bit of a break, the stressbunnies make a reappearance. No point going into work when I'm like that, so I might as well add one to my scheduled rest days and go in at the weekend when I'm next supposed to instead. So. What to do with it. It's a grey and miserable day up here in NELincs. Overcast skies heavy with rain, not good for the soul. Got a million jobs to do around the house. Might as well do 'em.

Oh, and in response to someone's question. New Years Resolutions? Nah. Can't be doing with 'em. Well, with the exception of 2005 when I came up with a list of "things to do to improve my life and how I deal with it, that aren't new years reslolutions, honest guv". But generally, I don't.

Some nice general themes to aim for though. Try to enjoy more; get last year filed away if I can (t'wasn't a good one); travel more; enjoy more. If I can't get out of horrible Grimsby, at least try to hate it less. Try to get this damned house finished so at least I'm not living in a building site. Hell, even smile more, if it doesn't crack the plaster and I can find a reason to that's honest.

And after I've worked out how to do all that, I shall get a job juggling jelly...

Here comes the new year, same as the old year

Very little sleep, into work over tired, not a lot going on, not especially happy. Back home; house is full of christmas guff and other guff, attempt to tidy, not a sausage. Got a few things struck off the jobs list but the overall effect is not positive. I am slightly sideways at the moment, if I'm honest.

Everything changes on New Years Day

Actually, it doesn't.

And from that point onwards.... as I was invited by text on NYE, dropped into town for a lunchtime curry. The new years day curry has been tradition among certain of my friends for years. One of them went to the expense and hassle of marrying a lass with a NYD birthday just to legitimise it. Ahem. Honest guv. Anyway, turns out that Lasha's BD really IS on NYD, so an curry must be had and a curry was had. Myself, Kev, Nick the Nice, The Fuhrer, Sarge, the associated wives and Big Gay Al's missus (the origional; ie NOT the gay one), jolly nice company. Been made to drag down the collection of nefarious drunken photographs for possible use on up and coming 40th birthdays. Was amusing to hear the old nicknames used, too; specifically "Voice of Reason". Hadn't told you about that one, had I. Shouldn't be suprised. Anyway, munched down on a perfect Garlic Tikka with Spinach side dish, yum :o) Back to Kev's for tea, packing and football on the radio before wandering off to Gran's for a few hours, over to mum's to drink tea and collect the cat.

Always a shame having to split the two boys up. For a pair of tomcats, they actually get on very well indeed; Amba enjoys the company and it's good for Gizmo to socialise. Hmmm, me too actually. Eventually loaded him into the mirthmobile, pointed it north and with freshley trimmed mechanics, this time it went Vrooom as advertised. Three and a half hours later pulling up knackered at the door of Fortress Shadey, where the very excited and hyper cat wakes me up four times in the pathetic show of sleep before I have to be back at work for six am. Great.

So all in all? Well, didn't get the distance covered I'd have liked to; didn't see as many folks as I hoped to. It was bloody expensive. The optimistic feeling that something was bubbling under; well, if it was right, it's not apparent yet. But it was a decent enough break'ette. It'll do for this year. Or last year as the case may be.

See ya in a better 2007.

Ah, there you are!

New Years day 1

For gentlemen of a each generation, there's a certain song. If you're younger than me, have a tendency to wear T-shirts that say "grease monkey", and talk for hours about how it's important not to be camp in Yorkshire, lest someone find you're a follower of the chutney ferret and kick the crap out of you, then it's probably "Reach" by S Clutz Seven. For me, it's the CanCan by Bad Manners. Watered down nowadays of course. You'd not get away with the leg kicking carnage we used to inflict in school to that song. You'd loose teeth. Anyway; found myself on new years eve in a shite club, with shite beer that played shite music. I've found a note to myself at midnight seventeen that they'd just played CanCan, I'd done what needed to be done and I could no longer breathe. Hey ho. No biggie. Anyway, we're clearly excellent chaps here. We've got three of us going out to play; two lads and one lass. The boys want to do ale pubs, Lass want's to do shite clubs. We relent 'coz we're nice. Gawd. Shite clubs on new years eve it is. Turns out the Dove is closed for a private party anyway. We wander in; we clock an awful lot of scummy people looking awfully tense. Great. Clearly going to be a humdinger. Folks, for tourist information purposes, Quilts nightclub in Ipswich sucks dead donkey's cock. I like to help out where I can, you see.

Anyway, we came, we saw, we drank bad beer, she enjoyed herself, we gave up. Scumbags getting fighty in the queue for the burger van. What is it with these people? What has happened to this place? Not my town anymore, this place. Gave up on the queue for the taxi's so wandered back here in the rain.

Anyway, frankly I was feeling rather neglected; the phone network had collapsed, couldn't sleep, brain was fizzing with energy that I couldn't use because I knew that beer would be running the decision making and paranoia maintainence process. So I went up and wrote the first draft of this rubbish while my drinking buddies crashed out downstairs and snored, energy expended. Gave it up as a bad job and went to bed with a book.

Up with the sun. Feeling better. Considering a supplies run before I head back up north; I've totally run stocks dry up there and I'm working at six tomorrow morning. Really only need milk, but they've got a special on sausage meat at the Co-op, so I might bag a bunch for my freezer, pie making for the use of. Hey, you really wanted to know that didn't you. That's epoch shaking literature that's coming out of here today. Shadey's shopping list. One day, that'll mean something to a historian that will, the domestic habits of the ordinary British bloke in 2007. Yeah, me. Ordinary. Yeah, right. OK, the mad as a box of frogs British bloke in 2007. That better?

Review of the year....

2006?

Turbulent. Traumatic in places. Some bits have been funky, a triumph here and there. Other bits I haven't enjoyed one little bit. 'Nuff said. Soonest mended.

Bring on 2007, I've got things to do.

Thanks to those who've supported. Big thanks to several and especial thanks to one I know; you know who you are, without your tailweight this year I'd have crashed and burned into either the funny farm or Her Majesty's Pleasure ages back. It's nice to have friends.