Oh dear

I appear to be out of the Polish Bisongrass vodka. And I'm onto my last bottle of the Croat stuff. It's time to plan a trip out of the country, or god help me I might even have to start buying my plonk at ASDA.

Well, it's been an odd few ones. This evening I departed the fun factory in the ever popular black beany hat and camo jacket in order to do watching of things that really need to be watched. Ended up awaiting rescue by a motorway as the official funbuggy blew out one of it's low profile alloys at eeek mph; no big drama and the steering wasn't even affected, which proves the Swedes make damned good cars even if that is a bit odd for a root vegatable.

Later, drove back wondering if I should go with a shovel tomorrow and recover the dead cat from the road down by the refinery; get it swept at the vets with a chip reader; at least let some caring owner know kitty's bought the farm; and why fate hadn't arranged something similar for the two muppets on scooters I saw last night, attempting to loft them, and suprisingly, succeeding. Why is it around here that every muppet can afford a big 2007 scooter (daddy buys them) and why must they ride them in close formation that'd shame the Red Arrows, and why don't they get skinned alive when they fall off them wearing track suit bottoms? Never mind, soon the beast will be back and I shall be able to blow them over with just the exhaust power.

Fact is I shall probably wuss out of the cat thing. There's a world of difference between having good intentions, and actually going and dealing with the messy stuff. As much as it upsets me to see the poor sod on the road, my cat's in perfect health and great form. I suspect I shall be selfish and make do with fusses from him instead. Shallow git, ain't I.

Women drivers

Clicky linky !!

It's true you know. Ever seen these daft pink wearing doris's? Take a look, they're reversing at ninety miles an hour while doing a dance routine. And I have it on good authority that their insurance is shite so not only are they a danger to themselves and others, they're a dishonest danger to themselves and others! Deploy the dragons teeth NOW!

God help me

Decaff in my mug. Couscous for my dinner. Sushi in my lunchbox for the office. Ye gods, they've even got me eating sushi!

I'll be posting my application form for Green party membership on Monday, folks.


I CRAVE STEAK PIE ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Diet Facism

Red meat. Sausages. Meat pies. Cornish pasties. Pizza's. Caffinated coffee. Cheese. Anything remotely fun. All this and more I now have to walk past on my way to the brown rice and turkey meat section. It's a bit grump making really, or it would be if I didn't love a challenge. I'd only just gotten foody; I'd only spent a couple of years regarding food as anything more than a refuelling exercise, and now I'm hit with this crap. Having to completely re-think about the way I eat is a bit BAH. Makes snacking difficult. What DO you do if you're munchies bound in the middle of the night? What DO you have to munch on after a bevvie, which I'm also supposed to leave well alone?

I'm open to suggestions on that, by the way.

So when I get paid, it's all the way to Ottackers, or as I should say Waterstones as they've been taken over (BAH!) and invest in some more of those healthy eating cookbooks. Hey ho.

I'm pregnant with beer and pie's baby!!!

Actually I'm not but that thought came to me last night and it was too good to waste. But if I was, it'd be a healthy pie. Damn.

Well, back in between the shafts; back at the fun factory after three moochilicious weeks off mooching; the funbuggy's got about another thousand miles on the clock and the cat's still speaking to me after I temporarily infested his house with that evil energetic entity called "kitten". Been playing genial host here at Fortress Shadey for a few days, and they that were hosted came with a small playful black thing called Tab in tow, almost a min-Giz. Did they get on? Well, Tab's still alive. Giz in fairness was a gentleman, he played dutiful host to a small mad thing that only wanted to chase and pounce all day, when he is in fact WAY too cool for such things with only minimal poor grace and an occasional smack in the chops given out.

Been out west for a few days.... if anybody actually has ever BEEN to Chester, would they tell me what it's like? Coz there's a certain amount of one way system driving involved around the place which doesn't seem to involve actually finding car parking, just lots of burning of fuel which when the fuel light's lit, isn't really good news, and that's from someone who's already had the mile walk to the petrol station and back with a can once this week. They don't design their airfields to be found either, hiding them under about four different names and not signposting them, and causing my quest for something tasty to eat that's not going to kill me to end up in a damned Subway in some place near New Brighton, when I never much liked the original Brighton in the first place. Found a couple of decent pubs in Scouse though, and even got to keep my hubcaps.

If you're in that neck of the woods, you've got to hunt out the Philharmonic; town centre pub crowd which may be a bit dull, but the beer's really decent and it's an architectural wonder. It's on CAMRA's national inventory and here's what they say....

"Quite simply this is the most spectacular pub in England - indeed,?throughout the whole of the UK it is only matched by the Crown in Belfast. It was rebuilt in 1898-1900 to designs by Walter Thomas (see also the rather later Vines) for Liverpool brewer, Robert Cain. Thomas and Cain?went on to build the other prodigy pub of central Liverpool, the Vines. Craftsmen and artists from the then University Department of Architecture & Applied Art worked on it under the superintendence of G. Hall Neale and Arthur Stratton. The exterior is a freely-treated Tudor style with all sorts of odd details. The stunning thing about it are the entrance gates to Hope Street; they are an amazing display of Art Nouveau metalwork by H. Bloomfield Bare. The interior, which is what everyone comes to experience, has an unusual, complex plan. There is a relatively small front bar parallel to Hardman Street and behind this what is effectively a much enlarged drinking lobby in front of a bar counter encrusted with mosaic. The floor is also mosaic. Behind this are a pair of rooms - one a smoke room, the other a news room (they are now rather stupidly called Brahms and Liszt): the news room has stained glass depicting St Cecilia, patroness of music, and the inscription 'Music is the Universal Language of Mankind'. A corridor between these two rooms leads back to a cavernous hall built as a billiard room. It has copper panels by H. Bloomfield Bare and Thomas Huson; the roof lights have stained glass. The sheer scale and richness of decoration attest to the importance that billiards had in end-of-the-nineteenth-century pubs (see also the Vines). As elsewhere in the pub there is superb mahogany joinery. The gents' loos are all part of the essential sightseeing with mosaic flooring and marbled stalls and luxurious washbasins. "

Mike say's "a pint of Brain's Reverand James, and Theakson's Paradise. Can't be bad. Bugger me, this art deco stuff ain't bad either, must come back when it's daylight". Saves on key strokes, more time for drinking.

Also a pint of Swans "Sharps French Resistance" in the Swan; and Biddenden's cider in the Cracke which normally makes for a dreadful morning. CAMRA like this place, it's been about since the Boer war and is pretty unpretentious. There was more beer had in here but I'm damned if I can remember what it was, other than dark and tasty. Then the hassle of travelling back avoiding the kebab shops, as I'm not allowed those anymore as they've got flavour, and onwards.

The east coast beckoned; defeat at Rugby, incredible amounts of Australian lager consumed (once again a bad idea), amounts of certain cocktails consumed (not much better in the idea stakes really), a certain amount of stylish brokeness but ended up with Italian for supper, attempting to suss the wheat from the chaff in the healthy eating stakes. A certain amount of mooching about and a pint in the world's smallest pub later, followed by healthy curry.

This health kick will be the death of me.

People watching in the big screen sports environment

Anybody noticed a rugby tournament going on around here?

Been to the quacks this week, got my modified meds and had a chat about what to do and what not to do... the gym's still sidelined, which is a bummer. And the old diet's got to be a bit modified which is not much fun either; sensible things all 'round and a diet sheet. Damn. Lay off the red meat; so that's no more steaks for me; as suspected last Monday, cheeseboards are indeed very much on the naughty list and my beloved Wensleydale especially so ( sob!!!! ); pizza, fish and chips will be deemed bad; and I shall be looking around for a supplier of top notch proper decaff coffee because lots of caffeine is bad too and there's no way I'm going to be buying my coffee in Asda from the mainstream; time to get a second cafetière maybe, coz I can't serve that detuned stuff to guests. Damn. Knackers my plan to get my own grinder and espresso machine as well. Oh well. And I'm equally sure that breaking myself quite as stylishly in the bar as I did at rugby is deemed naughty as well. Well, the doc can't have everything. Rather a lot of beer was consumed. I may have put a fairly considerable dent in their stocks, or myself, one of the two. An aussie bar was the order of the day, so it was bottled import beers; as the place is pretty rubbish from the real ale; or even fake ale point of view.

Anyway, the problem with bottles is that they're not pints, so they empty faster, so you end up getting two or four at at a time to cut on trips to the bar; and then you move on at the end of the (rather corking) match (nice one England, I do love to see a Frenchman in tears) and go to the pub that sells proper beer, and you discover that they've got Pendle Witches Brew on, plus Everard's Tiger, and then you're basically buggered. A fine evening, with even a bit of jumping up and down and shouting at the screen thrown in. And a bit of people watching as well; the drunken football fans that'd been there since the afternoon soccer just getting more and more beered; and who don't know what to do with themselves during a rugby match.... it feels a little alien to be watching the sport of damned fine people with a confused drunken chorus of "eng-gur-lannnnd, eng-gur-lannnnd, eng-gur-lannnnd" in the background which slowly morphs into "swing low" as the brain cells rearrange themselves and the Beckham'ites realise they've heard of this one too. Heh, my idea of rugby chanting hasn't much progressed from "Come on 'Gate" at moments of stress, of which there are many. It's all tribal really, some folks just need something, anything to come out and chant. They'd be singing "Eng-gur-lannnnd" at the televised bowls.

Don't believe the other movie reviewers

Black Sheep is actually worth the watch. Although I counted three people walking out during the screening I saw, whether they were grossed out or just thought it shite, I don't know. It's the film that Peter Jackson would have made if he hadn't have gone all serious on us and was still making the spatter comedies that made his name. Hell, the first infection scene was totally stolen from his Braindead. Let's be blunt about it, if you don't like colonial humour; skewed science; over the top gore and big monsters that are frankly a bit rubbish, this isn't your movie. But if you're like me, then it is. All it was missing was the "Wingnut Film Presents" at the opening credits that used to get a drunken cheer from our fifteen lads at the late night showings after the pub. And it's amusing just how menacing an ordinary sheep can look if you just change your mindset about what it's thinking about you and what it fancies for lunch.

Anyhow.... any film that uses the tag line "violence of the lambs" is alright by me. This is a "buy on DVD the day it comes out" film. It's just too damned silly not to. And for the post movie drink? It was off to the Royal Oak for a pint of Black Sheep bitter of course. Had to be done. I'm unable to resist such naffness.

My DVD player's trying to tell me something

Explain to me why my DVD player won't let me watch Romcoms? OK, I know they're a bit girly and I'm not, but I happen to LIKE Notting Hill, ok? What has my machine got against me watching it? It USED to let me watch it... why does it now go into a terminal sulk at the first taste of the Hugh Grant disk, sit there for hours giving a "reading" message but no further, have to unplugged and taken to the kitchen and abused, before it'll spit the disk back? Is it commenting on my general blokeyness; overblokeyness; UNblokeyness even? What's the story here?

I demand to have some booze!

Grotty afternoon really; not in the mood for this crappy town, it's monobrow'd inhabitants and got a bit grouchy with the whole damned shebang; pissing my leave away on nothing, stuck here by dint of hospitals, broken bikes and lack of funds. Attempted to shop at the cheap interesting place, but was foxed by the fact that it's only these places that still insist on a pound to release the trolley from it's chain and guess what currency wasn't in MY back pocket; wound up for a few minutes into a little bomb of teeth gritting, cursing this town, all the people, crappy English life circa 2007, my list of jobs and bills that's getting no smaller and how I'd like to wrap the whole lot tight around a phosphorus grenade and hurl it in the faces of my enemies. Gah. We solo blokes need these steamers every now and again to stop us actually snapping at people. When there were folks on hand to mop the fevered brow and talk this shite over, things were easier. Hey ho, the moment passed, nobody got shouted at.

Luxury ice cream procured in defiance of all medical logic, and a small drinkie planned instead. Withnail and I's on the DVD and all is well.

Decadent

Well, today's the sort of day that just makes you lose all hope. Grey skies, pouring with rain ALL day. Doesn't make you enthuse about starting, and before you know it, half the day's gone, nothing's achieved. Most of the jobs are rained off; the bike project slips and slips behind schedule, you're wasting your leave and you're asking just what the point is? A good job I had a small blast of a night last night then, to compensate for it ahead of schedule.

Was supposed to be dining in company last night, but that didn't happen so I broke my golden rule and dined solo for once; glad I did; as much as it makes me look like Jonny No-Life. A wine tasting at Abbey's winebar; the place locally where all tasty and good things are to be found. It was Eastern European evening, "We're back in the USSR.... well, not quite". A Leffe from the tap to sort myself while they bring menus and starters and things; much nicer than the bottled stuff you get in the supermarket; a bit of a fruity edge to it. Nice. And then tucked into the wine.
A couple of Chardonnay's to kick off with. Tirneva from Bulgaria to start; creamy, vanilla'ish, fruity with that dry chardonnay bite hidden in the background somewhere; and the Riverview Chardonnay/Pinot Grigio hybrid from Hungary... I'm going to talk about "nose" and you're really going to have to shoot me for being pretentious but this stuff smelt almost too good to drink, fruity and once again the dry bite you'd expect from a Charders was there but in the background. Both very, very drinkable and shows up what rubbish gets pumped into the mass supermarket 'market.

A Hungarian Rose next, Riverview again, made with Merlot grapes. Very strawberry, oh my god I can really smell these things. If I start enthusing and saying "I'm getting strawberry, I'm getting cinnamon", call the police. Hey ho, I'm at the end of my Gulyasheves Stroganoff now and they're bringing on the the cheeseboard, the port and soon the reds. Probably going to be last bash at a cheeseboard for a while, I suspect this is the sort of thing my doc's going to forbid quite shortly, so treated myself to Linconshire Poacher; Stilton; a frankly outrageous german hybrid of Camembert and Gorgonzola called Cambozola (worth looking out for); and some lovely Wensleydale; and port. Ah, the reds. A Prahova valley '04 Merlot from Romania; like having your nose dipped in fruit, tastes like you're swimming in it. The write up says' it's "typical". Typical, my arse. They started to up the stakes towards the end, with a Tirneva '06 Cab/Sauv from Bulgaria, darker and scarier than the previous, a percent stronger and drier, although still not especially in your face, fruity, spicy and nice. And finished up with another Riverview from Hungary, another Merlot but a very different kettle of fish from the Romanian; a bit one to finish, far more like the reds I'm used to, fruity on the nose but very bold on the tastebuds. Or was it just that they were totally raddled? It's a possibility !

Was toying with the idea of going and finding a pub afterwards, but after all that high living it seemed rather a shame so I just sloped off, or wobbled off as the case may be to find a taxi. I suspect the quack is going to disapprove of that sort of thing, but damnit it's a taste of proper civilisation in this godforsaken town, so more power to it is what I say. Fizzy wines next month, which I'm not so bothered with. But it'll be a jolly night out anyway.

Growly moment

Just been watching the new series of Top Gear.... and what HAS Hamster done to his hair... but more importantly, big scenery, great roads (Italy has it all my arse, Clarkson... I can find roads like that in Yorkshire and Northumberland). And therein lies the point. There's a bit of year left.

I want to go find great roads. I want my bike back. And still the engine's in bits; waiting upon damned obstructive subcontractors to provide the outsized cyclinder rings I need. Damnit, I want to go and play in the country again !!! NOW!!! GRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

Colemanballs

England vs Australia

"The English Bulldozers starting to plough their furrow"

France vs New Zealand

"The New Zealanders really have their tails between their ears."

And they've put back on the John Smiths "You're barred" series of adverts! Shite beer, good ads. And it's England - France next weekend ! Yay !!

That which does not kill me...

Okies, the day of no fun.

Awake at six'ish but hit the snooze button til ten past seven. Showered and scrubbed, no breakfast, into a taxi and up to the hozzy. Arrived on the button, gown on, blood taken for analysis, booked in and processed - is this where I get my cup of tea and biscuit and you send me home? No? Damn! Lots of slightly forced humour from your correspondent who's been shitting bricks about this for a bit. I don't like hospitals, they're full of ill people. A wait for the blood tests; should have had them done yesterday but I missed the bit on the paperwork that said that, so I wait til last. No biggy there, I've brought a couple of hefty magazines and a novel to read, along with the ipod; in what seems like no time at all the nurses are back for me; time for you to send me home with a clean bill of health? No? Instead it's time to meet a bloke who's got an operating theatre of his own. Arse. Not looking forward to this at all, boys and girls. There's a very small but definately existing risk of heart attack, stroke or important damage attached to this procedure. OK, I'm a drama queen but I've got a couple of letters written in my day bag just in case. Enjoyed throwing them away later, if nothing else the handwriting was rubbish.

And as you can clearly see I'm not dead, so all's well that ends well. As it turns out it's a good job the medico's finally beat down my objections and made me have this thing done. The pump's not all it should be at the mo, the flow of important stuff isn't going where it should, some bits that should be flowing freely aren't. So further tweaking will be necessary. Not sure at the moment, on a scale of one to ten just how buggered I am, but it's interesting to know that I've been carrying this for a few years now and when I went up Mount Stol in Slov, I was doing it with a defective heart. Get a few things sorted out; next summer I'm going back up that big lump of rock in a much better condition.

Positive thoughts eh. Who are you and what have you done with the real Mike? No, it's just the only way to think about this. If I stopped and thought about the ups and the downs of this, I'd go mad. So I'll stick with the ups. We'll see what the quack says next week about work, and what I can do. If I have to go onto light duties, it might be the end of the road as far as this work is concerned, it could be all change. Would that be so bad? Change is good, right? Anyhoooo.... as I had nobody at home in case the op' wound popped in the night (wouldn't have been good in any way); a night in a hozzy bed was the order of the day, or rather the evening and night. That's ok... in defiance of a generation of monobrowed thugs "doo yer like 'ospital food", actually I do. It's nutritious, tastes alright, has the right number of healthy things in it and most importantly it's free and I don't have to cook it. OK, might not look great, but you'll never find me joining the blokes who bitch about it. SO, onto the ward I go, or as someone coming out says as I'm coming in, "welcome to the madhouse". A couple of old boys, some noisy bloke with a beard; and a bloke opposite me who appears to be attempting to eject his lungs through his mouth. Personally I prefer to stick the Ipod on Shuffle and turn it up rather than hearing that.

Come the following morning, after not a brilliant night's sleep - takes me a while to adjust to these places - and the 0930 discharge time promised by the surgical people came and went. And began to vanish into the middle distance. Eventually collared a staff nursey type to see what was going on; turned out that in the medical notes between units and wards, the surgical types had cunningly forgotten to write the words "and then discharge" after saying I was just in for a nights observation. Without these magical words, or somebody of at least doctor level, I've as much chance of getting out as Ronnie Biggs. So, the day dragged. Ran out of reading material, was so bored that I actually bought the local paper, and thanks here to friends up and down the country who txt'd me to keep the spirits up; thank you guys. Watched the rugby in the somewhat bizarre circumstances of a hospital ward rather than the far more normal setting of a pub full of rowdy people cheering.... you have to be careful of roaring "get IN there"as some Australian goes down in a heap of legs and teeth, and folks, it was a close run thing a few times! And what a result. Finally managed to frogmarch some registrar chappy up to the ward at about six, and got let out around half six. So much for nine thirty. And back home in time to watch the All Blacks get knocked out by the French; there's something nobody saw coming.

So upwards and onwards, a suprisingly upbeat position to be in but at least we know. A chat with the quack next week about this business and what to do now. The first thing I want is to be back at the gym, and I need to tell them just what I can do and what I can't. Back at the pool as well, haven't swum in yonks, not that I'm an expert. And diet. All this layoff has made me a lardy wee porker of late. And then, as soon as my 72 hours of medically enforced easyness is up, I've got things to do here. I feel suprisingly motivated. Ain't that odd.

Fart jokes still funny

Dragged my way up to York again for entertainment due to my sorry excuse for time management yesterday; a lovely city, I'd actually like to live there if I ever work out the employment issue. Lovely walls; saw a lot of them as I mooched around the one way system. Took a wrong turning as I was leaving and ended up by a walled segment where I specifically seem to once recall having a drunken conversation with FLoH and a mate of hers as to whether there was a lap dancing club nearby, and whether we should go in or not. It was a beer thing. We didn't. Funny how you find these places again you only barely remember from a mental snapshot of ten seconds of a really drunk evening, moons ago.

Anyway; mooched up to the Opera House, I recall this place being a real sweatpit at other times - not unpleasant in any way other than too bloody hot. Much more reasonable tonight. Plenty of time in hand so I mooched off in search of food and beer; as much as there were great eateries around, there was not much joy on the food front, I suspect the medico's would object tomorrow if I scoffed an entire steak supper to myself but found something to do anyway - had a half at the studi' bar behind the theatre (feeling old in there, folks) and a half in the Kings Head which although it's not ale pub, is a Sam Smiths pub and therefore damned fine, although the measure on the bar wall marking where the floods have got to in various years indicates that the local planning officer from about 250 years ago has got a bit to be answering for. For a non ale pub, I'd go in there again happily. Must be mellowing. I really rather like the riverside area in York, haven't been there in a lot of years and it's been developed. I would rather like an afternoon on the beer there.

Another sign of mellowing is that I no longer grind my teeth even though "pissed up group of middle aged women on the lash" have planted themselves squarely behind me when I finally take my seat at the theatre. Drunken laughter at high volume and odd harmonies will be the order of the day. But all laughter is good and I really don't mind. The support is Rob Deering; I'm sure I've seen this bloke on TV before.... HIGNFY, or just one of the comedy store / jongleurs things I tend to see when arriving home drunk at stupid o clock. I'm naturally prejudiced against chubby men who think they're funny (well, being one....) but Deering gives a good show; some bits work, others don't but most do; and at the end of the day, he's the support slot which is a sucky job. Jenny Eclair? She's a middle aged woman on acid, must be. Some serious energy being pumped into this performance, a bleached white and dyed black bespectacled dynamo; like Sue Pollard with better specs, an accent transplant and huge injections of wit by the tankerload. And yes, the fart joke sequence reduced this correspondent to tears. At her age, at our age, at her age, at our age. OOOOOH young woman! Sorry, Harry Outfield slipping in there for a moment. Most enjoyable. On stage for.... oooh, dunno, an hour plus and didn't much let up for a moment. Definately not a waste of my time. Those who missed, missed out. And apparently, another tour of Grumpy Old Women may be on the go. I may secretly attend in a skirt and wig so as to get away with my life.

And then - back into the funbuggy, heading south east for the day of NO fun at all....

A bird in my bedroom

Hah. That got the scandalmongers logging in didn't it.

Could have saved myself a trip to Yorkie. Certainly, the cost of the raptor centre, could have had all the bird I need here. That little hairy star of this house has expanded his portfolio once again, taking a break from mice and sparrows. Was in the spare room checking my mail after getting back from York and heard a scratching sound in the room several times.... couldn't locate it at first, but eventually found a Starling hiding atop the book shelves on the highest piece of junk it could find. Very wise too. The cat's made this room his lair of choice in the last few weeks, turning an old duvet cover into his bed. All attempts to persuade the boird to use the large open window came to naught; not suprising as Starlings are day birds as I recall, I left it to take it's chances with the cat who - contrary little bugger that he is - decided to ignore it and go to sleep. Low attention span, that animal I think.

Well, to my suprise, in the morning it was still alive and much more into the idea of escape. And so shall I. Out into the day I trot....

Anyone who likes gratuitous cheap laughs at my expense, look this way

Righto, let's get the pretty pictures out of the way first.

Been up to Yorkieland again taking pictures of pretty birdies at the Raptor centre near Thirsk. Don't know what it is about that part of the world; but it smells better than this hole in the east coast, even 24 hours later I can still smell it. Or it seems that way to me. If I didn't have the sort of job that tied me to one place; if I wrote for a living or had done some academia related thing I think I'd have moved up there yonks ago; just a place in a village near a pub that serves ale. That'd do me. Anyhoooo.... birdy pics. Was last over there this time last year; amazingly I haven't found the opportunity to get back over there and take some more, strange considering that the purchase of Bosscam2 was due to the limitations that Bosscam v.1 displayed in this environment last time. But 2007 has been like that, it's roared by defying all my attempts to get a grip on it. Photographing birds is even more fun that photographing jets, but infinitely more frustrating; they're faster, more unpredictable and give the focus a really hard time. Gave up on using the big lens and went for the medium; the bigg'n just couldn't handle the focus times. And Lanner Falcons are just insane; too fast.... the only thing with them is keep the button pressed, hit and hope. I've junked 90% of that session. For some reason, the white headed vulture confuses the focus. Might have to revert to (sharp intake of breath) manual focus for the future.

Amazing I could see anything really, considering that I'd paid a visit to the hospitable house of Jax the night before; once again, the year's been so insane that my socialising has suffered and it's been a full six months since I've been up there. Disgraceful. Took the Mobile Shadey Partybag with me, and we proceeded to drink much of the contents. Midweek blasts aren't healthy you know. Fun though. A slow work south, through Thirsk, to York where I paid the National Railway Museum a visit en route to the theatre. Did a little bit of calculation on the way in, it's a full twenty nine years since I've been to this place. Arrgh !! I don't like numbers like that involved in things that I can clearly remember! Oh, and this is where the gratuitous cheap laughs come in.

The theatre. Found a place to park the car that cost nothing that's in walking distance for my fat and wheezy self; found the theatre itself without any trouble. Found the queue to pick up my tickets, excellent, so far so good. Glanced at the large HGV sat outside, hmmm, a little excessive for a stand up comedy show? The penny slowly starts to droppeth.... a glance at the Runrig tour posters show's they're playing York on the 3rd. The comedy's on the 4th. People walking around in Runrig t-shirts. A picture's forming here. A realisation that last month was a 30 day'er, and I can't remember switching the date wheel on my analogue watch to correct it. Arse. I'm here a day early. You fat fool, you. Oh well, I could always claim to be a die hard fan and first in the queue? Nah, stuff it, I'll go home, via frankly the most decidedly average chicken burger it has been my displeasure to scoff in some time; there's precious little at home other than cat food as there's no point building up stocks before my appointment with the knife.

Two killers

Woke up with a purring cat scarf over my shoulders and head this morning. That's nice. Some empathy going on? Or a mark of congratulations coz I too have got my rodent kill chart on the go now! Managed to encounter a suicidal animal while out for a drive yesterday that found my wheels terminally attractive, judging from the size and colour in the half second I saw it running from the corner of my eye, I'd say was a rabbit. Hope so anyway, I feel guilty enough about the solid double whack I felt, indicating collapse of either skull or ribs or both - without it being something I should feel worse about. And I KNOW it's only a rabbit, and their breeding rate proves they're there for the killing, but I'm never good about just going about my business and snuffing something without a thought. If I'd have meant it, that'd be one thing but just casually going from A to B and killing something without consideration just seems a bit crap. Of course, my utter disregard for the insect charnel house that is the front of my motorcycle helmet visor after a summer ride (damn all chance of that at the moment) simply proves me a crappard and a hypocrite.

A lie in today, and no visit to the house of fun. Boys and girls, the holiday is here. Will I get all the housework done, the decoration that needs doing, get all the rooms sorted in the time I've got?

Will I hell !!!!!