That time of year

Well, actually it's the time of year for driving home from work with a thumping headache, a seriously malfunctioning throat and idly wondering what expensive bit of my house my erstwhile lodger Luke Turdwalker* has seen fit to trash this time. Hey ho, cats are great! For the information of his many tasteful fans, the sensible one, Giz is adding to his mouse total even as we speak, even at this late stage of the year; and has perfected a new dangerous sport of deliberately, nay gratuatously baiting the Alsation across the road and then legging it. A kind of feline game of chicken. Who needs television?

So up and down the country, folks I know are getting ready to seriously party. So am I. Wasn't planning to do it around here, but it's as good a place as any and I've been working far too late to get anywhere else. Just remains for me to say to anyone who's still reading this ramble after all this nonsense a) thanks for your time, have you really nothing better to do ;o) and b) importantly of course, have a great new year, don't do anything I wouldn't, catch you on the flipside.

Hullo to all who've supported, all who've bought beer, all who've encountered me thoughout the year and made it all a little bit more interesting and fun. Kicks in the arse where appropriate for those who deserve 'em too! But in the main, "peace, love and good happiness stuff". See ya's in the next one.



*so named as it remains a mystery to him as to why one who walks in his own shit in the litter tray is not welcome climbing on my kitchen worktops....

Hot Christmas

I'd love to be a fly on the wall in a certain compound in Pakistan right now.

"Mum, you bitch, I only wanted a bloody Ipod for christmas!!!"

Must confess, ending teens with such a bump and providing a free likelyhood of sudden death is a bit of a stinky present :o)

Operation Southern Santa

Maybe a bit of waste of petrol with hindsight, but none the less, an attempt to do the sociable thing when christmas has been knackered by illness and work. Was supposed to be spending what quality time I had down south in hometown, catch as many friends as I can and do the family thing, but as it turned out, boxing day was all that was left. Which involves a 150 mile drive, not a lot of time spent doing quality things and then another 150 mile drive before I'm back at work in the morning of the 27th. This sort of insanity is a speciality of the house.

Leaving at an early hour would have been advantageous. Hey ho. Never mind. Present wrapping took priority. Most folks have had time to do this. Me, I've been lurgied. So hit the road later than I would have liked and the first thing I noticed was that the lorries are back. On boxing day. Don't the bastards rest? Ban them, kill them. Get rid of the fat wastes of fuel. They hold me back. Grrrrrr!!!! Adopt the continental policy! And abolish the speed limits for Goldie Lookin' Cars while you're at it. But not for Silver Yaris's (what is the plural of Toyota Yaris? Yaris's? Yarisi?), since one decided to change lanes through me. Attempted a left hand turn at a roundabout from the right hand land and his chosen method was to accellerate through the back of the person occupying the left hand lane, and that was me. Thank heavens for defensive driving skills, and the fact that I don't routinely carry weapons in my car, I don't need that crap. Got enough of my own. Thanks.

Rooks everywhere. Grey skies. Bare trees. Fading light. Reminicent of dogwalking days. This means you're back in Suffolk. It's border country with the badlands of Naaarfolk. And here comes a slow moving mobile home. They're all out today. Everyone who wants to bimble and mess around comes out to play on boxing day. Why is it that I who pay road tax must be delayed, frustrated, by dickweeds who's main preoccupation in life is to be too fat and lazy and stupid to put a tent up? Why can't my bike be working so I can leave him in dust? At least he wasn't dutch, the mobile homes those pot smoking, mountain ignorant, liberal bastards drive are simply enormous. Anyway, by means of cleverness and subtle application of the right foot, managed to stay ta-ta's to my cloggie companion, which was nice, then hit a nice long stretch of duel carriageway, first stop Felixstowe.

Due to the vaguaries of the service, the Felixstowe office isn't open on boxing day, and doesn't have an external post box - why would it, when it was built, it was built for 24 / 7 / 365 operation, why modify just because the service changes. Sheesh. So my mate Floyd has to do without his christmas card this year. Then a flying visit to my buddy K, christmas present for the delivery of.... one of my very few present buying moments of genius, that was and it went down well. Then off to hometown... a flying visit to the postbox of my old office in the town centre, delivery of a great big bundle of cards for the use of (you can tell who left it too late to get it in the official messenger, can't you); then off to see the family for veggie scoff and loot. And all too soon it's time to head off north again in the dark, and you begin to question the sanity of the trip in the first place. Screw it. It's necessary, good and the sort of daft thing that keeps me feeling alive. Made decent time down, considering the obstructions and made very good time back, arriving alert, in a good mood and ready for my pit. Can't be bad. Not so happy about the eight mile trip to work in the morning of course, but I guess it's my turn in the barrel. And it means I've got more leave for next year, yay!!

Operation Northern Santa

Well, there's not a lot to it this year... some of the stuff for the north of the country's been entrusted to the post office (so I hope you're all ready in Australia if the performance of my still-missing piston rings is anything to go by); and others gone by other means so just a quick run up to young Miss Biro's to drop off seasonal supplies, and to say hello to Miss VJ who was over at the same time; greet Miss Poopyarse the cat who's still grumpy at me for laughing at her dangleberry incident last time I was over there, a bit of Love Actually on the box (yeuccch, that's just too much), a bit of To The Manor Born (kind of predictable and pointless; fine performances though). A most unexpected healthy tasty curry provided for me (ta!) which I wasn't expecting but at least I can say I've had some form of christmas dinner today. Then back over the bridge on a clear cold night, with the windows rolled down and no other cars in sight, all those lights in that clean clear air makes me feel really alive; the only thing better is doing the Dartford QE2 bridge in summer, on the bike with your visor open. That's living.

It's not been a traditional one. I've said for years that what I'd really like to do is be grumpy cat man and spend christmas on my own with the hairy lad; and now I've actually done it; although more through being sick and knackered than anything else. Packing and wrapping a couple of days later than all the real people in the world, the deadlines making wonderful whooshing noises as they went by, eventually had to abandon the travel plans to get to the south and instead reversed the original idea; I'd go to Northbank tonight and Saaarf tomorrow morning. At least it meant I got to enjoy the "World at War" stack they were having on one of the Sat channels, Olivier did such great vocals for that series.... " the end was coming and it was MUSHROOM SHAPED..." such great lines. Never mind, if I ever get this nonsense sorted, "Southern Santa" kicks off in a few hours. Huzzah. Lets salvage something, eh?

Poor old Giz is in the stress again. Not sure if he's been bitten, but I stepped into the house to the sound of gooooood cat noises (you'll remember, the ones that mean "not one happy cat"). Sure enough, that bloody ginger thing had somehow evaded passport control and got through the controlled flap, and they were indeed having a faceoff in the kitchen. It doesn't like me though (and I dont like it), and scarpered at first sight. A shame. Hadn't reached my fixing hammer. My lad doesn't seem to have let it get to his head though; he's just brought a mouse in, at this time of year even, and he's troughing into his christmas treat bowl of tuna like it's going out of fashion tomorrow, so all is well again in his head, I think.

Lurgy strikes christmas II

Large amounts of jockeying pills, powders and potions, hours spent on the sofa sweating the nasties out. Hey ho. It's eaten the remaining shopping time, the planning time, the travel time and quite frankly folks, this doesn't feel like Christmas at all. There's no dec's up (was going to buy some last minute ones, honest), nothing's wrapped, I'm not fit to drive south to see folks and I'm inclined to rate this one as the biggest abortion on record. The funny thing is, I was grumping earlier in the year that I might like to spend it on my tod... be careful of what you wish for, folks !

Mind you, it's a piece of piss compared to some others.... in the North West all is chaos and pain; and down the road a taxi rank's blown up killing two mothers on Christmas eve. Nice one, fate. You bastard.

At least I've got the option of shaking the remainder of this bug and trying to make something of the rest of this damnadable season.

Lurgy strikes christmas

Ooooh Yakabouuuuul !!!

I'm typing this wearing a very dodgy m'tache at the moment 'coz I had a four day growth on and shaved in a hurry. Don't worry, normal service will soon be resumed, I don't plan on looking like a twat again as I did around '96 when I last bore the hairy caterpillar. I do from time actually consider going for the discipline of the early '90's beard growning contests from Donington times and seeing what a fortnights worth would look like in this day and age. Unfortunately, I think the answer's scruffy, pikey and stupid so I never get beyond the considering stage.

Anyway. It would appear that the whole christmas gig is under threat; finally kicked off the christmas shop with avengence today, only to get home feeling decidely ragged. A couple of hours down the road and it appears that full on lurgy has taken up residence, with a rotten sense of timing. And there's me with a day and a half left of shopping too....

Built to annoy you

That's Manchester. Chalk up another one of Britain's cities that I hate driving in. To be fair, the computer spat out directions that ceased being useful about ten miles from the venue, and I don't have a street map of the place, but a chilled driving experience this certainly was not. For some reason, the lying mapping software decided that the M62 wasn't the best option for a direct east to west run, I'd be better hugging the mountains on the back roads with an eeeek hundred foot drop on the other side of the crash barrier.... well, it was interesting; I'd love to have a bash at that road in the daylight, with no thick fog, on the bike, with both ends blocked off so the other traffic couldn't get in my way and without three inches of dock shite caked onto my headlights. But it wasn't that much fun this time. At least there weren't any tractors. And at least the crash barriers weren't "Slovene style" (bits of ordinary railing painted red and white, or strips of bunting where a truck's gone through the former). But in fairness, the journey was not enjoyed. Sorry Manchester, chalk that up as a BLAAAAGH rating for your tourist satisfaction stats.

So off to stage 2 at the Manchester Accademy; a band I'd not much interest in seeing was playing but I allowed myself to be persuaded over. Wolfsbane were supporting; a Brit band I liked of old, before Blaze Bailey allowed himself to be temped into Iron Maiden for a couple of very indifferent albums when the Bruce decided he wanted a break flying planes. And hasn't Blaze aged well. Not. Still got the ridiculous sideburns but he's turned into a porky wee fecker and no mistake. Clearly spent his I.M. royalties on ALL the pies. Heheheheheheh. And why's he got the darts player Andy Fordham on guitar? Heh, but seriously, there's another beardy bloke who's carrying a pie or two extra. They've become a fatbloke tribute band. A good noise though, if you can make out the vocal through the sound of straining floorboards.

Main attraction? Wildhearts. Worthy of a look up on the net to have a look at the history of this mob, they've been around in one form or another since Pontious was a pilot, saw them at Donnington in around '94 and frankly wasn't bothered one jot. Precisely how much IS a jot anyway? I think we should be told. Anyway's up, they had a minor hit at the time, I raised one eyebrow from the beered up haze of life at the time, then went back to watching Hellbitch 1's arse. By 2007, they've earned themselves a devoted following, do what they do damned well, have a history of spats, breakups, reformations and side projects that'd do Deep Purple justice and put on a jolly fine show, complete with Stylophone solo (!!). Slightly bizarre to hear a heavy metal version of the theme from Cheers, with a Taxi intro, but I'm reliably informed this charted to #4 which just goes to prove the British public'll buy any old tat if you wave it in their faces enough. They'll be wanting a new bassist too, they've broken their old one. Must have. Most committed performance I've ever seen from a man with 4 strings, who ended up snapping his strap and played a belter with the thing propped on his kne while his roadie feverishly worked with a reel of bodge tape to make it better. A fun night out, and they're worthy of a second look and a certain amount of album hunting. Ah, the old tradition of selecting your record collection from an unexpectedly enjoyable gig.

And now I'm back east, and about to attack the remains of the day. I desparately need to do some stuff. I've concluded that christmas is stuffed; the month has hurtled past at an unreal rate what with work stuff, and just other stuff... and I've got a bunch of cards here that don't stand a fart's chance in a thunderstorm of getting to their destination by the day. If that's you, sorry. I've almost the entire roster of presents to buy and not a lot of time to do it in. A place to tidy, let alone decorate and it's doing my head in. Can I be arsed to go to the loft and get the lights working for the window (not chance in hell to sort out a tree).....? Nah, probably not.

Thunk, trundletrundletrundletrundlecrash"bugger it!!"

Oh dear. I have just beaten my boss into last place at the team "Beer, food and bowling night". That's me transferred to the DVLA, Swansea in the new year then :o( .

Works bash...

By 'eck I'm pissed !!

Hungry

I'm a tad peckish tonight. In fact I'm starving enough to eat the arse out of a three week dead Rhino. This is what the medico's call "fasting for a blood test". It's so I don't muck up the chemistry by eating the wrong things, etc. Apparently. All I know is, the furniture here would be looking pretty good right now if you put mustard on it.

And speaking of things healthy, I repeat my call to the medico's of this world, don't cotton-wool me unless you really want me going postal due to boredom and frustration. Went to see the departmental nurse today in Bradford and the horrible spectre of "light duties" is looming horribly over my head. The word "oh" seems to be manifesting in close conjunction with the word "no". And maybe even "damn". And may I go so far as to go a little "Foul ole Ron" and say "buggrit". Anyhooo, it's a while since I've been to Bradford. Last time I went, my bike was stolen. A very pretty town (city?) in my opinion. I really aught to go back, on a winters sunny day like today, with a good camera. There's plenty there for me. Even a pub. The irony was that after the GPS directed me needlessly through the agony of town centre traffic, the office to which I was headed was just fifty yards away from where I'd had my Kwakker's exhausts fitted all those years before. Anyway, once again the medico's seem determined to cover their own arses and not let me do anything interesting, which will probably mean a lot of bits of paper to process, having to watch the team go out on deployments without me and generally missing out on all the good stuff. Buggrit !

Ouch

That's quite a considerable hangover, that. Boys and girls, it's a lie, beer really isn't good for you. Been off training in Lincoln, and drinking rather a lot too. Well, there's naff all else to do. It does strike me that when the works folks and I tie one on nowdays, it does turn out to be a rather large one. Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing lol !

And speaking of Alberts....

... it's been brought to my attention that I really could have included some preamble in that article, explaining the whys, whyfore's etc regarding Alberts of Harrogate. Well, I did, in March. I happen to think that my readership can handle this and don't need spoon feeding as intelligent people of culture and taste. That'd be like writing for yanks or scousers, for gawd's sake!

A pox on cowardly quacks....

... and other people determined to kill me by protecting me whether I want them to. A curse on the departmental nurse as well, who wants to cotton wool me. It's my bloody life, I shall expend it in whatever way pleases me, and being kept of the fighting course by them when I'm actually better off than I was last time I did it is galling in the extreme, and raises the horrible spectre of "light duties" at some point in the future....

Desecration of sacred sites

Speaking of my Yorkie trip. Nobody told me that Alberts had been moved. The purveyors of top notch tasty food of the right kind, good ambience, Black Sheep on handpump and the famous fresh parsnip crisps was boarded up when I arrived from the rugby for a pie and a pint, and marked with a number of council notices saying it was being turned into an identikit pizza place. Bah. And I say again, boo! On my way out of town, I noticed the "new Alberts" on the hill, ironically where I first noticed the shortness of breath that denoted what we know it is today, by Wetherspoons, so I had to stop and investigate. Still very plush and nice, but not a patch on the old place; seems to be a clip on bit at the back where they might stick a few diners if someone forces them to honour their menu, but it looks like the deal there now is to catch the middle level Saturday crowd; only one handpump and the barman would have tried to sell us short measure if we'd not have been vigilant.

Great thing, progress, eh?

Mooching

So that's two barn owls and a fox in one short trip, ain't wildlife a great thing. And it seems to be taking over the front garden in the absence of Christine, at least that's what I gather from the size of the monster turd that's dominating the sweeping grasslands of Fortress Shadey; Gizmo'd need a back end transplant if he left that.

It's been an interesting one; started off by being paid to throw stones at ships; ended up by pointing the Goldie Lookin' Car up northerly and paying a brief visit to old stamping grounds, and places I'd always planned to go but never quite gotten around to. Via Leeds, then via York to make a collection... my god, their Saturday traffic is beyond insane.... then up to Harrogate for Rugby where against all past experience and expectations were confounded with an actual WIN. That's never happened before! Got as far north as Masham but was frustrated by the fact that a wedding party had every lodging in the town booked solid. Damn, that's a problem. You try to have fun and do just ONE thing on the hoof, in a spontaneous way and a raftfull of bastards who've bothered to look at the yellow pages first will rain on your parade.

Never mind, I'm back, the cat's on fine form, I've got the guts of Mr Zed's engine back so it's rebuild-a-go-go and I've got a new toy to play with for the camera, that I tried out at the Rugby and will be taking back soon for even more. Oh Mikey, you mad impetuous boy you....