Fun at the arse end of grottyville

"Beadles funeral catering announced.... a small finger buffet"

Hah. Hahah. Hahahahah. Right, that's enough Beadle jokes. Please.

Gizmo that cat's got a new game. Waits till I get back from work and lie down to give him a stroke, legs it round my back, then runs up my coat and attacks the lining giving me an animated hairy hunchback. Heh. It's a chuckle at the back end of a grotty 12 hour day, organising the terminal phase of the office move. Estates have cocked up the desk plan, so we're now .... ah, correction, I'M now squeezing a quart into a pint pot, and judging from the states of the stuff that was coming down, it more than about time for a serious spring clean and ditching session. Hell, I've found records dating back to 1959 and books of instruction that date back to 1916.... national archive, anybody? The second stupidly long day on this project and I'm damned glad it's over. Never wanted the damned task, it's always been a poisoned chalice, office moves and I've got enough on my mind already. But at least my bonkers little cat always knows the best chillout moves to use.

Grumpy

Well, here's a strange thing. An eleven hour shift at work, but it contained nothing fun, so it dragged. If something goes to eleven hours at my place of employment, it usually means that something good has happened; that we have to extend our shift to deal with the unexpected stuff that has happened, deal with bad guys, process their ill gotten gains that we have encountered. Not today folks. Oh no, here I am on light duties specifically forbidden to lift anything more taxing than a stapler. Today, I was mooching around the office managing the contractors while my office is rebuilt, and stayed until the end. Frankly, not my idea of a good time. So in total defiance of orders, spent a good fifteen minutes chucking heavy gash-bags in the skip. Ah, that's better.

The day started with a good fight though. As I was mooching out of the door in the direction of the mirthmobile, the distinct sound of a certain familiar Tomcat enjoying a serious scrap came to the ears, followed by the growling, mewing sounds of a two-cat standoff. On the other side of the street, I could see him eyeballing Foul Ginger in no uncertain style. Judging from the way he strutted back into the house with his tail up, I think he won. I think he'd have liked to have been waving his todger at FG if I hadn't have had him done a few years back. For those that know the G-dude, you know an arrogant struting Gizmo in full sail is indeed a sight to behold.

The day ended in a pretty decent way, although I'm bloody tired and frankly a little cranky tonight, which doesn't do a lot of good for dealing with people, sorry about that. I seem to be slipping into my nocturnal body clock, so early shift is not suiting me one little bit, and I'm sat here at gone midnight with the creative bits of my brain just waking up, which is more than can be said for the rest of me that passed out on the sofa a while back. There's a bunch of housey stuff I must do, a lot of storage and organisation I must do but when I'm lumbered with doing accommodation for eleven hours at the fun factory, I find I'm not at all inclined to touch the stuff here with an fifteen foot pole. Shame. But, this school reunion thing that's being mooted seems to have set a ball rolling; received courtesy of FU a very cool email from an old school and social buddy, so that's a pretty good conclusion to a pants day. Welcome back to the addressbook, Shel',

Oh and shall we get the Jeremy Beadle jokes out of the way now? "Beadle's NOT about". "His cremation's going to be televised - you've been flamed". "On the one hand that's a really big news story. On the other hand not so big". "The vicar'll take his false beard off and reveal..... ". "£250 for a tape of the event". "Jeremy Beadle's cock is tiny. On the other hand it's massive". Hey ho. His shows weren't to my taste, but by all accounts he was actually a top bloke, very sharp and well read. Probably more of a loss than some of late. Hey, who's going to write the quiz in the Indy's Saturday mag?

Whoops, here comes the week

Ah, weekends come and go. Some beer, some food of a far higher catering standard than this establishement is accustomed to, two big newspapers with a hundred suppliments and the Turdwalker looking for something new to vandalise in my home and not having much joy because he's already broken everything.

Taken issue with Saturday's paper - listed the "best 50 fish and chip shops in Britain". Not that I can eat them, but that's not the point. What arse. Not a single mention of this place, the HOME of the fish supper. So very many of them were poncy gastro places in London, what does London know about frying fish? They can't cook fish in the south. This is a basic food fact. Everyone knows it. I believe it's even mentioned in the bible. And lo, the angel of the lord said unto the shepherds, "piss off, you'll never get decent haddock south of Newark". Say what you like about this place... and I usually do... the one thing they get right in spades is the fish supper, and for god's sake don't ask for cod if you want to get out alive. The locals condemn it as a gritsucker.

POLITIK POLITIK POLITIK POLITIK

So, the US presi.... whoops, I mean Democratic race. Not as if it's being taken for granted that the republicans are going to get their slats kicked in November. Oh no. But does it strike anyone that Obama's looking more and more like the only contender, and old Hilary's looking more and more like the "Brass bat" phase of Mrs T.? The septics have got a once in a lifetime opportunity to screw up here. Erm, just like they did in the last two elections.... oh where is Hunter S Thompson when I need his "wisdom" to make any sense of all this?

No fun

Hmmmmm. So the EU want to tax me three of their stinking foreign coins a week for the good of the atmosphere. Gordon wants to keep driving the cost of fuel up and up and up so he can give it to Indians and the Chinese which, oooh forgive me for occaisionally reading the business pages are the new tiger economies of the east. The rich are getting richer, the EU president doesn't look to me as if he buys his suits at Suit City* and frankly they call all f&ck right off, right now. Doesn't look like I'll be out of the financial claggy anytime soon. Don't these bastards realise there's only so much they can squeeze? We're already taxed to buggery and these bastards in Brussels who I don't recall voting for just waltz in (if they're Austrian anyway; the Germans goosestep, the French ponce, the Italians run backwards for christmas with and the Greeks walk very gingerly indeed.... ahhh racial sterotypes are fun) with great big rises on top of domestic tax, and gross over inflated over inflation utility rises, and gross train travel rises because the private industry experiment has failed.... screw it. Don't waste our money nationalising Northern Rock, nationalise the power and the water. The experiment failed. The additional income wasn't worth it, the fat bastards are skimming off too much. Every penny of profit, every new Jag is obscene. The same with the railways. Banging the prices up to DISCOURAGE use? F&ck off !! The experiment failed. Nationalise it now. They're strategic national resources for christs sake. And we've sold the power companies to the FRENCH???? Limit rises to inflation, that's TRUE inflation by the way, not the fraudulent method the government uses that doesn't account for the housing market. The only good Fat Cat is a pub in Ipswich. Oh, and Joaties flirty puss-mogs. Neuter the other bastards in suits.

*reeeeeeeeeeeeally cheap suit emporium that used to run in Ipswich run by an old Jewish tailor type. Was probably raking it in on scrotes who needed court suits.

Homebase

It's a very strange thing, seeing this Ipswich Ripper coverage on TV. They're showing CCTV and talking head footage of an area I'm extremely familiar with, not mucky reader because it's the red light district, but because my mum lives about three streets away. Yet I don't recognise the town centre district as they're showing it... maybe a camera angles thing.... and the Crown Court building means nothing at all to me. I suspect they've built a new courthouse since I was there last; I've been to the old one on business before but it was a thousand years ago now. I wonder what they're using the building for now, it's attached to the cop shop so it's not as if they can knock it down. Suppose they've probably moved the Magistrates court from across the road. Strange though, that mix of the crushingly familiar and the un-nervingly unknown.

Touche

So today a manager from my old unit accosted me as I strolled around the building with a clipboard doing light duty, day shifty gentleman's hours kinda tasks and said "what HAVE they got you doing on light duties anyway"?

To which I looked him in the eye and said "oh well, basically sitting down, scratching my bollocks, drinking tea, counting the 40% shift allowance and avoiding everything that I possibly can. In fact, pretty much what I was doing for two and a half years in your mob".

I'm sorry, it wasn't big, clever or funny but I couldn't resist....

Today's been quite interesting. It's funny but this enforced idleness at work is possibly not a bad thing in some ways. I'm rested and feeling a little better. And someone has given me a very, VERY bad and evil idea.....

Bleh

Ah, England. The sun's up, the sky's not blue yet but it'd like to be, I haven't gone to work yet because I'm on gentleman's hours and I'm a lazy arse. This is how mornings should be. Always assuming that they can't be summer ones when I'm on holiday. And a damned sight better than that dispiriting grey thing that was yesterday; what a day. Grey as a John Major lookalike convention, constant blattering rain, it drove the soul from everyone. A nice day for a stock market meltdown anyway. The news people say the FT's in a dive; the Dow Jones is plummeting and the Asian markets are following suit. So how are the Chinese going to capitalise on this? I don't know, but I'll bet the little bastards have a contingency. I've never been especially comfortable with market capitalism; it works I know, but I've never been able to think of it as more than the best of a bad job. Stuff this seriousness; today is a good day to take the Bigma down to Donna Nook and watch the jets do their thing. Regrettably, it's back to the fun factory to do that worky stuff, and then once that is done I can put off the food shop NO longer. Grub must be bought. Catgrub must be bought too. I cannot afford to continually be feeding the small guy the human consumption tuna. This foul year of our lord, 2008 must be grasped firmly and put into an entangled armlock.

"It's hard to get by when your arse is the size of a small country"

Yes, that's a pretty tacky title linking into the fact that I have for the first time in my life gone on the National Express (when your life's in a mess), all the way to Manchester, even though there wasn't a jolly hostess selling crisps and tea and I think Neil Hannon's lying to me. Download the lyrics, take the ride and if you want proper wit, a stand up comedy show might be more your deal since they've got time to do proper writing; then again it might be shite :o).

Is that proper punctuation or a smiley with a cold sore? I'm not saying.

Boys and girls, I've been over to the west again. Over to the city where the foul, unwashed, workshy, soapdodging, giro cashing, fast food eating, hubcap stealing, donkey jacket wearing Jeremy Kyle daytime stars whine in their awful accent that the world owes them everything and they're cultured, honest. Yeah, and Ringo can sing. Actually there are aspects of the place that I like, quite a lot of them. History. You can't knock the history, or the feel of the place. At a quarter of the price of London without a tenth of the bullshit. Mooched around the old part of the library, found a wonderful rotunda with that special smell of public buildings that can only be built up over decades and decades, that smell that is made up of layered polish smell. You couldn't bottle that and for some reason I love it. Over to the gardens where there's statue after statue and memorial after memorial, all quality. And then came what I took to be a badly placed bin for road salt to be shovelled out in the icey winter. But no. It is in fact the world's crappest memorial to road victims. Oh Liverpool. What WERE you thinking. All this greatness around and you commissioned this trash. Oh dear. I had to take a picture to remind me of how vile it was.

And onwards. Into the good shit shop to attempt to buy some fine clothes... totally failed. Long coats are populated only by the waffer thin leather items, one of which I've just gotten rid of and I'm now regretting as it's replacement is not as easy as I thought it was going to be. Fine slogan t-shirts found, but they don't make them in huge-fat-barsteward size so I fear I must go with my wallet intact. Nothing in the army surplus place either... was a time where the place would have been snowed under with surplus eastern european and British naval greatcoats. No longer. Never mind. As excellent as the load carrying systems they are selling would be for work and play, I don't need to lay out on them so I don't. Hmmm, there's still a couple of hours to go before my bus to other places departs so IT'S TIME FOR THE PUB! YAY!

First on the list is Doctor Duncan's. Named after a local hygene worthy of the 19th century, it's Cain's the local brewers landmark house and I've had intentions of getting here before, but always seem to run out of puff and time in the Craic. A fine pub it is too. Munched my way through Cain's Mild (my tasting notes just consist of a drawn smiley face, none of your Jilly Goolden CAMRA poncy notes here) and Dragon Heart Brown Beer which was tasty, smooth and nice. From there I set off towards the coach station but was interrupted by a pub with a strange sign which my local guide insists is the Flagship but the strange shaped sign says is the Ship and Mitre. Ah, pub name changes. For instance, I could wax lyrical about the Earl Roberts, or as it is now known, "Woolworth's car park", or the Albion Mills, where once I first met a significant Hellbitch in the basement, or as it's known these days "Toyota Dealership Forecourt". Or if I were being more serious, I'd say "avoid the Spring Tavern, it's a watered down stinkpot" except that it became the Fat Cat in 199bleaugh and is in fact a most fine pub and has been for a while. I suppose things change. Anyhoo. The Ship and Mitre. It really IS a strange sign. Friendly young barman who I didn't dislike on sight, for the benefit of the female or gay amongst my readership. For the benefit of the beery, York Brewery Centurian Ghost; Salopian Choir Porter; Cheshire Cat... which was dangerously quaffable. And then the Broadoak Moonshine cider, which was most tasty in the extreme (tasting note="yum"), Addlestones and Aspals ciders, and I've still got a beer festival to get to in a place I've never been too, let alone drink at, god help me. I've said it before, from a boozing point of view, this town could do me some severe damage. And probably has.

To the coach station, and it's fair to say I'm a little addled. Indeed, the sort of mood where one points decisively in the direction of travel and shouts "TO THE COACH STATION" in a Errol Flyn'y sort of way. Not the best time for the computer to go down and for them to be taking cash only and handwriting tickets. But hey ho, I can improvise. Eventually, onto the big white funbus and off we go. So quickly the seasons change, as we drive into the late afternoon, the sun's still up, a special kind of wintery - springy light that I can't really describe because at this point my notes don't make any sense. But I am aware that I'm questioning the wisdom of going into one of the biggest cities in the UK, full of nasty people while plastered. Oh well. Wanna live forever? Nah! Made it to Manchester with no incident and I have to report, dear reader that once again, online travel systems tell bloody lies. As the computer insisted, I got on service 219 and, not knowing the town, monitored the route that I'd memorised like a paranoid man. Good job really, it was telling huge porkies. The turns I was expecting didn't happen, and ten minutes later I had to conclude that it'd gone horribly Pete Tong and I was going to have let the local taxi's take the strain if I ever wanted to get a decent pint tonight. Got off the bus near a bunch of blokes dancing around the indicator lights of stopped traffic at the lights, or whatever they do in Manchester of an early evening. No, actually that didn't happen, I'm making up to set a humourous scene. Do you see how that works? Phone calls to taxi's, and ten minutes later a nice asian lad's whissing me off in the direction from which I'd come and then a bit more until my feet tasted tarmac again in the vicinity of Victoria Street Station. Now that actually DID happen and this time I'd taken the precaution of looking at a map first and actually had some idea where the hall was going to be, but a couple of hours had been lost beering and getting lost, and quite a lot of my mental ability had been left behind in The Ship and Mitre in a cider glass. Luckilly the big yellow signs everywhere that said "beer festival" were helpful. I wonder if that's part of the AA's brief for these things "your audience is going to be pissed and most likey stupid, make it big and make it obvious". Got to the hall, which I was most suprised to see was part of the Co-op complex, blagged my way in on last years membership card as I'd been foolish and hadn't put the new one in the wallet yet, then onto the first beerfest of the year.....

So here's your quick pop review. I spent faaaaaar too much money; a Liverpool pub guide bought that I'd been after for a while, also a Manchester one and a Cider guide. Hmmm, far too much of the clear still stuff of late, methinks. My head is Addle(stone)d*. A very fine half pint festival glass that may well become a favorate, it's even marked for a third of a pint (nip), that's a new move, and a festival t-shirt which proved my spending restraint bar was well and truly broken. Munched my way through 3 Rivers Yummy Figgy Pudding (seven point five); Archers Marley's Ghost; Bateman's Dark Mild (well, you have to.... see how it compares on gravity to local draught); Brewdog Paradox ( a ten percenter that I actually didn't enjoy... how weird, I usually hoover up the mad strong ones for taste interest, but this stuff that's matured in whiskey casks just tasted like somebody had emptied a barbeque into it); Theakstones Mild (my Yorkshire fix); Thornbridge Imperial Russian Stout (seven point seven, oooh!) and Wickwar's Coopers WPA. Oh, and continued the "forbidden pleasures" theme by treating myself to steak and ale pie and brown gravy. Ooooooooooooooooooh my god..........

Mikeyboy, you are a pisshead.

Yeah, but I'm ever so good at it....

*That was a real cider joke. I'll be the bloke outside getting a life.....

Forbidden pleasures

Well, my doctor won't thank me. But a few days back, it just had to be done, after many months of abstinence, a small Meat Feast Pizza. Now, admittedly it was from a shop known to be good, but:

Oh. My. God.

HOW good?

I cannot say, I haven't the language.

Next time I do that, remind me to carry a spare pair of skiddies, jeans and a small towel.

Games played by cats, and other fun to be had

One of these days I'll learn. The lad of the house is standing on top of the foldaway bed, an unusually tall position for him saying "yowl" type things. I stand up from my chair to see what he wants, if he wants a hand getting down. At which point he neatly jumps over onto my chair, curls up on the bit that I've just warmed up for him and goes to sleep. Every time, I fall for that one.

After a better day, sitting here doing bits and pieces and Radcliffe and Maconie on Radio 2 delight me by playing the Sandie Shaw version of "Hand in Glove" by The Smiths; back in '84 that was the first song I heard that got me into Morrissey penned stuff. I've even still got it on vinyl. A very good thing to hear, that. Made my night, and the day's not bad anyway.

Anyways up, going to have to be chiselled out of these mud caked trousers later. The year of propeller-heading has started, with a much put off trip to Cottesmore, Harrier base. OK, I just wanted something different from Eurofighters and I didn't fancy the trip to Marham to view Tonkas. Was hoping too see bomb markings on the side and some markings from their Afghan deployments - I know that they're there but they weren't coming out to play this time. Haven't been to Cottesmore in years, and I could have done with setting off at a proper time as I'd intended. I could also do with not spending an hour in a five mile long traffic jam just outside Grantham. None the less, got there with a few hours of decent light to play with and saw 13 jets, of which 12 flew and 2 I'd never seen before so that's a fair day out. Nice to see the T bird from an operational squadron too; that's not something you see every day. Or at all. A first for me as far as I remember. Was playing with the new lens on the Bosscam and that's a pretty peachy bit of gear, fun to be had there. The only thing I can do without about being out on the airfields at this time of year is the chill factor. My fillings have only just stopped aching, and I've been back in the house for five hours, big bowl of hot soup 'n all. Beats the hell out of another day indoors though.....

Two down and hateful weather

Sir Edmund Hilary and Sir John Harvey Jones in one day. That's a bit of a wrench. Don't know if anyone'd remember but JHJ did Tolly Cobbold brewery in hometown as part of his Troubleshooter series; they named their premium brew "Tollyshooter" in his honour and it's one of only two products he's ever endorsed, the second being the bloke that produced his ties. Still got a Tollyshooter repro tie in my wardrobe. By all accounts, a couple of top blokes.

But it's not been a top break. I'm sitting here with a great camera and a great lens waiting to go and inspire, and what have I got.... grey overcast. No point going to the local bases, it's Friday, those damned part timers will be off for pink gin in the officers mess after one flight. No point going to the bombing range, the light's not what I need to make the 500mm work, no point photographing landscapes, the light's all just flat and bleauugh! The weather's shite and my shed's missing a large chunk of it's roof covering as a result. More expense that I did not need. Into town in a moment to get chores done, and the weather's turned as I write to nasty, nasty, nasty. Colour me not pleased.

Stuff it, let's find something jolly to smile at. I must turn back to the weekend. Brandy Wharf. The home of cider fuelled headaches and then some. I was driving, but it was a recce trip for future heavy duty nastiness..... a chuckle was located....

Look back in indifference

2007. What shall I remember of thee?

Normal people write their review of the year at the end of the year. Or a few hours into the new year. I'm not "Normal People". Hell, most days I'm not even People. And I was busy. And ill. And flatulent. In fact I still am, I'm munching on Theakstons Old Peculier and you do NOT want to be in the same room as I am right now, although I apportion part of the blame on last night's made from scratch veggie curry. Evil.

Last January I wrote on here " Bring on 2007, I've got things to do. " Let's just take a stroll through a few events of 2007 and see how it went.

Spent a lot of money trying not to blow up a car and making a net loss on the deal... goodbye Christine..... typical of 2007.

Also. My bike blew up. Five months and a grand spent later, it's still in bits. I try and I buy, but the gods of powered two wheeled transport laugh at my endeavour. Ungettable parts, unfathomable postal services, just shite luck... all of this is also typical of 2007.

Oh, and I blew up too. I started the year a grumpy bloke with a bit of a fitness problem, I ended it on the lists of the chronically ill. Could have done without that really. That's 2007.

Michael Jackson died. No, not that one. Unfortunately. No, this was the important one. The Beer Hunter. Writer. Journo. All round role model to us blokes that don't intend living past their thirtieth birthdays, of which I'm already doing unfeasibly well. The sort of bloke who's so in touch with his taste buds and memory banks that the rest of us just look on in wonderment. And it passed me by. I didn't know anything about this until I happened to be reading Scunny CAMRA branch's newsletter in the pub on Christmas eve, once I dragged my wracking carcass out. Apparently there was a two page spread in the CAMRA national free sheet. Apparently I missed it. Typical of 2007.

Oh, and the resolutions as posted last year?

"Try to enjoy more" = well, I certainly partied a bit.
"Get 2006 filed away"= to a degree this has happened; if I hadn't have done I'd have been certified.
"Travel more"=hmmmm, not really. Haven't had the cash.
"Finish the house"=mwahahahahah! It's barely moved on!!!!
"Smile more"= failed !!!

In all, it's not been one of my favorates. Just a little bit rubbish. It seems that 2007 spent itself laughing at any attempt at endeavour. I got dragged from pillar to post and I wasn't really in control; and where I was in control, I gave it up without too much of a fight. That's not really my style. Did I just get out of my depth? Or tired? Possibly. Who knows. Don't get me wrong, I've met new folks, filed old ones, done new and different stuff and that's all to the good. Got some damned good friends in places where there were once strangers and that's excellent. But last year was just a bit too stressy for my liking.

Better attempt at 2008? Yes please....

One week in

So where're we at? Well, we're a week in and already I've decided to take the rest of the week off on leave! There's method to the madness, honestly. I'm just about fixed enough after another to consider making a re-appearance at the fun factory, but there's no work for me. My project's offline by two weeks because of contractors, my team have written me off for the duration so I've got precious little to do. So, for once there really IS no reason for me to be there. And I have things to do elsewhere. So any things. The weather's been at it's thing; the shed roof is trashed, the bike cover on my mate's Cruiser is no more in a very big way; there's all kinds of stuff to do. The Christmas fallout needs sorting out. And among this stuff is funstuff; the Manchester Winter Ale festival, so watch this space. For some veeeeery untidy and straggly typing.

Luke Turdwalker is back on his side of the country, his holiday in the east over for the time being. I'd like to say that the boy Giz is missing his erstwhile playmate, I'm not honestly sure I can say that it's the case though. The grumpy older cat seems to have gone away; my little lad is back. But none the less, some interesting noises came from the lounge last night as Foul Ginger appeared in sight in the neighbours garden; it would appear that feline grumpiness is not totally out of season in this house. Turdwalker's taken his human with him; late night music discussions have left me with a CD purchasing list as big as the fuhrer's knob, I've always had a backlog of albums I really should own, and blagging them off the net is never the same as having the real deal visible in your racks. Hey ho. Just another thing I have to do this year. That's no bad thing.

Tired.....

... going to bed...

...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Currrrrrrrrrrtains!

I've found a way of suppressing the Turdwalker! Yay! A way that contains his natural aggression, athleticism and generally makes it far cheaper in household repairs. I drug his kitteney arse. It seems a good dose of catnip will have him sitting for at least an hour, fascinated by the pretty pattens in the curtains. Have you ANY idea how funny a stoned kitten can be? Heheheh. "Look, currrrrrrrrrrrrtains...... oh wow! I think I'll just leap up and.... no, I think I'll just order takeaway pizza instead...."

Meanwhile the boy Giz is continuing his campaign, I last saw him getting ready to go out with a placard which read "all Alsations are puffs" and the look of a flying picket about him. I've got his kill stats for 2007 and they make good reading; he's at :

Mice: 31
Small birds: 14
Large birds: 3

Giving 48 kills total, an ...... ooooooh percent improvement on last year. How I wish I could remember how to do that calculation. It's about seven and a half'ish....

All in the house is again lurgy.... don't know whether it's the same batch as nobbled me at christmas having a reprise, or whether this is a different one but all is sniffling and yukky Fortress Mike at the moment; which put the mockers on last night's big party night in town to a certain degree. Energy and partiability were sadly lacking, and I struggled onto midnight before retreating to my pit. A low key one... Number 2, then Smugglers, then Willies before back to Smugglers where we had a bit of a retro moment; Red Witches and mixers involving Malibu. I really fancy going back to London for next year; the fireworks on the Thames were worthy and I think my Canon needs to make the aquaintance of the smoke once again.