Movie night

It's been a funny old week really, and I'm pretty shagged out at the moment, or at least the energy levels are low. So last night I attacked the "Films I've not gotten around to watching" pile of DVD and chewed through three films, a bottle of wine and various low fat munchy treats. Yay! Not quite as much fun as an enormous pizza when it comes to darkened room accompaniment, but it'll do. Cranked up Hot Fuzz, Drunken Master and Desperado. All damned fine films, it has to be said. Was clearly on a roll when I went movie shopping that day.

Goldie Lookin' Car is up on blocks at the moment; it's that time of year when the vehicle servicing industry make me pay for only ever buying really cheap cars - death by MOT - and sure enough, the much abused Veccy has a pile of ailments as long as the Fuhrer's Knob. It's time to get a quote, and to see if if's worth fixing or whether I'm dipping back into the second hand vehicles market again. Mind you, given that Milo the MileEater is still sans' engine, and Death Machine / Bug is weeks from running, it's made getting to work a bit of a ballache. I tried out this "Public Transport" thing yesterday. I budgeted two hours, rather than the usual twenty minutes I can normally get it tied down in. I needed all of it. The bus drops three miles away from the office - you can get no closer. The buses that drop at the bus stop outside the office door stop at 7.45am. Naff all good if you work the late shift. So, it's going to be out of the door at ten to five next week to ensure I make it to the bus station in time for the first one out. Deep meaty bliss. Sometimes folks, this country is just shite. Four days off on the bang now. I'm out west to drink all the beer in the world with TwM; sometimes I think I aught to cut down a bit, and spend a bit more time in the gym. Felt a damned sight better for my morning spent hitting the pushbike yesterday. So yeah. Bit of exercise next week. Why not.

Health and Safety

Bloody hell, they've got to put a sign up for everything nowadays !!

Strange shite that strikes you while in the pub

... that my old and pale beer oppo down south, the man AB, if sprayed brown, is the spitting image of Halifax "too irritating to live" Howard. Where did THAT thought come from? Why didn't I leave it there? Hey hoo. Anyway. Sofa 1, Mikey nil. I'm going to have to put a caffene drip system on that thing if I'm going to continute sitting on it.

The rodents get a breather

I don't understand it. Or rather I do. It's prime mousing weather and the little bloke's got minimal interest in bringing in his usual corpses to plant in amusing places where I can find them later on. I know what's up. He's gone upscale. He's working on me discovering I've got a new pair of furry ginger slippers one fine morning.

A jolly weekend wheeze

Twas' a nice Saturday and there were jets about, and your correspondent for once wasn't working it. So a quick blat down the coast road for ninety miles to catch some hot happening action is the right thing to do, right? Tell that to the tractors. And the caravans. No bloody lorries at this time though, maybe the fuel strike is keeping them off the road. Hope so. Not as quick a departure as I would have liked, due to.... know what, I'm damned if I can remember Friday night, and I wasn't ripping it up, so something's obviously amiss.

Anyways up, I digress. Drove down the coast road at incredible haste, and was overflown by three Tornado's at low level, around Sutton Bridge; this means I've missed the takeoff but no biggie, I'd worked that out as likely anyway. Only three jets; the buzz on the formation was that there was to be sixteen aircraft, and three spares. Four flights of four, which meant that I'd just seen the spares going out. Dandy. More driving. A bit of a navigational fubar, your correspondent can't remember the difference between the A47 and the A134 but got to Marham base just in time for the sound of jets to be heard, and once again gets to prove the technique that the Humber NHS use for big boring the human heart, as it's time for a run with a heavy camera and big lens wearing boots. A Hawk, a couple of the airspares coming back, then it's time to find myself a nice place to lurk for the main event. In due course, four flights of four as advertised, shiney Tonka bombers, a bit slack that they didn't stay formed up and overfly in the 16, but we can't have everything, eh. As I hit the shutter for the first photos, I had the dread thought "oh my god, I hope I've put the datacard in the camera" - and not left it in the computer - done that before - but a quick check reveals that all is well.

Nice, and all were safely gathered in. Ten minutes, a black weather front could be seen coming in from the west, and fifteen minutes later the first rain was falling, as per the forecast. A perfect gap, and time to hit the road again, as it's time to drive quickly to Doncasater. No rest for the wicked, and I need to be at the bike parts shop to pick up a second hand oil cooler; driving most efficiently, got there for quarter to five, good time. Except that the bike parts shop closes at four on Saturdays. Gah. Bloody breakers, a law unto themselves at weekends. Nothing more to report really, apart from the fact that once again I have forgetten that real cider is incredibly bad for you, and stopping off in the Yarbie of an evening is risky. Among the things we have learned is that Addlestones to Old Rosie is a logical progression, but a tad hurty; and also that Green King Abbott (the devil's brewery, but a damned fine pint from Suffolk) is best had without the sparkler, the locals ruin it by forcing CO2 into it, and that it makes shouty mad heads. Indeed, a combination that doesn't do too smartly when it comes to an early start in the morning. And quite rightly so.

Alkiefrolics, turn away now...

What was your correspondent doing a couple of days ago? Putting ten thousand litres of passable red wine to the sword and watching it go "phut". Don't get too distressed. Just don't think about it. But you've heard of the european wine lake? I just made another. And what's more, they paid me to do it. Bloody glad I was stood behind the glass directing, and not actually tipping the stuff into the shredder; I think just breathing the air in there would have put one over the drink drive limit!! Oh, the humanity. Of course, this DID give me the opportunity to pop home for a late breakfast on the way back to the office, which makes a welcome change from the sandwich shop, lovely as they are I require something other than tuna rolls every now and again; oh damnable healthly lifestyle!

I hate a mystery

Via the marvel of contacts, the mystery aircraft over Cleethorpes beach on Sunday afternoon is identified. Was strolling off the platform at the beach station, just past the pub at about four in the afternoon and heard the sound of an engine over the coast; faced with a grey monoplane, high winged, looked for all the world like an Auster but with a twin tail, shaped reminicent of a Lancaster bomber. That's odd. Very odd. My eyes must be better than I thought, because the nose made me think a Gypsy in-line, like the old De Haviland types used, the Tiger Moth and the like; turned out to be right about the engine. But this is no Tiger Moth. In fact, it's nothing I've seen before, or even seen pictures of and that's not normal. I'd have thought Broussard apart from the engine. Having confused me once, it turned around at the end of the beach and gave me a second run to have an even better look at it. Which was nice, but left me no wiser. It wasn't until a day or so after when I was looking at the posted pics of the fly in's at the weekend that I got my answer, in the shape of a very distinctive tail fin that someone had taken a close up of; this gave me a name; and then a quick bit of research on that to get a full sized pic and put this one to bed. Ladies and gents, let me introduce you to....

...the Chrislea Super Ace. Never even heard of it before, which is unusual. A 1949 design, only 21 ever built, two left flying. Rare as hen's teeth, and definately one for the bag!

That's a different standard in personal grooming

Not often I have to take the ever popular sticky roll brush to my clothes, especially the work clothes. But today is different, I have just encountered a white Jack Russell called Diefenbaker and a small tiny thing called Charlie who looks like a small crushable tiny thing on legs, but who I am assured is a King Charles puppy. Hmmmm. Per ounce, another form of Charlie is cheaper than those tiny yappy things. Anyway. Moultarama on my dark uniform trousers by the JR, bless 'im.

It's all the fault of the trains

I'd not have been in nearly so much trouble if the train timetables at small local stations weren't such lying bar stewards. It's one thing to find a timely service to some halt out in the back of beyond next to a fine hostelry that serves Old Peculier that's especially fine, and Sam Smiths, and their own Puffing Billy (OK, not brewed on the premises but beggars can't be choosers, say hello to the Station Hotel at Haborough). It's another to complicate the evening by not running the two six'ish trains that are going to get me home, and not send another train until half past eight. That's just asking for trouble in any one's book. And certainly mine. An exercise in controlled bombedness then, is the order of the day. A certain lack of lariness (what IS the derivative of "Larey"? Is that even the right spelling? Does it matter at all?), for reasons that are not important here, t'was important to maintain behaviour and I think that was maintained. Hurrah! But "BOO" to the trains! Black mark, chaps.

It's a weekend for bikes

The sun's out and I'm not working for once. It's time to go down to the beach on one of the bikes. Except of course, MileEater's still in bits and missing an engine, and DM1(bug) is just out of storage, weeks away from being able to run and looks like shite. Bah. Colour me not one bit cheerful about this. I am not at all pleased. I've just been mooching down on the seafront with TWM and one of her small ones, and looking at the shiny two wheeled metal present, and the fact that my own is missing just will no longer do. Actually, this is one of many things in the soup at the moment that just won't do. Not least of which is this net connection; I'm typing this with a ping meter on the screen hat once again, for about the tenth time this evening says "no signal coming in". It just won't do. I'm paying for a broadband connection but it's no exaggeration to say that the 14kbps modem and phoneline I started off with in '95 was a damned sight more reliable than this. At the moment I'm trying to watch a seven minute clip from Andrew Marr's morning show on the BBC site; I'm on the forth attempt so far to view this before the elastic band powering the bloody connection runs out of steam again. Why should I waste my time with this? Why should I waste my time paying premium rate phone connections to talk to a tech support who will go through a very long procedure, rip me off blind and achieve nothing? They are being moved up the "things to sort" list; they can either resolve their service, or get their bloody unreliable shite equipment of my house and out of my life. This, also, will not do.

Oh, and for followers of the doings of the G boy; I fear he's in the wars at the moment; he's been nursing a patch of missing fur for the last couple of days, evidence of a tussle presumably with Foul Ginger from across the street. He was a sulky moocher again this morning and close examination has revealed that another patch of fur has gone. I have a feeling that Ginger may be having interface with me, soon...

Halfway house

So how the hell did it come to be June? Guess I missed that meeting too. Suppose I aught to do some of that taking stock rubbish that we always do. Are things moving on? Am I just as mired in crap as I always am? Well, I seem to have got twice as much to do; the house is full of chuff I've moved up for storage from south and I've now got two bikes to fix in the drive and not just the one. Hey ho. That last one in itself is not a bad thing; the Death Machine Mk.1 (aka "Bug") is out of the shed and on the maintenance ramp and may actually be up and running before the Mile Eater; although I've only ever planned to keep it as a commuter, at least I'd be mobile again. Hey ho. I miss my two wheels. And the fact is, you can have revvy fun with that Yamaha engine that with the Kwakker would rocket you into the nearest big obstruction like a big read splat.

But then again, some of the bigger hassles that plague me are finally in a position to be crushed, yes, CRUSHED. I like that word. Very bloke. And then I can work on the others. Yay. So maybe June is a good place to be. But it's still way too bloody early. And on that note, we're halfway through the week already and I'd only just gotten used to the weekend? A visit from TWM, and The Man Tuberculosis from the Flatlands means a spontaneous beer evening and a cider night respectively, and neither are good for your correspondent. Ran into a fair proportion of idiocy but the chaps who stood at the bar next to me in the Barge dressed as Borat (in his green swimming cozzy phase) were fairly memorable - I'd say that dressing like that, they had more balls than me but I'm not so sure that's true. Hmmm, I typed that last bit as "no so sure it's true". Shit, I'm turning Scottish. Lock up your money! Ginger hair! Ginger hair!

Oh, and for those that queried? The "Testing" post. It was just to see if this "post via remote email" function was working; Blogger once said that it was, but fibbed. Now it's dandy again. Yay.