That Brand/Ross thing.

OK, so Brand has fallen on his sword before he was pushed. Good. Can't abide the twat, never could. I won't miss him, might even celebrate his downfall a bit. Hah!

But Woss? I think I see a suitable punishment. I see a horse and cart, a pillory on the back, a televised drag through London, a loudhailer and a requirement to repeatedly shout "round the rugged rocks the rugged rascals ran". That should do it.

Oh, the Hobbit informs me that over in Scouseland, tonight is called "Mischief Night". The night before Halloween. Presumably that' when the little Shellsuitwearers have official sanction to nick your hubcaps rather than just doing it anyway. Down in Suffolk, from where I hail we too have a name for it.

We call it "Actober thu' thoitieth"

Yarr.

I do not approve

That Paramount Comedy Channel. They had a very fine advert. Where a young girl responds to all of life's woes with a very cute cry of "bollocks". They've edited it out. Castrated the ad.

The bollocks.

Public information notice

It's been brought to my attention, the hard way, and I feel I should give it wider publication.

If you're going to be drinking Theakstons Old Peculier, from an oak cask PLEASE don't drink Biddie's strong Kentish cider at the same time. They ain't good bedfellows.

Beep beep beep

And since WHEN did bloody Tinkerbell become the voice for BT's speaking clock? I missed THAT bloody meeting!

I blame TV

That Frankie Boyle. First time I've fecked up the act of pouring a glass of ale in about twenty years, through unscheduled laughter. On given the answer "12 seconds", provided the possible question "the regularity with which the police in Glasgow are phoned that pregnant women are attacking Rottweilers with sticks". Bastard!

Welcome home , Harry the Hat

So attending Cider festivals induces fuzzy memories and a mouth that tastes as if the Doctor's Dog has shat in it. So to keep track of things, the sensible correspondent takes a notebook. And so do I.

Ahem.

So it went something like this.

"Battle" from East Sussex
"Olivers Vintage" from Hereford
"Midnight Special Perry" from Hampshire
"Hecks Port Wine" from Somerset. I liked that one. So did everyone else. A fav.
"Double Vison" from Kent
"Burrow Hill" from Somerset

All in half pint glasses of course. Wouldn't catch me condoning over imbibing. Oh no. Follow government advice. Drink responsibly. Grass up all who don't follow the approved creed. Be a good citizen. Vote Labour for a respectful utopia for all races and creeds. Don't think for yourself. Never remove your blinkers.

Hmmm, have I overdone the "slightly anarchistic" thread there? Fuck it. Get pissed. Burn down a speed camera. Use the "N word". Whatever does it for you. Is "anarchistic" even a word?

Oh, tried a couple of beers too.
"Swift One" from Bowmans
"Piston Porter"

All these fun and games means I'm down south again, not on home turf but down on the hallowed and very expensive grass of Surrey, home of Top Gear, many stockbrokers (I should have paid more attention at school, one of those bastards has got MY DB.9) and most importantly my good mate Ginger Chris, his lovely partner and their most excellent local pub, The Crossways. Add to the mix SouthernSophe and Braveheart, the Wandering Hobbit and I had a most jolly evening. All terrible traditions upheld, except the ones that pertain to the Scottish contingent as she wasn't there. And as the title says, Harry the Hat is now back where he belongs, on my coatrack downstairs as opposed to where he's been since Cropredy, Chris's spare room. A small "leaving him in the wrong tent" mishap there. Hey ho. Well, he's had a nice holiday in a better neighbourhood.

Not so on the way home, took a trip to Ikea Thurrock on the way back for a few required bits and pieces. Well! The Hobbit reckons if I ever move back south, I'll be dead within two years. The stress! Gadzooks! The traffic around Lakeside shopping centre! The aggression, the lack of manners, the lack of parking spaces, the sheer weight of people, the turbans, the hell! I reckon the adventure of five years living North has spoiled me. I can't handle that lifestyle any more. Not sure I ever could.

So, having grabbed the required articles, paid the extremely statuesuqe and rather scary checkout girl, and ferked off sharpish, the M25 reverted to it's usual car park status soon after. Appalling. Almost cost me the last attraction of the afternoon, the De Havilland Aircraft Museum. Not by far the biggest, but a nice one. Three Mosquito's there including the first prototype. That's pretty incredible that, a survivor prototype from WW2 that's lasted. Doesn't seem to happen much elsewhere, an awesome piece of history to see and worth the trip alone. I'd post a picture. But of course, my EOS D took one look at the day and said "CF failure"; my chaps down the road since report that it's the flash card drive that's gone tits up, it's a new lump of electronic stuff for you sir, that'll be around 150 quid.

Arse.

The lights are on, must be morning

What do you mean, it's time to be alive? It's that cider stuff again, folks. Classy playmates, it does NOT make. It was made by Westons, it tasted like it was made from concentrate and it had a artificial sweetener kind of bite to it. Not the best. Quite effective though, it would appear. Like all classic evil ciders, it takes your brain out and uses it as a football before rolling it in the dirt and cigarette butts.

Best avoided, folks.

Shoddy time

Whoever thought of an eleven o'clock start straight after a late shift? Not quite as futile and stupid as a six o'clock start of course but as near as damnit. Pissy, stupid and pointless. You get naff all done at home, when you've got a monster pile of things to sort, they don't get sorted and you go to work stressed out and worked up. You'll have noticed that already. Sorry about that. It happens. Mind you, managed to get through the door without chewing anyone out horribly for once, but none the less had to declare today National Shite Day, with all due acknowlegement to HMHB.

Anyway, the thing I didn't pick up on at the time was that not only has this week been mad and more than usually hectic professionally; I've been on the coal face for seven days straight. No wonder things have been getting a little tight; there's been precious little breating space. Just had fine curry, now fine plan part two involves a certain amount of going to town and just a little bit of pub. How about that.

I think they call it stress

OK, I'm jumping at noises, a little tight in the chest, my short term memory is shoddy when talking to people and my temper is on hair trigger. The workload both domestic and professional is higher than the ability to process it, folks. Hey, this is blogland, I don't just record the entertainment stuff. Remember the nonsense I came out with when this started? Not all is well in groovetown.

And another thing

Here's a quick one and it's for the advertising folks.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS PEAR CIDER.

Am I clear on that? A cider HAS to be an apple product. A pear cider is in fact a PERRY. It has a name already. If you want idiots in bars to BUY your PERRY, then educate them as to what it is. Do NOT dumb down for them, teach them something new today instead.

Grrrrr.......

Mad Maxine ( a true story)

As I sat at the red light, so the Interceptor pulled up behind me. Blacked out side windows created a darkness inside it that the driver seemed swallowed by as he sat there scratching his wrist in a distracted manner. The scoop on the hood stood ready to hungrily rip into the air, the lower radiators gaped like a sharkmouth on an old P40. The wing mirrors.... hang on, the wing mirrors look familiar. And now you mention it, so does the indicator. And that car should never have a spoiler.

You've beefed up a P plate Vectra to look like a post apocalypse muscle car.




You sad wanker.

News of the day

OK, does it strike anybody else as a bit weird that the state are buying up the failing shite banks, where as assets which really AUGHT to be in national control rather than private hands - water supply, power resources, railways - are still in the wobbly hands of the market? And we're buying them out? Rather than confiscating them? Madness.

Mind you, as one who's somewhat limited and uneducated grasp of economics said "well, surely it has to top out somewhere, there must be a breaking point", I am currently rather smug.

Oh, and that ferry that's currently in queer street in Somalia, full of Russian tanks? Turned out, it looked familiar. A little bit of research reveals that until 2003, and under a different name it used to be a local into one of my local areas of interest, and my boss has been on it. Ain't it a small world.

Irritant

OK's, here's a little bit of Night Shift inspired temper defecit. My kitchen is not my own at the moment, wall to wall stuff from my lounge which is still in chaos (thanks flooring guys; another gripe but I shan't bother here) and the telephone is stashed behind a couple of cupboards and has to be fought for when it rings (no I can't move it, limited battery life and cable length, don't start). So - it rings; might be flooring guys, I definately need to speak to them so a quick dash, a scrabble in between two heavy glass fronted cabinets, a leap, a stretch and the phone is grabbed to reveal....

Automated telemarketing.

Not even the decency of some damned script reader in Bangalore. A bloody machine. One step on from the bloody automated switchboards that curse the service industries (has anyone ever had to deal with the ones that actually make you SPEAK your answers? WHY??? What fuckwit ever thought that was a good idea?). Automated advertising. Whose bloody idea was that? What tiny percentage of the population is ever going to be anything other than incredibly pissed off recieving that rubbish? You dirty, dirty bastards. You swine. I hope when your deserved free market heart attack kicks in, 999 put you on hold to talk to a tape.