Words nobody should ever have to say...

"Hmmm, this new body armour is lovely and comfy"

Probably time to take a holiday when that get's said. Probably becoming just a little too geeky. But the fact is, it was. First time they've ever flashed the cash and bought me a made to measure set, and you can tell the difference. Had to spend the day stomping around in it, for nefarious reasons of government and felt no strain at all. Lovely! And on that basis, I aught to book myself a holiday! Actually, it is. Looked at the old system the other day and it's September since I booked more than the odd day here or there. Worked Christmas. Bleh. And thinking about it, September sucked too. Time off required. Hugely so. Not that I can take it right now, anyway. Too busy. Too many things happening. If I took time off, it'd be here and grafting, which isn't really the point at all. And the GLC is knackered for long range travel at the moment anyway...

So, smoke. There's been a lot of it about. A warehouse burned down on the dock this week, taking 15,000 tons of animal feed with it. 70 firefighters, 15 tenders. I remember being told by a former contact who was ex brigade that any more than eight was big stuff. Certainly, couldn't see ships and cranes three hundred yards away in broad daylight, what with the remaining smoke and the haze from the - glorious - weather.

Stephen Hawking

OK, let's get this out of the way now...


"I think Stephen Hawking should have definitely renewed his subscription with Norton AntiVirus."

"20 quid says the Windows Shutdown noise plays when he dies."

"Perhaps stephen Hawking would feel refreshed if he pressed f5"

""I just don't get it, everyone goes on about David Beckham being thick...... but no one says anything about Stephen Hawking being shit at football, do they?!"Give credit where it's due, mate - he's great at dribbling."

Personally I preferred the one about the German plumber...

I love beerfest, me.

Ahem. I would just like to point out that the previous entry is what we call in England satire, no sane person would advocate seriously chinning a four year old for the sake of silence. Or even a lunatic mentalist like me. Tranquiliser dart from an air rifle, maybe. But a whack with a set of brass knuckles, no. See, I'm doing it again...

Well, back again in the Fortress of Solitude. Been on my travels again, ticked the Donnie Beerfest off the list at last, after a failure last year. Look up "Perfect Imperfect" in the March 2008 blog. I wrote proper articles back then, better than the garbage I'm coming out with these days. Suprisingly decent. I commend it to the house. Who says that stress is good for you.


Hey ho. Anyway's up, Doncaster beerfest. I came, I saw, I supped, etc. A very decent glass, you get at the Donnie fest. I know that's incredibly geeky, but je suis un geek, deal with it. A half pint handled mug, although it's more like a pint in size due to being generously lined at the correct measure, and a very solid piece of kit, far chunkier than the handled half mugs that CAMRA fests have being doing of late - not that I indulge in such activity, or condone it but I surmise it'd probably make quite a good bar brawl warhammer and come out the other side intact. That's serious glassware. Anyway, a glance, a quick shufty at the ever popular damage sheet, whoops, I mean the beer festival program reveals that althought I only had a couple of hours before I had to catch another train, I managed a fair scattering of local brews. Not much poncing around with themes and such at this fest, more a gathering in of the local brews from all around Yorkie and such, which in my humble opinion is always a jolly fine thing. The fest seemed to be suffering from Saturday Session Syndrome, which means that most of the beer's already been snaffled, but hey, some of us have to work for a living, and a day out's a day out. Anyway, the tally goes like this:

Anglo Dutch (Dewsbury, W.Yorks) - Sarah Barnes Raven (6.0%)
Brown Cow (Barlow, Selby) - Bitter (3.8%)
Idle West (Stockwith, S.Yorks) - Coopers (4.3%)
Naylors (Crosshills, Keighley) - Old Ale (6.2%)
White Rose (Sheffield) - White Dragon (3.8%)
Ufford - White Hart (only tasting note here is a smiley face so draw your own conclusion)
Watkins - cider. Seemed like a good idea at the time...

Onwards goes the journey. This one ends up in Scouse, out of the station and straight into Doctor Duncans - purveyors of one of my very few perfect pints, now sadly no longer regularly available; and on to the Dispensary, pub with a very fine cider specialist landlord and indeed, it was Welsh* cider with a shade of orange and extra fear that was the order of the night. You can tell that's going to go wrong. Managed to avoid the Swan though, which is often beneficial and supper came from Subway and not a pizza joint so some sanity was retained at least. Fluffed the mission of getting home on the Sunday, and nearly fumbled it on Monday too through complete lack of discipline, ain't it great being me; time to peruse a pub or two more though, The Globe, the posh one on the corner who's name I forget - ah, the Monroe, that's it - and the Ship and Mitre who's doors I haven't darkened for a while. I'd forgotten how good they do it. Apparently, the totty on the front of the ScouseCAMRA freesheet this month with the ultraviolet smile is there, but she didn't serve me. Big Cider issues in there this time - could have gotten in serious trouble, but dragged myself away for food resupply and sunbathing; did I mention that the scousers are getting full benefit of the gulf stream, and getting top-teen, low twenties temperatures at the moment? Over here it's freezing.

*Apparently not Welsh but Cheddar Gorge. Thanks to the Hobbit for that correction; I thought CG WAS Wales!

Childcare tips

It's not often I travel first class; the reclining seat and table lamp doesn't do justice to the cost, and personally I'd prefer the wooden walled compartment of old so it's cattle class every time for this boy. However, on Saturday due to refurbishment at Cod Central Station, there was no booking office to play with, and the facist bastard automated machine made the choice for me, and booked me into first without me noticing. Breadhead. I hate automated checkouts in supermarkets too. So, down a few quid at the start of the afternoon, and first class it was. Speaking of first class, aught to mention a new brew from those masters of mayhem and alcohol fuelled jollity at Sole Bay Brewery, Adnams: waiting for my train to arrive, there was time for a pint and I espied my favorate brand name with a new title attached and a tasteful picture of a row of canon for a pint named "Gunhill". I shan't bother with tasting notes, strengths, and all that malarky but it's jolly nice and if you drink enough of it you'll fall over. Sorted. Anyway, back to snakes on a plane. Sorry, that should be brats on a train. The pint over, the clock ticking - I made my way to platform two where the TransPennine "Toilet Paper Express" was making it's way in, made my way to cattle class where I noticed for the first time that automation is a con, they're all just money grabbing bastards and made my way into my elitest, antiproleatariat so called refuge to meet Amy. Now, I'm all in favour of children being themselves, and this is obviously a happy, vivacious child with plenty of bounce to give to the world; a good thing surely. Except that I'm paying premium for this seat; surely child quietening tactics are in order here? How much can one child shout in forty miles? Note to parents everywhere; it only takes a little tap to dislocate the little tykes jaw and we all travel in peace :o).

An easter thought

"If Jesus came to Earth today,
They’d crucify him straight away,
Upon a cross of MDF
And they’d use No Need For Nails"

A day late. But I was pissed. Thank you HMHB.

Note to self

Black Rat cider really IS worth avoiding. A fairly large night out beckoned last night, due to spontaneous foolishness and as a result the bank holiday is quiet mainly because my head hurts. But isn't that what it's supposed to be about?

So where were we. Chaos still reigns supreme at the Fortress of Solitude, the lounge is done but there's electrical failure all over the place; still stuff to do before that one's signed off. The bathroom's soon for finishing, and then it's time to get cracking on Mr Zed the kwakker which will be nice, but then the Goldie Lookin' Car has not helped by breaking it's water pump and handbrake cable at the same time. Will the jobs never be finished, and the expense dealt with? It would appear not.

Back at the fun factory, they're actually getting me back to doing the work I'm employed to do, rather than farting around learning somebody else's job, but I've got a mountain of tasks built up for me in the meantime while I've been away in parts Mancunian. What's the betting I'll get no time to complete them. Never mind. I'm getting to the point where I've had enough of this game, but I'm just being a gripey old sod and will just get weaving with it all anyway. Yay!

Tense times

...in the Fortress. The bathroom is up on blocks for a few more days, and the lounge is stripped bare preparing it for application of wallpaper next week, since the Hobbit got all pro-active with the old stuff. This means of course that ablutions are basic to say the least, and the entire contents of the lounge are outhoused to the kitchen which is now unusable, and I am living in a warehouse. Add this to the fact that I am coming to the end of this month long re-train at work, where we're learning to do yet another task to add to our armoury of things we have to multi-task badly (specialists, who needs 'em. We'll just breed a generation of generalists who are shite at everything) and things are a little tight. I'm tired. The G Boy is horrified to note that his two favorate dens (curtains and coffee table) have been removed. Fortunately, timely application of Kitty Cocaine (that stuff that comes in a Tuna can) have smoothed his temper and means that I have all of my blood still in me this morning, and my cat hasn't run off to join the circus.

Enough already

Jade Goody.

Her last words on the front of the Sun.... apparently "I'm not a f**king idiot Jack" if you go with the front page, but if you can lower yourself to read on, it was something about pineapples so unlike their caption writer would have you believe, she wasn't "effing and blinding 'til the end". Or if you want, her last message to her lads, which - call me old fashioned - but aught to be for her lads and not for gawping publication?

For ferk's sake. The woman is dead. It's game over, chaps.
Give it a rest.
The show is over.

Nature

Isn't it funny how nature seems to keep a close eye on the calendar? It's just a change of date, British Summer Time... just there to faciliate production from an ages old war but the temperature is up, the sun is shining and it smells like summer already. Freaky. But nice.