“Come round for your tea!” said Pippa.
“You betcha!” said I.
“Bangers and mash okay for you DTRMCR?”
“It’s my favourite food of all time.”
“So how’s your love life?”
“It’s complicated, but quite interesting.”
“Oooh!”
Showing posts with label video. Show all posts
Showing posts with label video. Show all posts
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Monday, 26 October 2009
This is what happened to Skinner in Belgium.
We prepared an English classic, with a Gallic twist, as our contribution to CDWM. After dinner, we settled down to listen to Skinner explain what had happened. As you'll remember, on Saturday night we received news from Daryl that Skinner had vanished. This is the story of he lost a full day of his life in Belgium.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Of all the bars in the South of France, you had to walk into mine.
An early riser's lot is a good one. Vin hadn't enjoyed my snoring, and I was eager to see the chateau by day. Our hellish trip to Carrefour meant that it was dark when we arrived yesterday, and I hadn't had a chance to bathe in its glory. I went downstairs, met Julia in the kitchen and headed out to the patio.
I looked up and back at the chateau. Its vastness towered over four floors, three bold rows of cream and cherry red window arches. At ground level was la cave, a basement with a slouchy sofa and table football. Above, up the external stairs to the first floor, stood a narrow balcony with doors to the grand country kitchen and long dining hall. The drawing room, to the east completed that floor. Above, on the second floor, three grand bedrooms, and above that three more. A terraced garden led down to the pool. It’s a stunning place.
As I gazed upwards, Jamie leaned out of a window and yawned. I waved up at him. He smiled and came down the stairs.
Jamie and I walked out through the village with Teg, past vineyards and villas and down to the canal. We saw a hunter in a camo jacket and fluorescent orange cap, shotgun cocked, seeking out small game. We Bonjour!-ed cheerfully with passers-by, and wandered down to the boulangerie for fresh bread. The mayor has a tannoy system set up around the village, proclaiming their decrees. I felt like I was in another world. Perhaps I was.
The canal, with the wine cellar to the left and the chateau to the right and top of the photo
We returned to the fold, to find that there had been no news of Skinner. He’d been missing since about 3am on Saturday morning, and it was now Sunday lunchtime. On one hand there was every chance that Skinner could make it on time. All it would take was that he would find Daryl, pick up his gear and dash to the plane. On the other hand, worry was rising amongst us. Frantic calls from friends in Sheffield and Belgium hadn’t got us any nearer to finding him, and had stirred us up rather.
Although I mock the Ibiza Uncovered crowd for frequenting English bars on the Costa del Sol, I was glad we found a few ex-pats for the Liverpool United game after the hell of Carrefour. Vin was less pleased that they were mostly Mancunians, and almost entirely United fans. So it goes, I guess. Tom and Colin arrived with Jamie as the match was drawing to an end, so we had a beer.
Back at base, Jane and Hannah had arrived too. They’d driven down from Dover, which must have been beautiful. We ate, we drank, we drank some more, and retired to the cave. Insecure Dave, the Bristows and the Venezuelans were in another league when it came to playing le babyfoot. I was humiliated throughout. Dom and Vinny started to play music, and we smoked and drank and sang like Gomez.
The evening ended with Dom, Tani and me sitting downstairs listening to Roots Manuva and Belle and Sebastian through my phone. A reefer, and another, and another. Dom went to bed, and Tani asked me to show her how a tie is tied. My hands brushed on the skin of her collarbone as I tied the knot. I could feel her breath on my hands as I pulled it tighter. An erotic moment. Reader, I did not kiss her, although I wish I could say that I did.
I looked up and back at the chateau. Its vastness towered over four floors, three bold rows of cream and cherry red window arches. At ground level was la cave, a basement with a slouchy sofa and table football. Above, up the external stairs to the first floor, stood a narrow balcony with doors to the grand country kitchen and long dining hall. The drawing room, to the east completed that floor. Above, on the second floor, three grand bedrooms, and above that three more. A terraced garden led down to the pool. It’s a stunning place.
As I gazed upwards, Jamie leaned out of a window and yawned. I waved up at him. He smiled and came down the stairs.
Jamie and I walked out through the village with Teg, past vineyards and villas and down to the canal. We saw a hunter in a camo jacket and fluorescent orange cap, shotgun cocked, seeking out small game. We Bonjour!-ed cheerfully with passers-by, and wandered down to the boulangerie for fresh bread. The mayor has a tannoy system set up around the village, proclaiming their decrees. I felt like I was in another world. Perhaps I was.
The canal, with the wine cellar to the left and the chateau to the right and top of the photo
We returned to the fold, to find that there had been no news of Skinner. He’d been missing since about 3am on Saturday morning, and it was now Sunday lunchtime. On one hand there was every chance that Skinner could make it on time. All it would take was that he would find Daryl, pick up his gear and dash to the plane. On the other hand, worry was rising amongst us. Frantic calls from friends in Sheffield and Belgium hadn’t got us any nearer to finding him, and had stirred us up rather.
Although I mock the Ibiza Uncovered crowd for frequenting English bars on the Costa del Sol, I was glad we found a few ex-pats for the Liverpool United game after the hell of Carrefour. Vin was less pleased that they were mostly Mancunians, and almost entirely United fans. So it goes, I guess. Tom and Colin arrived with Jamie as the match was drawing to an end, so we had a beer.
Back at base, Jane and Hannah had arrived too. They’d driven down from Dover, which must have been beautiful. We ate, we drank, we drank some more, and retired to the cave. Insecure Dave, the Bristows and the Venezuelans were in another league when it came to playing le babyfoot. I was humiliated throughout. Dom and Vinny started to play music, and we smoked and drank and sang like Gomez.
The evening ended with Dom, Tani and me sitting downstairs listening to Roots Manuva and Belle and Sebastian through my phone. A reefer, and another, and another. Dom went to bed, and Tani asked me to show her how a tie is tied. My hands brushed on the skin of her collarbone as I tied the knot. I could feel her breath on my hands as I pulled it tighter. An erotic moment. Reader, I did not kiss her, although I wish I could say that I did.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
"I'm-a Wario, I'm-a gonna splatt-a this-a pie in your face"
After a failed attempt at making its guts into a pie, we carved Wario into this pumpkin to the sound of Disney tunes, then Kate splatted the pie in my face. Good times.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Letter stuffing
This amazing machine folded and enveloped 450 letters for me today, in the space of about fifteen minutes. Brilliant!
Saturday, 13 December 2008
Christmas party
Our work Christmas party was at the Printworks, a scum pit of the worst kind. We had some fun with the freebies that came inside our Christmas crackers.
My boss Josie dancing with Martin.
I met this charming young lady outside.
Well, actually she wasn't particularly charming, nor especially young. But she was certainly outside.
I managed to stick it out until about 11.30pm. Then, with a happy spring in my step, I left. I rang Tracy on the way home, who said I should come round to Emma’s and play Wii with them, which I did. Rayman, Wii Sports, Mario Kart. Bliss! I slept on Emma's sofa.
My boss Josie dancing with Martin.
I met this charming young lady outside.
Well, actually she wasn't particularly charming, nor especially young. But she was certainly outside.
I managed to stick it out until about 11.30pm. Then, with a happy spring in my step, I left. I rang Tracy on the way home, who said I should come round to Emma’s and play Wii with them, which I did. Rayman, Wii Sports, Mario Kart. Bliss! I slept on Emma's sofa.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Folk Train
Vinny and I met for a beer, and then went on the folk train. We got on at Manchester Piccadilly, and enjoyed the on-train band all the way to Goostrey in Cheshire. The band played at the pub, and on the train home too. Brilliant stuff.
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Russians
Pippa and I went to see the Stockport Symphony Orchestra perform three pieces by Russian composers.
The overture from Ruslan and Lyudmila, by Glinka.
Piano Concerto #1 by Tchaikovsky.
Symphony #2 by Rachmaninoff.
Chubb is going to join this orchestra next week, so I think I’ll be seeing them again.
The overture from Ruslan and Lyudmila, by Glinka.
Piano Concerto #1 by Tchaikovsky.
Symphony #2 by Rachmaninoff.
Chubb is going to join this orchestra next week, so I think I’ll be seeing them again.
Friday, 10 October 2008
A Night in the Museum
A nifty tip from Dunk a couple of weeks ago alerted me to a delicious prospect: an intimate gig in the animal gallery at the Manchester Museum, featuring the charming Mark Morriss of the Bluetones on acoustic guitar. I’ve loved the Bluetones forever, and I leapt at the chance.
The support acts were Becca Williams and Nomad Jones. I really liked Becca Williams, who came across as pleasant and down-to-earth. I thought she was at her best during the upbeat songs in her set, especially the last song, Devil on My Shoulder, which was gravelled and bluesy. I didn’t like Nomad Jones much. His fingerpicking was good, but his delivery was poor. Firstly, he rambled on at the start of each song, explaining exactly what event in his life it was about. Boring! I’m sure that there would be room for two more songs in the set if he chatted less. Secondly, before the last note had finished ringing on every single song, Nomad Jones would lean forward to the mic, stare out at the audience and say, “Thank you.” - a presumptuous thanks, said expectantly before the first clap. Arrogant and rude, I thought. Lastly, I felt really sorry for his girlfriend. The story behind the first song was about Nomad being heartbroken by dumped by a girl in Newcastle. The story behind the second song was something around wanting to be better at washing up for his current girlfriend, who was sat, he pointed out, on a bench near the stage. The story behind another song was about Nomad having his heart broken by an older woman who turned out to be married, the story behind another song was about Nomad having his heart broken by… are you starting to spot a pattern?
Yes, and so was I. Every time Nomad sang a song about a woman he’d known, his poor girlfriend’s face grew sadder. He was basically going through his romantic CV in front of an audience of strangers, with his girlfriend sat right there. How insensitive. She must have felt awful.
Mark Morriss shuffled on in a black polo neck and grey slacks, with a glass of white wine and a cheeky Bluetones smile, and melted every heart in the room over the course of the evening. He was charm itself, well-mannered to the sound man despite the gear starting off a little crackly, politely borrowing a guitar to cover a broken string, and gratefully and humbly enjoying our applause after he’d earned it. He came over as a really pleasant bloke who’d fallen on hard times and was bearing it with a smile. The manager of the Bluetones had stolen all their money, he told us. I pictured a man running off with a suitcase full of fivers. It was an old friend of theirs. Ouch.
The evening was compelling. Mark came across as bittersweet, (“this is a song that was made famous… well, not famous exactly, this is a song that was made known by the Bluetones,”) but good-humoured with it, and still as sharp as ever. When semi-heckled to “Stop apologising!” by someone in the crowd, he smoothly agreed that, yes, he ought to stop apologising, and that the next song was all about stopping apologising. It was Marblehead Johnson. Genius. The man dripped charisma, and we splashed around it like ducks.
You might have forgotten how good the Bluetones are. That voice, those amazing songs – Sleazy Bed Track especially - will remind you. See Mark Morriss. He's pretty good.
The support acts were Becca Williams and Nomad Jones. I really liked Becca Williams, who came across as pleasant and down-to-earth. I thought she was at her best during the upbeat songs in her set, especially the last song, Devil on My Shoulder, which was gravelled and bluesy. I didn’t like Nomad Jones much. His fingerpicking was good, but his delivery was poor. Firstly, he rambled on at the start of each song, explaining exactly what event in his life it was about. Boring! I’m sure that there would be room for two more songs in the set if he chatted less. Secondly, before the last note had finished ringing on every single song, Nomad Jones would lean forward to the mic, stare out at the audience and say, “Thank you.” - a presumptuous thanks, said expectantly before the first clap. Arrogant and rude, I thought. Lastly, I felt really sorry for his girlfriend. The story behind the first song was about Nomad being heartbroken by dumped by a girl in Newcastle. The story behind the second song was something around wanting to be better at washing up for his current girlfriend, who was sat, he pointed out, on a bench near the stage. The story behind another song was about Nomad having his heart broken by an older woman who turned out to be married, the story behind another song was about Nomad having his heart broken by… are you starting to spot a pattern?
Yes, and so was I. Every time Nomad sang a song about a woman he’d known, his poor girlfriend’s face grew sadder. He was basically going through his romantic CV in front of an audience of strangers, with his girlfriend sat right there. How insensitive. She must have felt awful.
Mark Morriss shuffled on in a black polo neck and grey slacks, with a glass of white wine and a cheeky Bluetones smile, and melted every heart in the room over the course of the evening. He was charm itself, well-mannered to the sound man despite the gear starting off a little crackly, politely borrowing a guitar to cover a broken string, and gratefully and humbly enjoying our applause after he’d earned it. He came over as a really pleasant bloke who’d fallen on hard times and was bearing it with a smile. The manager of the Bluetones had stolen all their money, he told us. I pictured a man running off with a suitcase full of fivers. It was an old friend of theirs. Ouch.
The evening was compelling. Mark came across as bittersweet, (“this is a song that was made famous… well, not famous exactly, this is a song that was made known by the Bluetones,”) but good-humoured with it, and still as sharp as ever. When semi-heckled to “Stop apologising!” by someone in the crowd, he smoothly agreed that, yes, he ought to stop apologising, and that the next song was all about stopping apologising. It was Marblehead Johnson. Genius. The man dripped charisma, and we splashed around it like ducks.
You might have forgotten how good the Bluetones are. That voice, those amazing songs – Sleazy Bed Track especially - will remind you. See Mark Morriss. He's pretty good.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
The sexy bit that wasn't there
I went to the Manchester Museum to check out the dinosaurs, and to pick up the tickets for the up-close and personal Mark Morris gig there. It was cool. I saw...
Afterwards, I went to see Liz. I chatted to Pervy a bit whilst Liz got herself a drink. He was banging on about famous filmette Scarlett Johannson, and how hot he thinks she is. Blah blah Pervy blah! The film we hired from Blockbuster didn't work, so I found a old Lovefilm disc that I hadn't watched, and we put that on instead. The Man Who Wasn't There. Brilliant. What an excellent film. I love Billy Bob especially, who does nothing at all and everything he needs to. Perfect.
Well, almost perfect. The DVD skipped from near the end of one chapter to the start of the next. It wasn't for very long, it seemed, as the narrative flow wasn't much affected, if at all. Later on, I read a plot summary of the film to see what happened. We'd missed a sexy bit. With guess who...? Only Scarlett Jo-fucking-hannson. Gutted.
Afterwards, I went to see Liz. I chatted to Pervy a bit whilst Liz got herself a drink. He was banging on about famous filmette Scarlett Johannson, and how hot he thinks she is. Blah blah Pervy blah! The film we hired from Blockbuster didn't work, so I found a old Lovefilm disc that I hadn't watched, and we put that on instead. The Man Who Wasn't There. Brilliant. What an excellent film. I love Billy Bob especially, who does nothing at all and everything he needs to. Perfect.
Well, almost perfect. The DVD skipped from near the end of one chapter to the start of the next. It wasn't for very long, it seemed, as the narrative flow wasn't much affected, if at all. Later on, I read a plot summary of the film to see what happened. We'd missed a sexy bit. With guess who...? Only Scarlett Jo-fucking-hannson. Gutted.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
"Why so serious?"
The Dark Knight is fucking cool.
Afterwards, Liz made a gorgeous prawn and avocado salad, and we vegged out in front of Batman Begins. Bliss!
Afterwards, Liz made a gorgeous prawn and avocado salad, and we vegged out in front of Batman Begins. Bliss!
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Holy fuck!
This marching band synchronised-march and perform an OK Computer medley. Jeepers, that's amazing!
Click. Wow!
Click. Wow!
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Rage, fury and a headache.
"Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage."
I recently gave my job twelve days to impress me, to win me back over. It has failed miserably. Unfortunately, I also failed – albeit less miserably – at the interview I had last Thursday, so the question of whether to leave or not has become purely academic. I do want to leave, but I need to find another job first. Paul has been searching for a less shitty job for about nine months now. I hope it doesn’t take me that long to find something else. Last night I was so angry that I had to leave the office so that I didn’t Hulk SMASH! the whole place in. I drank three pints in Sol’s, an inch of vodka at home, and three more pints in the Lion with the football. I didn’t feel much better after it all, and even less so this morning. But the anger has gradually faded.
I searched. I found.
“Found 313 jobs within 25 miles of M20 ___”
The best of these are:
Environmental officer for a local housing association.
Landscape something.
Urban Forestry Officer. A hip-hop woodsman?
None of them are suitable. There were quite a lot of jobs working on the railway, so I thought I’d have a look at the Railway People site. Zip. Next step recruitment consultants. I despise recruitment consultants.
Bury St Edmunds
Near to the gardens stands Britain's first internally illuminated street sign, the pillar of salt. When built, it had to be granted special permission because it did not conform to regulations.
Bury St Edmunds is the terminus of the A1101, Britain's lowest road.
Moyse's Hall Museum is one of the oldest (c. 1180) domestic buildings in East Anglia open to the public.
Amongst the other noteworthy buildings is St Mary's Church. Henry VIII’s sister, Mary Tudor, was re-buried this church, after being moved from the Abbey six years after her death.
The town holds an annual festival in May. This includes concerts, plays, dances, and lecturers, culminating in fireworks.
Bury St Edmunds is home to Englands oldest Scout Group, 1st Bury St Edmunds (Mayors Own).
The Town Council election on 3 May 2007 was won by the "Abolish Bury Town Council" party. The party lost its majority following a by-election in June 2007 and, to date, the Town Council is still in existence.
Spurs have won 5-1. I was at Woody's. Life is still good. Work sucks. I love this song.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Monday, 7 January 2008
Sunday, 6 January 2008
Monday, 31 December 2007
2007 Awards
Website of the Year: www.BoingBoing.net
Tough category. To win, Boingboing beat Facebook, Flickr and del.ici.ous, as well as the BBC and Guardian sites. Its combination of great content – copyright based news, hi-tech geekery, gadget reviews and great art – and an admirable principle of always acknowledging contributors pushed it to the fore. It has changed my views about ownership, the web and attribution. Without BoingBoing, I’d have never heard of Creative Commons.
Song of the Year: Fluorescent Adolescent, Arctic Monkeys
I haven’t exactly discarded all of my naughty nights for niceness, and I don’t feel like I’m in any kind of crisis, common or not. But I do have a degree of empathy with the voice of this song, being much better behaved now than I have been in the past. Killer riff too.
Film of the Year: Notes on a Scandal
A brilliant story, Judi Dench oozes _____, with an excellent supporting cast, particularly Jim Broadbent.
Book of the Year: The Book of Lost Things, John Connolly
No spoilers, I’m afraid. In my opinion, almost anything you know about a book before you start to read it could spoil it in some way.
Best Surprise: My Ghetto Blaster birthday cake – thanks Pip!
Worst Shock: Dad’s Heart Attack
I’d been in a bad mood with my dad for about eighteen months. But when I was met with the terror of maybe losing him forever that suddenly faded away. My father is exactly twice my age.
Biggest Disappointment: Glastonbury Festival
The weather was terrible, so I didn’t really push myself into making the most of the festival as a result. I tried to see too many people, and not enough bands. I don’t know if I’d go again.
Tough category. To win, Boingboing beat Facebook, Flickr and del.ici.ous, as well as the BBC and Guardian sites. Its combination of great content – copyright based news, hi-tech geekery, gadget reviews and great art – and an admirable principle of always acknowledging contributors pushed it to the fore. It has changed my views about ownership, the web and attribution. Without BoingBoing, I’d have never heard of Creative Commons.
Song of the Year: Fluorescent Adolescent, Arctic Monkeys
I haven’t exactly discarded all of my naughty nights for niceness, and I don’t feel like I’m in any kind of crisis, common or not. But I do have a degree of empathy with the voice of this song, being much better behaved now than I have been in the past. Killer riff too.
Film of the Year: Notes on a Scandal
A brilliant story, Judi Dench oozes _____, with an excellent supporting cast, particularly Jim Broadbent.
Book of the Year: The Book of Lost Things, John Connolly
No spoilers, I’m afraid. In my opinion, almost anything you know about a book before you start to read it could spoil it in some way.
Best Surprise: My Ghetto Blaster birthday cake – thanks Pip!
Worst Shock: Dad’s Heart Attack
I’d been in a bad mood with my dad for about eighteen months. But when I was met with the terror of maybe losing him forever that suddenly faded away. My father is exactly twice my age.
Biggest Disappointment: Glastonbury Festival
The weather was terrible, so I didn’t really push myself into making the most of the festival as a result. I tried to see too many people, and not enough bands. I don’t know if I’d go again.
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