I ain't drunk, I'm just drinking...

Apparently according to Alejandro from Facefuck I have been a little slow with my Blog posting of late. Fuck off, it was only three days ago that I last posted. I was going to write a new one last night but tiredness overcame me and I was unable to lift my head, never mind write anything of note. And what brings on this bout of torpidity? Drink, pure and simple, drink. I'm an old man now, I can't drink as much as I could ten years ago and my body tells me that every time I try to drink as much as I did ten years ago. Which is pretty much what I have been doing for the past four days. I'm sure you will recall I spent Friday and Saturday both on the batter. I was going to have a wee rest for myself on Sunday until Vin texted me at about five o'clock to tell me he was engineering sounds at a METAL gig at Stereo. York and Metal are two things that don't always mix so I thought I'd take the very rare chance to check out some of the local bands.

York's attitude to Metal...

The main band Cairngorm, were OK, the lead singer had a fucking amazing growl on her. She just needed to drop the clean vocals and they would be a million times better. The other two support bands were very mediocre, so much so that I can't even recall what they were called. Mind you, I was already against one of them when Vin told me their guitarist had stolen his missus years back. I told him he should mess his guitar sound up as recompense. But he's a professional and refused. So I offered to fill my bottle with piss and sling it at him instead. I digress. The best band by far were the second on the bill, Fortress, total black thrash attack. They were fucking great with their battle armour and spikes. They cleared the room as well, which gave them points in my book. Afterwards Vin invited me to the open mic night at Dusk. It made quite a change, listening to white man's Delta blues. It was like being locked up in a cell in an Alabama prison. Except we could leave when we wanted and wouldn't get raped in the showers. This evening finished at three o'clock when I finally crashed out in my bed, pissed as a newt...

Who's house is this?

With the taste of a dead cat in my mouth the next morning I walked over to King's Manor for the First Year Exhibition of the excavation that I had been supervising on. I was there mainly for the free wine. As I arrived I saw steams of students walking out. I asked why they were leaving and they told me that the wine was disgusting. Fucking trust fund babies. In my student days we would have drunk bleach if it was free. Anyway, after the wine had gone I went along with the remaining students to various pubs, where they all got drunker and drunker and clumsily flirted with one another. This seemed to involve punching one another or bellowing in each others ears. Who said romance was dead, ay? I found myself in the pit of Hell, also known as the Willow Restaurant, the maddest ex-Chinese resteraunt (they lost their food license) in the North of England. Taking my leave, I don't remember how, I ended the night at Alia's house saying goodbye to her for the 67,927th time this week and stumbling into a taxi after twelve hours on the sauce. There was meant to be one final drinking session last night at the end of year King's Manor party, but my body reacted against me and I couldn't even move out of the house.

Taxi for one!

And finally. I posted John's Satnav back to him on Tuesday at about two o'clock. I texted him to let him know that I had and to tell me when it arrived. He thanked me in the reply and I asked him if it had arrived yet. The conversation then went as follows:

He: No, I'm stood at the front window waiting for it. I saw a parcelforce van go past but he didn't stop. He might have just got lost, I'll tell you if he comes back

Me: Keep me updated, I'm gasping to know what's happeneing.

He: I saw a black man outside on the street! You have no idea how rare that is here. He looked lost too. Still no parcel.

Me: Fucking Post Wankers, I sent it two hours ago, what are they playing at?

Then I heard nothing until 11:54pm when I got the following text:

He: I don't think he's coming today. I might go to bed in a bit.

Me: Hmmm, I'm not sure you should. There may have been a crash on the motorway that delayed the van. Give it a couple more hours.

At 07:44 the next morning I receive this:

He: I'm really tired. It must have been a bad accident because he still isn't here yet.

Then at 10:28 the final text comes through:

He: OMG it finally came, the man looked okay I don't think the accident was all that bad, I'm going to sleep now, thanks alex.

You really can't make this shit up.

China is here, Mr Burton

Since being back from France I regained my pre-Gallic state of unemployment, despite begging Nick down the phone for a job even just sweeping his office, my pleas have fallen on deaf ears. I really should have gone and signed on again last week, but shoulda, coulda, woulda and hindsight is always 20/20 vision. What ever that means. So I've been filling my time by doing very little in an effort not to spend too much money until I work for York Uni again in a week. I went out on Friday afternoon and met up with Moogdroog for a pub lunch and a film. She's been given time off from her PhD cos she'd written a chapter or something. Actually I have no idea what she'd done as when anyone starts telling me about their PhD my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about Tiger Tanks or the Battle of the Somme. The film we went to see was the new Woody Allen film: Whatever Works. It's hilarious and has Larry David in it, which alone is good enough reason to see it. It's like an extended episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, which, you don't need to be told, is the best comedy show ever written (well most of it is improvised, so it's not so much written as ad libbed, but that's all just semantics, you pedantic wankers). The film is a repackaged 1970's script and it does show in a couple of it's dated situations (the bohemian three way relationship and the Southern gun nut turning out gay), but Larry is in fine form, especially when calling the kids to whom he teaches chess 'Inch worms and Cretins'.

That evening was also spent in the company of Moogdroog along with Claire, Helen and a bunch of others I didn't know for Alia's leaving do. About the third of several such leaving dos. Good God, that girl just doesn't know how to say goodbye. She still hasn't left York, either... Town was pretty quiet what with the upcoming England versus Germany game, all the knuckle draggers are saving their money for when we get knocked out of the World Cup finally (Despite not caring about football or the World Cup one little bit, Fidor insists on telling me the scores whenever England play. I'm not sure what part 'I don't care' or 'I'm just not interested mate' he doesn't understand but his steadfastness in keeping me up to date in the latest scores would be quite endearing if it were nothing to do with football...). It was a rather sedate affair, all be told, and I sloped off to bed a little after midnight. I was awoken before the sparrows fart on Saturday morning by the butchers having a rather loud and protracted conversations in Russian outside my window.

So long, farewell, would you ever fuck off?

On Saturday afternoon I met up with Logan Josh and his paddle chums. He was also back from France and bursting with stories of crazy Algerian campsite owners. We spent the afternoon talking about films, music and aeroplanes. Logan was his usual boorish self and he left me after braying and bragging about a Barbecue at his house that was NOT invited to. It seems like the rest of York was going, with only my house having missed out on getting an invitation through the door. Well, I hope he choked on his fucking burger. I already had other plans, I went to meet Vinny down in the Basement, which is not as predatory as it sounds, and I took my leave before calling in at Yummy Chicken, the most inappropriately named take away in York, The food is not 'yummy' by any stretch of the imagination and can hardly be described as chicken either... In the Basement there were three bands on, with a sixties/seventies themed disco afterwards. The first band Russell and the Wolves were by far the best on the bill. Any band that features a girl in a tiger suit playing solos with her high heels and a Elvis lookalike on the other guitar gets my vote. The second band, The Silver Factory were an incredibly lame jangly-shit-pop-Jam-Paul-Weller-wanna-be bunch of pricks. It seemed the only way to get into the band was to have the same haircut as the rest of them. They were the lamest band I've seen for a long time. The guitarist just strummed three chords on his £500 guitar the whole time. He should have saved himself some money and bought the cheapest shit guitar if that's all he was going to do with it. But I guess image was far more important to them than actual music. I don't remember much about the last band except they had come from London. It was probably something to do with the fact I had been drinking for about eight hours solid at that stage and so decided to call it a night. I ended up outside Oki's Mobile Kebab shop eating a chicken burger and listening to some racist cunt telling the guy behind the counter 'you no spit on burgers'. I certainly don't envy those lads having to listen to that shite every Friday and Saturday night, but I still think it would beat having to listen to The Silver Factory again...

Oh, just fuck off!

Brothers and Sisters raise your horns!

I'm back from France and Hellfest, a three day experience of standing in a field shouting at various long haired men with instruments to 'turn it up!'  I was head interpreter as I was able to ask, in French, for directions to the bus stop for Amiens and Dave, Ross and Glynn's level of French ended at telling someone their name and that they were eleven years old. Ah, the Comprehensive School: learning at its best. Armed with this Schoolboy level of the language and more Pot Noodles than even the most hungry student could possibly eat in a lifetime, we braved the Channel Tunnel. During the crossing Dave stared out of the carriage window the whole time trying to see fish and shipwrecks and eventually made some part of a foreign field forever England. It really was; our tents were enclosed on no less than three sides by Brits who had also travelled to bang their fucking heads. The little cunts next door to us kept us up all the first night by shouting French phrases in a shit Death Metal vocal style. So we got our own back the next evening, fortified with wine and Carcass, by shouting the phrase 'Thrash Metal' over and over again for about four hours helped by our French neighbours on the other side. That's the power of music right there, breaking down cultural barriers. All in all it was a great weekend, although it ended up costing me a lot as the price of festival food doesn't seem to bear any resemblance to the cost of food in the real world. A bag of chips from the local chippy would set you back about a pound, at Hellfest a tiny plastic tray with about three frites in the bottom set you back a whopping 2,381 euro. Even with a strong Euro there is a bit of a discrepancy there...

 Fucking Metal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here is a list of the bands that I enjoyed the mostest of all, Carcass, Immortal, Tankard, Anvil, Marduk, Ulver, Watain, Ihsahn, Kampfar, Negura Bunget, Sigh, Urgehal, Jello Biafra, Dark Funeral, Kyuss, Brant Bjork and the Bros, Mondo Generator, Black Cobra, Slayer, Finntroll, Yawning Man, Discharge and MOTORFUCKING HEAD. But by far the best of the best award goes out to the reformed and almightyly loud GODFLESH. I haven't seen them perform live for twenty years and despite waiting 25 minutes for them to sort out their sound and them having to cut their set short by twenty minutes as a consequence, it was like experiencing a musical glacier. A crushing act of nature, an overwhelming experience like no other. A true Force Majeure. 

Devastator/Mighty Trust Krusher

The final evening was characterised by being kept awake half of the night by that group of 68 year old Jewish Grandmothers whose name I shall not mention's firework display. After wishing that they'd stick their fucking Love Gun up their fucking arses and 'pull the fuckin' trigger until it go click', the following morning at the crack of sparrows the intrepid travellers broke camp in wet and freezing conditions and walked what seemed like miles to the carpark. I was half excepting the Melton Mowbray Mini Pork Pie I'd left in the car over the weekend to have grown limbs and TWOCed the car in a bid for freedom. But thankfully it wasn't to be and Glynn drove us back without stopping (except for the Channel Tunnel) in a ten hour journey that would have tested the patience of even the most patient of patient saints. I arrived back in Rotherham clutching my new Sigh CD and my new Kampfar T-Shirt, tired and half mental from the chip overdose, but happy in my Heavy Metal Heaven!

Happy Birthday, you know who you are.

The goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain!

I have been the victim of Debit Card fraud this week. I was visiting Ninjasaurus Rex this weekend when HSBC called me to let me know some fucker had been using my card details to buy Apple products, playing on Sun Bingo and booking a holiday for themselves in Romania. None of these transactions actually appeared on my statement and I was only aware of them when HSBC called me. I would like to thank HSBC for spotting this but it was rather marred by the fact that I ran out of telephone credit trying to call them back (and since HSBC had cancelled my card I was unable to top up my phone) and having one of their operators in Calcutta hang up on me. Third time lucky and I managed to get the shizzle sorted out. Another problem was that I had driven back to Rotherham with only a little fuel left in the car, thinking I'd fill up on the return journey. With my card now cancelled and only five pounds to my name, I had to go, begging bowl in hand to my folks and borrow some money off them. My new card will arrive in up to seven days, which is also a bit of a shitter as I am going to Hellfest on Wednesday for a week. I have a Credit Card, but don't know the PIN. The reason for this is because I didn't want to use it just to draw cash on, but only for transactions where I couldn't use my Debit Card, like flights and such. More fool me... So tomorrow I will have to go down to the bank, begging bowl in hand and hope they will give me some cash over the counter... It just goes to show how much we rely on cards and how fucked we'd be when the balloon finally goes up.

Is there anywhere around here I can get cash back?

I also received my CRB check this week, it proves what I'd suspected all along: I'm not a Paedophile. I need it for when I work back at Heslington in a couple of weeks showing some school kids the best way to trowel natural. The thing is with CRB checks is that they are a massive scam based on one single incident which means everyone has to suffer. They came about after the Ian Huntley Soham murders and just prove what a ridiculous situation we now live in. One areshole slipped through the net and killed two kids and now everyone dealing with children is suspect until proven innocent. Never mind the fact that adults have been working with kids as teachers and such for hundreds of years and horrific incidents like the Soham tragedy are thankfully incredibly rare, the government deem it fit to assume everyone has the mind of Huntley. This makes it more difficult for men in particular, given the amount of media hysteria given over to 'Paedophiles lurking round every corner' we have reached a point where it feels wrong as an adult to be even talking to kids. I love kids, I think they are hilarious, but I still feel uneasy about talking to them. This is not how things should be, kids shouldn't be shielded from interaction with adults and adults shouldn't feel as though they are suspect when chatting to young 'uns. Alright, we were brought up with the idea that you shouldn't talk to strangers, but the vast majority of adults are not attempting to entice children into cars to go and pat non-existent puppies in the woods. But the CRB check makes you feel as though this is how you are viewed from the ones that make the laws. I understand the importance of protecting kids but I can't see how the CRB check helps, all it does is check if you have convictions, if a paedophile has never been caught and convicted then it is fucking meaningless anyway. Also, as it stands, they don't carry over from job to job, every time you enter a new situation where children are involved you have to have a new check and pay for a new one again. The one I have only lasts or the week that I will be working with the kids. That means after that week I'll be suspect again unless I pay for a new check. Someone is making a lot of money out of this.

Keep quiet, keep printing out CRB checks and we'll soon have enough money to retire to Rio!

All Shall Fall

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. The Ukrainian butchers seems to be multiplying. Another one hatched last Monday. We had formal introductions during which I missed his name. It is now beyond the embarrassing point where I could ask him again what it is, so I generally say 'hey!' or 'hi!' when greeting him. The house now seems very full with four Ukrainians (one in transit) and an Evil Herr Doktor doing human experimentation in the cellar. It was with great pomp and circumstance that the Doktor in question, Herr Clay announced this morning he would be leaving soon. He like me, is fed up of being awoke to the sounds of showering Ukrainians at five o'clock every morning. At least this means the beatings will stop and I may regain feeling in the right side of my body once again. But having got something of a Stockholm syndrome relationship with Clay I am sorry he will be off. Sad times indeed.

'It has been a pleasure, but I must away to Durham...'

Clay's proposed leaving will not be the only thing that has drawn to a close this week and the excavations at Heslington wrapped up amidst the two wettest days of the century on Monday and Tuesday. The rain fell in sheets and reminded all involved of the great Tsunami of 2004. We slipped and slided our way to the end of site, I had finished everything I needed to do, except my context sheets. Well, I didn't want those doing post-ex to have to deal with a ball of wet paper so I left them to finish off back in the office. On Tuesday my team bought me a box of beer as a farewell present, I was so touched I prompty opened a bottle and passed it round them all. I thought they hated me for making them work outside and/or in the rain. Obviously they were harbouring some deep seated form of respect for me... It seemed to have paid off as we were the most efficient team on site and had everything wrapped up way before time. But, having said that, there was still more to do over on the Herr Doktor's area as he had jumped ship and buggered off to Germany for a long weekend of cheap frothy beer and cheaper Frauleins whilst the rest of the archaeology department cleared up his fucking mess.

Up yours, Heslington East!!

And that brings me to the end of site 'party' held at Penny's. She was hosting a barbecue which I was fast running out of excuses to go to, so fortified by beer at Logan Josh's summoning I was driven out to the arse end of North Yorkshire to end up feeling slightly uncomfortable in the presence of my peers. The only thing to do was to down as much beer as humanly possible to get me through the night. It ended with Penny showing us pictures of a dog she hasn't yet taken ownership of on her computer. I was very glad when all the feigning 'awwws' and 'oooohs' were over and I was promptly dropped back at my gaff.

No-one barbecues in the rain, quite like the British...

Escape from York

My old mate Andy called up to York this weekend. It's the first time he's been out of the tiny Welsh hamlet that he lives in. He was looking at Marks and Spencers and saying 'Wow! I've never seen anything so big! It's bigger than our barn! Imagine how many chickens they have in there!' I've not seen Andy for about five years when I worked for Cotswold archaeology and lived in Wales. You will recall this is where my deep-seated hatred for Wales and the Welsh manifested itself. Andy is OK though, he's from Little England in Pembrokeshire, the only pocket of civilised Wales that exists. When we finally chase the Welsh into the sea and make the whole Principality into a safari park like Kruger, we could turn Pembrokeshire into a 'Traditional Welsh Miner's Village'. A place where the tourists could stay and experience life as a subhuman Welsh and soak up the atmosphere and coal dust.

 Relive the past in our 'traditional pretty Welsh Village' purpose built accomodation

Anyhoo, I took Andy out to meet my work mates and some of their mates. Alia and Helen upset the poor lad by talking about looking at the their vaginas in mirrors. The following evening was a far more sedate affair at the Black Swan folk festival, lorded over by Trev, York's premier Ghost Tour leader and the unfunniest man in Australia. He strutted about all night like a retarded Peacock on heat. The Black Swan was the basis for a bit of a get together for some old Yorkian students organised by Sarah and to which about five of us turned up... Sarah had warned me that there would be Morris Dancers in attendance, but thankfully none emerged during the time I was there.

The Horror...

During the day I showed Andy the sights, sounds and colours of York. He found the walls too high for his delicate constitution so I took him through town instead. We bumped in Laura peddling archaeological 'experiences' to unsuspecting members of the public, we also took a ride on a steam train at the National Rail Museum and went in the Yorkshire Regiment's museum because it was cheap. The cheapness was our undoing as we were accosted by some street crazy who seemingly had an illegal collection of Great War rifles hidden away in her house. She followed us around a few exhibits telling me the history of the Great War through the medium of Blackadder. I explained to her and her partner I was a member of No Man's Land and she asked me if I had an interest in the First World War. I told her it was only a passing interest.

 

 Nope, no interest at all in the First World War...

Later on found us sheltering from the rain and looking at the 25lber gun outside the Castle Museum. We were just discussing firing it at Clifford's Tower and knocking one of the corners off (but not without first having recorded it at 1:20 scale, it is a scheduled monument after all, Andy pointed out) when a little lad of about 7/8 years old walked over and the conversation went thusly:

Him: Wow, can I have a look at this gun please?
Me: Of course, it's not mine Kid. Knock yourself out.
Him: Could I destroy the world with this?
Me: Probably not, you might need something bigger, like an 88.
Him: How does it work? Can I blow up a building?
Me: Not without a lanyard and I think the firing mechanism has been welded up.
Him: I'm a child of mass destruction.

You can't make this stuff up...

Tree Lines on my Shirt

It was only the other week that Lauren mentioned to me that the World Cup is almost upon us. Until that point I had managed to ignore it completely. After this moment I started noticing the football themes that are creeping into our everyday lives. I hate football. I hate it with all my pee-pee. I could happily live in a world without football, it would be a world where a news report about the deaths of twelve people in Cumbria after Britain's first spree killing for fifteen years was cut short for live pictures of the English football team getting off a plane in South Africa (as happened this morning). It would be a world were grown men wouldn't cry about the outcome of a game that they had no input into what so ever. It would be a world where conversations between strangers wouldn't begin with 'so who do you follow?' A world without baby romper suits in team colours. A blissful world. I hate the competition of it all, I also hate the chest pounding manliness of the faintly homosexual idea of watching twenty odd young men running about in shorts for two hours. I hate the accouterments that come with it. I hate the fact that the world cup allows the knuckle dragging Daily Mail readers to dust off the St George's Flag and hang it from any available window so the country suddenly looks like a massive Right Wing Rally. I hate seeing cars go passed me bedecked in little plastic flags attached to the doors and covering the windows. 'Oh dear Officer, I'm sorry, I ran down that crocodile of schoolchildren. I just couldn't see them through the MASSIVE FLAG I've stuck to the front of my car' 'That's alright sir, it's the world cup after all, you're obviously a proud patriot, so we'll let this one go.' I hate the fact that for the next couple of months we will have the World Cup RAMMED DOWN OUR FUCKING THROATS by every media outlet. Whether England win or lose, there will be pre-match analysis, post match analysis, intermediate match analysis, everything else won't matter, football will change all the schedules, it will invade our private lives like some Orwellian nightmare, ringing alarms to summon us to raise our flags. I hate the fact that even though you try, you can't escape the fucking thing, you buy a pack of sausages from Co-Op and they have footballs printed all over them, young borderline rapist football 'stars' with too much money leer at you from adverts as you stand in queue in the bank. I hate the fact that all the pseudo-fans come crawling out, the people that don't care a jot about it any other time, but when it's the World Cup we must all be seen to be doing our bit. It's like the Blitz spirit but with Manchester United balls sewing machined together in Sri Lankan sweat shops by six year olds. You must be weird if you don't like it, you shouldn't be in the country if you don't get caught up in the nation's passion. Well, as far as I am concerned,

FOOTBALL CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF!!!

Abolish the Rules Made of Stone

Another weekend; another shit load of alcohol consumed. As undoubtedly you know it was the Eurovision Song Contest last Saturday. The highlight of the musical calendar, the shining moment for Europe (and America in it's Israeli guise) to parade the pinnacle of popular troubadours. This is what the year builds up to and each day that passes means it's one day less to the next Eurovision (362 today...). This is the only legitimate time that one can be racist and get away with it. We can all laugh at the beetroot smeared faces of the Moldovan contestants and feel smug about the out of tune Wops and Diego's. Oh what a night! I usually attend a party of some sort (sometimes just drinking heavily whilst shouting at the TV on my own) and this Saturday was no different. Moogdroog was throwing a Eurovision spectacular at her pile and I was cordially invited. But... before I'd even left my house the Ukrainian Butchers forced a third of a bottle of vodka down me. I was literally threatened at knife point to drink the liquor (well, I wasn't, but it adds a dramatic effect to the story), so I arrived already half cut and the show hadn't even started yet. I have very fragmentary memory of what happened after and had to be filled in on the highlights by Dr Clay the next day. He also presented me with a list of people I had to apologise to, including Chris, Moogdroog's American friend who I had accused of being racist because he'd said Asian girls didn't do it for him. I couldn't even remember who had won the contest the next morning so I must have had a few...

And the winner is... I can't fucking remember...

I was awoken at the crack of sparrows on Sunday morning by the aforementioned Butchers having a rather loud and involved conversation in Russian outside my door. So I was tired before I'd even left for Logan Josh's barbecue on Sunday evening. Again, Clay, Moogdroog and I had been cordially invited into the upper echelons of Yorkian Royalty. We arrived with a sky scudded with black clouds menacingly eager to tip it down on us. It, thankfully, didn't rain but the wind howled and threatened to blow the marquee, barbecue and guests into the Ouse. Logan's wife, Cath refused to allow us to go into the house despite the sub-zero temperatures and frostbite that had crept into many of us, she had barred the doors and windows with furniture to impede our egress. Finally, she relented and the 'wusses' were allowed inside, a title to which I readily answered as I strived to regain feeling in my fingers. I was also brow beaten and chastised for wanting to go home to sleep as I had a two hour car journey ahead of me the following night. Josh fed me more beer than a single human can even take and I eventually got to bed two hours after I got up the next morning.

I think it might need some more coals...

The two hour journey in question was in order to go and see Slayer at Nottingham Rock City. I haven't seen Slayer since 1991 on their Seasons in the Abyss tour, so I was really looking forward to the show. Fuck me, I wasn't disappointed. They were top shit alright, even with Tom Araya's recent back surgery. They played through a few new tunes and then explored their old catalogue for the rest of the show. Angel of Death was a classic finisher.

FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!!!!!