One last time before Africa

I leave for Africa later today for two months, but before I do I'm going to leave you with one last post. I'm going to copy Logan Josh and a post he did a while back. Basically I went to my blog's home page and clicked on the 'next blog' link at the top to find out what Blogs are being paired to mine... I tired it three times and the results are frightening...

If you're not wearing a teal headband, what's the point really? I think this was inspired by Julie's sexy 80's high school tennis pic. Anyhow, this was done straight up in Photoshoppe, but who the hell cares??? I'll keep drawing until our new Xbox 360 arrives later this week. . . As per this recent run of figure drawings. . . Robert Conrad.

From: http://milesinada.blogspot.com/

“Change of plans,” Bolan snapped. “Follow me.”

The Executioner turned and raced with the hostage
toward a line of vehicles. A shot rang out behind
them, followed instantly by a dozen volleys.

Turning, Bolan raked the compound with a long
burst from his Steyr AUG. Mandy fumbled with her
pistol, getting off several shots, yelping as a round
stung her palm.

Reaching the motor pool, Bolan chose a jeep at
random, slid behind the wheel and gunned its
engine into snarling life as Mandy scrambled into
the shotgun seat.

“Hang on!” he said, flooring the gas pedal,
barreling through the middle of the camp to reach
the access road—and freedom.

From:  http://readgoldeagle.blogspot.com/

So I still have my two teddy bears from my childhood, Big Ted and Little Ted, and since we had G they've been in his room. The other week we changed out some furniture and Big Ted moved to our dresser during the rearranging. Today, G was extra fussy at nap time so Tammy put him in our bed with her. She was downstairs when he woke up crying. When he calmed down enough to use words he wouldn't move off the bed and kept saying, "Bad bear get me!" and pointing at Big Ted. I'm a bit crushed, as that bear had to be next to me every night for me to go to sleep when I was a child. I blame Toy Story 3 with the evil bear for this... Now I have to convince G that this one is a good bear...

From: http://jtdalton.blogspot.com/

I dispair of humanity, I really do. To cheer myself up I'm going to post a load of pictures of Japanese girls:

And what could be more beautiful than that lot? Well, this:

Suit you sir?

I hate clothes shopping. I hate it more than I hate you, which is saying something. It fills me with fear, just the thought of having to go shopping for more ill fitting, badly made clobber. I can't understand how some people revel in it. It appears to be a hobby for most people, spending hours trawling through shopping mauls looking for that perfect party dress or t-shirt with a Japanese baseball team's emblazoned across the chest. Most of the slavering cunts that wear this kind of shit wouldn't even be able to point to Japan on a map, I'll guarantee most of the mindless shitbags don't even know Japan exists or if it does that baseball is the most popular sport there (mainly through American occupation after the Second World War (who says you never learn anything from the shit I dribble out?)): 'Do you like my new t-shirt, it's got loads of Chinese writing all over it. It says Hanshin Tigers, they must be a footy team or summat...'

Goallllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes these are kind of bottom feeders that spend their free time clothes shopping. I, on the other hand, am able to breathe without having to think about it, so I hate clothes shopping with a passion. Don't get me wrong, I like buying trinkets, I like looking in record or book shops, I can browse like the best in these places, but clothing leaves me cold. Even the shops themselves frighten the bejesus out of me. They are all full of flashing lights and loud banging music, enough to disorientate you so you'll end up buying any old shit in a techno induced miasma. I hate looking at the rows and rows of similar looking clothes trying to find a difference between the ghastly fashion items that are on display. And every shop, nay every line of clothing, seems to have it's own take on sizes. What is espoused as large in one place is medium in another. I don't spend my time taking measurements of my chest, waist, inside leg or arm pit length, so I have no idea how S, M, L, XL, XXL, ELEPHANT, match up to my present body shape. It would be nice to be able to grab a couple of medium shirts and know that they will be the same fucking size when you get them home. This happened to me the other day. Two shirts, both labeled as Medium, both completely different sizes. I had tried them on in the fitting rooms before buying them, thankfully, but it just goes to show that you can't trust clothes shops as far as you can throw them, which wouldn't be very far given the vast size of most of them.

Alright, you got me, this has nothing to do with the content and I'm just using it as an excuse to fill this post with pictures of beautiful Japanese girls, but at least she's wearing clothes. What more do you want?

This brings me to the fitting rooms. What kind of evil mind came up with these booths of horror? What fevered brain brought forth the monstrosity of the changing rotunda? Stepping into that booth is like a medical inspection from Dr Crippen. After grunting and struggling to get out of your own clothes in a space that is purposely designed to be smaller than the average human form, the massive mirror makes you inspect your own shapeless form in intimate and depressing detail. You stand in front of it, sweat pouring down you and your hair askance, trying to make a vaguely human shape. Then you get to try on the clothes you want to buy. Half of them don't even attempt at being the size they are described as in the label, the other half are too short on the legs and arms or too tight on the neck hole. Again more struggling and grunting ensues all to the ambient noise of knuckle draggers complimenting each other on the garments they are also struggling to get into in the next booth. Brow beaten and disorientated by the whole experience I grab what remains of my dignity and pay for the ill fitting outfits, just to get out of the place asap. I hate clothes shopping...

I've no excuse for this one...

Back from the Underground

I finally left York yesterday, but not before couple of fair-ye-well sessions. The first with Claire, Helen and Cath (and Cath's son and girlfriend, who respectively kept their distance. Actually, it was probably more to do with us cramping their style than anything else...). I was hoping Ray, Claire's other half would have come out, but he told Claire 'tell them, I hate everyone except you.' Fair point, I thought. It was a rather sedate affair held at Oscar's bar. The most notable thing about the place, besides the vast mountain of food that they placed in front of us, was the amount of BEAUTIFUL women in there. Holy crap, if I'd known about that aspect of the place I would have spent my Yorkian evenings propping up their bar and leching for all I was worth. But the amount of food we had got me thinking, remember back in the eighties when everyone was eating Haute Cuisine, which basically translates as: No Food. A plate-full of nothing was served up in every posh restaurant across the country. Mind you, with the amount of coke everyone was doing people had no appetite to eat anyway. But all that has changed, nowadays we are served mountains of grub. It's quite obviously an American influence; back in 2004 when I drove across the States with some chums we would go to a restaurant, buy a starter and because it was so big, eat half of it and take the rest home for breakfast! But it now seems to be a competition to see who can serve the most amount of food. Generally I end up defeated by it an leave loads, which is something I hate doing.

Err... I asked for the small portion...

I digress, as usual. The second food related leaving do was in the company of Mr and Mrs Logan Josh. Again, I was cordially invited to their pile on the outskirts of York. Josh had put his nimble fingers to good use and whipped up a delightful curry. Chock full of roast potatoes. It sounds absurd, but it worked. From what I could work out all he'd done was buy a load of McCain's potato wedges, deep fry them then pour a jar of Tesco Value Curry Sauce over them. But you wouldn't know as it tasted delicious! The evening ended in the usual way a trip to Logan's does, ie: drunken Greco-Roman Wrastlin' while Motorhead DVDs played in the background...

You're hurting my face...

I bid my fair-ye-wells to the Ukrainians and drove back to the bosom of my youth and spent Saturday night in the company of Dave and Linzie, where Dave showed me a new song he was working on for Abwehrschlacht. It sounded fucking great, it's just a slight shame that I'll be off to Afrikakakaka for two months this Saturday, so we won't get to record it. Oh well, I'm sure I'll get over it when I go on Safari to shoot Tigers in their faces and wrastle Penguins.

You're dead, you little motherfucker!

Age of Nero the Hero

These posts have been a bit quiet over this weekend as I have been a bit quiet myself. After last weekend's non-stop drink fuelled orgy that turned ugly and spilled out onto the streets of York, I decided that this weekend wouldn't be a repeat performance. Instead I took shelter and hid from the outside world. This left me in the company of the Ukrainians as they never seem to go anywhere at weekends. In fact they seem to arise at the crack of sparrows every day and make as much noise as humanely possible at stupid o'clock in the morning. I'm sure one of them has a road drill in their room they are using to prospect for oil or mine their way back to the Ukraine. At least that's how it sounds to me at 6.00am... They are either drilling or bellowing into their mobile phones in Russian outside my bedroom door. They speak so loud on them that they could really cut out the phone bills and just shout at their relatives in Kiev. They'd still hear them.

Sergei! I think I can hear Fydor calling! Quickly, go get Babushka!

Having slagged them off, I do have to tell you, they are still some of the nicest people I've met. I just get a little tired whilst when making my dinner I have to answer questions about Crystal Skulls and Carpathian Dragons ('No, they are fakes, mostly made in the 19th century, no the dragons don't exist, it was for a TV show.') or I have to fake complicity when they show me Ukrainian metal detecting sites where the spoils of war graves are displayed. Relics ripped out of the ground with no contextual information. I get tired of being asked to watch YouTube videos of Metallica playing in Moscow (what! Metallica played Moscow! When did that happen? I've NEVER seen that footage a million times since when it was released back in 1991!). Having said all that, they made me dinner on Saturday night, some Kazakhstani dish containing some mystery meat (Johnny told me it was dog, whilst making meowing noises...) and fed me beer. I like them, I help them buy their plane tickets and uninsured cars, but I just wish they'd be a little quieter...

At least on Saturday and Sunday mornings...

This is my last week in York for some time, I'm back up on Heslington East for this week and then a week later I'm off on an African adventure out to Tanzania. I'm off to find the cradle of civilisation, or at least the cot of culture, and to do some big game hunting. I hear they have tigers and penguins and kangaroos and pumas out there, so, I'm going to take my rifle and wipe the smiles off their stupid smug faces. However, this week at Heslington East I am teaching school kids the amazing aspects of archaeology. Of all the University workers I am the only one with a CRB check that covers this job. There you go, there's fuel enough for comments. Whilst on site I was contemplating nipping behind the spoil heap for a piss this afternoon but got too nervous about it. I wasn't sure of the implications of pissing out of sight of, but near kids. It's a fucking minefield, all compounded by the fact the local press had just come on site to take photos (of the kids doing archaeology, not me pissing...). I can imagine the headlines in York's Evening Press: 'Slipped Through The Net! CRB Sicko Exposes Himself To York Kids!' They'd drag me to Clifford's Tower and fire me up brighter than Christmas!

I only wanted a piss!!