That was the weekend that was

Wow, that was a fucking busy weekend. I'd wanted a nice quiet Friday night in, watching Kagemusha and stuffing my face with pistachio nuts and bottles of beer. My plans were thwarted when I got the following text off of Denise 'Me and my friend are coming down from Edinburgh and will be stopping at your place. Not only that, but I've told her you are wild and will show us a good time in York.' What was I to do? The pressure was enormous. I hadn't seen Denise for two years and had never met her mate before. The last time I'd seen her was in Sligo when everyone was coming down from a mountain of pills taken at a beach party. It was time to pull out the big guns and no mistake. I took them to the House of Trembling Madness to meet up with some archaeologists. Despite this, they did seem to enjoy themselves, with the exception of one guy who was an absolute cunt and trying to make an argument with everyone he came across. He was so much of a cunt that Kirk actually told him to his face that he was a cunt. Surprisingly, he was offended by the idea that he might be a cunt. You'd think if you were a cunt and someone told you that you were, it would only serve to confirm your suspicions that you were, after all, a cunt and should start thinking about changing your cuntish ways. Let's just hope that Kirk's newsflash worked in his favour and he has stopped being a cunt now.

Just stop already.

All that besides, Dervla had not only grown up in the last two years (she was able to give and receive hugs now...), but she had been inked upon. She lives in Andover where Chinooks are a common sight overhead and it has now become her lifelong dream to get a ride in one (this dream surpasses her earlier lifelong dream of holding a lamb. Unfortunately this dream has never been realised, so she has had to make do with another one). In an attempt to get a ride in a Chinook she befriended a soldier, who promised her the world (and a ride in a Chinook), all she had to do was endure endless mind numbing phone calls where he asked her what her favourite colour was. Quickly tiring of this she never got the ride she was promised, but then neither did she have to ride the sentry, so all's fair in love and war, I guess. Anyway, I suppose she thought the next best thing to riding in a Chinook was to have one tattooed on herself. Which she did and is without a shadow of a doubt the single best tattoo I have ever seen:

Womp womp womp

No sooner had I waved Dervla and Kristy (as was her friend's name) off, than I was off to pick up Gilbert and Kirky and whisk them away to Posh Bastard's country pile. For nearly a year he had been promising to host a barbecue for us survivors of Engaruka. It was complete coincidence that Gilbert was in town from Kenya for a week, but the barbecue was more spurred on by the fact that Mrs Posh Bastard was having a clear out of her old records and had promised me some Slayer vinyl. Now, I have a passing interest in both Slayer and vinyl, so this was great news indeed and any opportunity like that should be seized upon with great gusto. It took half an hour to drive down PB's drive and we were greeted by a butler upon arrival. PB and Mrs PB arrived moments later on horseback, covered in the blood of the hunt and surrounded by foxhounds that yapped at our ankles. PB seated us outside (an ancient law he quoted; something about proles not being allowed under the roof) until the weather took an inclement turn and he grudgingly allowed us into the West Wing. The food didn't stop coming and I was gripped with meat stroke yet again, for about the sixth time this summer. Not only that but our munching was drowned out with the dulcet tones of Slayer, Metallica, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. Gilbert was taken away by the funniest taxi driver that North Yorkshire has to offer and the rest of us were free to continue drinking like fish and playing shithead, only interrupted by the occasional bellowing of SLAYEEEEERRRRRR!!!!

Posh bastards...

Mrs PB suddenly decided that it was time for everyone to go to bed and Kirky and I were shown our respective rooms, mine was up in the garret of the North Tower, his, a fourth floor lodging overlooking the gardens and the fountains. PB dressed in his finest tweed for breakfast the following morning and piled more bacon on us than the local pig farms could handle. I spent the afternoon lying on my couch in the recovery position watching The Redemption of General Butt Naked until Pins texted me about meeting up for a drink in the evening. She and Dermo were over from Northern Ireland for various weddings and such and were camping close to York. I met the two of them and we ended up in the Punch Bowl waiting for an hour for clap cold food whilst a Brazilian couple on the table besides us beat the shit out of their six year old son. Refusing the food and demanding a refund we eventually ensconced ourselves in the Bombay Spice and had a feast of curry that was only two hours after we had originally decided to eat...

Dead Skin Mask

As promised I have uploaded some photos of last week's trip out to Bridlington.

OK, not Bridlington, but York. The RA were brought in to help reduce the pockets of resistance left in Tang Hall

The most exciting thing to happen all week:  a Sea King went over site.

How site looked when I arrived...

Dave Rhodes rocks, but gently...

Carolyn, the finest stripper the East Coast has to offer...

Coming attractions...

HELP! HELP! I'M TRAPPED! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?

Bridlington knows its audience

 

'I'll take the Daniel O'Donnell pepper pot (I've already got a salt shaker...) and the Meercat figurine, please..'

A fitting tribute to the Hero of Damascus, a sun dial...

...overlooked by a council flat.

When I first saw this, I thought it said 'Wayward Ho'. Promising so much. Then I reread it and wondered what the fuck they were trying to say?
'Go West! It's better than this shithole in the east!'

The bright shopping experiences of Bridlington, just like Milan

Wide European style boulevards packed with cafes serving coffee twenty four hours of the day...

A bustling and lively seafront awaits...

'What year is this? Who's the President?'

Bridlington battles racism

Shadows over Bridlington, Cthulhu is risen...

Children of the corn...

After a week of fucking the site

This weekend I bought a metric fuckload of meat and beer (costing exactly £66.60p!!) for a small gathering in order to celebrate Cap'n Blighty's return from the colonies. Since marrying Pocahontas he has been working as a missionary bringing the Good Word to the Oneida. The news of his arrival drew in Mithras from Middle Earth and Tarquin Sheen from the frozen wastes of Ultima Thule. Moogdroog's highly developed sense of smell sniffed the whiff of burnt meat on the wind and also turned up, banging on the door, demanding food.

With a lack of garden furniture Moogdroog forced me to move the settee out of the house into the garden whilst raining blows down on me. It later lashed it down and my settee is still damp.

Stop hitting me!

Tarquin demonstrated his style of self defence that seems to centre around stabbing everyone before they get you.

I'm gonna fucking cut you!

And as usual with all my friend's gatherings the evening progressed into a drunken orgy of violence and comics.

And I finally brought the evening to a head by demonstrating the Manowar power fist to Cap'n Blighty at 3.00am whilst playing Sons of Odin at full blast.

The following day, we ditched Cap'n Blighty and the rest of us headed out to Wharram Percy to find the deserted medieval village. We searched and searched all afternoon in the lashing rain but we couldn't see no fucking village. The only thing we saw was a bunch of lumps in the ground. There were a few information boards scattered around indicating where the ploughs and sackbuts were kept, but beyond that, there was no sign of a Medieval village at all. It was a right fucking rip off. Well, it would have been if we'd have had to pay to get in.

'Where's the fucking village?!'

I finished the weekend off watching Hidden Fortress again with Tarquin, we both failed to spot Darth Vader in it.

Which ones are the gay robots?

And finally, Captain  Hindsight says 'The last post was NSFW, so don't look at it in a public space.'

Pile on!

I had envisioned a quiet weekend. I was going to get some bottles and sit in with Seven Samurai on Friday. I can't imagine what would have happened, I guess I would have upset one of them during the tea ceremony and would be left with a house slashed to pieces by katanas. But this was not to be, Kirky asked me at work if I'd like to go for a few quiet drinks with him and his mate Ed. I agreed but decided to only have a couple at most. I'm a bit skint until this coming Thursday. I have just changed back to my old job and am waiting on the last payment from the University and the first payment from the present company. I'm also waiting on payment from Hull University, so last week has been a bit tight, but I will be as a rich as a king by the end of this one. So with this in mind, I thought a couple of pints wouldn't hurt the coffers too much. Problem is, I can very rarely have a couple of pints. As was the case here. I got drunk and during lulls in the conversation filled the awkward silences with graphic descriptions of Wolf Bagging, whilst Sarah, Ed's other half, was eating. Speaking of which, she was having Rarebit, the culinary experience of the Welsh (besides fucking leeks). It's cheese on toast. Cheese on fucking toast. Cheese on Toast that costs the better part of £10. How the fuck does that happen? But that's the Welsh for you. Summed up in one culinary experience. Boring.

Ten quid for that? You must be fucking joking!

Then on Saturday Logan Josh summoned me to his side. It appeared he was getting bored with his present company (or more likely, they with him...) and needed a new target for his vitriol. I met him as the last of his previous group were bidding him a lusty adieu and I continued as the previous evening's theme had demanded. We spent many an hour in the Golden Slipper discussing the finer points of the Kriegsmarine. Again, I soon found myself stumbling through the lonely streets of York, broke and drunk. This is beginning to become a habit, I thought. Or at least I think I did. I don't remember what I was thinking. Too drunk, see.

I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody

Then to round off the Bank Holiday weekend the Great Apes of Huntington threw open their cage and invited all and sundry for a barbecue. I began drinking at three in the afternoon and didn't stop for nearly another twelve hours. During this time, one of Logan and Mrs Josh's more boorish friends, Paul, lambasted me the entire time. We argued about the Pogues' version of The Band Played Waltzing Matilda (I bested him with a quickly thought out argument about tin hats not being issued to the British Army before 1916. One to me.), we argued about the location of Brinsworth and it's position next to the M1. We argued about a great many things, most of which I barely remember. I think he likes me. He even revealed that he was writing my biography and was only at the party to make further notes. Apparently, I'm from Brinsworth and not Whiston, as I had always thought. A large amount of the afternoon was also spent acquiring meatstroke, by forcing as much animal product into my gaping maw as possible.

'Oh God, someone else is wearing the same outfit as me!'

Later on, I spent some of the night admiring Josh's record collection, his Geoff Love album was a thing of beauty. I have never seen one in such good condition. He's a lucky, lucky man. Mrs Josh battered the survivors of the outside party with shots of Eau de Vie, it seems she'd syphoned off a tractor in rural France and presented it to us as an alcoholic beverage. I woke up in their spare bedroom with their snores and farts from next door rattling the walls as though I was in Dresden during Bomber Harris' redecoration of the place. This morning found us wading our way through yet more meaty goodness that was leftover from the previous evening. A great hangover cure.

Breakfast's ready...

I forgot to mention this in the previous entry about Triples. On the bring and buy stall we found EBay, the Card Game. I think it speaks for itself. Right, I'm off to see if I can find a copy on EBay...

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...

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!!!!!!!!!!!

Donuts of Shit

I've been pretty quiet of late as I've been busy what with one thing and another, last Wednesday I spent a lovely day in the company of Kate, which nothing could spoil. Not even the biggest shit storm of madness that has occurred in the last two years. I have to tell myself I don't miss her.


Work has been anything a shitstorm. It is literally one of the best jobs I have done for a while, since, erm... last September anyway. I was playing the nice supervisor last week, I bought a load of donuts for my team and put them under a bucket for them to find after first break. They were ecstatic. Then later I had to send, let's call them, Student A and Student B off to another area to help clean an area for Andy. When they came back Student A and B asked me to buy them a pint in the pub after work, to which I initially agreed. I then thought about it and said no, I'd already bought them donuts, to which Student A said 'Yeah, but they tasted like shit!' There's gratitude for you.

I did a Google Search for 'Shit Donut' and this was the first picture that came up. So it is used to illustrate my point...

On Saturday John, Cleo and I hosted a Barbecue, to which all of York's Medieval PhD students were invited. I needed a break from Nerdom so I invited my Sheffield buddies along to bring up the cool quota. Lauren, Steve and Kate tipped up, along with Bob, Craig, Marcus, Alix and Sarah. The rest were John's (and Cleo's) friends so I had nothing to do with them. In the event, my mates proved how cool we were by NOT leaving the party at eleven o'clock on the dot to stress about how much work they could have done had they not been out enjoying themselves. I spent most of the time in charge of the grill and topping up my sunburn from the flames. The evening progressed into a drunken orgy of violence that spilled out onto the street and ended with three houses being burned down on Scarcroft Hill, including ours.

Scarcroft Hill 3am; 31/05/09 The Police move in with Tear Gas

A Sunday afternoon Craig, John and I headed out to Whitby for the remainder of the afternoon as it was so nice. Craig and I had to literally drag John away from his laptop to come and enjoy the sunshine. After we had secured him in the car we arrived in Whitby to be promptly captured by Algerian Pirates and placed aboard their ship where we were transported to the Barbary coast for three years living as white slaves.

Craig laments agreeing to come to Whitby with us. Mainly due to the incessant sea shanties than the slavery

We managed to revolt against our master (taking our tips from the screening of Spartacus last week, without the bummery...) and took control of a schooner and made it back to Whitby, where we continued our tour of the town. We climbed the hill to the Abbey where John and I had an icecream covered in 'Dracula Blood'. Whether it really was Dracula's blood or the blood of one of his victims we never found out. After gorging ourselves on blood John miscounted the 199 steps as 198 on the way back down from the Abbey. I assumed that one of the steps had been removed for repair. Finally pausing to play in the arcades I managed to win myself two tins of peppermint sweets and a key fob tin with a smaller key fob in it for the princely sum of £2 on the two penny pushing machines. I remember one time years ago, when Carl tried to win a Spice Girls key fob which he had become fixated with in the same machines. He ended up spending ten pounds to get the thing out. Who's smashing society now, Carl?

Trophies of the hunt!