It's a dog's death

I was on my way to the bus stop to go into town for the pub quiz last night. I checked my phone when I got to the stop and because I'd been listening to my MP3 player playing Orcustus at full volume I'd missed a call on the walk. I checked further and saw that it was from that four eyed cunt Salter. Now, ever since that pretentious twat moved down south to Cornwall, he wants nothing to do with the ho-poloi back in the north, so I wondered what on earth he could be calling me for. I called him back and he didn't answer. Curiouser and curiouser, I mused, but let it go, even though the rage was boiling up in me. As I climbed aboard the bus that had just arrived I had the following text message conversation with him:

Him: Sorry, I was playing with the dog and it rang your number again [this outrage has happened before]. It's cos you're alphabetically the first name on the contact list. Would it be possible for you to change your name to avoid a repeat of this telephonic mishap in the future?

Me: I could, but I think we both know what the simpler alternative is. Buy it some real dog toys. Telephones are expensive electronic items and don't stand up to a dog's heavy handed use. Either that or have the dog put down.

Him: I've thought of an even simpler alternative. I've just entered a brand new contact on my list called AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. That should solve the problem. I wasn't sure what phone number to type in for this new contact though, so I just put in yours for the easiest. I hope that's OK.

Me: It may work, I'm still in favour of putting the dog to sleep. In fact I took the liberty of contacting Jaime [his wife] about this and she's in agreement. She's taking potty or whatever you call it to the vets tomorrow. 

I have been swimming over the last couple of weeks. I have been going with Kate and Ali, mostly so they can be my seeing eyes. With my bad eyesight, swimming is a fucking minefield, what with not being able to wear my glasses I am as blind as the proverbial mole. I went with Kate and Ali to stand at the either end of the pool so they can hit me on the head with a stick as I approach and indicate when to turn around. The first time we went, I groped my way into the lanes and got in the slow lane. I figured being fat and old it was probably the best place for me. The pool is divided up into slow, medium and fast lanes. It turns out, I was actually a bit faster than I initially thought and was passing drowning octogenarians like it was nobodies business. I decided to myself that I would swap lanes and announced such to Ali. I slipped under the rope into what I thought was the medium lane. This is where my failing eyesight let me down. Olympic swimmers and half-fish men were passing me at an alarming speed. I was floundering and bobbing about in their wakes, panic set in. I had inadvertently gone into the fast lane. I managed to get myself out just before Duncan Goodhuw slammed into me at breakneck speed. Lesson learned.

A little help?

If you can fly a Sopwith Camel...

I have been working at home this week, so I haven't had the (mis)fortune of braying at Logan Josh and his usual apish antics. I did go to the cinema though, twice, in fact. 'Twice in week? You must be crazy' I hear you say. Well, believe it, baby, because I did! I went to see Hobo With A Shotgun on Monday and then the Congolesian crime drama Viva Riva! on Tuesday. Helen also called over on Tuesday on her way down from Edinburgh. It would appear that my house is now a pit stop and lies equidistant between Edinburgh and anywhere that anyone wants to go. So the cunts line up at my front door to use the amenities. Well, sleep on the sofa anyway. And eat my crumpets. Helen interrupted a get together drink with Chris, Jitka and Ryan and forced her way into the pool team. Even with three against two the game lasted for about eight hours, so we got our money's worth at least. In all seriousness, it was good to see her again, even though it was only a couple of months ago when I last saw her at Lindisfarne.

Speaking of Logan Josh, I saw him this afternoon. He'd manged to find the Holy Grail of soundtracks in Oxfam and sent me boorish and bragging photos of it on his phone. It was the Biggles: Adventures in Time soundtrack on vinyl. Let me allow that to sink in:

The soundtrack to Biggles: Adventures in Time on vinyl.

On vinyl. This was it, this was the big one. Now if you know me like I know me, then you will know that Biggles: Adventures in Time is my second favourite film of all time. Ever. It has one of the best ever songs ever recorded ever in it, Do You Want To Be A Hero? Ever. I looked at the pictures the ape had sent and wept like a baby. This was the kind of item I would gladly give my first born for. I told him so. I shouldn't have because it gave him a position of high ground over me. I should have feigned disinterest, played hard to get, but emotion overcame me and I was caught in a moment of weakness. He said he would be up for a trade of an item of equal worth. Secretly he wanted my Oddball hooded top, but I held out on him until finally he buckled and money spoke louder than trinkets. I have yet to hold the item in my hands, but believe me, it will be mine, oh yes.

Featuring Motley Crue!!

He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named is not the only one to send me bizarre and abusive text messages. During the riots Danny Salter made the mistake of making an inflammatory remark on Facebook, which I told him I'd forwarded to the Police:

You're nicked sonny...

Later that evening I had the following text conversation with him:

Him: There are police helicopters circling above my house. Is this anything to do with your web of lies? You shit.

Me: I hope so, you're going down in fast track justice!

Him: I'm not going down without a fight. I'm going out in just my pants to face the filth. Let it be known that I intend to have 'Alex Sotheran Is A Twat' carved onto my gravestone. Nothing else. Just that.

Me: I hope they tear gas you, like the dirty rioter you are.

Him: I've always loved the police, you know that. I was devastated when ITV axed The Bill. Your filthy hate campaign has brought me to this. I hope you're satisfied, you shit.

Me: I'll only be satisfied when you're getting bummed in prison.

Him: I'm not here to at out your sexual fantasies, Sotheran. They'll never take me alive. Onwards to Asgard!

Then ten minutes of silence, until:

Him: It turns out all the helicopters had RADIO CORNWALL emblazoned on the side. May have been a slight misunderstanding. Slightly regret the little rocket launcher thing. Fuck em.

The Man Who Came In From The Cold

Now I'm back on track, I can tell you what I've been up to this week. The second biggest thing occurred on Wednesday, when I took Sheffield University Archaeology Society up onto a bleak moorland. I arrived ahead of the students and watched as Colin disgorged them from the minibus. He then did a quick about face and sped off into the distance wittering on about some lecture he was supposed to be giving. On a Wednesday? The only day that Sheffield University students don't have lectures? A likely story! He was most likely found staring at Plum Jam in a farm shop for the afternoon. I was on Broomhead Moor under the guise of teaching the students archaeological drawing, it turned into an exercise in separating the wheat from the chaff. Despite being told repeatedly that it would be FUCKING COLD, most of them turned up with only t-shirts and shorts on, along with plimsolls and no socks. I, however, was wrapped thermally in a Heater Body Suit. We filed up onto the moor and I gave brief instruction on how to draw Tumuli in an archaeologically suitable manner and set them about drawing their own burial mounds.

That's a pile of shit! Rub it out and start again!

After about two hours most of them were turning blue, so I took them on a walk about to warm up. We gazed at the prehistoric features of the moorland that Tim had pointed out to me the week previously and I bullshitted them about Bronze Age cemetery siting and intervisibility with the landscape. Thank God none of them knew anything about it, otherwise they would have caught me out... Then it began to snow.

Snowblind!

Up in the moors the snow settles pretty quickly and the poor lambs were having to wipe two inches of snow off their drawing boards every few minutes. An end was called to their suffering and we packed up. Using my expert tracking skills I led the party back to my car where we waited for Colin to return. And we waited. And we waited. Until eventually I had to leave as I was giving a lecture on the Great War in an hour and needed to prepare and feed myself. At that stage we'd already been waiting two hours for Colin, an hour longer than his agreed time of arrival. I hotfooted it to the pub and scampi and chips, this time with salad and no peas. This banquet fit for a King was followed by me delivering what can only be described as a powerhouse performance in front of a packed house. I gave a lecture on the Archaeology of the Great War and the adoration was such, I was carried from the room on the shoulders of the audience amid a standing ovation. Men and women alike were moved to tears from the emotionality of the circumstances. I got twenty quid as well.


But.... The best thing to have happened this week was the arrival of Midnight At The Pylon Cafe by Daniel Lee Salter. It is a compilation of Danny's Pylon Cafe website forum that several of us contributed to for six years (I'd link it, but it was closed down long ago). It's a trip down memory lane for those of us involved and a fascinating insight into the minds of dysfunctional Rotherhamites, scarred by years of unemployment and addled by hallucinogenic drug usage. A must for every bookshelf! I received my copy on Wednesday but couldn't pick it up until Thursday (when I was hoping to God Darren hadn't received his copy and would be harping on Facebook about how he was the first person to read it...). But, Heaven be Praised! Even this delay meant that I was the FIRST PERSON IN THE WORLD TO TOUCH AND READ THE BOOK, including Danny himself!

What you gon' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside that book?
I'ma get, get, get, get you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my book.

The other things that happened this week were I worked for Big Andy where he made me wait for him in a poly tunnel for TWO HOURS, while he fucked off to Skipton on a beano. And Lauren had her 'finishing the Barbican report' drinks. Yadda yadda yadda.

The Phantom Shitpipe

Danny was accusing me the other day of writing boring Blogs. In his description they were all about 'trenches' and not much else. Well since I've been out of work since November, I haven't mentioned trenches since at least then, have I? Anyway Danny claimed that he scans the entries to find his name and doesn't bother reading the rest. With this in mind I'm going to mention Danny all the way through this entry. I was out with Danny on Thursday evening, which is where the afore mentioned conversation took place. I was actually out with Danny, Barber, Bennett, Dean and a previously unknown to me Richard. It was Barber's birthday so we were out to celebrate in fine style. It was during this raucous party atmosphere that Dean told me of the Blog he is writing about the musings during Bennett's daily routine as an unemployed dilettante. Read it HERE, it is updated daily so I suggest you keep coming back and reading it. I told Dean I would link to it to get it more readers in order to wind Bennett up even more, so go for your life kids! After a few drinks in The Bluecoat, we all fell upon Renoirs, which was open for the first time on a Thursday that night. It was student night and being lap-dancing club the dances were cheap. It was decided that we would get Barber a birthday dance. So, Danny, Dean, Richard and I all put money in. In the end we paid about £40 for a single dance from one girl when I was told later by one of the other girls that we could have had two girls dance for him for £20. Bah, that's what being stupidly drunk does for you.

'Hang on, how much are we paying for this?'

Anyhow, I declined any further dances for myself. I'm not really into lap-dancing clubs and only went along as the others were going. This just sounds like a lame excuse, but I promise you it's not. I find it too exploitative on both sides to be paying money to watch a girl gyrate. It's not as though you can do anything anyway, except just sit there and watch. I find that incredibly frustrating. I ended just chatting to the girls, finding out about them. I was chatting to Donna, who's dancing name was Dee (incredibly imaginative...), she was a law student at Sheffield University and in her third year. I was quite content to chat to her about university life, but told her 'I don't want a dance off you, I'm not interested. I'll quite happily sit her and talk bullshit to you all night, but you won't have a penny off me. Since you're working, you'd be better off trying someone else in here.' Which she promptly did. I left Danny and Bennett alone in there and went home after a quick visit to Chilli's for a Chicken Burger. Om nom nom.

'Which particular slice of 'instant heart attack' does your chef recommend?'

Friday lunch was spent in the company of Ninjasaurus Rex and a very disappointing halloumi wrap on his part and I spent last night drunkenly shouting at The Phantom Menace with Dave. We'd both watched separate reviews on tinterwebz about the worst film in the history of man and wanted to see if it matched up with the reviews. You can experience it as well by checking out these links:

Phantom Menace Review 1

Phantom Menace Review 2

Danny.

Genesis of Terror

My call for guest blogs has been finally answered. Daniel Salter, former owner of the Pylon Cafe, more recently of Salter's Travelling Pigeon Loft and finally lodger at Treeton Towers has penned the following tale.

GENESIS OF TERROR

November 23rd, 1990

The stench of woodbines and cheap coffee hit me full in the face as I first approached the front door, and nearly knocked me off my feet into a nearby dustbin overflowing with dead leaves and despair.
Having parked my Sinclair C5 round the corner, and checked my map for exact directions, I had eventually stumbled upon the Sotheran residence with very little difficulty, though a passing old lady had spat maliciously in my face as I swung open the gate, for reasons lost in the gloomy darkness and the fierce wind.
I shut the gate behind me, turned up my collar, and pressed on down the rocky path.
The agency had warned me that I would be out of my depth here but I was too young and reckless to heed their advice. One day, they had said, I would learn. One day.
I pressed the doorbell, stood back, and shivered in the relentless biting cold.
The sound of the first latch being drawn back startled me, and I stepped back further, narrowly avoiding a small mountain of cat shit. I was edgy tonight. I quickly pulled out my hip flask, took a reassuring gulp of White Lightning, and waited for the final latch to be drawn back.

The door slowly edged open, with a piercing howling creak that seemed to rise from the bowels of hell itself. The figure that now stood before me, enveloped in darkness, was an elderly gentleman with a heavily lined, craggy face and a bushy white beard. A streak of pale moonlight illuminated bits of twig and bark protruding from the beard. He observed me with disdain, and sent another icy shiver down my spine. “Yes?” he boomed.
I cleared my throat, and tried desperately to drum up some confidence in my voice. “Mr Sotheran?” I enquired. “I’m from the agency. I’m here about your son, Alexander. You made an appointment last Thursday.”
The tall tree-like figure stared gravely down at me but said nothing. Eventually, he reluctantly beckoned me in, and led me into a dark damp kitchen, lit only by a candle on an ancient wooden dining table. I placed my briefcase on the table, and reached into my inside coat pocket for my business card.
“My name is Daniel Lee Salter,” I said, offering the card to Mr Sotheran. “I’m your appointed representative from the Lifestyle Agency. If you will allow me, Mr Sotheran, it is my intention to become Alexander’s Lifestyle Doctor and move this unfortunate situation forward until we have reached a satisfactory conclusion that all parties are happy with.”
Mr Sotheran grunted non-commitedly, and ignored my offered card, which I placed back inside my coat. There was an awkward silence. The air was becoming thick with heavy gloom, and I began to wonder if I should just make my excuses and leave.
Suddenly, he clicked his bark-like fingers, and a monkey butler, dressed in a dashing red waistcoat, emerged from the shadows. “Take this gentleman to the Lower Basement, he’s come to sort our Alexander out,” said Mr Sotheran. The Monkey Butler nodded obediently, and Mr Sotheran turned away to face the kitchen window. He picked up a box of matches, lit a giant pipe, and stared vacantly at the view. It was clear our conversation was over.


I picked up my briefcase, and followed the Monkey Butler down an endless winding corridor, leading deeper and deeper into the bowels of the house. Eventually, the monkey came to rest at a large pink door. He rapped at the door three times and scuttled off back into the gloom, leaving me alone with my ever-increasing sense of regret and misfortune.
The stifling silence continued to hang over me like a black rain cloud. There was no movement, no sign of life. I took another swig from my hip flask, and opened the door.
A single naked light bulb illuminated a small, untidy bedroom. A giant poster of Cliff Richard had been amateurishly stuck to the dank walls with blu-tac, whilst a row of wonky bookshelves displayed an extensive collection of large oversized tatty paperback books, every single one of which seemed to be about the Eurovision Song Contest.
In a dark corner of the room, a spotty youth with a mop of curly hair was sat on a swivel-chair, staring intently at a green monitor, and occasionally pushing at a joystick that he was cradling in his sweaty hands.
“Alexander?” I asked, tentatively. There was no answer. The only sound in the room was the monotonous drone of what sounded like an aeroplane which seemed to be coming from the monitor.
“Alexander?” I asked again. This time, I moved much closer into the room and found myself in-between the piercing eyes of the youth, and the monitor on which he was so engaged. The effect of this interruption was electric.
“Gaaaargh!!” he screamed, throwing the joystick down on the floor in rage. “You’ve ruined it, you idiot! You bloody bloody shitting idiot! I was going to get the highest score ever and you’ve ruined it!”
He leapt up from the chair and threw himself onto a small bed with a Thundercats quilt cover and matching pillow cases. The only noises in the room were Alexander’s wailing sobs and the continuing drone from the Amstrad Flight Simulator.
I took the liberty of switching off the Amstrad, and sat in the vacated swivel-chair. “Alexander,” I said, gently. “My name is Danny, and I’m your new Lifestyle Doctor. Your father asked me to come and visit you, so that we can work on some exciting new lifestyle changes together, to make you more interesting. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
Eventually, the sobbing subsided, and Alexander sat up sulkily on the bed, clutching a tiny plastic figure of He-Man for comfort. “Well…as long as it doesn’t take too long,” he mumbled. “The Crystal Maze is on in a bit.”
“Our first appointment will only take a couple of minutes,” I assured him. “We can just get some of the basics out of the way to begin with. In fact, let’s start with your name. Do you like Alexander?”
“Yes!” he barked without hesitation. “I’m named after Alexander the Great. He was great, and I’m great too, ask anybody. Ask anybody about how great I am and they’ll tell you.”
“Hmmm. Well, it’s a bit of a long name isn’t it? Why don’t we try shortening it to something more fun and snappy? How about we just call you Alex from now on, would you like that?”
The youth simply shrugged, which I was happy to embrace as an acceptance of sorts, so I pressed on further. “Now then Alex, your father told us over the phone that you want to be a Hairdresser when you leave school, is that right?”
“Yes,” he replied, still fidgeting with He-Man. “I’m good at hair.”
“Hmmm, it’s a bit gay though isn’t, Alex? Isn’t there something else you’d rather do?” I glanced around the room for inspiration, and my eyes came to rest on an Indiana Jones comic which had been thrown on the floor. “Indiana Jones, now he had an interesting job. He was an Archaeologist, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t you like to do something exciting like that?”
Alex simply shrugged again. “Don’t know,” he said.
“Good, good, I’ll enroll you in a course first thing tomorrow morning. Don’t you feel better already? Now then, What kind of music do you like, Alex?”
At this point, the youth’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Cliff!” he bellowed excitedly, gazing adoringly at the large poster. “Cliff Richard! He’s my hero. I’ve got every cassette he ever made.”
His eyes suddenly narrowed. “It was an outrage when he didn’t win the Eurovision back in 1968. His song was miles better than that Spanish crap, everybody knew that. If I had a Time Machine, I would travel back to 1968 and kill all the other contestants to make sure that Cliff took his rightful place as Eurovision King, and saviour of the people.”

“Hmmm. Well to be honest, Alex, I don’t think your father approves of this infatuation with a wimpy Christian virgin. Why don’t we try something a bit heavier?”
I flipped open my briefcase and pulled out a handful of cassettes. “Here’s a new exciting band called Monster Magnet,” I explaining, tossing him a tape. “Put it on, you might grow to like it. And when you’ve finished with that, we can move onto a bit of Norwegian Black Metal, that’ll make you much more interesting, don’t you agree?”
Alex took out a Cliff Richard tape from his dirty black Amstrad hi-fi unit, threw it on the floor, and clumsily inserted the new Monster Magnet tape.
As the first chimes of “Death Bastard Baby Strangling Window Licker” came blaring out of the cheap tinny speakers, I moved onto the subject of image.
“Right then, Alex. Finally, I want to talk about your clothes and your hair. Your pink dungarees and knitted jumper are very fetching, but I think there’s a more stylish and innovative look that we might be able to go for.”
I pulled out a collection of black tops and black trousers and black socks from my briefcase. “Why don’t we go for the nothing-but-black look?” I suggested. “I think that might suit you. Hey, and what about this?” I pulled out a long black wig. “Try this on whilst you’re at it – it’ll do until you’re able to grow your own hair long. That curly mop of yours is so 1973, I’m giving you the future here, Alex.”
Whilst Alex went to hide in the cupboard to change into his new clothes and wig, I briefly turned the Amstrad back on and played his rubbish Flight Simulator for five minutes, easily thrashing his puny high-scores without even trying.
Eventually, Alex emerged from the cupboard and admired himself in the opposite wall-length mirror. It was certainly a striking transformation.
Conscious of the time, and knowing that I had parked the Sinclair C5 on double yellow lines, I brought our first appointment to a close. “I’ll call again next week Alex,” I said, cheerily. “And we’ll work on this some more.”
Alex said nothing but continued to stare into the mirror.
Sensing that I wasn’t going to get a proper goodbye, I packed up my briefcase and made for the door. Something made me turn back and look at my client one last time before I departed. Something felt wrong.
As the thundering noise of Monster Magnet continued to pollute the air, Alex was still staring into the mirror. But his expression had changed. His eyes betrayed a new sense of purpose. A small, almost mocking smile began to form on his lips. “So,” he said slowly, seemingly addressing himself in the mirror. “It begins.”
A sudden chill swept into the room, and an unfathomable twinge of anxiety in my heart. I hurried out of the room, back up the winding corridor, and into the dark, cold kitchen, where Mr Sotheran was still staring out of the window, puffing on his pipe.
He turned to face me, and for the first time, I saw the horror in his tree-like eyes. “My God,” he breathed. “What have you done? In the name of all that is holy, I ask you, what have you done?”
I fled the house, and jumped into the Sinclair C5, never looking back for a second. I knew then that I would never return to this place.
There was a new menacing chill in the air that night, and it clutched at my heart with it’s fierce, icy grasp.
I sped off into the night, as fast as my crap vehicle would carry me, and considered a career change.