It's Bank Holiday Monday and I'm not at work. I would actually prefer to be at work, I'm missing out on £140 by sitting here writing this. Having not worked for nearly six months I'd prefer to be out grinding at the earth like a tilling Anglo-Saxon peasant. But at least the holiday means that I don't have to get up at the crack of sparrows to drive the hour to work whilst listening to Lauren droning on and on about Heston Blumenthal's TV program from the night before. So it's not all bad, eh? I've been making good use of the extended weekend by drinking and sleeping. Mainly drinking on my own whilst watching Britain's Got Talent. I lead a full life, I tell you! I cleaned the house on Saturday and as I went around the front room I lifted the cushions off the sofa to find the detritus of the previous occupants of the house. I was amazed at the laziness of the students cunts that populated this place. The sofa was stuffed with crap they'd dropped down the cushion sides and never bothered to get out again. Spanners, decks of cards, pens, pencils, clothes pegs and various tickets/doctor's appointments were jammed under there. What the fuck are people like? How didn't they feel this lot sticking into them when they were sat down?
It came from beneath the sofa...
I did call into York centre on Saturday, ostentatiously to see if Logan Josh's claims of Stahlhelms was true. He'd informed me that The Blue Moon Trading Company was unknowingly selling reproduction German World War One helmets as World War Two items. They certainly were, but the price put me off a bit, nearly £70! I quite like the idea of sitting around watching telly and drinking whilst looking like Ernst Jünger getting ready to raid a trench, but the price was a bit too steep for me. I declined the offer and consoled myself with four AC/DC CDs and four DVDs instead.
'What's on the other side?' 'Errr... Strictly Come Dancing on Ice'
I got myself Clerks, Into The Wild, The Blue Max and Last Tango in Paris. I began watching Clerks the other day and realised a lot of time has passed since I first watched it and it's not actually as good as I'd remembered. Stilted dialogue, over acting and preposterous situations don't really make a good film I'm afraid... Last Tango in Paris was also slightly disappointing, not nearly as good as it has been made out to be, with all the controversy. I also have no idea when 'uncut, uncensored version' can legitimately be claimed as a DVD 'extra'. I haven't watched Into The Wild yet, but have heard nothing but good things about it, and the Blue Max was bought 'cos it's such a good film anyway.
It's a Pfalz, yeah you heard me, a fucking Pfalz!
Speaking of music, as I wasn't, I got hold of the new release of Jaldaboath, if you like Metal, Monty Python and Medieval shit then I can't recommend it enough. Anyone that does a cover of the Rent-A-Ghost theme gets a thumbs up from me... As does this collection of GG Allin CDs/DVD I also got this weekend, WWGGD?
Lauren and I went over to York yesterday in order to view a property that Lauren had found on www.cheapshitholes.com and that we were interested in moving into during our brief tenure in North Yorkshire. When I had looked up the address one thing slightly concerned me. The house was on the edge of the York Ghetto, Tang Hall (also known as Wu-Tang Hall).
Now, as a student I was always warned by my older peers that Wu-Tang was a place of misery. A dark forbidding place, nestling on the extreme edge of civilised York, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting city and flood it with a torrent of drugs, vice and chavs. Only the strong city walls prevented this creeping horror. That and the massive police cordon thrown around the estate. Armed police guards patrolled the front line between Wu-Tang and civilisation, the last bastion of hope amongst the well-to-do York denizens. In this role the Police were not unlike Vlad the Impaler and his defence of Europe against the rolling hordes of Turks in the 15th Century. The Police Chief of York had yet to call for mass impalement of the Orcs that populate Wu-Tang, but my peers assured me it wasn't long off.
Impale some sense into them!
When I actually ventured into Wu-Tang as a student I discovered that I had been lied to. Hearsay and fear had played a part in painting Wu-Tang as a den of inequity where even a wrong look would suffice to be on the receiving end of a good stabbing. Then I realised the people that were spreading these rumours were middle class students used to a comfortable life in the Shropshire Pile waited on hand and foot by servants and butlers. Wu-Tang was a little rough around the edges, yes, there were gangs of roaming kids, indeed, but all it was was a down-at-heel council estate. Nothing more. The people who filled my pretty little head with such nonsense had never been to score drugs in places like Pitsmoor, or got lost after a gig in the centre of Moss Side. No, they had no idea of how bad places can get. Wu-Tang Hall is a slightly scruffy part of the otherwise extremely higher middle class York.
I say Quentin! If we build a club, all the working class men can gather there, drink their ale and beat their wives to their hearts content and never bother the rest of York again!
But this wasn't the reason why I was concerned about the house being in Wu-Tang Hall, I was actually worried that the place would be a shit hole. The estate is full of cheap student housing and as a professional this concerned me. I am now above taking anything that comes my way in order to be housed. I will not settle for mouldy kitchens, draughty bathrooms or bedrooms overlooking the sewage treatment plant. But when we arrived I was pleasantly surprised by the place, it was above standard, tastefully furnished and the only spot of mould I saw was in the front bedroom. There was even a vacuum cleaner for Lauren. We took the place there and then and met Steve for a fish finger sandwich for lunch.
Why does the Captain have fishy fingers?
Arrival at home brought fresh news from the Job Centre. As you will recall, I have been dicked about and punished for attempting to better myself by actually finding work. You will recall my In Depth Review. You will, no doubt, remember that the man who took me through the review process filled in the form on my behalf, asked me to sign two boxes and told me everything had been completed satisfactorily. Not so... After our trip to York, I was presented in the post with the form the bloke had filled out for me with the words 'PLEASE COMPLETE ALL RELEVANT SECTIONS' written in Biro and highlighted on the front page. I looked through it and saw at least nine sections that had been left blank by the guy at the Job Centre which were awaiting my attention. I over turned the table in rage and screamed! How much more of my time was being wasted by the inefficient cunts at the Job Centre? How the fuck do they go through their process of selection of people for employment there? Do they give every one a form to fill at their interview and the ones who fill the least sections in get the job? Are prospective employees given a task of carrying out the simplest of procedures and the ones that fail spectacularly by nailing their hands to a desk or just sit on the floor sucking their feet are welcomed into the position? I am in the process of writing a letter of complaint about this very situation. Watch this space.
Ooooooh!! I could crush a grape!!!!
On a final note, I forgot to mention previously that Hrönn has started a blog about knitting, now I'm not the world's greatest knitting fan but she does make some nice things, so here is a PLUG.
Check this out: On Wednesday I went down to Rotherham Job Centre to sign on as usual on every other Wednesday. This time it was slightly different however. This time I had something to say when they asked 'have your circumstances changed at all?' Yes, I replied, yes they have. I had work for York University on Thursday and Friday. As this was legitimate and going through the books, then I thought it best to declare it. When you sign on you are allowed to work up to sixteen hours in a week and still claim your benefits. As the work was only about fourteen hours I was well within this limit, so I thought I'd do the responsible citizen thing and tell them before I worked that I was working. I told the fat lump of a lady who resembled a big dollop of shit in a hessian sack tied up tightly with string sitting behind the desk about my impeding work. Now, from previous experience I had been told that I would have to get in touch with the Barnsley Office to sort out my declaration of work. The piece of useless crap behind the desk asked me to sign on, then handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on to call and sort out an appointment when I got home. I didn't really look at the number but called it when I got home and the phone was answered by some fucking insect in the ROTHERHAM JOB CENTERE!
The Job Centre: Don't bother trying to get work!
Literally: What The Fuck? I had been there not half an hour previously! I had sat in front of a big pile of excrement and told her I had work, she sent me away with a phone number for the SAME FUCKING OFFICE SHE WORKED IN!! The fat lazy sack of dogshit couldn't be bothered to press the mouse button a few times or pick up the telephone in her pudgy fingers, mash the buttons with her sausage fingers and arrange the appointment for me there and then. I fucking despair, I really do. Office work sucks the fucking life out of people, the Job Centre seems to do more so than any other job. Mind you, working in a place that seems to consist of endless lines of tracksuit wearing fucktards demanding to know where their 'fucking giro' is would be enough to grind anyone down. But for that lazy shitbag to not even bother calling upstairs for me is beyond the Pale. How humanity ever managed to get to the Moon is beyond me...
'Houston, this is Eagle One, come in, over' 'Hello, you have reached the Houston voicemail service, we are all at lunch, please leave your message after the tone...'
Anyway, the job I was doing was teaching York University students how to field walk in a proper and archaeological sense. It was a right laugh, I basically strutted around like I owned the place, shouted at the students to work harder and laughed at them when it rained. I was staying at Anna's place for the night where she fed me a steak as big as MY FUCKING HEAD and gave me sausage sandwiches for lunch on Friday. Happy days.
Om Nom Nom...
But... Whilst in York I was also checking out a three bedroomed house Lauren had found on the Internet. I will be working in York for a period of about three months along with Lauren and we both thought it would be a good idea to get a house for the time we are there. Lauren has a shorter period to work, but the Evil Docktor Clay will move in for the last month as he and I shall be working together again. Allow me to clarify that for you. I need a house for three months. Lauren needs it for five weeks, THEN Clay will move in for the last period. Simple yes? Lauren contacted this house advertised on Gumtree and explained that we needed TWO ROOMS for THREE MONTHS. Simple? I went and saw the house, talked to the very nice Landlady, explained again WE ONLY NEED TWO BEDROOMS FOR THREE MONTHS BETWEEN THREE OF US. She seemed happy with it, I seemed happy with the house. I called Lauren and told her I was happy with the house. Lauren called the landlady to confirm a few things. Now, somewhere in between Lauren initially emailing the woman detailing our needs and me telling the woman the EXACT same needs, face to face, and Lauren calling her the mighty egg whisk of Chaos was applied and the woman told Lauren we were being expected to pay for the whole house; three bedrooms, not the two we had told her we needed and not the two she had agreed to to face to face with me! At the risk of repeating myself, What The Fuck? Didn't she read Lauren's email? Wasn't she listening to me? Was she just smiling and nodding whilst I was talking, but thinking about kittens or knitting or whatever it is that women think about? I told Lauren to tell her to get fucked, we'll find somewhere else. Fucking landlords, they think they own the fucking planet. Well, it's their loss, they could have had money off us for three months, but know they get nothing. Next time I'm in York I've got a good mind to go round and put bricks through their newly installed double glazed windows...
It was after six months of office work (I'm not cut out for inside work. I was like a caged animal..) I moved back to the UK for a job with Cotswold Archaeology. I was supposed to go to Worcester, but instead they threw me into Wales unaware of my Anti-Wales stance. To Four Crosses I was bound for Cedric's Guesthouse;
You can see the site which was under the houses on the right of the picture, the road that runs through the middle of the picture was on the edge of Offa's Dyke. Unfortunately I was on the Welsh side of it, Cedric was a bastard, The faulty kettle he gave me nearly burnt my house down and I couldn't get to Birmingham for a party and ended up getting stuck in Welshpool one weekend, this again probably points towards why I hate Wales so much. Besides that, the crew were brilliant and we cleaned the local pub out of beer every week at the pub quiz. Then Cotswold sent myself and the crew out to Worcester, to this place;
This was in the middle of nowhere and each weekend my housemates would leave to go back to their real lives and leave me alone there. With a twenty minute walk up the drive to the bus stop where there was only two buses to Worcester on Saturday it was almost true isolation. I remember one Saturday morning walking up the driveway to catch the only bus in the morning to Worcester City for the day. There still a five minute or so walk to the top of the drive when I saw the bus go past. It was heartbreaking. Then in an even smarter move Cotswold Archaeology moved me back to Wales, to Trimsaran, near Llanelli
You will note how fucking far away from the main road this place was. I know how far it was cos I had to walk it every time I wanted to get a bus out to the bright lights of Llanelli or Carmarthen. There was a bit of a theme developing with Cotswold Archaeology putting me in places with really long drives. God I hated that place. The only good thing about it was Sam, which turned out to be a bad thing after all. This place definitely tipped me over the edge of unbridled Welsh Hate if nothing else did.
This job was the straw that broke the camels back, I left Cotswold and moved back up north to York, where I spent six glorious months in what I still think was the best place I ever lived, Osbaldwick Village;
Yes, this house was lovely, my housemates were the best and York is where I am generally happiest. It was also in this house that the concept of Ninja Metal was born. The only black spot on this other wise halcyon existence was the couple of months I worked for Network Archaeology on the the big pipeline project that finally broke me as a field archaeologist, and here is where we were housed in Ingleton;
I know what you're thinking "That's just another field. Were you living in tents again?" No, we were living in houses which obviously were not built at the time this photograph was taken.
I went back to Osbaldwick but the joy was not to last however and I was forced to move back to Whiston due to circumstances beyond my control. I was always planning to move out again and then I got a job in Singapore, we all know how that ended, but my time there was spent in Yishun in this block of flats;
The Singapore adventure came to an end and I moved back to my parent's house again, I soon picked up work at the Barbican in York and removed myself to Sarah's bedsit on Holgate road;
I was only there for a short while until I took Craig's room at Precentor's Court;
You will see from this picture, how fucking close the house was to York Minister. The bells woke me up every Saturday morning. I used to hang out of the window screaming 'Shut up you Bastards!!' They never did. Craig was moving out and I moved in with the Violent Alcoholic John Clay. He had this practise he called the 'thirty minute Hate' where would beat me with a broomhandle every evening until he broke it over my head one night. He would then use his fists to pummel me into a bloody mess. He has a different account of it and it can be found here.
I escaped the brutal regime of Clay to Lichfield for an away job for Onsite Archaeology;
This was Pauline's Bed and Breakfast. I never knew madness until I had a breakfast time conversation with Pauline. She would tell us about the ghost cat that haunted the place, you could tell it was a ghost because it's tail 'bent the other way'. I still suffer from sleepless nights trying to figure out what this even means. She once introduced one of the other guests to us as 'Ahmed, he's a dentist.' When she was out of earshot 'Ahmed' told us his name was Daniel and he worked in the Prison Service. Utter, unadulterated madness.
There was another place we staying in Lichfield, but it was only for a short period of time and I couldn't find it on Google Maps so it will have to fade into obscurity. After Lichfield wrapped up I was back up North again to York to help finish off at the Barbican. I moved into Ross's place which he had got after moving out of Precentor's Court;
It was on Broadway in Fulford (Ross always said he was destined to be on Broadway). It was above the Thresher Wine Shop and I was awoken every Saturday morning by the delivery of thousands of bottles of booze for the thirsty denizens of York. It was like the ringing of the Minister bells, but more alcohol related. Ross also had an aversion to putting the heating on and it was a constant battle to get him to turn the hot water on. He used to tell me it would make me a stronger man. I used to tell him to fuck off and turn the radiators on. Sneakily I would put the hot water on when he was out.
Work came up in France for three months on the Finding the Fallen TV series, so I moved back to Whiston in between bouts of filming and again I fell into the easy trap of staying put at my parents house. Picking up work locally made it all too easy to stay there until this present job came up in Iceland, which I took, for better or for worse and ended up living here;
Where I am presently writing this post. Over the next couple of weeks, I shall be moving into this place here;
Which, you may or may not notice is about two minutes down the road from the previous address. Well, there you have it, my life in three posts. I found writing this post pretty interesting and looking for the old houses also stirred up a lot of old memories, good and bad. Maybe you could do it to. Write in and let me know how you got on!
The first place I lived in Ireland was the Wicklow Youth Hostel, for one awful night, then we (Lindsay, Stuart and I) quickly got a place at the Bel Air Hotel in one of their Holiday Homes they had built to accommodate more tourists than the decrepit Hotel ever could. God, that place really stank of death. They ended up giving all the houses over to archaeologists, who are not the nicest of tenants and at least one household was evicted for leaving body paint smeared all over the walls after a particularly messy fancy dress party that was filled with Spanish Transvestites...
The three of us decided to move out for some fucking reason or other, into Wicklow town. Now, I looked and I couldn't find a decent image of Wicklow with high enough resolution, which I guess, speaks volumes about Wicklow Town. You'd know what I'm talking about if you'd ever been. This is the best I could do, with an approximation of the location of the house...
After Christ's Mass we moved back to the Bel Air Housing estate with Angelos and I lived there quite comfortably for six months as the Fresh Prince of Bel Air (OK, OK, I had to say it...), even with the alcoholic presence of American John until Stuart and Lindsay both moved back to the UK and I moved up to Dublin, to Sunbury Gardens;
My God, how I lasted in that shithole for all that time, I will never know. Cheap rents go a long way when it comes to being able to put up with a lack of sunlight and oxygen. I don't think I ever saw natural light in that place and I was lucky not to have got rickets. I ended up taking a job in County Meath and moved over to Trim, to a really nice house in Hamilton Court. Made all the funnier by the fact I was housemates with the notorious Barry Hamilton (Or Harry Bamilton as he disliked to be called...). Again, it speaks volumes about Trim that the best picture I could find of it was this;
We ended up being thrown out of that house after another rather messy Fancy Dress party. I think a fifteen minute eviction is probably a record. I think the landlord had a point, I mean, it got a little out of hand what with one of the guests trying to kick his way into one of the houses over the road, Belgian Paul pissing on the corner wall of the kitchen and Sian and about ten others still partying away at ten the next morning in one of the bedrooms.
So I found myself homeless for a while, luckily Neil offered me a place to stay on his floor at Carman's Hall in Dublin City;
This place overlooked the local abattoir. We knew it was an abattoir because of the massive sign on it's roof that said 'Pig Sticking Plant, Destruction of Life on an Industrial Scale' or words to that effect. I think the Abattoir and the Developers of Neil's block of flats had had a falling out and this was how the Abattoir owner was paying them back. I wasn't sure if I should have mentioned this one, but as I was there for a couple of months then I guess it counts.
I then moved back to Sunbury Gardens, but this time next door, which turned out to be the longest relationship I've had with a house. I was there for nearly two years annoying the Hell out of Mark upstairs with my guitar playing, the Friday nights spent with a bag of a cans, a good Lesbian Vampire movie and the Bombay Pantry on speed dial. The day we discovered there was a rat living under the stairs, Neil and I opening the cupboard doors armed with broomhandle and a hurl to see the trap had gone off and the place covered in blood, but mysteriously.... No Rat! The crazy parties with Kim, Sheelagh, Sian and Gerry upstairs. The three months Aaron spent on my front room floor, after assuring me he would only be there for two weeks. The crazy layout of the place that had the bathroom (which resembled the showers at Auswitchz) joined onto my bedroom. Aaron, again, waking me at six every morning going through my bedroom for his daily crap. Those two years were a whirlwind ride on the circus train that was Sunbury Gardens. There's more to come in Part Three!!
This one and the subsequent postings (I was going to post it as one, but it got too big too quickly...) are going to be a bit of a departure from the previous postings, I'll update about this weekend down the week at some point. I was just thinking today that it would be interesting to see all the places I've lived. For the better part of the past ten years I've been moving from one location to the next following jobs. I started looking for the places I lived in on Google Earth, but because it wouldn't work on this computer (Thanks for nothing, Ace!) I did it with Google maps instead. All the images belong to Google, I just thought I'd put that out there before people start bleating about lawsuits and such. I had a bit of trouble with finding some of the places, memories get fuddled, especially when viewed from above. I also decided only to include places I stayed for an extended period, not on holiday but for work purposes, otherwise these entries would be blocked up with pictures of Ranoake, Tennessee or Fort Stockton, Texas. I haven't included places that I work in France or Belgium as they were only for short periods at a time, neither did I add the place we stayed in in Japan, because it was such a small place I couldn't find it. Enough explaining. I'll get on with it, as I can see some of you at the back getting restless.
I'll start at the beginning, this is the family home in Whiston, Rotherham, I spent about twenty years here. Some of you will know it, some of you won't. Not my problem.
There's a whole lifetime of stories here, but I won't bore you with them, I'll just move onto the first place I moved out to 'The Flat'
The Flat was still in Whiston and was a hotbed for all kinds of illicit goings on. I think the Police raid kind of put a cap on it all though... I moved back home for a short period after the Flat but soon moved out again and off the York to University to get my smarts. The first place was a big shared student accommodation building on Fulford Road;
You'll notice the school at the top of the picture, I remember there being a Summer Fete there one weekend and it pissing it down and I was looking out of the window at it. The PA was blaring 'Hi Ho Silver Lining' and everyone had left the playground to seek shelter inside. I was filled with an immense feeling of sadness. Just like at the end of 'The Catcher in the Rye'. Aahh, The fun we had in this place, Tony setting the Fire Extinguisher off all over me, Rob going at Russell with the bread knife, Bible John smashing the front room up. Great days...
For a period in the summer I spent some time in this field in a tent;
It's Foremark Hall in Derbyshire, where I did my first proper Excavation. Viking Burial mounds, I'd never see their like again... Then it was back to York and into the Stables on Ambrose street;
I don't know about fitting a horse in the so-called 'Stables', but it was a very difficult job fitting humans in there. Student accommodation, you'll settle for anything when it means saving money for BOOZE. That summer was spent back in the field you've already seen and another move in York to Brunswick Street, Brunsvick Strasse as we affectionately called it;
Good house, great location for the horse racing tracks, especially for Jaime as she was addicted to gambling. The following summer I was again recumbent in a tent in Wales, at Castell Henllys.
I'm not sure if this is the exact field we stayed in, but it was close to the Iron Age Hill Fort you can see the entrance to on the left of the picture. Who cares? It's a field in Wales. Actually this probably where my intense hatred for Wales began. More on this later... Then it was back to what turned out to be my final house in York for a while, five years to be exact... Bishopthorpe Road.
This was a great house, but we really took the piss out of the super nice landlords. Mind you, they never insulated the bathroom or kitchen for the winter so I suppose that's Karma. I was only there a few months until I left for Ireland for what was supposed to be three months but ended up being nearly four years. More to come in Part Two...
