Gods and Monsters

This week has been characterised by a Medieval-deal-breaking growth* on my back. I went to a walk-in clinic to find out what was wrong with me and started explaining the situation to the nurse and said it would be easier if he just looked, so pulled my shirt up and the nurse went' ooooh!' I retorted 'don't say that! You're supposed to make me feel better!' He even went and got a second opinion and when she saw it she also said 'ooooh!' I went there to get better, not to be treated like a circus freak. Anyway, it was an abscess that finally burst on Friday night after I had two days off work because of lack of sleep from the pain.

It did mean that I got to go to Becky's party on Saturday to say goodbye as she heads off into the sunset of Canadia. It was a good party despite not being able to drink. It also meant that I went along to the Movie Buff's fair at the Royal York Hotel on Sunday afternoon, in the company of Logan and Mrs Josh and Nathan. To call it a 'Movie Buff' fair was a little (ahem) unfair (ahem), it was more like a Star Wars car boot sale. It would appear that the only movies ever made were Star Wars and Doctor Who judging by what was being sold. There was also York's premier Captain Jack Sparrow look-a-like on hand, along with the Riddler, fat Superman and  a female superhero I am unfamiliar with, but from the tightness of her costume I guessed her name was Camel Toe. I think they had been provided by Hullywood Entertainment, it took about an hour before the name made sense... I actually bought two LPs, the Taxi Driver and Ran soundtracks, so I came away with something.

Logan and Mrs Josh roll into town...

I arrive in style...

Logan was busy stuffing his little bag full of movie related trinkets, and I was with him as he made a purchase of a Katee Sackhoff photo (she's from Battlestar Galactica, he's obsessed with her). The chap who's stall it was, was also offering a 'One time only and unique' opportunity of purchasing, for the amazing price of £120, Sian Lloyd's ACTUAL HAT from her time on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. Really, why would you want that? Maybe except to sniff the headband and pretend that you have actually touched a woman, rather than face the grim reality of your virginal life spent living in your parent's basement surrounded by original packaging Star Wars figures.

'Hooray!! I can get out of the basement for the day and meet like minded people and buy celebrity sweat infused items for my collection!'

I digress. Josh and I were chatting about him (Josh) putting a bid on Jet from Gladiators' leotard on EBay when the stall owner's ears tuned in and he slid over to us. He introduced himself by saying 'have I talked to you before?' We were stunned, but he continued by describing how the pictures he was selling had all been gathered by himself and he'd met all the people who's signature he was selling and had pictures of himself and the signatory to prove it. These were being paraded as some form of provenance for the signatures. This explanation went on for about five minutes and started to get uncomfortable, especially given that in all of these 'provenence' photos the guy had the exact same stance and expression on his face. Photoshop is a wonderful thing... Josh handed his money over for the picture and the transaction dragged on even longer when the guy started talking about the guarantee of authenticity he had printed up. He told us he had to design new ones because the old ones had his address on and he would have to change them if he moved house. This begged the question, how often does he move house and for what reason? Are the stars who's signatures he's selling after him? What crimes against Hollywood stars had this man committed? Again he gave us the provenance spiel and told Josh he would email him the picture of himself and Sackhoff to prove he met her and it was her signature, despite not taking Josh's email address. He then finished the transaction by telling Josh the picture he was buying had actually been bought from a separate dealer and in fact the signature hadn't even been gathered by himself anyway... We finally extracted ourselves from his grip and went to the York Tap for a debriefing and a de-nerd session.

Trophies of the hunt...

On the way home I saw this homeless Stormtrooper, reduced to begging after the Rebellion destroyed the Death Star and his livelihood:

*Becky's words, not mine

It's all mine!!!

Finally after months of waiting, I get this beauty in my claws, it only cost me a dearly cherished childhood heirloom in exchange. Logan Josh doesn't know what he has given up:

Amongst the amazing music on offer, it boasts the two following masterpieces:

I own this and you don't, that makes me better than you.

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.

Time, Gentlemen

Friday night was the bi-millennial On-Site drinks do. About three years ago Kate had cast the Runes and they had indicated this date and as fortune would have it, the stars were also in alignment (for the first time in 10,500 years). So it was decided that we lowly few, we band of bastards, should gather on the field of conflict and drink as much as humanely possible. Getting the crew from On-Site together to drink is such a painful task that it only occurs rarely and even then the full compliment of twits is not realised. Berny needs to get a babysitter (for himself), Brucey is off dropping children all over town at various Rainbow Brownie meetings, Ryan is up to his nuts in guts, Kate has been told the wrong fucking time, Logan Josh is off at some non-existent 'gig'. It's just too hard for one person to handle from an organisational point of view. It's akin to handling the logistics of the Afrika Korps and their landings at Tripoli. We had a date, as decided by the Gods and held on to it for our lives, come what may. So it was with certain trepidation that I approached the Maltings wondering who would be in there, or who would even turn up at all.

You sure we got the right day?

I shouldn't have worried, approach to the Maltings netted us Kamil and Berny, lurking in the streets like Burke and Hare. Upon arrival, I immediately saw Sir Stanners setting about a ruffian with his swagger stick. After clubbing said hooligan to the floor, Stanners (half cut from three days binge drinking) greeted us (Myself, Lauren and Steve, making a guest appearance. That's Lauren and Steve making a guest appearance, not me. I'm not a guest, I'm an employee. Oh, never mind) and the rest of the cunts duly filed in. We drank, we swore, we drank some more and by and by Logan Josh appeared as if out of nowhere. The bouncers wouldn't let him in due to his appearance and we made plans to meet him at the Akhorne. In the Akhorne were various people I'd met at Josh's birthday party, albeit not in military uniform this time. I spent my time there braying at Barry's muscle shirt and talking to Mrs Josh about buying cats. Despite a protracted argument with Josh about the logistics of 'all coming back to mine' rather than 'all getting a fucking taxi into the middle of nowhere (Huntington), getting pastis forced down our throats and then having to get another fucking taxi back on ourselves back to mine', myself, Lauren and Steve crashed out at some ungodly hour, drunk as cunts. Meanwhile, Stanners followed some young doris back to hers waiting for the rohypnol to kick in. A good night was had by all.

Thank fuck that's over for another forty years...

I was also on Telly again the other night, only as a photo though. Blink and you'd miss it, but follow this link below and I appear in the first fifteen minutes. I wouldn't bother with the rest of the show. It's shit and I'm not in it.

HISTORY COLD CASE: THE YORK 113

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...

Each time I looked around the walls moved in a little tighter

Have you ever taken a journey into the darkness? A voyage into the lowest utter depths of depravity that humanity has to offer? Have you stared into the abyss and instead of pulling back, fallen into the maelstrom that is waiting to consume your humility and sensibility? No? Well, on Saturday night I did. This particular Heart of Darkness was centred in the tiny hamlet of Huntington and the den of iniquity that is Logan Josh's house. In order to celebrate his shuffling ungraciously another year towards the inevitability of death, Josh threw a 'party'. A 'party' in the loosest of possible descriptions. This was a homage to the Great Man, inasmuch that I am a little man, a little man. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across floors of silent seas...The few were called upon to share this rapturous performance of the epic film Apocalypse Now. The dress code was 'full retard' and Josh did not disappoint. Mind you, every Saturday is only an excuse for him to 'Black Up' whilst drinking copious amounts of beer and squawking at the TV. This being his birthday party changed that outlook not one bit. There were just more people in his house this time.

They were gonna make me a Major for this, and I wasn't even in their fuckin' army anymore.

Moogdroog came along for the ride up the river and as the theme for dress up was the Vietnam war, decided to go as a victim of napalm bombing. Worried about the lack of taste in the costume choice, I told her 'this is Logan and Mrs Josh. They have NO taste!' Saturday morning was spent discussing the finer details of creating third degree burns with the ladies behind the counter of the Festival of Fun costume shop. Their advice was taken on board and we came up with a suitable look for Moogdroog;

We train young men to drop fire on people, but their commanders won't allow them to write "fuck" on their airplanes because it's obscene!

The party? I recall very little. I remember watching a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor and surviving. The bullshit piled up so fast in Huntington, you needed wings to stay above it. We were surrounded by Pagan idolatry, I used to think if I died in an evil place, then my soul wouldn't be able to make it to Heaven. But now? Fuck! I mean, I don't care where it goes, as long as it ain't there again. Only a mad man would construct a PBR in his front room. The horror, the horror.

Never get off the boat...

Friday was also a similar inebriated experience. I met up with Kirky and Posh Bastard from my stint in Tanzania. They had organised a drink together and had tried to keep it quiet from me, but I found out about it and decided to spoil their fucking fun. I did it in fine style by getting drunk and insulting both of them until they cried like babies, just like in East Africa. After stumbling about town for about an hour I found myself at Moogdroog's house whereupon I battered down the door and argued with her friends about absurd Great War myths. Again, job well done.

WRONG!!

This week at work, Gevi and I have been encased in a metal panelled fence as we work out the sequences of Roman wells. It's like a breeding pen and we are the subjects of some great experiment to see what is produced when two people are locked up together in terrible conditions for long enough. As the ground workers pass us by we scream 'they don't feed us!' at them, then continue rutting like dogs. One day this dig will be over.

The horror, the horror...

Is this how it ends?

Puberty is a hard time for anyone, that change over from being a child to becoming an adult. It's a major upheaval, not only physically but also mentally. It explains why teenagers are such whiny little cunts. But not many people know there is another similar change that happens as one grows older. It is less well known as a lot of people drift into it without thinking, but if like me you've been putting it off for as long as possible the implications are magnified beyond all reason. It involves furniture.

The horror, the horror...

I recently moved into an unfurnished flat, I think this is the first time this has ever happened in my life. Even though I've pretty much lived on the road and probably lived in more houses than are in the average village, I have never had to buy furniture as the places I have lived were usually stocked up on seating implements and such. The first two days in my new place I spent sitting and eating my dinner off the floor. It felt like being in a refugee camp, I was expecting soldiers to come in at anytime to move me along with news of the enemy army following hard on their heels. This problem was quickly overcome by the purchase of a couple of sofas and a small table. Along with this I bought some other bits and pieces. The flat began to look like a real home. But, there were still things missing. Number one was a bed. I have a bed, don't worry I don't sleep on a piss stained mattress in the corner of a filthy room. No, I have a bed, which on loan at the moment, but I needed a more permanent sleep facility. I went online at IKEA and bought one along with some more things for the house. This is when I started to realise the change.

The begining of the end...

It was a Saturday afternoon. I'd popped into town to pick up a few sundries, you know, a spot of lunch, some Glen Cambell records, some books on Nazi uniforms. The usual stuff. Everything was going according to plan, but suddenly I stopped in my tracks! It was though a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I had, as alcoholics are want to name it, a moment of clarity. I was standing in the fucking furniture department of Barnitt's store. Until that moment, I didn't even know Barnitt's HAD a furniture department. My guard must have been down and I'd wandered unconsciously into the store and found my way to where the beds, tables and settees were located. I hadn't meant to go there. Furniture was the last thing on my mind, I mean how the fuck would I be able to carry a double bed back to the house with only one pair of hands? How did this happen? I'd caught myself musing idly about how nice a magazine rack looked and how it would compliment the other items of furniture I already owned. The price was right as well. I MEAN, COME ON!! A FUCKING MAGAZINE RACK?? I'd just literally cast a glance over some wooden door stoppers. What was I thinking? Who makes these things? What fresh Hell was this? The moment I came to my senses, I made for the exit as quickly as I could, sweat pouring off me from fear. I flew out of that place like a demon and nearly collapsed in the street gasping for air. Something has changed in me. I don't know what it is, but I don't like it. I have never given furniture a second thought before. I am becoming an adult?

Noooooooooooooooooo!

Speaking of useless furniture items, I went back to the Ape pen last night, Cath had invited me over for a  Sunday roast, Tim was against the idea, but the matriarch's will is stronger. The dinner was passable. I had to sink my own body weight in booze before I could stomach any of it, but during said dinner, an object was produced that made me baulk and wish I'd never been born. It was the French equivalent of the wooden door stopper; a cocktail stick holder made in the shape of an owl. Yes, really. I will allow you to ruminate upon that piece of information: A COCKTAIL STICK HOLDER MADE IN THE SHAPE OF AN OWL. How happy I will be when the balloon finally goes up and humanity is reduced to fighting over coloured pebbles and clean water.

Cunts Dined With Me

Regular readers may remember that before Christ's Mass I had the fortune to become ensconced within a tribe of Great Apes. I spent a long time studying the behaviour of these unfortunate creatures and was able to contribute to science with my findings. Fortune favoured the brave once again last night as the creatures were released into human society and I was able to provide them with lodgings for the evening. Knowing their dietary habits already (ie Thursday being 'Curry Night'), I provided a mouth watering curry avec poppadoms. It was a brave step, allowing these beasts into my house, so I brought along a companion, Moogdroog, who was to serve as official war artist. I wasn't sure if the creatures were sufficiently house trained, but science calls and I bade them welcome.

'You may release the chains, the beast is placated with Becks'

Once over the threshold the patriarch ('Tim') began making his presence known by waving his horse's head handled cane around the place willy nilly. The matriarch ('Cath') bemoaned the decor and inspected the contents of my fridge. After placating both with bottles of beer I drove them into the front room after a quick tour around the West Wing and guest bedrooms. I fed the pair and they seemed to like the fare, although 'Tim' displayed his usual distaste for vegetables by leaving red pepper lumps on his plate. Moogdroog finally turned up after 'Tim' had eaten all the food in the house, leaving her with nothing. Thankfully she had already planned ahead and feasted on chips and wine. Then the evenings entertainment got underway.

You will have someone's eye out with that... Too late!

I discovered that there is only one thing the West Yorkshire great apes appreciate and that is rudimentary beat combos such as Black Lace. It reminds them of the Working Man's Clubs of their homeland. They are also partial to the tribal sounds of Rusty Lee. Her 'Invitation to Party' certainly got the dance floor moving. Realising I was onto a winner I tried out Geoff Love's Big Disco Sound Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. This had 'Tim' whooping for joy during the Star Wars cantina band section.

Tranquilise the Beasts!

The evening drew to a close and the zoo bus arrived to whisk them off back to their pen in the wilds of Huntington. In their time in my house, they had consumed 15 crates of Becks lager, 25 bottles of white wine, 18 bottles of Red wine and 16 bottles of Tesco's finest Cava. I fought the hangover by staying in bed this morning. I was to have a bed delivered from Ikea, but had misread the order and the thing was being dropped off NEXT Friday... So with my tail between my legs I went to work for the afternoon, missing chip day by a whisker.

What day is the recycling?

I started teaching this week as well. I battered my students with four years of war compressed into two hours. They were glassy eyed, dumbstruck and tearful by the end. Job well done I think.

Come Die With Me

I've been watching a lot of Come Dine With Me of late. It's the sleeper hit of 4OD. I don't watch it for the cooking, I don't watch it for the party tips, neither do I watch it for the competition. I watch it because of Dave Lamb, the narrator. His caustic remarks could strip the paint off of a fence. I sit watching it wondering why the fuck anyone would put themselves up for such public humiliation? It's been on telly for over twenty series, surely the cunts that go on it know what they're letting themselves in for? They must have seen it before they sign up for it. Do they delude themselves by thinking Lamb will not pick up on their strange habits and ways? Do they think he will take them into his heart and be nice to them? Whatever the fucking idiots think he generally kicks them when they're down. He's my hero.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?

It got me thinking, all this Come Dine With Me viewing, what kind of party would I throw if I ever got on the show. Well you get a budget of £125 to spend on your meal, this I would pocket and try to do it as cheaply as possible. Crisps are a nutritious (when enjoyed within a healthy diet) and tasty snack, so they could be the basis for my meal. As a starter I would serve a few bowls of Prawn Cocktail crisps. I would write it on the menu as 'Crunchy Prawn Cocktails!' so the fucking idiots that came round would be none the wiser. Next up is the main. Again, bags of crisps can be very filling, maybe some Bacon Flavour Wheat Crunchies mixed up with Quavers would become 'Cheesy bacon surprise!' For the vegetarians amongst the diners I would provide them with 'croustilles de fromage et l'oignon'; a packet of Cheese and Onion Walkers. The pudding is more tricky, but I would serve several bags of Boots Own Brand Yogurt & Mint Crisps. Bam, Yogurty pudding right there! All washed down with a four pack of Stella! A definite score of ten all round!

'I FUCKING LOVE CRISPS, ME!'

Anna came round last night and forced me to exceed my bandwidth by making me watch more CDWM. This wasn't the only time she's been round this week. Last Tuesday she rocked up at my doorstep demanding to be fed. Thankfully I had some food on the go already so gave her the lion's share of that before blows rained down on me. Saturday was little different, I had cooked a curry and she'd got wind of it. Before you could say 'Chicken Jalfrezi' she was banging on my door and screaming that she wanted my 'fookin' food, you four eyed cunt!' I dutifully invited her in and she insisted on me helping her drink two bottles of wine and half a bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum whilst watching Gorky's Zygotic Mynki and Hawkwind videos on Youtube. How could I refuse? I am in fear of what that girl could do next!

It's amazing what growing up in a small Welsh village mixed with a parent's 70's vinyl collection and handfulls of magic mushrooms can do...

I awoke this morning eerily without a hangover. I'm writing this still waiting for it to kick in. It still hasn't and it's freaking me out. I was up early to collect Ninjasaurus Rex from the station as we were to attend Nerdfest 2011, also known as Vapnartak. It's a big wargaming event here in York. I'd not been to it for ten years and back then it was in the Merchant Adventurer's Hall. It had three trade stands, four display games and a man dressed up as a Fallshirmjager brandishing an MP44 at the public. It was unrecognisable today, it has grown out of all proportion, like a Lovecraftian beast taking over the Racecourse. There were even Jousting reenacters galloping around the paddock to tilt at one another as they passed every five minutes. There was about a million games in progress, four trillion trade stands and countless numbers of fat balding middle aged men panting over 15mm high toy soldiers in Einsatzgruppen B uniform. Logan Josh and Anna were both dragged along to make up the numbers. Both suffered terrible shock at the mass of Nerdism on public display. Josh was stunned into silence (for once) by the horror of it all. He was all excited about it when I mentioned it a few weeks ago. Now he will wake up screaming at the memory of grown men arguing about the correct buttons used on the coats of French Voltigeurs during the Battle of Borodino. Anna took it much better, she was a willing participant in finding out why Peter Pig is called Peter Pig. She even bought some figures; King Alfred and his burnt cakes or something. Mr Rex and I are much better versed at these events and took it all in our stride, engaging the nerds with chats about new figure ranges and fat Americans wearing tiny t-shirts. I came home, nerdy but happy with a bag positively brimming with a game, a t-shirt and some plastic Russian tanks. Happy Days.

Oh God! The smell! The smell!

Buy for the Future!

I have just returned from a shopping experience at Morrison's and regular readers and those that know me will know I am a tolerant man, I don't allow much to wind me up, but today is different. Having just spent an hour standing behind couples staring at fish fingers wondering whether to buy the tuna friendly dolphin flavour ones or the lungfish flavour ones, I have come with a new way of shopping. Pay attention this is the future!

Every Little Helps...

The customers (or drones, if you prefer) will be brought to the site of the supermarket (now renamed food factory) on special monorail transport, each carriage of which will have separate compartments big enough to house one drone. From the moment they step onto the monorail a door will close behind them, therefore trapping them until released by the robot driver upon arrival at the food factory. The drones will not be released simultaneously but one at a time allowing each drone to step off the monorail onto a moving walkway, again with individual places per drone. I'm not sure how the drones will be fixed in place here, but it might involve magnets, which would require everyone in the country to have metal sheeting inserted into the soles of the their feet at birth. This moving 'walkway' will carry the line of drones into the opening of the food factory and stop them in front of a computer terminus. At this juncture the drones will punch in their requirements to sustain them for another week. It will be a simple menu, with little choice, ie, wholemeal bread, multi-grain bread, kibbled bread, rye bread and fruit bread will be under the single button marked 'BREAD'. Choice confuses drones. It confuses and frightens them. The less choice the better. People operate quicker when there is less choice. So you would have a computer screen that looks something like this:

Press your buttons now!

Obviously this is still a work in progress, I feel that there may be too many meat and vegetable choices. But not to worry, the future is still ages away yet, so we've got time to work on it. The drone would have five minutes to press each button the appropriate amount of times for each product they wanted. Then they press done. After five minutes, whether the drones have finished or not the walkway will whisk them around the shop. First stop will be a machine that fits a shopping basket to the drones front, again, maybe through magnets and more invasive surgery. The computer will have worked out which drones want what from the computer terminal they were standing in front of and will stop in front of the large vending machines that make up the food factory. The food will be packaged in a similar way to this:

Om Nom Nom

Each drone will have their choices dropped into their baskets and when all have been thus served, the walkway will transport all the drones to the checkout, where a computer scanner will minus the cost of the food from the amount of work hours the drones have stored in their implanted computer chips that are stored in the frontal lobes of the the drone's brain. They earn this virtual money by spending the week working in munitions factories to feed the on going war with America. Yes, this my friends is the future of the shopping trip as we know it! Hopefully it won't be long off now!!

Keep the eating! Keep them fighting!!

I went to see Black Swan on Friday night, here is a film review ala Logan Josh:

Natalie Portman plays Nellie Deane, a country secretary who comes to the big city in search of fame, fortune and gold dust. She immediately falls in with a bad crowd at her work place and swiftly loses her job by setting off the smoke alarms with an unauthorised fireworks display in the boss' office. Losing her income means she loses her penthouse flat in the heart of the city and has to move in with her on-off boyfriend Crash Barfight (Bob Carolgees sans Spit the Dog) in the suburbs. Portman befriends the neighbour, a Mexican cleaner who doesn't speak a word of English (a beautiful portrayal by an uncredited Esther Rantzen). Portman and Rantzen embark on a series of moral crusades against the uncontrolled and illegal fishing of the River Hudson by the Mafia. The city government previously having turned a blind eye to Mafia bosses throwing grenades into the river to farm the livestock and sell the catch to nursing homes for hyper inflated prices. Portman and Rantzen change this blinkered view and also eventually win over the hearts of the mafia bosses, Portman marrying one of the 'made guys' in the process. Carolgees returns to the scene however and attempts to upset the apple cart by literally upsetting an apple cart in the street. It is his metaphor for his undying love for Portman. She realizes she married the wrong man and uses her mafia connections to have her husband killed so she can return to the arms of her former lover. They marry and live happily in Montana farming cats.

'Four Stars (out of 100)' Daily Bugle

'Weak and emasculating' Metropolis Daily

'A fine cast let down by a weak script' Gotham News

Listen In Awe As You Hear Him... Scratch At The Door...

In this edition, like all the best glossy magazines, I present a photo montage of last week as seen through the eyes of the camera. It will shock and appall you, it will surprise and repel you. You will be weaker for having witnessed it. You will be dehumanized. No longer will you be allowed to sit on a jury. A trail of weeping wrecks of humanity shall follow in its wake. Sit back and gasp with horror as you witness life as a modern field archaeologist...

Berny arrives in the morning with his worldly possessions...

And immediately has his breakfast...

A professional approach is the key word in the work of a field archaeologist...

A little bit of gentle persuasion gets the motor going...

'Stop taking fuckin' photos of me, let a man paddle shit in peace.'

In other site related news, I have been staying on Logan Josh and his wife's reservation for the past week. Not that I've seen much of the house having being locked in the garage for the duration. They tell me it's something to do with the cats not being spayed and that they may give me some cat related illness. That I can accept, but why they have to confiscate my car keys, steal my shoes and chain me up to the wall is beyond me.

'Get up shit bag, it's time to go to work...'

Tiiiiiiiiiiiiim, can you paaaaaaaaaass me that penciiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiil?

Before I continue with the African blogs I'm going to tell you what I've been up to this week. well, first and foremost I managed to get myself a wee job. It's back again with Onsite and it's also back at Heslington East. I feel as as though I'll be drawn back to this place for the rest of my life. Long story short, I sent Nick an email asking for work and got a call off him on Tuesday, saying 'Are you doing anything now? No? Then get in your car and come to work.' I told him I couldn't possibly do anything until Wednesday as I had some high powered navel gazing to finish that afternoon. But Wednesday duly arrived and I plowed the car through the heaviest rain the North of England has witnessed since records began.

The joy of field archaeology...

Wincey was back in charge, at the helm of the sinking ship, just where he should be. Berny was also there, along with Sam from York Uni. As the rain whipped our skin to shreds Wincey put me in the filthiest stinking punishment trench that he could find. The rain fell, the wind howled, I whined, but I wasn't let out of the hole. Water was running over the top of my boots and the sucking sand was threatening the drag me under. I asked G-Funk what it was that I'd done wrong and all he did was laugh. Then to top off the misery Sir Stanners showed up in his gilded carriage. Immediately upon arrival he dined on an osprey sandwich, sat in the warmth and dry of the cabin and began his evil machinations against humanity. Logan Josh and I have worked out his cruel plan. When he fills in forms his writing is so big that the letters can be seen from outer space. There can only be one explanation for this: Stanners is a drone of the Martians and is passing on Earth's secrets to his overlords whilst pretending to make archaeological records. He is identifying targets for their imminent attack and pinpointing weaknesses in our defences. The man is nothing more than a species traitor!

'We have a new message from Drone Number Seven, he says we should target the one called Wincey...'

Speaking of Josh, he showed up along with Barry Onions on Thursday. The pair of them swanned about and lorded it over everyone else as though they knew what they were doing. They just succeeded in sliding about in the mud and banging into each other until Barry was cowed into bailing the ditches out:

Work, you cunt.

Friday was another day of rain of Biblical proportions. Wincey wasn't on site, he was in the office, being downloaded for his back log of eight years worth of site work. Since he never records everything we reckon he must somehow keep it all digitally stored in his head, this information is then downloaded when his 64bit memory is full. Every so often he needs a reboot as well. We (Logan, Berny, Sam and I) sat in the cabin taking a well deserved chance of him not being around second guessing everything: 'So that ditch is nearly finished is it?' 'I have no idea Graham, I've only just started taking the top fills out, I don't have x-ray vision. If I did, this job would be a whole load easier.' We sat around until two o'clock when the call came through from the Eagle's Nest to begin the retreat.

'Graham, I think the site might be slightly unworkable...'

Over the weekend, I got the chance to see Shrine of the Monkey. They played in SNAFU and were fucking excellent, mostly for the stage antics of the lead guitarist/vocalist. I have not seen such guitar faces since Hendrix and they guy's soloing was fucking class. The fella had a fucking box to stand on when he was fret wanking. It reminded me of something Hrappi said when we took Sudoku to the stage in Reykjavik: 'Always play as though you're playing to a stadium crowd.' I've seen nothing like it for a long time.

LET'S FUCKING ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!!!!!!!

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!