Over the Top!

I have had a busy couple of weekends recently and have fallen behind with updating this blog on that score, so here I shall try to remedy it. It may turn into a long post, if it does, I don't care. Suck it up, use your phone to call someone that fucking cares, etc. I have been up and down the country in the past fortnight, I have been as far north in England than any man has ever been and I have also been so far down south that I actually ended up in France. Now, if you settle down in your seats, I shall tell you how...

Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up...

Knowing full well what crimes against humanity Tarquin Sheen is capable of I have dutifully avoided ever going to his house in Durham. I was duped, however, the other week when he invited myself, Moogdroog and Helen out for what he called 'a day of fun' at Lindisfarne. I assumed that the company of others would lessen the blow of horror that awaited in that dark corner of the country. I was wrong. His idea of fun was forcing me to drive for hours and hours even though I hadn't slept for four days. He kept me awake at the wheel by screaming at me through a megaphone every time I would start to drop off. Himself and his brother Nole, would punch me in the back of the head at every opportunity, usually when overtaking a large goods vehicle... Having been forced to drive to the edge of England (apparently Berwick is NOT in Scotland, no matter how many people I asked. Why they are flying Scottish flags all over the fucking place was never successfully explained, however...) and back down to Holy Island, he then frog marched the group over hill and dale to look at the Lime Kilns. He wouldn't even let us stop to admire the villager's jam collections. Moogdroog was concerned about this in particular; 'what if there was a jamergency' she was heard to say... We were death marched into the museum and had to wait whilst he read every single word on the museum displays. Since he can't actually read, this took quite some time. I amused myself by looking at the Viking stones on display:

Best thing in Lindsifarne

Back at Sheen's dungeon we were subjected to a two hour battering of the shite that is Game of Thrones before I was finally allowed to collapse into a fitful sleep on his cold damp cellar floor. The following morning Sheen and I went into Durham town, saying sad farewells to Helen at the cathedral. Tarquin gave me his own personal tour of the cathedral, which appeared to be split between the Catholic, Jewish and Greek Orthodox churches, if his explanations were to be believed. He also did it in a German accent for some unfathomable reason.

What a dump

This weekend just passed was the 1st of July and I hot footed it out of the country to France and the Somme, to the commemorations that were happening there. I have a passing interest in the Great War. I also have a passing interest in the aviation of the First World War. It came as a great delight and surprise that Peter Hart would be joining us for the trip. An eminent historian from the Imperial War Museum, Peter had written two books of which I was rather fond: Bloody April and Falling Aces, so it was with baited breath that wanted to meet him. What a fucking disappointment he was. All he did was swear at everyone, get drunk and belligerent and call everyone he knew 'a cunt'. I have never been more shocked in all my life. I never ever swear, especially in public, and to hear this man turn the very air blue gave me a funny turn. I will never look at his books in the same light again.

I used to like your books...

Weird things always happen when I go to France and this time was no different. We were sitting there relaxing, having a nice drink when a bunch of French farmers pulled up, eager to show us something once they found out there were archaeologists amongst our number. From out of the back of their car they pulled the fuselage tail section of a BF-109f. In immaculate condition...

Om nom nom...

They invited us to come and have a look at the other 'special stuff' they had in various barns across the countryside. Between them they'd built a museum that housed several aircraft engines they'd pulled out of the ground, all restored and displayed as only enthusiasts can...

Double om nom nom...

We were then took around various other farms to look at barn doors with Great War painting still intact, more rusted metal from various airplane crash sites, Great War graffiti on church walls and best of all a still working cannon from a BF-109 that had lain in the ground for seventy years!

DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!!

Yes, being a nerd can sometimes have its advantages. To see more pictures from France, CLICK HERE. The rest of the weekend was made up of visiting the sunken lane at 7.30am on the 1st and paying our respects to the men who fought and died there. I also attended the Ulster Tower memorial service, where I got my photo taken with a real life Canadian Mountie and won a two Euro bet with Dr Kenyon, who egged me on to get my picture with her. Unfortunately I didn't win the five Euro bet which would have seen me wearing her hat...

The Mounties always get their man...

The afternoons and evenings were swamped with booze and I am still recovering two days later. Sorry, I've just realised none of this is actually funny. So I'll stop.

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...

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.

China is here, Mr Burton

Since being back from France I regained my pre-Gallic state of unemployment, despite begging Nick down the phone for a job even just sweeping his office, my pleas have fallen on deaf ears. I really should have gone and signed on again last week, but shoulda, coulda, woulda and hindsight is always 20/20 vision. What ever that means. So I've been filling my time by doing very little in an effort not to spend too much money until I work for York Uni again in a week. I went out on Friday afternoon and met up with Moogdroog for a pub lunch and a film. She's been given time off from her PhD cos she'd written a chapter or something. Actually I have no idea what she'd done as when anyone starts telling me about their PhD my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about Tiger Tanks or the Battle of the Somme. The film we went to see was the new Woody Allen film: Whatever Works. It's hilarious and has Larry David in it, which alone is good enough reason to see it. It's like an extended episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, which, you don't need to be told, is the best comedy show ever written (well most of it is improvised, so it's not so much written as ad libbed, but that's all just semantics, you pedantic wankers). The film is a repackaged 1970's script and it does show in a couple of it's dated situations (the bohemian three way relationship and the Southern gun nut turning out gay), but Larry is in fine form, especially when calling the kids to whom he teaches chess 'Inch worms and Cretins'.

That evening was also spent in the company of Moogdroog along with Claire, Helen and a bunch of others I didn't know for Alia's leaving do. About the third of several such leaving dos. Good God, that girl just doesn't know how to say goodbye. She still hasn't left York, either... Town was pretty quiet what with the upcoming England versus Germany game, all the knuckle draggers are saving their money for when we get knocked out of the World Cup finally (Despite not caring about football or the World Cup one little bit, Fidor insists on telling me the scores whenever England play. I'm not sure what part 'I don't care' or 'I'm just not interested mate' he doesn't understand but his steadfastness in keeping me up to date in the latest scores would be quite endearing if it were nothing to do with football...). It was a rather sedate affair, all be told, and I sloped off to bed a little after midnight. I was awoken before the sparrows fart on Saturday morning by the butchers having a rather loud and protracted conversations in Russian outside my window.

So long, farewell, would you ever fuck off?

On Saturday afternoon I met up with Logan Josh and his paddle chums. He was also back from France and bursting with stories of crazy Algerian campsite owners. We spent the afternoon talking about films, music and aeroplanes. Logan was his usual boorish self and he left me after braying and bragging about a Barbecue at his house that was NOT invited to. It seems like the rest of York was going, with only my house having missed out on getting an invitation through the door. Well, I hope he choked on his fucking burger. I already had other plans, I went to meet Vinny down in the Basement, which is not as predatory as it sounds, and I took my leave before calling in at Yummy Chicken, the most inappropriately named take away in York, The food is not 'yummy' by any stretch of the imagination and can hardly be described as chicken either... In the Basement there were three bands on, with a sixties/seventies themed disco afterwards. The first band Russell and the Wolves were by far the best on the bill. Any band that features a girl in a tiger suit playing solos with her high heels and a Elvis lookalike on the other guitar gets my vote. The second band, The Silver Factory were an incredibly lame jangly-shit-pop-Jam-Paul-Weller-wanna-be bunch of pricks. It seemed the only way to get into the band was to have the same haircut as the rest of them. They were the lamest band I've seen for a long time. The guitarist just strummed three chords on his £500 guitar the whole time. He should have saved himself some money and bought the cheapest shit guitar if that's all he was going to do with it. But I guess image was far more important to them than actual music. I don't remember much about the last band except they had come from London. It was probably something to do with the fact I had been drinking for about eight hours solid at that stage and so decided to call it a night. I ended up outside Oki's Mobile Kebab shop eating a chicken burger and listening to some racist cunt telling the guy behind the counter 'you no spit on burgers'. I certainly don't envy those lads having to listen to that shite every Friday and Saturday night, but I still think it would beat having to listen to The Silver Factory again...

Oh, just fuck off!