Milky Milky

I was sitting on the steps of the Minister last night waiting for Sam to show up for food and drinks (I got a frantic call off of her at about 8:10: Her 'I'm a bit lost, I can't find the Minister!' Me 'What do you mean? Just head towards it' Her 'I can't see it' Me 'It's the biggest fucking thing in York, you can see it from everywhere, it's the thing that looks like a big church [drawing laughter from a family sitting close by]' It seems she was in the only place in York that the Minister is invisible from, given that you can see the fucking thing from Bridlington, she'd broken a new world record). As I was waiting I was earwigging on one of the many Ghost Walks that operate through York, morning, noon and night. This one was being run by a  young lad who was a bit self conscious in his top hat and cape (more people should wear capes. The Red Army did in World War Two and look where it got them!). He wasn't particularly funny or erudite. It got me thinking, just imagine if you were on holiday and had decided to take the wife on a ghost tour to spice things up a bit and it turned out to be a bit shit. What a waste of money that would be normally, but last night, I counted no less than three Ghost Tours all operating at the same time within spitting distance of one an other. Imagine if you'd fallen in with the crap one, but there, just in earshot were two others, where the audience were either guffawing with mirth or screaming blue murder through fear. Yours was a plodding, pedestrian retelling of the history of York through the medium of ghosts whilst the other punters were having the times of their lives. I'd be angry and upset about this turn of events and would probably spend the remainder of the tour feeling bitter towards my guide. He wouldn't have got a tip that night, I can tell you. In extreme cases you might even find yourself running between the different groups trying to ascertain which one was the best. There should be some kind of tour guide police, there to keep all the groups separate so this situation would never arise. I should be in charge of tourism in York. I'd also keep a check of the tour guides and if I thought they were crap at their jobs I'd have them publicly hanged in King's Square.

Hang some fucking sense into them

I was idling these thoughts when a rather shabbily dressed elderly gentleman, dragging a shopping trolley behind him, shuffled up in front of me. I took him for a gentleman of the road. He nodded at the Minister and said (in a Welsh accent) 'Have you been in there?' I told him I hadn't been in there for about three years. It's true. The last time I was in I went up the tower, suffered vertigo and have never been back since. He took this as an invite and sat himself down besides me. I didn't mind, I was alone and waiting and company passes the time. I did mind his smell though, he smelled of cows. Which, as it turns out was rather apt as he was an ex-cow farmer from Cardiff. We got chatting, he told me he'd been in the RAF for two years during his national service. My interest piqued I asked him if he was a pilot. He said no, medical and my interest waned. He told me he was up in York for the Great Yorkshire Show and was particularly interested in the cows, which was no surprise, given he'd spent all his life (bar two years) milking the fuckers. He told me some story about some chap he'd heard on the radio who's pig had won the best pig in the village title, I responded by saying it was a title to be proud of, no doubt. Just then another Ghost Tour turned up (the fourth one within fifteen minutes, Jesus, someone is making a lot of silly money at this game) and he started to show his true colours. As the punters filed past us he started belting out hymns at them as though to bless their sins away for listening to stories about ghosts. I just sat and laughed. It was just then that I got the above mentioned phone call and made my excuses to Mr David Williams (as was his name), and left to meet Sam. I would like to say that this encounter went some way to patching up my absolute hatred and revulsion of the Welsh, but it just served to indicate that I was right all along. Seriously though, he was a nice guy and I hope he enjoyed the cows.

Proper Beauty

I'm off to the pub quiz tonight, everyone is invited, except for you, 'cos you're a cunt. I'm taking Nathan's bass back for him (he lent it to me this weekend so I could do some recording. I only managed to get the drums laid down...). I have taught myself to play some of the funky bass lines from Seinfeld so I can do a bass run when we either get a question correct or Paul says something sassy.

Communication Breakdown

On the way home tonight Lauren and I had a spot of car trouble. Nick refuses to buy good cars for his fleet so we end up with terrible bags of shit mounted on wheels to run about in. Most of these 'cars' would be of better service if they were set on fire and shoved off a cliff. The cost of keeping them running must be astronomical compared to the original layout cost (about £100 by the look of the things...). When I worked in Lichfield a year or so ago there were at least two instances of the big white Passat breaking down, once on the way to Lichfield and once on the way back home. Both times we ended up getting to the destination about seven hours after we had set off. What was particularly galling was the fact that when we were driving home we broke down only twenty minutes outside Lichfield, I was listening to a program about Kraftwerk on the radio and the breakdown also interrupted that. I then finally got home about eight o'clock in the evening after we'd set off for the two hour journey at about 1.00 pm. It seems to be a trait programmed into these vehicles that they break down on the way home from work rather on the way to work. Anyway, the arse fell out of the VW Golf that Lauren and I were travelling home in tonight. True to form. Twenty minutes away from site and forty minutes left to go on the journey the engine gave up the ghost and we pulled up on the side of a very deserted country road outside of Hooton Pagnell.

I think it might be the clutch

This event further depressed Lauren as she had spent the entire day being told by Robot the Bruce about his 43 inch chest and 23 inch waist. (She was unable to break free of his droning because Stanners, Alice and myself were behind the spoilheap down the bottom of the hill. I think this was done to keep the three of us out of view of the public who had come for the site tour. I think it's no coincidence that we had also been sent 'down there' on Friday when there was another tour on.) I tried to cheer her up by playing MANOWAR really FUCKING LOUD. It worked for me anyway. The RAC man eventually turned up, condemned the car and dragged it back to Rotherham.Two and a half hours after I was supposed to get in.

No it's not the clutch, it could be something to do with the electronics...

Not only that, but today Sir Stanners found a fucking Roman Trumpet Brooch in the 'kiln' he was digging. I had been excavating a similar feature last week and only found crappy cooking wares. He started his kiln last Friday and immediately found Samian pottery. Decorated Samian pottery at that... Mind you, in the ditch I had been digging for the past two days I have found more pottery than I have found in the past three years combined. I think I have found more pottery than has been found in all of West Yorkshire, ever. I tried shoving it in Stanner's face but he retorted it was a question of Quality over Quantity.

My load of crappy broken olden-days shit is much better than yours!

It was the ARCUS Carcass rats-from-a-stinking-ship party on Saturday, I wasn't going to go, then I went and I'm glad I did. Although it was good to see all the old faces there was only really one person I wanted to see there and I saw her and that's all I'll say on that subject.

Bukkeferd

Duncan doesn't send many text messages but when he does they are belters. Texts from Duncan in the past few weeks have included these two, the first was after we were moving out to separate houses. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye properly, and sent a text saying goodbye to which he replied with:
its been great livin with u. Will miss havin u around in the evenings. I hope the pad works out. If u ever need a beer, or a cup at our place and a chat then just say the word. Peace. D
The following one was sent straight after the disastrous Sudoku gig on Saturday at about 4.00am:
Sorry if I fucked things up the computer. Didn't know how to stop the f ucker [sic] mid song. Away that was a massive step up in class with the other bands. Don't Lose heart. Cheers 4 lettin me play. D

The Church of Latter Day Saints of Duncan Alexander awaits your call!!

I was coming out of the site office the other day an noticed a few new things. The massive spoil heap that was sitting next to the tents and has been threatening to crush us all like Welsh Schoolchildren has not only increased in size but managed to make its way around the side of the tent where I am now working. Mind you, as I was told before Christ's Mass, when I raised the issue, this is special Icelandic gravel that doesn't collapse like that poxy London gravel we use back in England. It only collapses in heavy rain. Or maybe an earthquake. Both of which are never known to happen in Iceland... Also since moving out of the old Office a construction company have taken over the building. The first thing they did was put a 'Danger Asbestos!' sign and I have seen a man coming in and out in a full chemical suit. I feel a strange itchy feeling in my lungs... Jo's photograph ably demonstrates the risks we are living under.