Tree Lines on my Shirt

It was only the other week that Lauren mentioned to me that the World Cup is almost upon us. Until that point I had managed to ignore it completely. After this moment I started noticing the football themes that are creeping into our everyday lives. I hate football. I hate it with all my pee-pee. I could happily live in a world without football, it would be a world where a news report about the deaths of twelve people in Cumbria after Britain's first spree killing for fifteen years was cut short for live pictures of the English football team getting off a plane in South Africa (as happened this morning). It would be a world were grown men wouldn't cry about the outcome of a game that they had no input into what so ever. It would be a world where conversations between strangers wouldn't begin with 'so who do you follow?' A world without baby romper suits in team colours. A blissful world. I hate the competition of it all, I also hate the chest pounding manliness of the faintly homosexual idea of watching twenty odd young men running about in shorts for two hours. I hate the accouterments that come with it. I hate the fact that the world cup allows the knuckle dragging Daily Mail readers to dust off the St George's Flag and hang it from any available window so the country suddenly looks like a massive Right Wing Rally. I hate seeing cars go passed me bedecked in little plastic flags attached to the doors and covering the windows. 'Oh dear Officer, I'm sorry, I ran down that crocodile of schoolchildren. I just couldn't see them through the MASSIVE FLAG I've stuck to the front of my car' 'That's alright sir, it's the world cup after all, you're obviously a proud patriot, so we'll let this one go.' I hate the fact that for the next couple of months we will have the World Cup RAMMED DOWN OUR FUCKING THROATS by every media outlet. Whether England win or lose, there will be pre-match analysis, post match analysis, intermediate match analysis, everything else won't matter, football will change all the schedules, it will invade our private lives like some Orwellian nightmare, ringing alarms to summon us to raise our flags. I hate the fact that even though you try, you can't escape the fucking thing, you buy a pack of sausages from Co-Op and they have footballs printed all over them, young borderline rapist football 'stars' with too much money leer at you from adverts as you stand in queue in the bank. I hate the fact that all the pseudo-fans come crawling out, the people that don't care a jot about it any other time, but when it's the World Cup we must all be seen to be doing our bit. It's like the Blitz spirit but with Manchester United balls sewing machined together in Sri Lankan sweat shops by six year olds. You must be weird if you don't like it, you shouldn't be in the country if you don't get caught up in the nation's passion. Well, as far as I am concerned,

FOOTBALL CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF!!!

Abolish the Rules Made of Stone

Another weekend; another shit load of alcohol consumed. As undoubtedly you know it was the Eurovision Song Contest last Saturday. The highlight of the musical calendar, the shining moment for Europe (and America in it's Israeli guise) to parade the pinnacle of popular troubadours. This is what the year builds up to and each day that passes means it's one day less to the next Eurovision (362 today...). This is the only legitimate time that one can be racist and get away with it. We can all laugh at the beetroot smeared faces of the Moldovan contestants and feel smug about the out of tune Wops and Diego's. Oh what a night! I usually attend a party of some sort (sometimes just drinking heavily whilst shouting at the TV on my own) and this Saturday was no different. Moogdroog was throwing a Eurovision spectacular at her pile and I was cordially invited. But... before I'd even left my house the Ukrainian Butchers forced a third of a bottle of vodka down me. I was literally threatened at knife point to drink the liquor (well, I wasn't, but it adds a dramatic effect to the story), so I arrived already half cut and the show hadn't even started yet. I have very fragmentary memory of what happened after and had to be filled in on the highlights by Dr Clay the next day. He also presented me with a list of people I had to apologise to, including Chris, Moogdroog's American friend who I had accused of being racist because he'd said Asian girls didn't do it for him. I couldn't even remember who had won the contest the next morning so I must have had a few...

And the winner is... I can't fucking remember...

I was awoken at the crack of sparrows on Sunday morning by the aforementioned Butchers having a rather loud and involved conversation in Russian outside my door. So I was tired before I'd even left for Logan Josh's barbecue on Sunday evening. Again, Clay, Moogdroog and I had been cordially invited into the upper echelons of Yorkian Royalty. We arrived with a sky scudded with black clouds menacingly eager to tip it down on us. It, thankfully, didn't rain but the wind howled and threatened to blow the marquee, barbecue and guests into the Ouse. Logan's wife, Cath refused to allow us to go into the house despite the sub-zero temperatures and frostbite that had crept into many of us, she had barred the doors and windows with furniture to impede our egress. Finally, she relented and the 'wusses' were allowed inside, a title to which I readily answered as I strived to regain feeling in my fingers. I was also brow beaten and chastised for wanting to go home to sleep as I had a two hour car journey ahead of me the following night. Josh fed me more beer than a single human can even take and I eventually got to bed two hours after I got up the next morning.

I think it might need some more coals...

The two hour journey in question was in order to go and see Slayer at Nottingham Rock City. I haven't seen Slayer since 1991 on their Seasons in the Abyss tour, so I was really looking forward to the show. Fuck me, I wasn't disappointed. They were top shit alright, even with Tom Araya's recent back surgery. They played through a few new tunes and then explored their old catalogue for the rest of the show. Angel of Death was a classic finisher.

FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!!!!!

May 17, 1936 – May 29, 2010

Do you know that 'if' is the middle word in life?

Hey, man. All we represent to them, man, is somebody who needs a haircut.

Où allons-nous mettre la fosse aux ours?

After yesterday's day off Clay and I turned at site this morning, drove in through the gateway and was confronted with the addition to the site car park of a Gypsy camp. Not just your common-or-garden type Gypsies either, oh no, but French Gypsies. Most likely of Algerian extraction. I assumed it was Karma coming round to slap me on the ass. The site is situated right next to the Park and Ride into York, there being a bus slip way running part way down the duel carriage way to allow buses access to the station. Commoners in cars have to go to the end of the road, do a full revolution on the round-about and then enter site. The bus slip road shaves off having to go around the round-about (and in Clay's case missing the exit and driving half way to Leeds...) On the approach to said bus route, Clay had been goading me about going up the slip road, saying Ali had said it was OK, that I was any kind of man then I'd go up it as well. He said that it was a test of masculinity to have such flagrant disregard for law and order. How could I look myself in the mirror each morning knowing that I'd wimped out of such a simple test of manhood? With this burning in my ears I took the exit up the slip road onto site. The only day I break the law in such a manner and the site is populated by Algerian (presumably) Gypsies, coincidence? I think not... Karma, I tells thee. Not only have they invaded our car park but they appear to have been using the grassy area in front of the site hut as a toilet, Cath and Daryl having to spade human faeces off the floor before anyone else got there. Apparently they'll only be there for three days so that's three days of spading shit up ahead of us...

'You're only here for three days? No Problem...'

Speaking of cars, I managed to get mine through its MOT today. It had failed previously on the parking brake, which for a 17 year old car is pretty good going. But this is the last day of a long tale of anguish. I had been looking forward to this job as it was just down the road and would only take about fifteen minutes to get to site (ten by using the bus slip road...), this meant that I would be able to lie in until about eight o'clock. The usual time I am on site for any other job. Relative bliss... But fate has turned against me it would seem. Clay and I have been having MOTs and mechanics looking at our respective cars most mornings and always at unreasonable times. In fact we have both been back and forth to the MOT place so many times in these past two weeks that the guys there probably think we work there. Mind you they still get uppity when I asked if I could leave my car there for the day while I was at work, well how else would I be able to pay for the MOT? They chuntered and muttered about not having parking spaces, but the ten parking spaces in front of the place were as empty at five o'clock as they were when I dropped the car off in the morning...

'Sorry, we're really pushed for space today, you'll have to park on the road...'

LULZ at work today, I was talking to Abi about The Plato Papers and how a future society decimated by an unknown tragedy had begun to base their knowledge of the past on fragments of Charles Dickens books. She asked if they had electricity in Charles Dickens' time, then quickly corrected herself, they had gas lamps. Yes I said they had gas lamps. Oh no, says she, No hair straighteners!

 Getting Charles' hair sorted in the morning was a full time job...

Not much else to tell you, expect last night was the last night of my Teacher Training course and I had to give a class. I taught the rest of the class how to lay out a grid square. The other micro-teaches that were being given were how to pot herbs properly, how to spot signs of abuse and the best one, how to make gloop. Gloop consists of corn flour and water and is the maddest thing I've ever seen. It basically stays solid in the tray you mix it in, until you pick it up when something reacts and it turns liquid again. It was literally blowing my fucking mind and it kept the five of us who stayed behind entertained for ages.

Gloop, kids and adults love it so!

Cleansing

Well, what a weekend that was... At work on Thursday Logan Josh came to me, cap doffed and head bowed (as is his usual way) and asked if the Lord of Violence (Dr Clay) and I would care to join him and his wife as they supped al fresco in their peasant dwelling on Friday. Dr Clay's latest 'experiment', Moogdroog was also invited to the ritual of fire and meat and she duly agreed. Well, she was far too dazed and drugged to offer any form of resistance. Clay and I thought it would be wise to take along someone else we could throw at Josh and his wife should the evening take an ugly turn for the worst and we should have to hasten an escape. We were escorted by a misshapen lump of an ape to the house and the evening began in high spirits. The flowing of alcohol only worsened the situation and it wasn't long before we were paraded around in military helmets to the wild gesticulations and amusement of Josh. Meanwhile, his wife planned a trip to France from road maps of the Gallic country all to the sound track of David Allan Coe. Before the evening panned out into it's usual drunken orgy of violence that comes from a trip to Josh's abode, we made our excuses and left hotfootdly!

The neighbours hated BBQ season on Logan Josh's road...

I saw Josh again on Saturday afternoon, after dashing away from my stalker outside York Minister. He was drinking in the same pub as me, but with his OAP friends this time. I on the other hand was in the company of Kate, awaiting the arrival of Chris and Ryan. I stayed out all afternoon, drinking like the proverbial fish, before going to see Iron Man 2 with Clay and Moogdroog and Ryan. This is what it was like: AC/DC, girls, explosions, girls, fighting, AC/DC. Reasonably OK for a quick cinema fix on a Saturday night, read Dr Clay's betterer review of it HERE...

It's all just Bang, Bang, Bang...

On Sunday, the unthinkable happened, and Mr David Main arrived in York. He was here because I was to give him a lift to Manchester to see the unbelievably good Wolves In The Throne Room play. They were playing in an old Satanic Mill and I had heard rumours of their blistering performances in the past. Fuck me, they did not disappoint. It was like a ritual from beginning to end and I think it ranks as one of the best gigs I have ever been to, if not the best... They also brought a load of limited edition vinyls with them. I managed to snatch three for a future EBay date before they were all sold out, even the band themselves didn't have any copies... Lucky me, ay? What wasn't so lucky was the two and a half hour journey back home via Rotherham to drop Mainy off, leaving me to get to bed about 2.00am. On a schoolnight as well! I should coco!

Taxi for one!

After work on Tuesday, Logan Josh, The Evil Dr Clay and I called into the pub on the way home from work for ONE pint. I emerged five and half hours later, full of drink, shots, Mexican chili flavour crisps, Onion rings and chips. I'm not supposed to say this but Logan had told his wife he would only be having one pint and would be home. As it was, he was still waiting for a taxi at half ten when I left, broke and drunk. In fact the only reason I didn't stay longer was that I'd run out of money and the place wouldn't take debit cards as payment, except for food. I offered to exchange my work boots for some drink but it was to no avail. It seems bartering with clothing only works in third world countries.

Are you my taxi?

During our time there we encountered the pub's quiz, now, I love pub quizzes but this one was way beyond the pale. It was the perfect quiz for people who only spend their spare time watching soap operas or football and use the rest of the time appearing on Jeremy Kyle or sucking their own feet. Some of the questions were: Name a footballer who's surname only has three letters? Which character in Coronation Street just underwent a back street abortion? Name one of the judges on Britain's Got Talent. I shit you not, ask any of the punters about TV or Sport and bam, they've got the answers, ask them who the second man on the Moon was and they'd probably answer 'That right clever bloke in a wheelchair that talks like a robot.' Despite the shushing from the flummoxed punters, Logan Josh and I continued our high brow conversation about aeroplanes at a rather high volume. Fuck em.

Name them

Speaking of aeroplanes, a Spitfire, Hurricane and three Mustangs flew in formation over site today. It was the best thing that happened all day and it lifted me, momentarily, out of my moaning student induced funk.

Cadillacs of the sky!

I was just talking to Alex and Johnny the Ukrainian Butchers. Alex said they needed to find work on Saturday and Sunday, I said they'd be too tired from working all the time, he said if we have a holiday we'll drink Vodka. I said, if they drink Vodka, then I'll end up drinking Vodka and bang goes my weekend, so Alex said it was in my interest to find them jobs on Saturday and Sunday. Oh! How we laughed.

They're in the Fucking Walls!

The Ukrainian butchers made it to the UK on Friday night, tormented by visas and volcanic ash they finally touched English ground, Terra Britannia, if you will. Despite weeks of Lauren and I working ourselves into a frenzy about possible gang rape and robbery they are both (there's only two of them at the moment) really nice lads. They are clean, polite, funny and generous, especially with the Russian Vodka they brought over with them. They fed Steve and Lauren full of it on Friday night and then on Saturday night three of their friends came over and preceded to fill me full of freshly caught fried pike, Ukrainian sausage and the aforementioned Vodka. And whiskey. Lots of Vodka and Whiskey. So much so I couldn't see properly but I'm pretty sure the night ended up with Balalaika recitals and traditional Russian bear dancing. There may have even been some firing off of AK47s in the back garden...

The Evil Dr Clay also turned up this weekend, in his usual manner of not taking other people's feelings into account he turned up at about 6.30 AM on a Saturday. Immediately he stamped his authority on the house by knifing one of the Ukrainians. He then forced me at dagger point to go and see Four Lions with him on Sunday, it's a great film that puts the Fun back into Fundamentalism. Go see it.



Today was the first day back at Heslington working for York University, we set off in Clay's car since mine was off the road having some medicine to make its tummy all better. This is how the journey goes from the house, or how the journey should go from the house: Two minutes up Tang Hall Lane to the A1079 Hull Road, get onto the roundabout at the A64, but come all the way round back onto the A1079, turn left onto the site entrance, all in all a fifteen minute journey if the lights are against us. This is how Clay delivered us: up Tang Hall Lane onto the A1079, get onto the roundabout, get off the roundabout on the A64 on the way to FUCKING LEEDS! Travel halfway to FUCKING LEEDS before turning round and heading back to the A1079 and site about six hours after setting off. An illustrious start it was not and I shall be driving us to work from now on. On site the students were alright, not that I can tell, they all look the same to me, there were some new faces and some old ones. Including this man in this incredibly rare shot:

On your knees Nicky!