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.

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

Intermission

I was chatting with Kamil last night and he said I should post more of Tarquin Sheen and my's textual relationships, so this is one that happened on Friday:

Me: Bite it you scum

Him: You make me sick. I mean literally sick. When I got your last text i sicked up all over myself.

Me: Good

Him: No it is not good. I was on a hot date with a babe. Some of the sick got on her too.

Me: Right. Now I know you're lying.

Him: All right it wasn't a date. And there was no babe. But i was sick all down myself.

Me: That was probably nothing to do with me anyway, just coincidence that i sent the text at the same time.

Him: Is there something i can do for you? Some of us have work to do.

Tea's Up

A trio of octogenarian amateur archaeologists stumbled onto site the other day. It was my own fault, I'd told them they should come back and see how work was progressing when they tipped up on site last week and proceeded to almost walk under the wheels of a fully loaded Moxy. Archaeology is about people after all and therefore people have an interest in it, so I don't actually mind amateur archaeologists, even when they are telling me that the desk based assessment (DBA) that I am basing my knowledge of the site on is wrong. The DBA with its map regression and thorough search of the local Sites and Monuments Record for any known archaeological features and/or previous excavations. The DBA that is studied by the county archaeologist prior to any decision to go ahead and excavate a proposed development site. I don't even mind them telling me that their 'local knowledge' allows them to pinpoint exactly where the stash of buried Jewish gold left by the Nazis after World War One is, through a study of a copy of the 1398 vellum bound Ordnance Survey map that they discovered in the loft of the house once owned by Lord Screaming Sutcliffe of Rudston. They can even tell me that a study of the Ley Lines shown on said map draw a Star of David with a Crown atop that overlay the village of Fimber and this is the precise point the gold must be and we are digging in the wrong place. No that doesn't bother me at all. What does fucking bother me, is them turning up half way through my fucking tea break so I have to walk around showing them various holes we've dug and making up some bullshit story about how I know what the fuck is going on. They said they'd be back to see how we progress. I said make sure it's not between ten and ten thirty and one and one thirty, so I can enjoy a nice relaxing cup of fucking tea that I deserve for wading through tons and tons of chalk and clay compacted by four millennia of top soil.

 

I've got blisters on my fingers...

Tuesday was an interesting night. I met a girl I have not seen for five years. We had left off on what could be called acrimonious terms back in 2006 but I heard over the weekend she had come a little unstuck in her personal life and I thought reconciliation may be in order, coincidentally she was now living half an hour down the road. She needed friends and as we were once close, I thought I'd man up, swallow my pride and see if she wanted to meet up for a little bit of friendly support. I passed on my details through a mutual friend and it turns out she did. It also turns out little has changed, the man she once married is still an arsehole (as I always thought) and her Top Five Celebrity Shags are still the same. I had a great evening with her talking shit, catching up and generally putting a big tick in the 'Good Alex' tick box; God knows, I need a few more of those right now.

I shit you not, today I had a text conversation with Tarquin Sheen that went like this:

Me: Your turn (this is a reference to Battlefield Academy, a turn based computer game we were playing)

Him: Who is this? How did you get my number? If you contact me again I'm calling the police.

Me: it IS the police

Him: In that case the guy you want is called alex sotheran, he lives in york. He can tell you were the bodies are. I had nothing to do with it.

Me: Funny, he said the same of you.

Him: All i did was drive the car. I didn't even know what was in the bin bag. He said he'd cut me up if i didn't help him. I'm as much a victim as those girls.

Me: The ones we are investigating aren't girls. Would you care to tell us more?

Him: Shit. I'm not saying anything until I see my lawyer.

Me: You will. We'll beat it out of you.

Him: You can't do this. I know my rights. This is police brutality.

Me: What rights did you show your victims?

Him: THOSE WHORES HAD NO RIGHTS! THEY GOT WHAT WAS COMING TO THEM, THE FILTHY CUNTS!

Me: Erm. OK. Time out. This is not the police. I was just kidding. Jesus.

Him: Uh i knew that, i was joking too, i never killed anyone.

Me: We'll soon find out. I've forwarded this little conversation onto the police. It's up to them to find out the truth now.

I didn't hear another thing, so I'm guessing he's finally been rounded up.

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.

Pearls before Swine

I received a letter from my mother. I opened it and saw a small post it note (it was one I brought back from Graceland, it has a picture of Elvis on it) attached to a newspaper article. I pulled the note out and read it. It said:

'This is the article I told you about. Do you know any of them? Mum x'

This is the article she meant. It was something about Heslington East, and yes I did know some of the people. The unfortunate thing was immediately after I read the post-it note I pulled the page out of the envelope and opened the newspaper sheet the wrong side up and was confronted with this article:

Hmmm...

Dead Skin Mask

As promised I have uploaded some photos of last week's trip out to Bridlington.

OK, not Bridlington, but York. The RA were brought in to help reduce the pockets of resistance left in Tang Hall

The most exciting thing to happen all week:  a Sea King went over site.

How site looked when I arrived...

Dave Rhodes rocks, but gently...

Carolyn, the finest stripper the East Coast has to offer...

Coming attractions...

HELP! HELP! I'M TRAPPED! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?

Bridlington knows its audience

 

'I'll take the Daniel O'Donnell pepper pot (I've already got a salt shaker...) and the Meercat figurine, please..'

A fitting tribute to the Hero of Damascus, a sun dial...

...overlooked by a council flat.

When I first saw this, I thought it said 'Wayward Ho'. Promising so much. Then I reread it and wondered what the fuck they were trying to say?
'Go West! It's better than this shithole in the east!'

The bright shopping experiences of Bridlington, just like Milan

Wide European style boulevards packed with cafes serving coffee twenty four hours of the day...

A bustling and lively seafront awaits...

'What year is this? Who's the President?'

Bridlington battles racism

Shadows over Bridlington, Cthulhu is risen...

Children of the corn...

After a week of fucking the site

This weekend I bought a metric fuckload of meat and beer (costing exactly £66.60p!!) for a small gathering in order to celebrate Cap'n Blighty's return from the colonies. Since marrying Pocahontas he has been working as a missionary bringing the Good Word to the Oneida. The news of his arrival drew in Mithras from Middle Earth and Tarquin Sheen from the frozen wastes of Ultima Thule. Moogdroog's highly developed sense of smell sniffed the whiff of burnt meat on the wind and also turned up, banging on the door, demanding food.

With a lack of garden furniture Moogdroog forced me to move the settee out of the house into the garden whilst raining blows down on me. It later lashed it down and my settee is still damp.

Stop hitting me!

Tarquin demonstrated his style of self defence that seems to centre around stabbing everyone before they get you.

I'm gonna fucking cut you!

And as usual with all my friend's gatherings the evening progressed into a drunken orgy of violence and comics.

And I finally brought the evening to a head by demonstrating the Manowar power fist to Cap'n Blighty at 3.00am whilst playing Sons of Odin at full blast.

The following day, we ditched Cap'n Blighty and the rest of us headed out to Wharram Percy to find the deserted medieval village. We searched and searched all afternoon in the lashing rain but we couldn't see no fucking village. The only thing we saw was a bunch of lumps in the ground. There were a few information boards scattered around indicating where the ploughs and sackbuts were kept, but beyond that, there was no sign of a Medieval village at all. It was a right fucking rip off. Well, it would have been if we'd have had to pay to get in.

'Where's the fucking village?!'

I finished the weekend off watching Hidden Fortress again with Tarquin, we both failed to spot Darth Vader in it.

Which ones are the gay robots?

And finally, Captain  Hindsight says 'The last post was NSFW, so don't look at it in a public space.'