Deep in the lair of Dagon...

As Marlow described the boat edging its way up the rivers of the Congo as a beetle scuttling across the floor of a lofty portico, I too, found myself scuttling into the Heart of Darkness in the Staffordshire badlands. Yes, the clarion of Lichfield was sounded and I answered the call. At 5.45am I was up with the Larch and found myself travelling south to Lichfield. I had been given a mission and for my sins I took it. A borehole survey was required and I was the only man that would never get off the boat.

Tamworth, shit, I'm still in Tamworth...

I haven’t been to Lichfield for three years, but not one atom has changed. Mind you, in the past five hundred years, not one atom of Lichfield has changed. The Civil War siege is still the main taking point at the coffee mornings across the city. ‘I don’t like those Roundheads, their eyes are too close together…’ ‘Coming over here, building their corner shops and filling the town with the smell of sweet meats…’ I previously spent a long time in Lichfield and it got under my skin, like a sliver of metal lost during a surgical procedure the town was still in me and as soon as we (Barry and I) stepped into town we made our way to Greggs, just like the old days. Stuffing our faces with greasy offerings we gaped in awe as Major Misunderstanding waltzed passed us with his pantaloons and swagger stick, ready to attack any scallywag of a youth who should cross his path… This was not the least of today’s spectacles. We took a seat in the market square to watch the passers-by and it was not long before Lichfield’s answer to the Blue Man Group appeared; two men dressed head to toe in red, even with red tights stretched across their heads. They had some form of Gladiator’s cudgels with which they battered each other with for five minutes then promptly disappeared. We rubbed our eyes, was this real? Did that really happen? What purpose was it for? They never asked for money, never made their issues known. They fought then disappeared, like red ninjas.

A red ninja, but nothing like the red ninjas I saw, unfortunately...

The Major and the Red Fellas were not the weirdest denizens of Lichfield that we saw today. Whilst still sitting in the market square, I spied a gentleman of a certain age (about 45), with a mullet firmly planted upon his bonce. This was the least of his problems. He was wearing a strange combination of army surplus wear. British Army pattern boots, DPM trousers and British Army jumper. Although all these items were tied together by theme it was the accoutrements that proved to be upsetting. Hanging from his chest, flapping in the breeze, was a FUCKING IRON CROSS! I shit you not! A German World War Two Iron Cross. Underneath this was a sewn on National Eagle patch. The only thing he was missing was the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler arm band and Panzer Kill patches. We reckoned he must have been Lichfield’s BNP candidate. There can be no other explanation why someone would be parading around in Nazi paraphernalia in the middle of the afternoon…

'Darling, I'm just off out, do you need anything from the market?'

Barry beat a hasty retreat back north in the afternoon and I was left alone with the hole borer. He can talk a lot, but he hasn’t bored me yet. Mind you, there is still time. As for digs, I am back in the soft bosom of Pauline, at the Mountains of Madness guesthouse. Like Lichfield, Pauline hasn’t changed a bit. I haven’t seen her for four years and when she answered the door, I said ‘do you remember me, Pauline?’ ‘Yeeeeees’ she answered in that unsure way that one uses when one is either covering up for a lack of long term memory or not fully understanding the question… I presumed the latter. On the way up to the room she told me ‘Stewart was going to have you, but I gave him Steve as Stewart can’t do breakfast on a Tuesday, and now I’ve got you.’ Literally, WTF? This week is going to be interesting…

Breakfast time at Pauline's...

I’m afraid that of late I have been treating this blog like a ginger stepchild and neglecting it, that is because I have been teaching and updating has had to take a second place to writing lectures. But since I last updated a couple of interesting things have happened. I slept in an Army barracks a couple of weekends ago, it was the annual AGM of No Man’s Land and instead of it being held in London, as it usually is, it was brought further north to Nottingham and Chelwynd barracks. So for once I could attend, the main reason was to see the ladies and gents of NML and to get drunk in a new town. This weekend, Moogdroog had a belated birthday party, held in the sci-fi style. Although it wasn’t a fancy dress theme, Logan and Mrs Josh hijacked it and demanded that we show up dressed in a sci-fi theme. Moogdroog made a great Scully from the X-factor. The Josh’s came as the gay robots from Star Trek. And me? The best costume of the night! A goddamn TIE Fighter! Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyo!!!!

Best costume... EVER!!

NEWS FLASH, reasons the hate Lichfield # 679: Having parked my car where we used to park the cars, behind Pauline’s house, I have just been informed that parking restrictions have been enforced. Pauline wasn’t even told and all the cars that belonged to her guests were ticketed the next day! This town is so fucking backwards!!

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.

Salsa Sauce

I was on a watching brief today. For the three people who read this shit who are not archaeologists I shall explain what a watching brief is. When a developer decides to build something new, like an abattoir next to a children's soft toy factory, for instance, the development has to pass through several stages of archaeological investigation that has to be paid for. Full scale excavation is the highest of these stages, with a desk based assessment at the lowest. The developer has to take this extra cost into account when they decide to build a pole dancing club next door to a primary school, for instance. One of the most prolific activities of an archaeologist is the watching brief. This is an activity that entails the archaeologist being dispatched to a site that is being built, say, an artillery range next door to a playground, for instance, and literally watching the machine that is building the foundations of, for instance, the chemical warfare development plant next to the nursery. We are there to make sure that any archaeological remains are fully recorded in accordance with the local County Archaeologist's brief.

Shits and giggles never stop in archaeology...

This is what I was doing today and as usual it was no different from any other watching brief in the country. In that, when I arrived I was separately told by the cross eyed farmer and the grumpy machine driver that 'you won't find anything here, this is waste of your time and my money.' Despite my decade long experience and three years studying the subject of archaeology they still knew better. I guess when the farmer bought the land we were working on he must have stripped the entire field down to it's natural subsoil, identified and recorded any archaeological cut feature that existed in the pre-modern strata. It is my understanding that the farmer not only recorded these features to the acceptable levels of academic peerage that govern archaeological grey literature but submitted the report to the local Sites and Monuments Record office for future rumination under a tried and tested academic framework. This is the only course of action I can think of that would lead both these men to the conclusion that 'you won't find anything here.' Although, I had my doubts, especially when the farmer told me the village we were working in was the place the Vikings had 'parked their boats before walking to the Battle of Stamford Bridge', and I insisted on following the brief I had been given, that is, to watch the machine work for any archaeological remains, rather than listen to their, obviously, greater knowledge. I was texting Logan Josh throughout the day, I was telling him about the above situation and his reply sums up today's work:

I love that shit. As if we have not been sent by a third party but rather we have insisted we be allowed to watch. East Yorks farmers are the worst. They still think the English Civil War is raging and get all their 'news' via someone they know who attends church.

And in other news, we will be following Prince Rupert's campaign against Cirencester...

I was watching Knightmare the other night. Do you remember it? It was the spoddy Dungeons and Dragons rip off that was on ITV back in 1756 or sometime when I was in my early teens. It was a nerd fest, where three fantasy role-playing social retards had to navigate their equally 'insecure around girls' mate through a computer generated 'dungeon'. I fucking loved it! I sat transfixed trying to work out how many rooms they must have built to emulate the dungeon. I never cottoned on that it was all done in some tiny studio painted green with the images overlaid with computer graphics. I was a simple child. I always remember that every time the dungeoneer walked into a new room they asked 'Where am I now?' (they were wearing a helmet through which there were no eye holes) their three spoddy mates would always answer 'You're in a room!' NO FUCKING SHIT SHERLOCK!! WHERE ELSE ARE THEY GOING TO BE? IN A FUCKING FIELD? ON AN AEROPLANE'S WINGS? UP A FUCKING TREE?

Where am I now?

Erm....

Anyway, watching it again made me come to new conclusions about Knightmare. The first thing that struck me was the uneasy idea of a bearded creepy man in a tabard locking children in his 'dungeon'. If I had kids I would not be allowing a man called Treguard of Dunshelm to look after them. 'Yes, they'll be fine in my dungeon, there's plenty of fun awaiting!' Fun for who, Treguard? If that is your real name, which I very much doubt. Unless you had really nerdy parents who played D&D. I swear that man is wanted in Vietnam on statutory rape charges. AND WHERE THE FUCK IS DUNSHELM? IS IT A CUT PRICE CLOTHES SHOP IN ROTHERHAM?

A picture paints a thousand words...

But watching further I realised that the show was nowhere nearly as good as I remember. Treygard's introductions seemed to go on forever. It was like sitting through one of Ataturk's speeches. He was explaining the rules of the game in prose so formal it made me go blind. Once away from the most boring man in history the kid in the dungeon came across several other characters that lived in the dungeon. Generally the first was a wall monster called, I shit you not, Granite Arse. At least that's how I heard it. The second seemed to be one of Treguard's former child sex slaves, Lillith, or something. These two inhabited the lower reaches of the dungeon and as the kids progressed they met more characters. This got me thinking, were the actors who played these parts paid a proper wage or bit pay depending on their screen time? Imagine if you got the job of playing Cobble the Gnome? Imagine if Cobble resided on the forty sixth level of the dungeon and to reach the level the children would have to toil for six long years to get there. With the complete retards that took part in this game there would be no chance of you ever drawing screen time and therefore no chance of ever getting paid. Since most of the kids who took part couldn't even spell SHROUD or SHOVEL for simple level one spellcasting, Cobble the Gnome would be a very poor gnome indeed. I bet Cobble still drinks heavily now, trying to blunt the pain of what could have been an illustrious television career dashed by brainless idiot children that couldn't even work out right from left when walking along a chasm edge.

No! Your other left, you fucking prick!!

By the way, the farmer was right. There was nothing there. I didn't find anything.

Like a Tudor vacuum cleaner saying “How do you do?”

So much has happened in the past week that I have blanked most of it out of my mind. The horror of swapping cars between staff members has been too much for my tiny little brain to cope with. Instead I shall illustrate my week with several well thought out and tastily arranged lithographs that I have about my personal communication device. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin:

There is a caption competition for these pictures. Do your worst. Leave them in the comments

I went to see True Grit on Wednesday Orange 'two for one' night with Anna. The cheap bastards that we are.  Anyway, it's brilliant, it's like a visual Johnny Cash song. Go and see it.

IHYAYHM

I've been very busy of late writing a course I shall begin teaching a month, so the last thing I've wanted to do after spending all evening writing is write some more shit, so the Blog has taken a step back for little while. But as it's Valentine's day I thought I do a little presentation of some music for all you lovers out there:

Now if you'll excuse me I'll get back to my piss stained mattress to weep and masturbate

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!