Some background, Sam is excavating in Durham, He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named wanted to see the excavation so I put the two in touch. He went to see her and I received the following text messages:
Him: I went to see sam's dig. She got all the other people to hold me down in the dirt while she stamped on my stomach. 'this is from alex' she said. It was awful.
Me: Well I guess she only did it because you deserve it. I don't remember telling her to do that but i guess i must have.
Him: I don't care whose idea it was, it has ruined my afternoon
Me: That was the plan. So it's worked?
Him: Yes. Even the dig was fake, the thing was an elaborate hoax to humiliate me. I guess it was you who arranged all my students to be there too. Jerk.
Me: That was me! I admit it! Was your departmental head there as well? He was invited.
Him: He couldn't make it. He sent his wife and kids though. There was a candy floss seller and a small funfair, and donkey rides. Everyone was having fun except me.
Me: I did tell the mayor of durham about it so he must have set the whole thing up. I had nothing to do with the funfair. I'm pleased it came off though.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Mercury's Moustache
This is completely anachronistic, but I'm going to tell you about something I got up to last year when I was out in Zanzibar. Exactly a year ago I was in Tanzania, excavating some olden days shit. When we'd finished the work I was left alone in East Africa to fend for myself. My colleagues cast me off to the lions with no protection besides a crumpled copy of Catch 22 and a beard as big as a house.
Anyway, I found myself on a bus from Arusha heading down to Dar es Salaam, it was a nine hour bus journey that I would not wish on my worst enemy. I did befriend two people though, one a kindly middle aged gentleman who was wearing a safari company t-shirt. I asked him if he worked as a safari guide. He told me no, he worked in a bank and the t-shirt was given to him by his friend who DID work as a safari guide. He seemed to be pretty intent on helping me, despite me not asking for any help. Maybe he would have been a good safari guide and was wasted in the bank. Who knows? The other person I befriended on the bus was a kindly middle aged woman. I was sat in my seat and she climbed on the bus and sat right down next to me. She was, shall we say 'big boned', and took up at least two thirds of the seat, crushing me against the window like that face in the car in Jacob's Ladder. Besides that she was lovely. After sitting down she announced 'Hello, I am magnificent!' I responded; 'Hi, I'm doing great as well!' It took me a little while to realise her name was Magnificent and she was not referring to her state of being. Anyway, these two made the journey a little more bearable and I was soon in Dar. I was also soon heading out of that fucking dump on a ferry bound for Zanzibar.
Zanzibar was amazing, a really great little spot, friendly locals, cheap booze and pretty waitresses. Stone town was a good place to be based, but I soon grew tired of the hustle and bustle of the big smoke and wanted to break away to the country. I decided to head north to where the beaches are with an idea of spending some time sunning my corpulent body and having a proper relaxing time.
I should have known better. The last time I had a 'beach holiday' was in America in 2004 and we stopped near Galveston at Fred's insistence to spend some time on the sea front. After two days of building sand castles I was bored out of my tiny mind and was desperately trying to chivvy the others on so we could continue the road trip. I arrived in north Zanzibar and booked into a beach resort. I instantly took a dislike to practically everyone else there, all being young, bronzed, slim and attractive. I plonked my old, farmer tanned, fat and ugly self on a sun lounger and spent the first day reading a Biggles book I found in the library at the resort. The occasional swim in the warm sea could do nothing to dampen my boredom. Then I spotted a scuba expedition that was being run by the hotel, I signed up for it. It was great, I really enjoyed the day looking at fish and breathing in about half of the Indian Ocean in the process. But then it was back to the resort.
I packed up after three days and headed back to Stone Town, despite planning on staying at the resort for six days. The place I was staying in Stone Town, The Pyramid Hotel, had day trips on offer and I thought I might as well go on a couple. One was out to a spice farm where I was trussed up like a cunt without my consent:
I also met a nice Dutch couple on the bus to the spice farm, I saw them again the next day at breakfast and they asked me to exchange emails after I made a flippant comment about calling on them if I was ever in Holland. In a pure Larry David moment, I said no, I wasn't going to give them my email. I asked them what was the point? Are we really going to email each other about the time we all went to the spice farm together? No. It was a waste of my time. I carried on eating my 'continental' breakfast with a feeling of Davidian triumph. I also went on a 'swimming with dolphins' trip during my time in Stone Town. Now, for some people, swimming with dolphins is a dream come true, a chance of a life time. It has healing properties, so they say, dolphins can cure cancer just with their playful squeaking and twittering. A dolphin leaping through the waves has led to great advances in the treatment of AIDS. Unfortunately this is not the experience I had.
We (myself, a crazy middle aged French woman, a Korean couple and a Chinese couple (can you imagine the faux pas I made when I thought they'd all travelled together? Almost as bad as when I mistook the pre-mentioned Dutch couple for Germans...)) were taken by bus to some back water where we joined by a couple of girls from Leeds. They had been out on the lash the night before and were in no fit state to be standing up, never mind out on the ocean wave. And what a wave it was! The only time I have been on rougher seas was between the Westmann Islands and Iceland when the ferry was almost flipping over in the waves. This time we were on a tiny fishing boat clinging on for dear life.
The waves buffeted us and we were thrown about like kittens in a washing machine. The two girls from Leeds were suffering the most, one was spewing the entire time we were on the boat. And we were on the boat for about an hour. God knows where all this vomit was coming from. Then dolphins were spotted off the starboard bow, the fishermen instructed everyone to ready themselves for the experience of a lifetime. That meant putting on a scuba mask and flippers and getting into the squall. Just before getting in the water, the French woman was thrown from her feet by a massive wave and smacked her head on a metal bar. Despite being obviously dazed she was still insistent on swimming with the dolphins. I declined the opportunity and decided it would be better to take my chances on the boat rather than dropping into the perfect storm. The ones that braved the water were thrown about and most of them nearly drowned. The chance of even seeing a dolphin in these conditions was minimal to nil, never mind swimming with one of the fuckers. Finally the fishermen decided we'd had enough water torture and headed back to the beach. So, as for my experience of swimming with dolphins, exhilarating was not the word...
I'm ready for anything...
Anyway, I found myself on a bus from Arusha heading down to Dar es Salaam, it was a nine hour bus journey that I would not wish on my worst enemy. I did befriend two people though, one a kindly middle aged gentleman who was wearing a safari company t-shirt. I asked him if he worked as a safari guide. He told me no, he worked in a bank and the t-shirt was given to him by his friend who DID work as a safari guide. He seemed to be pretty intent on helping me, despite me not asking for any help. Maybe he would have been a good safari guide and was wasted in the bank. Who knows? The other person I befriended on the bus was a kindly middle aged woman. I was sat in my seat and she climbed on the bus and sat right down next to me. She was, shall we say 'big boned', and took up at least two thirds of the seat, crushing me against the window like that face in the car in Jacob's Ladder. Besides that she was lovely. After sitting down she announced 'Hello, I am magnificent!' I responded; 'Hi, I'm doing great as well!' It took me a little while to realise her name was Magnificent and she was not referring to her state of being. Anyway, these two made the journey a little more bearable and I was soon in Dar. I was also soon heading out of that fucking dump on a ferry bound for Zanzibar.
The best way to see Dar es Salaam, disappearing on the horizon....
Zanzibar was amazing, a really great little spot, friendly locals, cheap booze and pretty waitresses. Stone town was a good place to be based, but I soon grew tired of the hustle and bustle of the big smoke and wanted to break away to the country. I decided to head north to where the beaches are with an idea of spending some time sunning my corpulent body and having a proper relaxing time.
The grind of the daily commute was wearing me down...
I should have known better. The last time I had a 'beach holiday' was in America in 2004 and we stopped near Galveston at Fred's insistence to spend some time on the sea front. After two days of building sand castles I was bored out of my tiny mind and was desperately trying to chivvy the others on so we could continue the road trip. I arrived in north Zanzibar and booked into a beach resort. I instantly took a dislike to practically everyone else there, all being young, bronzed, slim and attractive. I plonked my old, farmer tanned, fat and ugly self on a sun lounger and spent the first day reading a Biggles book I found in the library at the resort. The occasional swim in the warm sea could do nothing to dampen my boredom. Then I spotted a scuba expedition that was being run by the hotel, I signed up for it. It was great, I really enjoyed the day looking at fish and breathing in about half of the Indian Ocean in the process. But then it was back to the resort.
It's got nothing on Whitby...
I packed up after three days and headed back to Stone Town, despite planning on staying at the resort for six days. The place I was staying in Stone Town, The Pyramid Hotel, had day trips on offer and I thought I might as well go on a couple. One was out to a spice farm where I was trussed up like a cunt without my consent:
I never asked for this...
I also met a nice Dutch couple on the bus to the spice farm, I saw them again the next day at breakfast and they asked me to exchange emails after I made a flippant comment about calling on them if I was ever in Holland. In a pure Larry David moment, I said no, I wasn't going to give them my email. I asked them what was the point? Are we really going to email each other about the time we all went to the spice farm together? No. It was a waste of my time. I carried on eating my 'continental' breakfast with a feeling of Davidian triumph. I also went on a 'swimming with dolphins' trip during my time in Stone Town. Now, for some people, swimming with dolphins is a dream come true, a chance of a life time. It has healing properties, so they say, dolphins can cure cancer just with their playful squeaking and twittering. A dolphin leaping through the waves has led to great advances in the treatment of AIDS. Unfortunately this is not the experience I had.
What I could have won
We (myself, a crazy middle aged French woman, a Korean couple and a Chinese couple (can you imagine the faux pas I made when I thought they'd all travelled together? Almost as bad as when I mistook the pre-mentioned Dutch couple for Germans...)) were taken by bus to some back water where we joined by a couple of girls from Leeds. They had been out on the lash the night before and were in no fit state to be standing up, never mind out on the ocean wave. And what a wave it was! The only time I have been on rougher seas was between the Westmann Islands and Iceland when the ferry was almost flipping over in the waves. This time we were on a tiny fishing boat clinging on for dear life.
We're going to need a bigger boat...
The waves buffeted us and we were thrown about like kittens in a washing machine. The two girls from Leeds were suffering the most, one was spewing the entire time we were on the boat. And we were on the boat for about an hour. God knows where all this vomit was coming from. Then dolphins were spotted off the starboard bow, the fishermen instructed everyone to ready themselves for the experience of a lifetime. That meant putting on a scuba mask and flippers and getting into the squall. Just before getting in the water, the French woman was thrown from her feet by a massive wave and smacked her head on a metal bar. Despite being obviously dazed she was still insistent on swimming with the dolphins. I declined the opportunity and decided it would be better to take my chances on the boat rather than dropping into the perfect storm. The ones that braved the water were thrown about and most of them nearly drowned. The chance of even seeing a dolphin in these conditions was minimal to nil, never mind swimming with one of the fuckers. Finally the fishermen decided we'd had enough water torture and headed back to the beach. So, as for my experience of swimming with dolphins, exhilarating was not the word...
'OK, time to start fishing the corpses out of the water'
Monday, 1 August 2011
Knightmare
This weekend started off well, Kate bought me a teapot and cup (with a cat on it) for my birthday. I've been wanting a teapot for a while but it is usually the last thing I think of when I'm out shopping. I'm generally starving and too keen on packing up the trolley with things I can eat on the way home rather than planning for a full week of meals or porcelain items. Anyway, the teapot was also accompanied by a trip out to Silverwood to see some training trenches dug by the Barnsley Pals in the olden days when there was an important war on. That was good and I liked it.
That wasn't the only war themed occurrence this weekend. Whilst working out at Bridlington I drove past Sledmere House everyday and saw that there was a living history event on this weekend and had decided to go a long time ago. Thing is, I wasn't keen on the idea of going alone, I mean reenactors are always better when you have someone else to laugh at them with. So I got on the Bat Phone and informed He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named that there was something astir. He checked it out and saw there were a bunch of fucking Romans riding about on horses and wet his pants over it. He duly turned up at my house about 6.30am on Sunday morning demanding tea (which I made with the new tea pot...) and blathering on and on about the fucking Romans.
We hit Sledmere about midday and the dressing up fun had already begun. The Sealed Knot were doing a drill practise with pikes. Now, call me cynical, but I always thought a pike block would consist of about one thousand young and physically fit men. What we got was seven middle-aged fat men:
As we were sitting watching the drill display a chap sat down next to me dressed as a Parlimentarian (or a Royalist, I couldn't really tell, it's not my period, the English Civil War...) and lit up a fag. I asked him if the cigarette was a genuine seventeenth century one. It wasn't but it gave him cue to tell us all about himself for the next half an hour. I was quite interested in why a man of nearly fifty would suddenly decided to take up (fake) arms and join in the dressing up fun. I skirted around asking him when his wife had left him or if he was just going through some sort of mid-life crisis. He didn't need to tell me directly, the amount of money he'd spent on his gun told me he was single. He was a nice guy and at the end of the day it's a case of whatever floats your boat, so if he gets off on dressing up as a soldier from four hundred years ago then more power to him. All the while at the front the fatties did some nice baton twirling with the flags, even if the guy doing it looked like he spent the rest of his free time LARPing:
The Romans were up next and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was leaping about like a Romanian dancing bear and whooping like a banshee. They pranced about on the horses and showed off their various skills in how to bring down the Hun. We thought there would be a better spectacular if a bunch of Vandal reenactors charged on from stage left and sacked the Roman camp for four days solid. But sadly, they didn't show up. It got me thinking, getting a barbarian reenactment society together would be pretty cheap, all you need is a bunch of sticks for spears and some blue body paint. No expensive armour or clothes when you're skyclad!
Then it was time for the mums and dads to take the kids down to the front to stroke the Romans. He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named begged and begged for me to take him down to the front, I told him he wasn't allowed to go down there on his own, but his nagging was so incessant I had to accompany him. He was frightened by the horse's big faces, but managed to chat up Gimli the Dwarf about his dragon flag thing.
Next up were the Knights in Battle. I was most looking forward to these, but they were very disappointing; it was just a bunch of nobs smacking each other with swords. Their commentator was rubbish as well. I couldn't tell who was winning or losing or even who was who due to her bad commentary. It also made me mad because she was dressed as a Nun.
Enough was enough and we headed home to have a barbecue and finished off the weekend with a visit to the cinema to see Captain America. Here is a review ala Logan Josh:
Set during the time of the Boxer Rebellion, Captain America is a tale of teenage angst and desperation in the face of overwhelming odds. Chris Evans plays Dexter Mooches, a 17 year old child violin prodigy sent away from home for the first time to Magic School on the west coast of Sudan. At school Dexter is bullied mercilessly due to his short stature and receding forehead. His only friend is an invisible mouse called Midge Ure. Only Dexter can see this mouse, but he manages to convince one of the other boys, Marian Cleeble (Whoopie Goldberg, playing brilliantly against type) of its existence. The three set off on a journey to find the elixir of life when it is discovered that their ancient Professor (Hank Williams, uncredited) has only minutes left to live. The plucky trio confront several adversities on their journey. In one brilliant set piece, Dexter and Marian have to battle their way out of a siege armed only with colanders and a spatula. Spoiler alert! It is revealed part way through that Midge is not actually a mouse, but is a young woman after all (played by Mädchen Amick) and has been searching for a true heart to unlock the curse that she has been living under. Dexter's sense of duty and compassion are the key to breaking this voodoo. Although she is still invisible to every one except Dexter, they quickly fall in love and are married in the Spring. Having gained the elixir and saved the Professor the three heroes live happily ever after on a yacht trading rum between Caribbean islands. 0 out of 100!!! Make sue you miss this one!
Hello mum!
That wasn't the only war themed occurrence this weekend. Whilst working out at Bridlington I drove past Sledmere House everyday and saw that there was a living history event on this weekend and had decided to go a long time ago. Thing is, I wasn't keen on the idea of going alone, I mean reenactors are always better when you have someone else to laugh at them with. So I got on the Bat Phone and informed He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named that there was something astir. He checked it out and saw there were a bunch of fucking Romans riding about on horses and wet his pants over it. He duly turned up at my house about 6.30am on Sunday morning demanding tea (which I made with the new tea pot...) and blathering on and on about the fucking Romans.
Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooring
We hit Sledmere about midday and the dressing up fun had already begun. The Sealed Knot were doing a drill practise with pikes. Now, call me cynical, but I always thought a pike block would consist of about one thousand young and physically fit men. What we got was seven middle-aged fat men:
It's hardly the Battle of Edgehill, is it?
As we were sitting watching the drill display a chap sat down next to me dressed as a Parlimentarian (or a Royalist, I couldn't really tell, it's not my period, the English Civil War...) and lit up a fag. I asked him if the cigarette was a genuine seventeenth century one. It wasn't but it gave him cue to tell us all about himself for the next half an hour. I was quite interested in why a man of nearly fifty would suddenly decided to take up (fake) arms and join in the dressing up fun. I skirted around asking him when his wife had left him or if he was just going through some sort of mid-life crisis. He didn't need to tell me directly, the amount of money he'd spent on his gun told me he was single. He was a nice guy and at the end of the day it's a case of whatever floats your boat, so if he gets off on dressing up as a soldier from four hundred years ago then more power to him. All the while at the front the fatties did some nice baton twirling with the flags, even if the guy doing it looked like he spent the rest of his free time LARPing:
I bet your mother is so proud!
The Romans were up next and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was leaping about like a Romanian dancing bear and whooping like a banshee. They pranced about on the horses and showed off their various skills in how to bring down the Hun. We thought there would be a better spectacular if a bunch of Vandal reenactors charged on from stage left and sacked the Roman camp for four days solid. But sadly, they didn't show up. It got me thinking, getting a barbarian reenactment society together would be pretty cheap, all you need is a bunch of sticks for spears and some blue body paint. No expensive armour or clothes when you're skyclad!
How much did that lot cost?
Then it was time for the mums and dads to take the kids down to the front to stroke the Romans. He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named begged and begged for me to take him down to the front, I told him he wasn't allowed to go down there on his own, but his nagging was so incessant I had to accompany him. He was frightened by the horse's big faces, but managed to chat up Gimli the Dwarf about his dragon flag thing.
'So is it a real dragon?'
'No, you fucking oaf, it's made out of metal.'
Next up were the Knights in Battle. I was most looking forward to these, but they were very disappointing; it was just a bunch of nobs smacking each other with swords. Their commentator was rubbish as well. I couldn't tell who was winning or losing or even who was who due to her bad commentary. It also made me mad because she was dressed as a Nun.
WHAT'S GOING ON?
Enough was enough and we headed home to have a barbecue and finished off the weekend with a visit to the cinema to see Captain America. Here is a review ala Logan Josh:
Set during the time of the Boxer Rebellion, Captain America is a tale of teenage angst and desperation in the face of overwhelming odds. Chris Evans plays Dexter Mooches, a 17 year old child violin prodigy sent away from home for the first time to Magic School on the west coast of Sudan. At school Dexter is bullied mercilessly due to his short stature and receding forehead. His only friend is an invisible mouse called Midge Ure. Only Dexter can see this mouse, but he manages to convince one of the other boys, Marian Cleeble (Whoopie Goldberg, playing brilliantly against type) of its existence. The three set off on a journey to find the elixir of life when it is discovered that their ancient Professor (Hank Williams, uncredited) has only minutes left to live. The plucky trio confront several adversities on their journey. In one brilliant set piece, Dexter and Marian have to battle their way out of a siege armed only with colanders and a spatula. Spoiler alert! It is revealed part way through that Midge is not actually a mouse, but is a young woman after all (played by Mädchen Amick) and has been searching for a true heart to unlock the curse that she has been living under. Dexter's sense of duty and compassion are the key to breaking this voodoo. Although she is still invisible to every one except Dexter, they quickly fall in love and are married in the Spring. Having gained the elixir and saved the Professor the three heroes live happily ever after on a yacht trading rum between Caribbean islands. 0 out of 100!!! Make sue you miss this one!
Meh.
Monday, 25 July 2011
Cashing in
This has been a busy weekend, on Saturday my parents called over to help me clear the back garden. I haven't touched the thing since I moved in in January and it had become a jungle, especially with all the recent rain and sun combination. There are as of yet undiscovered rain forest tribes crawling out of the dense foliage every so often, so I decided that it was time to trim it all back. My father is a landscape gardener so I knew it would be in good hands. It actually only took a couple of hours to do, but during that time we cut back the dense overgrowth to uncover several Inca cities and a Mayan temple in ruins. I rewarded their hard work by serving burnt meat from the barbecue and we finished the lavish meal with cake.
Whilst I was up to my elbows in shrubbery Craig called and told me he was mading good on his promise to call up as he and Alix missed my birthday BBQ last weekend. Alix's car had developed problems just outside of Nottingham and they had decided not to risk the journey up to York. This weekend, however, the car was working fine and they duly arrived, even before I'd got out of bed. Jesus, it's a Sunday, what time do you people think I get up at? I said rather than mooch around in York we should take advantage of the good weather and head out to the coast. So we did. The rest of York had the same idea it would seem by the traffic jams on the A64. Eventually battling through the traffic we made our way to Boggle Hole and I had a nostalgia trip. I haven't been this way for about seventeen years ever since we used to go on holiday there as kids. Every year for seventeen years we would descend on a tiny cottage on the edge of the wolds, close to Ravenscar and overlooking the sea. It had no running hot water, no inside toilet, very little electricity and it was so dark at night that you could quite clearly see the milky way. As a kid, I hated it, it was so isolated and there was nothing to do, except occasionally go to Scarborough to play on the arcades and lust after that copy of Richtofen's War which was for sale in a model shop that is now an Italian restaurant. Nowadays, I would fucking love it. The misanthropic isolation of the place really appeals to me these days. I'd buy the place, get a load of cats and a rifle and withdraw from society.
So we headed down to the beach at Boggle Hole and I was surprised by the change in the place. First off they local council had gotten rid of the rope bridge that crossed the chasm you had to pass over before hitting the beach. They'd replaced it with a fucking road. They'd even got rid of all the massive jagged rocks that marked the passage to the coast. The rocks with the skulls and bones of previous visitors scattered on them. At least that is how I remembered it. (that's a joke, but there honestly one time we went there and there was absolutely no one on the beach, completely deserted, apart from a pair of shoes with socks tucked into them resting on a rock. The shoes owner never appeared while we were on the beach. A possible suicide? But then why would you take your shoes off if you were going to top yourself?)
These days it just seems to be full of fat Geordie chavs with bulldogs and damp picnic sandwiches. At least that's the impression I got from Sunday's visit. We had a quick lunch at the youth hostel whilst discussing the fiscal state of America (We know how to party!). A trip out to the coast is not really complete without a quick look in on Robin Hood's Bay and this was no exception. Since Alix and Craig were now too late to get back to Nottingham for the evening they had planned, I brow beat them into heading up the coast. They were quite easily swayed as I had the car keys and it's a long walk back to York where Alix's car was parked. In the sprawling metropolis that is Robin Hood's Bay I made the two of them sit on the same spot that we used to sit on as a family and have our photo taken, year after year. I don't have any of those pictures to hand, but believe me, little has changed in all that time:
As we descended the steps into town Craig told me about Geocaching, the universal game of hide and seek. Apparently there was four Geocaches in the vicinity of RHB and my interest was piqued, so we set about looking for the first. It was located under the steps of the path heading to the cliff tops. We found the location with Craig's mobile phone GPS and Alix and I began scrabbling about under the wooden steps. As we had our heads buried under the boards, a walking couple came past and asked what we were up to. I told them I had dropped my keys. Then we 'fessed up and told them about Geocaching. They wished us luck in our search and it seemed to work as Alix immediately found the box! It was packed with kid's toys, a log book, other Geocacher's visiting cards and such. So Alix threw them all over the cliff and then smashed the box to pieces, so no one else would get a chance to find it.
On this high, we decided to try and find another one. On the way we stopped off at the Dinosaur 'Museum'. Well, with free entry, how could we refuse? It wasn't a museum. It was a book shop with some fossils on the wall. What a fucking rip off.
The second Geocache was located near the church on the hill. Craig's attempt at the Azimuth Brutale ended with us standing in a children's playground looking shady, so we had to go the sensible and long way by the roads. In the church we had answer a few puzzles to give us the coordinates for the next box. Literally, seconds after fathoming the riddle Craig's phone died and we were bereft of finding the cache. The sense of loss and bitterness was unparalleled. I am unashamed to admit I wept like a Frenchman for a full hour. I was inconsolable at this hubris. That bastard McKibbin had screwed me over for the last time. I got in the car and drove away from them both without looking back. I hope they are both dead.
Wow, you can see the floor...
Whilst I was up to my elbows in shrubbery Craig called and told me he was mading good on his promise to call up as he and Alix missed my birthday BBQ last weekend. Alix's car had developed problems just outside of Nottingham and they had decided not to risk the journey up to York. This weekend, however, the car was working fine and they duly arrived, even before I'd got out of bed. Jesus, it's a Sunday, what time do you people think I get up at? I said rather than mooch around in York we should take advantage of the good weather and head out to the coast. So we did. The rest of York had the same idea it would seem by the traffic jams on the A64. Eventually battling through the traffic we made our way to Boggle Hole and I had a nostalgia trip. I haven't been this way for about seventeen years ever since we used to go on holiday there as kids. Every year for seventeen years we would descend on a tiny cottage on the edge of the wolds, close to Ravenscar and overlooking the sea. It had no running hot water, no inside toilet, very little electricity and it was so dark at night that you could quite clearly see the milky way. As a kid, I hated it, it was so isolated and there was nothing to do, except occasionally go to Scarborough to play on the arcades and lust after that copy of Richtofen's War which was for sale in a model shop that is now an Italian restaurant. Nowadays, I would fucking love it. The misanthropic isolation of the place really appeals to me these days. I'd buy the place, get a load of cats and a rifle and withdraw from society.
Is there anybody out there?
So we headed down to the beach at Boggle Hole and I was surprised by the change in the place. First off they local council had gotten rid of the rope bridge that crossed the chasm you had to pass over before hitting the beach. They'd replaced it with a fucking road. They'd even got rid of all the massive jagged rocks that marked the passage to the coast. The rocks with the skulls and bones of previous visitors scattered on them. At least that is how I remembered it. (that's a joke, but there honestly one time we went there and there was absolutely no one on the beach, completely deserted, apart from a pair of shoes with socks tucked into them resting on a rock. The shoes owner never appeared while we were on the beach. A possible suicide? But then why would you take your shoes off if you were going to top yourself?)
Britain's most beautiful suicide spot...
These days it just seems to be full of fat Geordie chavs with bulldogs and damp picnic sandwiches. At least that's the impression I got from Sunday's visit. We had a quick lunch at the youth hostel whilst discussing the fiscal state of America (We know how to party!). A trip out to the coast is not really complete without a quick look in on Robin Hood's Bay and this was no exception. Since Alix and Craig were now too late to get back to Nottingham for the evening they had planned, I brow beat them into heading up the coast. They were quite easily swayed as I had the car keys and it's a long walk back to York where Alix's car was parked. In the sprawling metropolis that is Robin Hood's Bay I made the two of them sit on the same spot that we used to sit on as a family and have our photo taken, year after year. I don't have any of those pictures to hand, but believe me, little has changed in all that time:
'SIT ON THE FUCKING WALL!!'
As we descended the steps into town Craig told me about Geocaching, the universal game of hide and seek. Apparently there was four Geocaches in the vicinity of RHB and my interest was piqued, so we set about looking for the first. It was located under the steps of the path heading to the cliff tops. We found the location with Craig's mobile phone GPS and Alix and I began scrabbling about under the wooden steps. As we had our heads buried under the boards, a walking couple came past and asked what we were up to. I told them I had dropped my keys. Then we 'fessed up and told them about Geocaching. They wished us luck in our search and it seemed to work as Alix immediately found the box! It was packed with kid's toys, a log book, other Geocacher's visiting cards and such. So Alix threw them all over the cliff and then smashed the box to pieces, so no one else would get a chance to find it.
No one else will ever find this!
On this high, we decided to try and find another one. On the way we stopped off at the Dinosaur 'Museum'. Well, with free entry, how could we refuse? It wasn't a museum. It was a book shop with some fossils on the wall. What a fucking rip off.
LIES!!
The second Geocache was located near the church on the hill. Craig's attempt at the Azimuth Brutale ended with us standing in a children's playground looking shady, so we had to go the sensible and long way by the roads. In the church we had answer a few puzzles to give us the coordinates for the next box. Literally, seconds after fathoming the riddle Craig's phone died and we were bereft of finding the cache. The sense of loss and bitterness was unparalleled. I am unashamed to admit I wept like a Frenchman for a full hour. I was inconsolable at this hubris. That bastard McKibbin had screwed me over for the last time. I got in the car and drove away from them both without looking back. I hope they are both dead.
Still missing, please contact the Police if you see them
Thursday, 21 July 2011
Dinner Dirt
Since allowing TV into my life, I have been lapping up its various treasures. Its lush and gossamer tube glow washes over me like the waves of a velvety ocean. I am comforted by its soft and plump bosom like pillows of the scheduling. Like a baby wrapped in swaddling, I drool and gurgle whilst prostrate on the sofa transfixed by the flickering images parading in front of me like marionettes in a puppet show. Wading through the various delights offered up I have found some programs that I actually enjoy watching. One of these is Dinner Date; ITV's answer to Come Dine With Me.
At its core is a cooking show, but Dinner Date is soooooo much more than that. With the heavy burden that remains of the baggage created by Cilla Black, ITV seem unable to commission any show that doesn't involve some form of dating. Cilla's Blind Date was a massive hit for ITV and they always fall back on this
safety net when they need a competition to the other channels success stories. What about Take Me Out? That Saturday night dross where desperate single men were paraded like a piece of meat in front of thirty desperate, lonely and love hungry women. The vast amount of oestrogen was overwhelming even from the TV screen. ITV's obsession with hooking people up borders on a secretive breeding program where only photogenic (suntanned, bright white teeth and well groomed) couples are allowed to procreate in order to give TOWIE a cast well into the future when the present ones collapse under the weight of their fake tits or shrivel like prunes in their sunbeds.
Well, this time ITV have upped the ante. They have taken the classic timelessness of CDWM and twisted it beyond all recognition in Dinner Date. It is like Jeff Goldblum after crawling out of the molecular transformer in The Fly, the bastard offspring of two forms of life. In this case, CDWM and Blind Date. The genetics of the two shows have been spliced together and we gasp in awe at the hideous beast that pulsates and thrashes around in front of us. We bray and clap as it tries to stand up on weak legs but collapses into a panting slavering heap time and again.
Why is it so entertaining? Allow me to explain: A singleton is asked to choose three dates on the strength of five menus. This is the first elimination stage. Five hopefuls are instantly whittled down to three because the diner prefers rocket salad to haloumi brioche. Talk about separating the wheat from the chaff. Woe betide you if your menu isn't up to scratch. You have been judged on what food you think would make a good meal. How dare you think I might like braised steak, you filthy little oik, how could you even begin to think that Eton Mess is a perfectly normal dessert? The disgusting swill you are planning to serve me isn't fit for human consumption, try again, you fucking loser! Get back to masturbating yourself to sleep in tears on your piss stained mattress, you miserly cur.
It would appear that all the people in the show have been recruited on the strength of their careers, they all appear to be soulless office types that work in advertising, accountancy, mergers and acquisitions or public relations (whatever the fuck that is...). They all appear to be perfectly groomed, plucked, tucked and fully loaded with make up. And that's just the men. The are vainglorious bastards, the kind of people I would crush with steamrollers as soon as I get in to power. I'd have them bound up and laid out in rows in football stadia, then slowly run industrial machinery across them, film it and show it on TV instead of the sports channels.
I digress. The lucky diner then gets to meet each of the final three and have a dinner with them. This is where we get to see the interiors of the flats that the hosts live in. They are all the exact same flat pack, chrome and wood interiors that lack any depth of imagination or singularity. All of them are spotless, soulless places, just like their owners.
Then the hosts are asked to rate the diner out of three, which doesn't leave much room for manoeuvre. It's either, 'I like them', 'I'm indifferent', or 'get them the fuck out of my house, they have already tried to chloroform me!' This voting has very little to do with the outcome of the show and the final blow is left to the diner. They choose, on the strength of the dinners offered up, who they would like to see again and go out for a meal in a restaurant. This is where the show delivers its fatal strike. All three hosts are instructed to get up in their finest clothes and await the knock at the door. Two of them are delivered a meal for one, which they get to enjoy whilst dressed in their best bib and tucker. The show ends following the winning couple to the date and getting a round up on the meal. But I would far prefer for the show to focus on the losers, filming them while they weep like babies dressed in a ball gown as they shovel down their Weight Watchers Spag Bol.
Come back CDWM, all is forgiven!!
At its core is a cooking show, but Dinner Date is soooooo much more than that. With the heavy burden that remains of the baggage created by Cilla Black, ITV seem unable to commission any show that doesn't involve some form of dating. Cilla's Blind Date was a massive hit for ITV and they always fall back on this
safety net when they need a competition to the other channels success stories. What about Take Me Out? That Saturday night dross where desperate single men were paraded like a piece of meat in front of thirty desperate, lonely and love hungry women. The vast amount of oestrogen was overwhelming even from the TV screen. ITV's obsession with hooking people up borders on a secretive breeding program where only photogenic (suntanned, bright white teeth and well groomed) couples are allowed to procreate in order to give TOWIE a cast well into the future when the present ones collapse under the weight of their fake tits or shrivel like prunes in their sunbeds.
You can and will be replaced by younger and better looking specimens from ITV's breeding ponds...
Well, this time ITV have upped the ante. They have taken the classic timelessness of CDWM and twisted it beyond all recognition in Dinner Date. It is like Jeff Goldblum after crawling out of the molecular transformer in The Fly, the bastard offspring of two forms of life. In this case, CDWM and Blind Date. The genetics of the two shows have been spliced together and we gasp in awe at the hideous beast that pulsates and thrashes around in front of us. We bray and clap as it tries to stand up on weak legs but collapses into a panting slavering heap time and again.
Get up, your public is waiting!!
Why is it so entertaining? Allow me to explain: A singleton is asked to choose three dates on the strength of five menus. This is the first elimination stage. Five hopefuls are instantly whittled down to three because the diner prefers rocket salad to haloumi brioche. Talk about separating the wheat from the chaff. Woe betide you if your menu isn't up to scratch. You have been judged on what food you think would make a good meal. How dare you think I might like braised steak, you filthy little oik, how could you even begin to think that Eton Mess is a perfectly normal dessert? The disgusting swill you are planning to serve me isn't fit for human consumption, try again, you fucking loser! Get back to masturbating yourself to sleep in tears on your piss stained mattress, you miserly cur.
In my hands I hold the power over life and death...
It would appear that all the people in the show have been recruited on the strength of their careers, they all appear to be soulless office types that work in advertising, accountancy, mergers and acquisitions or public relations (whatever the fuck that is...). They all appear to be perfectly groomed, plucked, tucked and fully loaded with make up. And that's just the men. The are vainglorious bastards, the kind of people I would crush with steamrollers as soon as I get in to power. I'd have them bound up and laid out in rows in football stadia, then slowly run industrial machinery across them, film it and show it on TV instead of the sports channels.
First up against the fucking wall...
I digress. The lucky diner then gets to meet each of the final three and have a dinner with them. This is where we get to see the interiors of the flats that the hosts live in. They are all the exact same flat pack, chrome and wood interiors that lack any depth of imagination or singularity. All of them are spotless, soulless places, just like their owners.
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife... But I'd rather cut my own throat...
Then the hosts are asked to rate the diner out of three, which doesn't leave much room for manoeuvre. It's either, 'I like them', 'I'm indifferent', or 'get them the fuck out of my house, they have already tried to chloroform me!' This voting has very little to do with the outcome of the show and the final blow is left to the diner. They choose, on the strength of the dinners offered up, who they would like to see again and go out for a meal in a restaurant. This is where the show delivers its fatal strike. All three hosts are instructed to get up in their finest clothes and await the knock at the door. Two of them are delivered a meal for one, which they get to enjoy whilst dressed in their best bib and tucker. The show ends following the winning couple to the date and getting a round up on the meal. But I would far prefer for the show to focus on the losers, filming them while they weep like babies dressed in a ball gown as they shovel down their Weight Watchers Spag Bol.
'What is love?'
So, anyway, I sent off my application.
Monday, 18 July 2011
Drug of the Nation
It was my Birthday last week and my parents rocked up in York partially to take me out for a meal which never happened as we'd all eaten separately earlier in the day anyway (they had fish and chips. I had chorizo and bean soup. I know you are gasping for the details...). They were also up to deliver my birthday presents. One of which was a Sudoku toilet roll. The other was a TELLY!! Yes! My first Telly ever! It's massive. It sits in the corner of the room demanding attention. It cries out for my affections, and boy, do I give them. I can't stop watching it. There are paint smears on everything I own, the vapor rub is lying on a table of filth, Christmas cards to which I never reply, my eyeballs absorb only blue filtered light. I'm a TV casualty. I have watched everything from Come Dine With Me, Dinner Date (there will be a blog post on this at some point...), Coach Trip and even The Apprentice (I joined this late and only just caught the very last episode. It appeared to consist of a load of uptight badly made-up shit bags trying to peddle garbage to a prune in a suit , I'm glad I missed it). All the good shit. In fact, that was all there was that was worth watching over the weekend. Hopefully there will be something good on this week. I'll be using it mainly to watch DVDs
Not only did I get a telly, but I was also given a plastic Paratrooper and a Hurricane Styrofoam glider from Kirky, a mug with some Vikings on it from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named (Tarquin Sheen had a shit fit when he found out details of his violent past were on display on this very blog and that they came up on a Google search. He threatened me with physical and psychological trauma and so from this point on I shall refer to him as He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named), a bag of Kola Bottles from Sam and a Justin Bieber sticker book by Moogdroog. The book came with six stickers, so in her ever inventiveness, she conscripted He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named to help make a few extra stickers to place in the album to start me off. Here they are for your perusal. I have no glue to stick them in the book, so I will have to use spunk.
Not only did I get a telly, but I was also given a plastic Paratrooper and a Hurricane Styrofoam glider from Kirky, a mug with some Vikings on it from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named (Tarquin Sheen had a shit fit when he found out details of his violent past were on display on this very blog and that they came up on a Google search. He threatened me with physical and psychological trauma and so from this point on I shall refer to him as He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named), a bag of Kola Bottles from Sam and a Justin Bieber sticker book by Moogdroog. The book came with six stickers, so in her ever inventiveness, she conscripted He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named to help make a few extra stickers to place in the album to start me off. Here they are for your perusal. I have no glue to stick them in the book, so I will have to use spunk.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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