Nail Him!!

So, there I was, up to my elbows in medieval riverside deposits trying to find a nonexistent revetted friary quayside, when my mother rung me. She said 'I've got something to ask, but you're going to go mad.' So I steeled myself and asked her what it was. She said 'me and your dad are going shopping and wanted to know if there was any DVDs or CDs you wanted for Christmas?' She is right, I did go mad. And why? Well, quieten the fuck down and let me explain.

This year for Christ's Mass I, like Greece, implemented austerity measures in the Sotheran household. I made everyone else sign up to the idea that we would only spend £25 on each other (give or take a few quid) and we were not allowed to ask one another what we wanted. We would each have to go out and buy presents for one another that we thought they would like or appreciate and the resulting presents would be a surprise. Why did I decide this?

Well last year everyone made lists of stuff they wanted and this was the result: Both myself and my brother bought the same fucking book for my mother. It cost the better part of £20 and my copy has been sitting unsold on EBay for the last year. My brother and my mother both bought me a CD which I already had (I'd forgotten this when I made the list). My brother bought me a DVD that was the wrong region for my player, so had to be sent back. It got farcical.

This is my major problem with Christ's Mass. I love winter, but I hate this build up to the conjectural birth date of a necromancing Iron Age cabinet maker. By eliminating the need to make lists for presents I wanted I had managed to eradicate the stress of the build up towards the BIG DAY!!! Also I'm not seven years old and don't get hyper excited about the prospect of whether I'll be getting a Scalextrix or a Lego castle set. It was getting more and more difficult to think of things I wanted for Christ's Mass than it was to buy things for the rest of the family. I can afford almost everything I want. It's just another day with a week off work, which is the best part of it. If anything, Christ's Mass should be about family and eating a fuck load of food to get you through the winter months, not who can spend the most amount of money on trinkets no one really wants.

So this is why I went mad earlier, because my parents were asking me to give them an idea for a CD or DVD or book that I wanted, that I could afford to pay for myself anyway if I really wanted it. The thing is I've not even given this shit a thought since I assumed we'd done away with the need to create lists for one another, so she was putting me on the spot. this year's 'celebrations' are only a week away but for next year I am seriously considering buying a bunch of cats and stockpiling weapons and living off the land like a survivalist. Fuck your society of greed.

I FUCKING HATE CHRISTMAS!!!!

My only Christ's Mass decoration

Cream of the Crap

OK, so I can say with alarming clarity that God does actually exist and the fucker totally hates me. How do I know? Well, 'twas on a Sunday morning that the Divine allowed His presence to be felt by guiding my clown shoe like feet to stamp on my spectacles. They were lying on the floor of my parent's spare bedroom where I had spent the night. 'Oh Flip!' said I, as I saw that the lens had come out and the ear branch was all askance. How did this come about that my glasses were on the floor of my parent's spare bedroom? Well, sit back and I shall tell thee.

Flipping Crumbs!

I had travelled down to Nottingham on Friday night to see Mr McKibbin and Miss Lee in their new house. In fact the house is pretty much owned by Alix and Craig is just mooching off her, as he has done with me all the time I've known him. Thank God, I managed to get rid of him onto her. Anyway, their new place is in the middle of Little Beirut in Nottingham and I got stabbed three times between getting out of the car and going in their front door. We piled the furniture back up against the door and had a good old fashioned catch up as IEDs went off outside.

'Yeah, just park it anywhere.'

I was also there to break up the journey I was making to Birmingham for a day of lectures and presentations as decreed by my MA. And what a day it was. I was sitting there, listening to Gary Sheffield talking about the First World War, thinking 'I fucking love this! This is the best thing I've done in ages. Why can't everyday be like this?'

FUCKING BRILLIANT!!!

The way back to York was broken up with a stop over at my folk's house in Rotherham, which nicely coincided with a gig by Goatleaf. I haven't seen them play for over six months, so it was about time I went back gave them my support. It was like stepping back in time, however, as there was a bunch of folks there I hadn't seen for years. The 'Leaf were on top form as ever, with Mr Deveaux dancing around like bear on a hot plate. The support came from 6 Needles, who were shambolic but fucking ace as well. Their flyer tells you pretty much all you need to know about them:

Anyway, I succeeded in getting drunk and even finding a taxi to get me home. Everything was going well until the next morning when I stamped on the specs. I tell you, Karma is a bitch. I had set Sunday aside for working on an essay, but fate intervened and robbed me of all opportunity to do any work at all. I called down to the Rotherham branch of Specsavers to see if they could do anything about my lunettes. Thankfully I had my work glasses in my bag, but these are so badly scratched that looking through them is like wearing a Medieval stained glass window. I sat in the opticians for an hour while they hammered away at my glasses to no avail. They thought I would have better luck at the York branch, as they have an anvil and forge set up for such occasions, so I finally made it back up north and into town. The place was heaving with desperate shoppers trying to find toys and trinkets for nephew Tarquin and niece Tallulah, as there is ONLY THREE WEEKS UNTIL CHRIST'S MASS so I bravely fought my way to Specsavers, where a callow ginger haired youth tried to help me with my predicament. Again to no avail. This resulted in a new eyetest for me and new glasses, to the tune of nearly three hundred quid. The only good thing to come out of it was the woman who fitted my new glasses was smoking hot, I joked with her as I handed over the money that the kids wouldn't be getting any presents this year. But that, dear reader, is how to put the ultimate dampener on what had been until then, a good weekend.

Gods and Monsters

This week has been characterised by a Medieval-deal-breaking growth* on my back. I went to a walk-in clinic to find out what was wrong with me and started explaining the situation to the nurse and said it would be easier if he just looked, so pulled my shirt up and the nurse went' ooooh!' I retorted 'don't say that! You're supposed to make me feel better!' He even went and got a second opinion and when she saw it she also said 'ooooh!' I went there to get better, not to be treated like a circus freak. Anyway, it was an abscess that finally burst on Friday night after I had two days off work because of lack of sleep from the pain.

It did mean that I got to go to Becky's party on Saturday to say goodbye as she heads off into the sunset of Canadia. It was a good party despite not being able to drink. It also meant that I went along to the Movie Buff's fair at the Royal York Hotel on Sunday afternoon, in the company of Logan and Mrs Josh and Nathan. To call it a 'Movie Buff' fair was a little (ahem) unfair (ahem), it was more like a Star Wars car boot sale. It would appear that the only movies ever made were Star Wars and Doctor Who judging by what was being sold. There was also York's premier Captain Jack Sparrow look-a-like on hand, along with the Riddler, fat Superman and  a female superhero I am unfamiliar with, but from the tightness of her costume I guessed her name was Camel Toe. I think they had been provided by Hullywood Entertainment, it took about an hour before the name made sense... I actually bought two LPs, the Taxi Driver and Ran soundtracks, so I came away with something.

Logan and Mrs Josh roll into town...

I arrive in style...

Logan was busy stuffing his little bag full of movie related trinkets, and I was with him as he made a purchase of a Katee Sackhoff photo (she's from Battlestar Galactica, he's obsessed with her). The chap who's stall it was, was also offering a 'One time only and unique' opportunity of purchasing, for the amazing price of £120, Sian Lloyd's ACTUAL HAT from her time on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. Really, why would you want that? Maybe except to sniff the headband and pretend that you have actually touched a woman, rather than face the grim reality of your virginal life spent living in your parent's basement surrounded by original packaging Star Wars figures.

'Hooray!! I can get out of the basement for the day and meet like minded people and buy celebrity sweat infused items for my collection!'

I digress. Josh and I were chatting about him (Josh) putting a bid on Jet from Gladiators' leotard on EBay when the stall owner's ears tuned in and he slid over to us. He introduced himself by saying 'have I talked to you before?' We were stunned, but he continued by describing how the pictures he was selling had all been gathered by himself and he'd met all the people who's signature he was selling and had pictures of himself and the signatory to prove it. These were being paraded as some form of provenance for the signatures. This explanation went on for about five minutes and started to get uncomfortable, especially given that in all of these 'provenence' photos the guy had the exact same stance and expression on his face. Photoshop is a wonderful thing... Josh handed his money over for the picture and the transaction dragged on even longer when the guy started talking about the guarantee of authenticity he had printed up. He told us he had to design new ones because the old ones had his address on and he would have to change them if he moved house. This begged the question, how often does he move house and for what reason? Are the stars who's signatures he's selling after him? What crimes against Hollywood stars had this man committed? Again he gave us the provenance spiel and told Josh he would email him the picture of himself and Sackhoff to prove he met her and it was her signature, despite not taking Josh's email address. He then finished the transaction by telling Josh the picture he was buying had actually been bought from a separate dealer and in fact the signature hadn't even been gathered by himself anyway... We finally extracted ourselves from his grip and went to the York Tap for a debriefing and a de-nerd session.

Trophies of the hunt...

On the way home I saw this homeless Stormtrooper, reduced to begging after the Rebellion destroyed the Death Star and his livelihood:

*Becky's words, not mine

Freakspotting

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would they want to do a thing like that? They chose not to choose life. They chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got Cosplay?

Yes, Cosplay, the biggest threat to the country since Hitler and his sharply dressed army. But, unlike the Nazis, this lot know nothing of discipline. In fact a good dose of National Service would sort them out. If you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. Cosplay is the attempt by people with nothing to wake up for in the morning to dress up as their favourite characters out of comics or TV series. It probably all began with Trekkies dressing up like General Kirk or Doctor Spock, but has gotten all out of control with people dressing up as minor characters in the Legend of Zilda or E.T. The Extra Testicle. It gives them a sense of being, a belonging in a world that hates them. They gather together and perform strange little rituals, usually at comic conventions. Which is where I gazed into the face of madness. I was attending Thought Bubble, 'an annual celebration of sequential art in all its forms' (LOL. Just call them comics!) Ninjasaurus Rex had brought it to my attention and he was desperate to get to a Japanese restaurant in Leeds again, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. If only we'd killed one hundred Cosplayers with the same stone we would have come home happy men.

I arrived at the plaza between the Royal Armouries and the new Savile Building and gazed on what looked like a scene from the Fourth Circle of Hell. The avaricious with their cossetted material possessions danced about to the tuneless horns of Mars. Dressed as Manga characters. I panicked and telephoned Ninjasaurus who had been struck immobile by the scene of human degradation. Seeking comfort in numbers we banded together quickly and watched one anothers backs like hawks. Our fear was soon dissipated by the sight of the very chair SIR JIMMY SAVILE sat in:

Not only his Chair, but his car as well!! This was a man who was living the dream!

This was without doubt the best thing we saw all day and was well worth the ten pounds admission fee alone, but was nothing to do with the Comic Con. Which, frankly, was just loads and loads and loads of comics for sale. But then, what else did I expect it to be? Ninjasaurus saw some of his friends from the dark world of comic publishing and I bumped into the Big O, who rather kindly gave us a free comic each!

Cheers big man!!

Outside, the swirling mass of madness was gathering it's momentum and here are a few pictures to illustrate just what we saw. I beg you, gentle reader, do not allow your eyes to linger too long on these images...

Aren't you a little shit to be a Stormtrooper?

I wanted a photo, not a pose...

Electra's arse and Mario and Luigi. The mind boggles...

Is that a lightsaber or a lipstick?

Wrap up warm, love...

Interviewer: So what is missing in your life?

We retreated into the Armouries to look at real weapons, rather than over sized foam hammers and realised that we had a vantage point over the assembled freaks. After a few minutes of playing 'spot the tard' we both said in unison 'I wish I had a rifle.'

Sargent, three rounds rapid!

I was going to run up to him shouting 'Help! Help! Judge, I've just been raped in the Armouries toilets!' to see if he'd help, but I bottled it at the last minute. 

We finished the afternoon off by a visit to this authentic U-Boat which had surfaced in the docks.

It was captained by this fellow:

 

Horse Droppings

I was standing talking to Tab the Muffer on Tuesday afternoon when I got the following text of He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named...

Him: I got given a flyer for a student 'loveshack club night'. Do you think I should go? It's just that the flyer counts as an invitation, and it would be rude to turn it down.

Me: It sounds like fun, I would go if i were you. You may see some of your students there. Then at least you'd know someone.

Him: That's true, i could hang out with them the whole evening. It wouldn't be awkward because i already know them and we could talk about medieval things.

Me: Yeah, or you could break down their latest essay marks with them. You might even get a staff discount for the door entry.

Him: Yes I have some student supervisions coming up, i could schedule them for loveshack wednesday, i think that would be most convenient for all concerned.

Me: They'd probably love you for that. They'd know you were always thinking of their education.

Him: I think i will go along. I'll let you know how it goes.

It all went quiet until Wednesday 22:12

Him: Ok, i'm at loveshack night, i think i see some of my students, i'll go and say hello

Me: Yeah, Good luck! I'm sure they'll be really excited to see you.

Him: It's pretty crowded and noisy in here. I'm waving but don't seem to have noticed me yet. I'll see if i can get closer.

Me: Are they on the dancefloor?

Him: Yes i am trying to get to them. It's really hot in here, i shouldn't have brought my jacket and jumper. I get really irritated when it's too hot.

Me: Is there a cloakroom? Or is it expensive?

Him: I don't know, i was invited here, i didn't expect it to be so hot.  Just tried talking to one of my students but she walked away, it is quite dark, she probably didn't recognise me, she must just think i'm some random weirdo.

Me: Go and make sure she knows who you are. You're there for them, remember.

Him: Fucking shit this guy with her just punched me and gave me a nosebleed

Me: What the fuck? Do they know who you are?

Him: He's not one of mine, he might be her boyfriend. I've stopped the bleeding, it's ok, must just be a misunderstanding. I'll try again.

Me: Keep at it, they'll appreciate it.

Then nothing until Thursday morning 08:13

Him: I'm in a graveyard. I don't remember how I got here. And i'm wearing someone else's clothes and my wallet is missing

Me: OK first thing to do is not to panic.

Him: How am i not supposed to panic, i'm giving a lecture in half an hour, i don't even know where i am and i feel sick

Me: Can you call in sick? Surely there must be a sign near the graveyard?

Him: Right i've found my way to the lecture theatre but there's like only three students here, and one of them is crying.

Me: At least they showed up. Do you recognise any of them from last night?

Him: Hard to say, i don't remember much of it and they are all avoiding eye contact. Guess i'll give my lecture anyway, we'll see how it goes.

Me: Are you still wearing someone else's clothes? That might be it.

Him: I vomited on the slide projector and a couple of students. The head of dept wants to see me.

Me: it might have been a bad idea to go last night.

Eyes Like Piss Holes In Snow

I have been working up in Masham for the better part of the last week. The job is good for several reasons, one that there isn't actually much work for me to do, so I sit about reading the paper and books about the Great War until I am called out of the car to watch them machine through made ground. Another thing is that the lads on the site are good fun. The dumper driver has 'Tab the Muffer' written on the back of his helmet. He has teeth like a row of burnt fence posts and is the approximate size of a pregnant elephant. He's a good lad. The digger driver has that look of the village simpleton, but as he is in charge of a three ton machine, I guess he must have something about him. The banksman stands about three foot high. He's like a midget, but with a normal sized head. He looks a bit like a Beavis Bobblehead toy. They have a good banter between them and most of the time I stand just laughing at them calling each other cunts.

'You cunt!' 

'You cunt!' 

'You cunt!'

The third and best thing about working in Masham is the butcher's shop just around the corner from site. I found it when I walked around town on the first day looking for somewhere to buy a paper. It seems that knowledge is not needed in Masham. There is only one paper shop in this mid-sized town. One paper shop, but approximately four thousand six hundred and twelve sandwich shops. I guess people get their outside information in Masham from the farmers coming in for the Wednesday market. They bring stories from the greater world that they picked up during their Sunday visits to church. News of Germany's defeat in the First World War only made it to Masham three weeks ago.  But then why would a place need news when it is home to two of the countries finest breweries, Black Sheep and Theakston's? Just get arseholed and forget the outside world! Anyhoo, this butcher's shop is probably the best I've been in for a long while. I have made it my duty to buy a pork pie every day so far. And good God, are they good pork pies. The butcher now knows a bit about me, he knows I'm there as an archaeologist and he knows I like pork pies. What more does he need to know? My name, nar, he just calls me 'boss'. So I sit in the car watching the rain teem down, listening to Jeremy Vine patronise his listeners and eating Pork Pies. What's not to like about Masham?

Pie: Pork

 Pie: Chicken

There was another 'gathering' of On-site staff on Saturday night. I thought to myself, I'll just have a couple, save a bit of money. Stanners had organised it, and told me that 'pretty much' everyone was going to be there. In the end only myself, Kate, Ryan, Sir Stanners and G-funk came out. Fuck the rest of them. Who needs those bellends when we've got the cream of the crop? Anyway, I threw a load of beer all over Kate's feet, told G-Funk what I really thought of someone, that I probably shouldn't have and ended up incredibly wankered and penniless in the Lowther at 2AM.  Sunday has been lost in a day of recovery.

OK, this is a bit awkward. I was a little drunk last night and I really can't remember your name... But would you like some breakfast?

I was chatting to someone t'other day about what makes me happy. I couldn't really think of a list, but I was also thinking of it when I was driving up from London the other day. I like it when lorry drivers flash their lights me when I allow them to pull out in front of me on the motorway. It feels like you've done a nice little deed for your fellow man. In fact I go out of my way to allow lorries to pull out in front of me, just to get that little hit of the light flash. I also like it when the butcher in Masham calls me 'boss', so I'm not going to tell him my real name.

Dulce et Decorum Est

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.