Leaving 'Do' and too much Black larger

Last night I went to a leaving do for one of the middle fish at the Factory. The middle fish was my boss for a short while so I'm sad he's gone. Particularly because he is a shining example of what a middle fish should be like. He was undervalued and showed talent for a higher position. He could see through extraneous issues and knew what the important points were. He was friendly and always approachable and I never saw a angry side to him. His talent made him a challenge, which for the big fish was a pain in their ass. He rightly highlighted their inefficiencies by his clear logic and ability to cut through their limited ideas. As most big fish are really little fish pretending to be big. They may get their position through default, tenure, rather than actually having the personality or ability to do the job. Unfortunately promotion at the Fish Factory is a matter of Dead-Man's-Shoes. Which means a talented middle Fish or even little Fish will be passed over. It was only right I say goodbye and drink too much in the process as I watch my friend move forward into the sunset of a new Fish Factory, who will pay him more and no doubt value him a tad more as well.

Getting drunk is always my own fault. Or it's the fault of the beverage, in this case called Black Larger. Not to be confused with my normal brew of Guinness, because it clearly was not the same drink. But it was the equivalent brewed by the establishment where the 'Do' took place.

I quite rightly enjoy the intoxicating effects of alcohol. For some reason it taps into the "chill out" factor or my personality. I become so relaxed. Anything of too heavy a nature just goes flying over my head. When I reach my limit I then end with a smiley face and a demeanour like I'd just smoked the world's largest spliff. It's great. Wonderful. Being chilled. Being happy. Smiling. And the result often is to see other people point at me smile and laugh along as well. Especially those who see me at the Fish Factory in a rather different context of serious and hard working. Well out of the Fish Factory another life goes on.

Yes, I'm sad to see you go I like you my fellow com padre in arms.

Woke up this morning with a hang over. AWWWWE. Every little noise was like the pounding of a pneumatic drill. I wanted my mattress to swallow me up. I think I'll go Teetotal. It's the safer option. Or take drugs. Paracetamol helps. Coffee. And three tons of cotton wool wrapped round my head. Never again.

Insufficient Funds hole in the wall strikes back

It is with some degree of acceptance, I expect the magic hole-in-the-wall machine to throw out cash when needed. However, somewhere between the hole-in-the-wall and my bank balance the lolly, spandulars, readies, bread, notes, dosh, green stuff had lost it's way, vamoos, gone, like the legendary Bermuda Triangle where planes disappear. In short the money has vacated the premises. I am a pauper. Thrown onto the slag heap of life. Children with pocket money have more liquidity than me. I am in a Northern Rock situation. And what a feeling of loss it is as well. I reach into my trouser pockets and search for change. A few pound coins. Where is the magic money growing tree which should be at the bottom of my garden? Some one has gone and half-inched it (pinched it). Just my luck.

I can't recal a time in my life where the machine has not be obedient. Except when it has it's little quirks, or mood swings and decides not to work. The kind of petulance a child occaisionally shows. Then I'd just go to another more ameniable hole-in-the-wall, which so politely open it's mouth to regurgitate the paper goods I need. But this time it's different. The screen flashed up with those hated words "Insufficient funds" words I have not encountered. Words I thought would not happen to me. But I have been treating the giver-of-happiness perhaps a little to opulently, a little beyond my means. Taking advantage of it. Assuming it would always be there for me. Unfortunately, I made a mistake. In what I thought was an error, I tried another machine and it to pounded down the words like a mallet over my head, "insufficient funds."

Unless the alternative is true. Which I do not want to think about. If it is, then, I am going to be busy tomorrow. Because my account has been hacked. It's happened once before. But this time it is an enigma. Nope, I don't think this is the case. I'm sure I've spent more than I have in the machine.

Or I could get a new job, earn more money, sell my body to science but only as long as I can loan it while a breath still passes my lips. I think I will just run away from the human race, find a desert island. Live of coconuts. Eat fish. Lay in the sun. Grow a beard and go ever so slowly mad. Mad I say, mad.

England lose 2 - 1, but for a pint of guinness

I've just seen England play Russia, England lost 2-1. So much for the fighting bull dog spirit. I'm sure it will be happy news to any Scots person. No doubt Sparkling was supporting Russia. But such is the rivalry of Scotland and England. Who both love to hate each other when it comes to sport. As for England as a footy team. They encroach the term ineptitude. We score a goal and then like scared whippets stay back in our own half just hoping the rest of the game will go by without having to do to much. Though this would be an unfair comment because once Russia scored their second goal England did try to put a bit more welly into it. Me, I just drank my second pint of Guinness and tried to chill. It's surprising how even losing a game of footy can be relaxing if you have a pint in your hand. Like I had.

Concert at Barrowlands Glasgow, Twang

For an exceedingly long time in my life I had been to few concerts. This is my own fault. From the previous experience of buzzing ears and auditory damage. However, last night I changed this, as Sparkling Eyes invited me with her to a place in Glasgow. Called the Barrowlands, where a number of groups were playing. Rock Chick had decided to treat Sparkling and got the tickets. Top of the billing was the Twang and supporting bands were Look See Proof and Little Man Tate. IT WAS LOUD. Very LOUD. And to add just a bit more on the volume dial it was LOUDER still. Only now some 24 hours later has my hearing returned to normal and the buzzing ceased.

Sparkling Eyes had most of a bottle of wine before we got there, my duties were clear. Keep her glass full. And enjoy. Especially the phenomenon known as the Mosh Pit. An area just in front of the stage, where the fans go crazy. Beer, lager, wine is thrown in the air and drops on anyone unlucky enough to be in the way. I think it was my glasses. Or the fat-man-look. Or the uncool-older-guy look, which in my mind probably made me a target. Though I can not understand how anyone can throw away perfectly good alcohol away. It must be the loud music which obviously did something to their brains. It made them act irrationally. They jumped, waved their hands, shouted, ranted, sang, pushed and barged their way around and even in the odd case attempted to dance. The audience was hyped. Personally, this was a difficult time for me. I got pushed around so many times and irritated by so many of the fans, had I been an Alpha Male, I would of had at least half a dozen fist fights. Somehow though I got through this chaos. Sparkling, in the meantime got very much into the throws of the Mosh Pit.

I had went off to get a refill glass returned and she was hugging a girl I'd never seen before. I wondered whether she had just pulled a lesbian. Probably. Then at some point when the Twang did come on stage, Sparkling moved forward and found the hand of a large bloke. He was about a foot taller than me and a foot wider. They held hands, jumped up and down and she then had her arm round his waist. Well, I'm glad I got into the swing of it while she was getting both inebriated, and jiggy with it. The man disappeared at some point and I got Sparkling back. Fortunately I'd stuck to her other (free) side. But am sure he lowered his head at some point and spoke to Sparkling, whether she heard anything is another question. The concert or gig or whatever it is called came to an end. We walked back to central Glasgow and every 5 paces Sparkling told me she had been Moshed. There was a tone of surprise in her voice. Her once large hair style was dampened down by larger and clinging to her head. She repeated this phrase several times with a comic look on her face.

So I am now a hip with it 40 something. I'll spread the word next week while in the pub drinking Guinness. Going off on a tangent I did manage to try the new Red Guinness. Though I really do think the original is the best. It was nice for a change. Then it is always good to have a change. Am glad the tall big fat man didn't fancy me, a story I wouldn't want to tell.

Life with Sparkling Eyes

It's the second day of a week in the company of Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick. I can't count the number of times Sparkling Eyes has thrown verbal abuse at me, in her loving way. Of the likes "ya big fat bast***" but even tho these are just words I know the way she says them they are words of affection. I hope. Of course so I should, otherwise I'd be in trouble. As I sit here writing Sparkling Eyes takes the Pi** out of me or anything I might write. It's OK I had to sit through a documentary of Donny Osmond whom Sparkling wanted to marry and have a 100 children by, because I'm just Crazyman, trying to make sense of the world. Because Sparkling used to love Donny, and probably does. And even if she speaks his name in her sleep, I have to ignore it. So I will.

The worse thing about Sparkling Eyes is whenever I tell her about my fears of this world, she then capitalises on them. She throws them at me, ties me up, spins a circle of magic, harangues, ca joules, and lightly laughs. She changes the world for me. Even the most worrying of issues becomes no more than something to throw custard pies at. As she talks while I write, I have now resorted to packing ear plugs in. One in each ear. But still her comments filter through. I am drunk. Inebriated, am happy. No matter what Sparkling Eyes says or does. I must be mad. In love. Or beyond redemption. Save me. Someone.

I can't even focus properly, it's the wine, not my eyes. The wine has an effect. But so does the chatter which comes forth from Sparkling. Not to mention she has now changed the channel on the TV so I don't get to see the re-run of aliens for the 41st time. Yep, for the next few days my life will be up turned. Changed. Beyond redemption. I am captured. But I enjoy it, each and every moment. Upside down and turned around. My eyes and head spin.

OK I may have to fill the dishwasher, put up with temper tantrums from Rock Chick. But I also get to play Devils Advocate. With my own Sparkling Eye I'll throw in a mischievous comment, chuckle quietly and wait for the repercussions to come bouncing back at me. Or the wrath of Rock Chick. But it's great to see Rock Chick laugh and be happy. It is a happy time for me. I float. Carried on the vapour of intoxication. Oh well, hope my head don't hurt in the morning.

Lone man walking

Being unhappy with queuing can have it's side effects. I prefer to avoid them whenever I can. At lunch time a hankering for a piece of chocolate, a pack of crisps and some more chocolate overcame me. So, I picked them up with tenderness and took them to the till. Unfortunately there was only one cashier on duty. This is a large shop for one person, a very large shop. I dumped my afternoon snacks in an empty basket and walked out disappointed. My time is more valuable than the effort of queuing. It's a crime. Something the manager should pay for. So on returning to work I contemplated yet again for the hundredth time whether I should write to the Chief Executive of the company and advise them on how the store is being run at one of the busiest times of day. However, this impatience to que was nothing like this morning's fiasco.

This morning, making my way to the Train Station there were also two sets of ques. One stretched to the ticket office window. The other had about 4 morons waiting in line at the automatic self service ticket machine. Two sets of frustrations. Weighing morons against the ticket que was a no brainer. So rather than take one or the other I decided to walk to the bus stop. Maybe have a little more exercise than normal. Yet at the bus stop no one stood waiting. This is a bad sign I thought. Even one or two people is a good sign. It means then the bus has not passed. But with nobody at the stop, it inevitably means I've missed a ride. Like a red Indian tracking his lunch for the day. I had to follow the tracks to the next bus stop or two. If I walked an additional ten minutes then I could get an alternative bus. So I did. To cut a long story short. I carried on walking just over 2 miles, passed an estimated 5-600 cars and ten big double decker red buses. Nothing was moving. The roads were choc-ablock. Nose to tail. I had a little bit of snobbery in my walk. I enjoyed it. Walking passed all those people in their lovely cars. I was getting somewhere faster than them. While they dumped carbon in the atmosphere, I was swinging my arms marching off to work. I wanted them to see me. To see their cars being overtaken by a walking man. Yes. Lone man walking.

In my empathy I found happiness. Oh how they would all be stewing, embroiled in their moving box. The price of petrol on their minds. And how come so many people are walking past. Especially the bloke with an odd smile on his face checking out all the cars. My empathy of their frustration I turned to my amusement. How good it is to see a white van accelerate over 50 yards because a sudden gap has occurred, and then for me to patiently, diligently catch up with it and walk past. The two men sat in the front seats leaning forward as if they were willing the van to move faster, to get there quicker. I hope they had a good look at my diminishing butt as I walked off into the distance.

Odd where little pleasures can come from, I savoured mine for a couple of miles, legs are sore but it was worth it.

Voices on the phone

I'm still waiting for my call to be answered. Phone resting against my shoulder, ear piece held in place. I hear three sets of sounds and am becoming acclimatised to them, a short extract of Mozart’s music, Horn Concerto I believe. Then a female voice recording cuts in and advises me of their advance purchase tickets. Information I don’t want to know about. More Mozart which drives me crazy. Then another voice recording, this time it’s a male voice, apologising for the delay because the lines are busy. These are the three sets of sounds I hear in rotation. Yet my mind silently wonders if they truly mean what they say. The music is meant to irritate, and it does so successfully. The woman’s voice about types of tickets I’ve never heard of is redundant information just to keep me glued to the phone, in case it was a real person. Then the man’s voice, although warm and pleasant is not apologising. He’s saying something quite different in between the script and some may not be able to interpret those words. I have though.

It’s along the lines of “We’re glad to keep you waiting, while your life passes away. As if you have nothing better to do. But we really don’t care, because at this moment 254 other people are wasting their lives as well. We’re happy to keep you stuck there with your full and undivided attention and we’ll endeavour to keep you on the phone as long as we can before answering. This way we can get additional revenues from your phone call to our service. Something we never write about in the small print. We have an arrangement with the Telecom’s operator. It’s very convenient. Though not for you. So just sit there and be as bored as you possibly can. We’ll keep you waiting and hopefully extract any notion of life beyond this phone call from your memory. You can therefore remain our servant until you fail to pay your phone call or collapse from dehydration or starvation or sleep deprivation. Yes we’re happy to be of service to you.”

So I learn my lesson again, never ring up during peak times and how I hate those recorded voices. Not the ones in my head, no, their my friends. Just the recorded ones.

The Ice Stealer

It was lunch, I sat at my usual cafe, ordered a sparkling mineral water and food. The bottled water came with a glass and ample ice. I pored and watched bubbles excitedly defy gravity through the clear glacier as they frantically searched for the surface. Opening my book I began to read and enjoyed the time before my meal arrived chilling in the make believe land of a psychotic homicidal maniac, but actually quite readable. Flicking a page over once in a while, then I automatically reached with a hand towards the glass. Cool condensed water droplets had formed on the outside, I drank and the refreshing liquid went down easily. I drank some more. Looked into the glass and then realised the ice had gone.

It didn't makes sense. It could barely of been a few minutes and yet there was no ice in the glass. OK the glass was cold but not enough for all the chunks it originally held. So I considered was this an act of natural physics. Something to be dealt with in the explanations a scientist could give or was it something else. Something people just really haven't thought about. For what if in reality ice doesn't melt? What if, it is stolen?


Maybe there is some alien being, or maybe it is not alien but quite natural to mother earth. A being not yet noticed by the ordinary human inhabitants. One which can't be see, but only if a thought passes over the meanderings of a distracted mind, then and only then it is perceived. I breath air in, I know it's air, I know because it keeps me alive, my lungs expand, then after a suitable time I exhale. Even though I can't see this substance it's there. So to it is with the Ice Stealer.