A review of the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and a Happy new year for 2012

There is a quote I came across the other day it is:

"Learn from the past and look to the future"

So it should be with 2012.  A time to look on what has gone before and hopefully a little wiser greet the new year with a glass in the air.   Although personally I'm still catching up on my sleep after Scotland so I could well be asleep before the new year comes in.  If I'm snoring away then nothing will disturb me.  If it's anything like last year there will be fewer people opening their doors and windows than before as the old goes out and the new comes in.

This afternoon I took Layabout lad out to watch a movie.  The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  I'd read the book so already knew what the film was about however, if anyone went to see the film without knowing the story I'm sure they could easily get lost.  Truth be told the English version of Sieg Larson's book is quite accurate, unfortunately it is a little boring.  I doubt if it will break the box office and if it does it will be because of the hype from earlier sales of the book.  Were there no book success no way would movie of attracted so much attention.  Watch this space though, my prediction is it will be a flop, a big flip flop.  Somethings just sometimes don't convert to picture format.  The written word while engrossing and exciting to read, except for the first sixty pages doesn't play so well.  It's one of those things which should really of been done in a series.  In this way more depth in the characters and sub stories could of been interwoven.  Perhaps a set of six or even twelve episodes might of suited it.  Then it should of been sold to the rest of the world.  It would of only been something the BBC could have done justice in making, lets face it they are amongst the best two or three TV series makers in the world.  As for Daniel Craig playing one of the main characters, Mikael Blomvkvist he really was too young and not fat enough for the image I drew from the book.  Where Blomkvist is portrayed as a middle aged, bit more worldly, slightly overweight investigative journalist.  Craig doesn't pull this off because he doesn't physically hit this portrait but also because he has already been James Bond and Bond is still too fresh an image in the public eye.  Lisbeth Salander is played by Rooney Mara.  Someone I have not seen act before.  Although Mara may have the physical characteristics of Salander, I am unfortunately not entirely convinced in her portrayal she does not come across as hard enough of psycho enough.  This could in part be down to the directing and editing of the movie, which leaves out little linking snippets which would give the film more sense.  Her performance was a little on the flat side, like coke without the sparkle, you endure it but it's just not satisfying.  To sum up, my advice is: don't see the film unless you have seen the book and really want to complete the loop because it will not leave you wanting more and will leave to many questions on your mind.  It demands attention and concentration, so don't see it if you are drunk as well, unless you need to sleep.

So with this as my last BLOG for 2011, happy new year to all.

Thanks for reading.

Last return to London for 2011

Well I am back in London after an uneventful journey.  In part this is a shame as I have now got used to the routine of claiming back fares when the operator is late.  The later they are the more I can reclaim, but there is always next time, and I'm sure there will be.  Already I am missing Sparkling Eyes, Rock Chick and Dangerous Sports Lad.  I managed to eventually get used to being woken up early in the morning as Dangerous got in from work, the cat Olly behaved himself mostly and didn't get me up at 2 a.m. in the morning wanting feeding and a run.  While Sparkling kept me fed and watered and will claim it is my own fault if I put on more weight, because I should learn to keep my mouth shut.  Of course.  The thing with Chrimbo it's a time of over indulgence and a lot of pounds in weight have been put on in the Western hemisphere I'm sure.  I was also pleasantly surprised to find a Kylie calendar Chrimbo present unopened.  What an artist.  She's on my wall now, I'd like to say looking down on me but being as she's struck in a pose with her eyes closed she's not really looking anywhere.  Further, she is a bit of a short arse.  However, the reality for me was my Chrimbo ending last night when Rock Chick beat me at Scrabble.  I used every excuse I could think of, but she did it fair and square.  Although it was funny catching her lean over and look at my letters when I had walked out of the room.  Naughty Rock Chick.  Never mind, I will be able to see Sparkles and Rock again in a couple of weeks time when I next go up North.  Between now and then I'll try and get in a few pages or dictionary reading.

Tomorrow I'm back at the Fish Factory.  Just the one day then off again as new year hits.  Next year if I am lucky, I may even do more BLOGs than I did this year.  Which would be something.  Life goes on.  Presently my eyes are closing of their own accord, telling me I need to hit the hay early.  There is only so much partying one tired fat man can do then it hits.  Merry Chrimbo one and all.  I'll write tomorrow.

Chrimbo day stuffing, a late Chinese and an anaphylactic shock

Strange how Chrimbo days are times of special events.  If it's not a psychological war of the between relatives there's something else going on.  Which is probably one reason why I have spent more years in Scotland than in London at Chrimbo.  It's a little more calming to be in the presence of Sparkling for me.  I just happen to feel more relaxed around her.  Even when things are not going well at the Fish Factory, which unfortunately has been on my mind quite a bit lately as well as nose bleeds from high blood pressure and bouts of mad-man-anger.  Just to say there are a few things I need to get off my chest in the Factory.  Fortunately, Sparkling is understanding and together we have done our best not to allow the steamed up crazy-red-popping-anger head to get a hold.  Although I will say it does get more difficult bringing it down over a period of time.  Enough of that.  So as I was saying.  Besides the times of psychological permanent scarring, which in this wonderful man-made-christian event, other things tend to happen.  Things which can not be anticipated.  Like they have been pulled out of a magician's bag, and instead of a white rabbit there's a bloody pink elephant.  Like someone has been drinking too many martinis.  The magician's bag obviously belongs to Doctor Who.  There can be no other explanation.  So it was as this Chrimbo day came to be other things decided to take place as well.

As a change from the norm of dried up turkey, we decided to have a dried Chinese instead.  However, Chinese isn't dried up and tastes a lot better.  So the order was put in for a Chinese, it was due to arrive at 5 p.m., in the mean time Sparkling decided to put a few items in the oven, little snack things needing to be cooked off.  Mini sausages, stuffing balls, prawn sesame slice things, the usual little snacks.  It was some time between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. when Sparkles had taken these out of the oven and took a fancy to trying one of the stuffing balls.  These were sticking to the silver foil and ended up being a disaster in more than one way.  She pulled one off the foil and thought no more of taking a couple of bites.  The rest of the bits and pieces were put on plates ready for the evening's party.  The Chinese pre ordered would be on it's way, and Rock Chick with Dangerous Sports lad in tow had done a little bit of Chrimbo visiting.  This left just me and Sparkles in the house.  I went into the kitchen to see how things were going and Sparkles looked at me.  It was a worried look, a frightened kind of stare she had in her eyes.  Followed by the words "I'm taking a reaction.  To the stuffing balls."  Sparkles pulled up her sleeves and there I could see the tell tale sign of hives.  Big blooming blotchy skin welts all over her forearms.  Oh my gaud, I thought.  It's real, it's a anaphalatic shock.  Sparkling was nervous and shaking.  She drank water and there was a problem with swallowing.  I wanted to call the ambulance, Sparkling kept shaking her head.  Saying "no, I'm trying to get it under control."  I wanted to ring immediately but Sparkles was doing her best to keep control.  I felt myself welling up inside, a bubbling kind of panic.  Heck, I didn't know what to do.  Sparkling gave way and I rang the emergency services.

It seemed to take forever to get through to the ambulance service, while inside me I was thinking every second counts.  Sparkles was blotchy and red, she said she was having a problem drinking water.  She had gave a gagging motion when she tried a sip or two.  The operator came through, I gave details of address, Sparklings age and then answered some simple questions.  Like "is she conscious?" fortunately for me she was I don't know how I'd of held it together were she not.   The ambulance was on its way.  The operator asked

"Has she used her eppipen?"
"No."
"Then tell her she has to use her pen."
"Darling, you have to use your pen."  Sparkles was sat on the arm of a chair, half panting and kind of nodding her head to say yes she knew she had to use it.  The voice returned on the end of the phone.
"Has she used her pen?"
"No, not yet."
"You have to use your pen Sparkling."  She looked at me once, looked at the pen and plunged it hard into the side of her thigh.  It was dull.  She looked at the pen again, pulled the top off and again stabbed it at her thigh.
"Has she used the pen?"
"Yes, she has now used the pen."
"OK, tell her the ambulance is on the way, keep her calm they will be there soon.  I will stay on the phone to they arrive.  How is she?"

Somewhere in between this conversation I managed to make another phone call to Rock Chick to get and tell her about the situation.  The conversation went on with the lady on the end of the phone, I managed to keep it together and not turn into a screwed up panicking mess.  Even though I was feeling like this on the inside.  An emergency medic turned up, he attached a machine to Sparkling which monitored her vitals.  Pulse rate was 67, blooming Aida I thought, Sparkles is an athlete.  Blood pressure was high, which apparently was a good sign in this situation.  It's when the blood pressure drops a full anaphalactic Chrimbo after all.  Rock and Dangerous walked in to be greeted by three emergency personnel. 

In the back of my mind I kept wondering where the blooming Chinese was, and if it turned up now whether there would be enough to share amongst everyone.  We'd find a way I thought.  But it didn't come to it.  The machine was disconnected and little sticky pads were left on Sparkling's arms.  We were all relieved.  Sparkles had an adrenaline high over the next couple of hours and the stuffing balls went in the bin.

Long live the dry turkey.

Chrimbo humbug

For some reason it does not feel like Chrimbo.  There is no snow, it is not cold enough and we're in a recession.  Personally I am a humbug man so weather or recession wouldn't matter, I'd still be a humbug man.  I wasn't always like this, and used to be one of those people who had a funny feeling around Chrimbo time.  Get overly emotional for peace to mankind, or should I say allkind, as saying mankind excludes women, Sparkling would kill me, so it's allkind, include women and soft cuddly animals as well.  Ok lets re-phrase and say every living animal because even crocodiles have feelings. I think.  Except crocks like to hide their feelings under their cool rugged skinned exterior.  Personally I don't get close to crocks to find out what their opinions are on the matter.   Except I believe they also have taken a humbug stance on Chrimbo.

Things are different though depending on how old you are.  Christmas is the highlight day for all children and as adults our highlight is seeing them happy.  It's like when I see Monster Boy, he brings me happiness as his personality shines through.  I told him a couple of weeks ago he had to get home quickly before it got dark because of the vampires and ghosts who like to eat up little boys.  I then forgot about this.  A few days ago he repeated what I'd said to him, and my response was along the lines of "what idiot said that to you?"  I deserved it when he reflected it back on me and said those wise words had come from my mouth.  Not much I could do there.  Just accepted it, I'd been outwitted by an eleven year old.  Which in a funny way made me happy as well.  Monster Boy is definitely looking forward to Chrimbo, I'm sure it's the presents bit which he likes most of all. There is a big enthusiasm to open up presents, there's not much of enthusiasm to tidy up afterwards, but that don't matter, as long as he is happy.  Odd how seeing others happiness reflects back. 

I'm sitting in Sparkling's house, having wrapped up a couple of presents for her.  I was kicked out of bed this morning when the man from Amazon turned up with a parcel.  I've been told this is mine.  I asked whether Sparkling wanted me to wrap it as well.  She was OK with this, but I decided not.  It just seemed odd I should wrap up my own present, a little like Mr Bean writing his own birthday card and then pretending to be surprised when he opens it.  However, Sparkles is working today and will be working a twelve hour shift on Chrimbo eve.  She is a hard worker and enjoys her job, but there is only so far she will go when one of her customers asked she work fourteen hours.  Which she will not. I'll hardly get a chance to see her tomorrow, but at least I'll be here and I'll be able to wish her a happy Chrimbo on Chrimbo day, humbug or no humbug this is something which will make me very happy. 

Merry Chrimbo to everybody.

Music and seat dancing

It's been a while since I listened to music on my MP3 player.  It has been misplaced in a pocket somewhere and it's a matter of finding it.  So once in a while in the evenings I find myself venturing onto YouTube to listen to music videos.  Yesterday it was songs with the Ukelele, which I am sure is an incredibly underrated instrument, maybe I say this because I got my eye on buying one for myself and learning.  This evening I popped on YouTube again and caught up with a little more of Steph Stephenson, a young lady with loads of talent just waiting to be given a break.  Well she had written a comment on one of my BLOGs so I felt obliged to go and listen to some more of her work.  She's a passionate in her music and it comes through in her songs.  It's odd though how missing out on something like an MP3 player can make you want to stop, pause, and seek out that something which has been missing.  Until that is I get my Uke, then I'll be able to make my own music.  OK learning how to play the thing has got to come first, but it does only have four strings so it has got to be less complicated than any other stringed instrument.  I mean four strings.  How hard can it be?  I'll find out if this notion doesn't fly away on a wing and a prayer, hopefully not before I've composed my first song, or learnt someone elses song and played it.  Taking it for granted I can even remember the words.  I'll probably start of with something simple like Ten Green Bottles.  I mean, four strings.

It's getting cold outside and Chrimbo is on the way.  The two just happen this year to be related, usually it doesn't get to be cold until late January and then into February, but we may well have a white Chrimbo.  Watch this space.

I've now hopped into YouTube again with a song by Adele, an awsome artist, original music, her own words, written when she was sad and lonely and expressing herself "someone like you" a brilliant song.  I then find myself singing even though I don't know the words and I to am singing with passion, with my heart hoping I'm a little bit in tune.  A little bit is good enough.  I'm tired though because I didn't sleep again last night.   Damn, I think I got a good voice, heck when nobody listens the voice is excellent, it's what other people think.  Shame.  Ok now dropped in to hear a Maroon 5, "moves like Jagger,"  OK am dancing in my seat.  It's called seat dancing, yep we've all done it.  It's the beat I can't help it my body has taken over.   Well that's over with, now for some Amy Winehouse and "monkeyman."  Well who'd of believed the best way to keep warm on a cold night was to do some seat dancing.

Finding the murderer

I have been watching a TV series called "Death in Paradise," by the BBC.  It's a who-done-it type of series set on one of the islands in the Caribbean and I highly recommend it.  The main detective is an Englishman through and through, the stereotype of what the rest of the world thing an Englishman should be.  No matter how hot it is he is always wearing suit, he enjoys a cup of tea  and is emotionally withdrawn.  Not prone outbursts.  So there is a comedic element which makes it good viewing.  The actor is Ben Miller playing Detective Inspector Richard Poole.  Poole's counterpart who is emotional and opinionated is Camille Bordey played by french actor Sara Martins, she is Poole's thorn, but she also adds a little feminine sex appeal as does Bordey's mother.  Again you could say there is a bit of stereotyping here because the BBC have chosen a sexy French woman to play the part.  The program is delightful, however as I've now watched seven episodes, even I am beginning to work out who the murderer is.  Unlike the Piorot series where it is always difficult to work out who the killer is.  Then Agatha Christie did go out of her way to make characters like cardboard and weave so many superficial red herrings so as to make it impossible to guess who the murderer would be.  Cerebraly challenging to an extent but also in the confusion of clues I'd say unsatisfying. 

So on the latest episode of Death in Paradise, I guessed who the murderer was within two minutes.  However, I didn't know the reason why.  To find a murderer there are three commandments to establish: motive, opportunity and means.  The most important usually is motive.  Money is always a good reason, but there are multiple motives all of which are the failings of the human condition.  Anger, avarice, jealousy, blackmail, dishonour but to name a few.  With the advent of multiple CSI based other TV series it goes without even saying forensics are vitally important.  However, these can be limited.  It was really Sherlock Holmes who first used forensics, and his great mental powers of deduction to establish events no other human could, hence came his famous saying

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

There have been times when I have used this line of reasoning to come to a conclusion, however it is long winded and is based on the notion you can think up enough probably and weird events which are possible but become improbably as they are disregarded.  The thing being, you never actually know whether you have come up with the actual reason of something happening.  There is a little bit of crossing your fingers and hoping to die.  For instance, one permanent probability would be little green men from a spaceship did it.  Except most of the time this becomes improbably unless you happen to be viewing an episode of the X files in which case anything would be possible.  Note, Fox doesn't always get it right.  So what have we got then?  The murderer is usually someone who is known to the victim.  The murderer will usually have a reason of vital importance, it is to their advantage the victim is no longer around.  However, when watching a TV program this is usually hidden as much as possible and only comes out fully at the end of the script.  Or if it is known there is a couple of other red herrings with just as much justification for having the victim dead.  The murderer usually makes a mistake.  Well, lets face it.  They have to make a mistake, because if they don't then they are not going to get caught.  I'm sure it wouldn't be much excitement to have a TV series called "How to Get Away with Murder," it certainly wouldn't do the world much good if there was one.  Crimes would be happening left right and centre otherwise.  The one thing no TV producer wants to do is encourage breaking the law.  Lastly, the detective is always out of the ordinary.  They have some quirk of personality which makes you attached to them.  The ones who don't and I can think of a particular detective with no endearing quirks, is completely boring.  For a viewer, you don't want boring, otherwise the channel will be hopped.  Or worse a book is picked up, a BLOG written, or a phone call made to someone you just need to talk to. 

Well, where am I?  No one to talk to, bored of reading, already seen a detective program, ahh dear Watson it must be BLOG time.  The murderer is....

Awake at two thirty : racing thoughts and elusive butterflys

I woke up at two thirty this morning.  It wasn't like my sleep was disturbed because there was silence.  Or anything to do with a bad dream, neither did I feel uncomfortable.  I just woke up.  Fully woke up.  It had only been three hours since I went to bed, by all sense and logic I should of been crying out to sleep.  This wasn't the case.  I felt awake and alert.  Yet knowing I should be asleep kept me in bed.  For a while I tossed and turned.  Hoping my mind would not continue to race along.  Somehow just by laying there I thought sleep would catch me again, like a butterfly in a net.  Except this fluttering need was quite out of reach for my net.  I jumped up but it was way too high to be retrieved again.  So I got up out of bed and made a cup of tea.  Threw the cat out and decided he'd have to fend for himself for a few hours and accept the chill, it would be his own fault.  He should learn to tell the time.  Going to the kitchen to make tea helped, but I didn't have my radio with me, so it wasn't like I could relax in a chair and listen to some talk show for a moment.  I drank up and returned to bed.  Again I lay there for a few moments and decided it was best to try a little reading.  I picked up a book and read about the origins of the phrase Pyrrhic Victory.  It was interesting.  My eyes tired just a little bit.  Not a lot, so I again laid down and tried.  It was still no use.  I lay there and let my mind do it's crazy chasing thoughts.  I was thinking of the earlier day at the Fish Factory.  Too much stuff going on.  Big Momma and her crazy ways.  For a sane person in a crazy world life can be difficult, enough to make talk to the birds in the hope they will actually listen.  A reality is, crazy people are difficult.

I head off to the Fish Factory now.  It will be an early start, a lot earlier than normal.  With a little luck it may give me time and space to do things before other fishes turn up.  I try my best to take note from a Latin phrase Festina Lente, briefly translated it means make haste slowly.  Mind it's not so much the haste I need, more of the sleep.

A twitching eye and a ukelele

My eye has been twitching, or rather the eyelid.  I don't know why, it just does.  I'm putting it down to stress, it's happened before at various times in my existence and it's started up again.  I've been watching American Beauty.  Still the eye has intermittent twitches.  No matter how cool Kevin Spacey is, how he confronts his life and decides to leave the rat race, my eye still twitches.  Maybe it's eye strain as well.  Spacey's character wants to feel alive again and he goes through a second childhood, blackmailing his boss as he leaves, smoking dope and then taking up weights to impress a teenage girl, a friend of his daughter.  His relationship with his wife played by Annette Bening deteriorates a little more each day.  At one point in a scene where he is on a couch and trying to reconcile things with her she then tells him not to spill his beer.  It's another pivotal point of break down.  He's fighting against the machine of normality, breaking free and wanting to be different.  To feel how he used to as a growing up teenager.  We can never go back.  For the moment my eye has stopped twitching.  What is it all about Spacey?  The need to live, to feel alive and not dulled like an overused instrument.  Every now and again we need tuning and only then can we get on the dull drudgery and tedium of routine.  It's routine which pays the bills, a necessary, unavoidable reality of reality.  

I asked a colleague at the Fish Factory who is a serious musician, what's the easiest stringed instrument is to learn. He says it's the ukulele, it only has four strings, is small so can be easily carried about and it don't cost a great deal to get a reasonably good one.  Once you learn how to use it, it's then a stepping stone onto something else.  The uke doesn't seem particularly exciting though.  It's not as if a lot of people carry them about.  There's no famous uke players which come to mind.  It has no reputation at all as far as I know.  But easy to learn does have it's advantages, and it wouldn't be such a commitment.  Hell, learning something from scratch no matter what it is, is a commitment.  Truth is, beginning anything it will sound like crap to start with, just like an old clarinet I have hidden away, I once tried to play it but it was frustratingly slow and I didn't have the commitment.  What makes me think it would be any different with a uke.  Besides the fact with a clarinet you need good teeth, once I'm old and mine have fallen out playing it wont be an option.  A uke doesn't need good teeth to be played.  Maybe I'm just looking for a change.  Something different.  Something to rock the boat.  The uke is small, it will hardly rock the boat, but, if I were up the river in a canoe without a paddle but did have a uke, it might be of some usefulness.  

The film must of done something, because my eye's stopped twitching, either that or the thought of life with a uke.

Idiots and histrionics

Getting slowly drunk on diet Pepsi and JD's.  I chose the diet Pepsi because it was 40 pence cheaper than real Coke Cola, and the diet because I'm fat and have to watch every calorie, though it hasn't stopped me from going to the kitchen to pick up a biscuit, a small and not very good biscuit either.  I mean if you have to blow your diet you really should go for a proper chocolate biscuit Crazy.  I'm happy.  I don't think it is the JD and coke which is doing it, but it's the random hormone displacement of a late 40s male.  It happens.  Even us grumpy old men are happy at times.  This wasn't the case earlier.  When I did indeed feel angry.  I was on the bus coming back from the local DIY store and as the bus passed a group of teens, one of them, the taller teen boy, with an American cool baseball hat, to make him pretend he is something more important than he really is stuck his fingers up at the bus.  In a kind of Gangsta rap, dissing way.  I got off at the next stop and was angry.  I thought to myself I could easily turn round face off this teenage shit and hit him really hard.  An upper cut.  I could see it.  Fortunately for me and for the teenage wana-be; little tosser.  I instead dwelled on why I was feeling angry.  In psychology this kind of anger is displacement.  It relates to something else, something unrelated and the teenager though a complete tosser wasn't deserving of a broken jaw, even if it would of taught him a lesson.  Tempting, yes?  I can see you now nodding your head, whoever you are.  Maybe I should rename this BLOG Angry Old Man, or Grumpy Old Man.  So I deleved into what it was which was making me feel this way.  Feel the red devil, so to say.  It was related to two individuals.  Dopey Sophia and Mrs Talkative, both my sisters.

I am expecting the Talkatives to turn up tomorrow.  It's been about six months since I've seen them.  The kids are great, well nearly, but then we have to accept what we are dealt with as family.  Whether you happen to be speaking to them or not.  Even though there are suspicions of mental illness, which I now have come to understand is most people have a degree of some kind of illness, it's just a matter of whether they can function in a relatively normal way or not.  The truth being we just all get by.  Mrs Talkative, shouts at her children and it makes what would be a relatively quite Sunday into a battle ground as when one child screams at another then she jumps in and tells them to shut up.  Loudly.  It is another instance of a quite Sunday gone to waste.  Like last weekend when Stupid Sophia turned up just as I was trying to cook the Sunday meal.  I had even sliced up and prepared an aubergine.  I was really looking forward to it.  I had it all planned out.  There she suddenly was with Big Momma and a ton of washing to be done.  She was then poking about and nosing about at what I was cooking.  I had to vacate the kitchen, I just felt I could not be in the same room as her.  I was cringing in her presence.  Her whole demeanour is so self centred and sapping of life it is not normal.  So I removed myself from the situation and sat in the front room.  Watching TV, just hoping she would come into the front room so I could move back into the kitchen and finish the lunch.  She didn't.  I went out after half an hour and ate at a Chinese, where it so happens I seem to be spending nearly all of my lunch times.  I didn't get to taste the meal.  I got angry because my Sunday had been irretrievably invaded and disturbed.  The washing could of been done at any tme.  Sunday was my chill down time.  So again, this week it is similar, unlike last Sunday which was unplanned, this Sunday I've had warning and it was planned.  A different reason, but still the anger.  So I realised after some contemplation, although the teenager deserved his head beaten in, it wasn't by me, with my displaced anger.  Then of course there is always the reality of how I feel and what I actually do.  I'm sure if people saw the withheld angry man they would think I was psycho, they'd probably be right, but the thing is I don't behave it.  This is rationality winning out against irrational emotionalism.  Just as it is so easy when witnessing this histrionic outburst in other people to judge them as unstable.  So stability is keeping control, oh what a waxing and waining war that really is.

I realised, I was putting too much coke in my drink because rather than getting merry and pissed, I just tend to frequent the bathroom and get slightly pissed.  Now with a reduced Pepsi Cola level, the JDs is really working properly.  Strange how the drink looks really foamed up, like it has a tad of washing up liquid in it.  I'm sure it hasn't, it just looks like it has.  I'm happy because I have sat and thought of Sparkling and how happy she makes me feel.  Our holiday to Malta wasn't so long ago, and the memories of it make me smile as well.  It will be good seeing the nephews and nieces, I'll try not to make too much of a judgement of the one who is an idiot, after all, there seems to be lots of them about and now days you have to be as PC as possible.

The Old Witch is funnier than you think

I popped into my local for my one pint of Guinness, or rather two tonight.  Then found myself at the end of a seat next to the Old Witch.  I can tolerate her company but it's difficult.  Especially not being able to get a word in edge ways when she is on a role.  She's like this with other people and a lot of just can't stomach her opinions.  Overbearing can be a word which comes to mind.  But after my first pint and then realising I shouldn't try to get into a conversation with her because a conversation is a two way thing I sat and listened.  She said when she was a girl (a pretty long time ago that was as well) she used to make Dundee cake.  "You know what it's like" she said.  "It had to have all those peels and then the blanched nuts.  We used to start in January."  I nodded my head. "It took forever."  Then "that's why I go to Marks and Spencer's now."  I don't know why but this made me laugh.  It could be because in the last hour or so at the fish factory things had got real manic, moaning fish left right and centre.  I should of got out of there earlier.  So the pub was an absolute must.

There happened to be a group of people in the back having a Chrimbo meal.  A few ladies walked through the front of the pub to the back.  One of them had a paper hat on, the kind which comes out of a cracker.  The Old Witch said, "look at her.  Or is it a him, what does she look like?" Of course I didn't answer this as maybe the start of the second pint was starting to hit me and you really shouldn't encourage comments about the way people look.  I should know I'm scarred by Sparkling saying I dance like a spazz.  Anyway the Witch went on "I can't tell if it's a woman or a man."  It was a woman but perhaps a little on the larger side.  I She looked through the pub to the back and began again.  "There's a few of them there, what do they look like?  Where on earth do they get those clothes from?  Look, look, at the one with the red hat." This was a red cowboy type of hat with white tinsel around it, obviously Chrimbo related.  "You should see them later in the night.  They come in here looking like tarts... mutton tarts."  I don't know what the Witch had been drinking but she certainly was on form. 

At some point in the evening a young lad came in and sat opposite the Witch.  I was introduced to him, Cambridge lad who had just got a pretty easy job doing very little.  She had known his mother and he saw her like a second mother.  Their banter was funny as well.  Unlike me he, told her she was not listening to him or giving him a chance to answer her questions.  Then somewhere out of the blue he slipped in a remark the Old Witch was paranoid and bi-polar.  In a humorous way.  But he had certainly hit a point most others would not speak allowed.  She was not offended by him.  They got on well and he left after a soft drink.  What an interesting short stop in the pub I thought.   After this I braved the weather and stepped out into the chilly air.  Calmed and happy to head home, it must of been the effects of the Guinness and a laugh.. 

This evening I found even those with mental health problems can have a sense of humour and even be company.

Go tell your service provider to shove it where the sun don't shine

This evening I have made the first real effort towards towards getting a different Internet connection.  However, before doing this I have to request a MAC code (Migration Authorisation Code) from my provider.  This motivation has come out of being shafted for an overpriced broadband line and not being given a discount because I had been a loyal customer.  So I thought to myself they can stuff their broadband where the sun doesn't shine.  Sod em.  Though they did give me a phone call about six months ago saying they would reduce the costs of my broadband for a few months if I agreed to a further 18 month contract.  Then they shafted me with an additional cost because now I was going to get a paper bill.  All because my original service provider had been eaten up by a bigger fish, may I add a bigger fish I just did not want to be with anyway.  May I also say the phone call originated from a person who lives in a developing country and not the UK either, I'm sure I wrote an earlier blog on it, where I took great delight in keeping them talking on the phone for at least twenty to thirty minutes.  I'm not saying they were in another country because they had a foreign accent, which she did, I'm saying it because I simply asked her and she said yes she was talking from India.  I considered I had done a great job for humankind in keeping someone chatting for longer than necessary and equally wasting their life.  It's normally OK for them to waste my life, so on that occasion I got some payback.  Oh how payback is sweet.  Except for now.  When my quest was to ask for a MAC code, because I felt like a dentist about to extract a wisdom tooth from the mouth of someone who had locked their jaw tight shut. 

In this instance the service provider was someone in the UK, well I'm guessing they were because they spoke English without any accent at all.  Which was the only pleasant factor.  After jumping through a hundred hurdles navigating the automated telephone system I got to talk to a female called Becky somewhere in this country..  I wondered to myself, how convenient the service provider had used a caller centre based here, where as previously it was India.  It obviously takes into account it's best to be understood when someone wants to break of a long term relationship and so they wanted the message to be clear.  Or rather lets say they wanted to not give out the MAC code and by using a sales representative who could understand or purposefully not understand what you say they might, just might be able to persuade me not to get this code.  In doing so they could linger on our relationship, in bliss while they made more and more money out of the poor unsuspecting sap.  Unfortunately for them I am not unsuspecting or a sap.  Becky, clearly was more interested in giving me a different broadband package, she said they had the cheapest service.  I said they don't.  She said it was because of the paper billing and I'd opted out of receiving telephone sales from them.  I'm bloody glad I did.  I replied sharp but politely I just wanted a MAC code.   She then went on and advised it would take 5 working days to get a MAC code to me and it would be posted out and emailed.  I then asked what address it would be emailed to and she gave me the original service provider one I got when first joining and have never used.  I then gave her the correct email address.  After which she digressed back into selling mode and tried her beset to get me hooked again.  I cut her off and repeated again I just wanted my MAC code and could I have it please.  She said there was some legal jargon she had to read out first but then before she started with the legal crap she again tried to sell me a new package.  Eventually I heard the legal jargon, realised she was not going to give me the code over the phone, abruptly thanked her in my stern-don't-mess-with-me voice and ended the call.  So now I sit twiddling my thumbs waiting.

I guess I will get a similar drawn out discussion when I next leave a provider.  What is it with Service Providers?  It's like they don't like to hear the word "no" and think they are smarter than your wallet.  Let me tell you something Service Providers of the world, wallets have got a hell of a lot more teeth on them so bloody watch it.  Of course you will notice I have not indicated who the Service Provider is on here.  I do not want to give them additional publicity, and after all they are really all the same.  They want one thing "your money!!!!"  That's what they want, your money.  So again I'll sit here waiting and in these five days I'll stew something bad, because when I eventually receive the MAC code I'll change provider double quick and cancel the direct debit.  As I'm no longer under any contract with them they certainly know what they can do then with their service.  Yes, shove it where the sun don't shine.

Its cold out and the cat's pissing in the loo

It's starting to get cold out.  Winter has popped it's head around the corner and blown into the air.  I can feel it, luckily this morning I put on a thermal vest and have felt shielded.  In Scotland there has even been snow and ice, there it's minus one.  Here in London it's been five degrees.  This is a far cry from Malta's 17 degree winter chill I was feeling just a few weeks ago.  I can understand why people go to hot countries in the winter and come back to the UK in the summer.  It makes sense, six months here and six months there.  Keep out of the cold and in the warm, suffer not the burn of chilblains.

Our cat Stinky is pissing on the floor of the loo.  I wonder if he's feeling the chill? There's no doubt about it.  He's a dirty little bugger, if his bollocks weren't already detached they'd be removed.  In fact, I might attach a pair of bollocks to him just to get the pleasure of cutting them off.  The toilet now has a cat piss smell about it.  The door doesn't close properly when it's closed, so it's easy for him to push it open with his paw.  He's now got into the habit.  For a week we'd been pulling the door closed so it clicked in place and he couldn't get in there.  Then Big Mama forgets to do it and he pisses there.  It's no good for the chip board floor which appears to have the surface start of rot.  He'll get more than imaginary bollocks cut off if he keeps it up. I tried searching on the Internet to find out a little about cats.  It seems chastising them doesn't work.  But hell it helps me when I shout at him or stick his nose to the carpet.   It helps me because he keeps away from the toilet if I'm around.  The cat's mind appears not so much a mind as one running on histrionics according to the literature.  I ask, who the hell can get into the mind of a cat?  Surely only a cat can.  Next time he does it I'll get angry again.  I'm pissed off with the smell of cat piss while I shave in the morning, it's not anything like the fragrance of Armani.  One source indicated cats dislike the smell of citrus.  Personally I think he'd dislike the smell of dog.  One big butch Rottweiler please, just to guard the loo.  I'm sure it would keep him out of there.  Only thing is what do you do with a Rotty when that begins to shit in the loo?  Well, I suppose dogs can always be trained, cats are too high strung and need a 24/7 psychiatrist to unfold the workings of their brains.  I'm so fed up now I don't want to stroke him, because if I stroke him he may in some weird cat way believe I am giving him approval.  Which is something I don't want to give him for making me wince from the stink of his piss in the morning. It's not like he is a useful cat, he's never caught any of the pigeons who think our garden is a playground and dance on the roof at four a.m. when they wake up.  In summer that is.  For sale, one screwed up pissy cat.  I wonder what I'd get for him on ebay?  Or whether some group of cat lovers will want to beat the shit out of me for even thinking about it.  Hell, they can have Stinky for free, no charge of any kind.  Just add comments to this post, I'll eagerly check it in the next ten minutes to see if there's any replies.

If it's not the pissing it's the morning meows.  They will begin anytime from two a.m. onwards.  He sure can't blame it on the pigeons because he sleeps in the kitchen.  But it doesn't stop him crying out for a couple of hours just waiting for someone to get up and let him out.  I'll let the bugger out alright, but I'll not let him in. Letting him piss in the cold will certainly not effect the toilet.  God now I got to think about a rotting floor, a plumber and a carpenter will cost a fortune to fix it if the bloody thing gets real bad.  Big Momma doesn't understand these things, no matter how much I tell her.  The reality of this pissy floor could be hundreds of pounds.

OK for sale, One pissy cat, otherwise quite affectionate and lazy to boot.  What will you offer me on this cold chilly day?

Will the e-reader be the demise of the printed book?

I been looking at a new device just developed.  It's the e-reader.  There are two common ones on the market, one is a Kindle and the other is Kobo.  They are very flat screens which display books, but rather than pages to turn all you do is brush the screen or press a button.  At first investigation these may be pretty wonderful devices, they can hold thousands of books, depending on what specification purchased.  Their batteries last a long time as well and they can be read in sunlight.  Also unlike a newspaper there is no danger of getting news print on hands.  However, there has got to be draw backs. 

All objects we use are prone to wear and tear, whether a cheap paperback or an expensive e-reader.  Every paperback book I read will begin to get bent over pages and start to appear a little tatty.  But regardless I love them no matter how tatty they get.  They don't require any batteries to be charged to let me read them, and unlike an electronic device I have books quite a few years old.  Electronic objects become outdated, a book by it's very nature can not, particularly if it is any good.  They are put on a shelf and wait there patiently until their next reading or ad hoc referral..  They get lost, are loaned out and when other people read them they to gain knowledge from them.  Libraries are great sources of knowledge.  I used to love taking a book out of the library and seeing a list of date stamps on the inside page.  A sure indicator of how popular the book is.  Knowledge allowed to spread free of charge to multiple enquiring minds.  In my own books I will highlight pages or write comments in the margin or the back.  I will put post it notes in them so I can refer immediately to a page again which held interest.  The act of writing down is in itself a fete of memorising, it is an additional effort, to write something down is to make it more salient and more easily recalled.  I doubt whether it is possible to write in an e-book and if you were able to type a comment it wouldn't be the same.  The paper book becomes a personal item an affinity grows with it.  The size and the thickness of books varies as well, their covers are different.  It's always interesting to see what other people are reading by the cover of their book.  Just in case it's something you have read yourself and you just might like to strike up a conversation.  With a plastic tablet e-reader this would not happen.  I am not a prolific reader so why would I want to carry around a thousand books I ask.  I simply would not.  The printed word is education, whilst the e-reader is a non social self centred educator, you'll not see it left on a seat and discarded because it is out of date.  You'll not pick up at a charity shop a thriller someone else has read if it's on an e-reader.  Because it will be put away and hidden in some electronic memory, discarded until the battery runs out.  At which a thousand books then become nothing.  Of absolutely no value at all.

Of all the insidious devices to be invented, to be the most dangerous to humankind, the e-reader may well be it.  We could now be stepping backwards to a dark time where book reading no longer becomes a pastime and is no longer available as an educational tool to the masses.  Long live the printed page, long save the printed page, clutch it tight and never let it prised from your fingers.

A disappointing Irish Coffee

I was out with Layabout Lad and directed him to an Irish pub I had been in a couple of nights before.  There the food looked  reasonably priced, but what attracted me more than anything else was a bar mat with a picture of an Irish Coffee.  The coffee looked so dark and the cream on top beautiful and white.  A little like my favourite drink.  I cast my mind back to one of the first times I tasted an Irish Coffee in a pub in central London, just off Wardour Street.  That to was an Irish pub if I recall rightly.  It was warm, alcoholic, creamy and silky.  I enjoyed it because it was well made and outside cold.  I don't think I have tasted an Irish Coffee of the same calibre since, even when trying to make it myself.  Although I researched it, there was always a problem of the cream sinking in the glass and never quite hitting the spot.  The pictures had drawn me there and knowing it was an Irish Pub added a kind of authenticity to it.  If there was going to be a place which could recreate the same glass I had long ago this would be it.  My expectations were high.

The thing with having expectations is they can be quite easily dashed, which makes me careful and pessimistic at times.  A pessimist can only be surprised and happy with a pleasant surprise, whilst an optimist will have their hopes depressed when expectations are not met.  I ordered the Irish Coffees and went to my table where Layabout sat.  About five minutes later the coffees arrived.  Unfortunately I could immediately tell they were not up to scratch.  The coffee was not black and the cream was clearly mixing into the coffee and not making it the classic black and white image of what it should be.  I drank a couple of sips.  Cream, yes, whisky, yes, but when it came to the coffee it tasted of watered down pishhh.  I took it back and said I just couldn't taste the coffee.  At which the bar tender offered to make a second one and would make the coffee stronger with two shots of espresso.  Hmmmm, when he said espresso it was another factor which alarmed me.  The espresso shots had been diluted with hot water, what a idiot.  I also thought this kid either doesn't drink or hasn't had an Irish Coffee made for him because what he served was not an Irish Coffee.  The whole meal had been quite nice only to be spoiled by the last item which should of been accepted as good being it was an Irish pub. 

The moral of the story.  Pictures might paint a thousand words, but they don't live up to the reality, only first hand experience can.  Next time I'll go for a cup of tea in an English tea shop and see if they know what they are doing.

Balls on my shoulder

Today I have felt happy, but I have also felt sharp, in a text to Sparkling I said I was Happy Snappy.  It was like the little conscience on my shoulder which normally stops me from opening my mouth had grown balls.  In fact these balls were so blooming big every time I got up from my seat I found myself walking in a little circle until I had compensated for their clacking and weighing one side of my torso down.  Some monkey was obviously unhappy.  It was a day where I spoke my mind.  I felt like things were not going to be let under the radar.    Anyway, I was different.  Maybe it was because I was a little perturbed over having taken on the responsibilities of another member in the Fish Factory.  There was a fish issue at hand, a very fishy fish issue at hand.  The thing was I knew nothing about it until it was bought to my attention by a number of other Fish.  Then came the perturbed feeling of having possibly been shat on from a height but the excrement hadn't yet reached me.  They could see it  but I couldn't.  I'm sure it will reach me, it's just a matter of time now.  Further, yesterday evening I actually got to chat to Sparkling and she was grumpy.  It wasn't really a great chat, it felt like I was intruding on her doing the washing up with one hand while talking in the phone with the other.  So on this occasion, I came second to washing up.  Sparkling's grumpiness was then compounded by her in turn bending my ear.  Great.  There I was looking for, love, compassion, a friendly chit chat on life and instead I got bashed down the phone with a kipper.  Therefore I was perturbed (there's that word again) for at least two different reasons. The balls on my shoulder were the product of being pissed off.  Yet, it seems a bit of a contradiction, being happy and pissed off at the same time.  It is, I know.  I'm the contradicting kind.  Yes, pissed off was it and my attitude now was one of not wanting to feel the falling shit hit me again.  Sparkling texted I was a Happy Snappy Chappy. 

I also came across something during the day which made me feel like I was being investigated.  Judged on whether there was something I may have done which was wrong.  Something which I know were I not justified would of resulted in an instant kick up the backside and out of the Fish Pond.  A kick landing me in a room where the door has a key and I don't have a copy of it.  I suppose such is the responsibilities of being a Middle Fish.  As I think about it I get more pissed off.  As though I could even be suspected of doing a wrong doing.  Fortunately like all good law abiding bureaucratic fish I always cover my arse as often as possible.  It can get cold if you don't.  An appropriate term for my feeling then would be controlled outrage which made me ready for confrontation.  On a reasoned, deliberate and sharp level which would rip to shreds the accusations of any arsehole who wanted to point a flipper in my direction.  It ended up I didn't have to be outraged and am probably glad about it.

The only thing I can now do is try and get a good night's sleep.  Just drift off into such a deep slumber it feels like I instantaneously wake up the next morning after only just going to bed.  I sure hope those balls don't rest on the pillow as well because if they do I'm likely to bash my own brains in and not sleep at all.