Not everyone is bothered about a Royal Shedding.

Apparently yesterday in Glasgow there was a big Face Book arranged party by the River Kelvin.  So many people turned up the riot police had to come along as well to join the fun. There's vids on YouTube.  If I had only known, I'm sure Sparkling would of considered turning up.  The people were there for one thing, to avoid the Shedding and enjoy life without blue blood.  Wonderful.  In Australia there was planned a comedy take off program to run simultaneously as the Shedding as well.  The Aussies were going to really take the piss out of the whole thing.  Sounds like a great idea.  But for some undisclosed reason it was cancelled at the last moment.  Odd I thought they had managed to escape the monarchy completely and could do their own thing.  Makes you wonder what it might of been like had your ancestors been shipped over there for some nasty deed, like stealing a loaf of bread.

It is good to know there is some sense in the world although stifled by unknown powers to be.  Shame.

A perspective on Face Book games - they're not real people

Online games are addictive.  Face book (FB) has many online games and there always seems to be a social influence in them.  Where you are supposed to pull along friends on FB to join in, you then help each other out by trading imaginary goods or services.  Then there are of course those people who are not actual friends at all, who you have never met in your life, but because you like games you then find they have to become an FB friend in order to play the game more effectively.  These are people who you don't know from Adam.  They are all over the world, but the thing is you haven't sat down with them and had a coffee, pint or glass of wine.  They are there for the reason because they like the game.  Although relatively speaking everyone does like to be sociable, to some degree.  Even the hermits, and I tend to be one of these.  To tell the truth I'd rather not add such individuals to my FB account but am being forced by FB to do so.  Some of these people take their gaming experience very seriously.  It is as though for them FB and the game becomes a surrogate device for something missing in their life.  I know, I'll hold my hands up to it.  If I were able to turn over in bed this morning and give Sparkling a hug or just have the physical contact she was there it might of calmed my 3:28 a.m. sudden insomnia.  She wasn't so my insomnia was allowed to run it's course.  The very true reality is unknown friends added on FB are not friends at all.  In another universe they could even be software programs set up on servers which engage with real people, just so we the real people don't feel lonely.  Which would be a pretty sad thing when you think about it, but I wouldn't put it past the giant companies to generate such imaginary people. 

Games have rules by which they are played.  The rules are hard and fast ones.  Like monopoly.  If you land on the jail then you lose a go.  There are similar rules in FB games.  To go from one progressives stage to another there are certain things  you have to do.  Once done then the program allows you to upgrade your status.  As though this upgrade in status should give you a little more self esteem, because you can show people and say "hey look at me, yes I'm a level 457 blue knight with gold trimming, nah, nah,"  you could say a little self pride in one's abilities takes over.  But of course such a statement would only hold sentiment with other game players.  Then there are other rules which players impose on the game but which are not actually there.  The rule might be because you have built more widgets than anyone else then before they are allowed to walk on the holly ground where you build widgets they must give you due deference.  Like a million pieces of gold.  But the game doesn't actually have a routine set into it which kicks players out who don't cough up the goods.  So the game allows this behaviour.  It's just other players who don't like it.  So they gang up like bullies when someone doesn't play the game the way they are expected to, it is as if the imaginary game is a real thing which they have invested so much of their life into they will then put all their efforts into squashing the said unwritten rule player.  But when argument takes place and it is said, well the game does allow such actions to take place they have difficulty comprehending.  For them the world becomes a big bad dog of imagination which they goad in one direction or another to their whims.  They become autocratic fascist rulers, lording their made up rules.  FB does not take this into account.  It's online games have their own rules, they are completely unable to program rules which the users think should be there.  The game would then change.  Development costs would increase and it may then get to the point where new users would not want to be part of it.  It becomes a self defeating thing.  Lets face it, games developers are out to make money and my experience with FB games is, there will be some part where gaining higher status means looking in your wallet and pulling out a credit card.  Anyone who thinks otherwise would be pretty naive. 

Cherrie Blair.  Now her actions are openly public, I'm sure there's a lot of people wondering how on earth she could of ever become one the ex PM's wife and two a QC to the judicial system.  Some may even think it's not because of any ability but rather through who she knows.  I don't have to go into details, anyone who wants to do a google search will find the information there.  Now to get to the point of this BLOG.  I went against the grain of an FB game as the grain was imposed by other maniacal players who liked to hold their widgets close to their chest and tell other people what to do.  Blimey reminds me of some religions as well.  The bottom lines is a game on FB is just a game.  Nothing is as good as turning over in bed and saying good morning to someone you love, or going for a coffee with a real friend.  Such is life.  Real life that is.

Can't escape news of the Royal Shedding

There was almost an air of relief as I sat in the pub over a pint and the subject of the royal shedding cropped up.  For each and every person wanted to be in some place where it was not being shown on TV.  A place where there were not brain dead loyalists who have no incling of an idea or reason for the costs of royalty to the nation. In both finance and the lives of ordinary citizens over the centuries.  In a tradition which whiffs of the social class system and the derogatory view of anyone who does not fit a certain status.  Then I get home, the telly is on, the news is in mid stream and guess what, yes, it's the blooming royal shedding again.  I channel hopped, from one to the other, but it was that time of the evening where all channels have a news program and they all had a slot allocated to this hideous event.

Oh to climb into a hole and be devoured, just to avoid the belittling of the rest of society on this one day.

Making a phone call is a two way thing

Sometimes I get the feeling Sparkling has got better things to do than talk to me. Especially when I ring up and Rock Chick answers then tells me they are too busy watching Master Chef to chat with me.  I'm thinking to myself they are watching this program for one of two reasons. One because they like to watch food programs and wonderful food.  The other because of the handsome chefs presenting the program.  It only took a fraction of a moment for Rock to confirm it was the second reason, and she was able to tell me the first names of these chefs.  They had become familiar household celebrities.  Great, I thought.  Me versus a TV chef.  So I was then asked to ring in an hour's time, because the program would of finished.

An hour past.  I was feeling tired now and also took into account previous conversations where Sparkling had called me a stalker.  So I replied in text message to Sparkling that I would not be ringing this evening, she had her chance earlier and I'd catch up tomorrow.  Her response was a single word.   WHAT!  I could see Sparkles saying it as though she was right in front of me.  It would be in both disbelief and "how dare you" tone.  I could tell this.  I replied with another text trying to explain my reasons a little more, but I knew Sparkling was beginning to show a STROP.  Perhaps it was on account she had had only this evening completed a marathon cooking session and like any good chef been drinking the odd glass of wine.  Sparkles replied again.  Her strop now fully came through in the text.  At which I had to react, pick up the phone and talk to her.  However, Rock Chick answered and then complained to me Sparkles had refused to get up from the chair and answer the phone because she was in a STROP.  I tried to give Rock Chick my reasons why I wasn't ringing but was ringing now when Sparkles must of taken the phone off Rock Chick and eventually let me talk to her.  Awwwe.  Lovely. 

I think this proves beyond all doubt, understanding a woman's mind is a very difficult thing.  Enough to make me want to get a recipe out and do a little cooking.  I better start losing a little weight though then I can give the TV chefs a run for their money.

Lets watch a DVD and not the Royal Wedding

At the moment every news program is being haunted by the event of the Royal wedding.  Personally I find it distasteful that a family can be historically born into wealth and be esteemed for who they are and no other reason.  It's not like they invented the toilet roll, electricity or a greater understanding for humanity.  For last time I looked there was nothing of this sort attributed to them.  It's ludicrous every citizen of the UK pays taxes and a little bit of those taxes goes to supporting these people.  Surely it would be better if they went towards cancer research or the abolishment of poverty.  The royal family is a mark of a class system, and all the time they are given such esteem the British class system still exists.  There is nothing I can think of which the royal family have done to improve my life or those around me.  So shamefully I hear the news that we still genuflect before them.  If only we were a republic.  Viva France they certainly had the right idea.

OK I tell a lie.  The because of the royal wedding I'm going to get an extra day off from the Fish Factory as a Bank Holiday has been declared.  I'll do everything I can to completely avoid any new of the couple though.  If I had a fishing rod I would find a pond and sit there all day with my own sandwiches and listen to music.  Music which the fish like because it would be good to get a bite or two.  Then in the evening I'd return home.  Not turn on any television and line up a series of DVDs, pop corn and other little snacks and they would be my entertainment.  The next day would also be difficult to get through because they will surely be on the front of every newspaper.  So I'd not buy a paper or going into a paper shop.  I'd probably take the day off from the Fish Factory because there would likely be blue blooded followers who want to talk about the event..It's sad how the world watches on just for this one event.  Give me a Hitchcock movie any day.

Fruit and nut genes and doing a barbie

I did get a little tipsy from yesterday's barbecue.  Which was only realised when I came over feeling all tired and had to lay on the bed.  Lay come semi-collapse, after which I drank lots of water and sobered up.  In consideration it was relatively successful.  Except for Big Momma getting her knickers in a twist and making sure she was in the way of the cooking rather than just letting me get on with it.  The truth is some people cook but they really should not be allowed near food and this is the case with Big Momma it's an acknowledged universal fact.  I should of set the ground rule first that she was not to do a single thing in the kitchen then maybe she wouldn't of got her knickers in a twist.  Fortunately Mrs Talkative went to the rescue and calmed her down.  It's at times like these when you wish geneticists were wrong.  There's people in every family whose behaviour just makes you question how genetics works.  If not you can't help wonder if there is some kind of gene which skips a generation every now and again and the odd fruit cake pops up.  I'm sure every family has them, and we all know some fruit cakes have more nuts than others.

Getting the barbecue going was a nightmare.  The coals were too small and they soon got burnt up.  Even though they were meant to be an easy light it just didn't happen.  It don't matter how many firelighters you go through it never seems enough to get them going.  Who invented the bloody things, there has got to be an easier way of setting them on fire.  I'll just have to check out YouTube and see if I can get some tips from there.  The skill is in being able to adapt to whatever coals you have bought.  Or saying sod that for a lark and getting the right coals in the first place.  Brickets seem to be the best thing to get.  They are all the same size, burn for a long time but again are hard to light.  I can see why people just opt out for flame grilled gas fire barbies.  So much easier, instant heat and no worries about anything.  Except of course the price.  Well I learnt from it.  And of all things learning to do a barbie is an essential skill.  Better is being chilled out, and best of all would be learning how to cope with members of the family which have the fruit and nut gene.  Oh well better get back to the barbie.

After the barbecue

Well the barbie was great, two sisters Talkative and Silly Sophia didn't decide to use their forks and attack each other.  The kids kind of mingled.  To a point, although I wish they knew each other a little more.  They are still strangers for now.  I got sossled with Buds and a couple of glasses of wine.  At which I was pretty well chilled.  Big Momma had her little tiff as she does which fortunately died down with help from Mrs Talkative. On the whole the family dynamics were relatively controlled.  Which makes me wonder if this is the same with every family.  Do other families get together and have punch ups because they can't stand each other?  I'm sure there must be a few.  Maybe doctors should give out a diazepan pill on every family event which takes place.  Then eventually what the drugs do becomes reality and they don't want to kill each other.  Yep, no blood was drawn so over all it went OK.  I really did enjoy taking the piss out of everyone.  I love them all and I certainly talked about Sparkling Eyes wishing she was there as well. Brilliant.  Am still tipsy now so it certainly went well.

Love and kisses to everyone.  Especially my mate Jamie, which my nieces and nephews found amusing.

Barbecue day, with a little marinade from my mate Jamie Oliver

Today is barbecue day.  I'm going to be out there with the portable stand up barbie, grilling chicken, chops, sausages and burgers.  In no particular order of course.  Last night just before hitting the hay I treated a dozen drum sticks to the Jamie Oliver experience.  They sang with absolute delight when it happened.  I could hear them.  More, more, rub it all in they said.  Yep a nice marinade which they have been soaking in now for the last 9 hours and have at least another 4 or 5 hours to go.  The thought of those drum sticks is doing things to me already.  The saliva in my mouth is going.  HMMMM.  It is so surprising how simple it is to make a marinade sauce, what it really comes down to is the effort you're willing to put into it.  The recipe seemed to be an adaptation of a generic one I've seen Jamie use a couple of times.  And using a blender is an absolute must to get it all lovely and chopped up.  The smell was fantastic.  It had five cloves of garlic, an inch of ginger, coriander, juice from a single lime, two chopped up chilli's, olive oil and soy sauce.  The whole lot was blitzed in a processor.  I then stuck all over the drum sticks and covered in kitchen foil where it is now still resting singing gently away.  I can hear it now, the drum sticks are LOVING IT.  Then I'll be loving them after they have been barbied.

This weekend I think most of south London has gone crazy and decided to do barbies.  When I was at the superstore there was barely any chicken pieces left.  The fresh packets of chicken had all gone. It was very fortunate we already had some in the freezer.  So I made sure to get a dozen quarter pounder beef burgers, this is one thing the kids will eat if they don't like slightly spicy chicken.  Which reminds me I have to get to the superstore and get some more rolls and also a couple of bottles of wine.  For the ladies.  Although none of them actually drink much, I'll probably have one and a half bottles left.  My intention is to get slightly pished and be happy.  If the family wants to argue amongst itself I don't care, they can bloody well get on with it because I'm not going to intervene.  Me and the chicken drum sticks have got a date.  With a budwieser.  I might even get some Guinness now I think of it.  Nothing like a can or two.  No wonder I'm fat.  There is plenty of salad stuff and I was hoping to try and find time to do a rice, but this time I'll put a little chicken stock with it and throw in some coriander.  It will be a kind of accompaniment.  One which doesn't have too much taste just because the kids have got a thing about hot stuff and not liking it.  They also have Easter eggs which Big Momma has got and one of them is 18 years old he's the would be motorcyclist.  Except for the fact he had bought a lemon motorcycle and managed to use it like a speed demond, until the thing broke, which it was going to because he got it off a decidedly dodgy mate who he had assured his mum and dad was a genuine geezer.  Well he wasn't.  Would-be-motorcyclist doesn't actually have it now it was sold to someone else and left him well out of pocket trying to pay of his debts to his mum and dad, Mr and Mrs Talkative. 

Would-be's sister is an angel with the temperament of a little devil and is a beautiful little girl.  All of eight years.  She likes to entice her middle brother into fights and then scream and yell that she was the victim of his aggression.  Like all children they argue, and I'm sure love each other.  I don't get to see them much but I always enjoy their company.  The middle brother I'll call entrepreneur boy.  Because of his antics in little deals whenever he can get away with it.  Like selling Jaffa cakes at lunch time to other boys, or stealing his father's cigarettes and selling them to the other kids.  He has made a few quid on the side from this.  He is a bright kid and I hope he one day goes on to study economics but as with all things you really never know how they are going to turn out until they do, then they are all grown up.  All I can say is I hope they remember me.  I'll see if Would-be would like to get pished today as well.  I know his parents might not be completely up for it, but I'm sure he will be.  Hmm must make a note to get some more booze.  Boy I wish I had an uncle like me, this is so going to be fun. I am really excited over the whole thing.  But always in the back of my mind I'm wondering if there is enough food.  I'm sure there will be seeing as the little ones hardly eat anything.  Yep this is probably going to be the family event of the year.  More booze.  Hmmm wonder if gin would go down OK.  Don't forget ice cubes.  Blimey.  Better see if I can find those bags. 

Happy Barbecue day.

Running and feeling fit

What do these films have in common?  The Naked Prey (1966), The Games (1970),  The Marathon Man (1976) and Apocolypto (2006).  It's quite easy.  In each film the main character takes on a role where they are running, in some cases it is for their life.  As I sit watching Apocolypto the actors are running, they are finely tuned running machines.  It is good to see how well their stamina keeps them going.  When I was running half marathons I got to this stage.  The fastest time I did one in was 1 hour 26 minutes.  When I look at it now it is a pretty respectable time with the possible notion I could of done a sub 3 hour marathon.  Some feat.  I once did a half marathon at Windsor Great Park and the first three miles were each done at a six minute pace.  I couldn't believe it.  There is nothing like the feeling of running well and knowing your breathing feels good, knowing your muscles can take it and having a buzz, it feels very natural.  At the end of the run I'd be knackered especially so when racing.  However, there would also be a great calmness descend. Breathing would then slow down and feel as if I didn't need much air at all. At peak performance the recovery was fast with barely any sore muscles the next day.  But being as fit as this took a lot of hard work, so to an extent it came at a cost.  Time and effort over years.  Then one day I just felt bored with it.  Bored with running.  Bored with looking so skinny because no matter what I ate, which was a lot I just burnt it all off.  Running four, five or more times per week.  Varying the runs in distance and surfaces it all burnt the calories being young people just thought of me as a skinny runt with no conception of the fitness level I had. 

When I began a run I would notice how it could take up to fifteen to twenty minutes to feel warmed up, only then getting to a point where my breathing reached a natural rhythm.  Once I didn't have to worry about gasping for air, it was a matter of occupying my mind.  When you no longer have to concentrate on the run your mind is free.  If you have a lot of emotions, anger, sadness anything at all, going on the run takes up so much energy and effort those feelings are lost.  It was a kind of therapy in this respect.  Then always, always at the end of the run is peace and calm.  Somehow getting undressed from a sweaty kit and having a wash was necessary burden.  Sleep to, could be an issue.  If I had overdone it then my heart would pound away as it does now when I over exercise and n it would be so difficult to sleep.  At some point in the very early morning I'd eventually relax but would have to shortly arise.  After I stopped running, within a couple of months I had put on a stone in weight.  I liked the filling out.  Then the fitness slowly went, that I didn't like but could do nothing about it.  Then as the years passed I become the fat man I am now.  With gym membership which does me no good as I go fewer times than ever before.  At least hitting the roads didn't cost anything.  There's one thing the government haven't taxed us on.  Not for now anyway.

Brain dead and chatting with a zombie

It's been tough going at the Fish Factory.  I really do feel brain dead.  I'm finding myself needing time out from it all so I head to the pub and have a pint.  Then there are evenings when I also would like some company but no one is around.  Getting off the train I met a zombie, we walked the same direction, it was slow going.  I had problems keeping up a conversation with him.  I just didn't realise those guys knew so much.  It could be this is the result of a tough few days at the Fish Factory.  Anything I once had between my ears has shrivelled up.  I'm afraid when I go to bed if I sleep on my side the shrivelled thing which some might call a brain then drops out of my ear and goes off to pastures new.  He might fancy a snail or something just to get in the fast lane. I had better keep an eye out for some of those tonic drinks, if they don't give me heart palpitations and make me keel over clutching my chest then I should be OK.  On the other hand if they do give you a brain burst I'm not sure my body will be able to keep up.  It could be something to do with the good weather we've had recently.  The sun.  It warms everything up and slows you down.  Alternatively I could be imagining it.  Nah, my zombie friend was quite emphatic.  When your flesh starts rotting there will be a pong he said.  Funny how he didn't mention the vegetable in my head.  Maybe he was jealous.  I don't know, he did seem a smart bloke.

Letting off steam, it's good for you

I spoke to Sparkling Eyes last night and she was letting off steam.  I don't blame her.  It is always good once in a while to really have a good vent when things just get to the point of making your blood boil.  Mind those things will be different for everyone.  One of mine has always been trying to get off the train when there is a crowd  in front of me trying to get on and not giving me enough space.  Talking to someone you know who isn't going to question what you say and just accept you're pissed off is great.  At the moment of showing your pissed off there is a lot of emotion and passion, it shows you really care about something.  Although sometimes it is necessary to make adjustments.  Like in my case.  I have to adjust and accept there are a lot of morons in the world who don't understand the principle of "let passengers off the train first before you try and get on."  This used to be something the station personnel would announce of the public address system they don't now.  Lazy sods.  Then there is always an individual who will not accept what you are saying and either one make you more pissed off than you already are, which isn't a good thing or two try and get you to see it from a different point of view.  This is in the sense of the world.  L & B man kind of does this but not because he is all wise and knowing, it's because he can't be bothered to hear what you have got to say.  So his simple retort is "get over it," or in other words just let go.  It's true.  Sometimes things can eat away at you and the result is it can not be good for your health or the people around you.  So letting go of something is taking back some control.  Even if it doesn't change the situation at all.  Yet even getting to this point of realisation you just have to let off a little bit of steam.  Not an entire steam train across Europe, hopefully.

At one point I used to consider revenge.  Always thinking it was best tasted cold as the saying goes.  But the reality is, once you have given something a bit of time.  You just realise it's not worth the effort and rise above it.  Not only this but the kind of revenge I had in mind could of got me into trouble.  But what you think about isn't a crime, it's what you do.  So yes, let off steam.  Have a bloody good rant.  Then pick yourself up and do your best to change the situation by diverting those energies somewhere else.  Bird watching, humming a favourite tune, making really good food to eat.  No wonder my waist line is getting bigger.

A little skipping exercise - No

I woke up early this morning.  Very early.  Early enough to even consider doing some skipping.  Seeing as I'm hardly getting any exercise nowadays.  But my senses got the better of me, I just turned over to one side and waited a little longer before stumbling out of bed.  Maybe tomorrow.  We'll see.  The leather skipping rope is hanging there waiting.  If I neglect it, it'll get annoyed and make me miss a skip and then I'll end up whipping myself with it.  OUCH is what I usually cry out.  If it's not the skipping rope then it's my belly for getting it up too early.  Mind I did notice it was making noises this morning.  Kind of gurgling noises.  I wasn't particularly hungry, it just gurgled.  It never used to gurgle.  It's just because it's bigger than it has been and it wants to be noticed.  I notice it for sure.  Maybe I shouldn't drink tea too late at night. 

OK must hit the hay and think of sheep.  Skipping sheep.  Hopefully without gurgling bellies.  Barrrrrr.

Britian's Got Talent (BGT)- it's a car crash TV can't take your eyes off thing

This afternoon I'm sure I reached a new level of boredom.  Or perhaps it is something what happens to you when the great struggles of the workplace build up and the brain goes into some kind of dead zone mode.  Yes.  I succumbed to watch the BGT.  Then sat through a number of acts as hopefuls believed in their talent.  Most contestants did not go through but some did.  When they did go through I still could not understand how they managed it.  There was a reason.  A very good reason, the panel was missing the greatest critic non other than the billionaire Simon Sour-faced-false-pecks Cowel, which must be said half hiding your mouth just in case he happens to be around the corner watching and listening.  Seriously the good thing with be an obnoxious rich tosser is you never care what anybody else thinks and you're so rich it's always easy to buy friend and influence people.  To get to the serious point because I don't want to spend the entire BLOG slagging off someone who personally has no talent except for making money and getting engaged to an ever string of beautiful, young and ignorant girl friends.  Blimey there must be a talent in that when I think about it.  OK where was I?  Eventually getting to the point.  Yes the program was missing a Devil's advocate, someone to threw a spanner in the works and say they didn't like the acts no matter how many people did.  This is one thing the Dark Lord could do.  So I sat there wondering if there was some small part of me related to Mr C.  No there isn't.  But I must say as this new skill set of enduring BGT took a grip of me.  I to disliked a few of the acts which got voted through and the crowd loved.  Is there a sanity issue?  I don't think so, maybe I've always been the odd one out.  Maybe I am the odd one out, we'll see, but for sanity's sake come back Simon.

The talentless contestants who were thought to have talent but actually didn't really have any more talent than the one's who had been rejected were all playing to the crowds.  They would pick popular music which had instilled itself in the popular culture and psyche of Joe Public.  One man sat down with an acoustic guitar which he was very good at playing I'll admit, but it wasn't his own song.  He mimicked as closely as he could the original artist.  His voice was a little different, but it was actually worse as I could not tell if there was any stretch in his vocal range.  It was limited.  A guitar player yes, a singer no, but yet he was cheered and voted in.  A 53 year old man who actually looked like he was 63 did his disco dancing to a medley of extracted popular music.  Was it talent?  No it wasn't because I could dance the same way, maybe even better.  The audience was magnetised to see what he'd do next.  But there was no stretch of aerobic ability, just a bit of jiggy jiggy, nothing else.  The audience clapped and laughed.  He got through.  The thing is, you see him dance once at that was it, yo wouldn't go to see him do it again.  You'd already know what to expect and it wasn't in any way or shape spectacular. Another contestant, an overweight man also did a dance, his talent was he could make his eyes pop, to the point they took on a Jim Carey appearance from the Mask.  But rather than talent it seemed to make some queasy pit in the bottom of my stomach want to vomit. I didn't because my lunch is for my belly not for the carpet.  Yes I watched him, it again had some kind of macabre must-watch-glue to it.  He also got voted in.  Personally I don't think I ever want to watch him do his act act again.  My last gripe could be about the bell ringers.  But it won't be, I'll just say they shouldn't be there.

So I have no doubt, if the show has to go on they get a bit more tougher.  Then who am I to say, I'm am talentless, oh yes, maybe this is why I'd not be up there making a complete twat of myself.  Because I can do quite easily to those people I know around me and not to the eyes of a million people.

French Detectives and another go at Peri Peri Chicken

I'm watching a French detective murder serial called Spiral.  It's very good.  Although we all know TV detectives and their actions are not true to life this one has a kind of realism to it and quite an appeal.  Especially when the cops catch a bad guy and give him a little bit rough treatment, not an actual beating up just a little manhandling.  They also seem to be running all over the place chasing after suspects at the slightest of inclinations.  The main character a female detective has her hands full and is slightly crazy, very serious but on the edge of sanity and a break down.  They desperately want to catch a murderer and hope by lots of energy and headless chicken impersonations they will catch the culprit.  Unsuccessfully at the moment I'll add.  The French judicial system is run differently from the British one.  For the head detectives are also responsible to a Judge, who follows the progress of the case.  He also happens to be a serious man, completely true to the law.  It's odd but when I see professionalism I know it and like it.  Anyone who is a true professional and not a fly by night glory seeker is usually true to their profession because they like what they do.  The best are always serious about what they do and practice.

Talking of practice I had another go at making Peri Peri chicken today.  Using Jamie Oliver's 30 minute recipe.  Typically I forgot one of the ingredients after I had cooked the chicken for a period of time.  Oh well.  Just when I'm trying to improve my memory I miss something out.  I'd written everything down on a piece of paper but then I had left out the one ingredient and only remembered after most of the work had been done.  Never mind.  Except this time round the chicken didn't taste of lemon as much as it did the last time I did it.  It had a lot more of a spicy kick but as the chicken hadn't been marinated it didn't go all the way through.  Jamie didn't do a marinade in his either, the idea being it can be cooked in 30 minutes.  Mine took me just over an hour.  Better than my previous effort.  But no Portuguese tarts this time, as I still need to get a muffin tin.  I cooked for Layabout Boy and Big Momma, even though she had already eaten the notion of more food could not be refused.  I must admit I do get an enjoyment out of cooking.  Oh to search for a muffin tin, where will I find one?

For those who are interested the London Marathon is being run tomorrow.  I wonder if they'd like a bit of Peri Peri chicken, I got a feeling it might not go round if they all want some.  Never mind.  The rest can take a rain checque on my tarts.

Recovering from a busy week

It has been a busy week at the Fish Factory and instead of doing things which are good for me, like the gym or reading I'm ending up my evening with a pint or two in the pub.  Considering a pint is about £3 during the happy hour, two pints an evening and it soon adds up over a week.  So I have to control myself and miss out a day here and there.  If not for my pocket for my health.  It's surprising how the demands in the Fish Factory have an effect on needing time-out.  Which becomes more valuable.  Mind if there are people around I know we generally have a good chit chat and chill.  Having alcohol has a relaxing effect.  It's said to be a depressant, but I think it actually depends very much on the individual and their personality.  If you are generally a happy person but had a stressful day it can help pull down stress levels and allow the happiness to come through.  Of course like any other self administering drug it should be taken in moderation, because overdoing it makes you walk funny and think you are about to drop of the edge of the world.  Particularly so in the morning when the effects of a hangover start to hit home.  At which time you suddenly find you have the head of someone with a major migraine, becoming hyper sensitive to all sounds, movement and under the influence of a strange magnetism to good old Armitage Shanks (the maker of toilets).  A vomit does have a cathartic effect. Hours later when in the later stages of recovery you'll swear never to do it again and try and remember exactly what it was you did do.  People who were with you at the time will then prompt your recall, unless they to happen to be hiding away from the world and holding a crucifix up to any bacon or egg which is shoved in their direction.  Saying this, I have no doubt getting drunk once in a while is actually good for the soul, if such a thing exists, then if not it's good for the head, and allows you time to evaluate. This is all of course from my first hand knowledge.

We are the summation of our experiences in this world and our ability to remember them.  We are also the character which allows us to rise above experience which is aversive.  Be this recovering from a night out or any other flying horse manure which comes out of nowhere. 

This morning I missed Sparkling.  I wanted just to reach out and have a hug.  I wish I was a rich man, a little like the song or a little like the many millionaires who happen to be running government at this moment.  I don't ever see any of them queuing up to get an NHS dentist, that's for sure.  But were I a rich man my life would be different.  I'd then be able to ensure my loved ones were always as happy as they could be.  I'd run my own business or businesses.  I'd keep myself perpetually busy and perpetually studying on some kind of educational course. If not some kind of practical course.  I'd hope I would be a philanthropist to society and more.  Oh well, I'm not rich so I'd better get over it, and winning the lottery is even slimmer than being hit by lightening, so I've been told. Oh well back to the drawing board, world domination it will have to be.

The little fishes pile up

There are fishes piling up in the Fish Factory, and I just don't seem to get a chance to look at them. They require attention, a mind of which is clear of disturbances, a quiet environment.  This does not happen.  So the little fishes will have to pile up and wait.  Unfortunately we all know what happens to fish when it's been allowed to sit around idly for some time.  Oh well.  I'll have to change occupation. 

Something which doesn't need concentration.  A potato farmer perhaps?

Collecting a phone

Yesterday my new phone arrived, I wasn't around so it meant going to the Post Office to pick it up.  This morning I went.  The sorting office is on an industrial estate and returning from it meant a hundred yard walk to the bus stop.  There I sat waiting for the bus and couldn't help myself but open up my phone.  Oh what a wonderful sight it was.  Exactly the same as the one I had before, but new.  It's keys all familiar, it works in exactly the same way and how comforting it is to know this.  There's no need to rummage through the instruction book and I loved it.  Except it wasn't the same as it didn't have all the old photos or contacts on it.  It's an out of date phone now, but I really don't care and don't want to buy a new fangled touch screen phone which needs to be permanently plugged in to keep it charged.  I love it, not as much as Sparkling I'll say, but it did temporarily provide me with some form of comfort.  I caressed it's buttons.  As I sat there waiting I thought this bus shelter probably had seen a number of people sit there and open up their parcels with trepidation.  This evening I rang up the operator to get the old number transferred onto it.  Soon it will be nicely set up then I 'll have to colled phone numbers and put them in it.  Phone numbers of people I know of course, not ones I don't.

And if anyone is curious as to what model it is, it's a Sony Erickson K800i, presently my little baby, awwwe

Wrinkles and food Mr Barry Manilow

An advert come on the box.  It's Barry Manilow doing a concert and their selling tickets.  So there I am thinking the old codger must be getting on a bit.  I can remember his songs coming out what must of been at least 30 years ago.  But as I watched the short clips of him singing I could see a sheen on his skin.  It was smooth, very smooth.  I commented to Big Momma, saying "blimey, I got more wrinkles on my arse than he has on his face, look at  him."  She walks past and replies "no, you got more wrinkles on your face, have you had a look at it recently?"  Then she goes on to say, "I think they've migrated from your arse to your face."  Wonderful.  It's good to know I'm loved.

Mind my belly has been playing me up the last few days.  It could be a bout of IBS, whatever it has it's helped me keep an eye on my food intake.  Well, I can't help it actually.  Ten minutes after eating I'm running off to the loo.  At this rate I'll be losing some weight as well.  I noticed how my belt had to be pulled a bit tighter today.  I got a book from Amazon yesterday it's called Food Rules by Michael Pollan.  It basically gives common sense rules on how to eat and what to eat with the reasons why.  Like for instance, don't eat a breakfast cereal which changes the colour of the milk and never eat food which is labelled healthy food.  For healthy food doesn't actually come with a label.  It's true, I've never seen a carrot with it's own label attached to it.  Were I to start taking notice of this book I'd have to actually cook and make all my own food because none of it would be processed.  It also advises never to eat to you are full, only eat to you are 70 percent full, or even 80 percent, depending from what culture you're from.  This is tough news when my sentiment has been to eat till you're full and feeling bloated and then a half hour later the inevitable words have got to be said "oh my belly!"  Sparkling knows this very well.  She's the one who can see and read it before it happens, and takes the mickey out of me, having to put on her version of a London accent.   Come to think of it I feel bloated now.  I shouldn't of had those two hot cross buns earlier.  The problem is it's always difficult knowing when to stop.  Personally I'm not sure I know where the 70 percent mark is.  It's not like there's some kind of gauge which tells me.  I just get bloated, it's all there is to it.

Yep Manilow is looking good.  He's probably doing the extra concerts because he needs some additional retirement money or it makes him feel more valued in his old age.  And yes, he really is old, at least 70 I'd say.  Going by his figure he probably sticks to the 70 percent rule as well.  But what I ask, is this: is Barry Manilow happy?  Hell yes.  I got more wrinkles on my arse than he's got on his face and I'm 30 years younger.  I wonder if his milk changes colour when its added to cereal? 

What has Big Momma eaten?

Big Momma's diabetes has been playing up.  Or rather this is a result of her diet.  Waking up five or six times at night to visit the toilet for a tinkle. It is killing me.  I am exhausted in the morning from it all.  So it was a matter of trying to find out what she has been eating.  When asked if it was sweets she would say "no I've not had any," I then asked about chocolate biscuits, she shakes her head and emphatically again says "no, I've not had any of them either" as if to say she is completely innocent and nothing of harm has passed her lips.  Although there just happened to of been a half empty packet of honey covered peanuts she had yesterday.  I know it was half empty because I had the other half. Trying to find out what she has eaten is a guessing game.  It is likely been narrowed down to a bar of chocolate she was given yesterday, bananas which I am sure are not good for diabetics and possibly sultana's, which are middle on the Glycemic Index (GI).  But there must of been something else, I believe she is not telling the whole story and I don't know how to fathom it out what she has been putting down he cake hole, literally speaking.  I even asked her about cakes and yes, she said no to them as well.  Well this evening I went to the gym and if after a disturbed night of intermittent sleep and a work out at the gym I don't sleep then I'll just be unhappy.  Very unhappy.  While Bog Momma laughs her little head away and most likely catches up with the rest of her sleep in the afternoon while watching the box.  I sure hope she hasn't gone back to eating crisps and chocolate in the afternoons again.  I'm struggling now to keep my eyes open and it's only just gone 9:30 p.m.

She is clearly potty.  Then so is the Japanese inventor Dr. Nakamatsu, who has over 3000 patents in the Japanese patent office.  An example of his work is a holder for your mobile phone.  This is strapped to the wrist because he says carrying a mobile phone in a jacket pocket is bad for the heart.  I know this is not true.  It is actually using a mobile phone which is bad for the brain because of the microwaves.  However, Dr. Nakamtsu hasn't taken this into account.  I know as I've just spent or was it wasted an hour of my life watching a documentary on him from 4oD.  Yet, this gentleman is a shrewed business man.  He would not sell off his water assisted powered bicycle people carrier, because the person who asked for it was trying to get it at half price.  Well like all shrewed business men his hand is not on his heart it's welded to his wallet.  Dr. N is now 80 years old and plans to live to the age of 144 years.  He has taken photographs of every meal he has eaten for the last 34 years and then does an analysis on his blood.  Checking to see if his blood is particularly healthy after certain meals some days later.  He has even received a Nobel Prize.  No I got it wrong.  It was an Ig Nobel Prize (as in ignoble), which he collected.  In my view although a prestigious inventor his unique abilities also border on the crack pot.  Except for the fact he invented the floppy disk drive,but I've just checked Google and Wikipedia says it was IBM, now one of them must be telling a fib.

I wonder if Dr Nakamatsu would like to meet Big Momma? Now there's an interesting thought.

Portugues Tarts are not all the same

It was while up  North I had a go at making Portuguese Tarts, with the recipe and motivation provided by none other than the fantastic Jamie Oliver.  Today I had another go and although I was using my memory, which apparently just isn't so good now days, I learnt not all Portuguese tarts are the same.  Quite frankly.  these ones were a disaster.  Several disasters all in the one tart tin.  It should of been a muffin tin but on account of actually having no muffin tin a normal tart tin had to suffice.  Maybe this was the first mistake.  Or probably my first mistake was not trying to find the recipe again and think I knew what I was doing.  I made the usual big mess, with cinnamon powder, rolled up ready made puff pastry and my creme fresh filling which for some reason wasn't as good as it was last time.  A bloody disaster.  I'm beginning to dislike puff pastry now.  On the other hand we're only talking tarts.  It should be possible to conquer something as simple as a Portuguese tart.  Shouldn't it?  So I have no choice but to make them again.  Get the ingredients and review the recipe providing I can find it.

I recall something Thomas Edison said "I have not failed, I have just found 10,000 ways that don't work," now if I take this into account then I'd have at least 9,999 more attempts left before the perfect Portuguese tart pops out of the oven.   As if the tart is going to do this all on it's own accord.  No.  With a little help from moi it might though.  Then I can pat myself on the back and think I am a great cook.  One thing is for sure with 9,999 failures the pigeons, sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and magpies are all going to start looking a little bit bigger.

What to look for in a new phone - an old one

Perhaps it is part of being old and knowing what it is I want.  So I have now made an order on Amazon for a replacement mobile phone.  It's exactly the same make and model I had before.  I spend hours and  hours looking at the new touch screen ones, checking out YouTube and reading reviews, but I just couldn't justify the cost of something which is supposed to be a phone not a computer combined everything else object.  A mobile phone is for making phone calls and sending text messages.  Anything else is a plus.  One person extolled the virtues of their iPhone to me.  However, I really didn't grasp it.  Cost versus functionality.  They confessed it didn't always give them great reception, of having to sit in a certain position to make their phone calls (while in the office of all places).  I have even seen the wonderful tablet Apple computers and even though they look really flashy, they are full of novelty value which some people see as surpassing what a real laptop computer would be capable of doing.  They actually don't, but they are nice.  Functionality of a phone is what matters.  It must do what it says on the box.  There shouldn't be any of this sitting in a certain place or doing a headstand to get reception.  It should hold a charge which would last at least four days if not longer when switched off at night.  Who wants to spend their life charging up a phone?  Not anyone in their right mind.  Not me.  I can tell you.  I mean.  What about the world electricity supply and being green?  These have got to be big factors.  And as for the cost well... Do the manufacturers thing money grows on trees.  We're in a recession, and I been checking out a lot of trees lately so can say from first hand experience.  Money does not grow on trees.  Not the ones I seen.  Unless someone has got there before me and stripped them bare except for the leaves and the branches. 

So now I'll sit and wait on it arriving.  As well as taking out another contract.  A contract which will not cost an arm and a leg.  One with a company who will ensure they are there for one thing.  Supplying me with a good phone line when my Yoga lessons haven't paid off. 

An unsolicited phone call

There I was sitting down and enjoying a packet of hoola hoops when the phone rang.  It turned out to be my broadband service provider.  It was a woman called Emma, but although she gave me a very English sounding name I'm sure she was not English and was likely from another country.  One on the Asian continent.  She proceeded to talk about my service saying she wanted an alternative email address.  This was because I've never really used the email address they gave me, and this was where they sent the online bills.  The alternative would be to send paper bills and increase the charge because of this.  She then had to ask me some security questions.  I said it was her who rang me up and couldn't see why I should have to answer any security questions.  To bring a very long story to an abrupt ending I got pissed off and said if they were going to charge me extra for a paper bill I would cease their service. I managed to keep Emma on the phone for a good twenty minutes.  Thinking this will sort out unsolicited telephone calls from people in different countries who I have problems understanding what they are saying.  Bloody woman kept interrupting me and not letting me get on with what I wanted to say.  I must say, I did take a certain personal enjoyment out of being awkward.  Unfortunately I'm now having to look for an alternative broadband provider. 

So I serifed the net and found a site which advised of providers in my area.  Then I went through the process of testing the phone line.  And each time I put in my address and phone number details the web site's rejected it.  If I didn't know any better this would mean I couldn't get broadband even though I was actually using it.  I then took to phoning up a couple of providers.  It was at this point I was basically told if I wanted another provider I would have to change my telephone number as well.  This was because my telephone had been transferred once before.  I really do not understand what is going on with it all.  So an unsolicited phone call from a company I use but will not mention because I do not want to give them any further publicity has left me in a quandary.  It's now taking me more effort to sort out a new broadband provider than it would of been to have answered Emma's bloody questions in the first place.  Understanding and recognising this makes me even madder and more determined to find a new broadband provider and not change my telephone number.

Next time the bloody phone rings I'm not going to answer it. 

I'm not a mnemonist, but I'd like to be

I have just been reading how some golden spoon in the mouth graduate has gone on to make a million dollars from writing a book.  All of it came about in a serendipitous way, through contacts with mnemonists (someone who employs efficient memory techniques to remember lots of stuff e.g. decks of cards, random numbers etc).  I gnash my teeth in annoyance thinking this is something I should of done.  Except I keep forgetting. The thing being none of the methods used are new, they are all old hat.  Anyone can be a mnemonist, but it takes practice and dedication, then you could be worth a million dollars.  It's probably better still if you win the world memory championships.  It was through entering this contest the graduate began to stretch his own mind and become a mnemonist.

Make a mental note to self.  Try and remember more and do something about it.

Why are we not taught life skills? Beccause we're ducks

Why is it at school the most useful subjects for life are not taught?  Cooking is definitely up there.  It may even be number one.  Not just cooking as a choice once in teenage years, but cooking right the way through every year of school as a compulsory subject.  With it would be nutrition.  One goes in hand with the other.  Subjects like woodworking, plumbing and bricking should also be included.  Why should they only be the remit of a select few who can then charge the earth for their services.  I know one thing.  Were I able to do my own plumbing I'd do a hell of a better job than most of the plumbers out there.  I'd want to do the best job I could.  The same goes for all of these useful life skills which are so neglected.  Then, and only then, once each pupil has tried out these skills should they be allowed into all the other airy fairy subjects schools teach.  Geography, physics, English, math.  If these subjects can't be tangentially learnt through practical application in real life then what is their true value.  What level of chemistry is required to know water's boiling temperature?  If pupils have an innate fascination with a subject then they should be given all the encouragement required to allow them to transgress into it.  However, core subjects would be those which have value and use in real life.  Or maybe I'm talking aloud a lot of twaddle.  It's just an opinion an we're all entitled to our opinions.

But it would save on financial costs.  Costs of getting workmen in to do work, and then on another set of workmen to correct the mess the first set did.  It would give each individual a degree of self independence and confidence to know they do have life skills.  Just as I once read, it takes ten years to become an expert in any field.  So it goes to say, the possibility is each person could be an expert in perhaps five or six subjects during their life.  Depending if they can maintain a passion to learn.  To understand and constantly improve themselves.  However sadly we don't. 

It may well be the human brain has limitations.  At some point it then reaches a boredom level and just then cuts out.  The choice of changing career or being something different has got to come into play.  Even if it means becoming a duck.  Alternatively it may be a matter of finance.  Or it could be it is better in the world to only have a few individuals with skills as they can always be superior to those who don't have such skills.  This sounds like a form of social engineering.  I wonder if there has been a sociologist who has thought this?  If there has they sure didn't tell the rest of the world.  Such information could cause a revolution.  Nope.  They probably told the ducks, after all ducks listen to everything but are pretty poor electricians, carpenters and builders. 

The thing with ducks though, is they never know when there's a mandarin orange around the corner.

Putting the clock forward and breaking rules

Each year the clocks go forward and then backwards by an hour.  Last year I got a little lazy.  The clock in my bedroom was not changed.  So for about six months it was perpetually one hour in advance.  It was actually the correct GMT time.  When this happened I had no choice but to turn off the alarm.  Who in their right mind wants to get up an hour early for anything?  No one I know of.  As the clocks have gone forward again mine is now back in tune with the rest of the world.  So my question is: is this being lazy?  The answer most likely is: yes.  OK, now I have chastised myself I feel a lot better for it.  When the clocks go back again I'll do my best to conform.  Then again, wouldn't the world be so completely boring if there were people out there who didn't conform and everyone followed every rule?  We'd probably have to walk about with big rule books and everything we did was checked in the rule book to see it was allowed or legal.  A little like ruling a country. 

Each person would be their own country.  Then we could declare war if someone broke the rules.  It would become a national disaster.  Maybe sanction them.  Not allow them to purchase essential goods and especially luxury goods.  I'd bet they would then begin to conform pretty quickly.  Unless there were others who illicitly kept them supplied with the things they were not allowed to purchase.  A little like the black market.  To tell the truth I've never seen a black market my local market always appears to be pretty colourful, especially the different fruits and vegetables. All sounds a bit dramatic.  Particularly for forgetting to change the time on a clock.  Then again there are so many rules in the world.  Thousands upon thousands.  So a few are likely to get broken everyday.  Be it a country or an individual.  Then we might ask, what is the need for rules in the first place?  It would likely be, because they create conformity and conformity means a form of stability.  For instance were there just one individual who refused to drive on the correct side of the road then this person would in one journey cause many problems.  This is all too much to think about.  It begins to border onto the philosophical and we all know what philosophy does.  Makes you grow a beard, go bald and wear a toga. 

Now is that a stereotype or just confromity?

Losing a mobile phone

I lost my mobile phone.  It happened somewhere between getting off the train at Kings Cross and sitting on a an underground tube train, Northern Line.  I carried my phone over 400 miles only to then lose it on the last few miles of my journey.  When I got home my head was buzzing with what I needed to do.  What I should do.  I had considered ringing the phone, but there was no guarantee it would be answered.  I thought at this very moment whoever had found it could be ringing up their long lost relatives in Australia and having a reunion chat.  All at the expense of my next phone bill.  So the first thing was to get the SIM card cancelled and so I rang my mobile operator, they did this immediately and also were able to disable the phone from being used.  It was a relief and if anyone had used it they may of had about an hour of possible phone time to say hello and chat about the weather.  I'm now disappointed because the phone was a photo album of people, places and events.  I would look at them every now and again and smile.  I would laugh at a video I had taken when drunk in a kitchen with Sparkling and L & B man conversing over the culinary delight of a meal. He called it "pish" and pulled a face like he was about to puke.  Someone farted.  Not me.  We were all relaxed and happy.  So understandably I was a bit annoyed at the lost memories.  Oh how important it is to back up your data, even if it is on a phone.

Lucky my head is screwed on, at least that is something I'll not lose so quickly, I wish I could say the same for my memory and my waist line.

Off tomorrow

It's my last evening with Sparkling Eyes, my weight has probably gone up by a stone.  I've got Buds to keep me company and even some G & T, which has a flowery kind of smell.  But it does the job and gets me drunk.  I always feel like getting drunk on my last night.  It's the thought of missing Sparkling.  Whilst in the background Rock Chick takes the Micky out of my accent.  Sparkles is now giving me the third degree, she has that stare.  Without a pointing index finger but just as dangerous.  She is beautiful.  Even when my testicles are in a vice and she's the one turning the handle waiting to see what my reaction would be.  There's something I always know when I'm here.  It's the feeling of being happy and contented.  Even if I am the cat's bitch. Yep even the cat plays me like a fiddle.  Up, then down, then up again from my seat because he has decided he wants out the back door and in the front window.   If he wasn't male, I'd of thought he was female coz he changes his mind so much.  Maybe he has inside knowledge from living with Sparkling and Rock?  Who knows?  I certainly don't.  Not even in the early hours of the morning when he decides to step on my head and use it as stair to the window sill. 

Bud is waiting.  Better give it some attention.  Don't want it to feel lonely.

Jamie Oliver my mate and track suites

The past few days I have been making dinners.  With the aid of a trusty friend.  Jamie Oliver.  Actually I feel like me and Jamie are becoming great friends.  His 30 minute meals are a work of genius, if you watch them a couple of times there's always something new you get to learn.  They are piled with so many little tips.  He makes light work of salsa like dips.  Everything is presented in a you can do way, which makes you just want to get out there and try them.  For me, his book has been a little bible.  Or rather a big bible. Sparkling and Rock Chick have been my test subjects and to their delight have enjoyed most of the food I've produced.  Sometimes his meals can take a little longer than 30 minutes, a hell of a lot longer if you consider having to buy the extra ingredients.  You wouldn't believe the trouble I had trying to get hold of puff pastry and I still haven't done his Portugues tarts, but they are next on the list.  They will have vanilla extract in, lick your chops and weep baby hmmmm.

Today I put on my tracky suit.  A little bit like the ones my mate Jamie wears - just watch one of his shows.  Sparkling got it for me as a Chrimbo pressy.  It fitted then.  But for some reason now it's a little short in the leg.  It doesn't look as good as the first time I put it on.  I think it's shrunk in the wash.  I asked Sparkles if it had been in the wash.  She replied "no" but I know she is pulling my leg, there is no way I could of put on this much weight in such a short time.  The top barely covers my belly now.  Sparkles is going to drop me off at a superstore so I can pop in and get some jeans.  Thing is she has clearly stated she will not be coming with me.  Then she threw a number of derogatory names about the sort of person I looked like.  Thanks.  I can assure the readers of this BLOG I do not live in a caravan or on a housing estate of dodgy reputed.   Neither do I take drugs or sell drugs.  The ones I take are prescribed by my GP or are freely available on the shelf and are not for any mental illness.  Sparkling obviously is afraid I might tarnish her image in this tracky even though it was her choice.  Anyway I can't find any other apparel which would be suitable.  And I'm certainly not going to hit the superstore in a Batman and Robin outfit.  I could put the hood up and then no one will recognise me.  Mind security alert might be alerted, then I'll find myself being trailed by blokes talking into walkie talkies, keeping an eye on me.  Just in case I am a suspicious looking character.  What a palarva.

Dangerous Sports Lad is here keeping Rock Chick happy.  It's funny watching them interact, they make me laugh.  Rock definately wears the trousers in that relationship.  Apparently Rock Chick has also aquired a Cockney accent.  She has been in my company too long and now thinks she can imitate me.  So Rock gives an impression to Sparkling each time she wants to pass on something I've said.  Rock did get a little bit annoyed yesterday when I was helping her with home work.  It was my own fault.  I must remember Rock doesn't always appreciate man humour.  Or child like humour.  I'll admit to being irritating at times, but it was fun and I did apologise.  Dangerous sure has got his work cut out for him.  Lucky man lol. 

Today's lunch is likely to be a curry, but it won't be a Jamie one.  Sparkling will no longer let me go out and buy ingredients.  She says we have to use what is in the cupboard, even if it's not on Jamies list or not there.  Memo, must look out for cumin seeds.

What's happening on 26th March 2011

It's a week and a day in Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick's company.  On the first night I was told several times I was going to have my block knocked off.  Sparkling was going to do it but it was said in a kindly non threatening way, I know because the finger wasn't being pointed and Sparkles had a glass of wine in her hand.  I could of counted the number of times this was said but, would probably of lost count.  I was on the Guinness, very nice to, I felt happy.  As always, when I got a lift in the car I was happy.  Carrying a silly grin on my face.  Well I hadn't talked to anyone on the train journey either; I held it mostly together and didn't bombard Sparkles with inane chatter because the city centre was busy and Sparkles had to concentrate on the driving.  Last night Rock Chick also stumbled in a little worse for wear, this morning she's been not feeling so good.  It was a night on the town that did it, she says while standing outside a pub a man began talking to her and said she was related to Elvis.  I wonder if Elvis knows about it?  I'll ask him next time I bump into him at the bar. 

Today is 26th March 2011, there is a march in central London organized by the unions in protest against the government, at least 250,000 people are in attendance.  They have come from all over the country. The organisers advised to bring the whole family, so even little children are there, some being pushed in their prams.  Today is also the day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race later in the afternoon.  Cambridge have been given the better odds.  It might be a two horse race, but for some reason one of these horses has got more riding on it.  The weather is miserable in London, no sun, overcast.  Fine if you happen to be a rower.  The march is stretched around parliament.  Some have even said there are one million attending.  Massive.  Lastly I'll just say the clocks are about to go forward one hour as we catch up with British Summer time. 

OK got some washing up to do and I was going to have a walk, so as to exercise a little.  Sparkles is working about ten hours today so she won't be around much. I'll go down to the large super market and see if there's something worth looking at.  It's always worth a stroll.  I've just finished watching another episode of Come Dine With Me,  I wouldn't mind I'd seen it once already. The weather for tomorrow?  Cold and cloudy.  I'll keep my eye out for a good woolly hat.

Ironing Trousers

I have just been trying my skill at trouser ironing.  Taking three pairs of trousers, a quarter bottle or rum and a three quarter bottle of diet coke I set about it.  It's not the easiest thing in the world to iron.  But it certainly is a lot cheaper than getting professional pressing.  I also tried this a couple of weeks ago, but then I didn't have the aid of rum and coke.  Don't forget the ice.  An essential.  Oh yes and a little entertainment with help from the world service and continuous updates of the situation in Libya.  I must admit to being a news freak in this respect and eagerly eat up any bit of news there is.  First thing was, filling up the iron with water and plugging it in.  No first thing was checking out as many videos of trouser ironing I could find on YouTube.  There wasn't many.  In fact I thought if I can get the hang of trouser ironing I could do my own video of it.  But I'm beginning to think, ironing is a hell of a lot more difficult than one would think.  A bit like playing golf, or even just being able to hit a golf ball.  You sit there watching it on TV, slagging it off as a ponce's game and then find, just as you put down a golf ball and hit the bloody thing you look like a complete twat as nearly falling over.  I know, I have.  If Sparkling sees me because I've managed to twist her arm to come along she sits there in laugher.  I'm sure any woman who saw me with an iron and trousers this evening would also of been sitting there laughing.  But it's not right.  Ironing shouldn't be a gender related task.  It should be something everybody does.  I'm quite convinced now it is one of those useful tasks which they never tell you at school but would be a hell of a lot more useful than an 'O' level in geography.  Where I learnt geography was more about volcano's than it was about countries on the world map.  It should of been called geology, rather than geography.  Unlike ironing.  Which is definitely ironing and nothing else by any other name.  I will confess to one thing.  When I began the 4th rum and coke, whether the crease is in the right place just didn't seem to matter so much.  At least two of my three pairs of trousers now have train tracks where there was once a single line.  Not a single crisp line, because they needed an iron in the first place.  The train tracks happened after I got my hand on the iron.  Well, so what.  It's not the end of the world and I'll be sitting on my fat backside most of the time.  Viva le iron, viva life.  Love ya baby x x x

Not being valued

Sometimes the value of something becomes next to nothing but the thing is important and useful in life.  An example has got to be the toilet role.  A toilet roll is so simple, so functional, cheap and of course disposable, used every single day and always performs it's job.  So I don't know why it is the simple toilet roll is at times caste aside in favour of the less simple single tissue.  Toilets around the world have been flushing quite well without any problem and someone has to come along and invent the stacking tissue dispenser.  The reality is this is worse than re inventing the wheel, but worst of all is it's actually taking over from the good old fashioned roll.

The Fish Factory is a building 13 floors high.  Not massively tall, yet still taller than a house.  Here I work on the sixth floor, at one time I used to work on the seventh floor.  The first time I went to work on the seventh floor I got dizzy, in fact I got mildly dizzy for a few months.  Looking out of the window just seemed pretty scary.  Each day I still have to pop up to the seventh floor but usually only for short periods of time.  The toilets are situated between floors, and they are alternate gents and ladies.  So for me to hit the loo I have to go to floor six and a half.  It's odd but it's true.  Sometimes I am so busy at the Fish Factory sitting in my chair slicing and dicing the fishes I barely get a chance to get up and go to the bog.  Then I might fit in a visit just before I leave.  Unfortunately for me, without fail, the cleaners come along and nearly every day about the time I am leaving there they are cleaning out the loos.  This means I have to either walk up the stairs two floors or walk down them.  The situation can get desperate.  There I am wanting a crap only to find the cleaner has held open the door by putting an orange cone in front of it.  Maybe this is a good reason to get annoyed at cleaners, but it is good particularly if it's the time you just need to go.  When it's been held in a little too long this is the time when I could put the entire cleaning squad on a hit list.  Though sometimes, just sometimes they have got there before me and this becomes less of a worry.  Well except for the wet seat because it's been wiped over with some detergent and hasn't quite dried off. 

The other day I was in such a situation.  The loo had been cleaned and I had found a seat.  Content I sat down to do the business.  It is almost relaxing except for one thing.  The loo roll has been made redundant and instead a tall tissue container is attached to the wall.  It dispenses from the bottom.  Except when the cleaners have been there, they jam this container so tight trying to pull out a tissue is hardest thing in the world.  I want to leave but I can't wipe my bloody arse.  I desperately try to use my finger tips to pinch a tissue, but can't because it is like trying to pinch the wall paper off a wall.  Desperately pulling at this thing my finger nails are able to get some kind of grip and I tug.  The tissue comes away.  In normal circumstances this might be good, but in these circumstances all I have achieved in doing is tearing a piece of tissue the size of a bloody postage stamp off. I look at it.  Staring in bewilderment and confusion.  How the feck am I going to wipe my fat arse with a postage stamp?  With fecking great difficulty that's what. I try again.  This time I tear off a narrow band of tissue, maybe I could plat my hair with it, maybe it would be used by a centipede, but not for me.  Again I try and yet another postage stamp, and then another postage stamp.  This goes on for a moment.  I look at the bloody thing and am thinking of standing up and kicking the fecking shit out of it except that my trousers would fall round my ankles and my arse still needs a wipe.  I give it a thump, which of course does no good.  Eventually, my finger get a grip and about a dozen tissues come out.  Which is much better.  But this dozen tissues are still connected to each other and trying to pull one off has a kind of accordion effect where the others feel their brother is missing and must come along as well.

So it is about half past five in the afternoon, I learn how undervalued and wonderful the simple toilet roll is.  God save the toilet roll, long live the toilet roll, god save the roll.

Keep your trousers up

It was one of those days where I forgot an essential item of clothing and had to do the whole day without it.  The item was a belt, to hold my trousers up.  On my way into the Fish Factory I contemplated whether I should buy another belt but I've done this before.  Where I went to the shop picked one off the hanger bought it, put it on and then found I'd bought one which was two sizes too big for me.  Not to say I am inspired to get even fatter than I am.  When I got home I couldn't find the receipt so now it sits all on it's own in a draw with no waist to go round.  Consequently today the only thought which went through my mind was just to make do and keep pulling my trousers up if they felt like they were slipping.  At one point I wondered if they had slipped too much and I was now showing the top of my pants.  Fortunately I sit down most of the day and don't have to walk about so no one could see me pants, they were a new pair as well.  Mind, pants aren't the kind of thing you want to show people.  Even when they are on the washing line, you just hope they go quietly unnoticed.  Unless someone comes along stretches them around their waist and says "hey look at these biggies!"  Which has happened.  Not a particularly proud moment to say the least.

The past few months have been oddly timed.  Like a pair of trousers slipping.  No.  Just oddly timed.  It's always a matter of budgeting and timing.  Especially counting the Tuesdays between one pay day and the next.  It's like I been waiting for the 5 week month and I'm not sure whether I've had it or whether it will be this month.  the issue always is ensuring there is just enough finances in the account to work the extra week.  Talking about finances and waist lines.  I have just received a reminder for the Gym and the monthly charge has gone up.  It might only be a quid or two but it has now broken a psychological barrier.  It's not like I am hitting the gym 3 times a week.  Sometimes I don't go at all, like last week.  No wonder my trousers had no problem staying up.  So I have to consider cancelling membership.  Then I have two choices.  Join another cheaper gym, which there just happens to be quite close to the Fish Factory or exercise myself from home.  Jogging or maybe skipping.  I am sorely tempted by it.  In an era of austerity why should I keep on paying for the gym?  Especially as I'm not using it fully.  It doesn't make sense.  It's OK trying to stop my trousers falling down but I don't want to have to be buying more pairs because they have got even tighter and my girth has got even bigger.  Blimey, the things you have to do just to keep your trousers in place.

Walking off an attitude

Two in one day (blogs).  What can I say?  Not much.  I went for a nice long walk this morning after my earlier blog. At the end of it I was knackered, just over two miles.  I got to the supermarket and there was a crowd of people waiting to go in.  All I needed was shaving foam and mouth wash, so bought two of each and headed back to base.  Eventually at home I take out the tins and find they are shaving gel.  I'd bought the cheapest items on the shelf and it was the wrong stuff.  Now I'll have to use it and work up a lather out of the gel rather than instant foam.  Funny thing was I held the tins in front of my face and thought I had read what was on the labels.  I still need to calm my head and get control, get some exercise.  Chill out. 

Yesterday when the the train came into it's destination, the two doors slid open, as they do automatically and one man stood in the way on the side I was..  My usual pissed off mood came through with twats who like to try and get on the train when I've hardly had a chance to get off the train..  I said "let the people off the train first," his brain must of been disconnected from his limbs because it hardly registered.  So I just stood there for a moment.  He sort of shuffled but ineffectively to my left then stepped up part into me.  I was pissed off.  Pissed off and yet calm.  I didn't give a shit.  So shouldered past him as I got off the train.  Then called out "tosser."  If I carry on like this I'm going to get into a fight.  Better see if I can get some knuckle dusters mail order.  Wonder if they're on Amazon.

Blog Block and a moan

I'm suffering from Blog Block at the moment.  Although my days are pretty busy at the Fish Factory it seems when I sit down and think I should write a BLOG nothing comes.  I just can't think of a subject.  I can think of Fish Factory subjects but those technicalities would bore the tits of an overweight hippopotamus.  I could tell an imaginary story of a brick.  Because even bricks can have adventures, well they just sit there and see the world going by, but I'm sure there are meanderings which go on in their brick like brains.  If a bricks actually have attained any form of consciousness they certainly would have meanderings.  I know.  Sometimes I come back from the Fish Factory and feel like a brick, a brick in a non self conscious state.  One which would just rather sit and dribble from the side of his mouth.  Blubber, blubber.  See what I I mean?

Then there's Sparkling who has got right up my nose at the moment.  We've had very little communication over the last week.  The last text I received from her was 6 days ago.  Then I find out from a web site she had her debit card cloned and someone in Venezuela tried to use it.  Fine bloody thing I'm sure.  See.  Even Sparkling's bloody card is having a more interesting existence.  The thing is, communication is important.  A little text here or there and I'm happy.  Nothing makes me feel like I don't exist and I'm not worth talking to.  I got to the point of thinking well, I've had enough, I'm fed up.  If she wants to talk to me then she can bloody well pick up the phone.  Women.  Can't live with them, can't live without them.  If I was the type who had a number of mates right now I'd go out, with my mates, probably including the brick and get completely drunk.  So drunk I puke.  Then when I wake up the next morning I got to puke again because of the dizzy room.  To top it off I might even shit myself.  Then I need a couple of days away from the Fish Factory and every other Tom, Dick and Harriet.  A couple of days away.  Watching ants build nests, paint dry, clouds in the sky, absolutely anything.  I need to gain a moment of my own life back.  A moment of control and stop thinking about shit, shit in the head not soiled pants.  No wonder I keep waking up early in the morning.  And yes I know things could be worse I could have my nuts in a bloody vice being turned by some psycho maniac who likes to inflect pain on lonely fat men who are feeling neglected.  Bloody hell!

I haven't even been to the gym and done my fat man running on a machine routine for a while.  Not forgetting the fat man farting and walking away from a cloud of gas.  The chill of the weather and the dull dark days just haven't helped.  OK so it is getting lighter.  It's still so overcast at times it feels like the cloak of Dracula has been laid over London.  I wouldn't mind, but I can't see his bloody brides anywhere, at least they would bring out some reaction, some kind of life in me to buy garlic, crucifixes or run like hell.  I need to get out and clear my head.  Some control.  A good long walk.  Meditation.  Singing to myself and not just giving a shit if anyone hears me while I walk along.  Which reminds me better get a battery for my MP3 player.  Which will be something to keep me going and going and going.  Maybe then, just maybe I'll get my head straight and at least wont have Blog Block.

Revolt is in the air

There is a movement in North Africa, which is undeniably one towards freedom, but this freedom will not come cheap. So I watch every little bit of news and hope with my fingers crossed the people succeed.  I'll eat a couple of dates for a little bit of luck.

Days in the Fish factory are extremely busy.  I hardly get to put down my skilletting knife before another big whopper is put on the table in front of me.  Then some of those whoppers are more difficult to deal with than anticipated.  It's almost like I am becoming an adrenaline junky.  I didn't even get a chance to make a cafetiere of coffee today.  Which is probably good because sometimes I can feel my heart palpitates and I wonder if I carry on like this I'll be keeling over clutching my chest.  Saying "ouch, that hurt," oh well if it's going to happen it's going to happen and there's nothing I can do about it.  Except maybe try and stop eating so much Chinese food at lunch time.

There now tends to be times where I feel I have lost control of what is happening.  Where the Fish Factory is becoming everything.  It is becoming a ruling force, dictating what, where and when.  But making my move into middle fish territory was probably the best thing I did when taking everything into consideration.  It is a challenge and one I'm enjoying at the moment.  It's odd though, just odd.  In a couple of years I may be forced to leave the Factory, because fish will no longer be on the menu. However, just maybe, a glimmer of hope will arise on the horizon.  I don't like talking about hope.  Yet there very much is a small trace.  The trace is a revolution.  Not in Africa though, one right here on the doorstep.  At that time I'll expect the ones in power will know how Qaddafi feels.

Up the revolution.  Viva Che Guevara.

Where did the day go? Turpitude, rusticate.and unctuous.

Sometimes days float by like clouds, high up in the sky.  Then the day is over and without realising it I wonder exactly what it was I did.  How did I get to this place here, sitting on my arse typing?  Last night I went to bed tired.  I slept, woke up a couple of times in the night but then drifted off again to sleep.  The morning arose earlier as the sun now wakes up a bit quicker to, light through the window told me it was time to stop savouring the warmth of bed.  I got up.  Did a full day shift at the Fish Factory, had a quick pint of Guinness in the pub and subsequently caught the train home.  A cup of tea, some biscuits, then some toast and more tea, a little bit of face book and now I'm here to this moment.  Reflecting.  Where did it go? 

At lunch I came across a word I wasn't sure of the meaning.  Now I'm into the habit of noting such words in my phone to look them up later.  I've actually got three words now.  Two I've already looked up and forgotten their meaning.  For clarity this word was "turpitude."   Meaning: wickedness, vice, vileness or  wrongdoing.  It was used in the description of a politician's actions, so is quite apt, you could say was used in a perfectly consistent manner, seeing as we all know this is a trait some politicians do hold.  I might forget the word tomorrow but for this moment I got a good idea of how to use it.  Now if I take this one thing as an entire learning experience for the day then the day hasn't been lost. Provided I can still remember it tomorrow.

Spending a moment I've now looked up the other words. One was "rusticate" meaning: :to go to the country or live in the country.  Whilst the last word is "unctuous" this means: characterized by excessive piousness or moralistic fervor, especially in an affected manner; excessively smooth, suave, or smug.  Odd.  It also sounds like something which could easily be used on a politician getting the world's attention and have an overwhelming sense of self importance.  It's pretty damning when you think about it.  But again it is pertinent and has a place in the world. Which is all really we can hope for.  Places in the world, and of course being loved.  Maybe words like this would feel better if they were hugged, or seeing as we can't actually hug the words then we should all hug a politician and then the words would be made redundant and so evicted from modern English.  The world would become a better place, or we would hope it did.  It's about time we had more lovable and hug-able politicians.  OK now go out into the world and see if you can find any.

Don't rely on the weather

There is indubitably one thing the British like to talk about and it is the weather.  The reason is simple it's an easy ice breaker, it's a common fundamental of every day experience so everybody can talk about it and lastly it is completely unreliable.  It was the great weatherman Michael Fish who in 1987 did his session after the news and said there would not be a hurricane.  A concerned citizen had written in saying there would be, and the weather as though sensing pride before a fall dutifully and independently decided there would be a hurricane.  Fish got it badly wrong.  Winds of 110 miles per hour hit the South.  It didn't effect Scotland by the way, and some Scots felt they had missed out because they usually get all the bad weather.  Trees had fallen across every main road and every rail line.  It was odd seeing so many fallen and rumour had it, were the Russians to start a nuclear war we were going to be gonners.  Tree roots could be seen high in the air like an upturned dish unnaturally balancing on it's edge..  It took weeks to clear up afterwards.  I am sure I took some pictures of the occasion when I was into photography.  I'll have to see if I can find them.  Poor Michael Fish though.  I'm sure his standing as a weatherman toppled just as ignominiously as those trees did.  It's generally taken for granted weather forecasters make predictions with caveats, because experience tells us they just can't help but to get it wrong.  However, his hubris got the better of him.  To make such an big wrong prediction because he had been challenged by an anonymous person was without doubt doubly humiliating.  It don't matter if you predict a sunny day then it's overcast and rains, but to completely miss a hurricane is well off the scale.  Pun intended.  The weather is just unreliable.

Why then, when I know of this unreliability did I assume as in make an "ass" out of "u" and "me," spring was in the air.  Maybe it's all to do with the isobars and the wind.  The wind just can not be controlled, nor can the isobars either.  For there had been a clear bout of very cold weather in January and in the back of my mind there was this hope.  This wish.  A wish which bordered on a prayer.  A wish which was really no more than a wish without the genie, the weather had changed.  We had come out of the long cold and snowy winter and the wish it was over.  Spring would soon descend and make it milder.  The temperature went up instead of the usual 2 or 3 degrees it was reaching between 8 and 11 degrees Celsius.  Which after Scotland's very long cold winter felt like being in the Bahamas.  It is interesting how the human body just adapts even to cold weather.  How the internal central heating you have kicks in as more layers of clothing go on, scarves are tightly wrapped, vests put on and all food must be hot.  After coming through this period of hard tortuous living there was this undeniable want and need which goes beyond all reason.  The want to feel warmer and comfortable rather than constantly depressed with shortened days and bitter winds.  It is the human condition, a euphemism we call "hope," and hope does not have any place for reality, unfortunately reality is true and very much in your face regardless of hope's desires.  So I and I expect millions of other people in the UK had an immediate psychological quandary.  Either moan and groan because it is unfair, and no matter what anyone says reality is unfair.  Or quickly and appropriately just do your best to get over it.  I so wish I could say "get over it" in a strong Scottish tongue, because it would sound a lot better than my wimpy English tongue.  Anyway, to draw a longer conversation to a close.  It's bloody cold again and I'm pissed off with it.  I can hear those words now, ready... 1, 2, 3, ....."get over it."

Baby Gaga Ice Cream - I'll pass on that thanks

It was with a kind of macabre interest I watched a news item about an ice cream being sold in a shop in London.  It was titled Baby Gaga ice cream.  Not at all related to Lady Gaga, except in part of the name.  The shock was to do with the main ingredient.  This being human breast milk.  It's odd, because I would of thought a woman's breast milk was for a baby not for anyone else to purchase in ice cream form.  Then there comes the question of hygiene and exactly who these women are donating their milk.  The Local Authority have now stopped the shop from selling they ice cream on grounds it required testing for bacteria.  I can't help thinking in some way a woman's breast milk is a sacred thing.  Not something for an adult who has a couple of quid in their pocket and some weird fetish.  There may be some very good reasons why the women are selling or donating their breast milk.  More likely selling it.  But still I don't understand why they would do such a thing, perhaps I was born on a different planet, one where I suckled the titty of a 9 titted green monster, who loved me dearly of course.  But one thing is very much for sure, I don't have the faintest uncling to eat or suck or slurp breast milk which came from some unidentified woman, not genetically related to me when I'm over 6 months old.  I prefer my milk pasteurised and out of an old cow who grazes in lovely green pastures, green being a bit like the alien mother who suckled me when I was younger.  I want my milk with my tea, or my cappuccino and I don't want it from anything else which doesn't have four legs or says "moo."