I've seen the future ... and it's chocolatey

Let's make no bones about it: I'm a whore to Starbucks.

A few years back I had a week off work, and I trailed round about four million different Starbucks trying a different beverage in every store. That's how I discovered the Grande Misto, which has since become my coffee-based beverage of choice.

I have withdrawal symptoms if I don't have one at least once every 24 hours.

(If anyone ever needs to coerce me into doing something I don't want to do, a Grande Misto will always serve as suitable bribary. Yes, I'm a reasonably cheap whore, too)

Anyway, today I'd already had one Misto, so I decided that I'd try a different drink on my second visit to a Starbucks. Now... what to have... Oh, how about their new all-singing, all-dancing, most expensive beverage on the board Java Chip frappuccino!? That sounds exciting!

Exciting indeed - it's a combination of coffee (yes, good), chocolate (really? Marvellous!), cream (well it is a treat...), and chunks of cookie dough (Way-hay!). I'm guessing it's also not terribly light on calories, but what the hell...

While enjoying this monstrous coffee-beast, and trying to extricate lumps of cookie dough from my straw, I started thinking how this could be the first step to the science-fiction world of the future, where we all drive flying cars and there's not a damn thing Ken Livingston can do about it.

(I might also be married to Judy Jetson, but that's beside the point)


Whoa! How did we go from coffee to flying cars?! Let me explain. Remember how in sci-fi films and TV shows you see exciting foods of the future - the little coloured cubes you see Captain Kirk chow down on in Star Trek, for instance? Well, we're supposed to assume that those little cubes are a complete meal in one. And the Java Chip frappuccino fits that bill perfectly. It was delicious, without a doubt supplied me with enough energy to light up a small town, and included both drinky and foody elements.

I bet if you popped a Berocca in there you'd be set for the day.

A trip to Londinium!

So I've pissed today away in London.

My reasons for going up town (or "up taaaaaahhhnnn" if you're an Eastenders stereotype) were two-fold. One, to pick up a bluetooth thingy for my iMac, and two, to meet up with my collaborator in unpublished comics, Graham (Or "Gay-ham" if you're the Greek temp we had in the office last year).

Now the first order of business had me a tad worried, because the Apple Store is a dangerous place. Within 10 seconds of crossing the threshold I was holding an iPod Nano in my greasy little paws and thinking "hmmm, both of my other iPods are getting a bit old and would probably break if I accidently threw them against a concrete wall..." A minute later I'd discovered the gorgeous new MacBooks, and having turned into Apple McNerdlinger, was clicking on the 'About this Mac' button to read up on its specs (none of which made much sense, but they certainly looked impressive).

Sweating profusely and shaking a tad, I decided it was probably best to get what I wanted and get out fast. Upstairs... AAARRRGHH - more Nanos, and, oh god, iPod Hi-Fis!!!! Run, run, run... Bluetooth thingy, got it phew! At the till I remarked to the cashier that a detour into the Apple Store could be risky. He laughed, then as he held out my bag, said:

"Hope to see you back here soon."

"Ha ha, I'm sure," I replied. Bastard, I thought as I ran down the stairs toward the door, only stopping to look once more at the MacBooks. Did I mention they're really nice?

The second order of business was fair more relaxing, as Gay-ham, sorry, Graham and I chilled out in Starbucks and discussed a new idea that probably won't get published. He also showed me some new artwork he's done for someone else, which kind of blew me away; he's very good, you see.

Anyway, after an hour, Graham had to go back to work (HA!) while I wandered off to almost get knocked down by a cyclist.

Oh, and I saw possibly the campest piece of movie merchandise I've ever seen in the window of the Cinema Store.

Look, it's Superman Returns Barbie and Ken tie-ins.


Is it me, or does Barbie look more manly than Ken? Oh well... I s'pose you could always swap the heads over.

La la la la looooost

Whoa! I just watched the latest episode of Lost on E4... which is just seven episodes in if you're American. Yep, we're a little behind the times in ol' Blighty.

I was beginning to lose faith in this series. It sort of began following a pattern of teasing, teasing, TEASING, slight revelation, off on a dull tangent. Quite frankly, I couldn't give a rat's ass about Jin or Sun or whatever she's called and her stupid wedding ring. Let's be honest, she survived a plane crash and should be grateful she's still got fingers.

Anyway, that Michelle Rodriguez is bloody hardcore, isn't she? All those drunk driving convictions in real life, and I lost count of the sheer number of people she killed in the episode I just watched. Hell, she probably caused the plane to crash in the first place!

And to top it all, she shot Shannon, the biggest waste of space on the island.

Hooray!

Michelle Rodriguez - I salute you, you crazy bitch.

Gym'll fix it

Now then, now then...

Ignoring the bank holiday, I've had an interesting first day of my week off. I use the term 'interesting' loosely.

I got up reasonably early and thought - hey! I'll go to the gym! Then I went back to sleep. About an hour later, I woke up again, and thought, hmmm. Gym. So I faffed about for around an hour, then buggered off down the gym. Now, you'd think that the gym would be empty around 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, except for, perhaps, a few scrummies. But no. It was full of dawdling old people, ASBO-dodging chavs, and most surprising of all, children.

Children?

Yes children. I'm all for kids using fitness facilities, because around 90 percent of kids these days are tubby little bitches whose faces appear to be covered in what appear to be rorschach tests crafted out of chocolate ("what do you see?" Erm, fat kid? "Yes! Well done!"). But, the thing is, y'know... could they not use another gym?

To top it off, there were no hot scrummies, and all the tellies were tuned to some sort of tweeny-bopper music channel that was only showing Duncan-bloody-James videos. Thank god for my iPod.

I fled after an hour, still pondering why there were so many kids, and so few scrummies.

A few hours later I stopped into Sainsbury's. Now, if you've read this blog before, you'll know my love/hate relationship with supermarkets. Tesco sucks; Sainsbury's is better.

But wait! Sainsbury's was also full of kids, wandering out in front of my trolley, wiping their sticky faces over everything.

What the hell was going on?!

Then I overheard too worn out Feltham mothers chatting in the biscuit aisle.

"I never know what to do wiff 'em during 'alf term."

What?!

Then it all became clear - why there were no scrummies down the gym ... why there were kids everywhere like a packs of wild, uneducated, spitting, swearing, chavvy animals.

Yes readers - have pity on me. Because once again, I've booked my time off during sodding half term.

Ingrid's bits

Shortly after leaving school, I went to work for Visual Imagination, and spent a happy two and half years in their graphics department, creating all sorts of silly nonsense in photoshop. (It's a dangerous tool in the wrong hands, let me tell you)

One of the most memorable moments from my time at VI came almost exactly a year in, on the day of my 19th birthday.

You see, on that day, we were graced with the presense of a *MOVIE STAR!* (you should all be imagining me in gold top hat and tails, arms outstretched in jazz hands stylee here)

And who was this star of stage and screen, I hear you ask? Well it was none other than Ingrid Pitt, star of shitloads of Hammer Horror productions (and no relation to Brad).

So Ingrid, who at the time was nudging 60, came into the office, all bouffant hair and low-slung top, and was introduced to us all, me being last.

"This is Tim. And it's his birthday."

I remember the look on Ingrid's face; watch Countess Dracula and you'll pretty much see the same thing. Here, she clearly thought, was some fresh blood.

I knew what was happening. As the youngest in the company, I was being offered up as a sacrifice to this vampiric temptress.

Closer she loomed, her rosy red lips pursed, and giddy squeal in her voice: "Ooooo - a BIRTHDAY boy!!"

Did she peck me on the cheek? Did she hug me like an elderly aunt?

No she did not.

She clasped her hands on either side of my head, and plunged my face into her ample bossum. And held me there.

It was like being underwater ... sensory deprivation of the highest order; I was unaware of anything outside of the confines of Ingrid's cleavage.

And she continued to hold me there...

... and hold me there...

... and hold me there...

... you beginning to get the idea? I think someone in the office actually went off and made a cup of tea while I was wedged between her boobs. I nearly asphxyated. But by god, I would've gone a happy man!

Anyway, she eventually released me, and tottered off on her high heels. I don't think I did any work that afternoon.

Fast forward nine-and-a-bit years to me sorting through boxes of old stuff...

What's this!? Yee-gads! It's my favourite childhood story book, Bertie the Bus!


I have very fond memories of this book. Basically, it's all about a bus that time travels back to the Napoleonic wars and, er, helps some wounded soldiers.

Look. Here's Napoleon giving Bertie his thanks.


Now, I bet you're wondering what crackhead inflicts stories about time-traveling buses and Napoleon on small children, hmmm? And, for that matter, what the hell it has to do with the rest of this post? Well look closely at the cover - that would be my movie star friend Ingrid Pitt you just referred to as a crackhead. Don't you think you should apologise?

And do you know what's best about this whole story? Some of my old pals at VI reckon Ingrid would be more than happy to autograph my copy of her time-traveling epic.

I wonder if she'll boob-print it too?

Sometimes you've just got to make your own fun

It's a bank holiday! Hooray!!

And how did I spend this wonderful day? Locked inside rooting through boxes that I'd not bothered to sort through since I moved.

Six months ago.

And do you know what I discovered? I've bought a lot of crap over the years.

(And I mean 'crap' as in 'stuff,' not actual crap, before anyone assumes I'm some sort of stool-storing weirdo)

On the plus side, though, I'd actually set aside a couple of days in which to do this herculean task, and I'm a bit chuffed to say that I got it sorted pretty darn quickly. So, as I'm off work this week, I now find myself with a bit more spare time than I thought I'd have.

Muwahahahahah... MUWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

To be honest I'll probably just fritter it away watching This Morning with Phillip and Fern, but it's alway nice to think that I might use it for something worthwhile like, oh, I don't know ... looking after orphaned baboons?

I'm also going to head up town to the Apple Store. I want to get a bluetooth thingy for my Mac, but it might be a dangerous move. Chances are I could come out of there with a Macbook, an iPod Nano, an iPod Hi-Fi and an empty bank account.

Aaaaanyway, I also discovered something else today. The floor in my house is so smooth, and the wheels on my office chair so ... er, round, that with one gentle push I can role from my desk into the kitchen. Granted, it's not a long distance, but it made me feel a bit like Dr. Evil, and that is, my friends, 'a good thing.'

It's like human curling without the furious scrubbers.

Here comes the bloody sun

Went out on my bike for a couple of hours today.

Just noticed I got some tan lines.


I look like a freakin' human battenberg.

Anita's back!

I just got another message from Anna/Anita on my myspace page.

She still appears pretty naked, but this time she's offering me a new mortgage deal!

What a gal!

Friday, what a day, working all week for you

In addition to the name thing, so much else of zero interest happened last night.

That mean... Yes, my friends, it's the return of the bullet points: •

•

•
Eek! They're everywhere •!

Erm... OK...

• Basically, a group of us went to Leicester Square last night to see X-Men: The Last Stand, which if you've read this blog before, you'll know I wasn't expecting great things of because, well, IT'S A BRETT RATNER FILM!!! That said, it was pretty entertaining, although not quite X-Men 2. Or X-Men 1. There was some cracking dialogue, though, such as Wolverine's stirring call to arms "C'mon, we're X-Men!", that ranked right up there with The Da Vinci Code's "I need a library - FAST!"

• The cinema had some of the film's props on display and we kept trying to goad Lee into putting on Magneto's costume while the staff weren't looking. I think it would really have suited him and his machiavellian ways.

• Lee almost decapitated himself on an escalator.

• In addition to our proposed new porcine-based coffee beverage Porkacino (still waiting for a response from Starbucks on that one), Jeff, Yaz, and I hammered out a possible new Coca-Cola limited edition flavour: Coke Bong-Water. Because, quite frankly, it couldn't have made Yaz any more giddy than the Diet Coke with Cherry Limited Edition that she had last night. Poor woman was all over the place. God knows what they replaced the sugar with...

• We had drinks in a bar called Fudge, which served, er, fudge, in little ramikin-type things. Yaz mistook it for an ashtray, however, so we were all denied any fudge-based fun.

• A new style of dance was invented when Lee asked me why I wasn't drinking. As I had a mouthful of Coke (a-cola), I made the international gesture for using a steering wheel, thus indicating that I was driving later. He thought this meant I was off clubbing. Within ten minutes the dance had been extended to include 'indicators' and 'mirror, signal, maneuvre.' All the kids will be doing it in Ritz's nightclubs up and down the country by the end of the month.

• According to Lee, I can dance "really well." (which is a vicious rumour)

• But wait! The biggest revelation of the night came when Yaz announced that she'd heard of a club on Oxford Street where – get this – dwarves and dogs fight! YES! DWARVES. And DOGS. FIGHTING.

I wanted to go! I wanted to see little people savagely attacking dogs (which, you should all know, I'm not a big fan of). I would've put money on the little people! I want to see midgets body-slamming labradors!!!!!

There was just one flaw that stopped me downing my drink and sprinting round to Oxford Street.

The club shut in the 1800s.

DAMN!

What's in a name?

When I was young I wanted to change my name to Wolfgang. I REALLY wanted to change my name to Wolfgang.

In hindsight, I really don't know why I thought this was a good idea, but I was pretty dead-set on it. I was about ready to rock up to the deed-poll office and... well, get them to cross out 'Tim' and write 'Wolfgang' on all my school books.

Then at some point, common sense came up, ripped off my arm, and hit me with the wet end.

Tim I remained.

Sometimes I wistfully think what life would've been like as a Wolfgang. A bit twatish, probably; I expect people would always be taking the piss.

Anyway, someone asked me the other day what I would be called if I'd been given the chance to name myself.

"Raoul," I replied without batting an eyelid.

WHOA! Where the hell did that come from? But there's something to be said for letting your subconscious do the talking. Raoul, let's face it, is a pretty funky name. And certainly a bit more user friendly than Wolfgang in everyday situations.

Also on the plus side, it suggests something a bit ... dangerous? Exotic? Ooo - 'mysterious' (d'ya like the quotes? I thought that made mysterious seem a little bit more, well, er, mysterious...)

People would say "Hey Raoul," and I'd nod in their direction in a dangerous, exotic, and mysterious manner. And they'd feel blessed that Raoul had deigned to acknowledge them.

(I subsequently realised that Raoul probably came from listening to The Automatic a bit too much, if anyone cares)

But to bring this full circle, Yaz and I were tubing it up town this evening on our way to see X-Men: The Last Stand (last stand my arse), when I overheard some random numpty say "I'm thinking of changing my name."

I nearly said "me too!" but then his conversation took a really bizarre turn.

"Yeah, I know some guy who changed his name to Megatron."

Now that's just silly. Unless Megatron is a Transformer, that is.

Gordon Brown is a monkey lover, apparently

Not THAT kind of monkey lover, pervert.

No, apparently the first thing that wild party animal we all know and love as Gordon Brown: Chancellor of the Exchequer listens to in the morning is... The Arctic Monkeys!

Yes, THE ARCTIC MONKEYS!!

Now this just smacks of some spin doctor whispering in his ear before an interview.

"Tell them you listen to the Arctic Monkeys, that'll win the kids over."

"The who?"

"No, they're a bit too sixties. The Arctic Monkeys."

"Come again?"

I mean, really, there's more chances of winged monkeys flying out of my bum than Gordon Brown listening to anything remotely current.

To prove my point, I stole his iPod, and for anyone who cares, the selection of songs he's currently listening to include 'Money, money, money' by Abba, 'Money' by Pink Floyd, 'Money's too tight to mention' by Simply Red, and 'I want it all' by Queen.

Does anyone see a recurring theme there?

Personally, I think I'll pop over to iTunes and download some Stranglers hits. For some reason I just can't get the line "Gordon Brown, texture like scum" out of my head...

Water is precious, OK?

I got a letter from Thames Water the other day telling me that there's a drought, and I should do my best to try to cut down on unnecessary water usage.


Now, I had a lot of time to think about this while I was relaxing in the bath after spending the afternoon washing not only my car, but those belonging to all the neighbour's as well, with a high-pressure hose. (Which is a pretty exhausting way to spend an afternoon, let me tell you)

So I'd just like to ask that you all take a moment to think about how you use water - let's all be a little more responsible in future, hmmm?

We can all do our bit to stop the water shortage - whether it be drinking your own wee or sacrificing your first-born to the rain gods, it's up to you! (Take your pick of rain gods here and here. I really don't think it matters which one you choose)

Now, I love a good sacrifice as much as the next man, so c'mon people! SAVE WATER!!

Just don't let all the rain we're having at the moment put you off, OK?

Cherie Blair loves tuberculosis

Have you seen the badge she's wearing? She's a very odd woman...

A load of old kabollocks

Has anyone noticed that the Royal Mail have started to use red elastic bands to hold piles of letters together?

No? Well, they have. Just look at the ground in any London street and you'll no doubt find them. I think the posties are engaged in some kind of ongoing street war, only armed with lacky bands not water pistols.

Anyway, these red elastic bands appear to be breeding in the office, so I've started to collect them together in an attempt to make a lacky band ball about the size of a basketball. And when it's complete I'll take it down to Ravenscourt Park and shoot some hoops. More on this project in the future, no doubt.

Where was I? (God, I'm off on all different sorts of tangents today...) Oh yeah, red elastic bands in the office, right. So, in the course of collecting these bands I inevitably put them round my wrist.

Like so:


(Gosh, does my wrist look fat in that?)

Suddenly today, I realised that these bands made me look like a follower of Kabbalah, except my wristbands don't protect me from evil, or cost 26 dollars.

That got me thinking - maybe I should join a religion! Now, the last time I was in a house of worship was when I was about nine, and I was only there because the head of Beavers threatened to chuck me out unless I went to church parade. Bitch. (I later spoke to her in tongues, spat on her, and told her she'd be smote. Smitten? Smitted? Whatever, it had the desired effect and she left me to my own God-less devices, albeit while occasionally trying to splash me with holy water)

Thing is, I wouldn't want to join any old religion. No way. And I'm sure you all know what the most fun one looks to be.

Yes my friends, Scientology!

Scientology looks fascinating on so many levels, not least because Tom Cruise looks like he's having a ball. Well, Katie Holmes actually looked like she was having a ball until she dropped the sprogg. Did you see the size of that girl's bump? Geez!

But, yeah, Scientology looks to be the way forward. Particularly as I was reading the other day that each year a group of followers pay 10,000 dollars to head out into the desert to try and will a spaceship to rise out of the sands and whisk them off to Alpha Centauri or wherever the hell it is they come from.

And let's face it, baby, if there's anyone on the planet who can will a giant spaceship out of the ground with the power of his mind, it's me.

I've been waiting for the chance to snag my very own spaceship since the first time I saw Flight of the Navigator.

Lookey-likey!

I was out and about with my pal Jo on Saturday evening. When I say 'out and about' I actually mean 'sitting in the Haagan Das cafe in the Odeon cinema in Kingston getting an extreme sugar rush from an intense chocolate milkshake and watching trailers being projected onto the wall.'

Oh, and while I think about it:

Dear Jo,
I apologise for calling you 'me ol' pal' in a previous post, when, in fact, you are actually six months younger than me. It won't happen again, and was written purely for comedy value with no intention of causing offence. I understand, however, that girls can be very easily offended by comments relating to age, but don't worry, I reckon you've got a good year or so in front of you before you'll need to take any drastic action to ward off the passage of time.
Love ya!
Tim

Anyway, where was I...? Oh yeah - Jo and I started talking about the Star Trek episode 'Operation: Annihilate' as a clip had been shown on telly the night before. Now, Jo isn't a Star Trek fan, so she was on dangerous ground here because she knows that one mention of Trek and I can talk till the cows come home. Being a polite young chap, however, I reigned myself in on this occasion.

So Jo mentioned that this was the first - and possibly only - episode of Star Trek she'd seen. Hell! Same here!! (Although in contrast to Jo, I subsequently watched every other episode) The scene where that Denevan Neural Parasite flies off the ground and slaps Spock on the back was seared into my mind.

That said, I recall that it freaked the five year-old me out a little; I wouldn't eat pizza for years, fearing it would leap off the plate and savage me.

Got me thinking though... If I equated a Neural Parasite with a pizza, what other things on this planet we call Earth look alike?

Hmmm...

Well, let's start with the obvious:


Mmmm! That looks freakin' appetising!

Now... what else ... Oh, yes:


Although, really, this comparison falls apart when you realise that the toilet brush actually serves a useful purpose.

Um... Riiiiight ... how about this to round off:


Now, seriously, I don't have a clue what's going on in the lefthand picture. But he looks happy, so it's probably best we leave him to it.

Yo ho, yo ho - is that you, Keef?!

Being the whore to the blockbuster that I am, there are three movies coming out in the next couple of months that I will definitely be catching.

Next week - X-Men 3. Oh, sorry, that'll be X-Men: The Last Stand. Until it makes shedloads of money and they decide to make another one. Last stand my arse.

Anyway, I really enjoyed the last two, but this one looks sorta... underwhelming...? Or maybe I'm just in the 'I HATE BRETT RATNER MOVIES' camp? Who knows; we'll see this Friday when, despite the fact that I HATE BRETT RATNER MOVIES I'll be off to see X-Men 3. Um, The Last Stand.

Of course, the big one is Superman Returns, which gave me a special tingle of excitement when I saw the latest trailer. And I'm a fully paid up member of the 'I LOVE BRYAN SINGER MOVIES' club, so, y'know, this is going to rock. Hopefully...

The big question is - should I wear my superman t-shirt and my pants on the outside of my trousers when I go to see it, or would that be too much?

Hmmm... probably not wear the t-shirt then.

And finally - Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. Now, I thought the last one was a pretty sucky movie made immensly enjoyable by one thing: Keira Knightley's heaving bossum. Um, I mean, Johnny Depp was excellent.

Um...

Any-hoo, this new one looks great fun, and I'm already humming "yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me" a little too often for comfort, but one thing is puzzling me: there were a lot of rumours that Keith - sorry, I mean Keef - Richards was going to be in it as Cap'n Jack's dad. Then I heard that he wasn't. Then he was. Then he was'n- You get the picture.

Then I caught the latest trailer, and saw this:


My question is: is this Keef Richards?

Sorta looks a bit like him... sorta sounds a bit like him...

I do hope it's him. That would be the BEST THING EVAH! Apart from, maybe, the wonderous sight of me leaping around in front of the Odeon Leicester Square wearing my pants outside my trousers shouting "DA DA DA DAAAAAAA!"

(yes, you'll believe a man can fly)

I also hope Keef doesn't take it upon himself to climb anymore coconut trees. My Mum's waited 43 years to see The Rolling Stones, and it would be just awful if he did himself in before she gets the chance to realise her dream.

So, note to Keef - you can do whatever you want AFTER August 20th, OK? Cheers matey.

And now for the ladies - Johnny Depp with the campest expression on his face that I could find:

Ooo, new Apple Store

Wow! Checkout the new Apple Store in New York.

Looks cool, huh? I'm assuming there's a bit more to it than just a big glass cube in the middle of the street, because I'd be a bit miffed if I rocked up there to buy a new computer or an iPod just to find a big ol' empty glass cube.

No doubt David Blaine would love it though.

Get's me wondering though, are all the other Apple Stores across the world plagued by the same problem as the one in Regent Street? By that I mean, are they just full of exchange students, tourists, and pikeys hogging the latest uber-fast Intel Macs merely to check their hotmail?

That really annoys me. The last time I went in there for the sole purpose of checking my email I couldn't find a damned free computer.

So I bought another iPod instead.

Damn!

Did someone just slip something into my drink?

Watch this, then go and sit in a darkened room until the hallucinogens wear off.

Good lord...

The nine o'clock gnus!

With a gnu - do you see!? I think we'll call it Lucy. Lucy Gnu.

Aaaaaaanyway, There's a couple of things I want to touch upon today, so I might even use some bullet points, like this: •

And this: •

And – whoa! - there's another one: •

Any-any-anyway, are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin!

• I discovered today that Christies are holding an auction of Star Trek memorabilia. Now, I've measured up my living room, and I've got a sneaking suspicion that the Enterprise won't quite fit, so I've had to lower my expectations to Admiral Kirk's uniform from Star Trek II: The Wrath of KHAAAAAAAN!!!!!

But hey! That's pretty darn cool! Look:


I was talking to Marcosy today, and he thinks I should definitely go for it, and I tend to agree. After all, ladies love a man in uniform.

I wonder if it still has that bloody hand print on the lapel? Not to worry, I'm sure it'd come out in the wash.

Who'll lend me 9000 dollars?

• A while back I set up a Myspace page. It's not something I'd planned on doing, but Phantom Planet had put up a questionnaire on their fantastic blog, and you could only respond to it through Myspace. And you can only leave comments on Myspace if you're a member of Myspace. So I joined Myspace.

Phew.

Thing is, I'm not making a big deal of it, and I don't know if I'm actually going to do anything with it. But today I received an email from someone called 'Anna' who wanted to be 'my friend.' Interesting, I hear you say.

And interesting it was indeed. See, 'Anna' is actually called 'Anita,' and 'Anita' mentioned that she usually likes to chat to her pals via her 'camera.' She gave me a link to her website, so I thought I'd check it out.

Not the sort of site you should look at in the office. Nope... definitely NOT the sort of site you should look at in the office.

Hmmm...

Anyway, I think I'm just going to leave the Myspace page festering and see what/who wants to be my friend; think of it as some kind of experiment. It'll be interesting to see who'll drop by without me making an effort... In case anyone belonged to Myspace and wanted to be my friend, go here.

Unlike Anna/Anita, do keep some clothes on though; I wouldn't want you to catch a chill.

• Finally, I'm off to see The Da Vinci Code tomorrow. Now, apart from every single Catholic in the world, I appear to be the only person who hasn't read the book. And the reviews suggest that the film is ... um, not so good. But hey! I'll give it a whirl. And come on, Tom Hanks has NEVER made a bad film.

Except for The 'Burbs. And Joe versus the Volcano. I'd rather stick dynamite in my bum crack than watch those two films again.

Sparks will fly!

Bloody hell! Anyone who's been with me since the start of this blog will know that I've got a little thing against Tesco.

Well tonight it got worse.

One of their trolleys tried to kill me.

By that, I don't mean that it magically came to life and chased me around the car park in a Benny Hill stylee; rather, while wheeling around the store it built up a static charge that, upon contact with the metal frame, almost killed me. It was biblical in its intensity, let me tell you.

"Clean-up to aisle three, a young man has experienced an involuntary bowel movement."

Well, not quite.

Anyway, after getting over the initial shock (geddit! Do you see what I did there?), I decided I could have some fun with this by vanquishing the various chavs, children, and disorientated old people who get in my way while I'm picking out some muller lights in the freezer aisles. So I skidded round a bit, and caused some mayhem. There were blue sparks flying everywhere.

Never before has this blog been more aptly titled.

Seriously, this is almost as revolutionary as the time I created the wheel. And fire.

Rock on!

Making a boob of myself

So today, I found myself in a bit of a role reversal situation.

Y'know, the sort of thing where ... well, basically, some girl was checking out my man-rack. My pecs. my man-boobs. My chesticles. Anyone know any others? (I won't except 'bitch tits'; I am not, nor do I bear any resemblance to, Meatloaf's character from Fight Club)

I had to make a brief stop-off at another company for something to do with work, and while there I had a short conversation with this very sweet lady. So we're chatting away, and I notice her eyes keep flashing down to my, erm, chest area.

Now, the t-shirt I was wearing does have some rather non-sensical text on it, so it's quite possible that she was just trying to read that; but she would've figured out that it was non-sensical and stopped pretty sharpish. Unless my conversation was incredibly dull...

Anyway, so she kept looking. And looking. And looking. (Thank God I wasn't wearing a smutty t-shirt)

It got to the point where I seriously thought I'd dropped something down myself, or dribbled, or something.

So what did I do?

I looked too.

So there we are. Two twentysomething adults. Starring intently at my chest in the lobby of a rather posh office building. For an uncomfortably unreasonable period of time.

I coughed to clear my throat, snapping us both out of our reverie. (It was either that or flex one of my pecs, which might've just looked like I was having some sort of weird spasm)

"Well, er, thanks, I best be getting back ... Nice to meet you!" And headed back to work.

It was all a bit disconcerting, to be honest. I felt a tad used.

It was quite lovely in hindsight.

Straw poll!

OK, so the idea of getting a miniature horse seems to be a good one with all the people who make misguided attempts to influence what I do with my life in the hope that it'll lead me into serious trouble.

With that in mind – and simply because I quite like the idea of little hooves going clippety-cloppety across the living room floor – it's down to you, the Sparky Malarkey readers, to decide whether I should buy a miniature horse. And possibly a chariot.

If I was more technically-minded, this would be a real poll with clickable options. But I'm not, so just leave a comment.*

Your options are:

"YAY! Buy a miniature horse!"

OR

"NAAAAAAAAAAAY!"

(Didn't see that one coming, did you?)





*Poll results do not represent a legally-binding contract and/or any obligation to buy a miniature horse. Unless it's a magic one that can fly.

Just horsing around

Since I moved into my house and began a life of living on my own, various friends have asked when I'm going to get a pet.

"How about a cat," they ask. Now, I'd love a cat. But I'd worry about it getting lost or run over or kidnapped by the Peruvian mafia while I was at work, and it wouldn't be fair to leave it in all day; the little shit would no doubt maul the sofa anyway.

"A dog?" No, don't be silly. I don't do dogs. Not since that chocolate brown labrador knocked me over when I was running in a park aged about four and proceeded to lick my face like I was a chum-flavoured ice cream.

"How about a fish?" I really don't think that's a good idea bearing in mind my track record with goldfish; I still remember the day that I woke up to find that Speedy had jumped clear out of the tank during the night and landed on the Staines Informer, which, as he began to dry out, he appeared to bond with at the molecular level. We had to flush him still attached to an advert for double-glazing in the Sunbury area.

And his replacement, Giotto, died after only a week while we were watching Dallas. The pet shop owner told us it was a heart attack (I also found the 'who shot JR?' storyline exciting, but thankfully not to the point where it induced a coronary), although even the eight year-old me figured that was a pretty precise diagnosis considering he hadn't even performed an autopsy.

So, after a traumatic history with goldfish, I think it's probably best to leave them well alone.

No, at the moment, the most promising idea looks to be a miniature horse.

Aaaah, aren't they cool?

(Although this one looks suspiciously like it's murdered its stable-mate…)

Anyway, I might have to look into the miniture horse market a little more. Mr Chunt reckons I should buy six and recreate the chariot race from Ben Hur in my living room.

Mmmm… biscuits…

Upon discovering today that my baps had gone mouldy (I suspect it was something to do with the hot weather and keeping them in a filing cabinet), I had to resort to a quick alternative lunch courtesy of the cornershop formerly known as Bob's.

Thus I found myself with a Mars milk, a tiramasu-flavoured Kit-Kat, and a packet of bog-standard digestive biscuits.

Now, I must admit I don't really think the digestive biscuit is held in quite as high regard as I think it should be. This biscuit has something for everyone across its four varieties; milk chocolate, dark chocolate, caramel, and the good ol' bog-standard version. Chocolate on a biscuit is always a good thing, so I don't think I need to go too in-depth on the qualities of those versions. And despite initial reservations about the caramel digestive, I was soon won over; it strikes just about the right balance between being too gooey and not gooey enough, and the caramel has the additional benefit of increasing the biscuit's structural integrity when you dunk it in a cup of tea; it is, quite frankly, the biscuit of choice for dunkers everywhere.

Sadly, I think the bog-standard edition is somewhat overlooked in this day and age. According to the wrapper, each biscuit contains just 70 calories, and is a "great source of fibre." Crikey! It practically counts as one of the five portions of fruit and veg I should eat each day.

With that in mind, I downed seven (just to be on the safe side).

In all honesty, the digestive biscuit is a versatile little bugger, unlike, say, the Jaffa Cake; the original orange version remains without peer, but have you tried the new blackcurrent flavour? I really wanted to like them, but the whole thing seemed a tad half-arsed. Without the smashing orangey bit, the blackcurrent JC is like watching your favourite singer take a stab at acting - you really want them to be great, but they just end up looking a bit embarrassed and rubbish. Don't even get me going on the lemon and lime version.

(Oh, and for those who are still debating whether Jaffa Cakes are a cake or a biscuit, it's called a friggin' Jaffa CAKE. And by their very nature, biscuits sink in tea; Jaffa Cakes float. If it's a biscuit it's a witch biscuit, and thus deserves to die. End of story)

So there you have it, the digestive biscuit. A national treasure. And - damn! - I left half a packet in my desk at work. It's now after 11pm and I'm debating whether to drive back to Hammersmith to get them.

I'm bricking it!

This movie looks fantastic - so that's what Yaz and I are getting up to tomorrow evening.

With a bit of luck I'll be out of work a good hour or so before the film starts, so we can make use of the garden out the back of Starbucks in Shepherds Bush to chill out in the warm weather London's experiencing at the mo', and down a few too many grande mistos; the film looks very complex, and the caffeine will keep me alert so I don't miss anything.

VERY alert.

Maybe I should go venti. Do Starbucks do anything bigger than that?

Stick with me, it leads to an obvious punchline

So today, or yesterday, or sometime this week (to be honest I don't really care), Sony and Nintendo have unveiled/will unveil their new uber-consoles, the PlayStation 3 and the, er, Wii (yes, I expect you can see where I'm, going with this).

Now it's actually been a long time since I've dedicated my life to any video games; Gran Turismo 4 on the PS2 was the last one I played, only giving up when some bastard in a souped-up NSX kept beating me on the last lap of a pivotal race.

Back in the day though - queue misty flashback sequence - I was one of those tubby little kids with semi-transparent skin who sat in front of the telly wasting the vast percentage of his life on some pointless computer game. I think at one point I actually went about a month without actually blinking. And I still get a bit nostalgic when someone mentions Treasure Island Dizzy.

*Sigh*

Anyway, I now find myself actually considering making a 'next-gen' purchase at some point. The reason being is this:

A new freakin' Star Trek game. (Yes, i'm a nerd!!!)

The thing is, it's on Xbox 360 only. And that thing is friggin' huge. Apparently, it also appears to be powered by a Rolls Royce jet engine.

So, Star Trek aside, what about the PS3? Well I'm sure the inevitable Gran Turismo sequel will be nice an' all, but ... the console looks like a damned Brevill sandwich maker for crying out loud, and they'll be tears if I try to make a panini in it.

That leaves Nintendo's new machine, with it's intriguingly-shaped wand-style controller. But will this unique selling point help Nintendo succeed where the Gamecube sorta failed?

I suppose the question I'm asking is this:

...

...

Is anyone busting for a Wii?

The seven o'clock muse

Thanks to XFM, I got to hear the new Muse track, Supermassive Black Hole, today.

First off - that is a cracking song title, so I was expecting it to be a bit of a corker.

But then, on first listen, I sort of thought "Hmmm...?", as I'm wont to think at a lot of things. Plug in Baby it ain't.

Hmmm...

But, by 'eck, it's a definite grower, I'll say that much. A bit funky. My ass was inclined to shake. Just a little, mind. I rarely dance in the office.

Still, as much as I like it, it didn't stop me from texting Simon (who is a ma-hoo-sive Muse fan) to tell him that it sounded like the Scissor Sisters, which, I think, probably scared the tits off him.

Whinge, whinge, moan, moan

Ouch.

I've got a serious crik in my neck having slept in an awkward position saturday night. And I know I slept in an awkward position because I woke up in such a bizarrely contorted pose sunday morning that I half expected to find a police officer drawing an outline around me.

Seriously, it shouldn't be possible for two arms, two legs, and a head to be arranged as mine were unless you've been slapped around a bit by an angry grizzly.

Ooo ... I hope I'm not dead.

Nah!

Anyway, it's put paid to any plans I'd had for training for the run over the last couple of days (honestly!), and it's also put paid to any attempts I might've made at looking at the world around me; I have no idea what's going on to my left or right unless I twist my entire torso, which just looks silly. Now I know how Michael Keaton felt when he wore the Batsuit.

Still, it's slowly been getting better throughout today. And I've just consoled myself with a couple of M&S's BBQ biscuits, which are full of gooey marshmellows and chocolate.

So now I have a sore neck and chocolate all over my face.

Everyone has something to say

Since I started this blog, I've found myself taking a good look at those run by other people (and NO, not always because I'm surfing for Blogexplosion credits...).

And quite frankly I'm amazed. Everyone has something to say, something interesting and profound.

There are so many blogs out there dealing with such delicate issues as religion, politics, and spirituality.

Well, I too have something to say, something that I think ranks up there among those all-important topics.

...

...

...

ISN'T THE SECOND SEASON OF ONE TREE HILL JUST DIRE?! I mean, really, REALLY, just hideous?!

GEEZ!!! I feel I've wasted a good 10 hours of my life just to get to the middle of the season – and what for?! To see Sophia Bush dressed as a friggin' crab!!!!

GOD!! Aaaw! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, NO WONDER IT's BEEN BANISHED TO 8:50 ON A SUNDAY MORNING!!!!!!

SOMEBODY PUT IT OUT OF ITS MISERY!!!!!!

(Or does it get better in Season Three? Lemme know if I should stick with it - cheers!)

Snap happy

So I've decided: the new phone is maybe the best thing I've ever bought (aside from my car, my house, my favourite pair of jeans, my Deth Killers of Bushwick t-shirt, and - ooo - the super syrup puddings I picked up in M&S the other day…)

Anyway, yeah, it's great!

So, I'm still playing around with the camera, which, as I mentioned earlier, can actually take a picture bigger than this: .

Popped round to see the family today (no, not the mafia), and while showing off the sexy mobile, I took a picture of my brother; but not any ordinary picture! No, this one was like one of those stupid photos of animals taken with a fisheye lens. Y'know, a bit like this.

We had a good laugh about it, and I thought - note that I say 'thought,' NOT 'said' – "ha ha, this'll make a great blog entry…"

In an instant the laughter stopped. Simon's head snapped round, and, I'm sure in violation of some sort of UN directive, he lent in close, violating my personal space.

"You post that on your blog and I'll kill you."

DAMN!

Orf to the cinema

It's a Thursday-Friday movie double-bill for me.

Tonight: Slither.

Tomorrow: Mission: Impossible III

Who will emerge victorious? A tiny slimy life form intent on spreading its insidious alien influence, or the CGI slugs from Slither?

Text addict

Anyone who knows me knows that I very rarely call. No, I text.

A lot.

Yes, my name is Tim, and I text like a teenage girl on speed.

So I expect you can sympathise with me when I tell you that the keypad on my trusty Nokia something-something-10 got a little knacked and started playing havoc with my text life. No longer could I call Yaz a bitch in everyday conversation; she quickly became a 'citag,' which is amusing but doesn't quite have the same punch to it.

Enough was enough. I got fed up with stuck keys archiving messages I wanted to send, and sending messages to people I didn't want to send them to. It was time for a new phone.

Hello Moto.

Yes, after seven years, I've jumped the good ship Nokia for a Motorola. It has a camera and everything (no doubt that means they'll be LOTS of inane photos springing up around here sooner rather than later). More importantly, I once again have the ability to text the word 'bitch.'

But that's not the best part of it: that, my friends, is that it is a flip-top phone.

I'll look like Captain Kirk when I open it.

I've been waiting for this moment since I was seven.

I've got the runs!

Regular readers will know that I've foolishly signed up for a 10k run towards the end of June, and have been training hard over the last couple of months. And by training hard I mean that I did a few runs, thought "blimey, this is a bit tiring," and decided to watch some episodes of The OC instead.

Anyway, I went for another practise run with Sweatband, my comrade in public displays of heavy breathing on Saturday morning, and while we posted a decent time for a 5k-ish distance, she still thinks I'm a filthy slacker who is going to feign a broken leg to get out of it.

DAMN! She's seen through my cunning plan!

(I should explain that Sweatband is a bit hardcore; she's just entered the Great Northern Run for crying out loud. I swear she'd run past Paula Radcliffe and push the big cry-baby over into a puddle of her own piss)

So, today, Sweatband has been giving me a bit of grief. Think of it as her being Supernanny, and me being the foul-mouthed, crying, snot-nosed brat who has been banished to the naughty step. To be honest though, I think she's got a point. I have been slacking a little lately, and I do think I should get back into the flow of it.

Actually, I was just thinking about it while I ate my southern fried chicken and chips. And I thought about it a bit more while I polished off that golden syrup pudding from M&S (two for 99p - bargain!).

I might even think about it while I'm watching the telly later.

Oh bugger it - the gym it is then.

Bah!

Girls, girls, girls!

About a year ago I went speed-dating.

Not out of desperation, I should say. It's just ... well, I was intrigued, and I thought it might be fun. And it was a bit of a bargain for 20 quid, to be honest. That's 50p a lady, don't you know.

Hmmm...

OK, so it was a bit of a laugh. Except for that wild-eyed middle-aged woman who wanted to take me to a Bon Jovi concert. Oh, and that mad posh woman who asked me, in all seriousness, what my "five favourite sunsets" were.

Wha...?

Oh... yeah, there were actually a lot of, how should I put this ... "ladies of the more advanced years?" Nope... "generationally-challenged?" No... "coffin-dodgers?" Absolutely not!

OK - more mature ladies! That'll do. There were a fair few mature ladies there – and Wayne Rooney I ain't, so I left with a smattering of 'friends' and 'maybes' ticked off on my card. Thankfully, I never saw any of them again.

The point is, as part of the speed-dating event, I got, and continue to get, emails offering 'Ladies in my area.' (Queue Kenneth Williams-esque "oh, really," or a Sid James-stylee "heh heh" depending on your mood)

Now, you'd think I'd click the 'unsubscribe' link on these emails, but, y'see, they're a bit car-crash-esque. You can't help but look and be fascinated by what's contained within. David Attenborough would have a field day:

"I WOULD LIKE TO MEET A MAN WHO WILL PUT UP WITH MY MOODS AND TREAT ME LIKE A PRINCESS I LIKE TRAVELING AND EATING AND CLUBBIN AND WOULD LIKE A CAREER IN THE MEDIA."

Christ, use your indoor voice, shouty.

"Im an esy going gal who wld lke a man who wil supris me all the tme, tke me to nice plces, & is sxy, advntrous, and wil get along wit me."

No, love, you need a friggin' spell-checker.

Hilariously, each entry is accompanied by a photo of the girl in question, in which they usually look like they're crying into their Campari, about to flash their boobs, or in a police line-up.

I look forward to these emails every week!

Look who's stalking!

First of all: forgive me. If you've never watched Star Trek, or are not inclined to exhibiting nerdlinger tendencies, probably best to click the little 'next blog' button just up there in the top righthand corner.

Still here? Don't come crying to me when it all goes horribly wrong then...

OK! What have I done today? Heck, I've been to Milton Keynes to hobnob with the stars of Star Trek! And by 'hobnob,' I mean queue up for their autographs with everyone else at the spectacular Collectormania 9!!!

Excitement, she wrote.

The good thing about this event is that you're not stranded in the middle of nowhere; if you get bored you can just wander off round the shopping centre. Sorry, Centre:MK, as it's known. Ooo, trendy. No...? Hmmm...

To be honest, this is the third time I've been, accompanied once again by Mr. Marcosy. The fact that it's in a shopping centre has the additional benefit in that it's very difficult to get barred from it, which, after the little incident last year when Marcosy tried to ask Battlestar Galactica's Katie Sackhoff to spit her chewing gum into his hand, looked to be a distinct possibility at one point.

So who was I stalki- erm, looking for today? Why, Jonathan Frakes, LeVar Burton, and Kate Mulgrew!

I couldn't resist mentioning to The Mulgrew about Lee's filthy attempt to touch her just over a week ago. I swear at one point she was either poised to press a panic button or reach for a phaser, but, bless 'er, she took it all in her stride and kept smiling.

What a gal!

Frakesy was next. A top bloke, it must be said, and rather bullish when I asked him his thoughts on the next movie. Fighting talk from TNG - go Frakesy, go Frakesy!!

LeVar Burton was also great, though he seemed to be in the middle of trying to learn cockney rhyming slang when I approached him. I didn't have the heart to ask him how he felt about the fact that most fans consider Nemesis to be "a bit pony." Maybe next time. I wouldn't want to get in any Barney Rubble.
LeVar also wrote 'peace' on the picture he signed for me. I wasn't actually aware that I was at war with LeVar Burton, but, LeVar, if you're reading this: I except your surrender.

So, all in all, a bank holiday well wasted. Um, spent, I mean!