Sunday, June 29, 2008
So the Dysart Dash 10k is done and dusted for another year, and guess what? I got a new personal best time people!
54 minutes, 24 seconds!
Woo-hoo! That's an awesome 1 minute, 31 seconds off my previous best, so I'm feeling pretty darn chuffed with myself. And a little bit sweaty. Ooo, and I beat Sweatband by about three minutes or so without having to resort to tripping her up or pushing her in the river. Good times!
And because my Nike+ widget doesn't appear to be working at the mo' here's my run graph:
• Average pace 5:22 min per km
• 679 calories
And my iPod worked flawlessly, bless it.
Here's the obligatory photo of me modeling this year's sweaty vest and bling look.
Look at that medal - isn't it a thing of beauty? And I'm actually rather lucky to have it - I was originally given one of the LEFTOVERS FROM LAST YEAR, but about 10 minutes after finishing I got chatting to one of the organisers (because Sweatband knows him), and he was aghast that I didn't have one of the new ones and got it swapped over for me. Good times!
Right - I'm off to shower and shine my medal. When's the next one. Oh, how about this…
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Well it's T-minus, um, about 20 hours until I line up along with about 500 other crazed nutters for the 2008 Dysart Dash, and I'm quietly confident about how things are going. OK, I'm not saying I'm going to win, but I do feel so much more prepared than I have in previous years, which actually feels a little disconcerting because in previous years I've pretty much spent the day before the run crapping myself with nerves and imagining myself crawling across the finish line last while everyone's packing up and going home.
So with everything seemingly cool, I'm spending today chilling out. Sweatband told me when I did my first 10k two years ago that you shouldn't do any excessive exercise the day before a run, which seemed like sound advice so I've always adhered to it. All I've done so far is to stroll down to M&S to get some milk and triple chocolate crunch cereal, the latter of which might sound horrifically indulgent but it's fueled me well on previous runs, and I'm nothing if not a creature of habit.
I've also just amended my running playlist in iTunes. I was thinking about posting it up here, but have decided against it because I don't think anyone really needs to see a list of 413 random song titles. Suffice to say there's lots of Rolling Stones, Foo Fighters, and Muse in there, along with a smattering of Nine Inch Nails, Phantom Planet, Panic at the Disco, and Jane's Addiction, among others. Basically anything shouty with plenty of beats.
All that's left to do for run-prep is to pin my number (83!) on my top, though I'll need to check the weather forecast before I do that as I'm swaying between a vest or a t-shirt.
Other than that I'm kinda footloose and fancy-free for the rest of the day. I think I'll spend it trying to write the back-cover blurb for my book (a bloody difficult task!), reading this, and watching some more of this:
Seriously, how good is this show? Have a gander at this one:
Right, wish me luck for tomorrow peeps - let's see if I really can beat Sweatband for the first time!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
How things change… for the last two years Sweatband has been my running guru, but now the pupil really has become the master: we did an 8.8km run last night, and during the last 2k or so Sweatband gave me permission to test my full potential rather than maintain a polite pace with her – and I did.
I finished a full minute ahead of her. I was like The Flash, but dressed slightly less ridiculously.
When she finally caught up with me she told me that I'm running the best she's ever seen me run (I don't know how she can really say that because I was, after all, a full minute ahead of her - BAM BAM!), which is a rather awesome compliment. And using some rudimentary maths based on my Nike+ data, she reckons she'll finish the forthcoming 10k in about 57 minutes, while I'm looking at something around 54, which is sweet because that would be a new personal best.
On the other hand, as Marcosy pointed out today, she could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security; she has, after all, run the London marathon…
Maybe I'll have to resort to shoving her in the Thames if things are looking a bit close.
This is possibly the coolest thing EVAH: a lightsaber app for the iPhone. If you actually needed another reason to buy an iPhone, then I think this is a deal-maker.
Already today I've been practicing my sweet Jedi moves and threatening to colour in the face of my colleague BSH with a permanent marker so he looks like Darth Maul. And together with Scanner, we're already planning an awesome
three-way Jedi dual when this thing is released.
Good times ahoy!
Thanks to the ever-awesome iPandah, I think I have a new obsession in the making…
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sometimes, and by 'sometimes' I actually mean 'often,' I'm massively disgusted by the part of West London in which I work.
For gawd's sake, just look at this with your eyes!
Just look at those trampy pigeons beschnuffling each other in the Lyric Square fountain - or as I like to call it, The Tramp's Urinal. They've only started doing it recently, but now they seem to have developed something of a habit and sit there all the time - even when the water shoots up really high.
Right, I'm counting down to the 10k run on Sunday, and I'm intensely, and a little bit worringly, psyched up. And, hopefully, all the recent troubles with my Nike+ running kit and iPod Nano have been sorted - I booked an appointment at the Genius Bar in the Apple Store yesterday and their way of resolving the problem was just to give me a new running kit - hurrah! Of course, if the problem is with the iPod then I'll still have to buy a new Nano, but I'll only know that after I've been for another epic run … which I'm doing tonight!
Oh, and the genius I spoke to looked just like Mohinder Suresh from Heroes.
Next task? I still have to put together my rock-tastic 10k playlist…
Friday, June 20, 2008
Excitement, he wrote! Why? Because today, people, I found the Holy Grail!
Yes that's right, your eyes don't deceive you - that's a KitKat that's solid chocolate all the way through. I'll say that again: A KitKat that is solid chocolate. All. The. Way. Through.
And that was all four fingers. Good times.
Now I just need to find a solid chocolate KitKat Chunky.
A few weeks back I got a card through the letterbox from the postie telling me that he'd tried to deliver a package but it wouldn't fit through my letterbox. I found the card on a Friday evening, a time when, to be quite honest, I'm not usually firing on all cylinders and just want to flop down in front of the telly and disengage my brain. As such, I completely misunderstood what the postie had written on the card, and took it to mean that he'd try delivering the package again the next day, when in fact it actually said that I could pick it up the next day. Cue me getting up obscenely early on a Saturday morning to wait for a postman who never turned up.
Anyway, to cut a long story short I subsequently forgot about it.
Cut to yesterday when I get another card from the postie. My immediate thought was that he'd tried to deliver the exciting new wireless router I've ordered, so today I got up super-early and shot down to the post office to pick it up.
It was not my exciting new wireless router.
It was a water bottle from the bike ride I did last year.
Any other time I might've found this a rather nice surprise, but when your original idea is that it will let you watch Family Guy clips on your iPhone from the comfort of your bed, it's obviously a little bit disappointing.
One of the key requirements I had when house-hunting was that I needed to have a parking space. Sparky Towers, with its allocated parking space and ample visitors' spaces, fitted the bill superbly, and as we all know I subsequently bought it. Because if I hadn't bought it I'd technically be squatting, and I don't think the squatter lifestyle is quite for me.
Anyway, the car park has about 20 spaces, about eight of which are the aforementioned visitors' spaces. Here is where I make it clear that the residents' spaces are marked with a large painted number relating to the house that owns it, while the visitors' spaces are denoted by a large 'V,' which probably stands for something like 'various spaces that are available for use by people who have come to see people who live here.'
Simple enough? You'd think so, right?
So I get home from work on Wednesday and pull into the car park. There are only three cars in there - one of which is parked IN MY SPACE.
Now, I've always said that if someone dared park in my space I'd park my car right across the back of them so they couldn't get out; that would certainly be an inconvenience, wouldn't you say? Right up there, perhaps, with someone parking in your personal space. Anyway, I considered this course of action, but people let me tell you this: the offending car was a heap, and I genuinely feared that the owner wouldn't worry about bumping it against the wall in front and my car behind in order to squirm their way out. A bit like this:
My secondary course of action was to park-up in a visitor's space and write an irate note to leave on the windscreen. It said something like:
THIS IS AN ALLOCATED PARKING SPACE
AS SHOWN BY THE LARGE NUMBER PAINTED
ON THE GROUND. IN FUTURE WHY DON'T
YOU TRY USING A VISITOR'S SPACE
(THEY'RE MARKED WITH A 'V' FOR VISITOR)
I resisted the temptation to write 'dummy' on it in the style of Joy from 'My Name is Earl.'
After placing the note on the windscreen I turned round to face a rather smartly-dressed albeit slightly chavvy young woman.
"Oh, did I park in your space," she said. "I was just dropping something off."
"Yes you did," I replied. Then I launched into a little rant about how it was clearly an allocated space and how she better not do it again. I almost gave her snaps and a head-wobble too.
In her defense she did say "I'm terribly sorry," and shifted her shitty car as rapidly as it would move - although I did have to wait for the cloud of exhaust smoke to lift before I could be sure she'd actually gone.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
(And I use the word 'celebrity' in the loosest possible sense of the word)
You'll need the following ingredients:
• A celebrity or D-list television presenter. For the purposes of this post I'll be using former Watchdog assistant-host Alice Beer, although you could choose anyone of similar stature.
• Two players, preferably massively hopped-up on coffee.
How to play:
Begin by noticing your celebrity or D-list television presenter of choice walking down the street towards the Starbucks outside which the players are sitting. Player one initiates proceedings by gesticulating towards the celebrity, in this case former Watchdog assistant host Alice Beer, in an incredibly unsubtle manner and mouthing "you know - she used to be Anne Robinson's bitch on Watchdog." Player two looks at celebrity with distinct nonchalance, and maybe even a pinch of disgust.
The celebrity will then proceed to enter Starbucks.
After allowing the celebrity to simmer for several minutes, player one should mouth very obviously "where did she go?" then make a joke at celebrity's expense. Player one will then notice that the celebrity has taken a seat at a table directly adjacent to the players' table, and has witnessed the entire proceedings thus far.
The players may indulge in a degree of laughter, concealed or otherwise.
Allow celebrity to continue simmering, but do not bring to the boil.
After several minutes, player one should proceed to return mugs to the counter in Starbucks, bumping into celebrity en route. If you've followed proceedings to the letter, the celebrity should look at the player with disgust and sneer noticeably.
Players should then discuss proceedings, and while experiencing just a little hint of remorse, ultimately decide that she annoyed the tits off them when she was on the telly, and it's a good thing she's not anymore.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
As some of you have noticed from my Nike widget just over yonder, my runs have recently gone from a gentle, relatively normal 'hmmmm, that looks like a decent jog' to 'WTF YOU CRAZY BITCH?!'
This is because my third Dysart Dash 10k is coming up and I'm going all out to be awesome.
For my first Dysart Dash I was just pleased to have actually finished the thing without wheezing my way to the finish line like an oxygen-deprived speshul, although truth be told I felt like one. My second Dysart Dash was an altogether more troubling run, because I'd buggered my knee up a few months beforehand and only really got to do a couple of practice runs before the actual day; perversely, my knee actually seemed to click back into place during the 10k, and felt awesomely better afterward.
My times for the last two years were a remarkably consistent 55:55 in 2006 and 55:56 in 2007. My initial multi-year plan (yes, I actually had a plan) was to cut a couple of minutes off my 2006 time in 2007, but of course that knee injury put paid to that – something I plan to rectify this year.
Rather than just run my usual route around the roads near Sparky Towers I've recently been jumping in the car and driving to Richmond Park for ludicrous runs amidst the deer, squirrels, rabbits, cyclists, and other stupid runners like me who've managed to convince themselves that this kind of thing is actually fun.
A quick aside - I've noticed a design flaw with bunnies. When they run away from you they flash a brilliant white patch of fur that is kind of a like a homing beacon for predators (of the winged variety, not the Arnie-battling kind). Seriously, one was sitting perfectly still last night, then it moved, flashed it's white bit, and I was immediately drawn to it. Someone needs to go back to the drawing board there. Or at least get some Garnier Nutrisse Cream.
Anyway, I digress. So yes, I've been doing this other route, and quite frankly it's great. Sweatband did it with me the first time, but has subsequently bottled it. After years of staggering along behind her while she shouted "C'MON!" the pupil has become the master, and she's certain I'm going to beat her in the 10k. I'm not so sure, however, mainly because she's a wily devil and is probably trying to lull me into a false sense of security before pushing me into a bush or the River Thames on the day.
Still, she did send me a text after seeing my Nike Plus data that just said "I'm scared of you!" so I must be doing something right.
The only thing that is troubling me a little bit is that my iPod Nano is playing up a little bit, and has started threatening to bugger up all my running data, as shown by the fact that it conveniently forgot to record my calorie count last night. I really don't want it messing things up on the day, because my Nike Plus running data and that crazy green graph have become vitally important to me. All of which means I might just have to buy a new one.
Any excuse, huh?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Oh it's all gone horribly wrong. I had it all planned out - I was going to call this post 'Hulk smashing,' and I would rave about how much I liked the new Hulk movie. I'd take a picture of me, then fiddle it in photoshop so I was green; I was even going to bring my Hulk hands home from the office to make it even more authentic. Maybe rip my shirt and colour my jeans purple.
Sadly that idea all fell by the wayside because the new Hulk movie, in my professional opinion, sucks massive donkey-balls.
Now look, I'm quite easily pleased when it comes to movies (I once turned to Sparky Pa after watching Star Trek V: The Final Frontier and totally straight-faced said "I think this is a vastly underrated movie"), but this really was an awful, awful film. I almost fell asleep during the first 40 minutes or so because it was just achingly dull. There was zero plot - just Banner going to a different location, the military following him, and a ruck ensuing; no characterization - there actually seemed to be very little dialogue, just Edward Norton staring at Liv Tyler, and Liv Tyler looking a bit weepy; and the visual effects were rubbish - seriously, I think they just took the same ol' CG-model of the Hulk from the last film and made it a bit worse. And there was a bit with a helicopter flying over New York where it was so obviously shitty CGI. Here's an idea: why don't you really fly a helicopter over New York?
And don't get me started on the cars that spontaneously exploded when they were thrown out the way during the almighty bitch-slap finale. I've never actually thrown a car before, but I'm pretty sure it would just crumple up a bit if I did, and not go BOOM. The scene in which Banner cries in the shower was also wrong on multiple levels, not least because I didn't need to see Edward Norton curled up and naked, but also because he has incredibly girly legs. He looks like he's half a goddamned gazelle for crying out loud.
Norton apparently did a rewrite of the script for this movie, and if it's true that man should really never ever be allowed anywhere near a pen ever again. Ever. And quite frankly it'd be rather nice if he gave me my eight quid back.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Although to be honest, I'm more of a marmalade sort of chap.
No, what I mean is traffic jams, because lord knows I've found myself in a few over the last week or so.
First of all, last Thursday a broken water main near the Chiswick roundabout caused chaos as I tried to get into work, leading to a journey time of about an hour and a half. I left early on Friday in an attempt to circumnavigate any continuing problems, only to find that things were even worse because the Police had knocked the three-lane roundabout down to one, and had coned off the exit I needed - unless you were driving a bus, in which case they moved a couple of cones and waved you through.
The rest of us mere mortals had to drive several miles down the A4, so I was basically heading home, then do a u-turn, just to get back to the roundabout on the other side of the cones. Such shenanigans meant that I ended up running perilously low on petrol, a journey time of one hour and 50 minutes, and the use of several colourfully creative swears from yours truly.
Monday morning I was relieved to find that everything was back to normal, and I swooped into the office in just 40 minutes.
And then there was today.
My journey into work is almost exactly 12 miles long. At the four mile mark I hit traffic, and crawled all the way from Whitton to Kew; this part of the journey usually takes about 15 minutes, but today it took well over an hour, and only occasionally did I get to hit the giddy and exciting heights of second gear. At Kew Green I learnt why there was so much congestion:
Transport for London were doing a traffic census, undoubtedly to find out why London's roads are congested.
A severe looking Policewoman waved me down the side of the green, when in fact I actually just wanted to get to work; I was already late and needed to get away on time in the afternoon.
With no other option, I pulled up beside some woman with a handheld computer-thingy, who explained to me that they were doing a census and they just needed to ask me a few questions. Those questions were:
• Where are you coming from? (exact address)
• Where are you going to? (exact address)
• Will you be entering the congestion charge zone?
What instantly became apparent was that the woman asking the questions wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders. Upon telling her that I lived in Shepperton she said "where?! I never 'eard of that!" before cutting me off while I spelt it out to her so it was now called 'Sheppert.' As for the last question, if these dunces had looked at a map they would've noticed that no, I would not be entering the congestion charge zone - unless, of course, they sent me on some massive loop around London then back through the centre, which based on the farcical way the survey was conducted wouldn't really have surprised me…
Two minutes later I was on my way. Total journey time? Two hours.
So thanks, TfL, for f**king up my entire day. Because of you I was over an hour late for work, had to take a short lunch so I could get away at something approaching normal time, and instead of getting home, having a nice relaxed dinner then heading over for a cuppa with my Nan, I've now got to rush around like a blue-arsed fly.
I hope you got all the information you needed, you tits.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
It's not every day you see a human-sized rubber duckie in Hammersmith high street, but fortunately for me, today was that day.
Notice how that woman thought I was taking a picture of her, and how that bloke is carrying his small loaf like it's a tricorder.
And in other nature-based news, I just flicked the TV over to BBC2 ready for Heroes, only to find Springwatch was on. And as I turned away Bill Odie said "I can assure you there's a pair of tits there."
Apparently they were talking about some birds, but by the time I'd turned around again the camera had gone to a close-up of Kate Humble. Saucy.
Sorry for the lack of updates - I've been a bit busy with some bits and bobs. On the plus side, if I do some stuff with fellow bloggers I don't actually have to write about it.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
This weekend has been a pretty busy one - in a good way, though. And I still have the rest of today to go, so who knows what might happen? Possibly some shenanigans.
Anyway, it all started Friday evening when I went Sparky Ma and Pa's. Sparky Nan was over for dinner, and Big Bro had just bought a new camera, so he insisted on taking photos of me doing just about everything and anything, including reversing my car, stepping in the front door, and, and sitting in a chair. Later on Sparky Nan put on a baseball cap for a laugh and Big Bro took some photographs. She looked kind of street, particularly when she turned it around so the peak was at the back.
After dropping her home around eight, Big Bro and I went to Kingston to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Meth. Yeah, I know I've seen it already, but he wanted to catch it, and I enjoyed it enough to see it again. You'll be pleased to know that it holds up to a second viewing, aided perhaps by the fact that the woman sitting next to me provided added comedy value by jumping at the least scary things and whispering "shhhhhhhhhhhhhit…" under her breath when anything that had the potential to include a creepy-crawly happened.
On the way home Big Bro and I chatted about the film and how it stood up to the previous Indy movies. The conversation then turned to the name of Kate Capshaw's character in Temple of Poon, and for the life of us we couldn't remember what it was, although we knew it was a man's name. Big Bro thought it might be Steve. In an effort to ease our confusion I pulled out my iPhone and jumped onto the imdb to find out. Even though we were in the car (Big Bro's, I hasten to add) and on the move my iPhone tried to latch on to a wi-fi connection; most appear on the browser as 'BT Home Hub' or 'Mr. Smith's wi-fi,' but I was amused to find one that was just called 'F**k off you freeloader.' That made me laugh. Turns out she was called Willie.
Big Bro dropped me off at Sparky Ma and Pa's house, where I'd left my car, and I popped in to say hello again and have a wee before heading home. I hit the sack at just after one in the morning, having spent a good 10 minutes or so looking at one of my tiny cactuses in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot, which has apparently and inexplicably decided to deflate like a punctured football. Anyone know why?
I woke up at eight o'clock on Saturday morning because I'd had a card come through the door saying that the postie had tried to deliver a big package (snigger) and I'd not been in, so he was going to try again that day. The lying bastard did not, and I got up for nothing. Humph. Well, not entirely for nothing - I did take the opportunity to set up the hard drive I'd bought for my Time Machine back-ups, which was surprisingly quick and painless.
While Time Machine did its thang, I sat and proofread some more of my book. It's going quite well, and although I did find a bit of a glaring continuity error (this is what happens when you take 16 months to write a 23,000 story) it was quickly and easily solved by cutting two lines of dialogue. I also think it works better that I've lost that little plot point because it made one of the characters who is essentially the moral core of the story seem like she was a) horrifically unsympathetic, and b) trying to accuse someone of a crime he didn't commit - a bit like The A-Team.
With that sorted, I jumped in the car and headed back to Kingston (having only left there at 12:10 a.m.) for my annual financial review (which is usually in August, but for some reason was happening in May this year). Now, long-time readers will know that I love financial reviews, because if someone from the bank tells you you're doing OK that's like a massive pat on the back - they've got nothing to gain from telling you you're doing great, when in fact everything's illuminated by the vibrant glow of a big red minus number. Anyway, it all went well, helped by the fact that my financial advisor is a dude and we just sat shooting the shit for about 15 minutes. I convinced him to buy an iPhone, and he took the piss out of me for being four months older than him. Kids these days can be so disrespectful. On the plus side, he massively encouraged me to follow through with an idea I've got which I didn't necessarily think someone in his position would be too enthusiastic about, so that's encouraging.
Half an hour later I headed out of the bank, having been convinced to do some stuff I didn't quite understand but which all sounds good, and ended up in Waterstones where William Shatner's new autobiography was on half price (£18.99 down to £9.39!) so I had to buy a copy, if only for the comedy cover shot.
I got home around half one, had some lunch, watched Gossip Girl, proofread a bit more, then had a shower and headed over to Sparky Ma and Pa's. I had no real reason to stop in, but I like to read the Saturday newspapers, grab a cuppa with them, and watch You've Been Framed. Big Bro was still playing around with his new camera, and now has pictures of me reading the newspapers, drinking a cup of tea, and watching You've Been Framed.
I left there at about seven-ish, and head over to Best Mate Jo's new flat. Well, I say new - she actually moved in in January, but then had to move out for a few months because the people they'd employed to build it were evidently the greatest morons ever to walk the planet, and it subsequently needed a bit more work done to it. This was actually the first time I'd seen her flat, and aside from the two holes in the ceiling where they're in the process of fixing bits, it's a wicked little place, and Jo's totally putting her own distinctive mark on it. We totally had a Changing Rooms-style discussion, though we were somewhat less flouncy than Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, and less screechy than Linda Barker.
Oh, and Jo gave me an awesome limited-edition Hulk t-shirt.
If only I had my Hulk hands from the office…
After that we headed over to my place where I left Jo watching Britain's Got Talent (turns out it hasn't) while I got changed out of my black t-shirt and into the dapper white shirt, black tie, pinstriped waistcoat ensemble I assaulted you with in my previous post, and which I think contrasted nicely with the unshaven face above, and the scrappy jeans and converse below. Years ago, if you told me to dress-up I'd throw a massive wobbly and sulk, but these days I actually enjoy looking smart - to the point that I almost wore a tie to work the other day before deciding I simply couldn't be arsed to spend the entire day responding to questions about why I was wearing a tie.
Anyway, after surprising Jo at how long it actually does take a boy to get ready (there's one myth shattered) we headed over to Kingston (yes, that would be my third time that day) for a lovely dinner. We haven't done this in aaaaaages, and had planned this about a month ago, with the original idea being that we go to Joe Schmos, a posh American diner by the river. Joe Schmos closed, however, about two weeks ago, so we decided to brave it with the drunken hen parties in TGI Fridays. Despite many, many empty tables, however, TGI Fridays told us that they didn't have any room (now I know how Joseph and Mary felt), so we walked all the way down the other end of town (Jo by now regretting her decision to wear heels) to Frankie and Benny's.
Frankie and Benny's told us there would be a 10 minute wait, so we hit the bar. Half an hour later, approximately the same time that we realised some people who'd come in after us had actually been seated before us, and at about the same point that we figured our stomachs actually might have started digesting themselves, we came to the conclusion that they might have forgotten about us. Fired-up on kick-ass Strawberry Daiquiri, Jo hopped off the bar stool to go kick-off at the woman by the door. Five minutes later we were in a booth, Jo having waved her finger in the woman's face and told her that we didn't just want a table, we wanted a booth, mmmkay? After that things went swimmingly.
We shared a cheesy garlic bread for a starter because we'd already looked at the dessert menu, and wanted to leave room for that. Then Jo had a sticky chicken pasta thing which looked like it was smoothered in chocolate sauce but was apparently very nice, and I had a Chicken Parmigiana Sandwich which OHMYGOD WAS TOTALLY THE BEST SANDWICH I'VE EVAH HAD! For dessert we both had cinnamon toffee waffles, which pretty much made me do a special wee. With all that awesome food rammed inside me, I briefly entertained the notion of loosening my trousers right then and there, figuring that I'd be a bit like a newsreader - i.e. posh and dapper from the waist up, but who knows what's going on down below? I aborted the idea when I realised I might not be able to do them back up afterwards, though, and I still had to get back to the car.
After that we somehow managed to stand up and walk back to the car, pausing briefly outside a still rather empty looking TGI Fridays to flip them a V. As we got back to the car, I received a text from Willowc telling me that she's finally come to the conclusion that I look like Cillian Murphy. I wasn't totally sure that was a compliment, but she assured me it was.
Twenty minutes later Jo and I rolled into her flat, where we watched a bit of Coyote Ugly and I wondered how on Earth that bar could make money when all they did was dance on the bar after setting fire to it, spray the patrons with drink, and cut off random dudes' ponytails. Just gone midnight I headed home, where, on Jo's orders, I took a picture of me looking dapper for reasons I cannot quite remember.