How d'ya like them apples?

Yes, yes, I know that title's not grammatically correct, but it was the punch-line to something that happened last night … which, in hindsight, might not actually be that funny if you weren't there. But hey-ho - let's carry on regardless!

So, on and off over the last few years me and a few friends have chosen a film around Christmas and gotten a group together to go see it. It all started with the Lord of the Ri- …

…

…

Oh sorry, I seem to have drifted off to sleep for a while there. Are the walking trees done yet?

Where was I? Oh yeah: it all started with the Lord of the Rings movies, followed by Peter Jackson's monkey-based snoozefest King Kong, then that silly Jim Carrey film which I'm currently confusing with The Curious Case of Benjamin Button which it can't be because that's a Brad Pitt movie and it's not out till next year, but it had an equally silly and lengthy title and a very stylised look which made it look like it had been dipped in The Addams Family and slapped by Tim Burton. Anyway, this year's film of choice was The Day the Earth Stood Still, a remake of the 1950s sci-fi classic, but with 100% added Keanu. Which might explain why only five of us attended…

So, we strutted up to Shepherds Bush cinema in timely fashion, whereupon I made the first tragic mistake of the evening. Well, actually it was the cashier's fault, because she charged Yazzle Dazzle for both our tickets. I didn't have any cash on me, see, and had planned to put my ticket on my card. Faced with owing Yazzle Dazzle a smidgeon under a tenner, though, I said - blissfully ignorant of the signs scattered around the foyer saying 'ONLY FOOD AND DRINK PURCHASED HERE MAY BE CONSUMED ON THE PREMISES' - "well I can get it out of the cash machine downstairs if you're going to go buy a drink in Morrisons."

Yazzle glared at me a bit like how I'd later discover the big robot Gort glares at jet fighters when they try to fire missiles at him.

Fortunately, the cashier was either a tad speshul or highly amused by our comedy antics and didn't point us out to beverage security as we headed for the screen.

So what was The Next Day the Earth Stood Still like? Well, it's been a long time since I saw the first one, but this was … well, it was a bit ridiculous, really. And I don't mean that in a good way. It was ridiculously ridiculous.

First of all, everyone totally seemed to be phoning in their roles. I know Keanu was playing an alien, but he looked completely bemused throughout the whole thing, as if he'd literally just woken up and didn't have a clue where he was. I was praying for his Klatu to do *something* - anything - interesting! Learn kung-fu, air guitar Bill and Ted stylee! But no, he just got Jennifer Connelly to chauffeur him around so he could go touch some balls in the countryside.

Keanu touches balls in the wilderness. FACT.

Keanu I can kind of forgive because he's never exactly been a worry to Sir Lawrence Olivier, and he's been dead a few years. But Academy Award winner Kathy Bates? Shame on you! I didn't turn away from the screen when you flashed your pendulous titties at me in About Schmidt, and this is how you reward me?! RUDE.

Jennifer Connelly also didn't do much except frown a lot, babble some incoherent sciencey stuff, and tell Klatu-Keanu that the human race could change. In fact, she said it so much that **SPOILER ALERT - ROLL CURSOR OVER TEXT TO REVEAL ALL!!** in the end he basically said "OK I'll let you guys live if you just shut the f**K up!" although obviously in a lot less enthusiastic, more half-asleep fashion **END SPOILERS!!**

Who else…? Oh yeah, Jaden Smith, the diminutive offspring off the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I don't really have much to say about him except that he resembled Micah from Heroes, but with bigger budget hair.

I seem to remember that I read somewhere that Keanu said Jaden Smith put in a great performance, which I think would be a compliment coming from anyone else. As it is, I think it should've been Jaden advising Keanu on technique.

What else was there? Oh yeah - some horrific product placement. Just because the camera lingers on Jennifer Connelly's LG phone and Citizen watch does not mean I will go buy either of them at any point after seeing the movie, OK?

So, was there anything good in it? Yeah - to be honest, I actually quite enjoyed it when I realised that it was a hopelessly awful movie. There's something quite spectacular about a studio throwing millions of dollars at a movie and then allowing a global audience watch it crash and burn on opening weekend. And I did like the new version of Gort, even if he was a pretty poor visual effect. He was freakin' huge, and quite angry when the crazy military stereotypes fired badly CGI'd missiles at him.

I'm pretty sure if I was going to make a massive robot using badly-realised computer-generated effects it would look something like this.

Gort should totally get his own spin-off. He acted the tits off Keanu.

Perhaps my favourite moment in The Day After the Earth Stood Still Before occurred during a scene in which, for no apparent reason whatsoever, Jennifer Connelly drove Keanu-Klatu to see her old professor friend played by John Cleese, who inexplicably still expects us to take him seriously when all we want to do is see him do a funny walk and whack a car with tree-parts. In this scene, Professor Cleese leans in toward Keanu-Klatu and says earnestly "there's so much I want to ask you…"

To which I leaned over to Yazzle Dazzle and said "like: 'why aren't I funny anymore?'"

To which she responded: "And: how d'ya like them apples."

I found this inexplicably hilarious, and spent the next 10 minutes crying while trying to prevent myself  from laughing incredibly loudly in case I was thrown out. Which would've been rather ironic as, seeing as I often complain about kids messing around in the cinema, we'd gone to see an over-18's only showing that guaranteed us a civilized and peaceful movie experience…

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All in all, then, the original version still rules the roost. Even if it wasn't an infinitely better film with a coherent plot, I'd still rate it higher just for the fact it's got a proper honest-to-god flying saucer rather than a ridiculous CGI energy sphere. I've had my fill of ridiculous energy spheres.

Holy crap - does Klatu have a bit of an alien-chubby going on here?

A busy weekend

Gosh, can't you just tell that Christmas is looming? My calendar - OK, my iCal - is loaded with exciting things to do, and it all kicked off on Friday…

Friday

I think my brain has already switched into Christmas holiday mode, because I've been counting the days until I finish for the year (this Wednesday coming) since the beginning of the month. And on Friday I was counting down the hours until the evening, because Yazzle Dazzle had organised a get together with some old friends and work colleagues: good times!

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An aside:

Before meeting up with Yazzle Dazzle, I headed down to Hammersmith to grab something to eat. And on tonight's menu? KFC - YUM! (I haven't had a KFC in a while and I was pretty much gagging for one). Anyway, there I am, queuing up when this woman goes up to the till next to me and asks for (and please imagine this in a slightly chavvy accent) "chicken breasts - I doh whan no leeeeg, I doh whan no fiiiiiiii - I just whan breast."

I was very tempted to turn to her and say "look luv, you've in KFC, you'll be lucky if you get chicken."

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Our venue of choice for the meet-up was Ginglik in Shepherds Bush, which is an awesome subterranean bar that, to cut a long story short, used to be a public toilet, and before that was the laboratory of a Victorian scientist who conducted experiments in an attempt to bring the dead back to life, apparently. Oh, and Robin Williams did a surprise stand-up routine there a couple of weeks ago - no doubt inspired by the Victorian scientist he was probably looking to bring his career back to life - ba-doom tish! 

Na-noo, na-noo, and all that jazz.

Anyway, so we got there and nabbed some sofas alongside a Christmas tree that had a toy monkey at the top of it instead of an angel, thinking that we had an awesome spot. Unfortunately, it turned out that our awesome spot was reserved but they'd forgotten to put any signs up, so we had shift and go slum it in the regular bar area with everyone else. Still, it was a good evening - caught up with a few lovely old faces, watched an old grey-haired dude massively perve at a young woman, and saw El Deanio lay down some fresh dancehall moves. Oh, and then there was the fact that a couple of workmates took a bizarre interest in my shirt; Scanner decided to that he'd pull open the press-stud fastenings (fortunately I was wearing a t-shirt underneath), leaving me looking like a male-stripper tidying myself up seconds after finishing a routine, while El Deanio decided it would be funny to rip out some of my chest hair (oh, how a v-neck tee leaves me exposed!); it hurt, and I now have a little baldy patch just below my collar bone. It looks like I've developed torso-based alopecia.

The best part of the evening was reserved for the moment after we stumbled out at just after half-twelve. One former workmate had brought along a friend called Aman, and when someone asked where another colleague was and someone answered "she's dancing with Aman," Yazzle Dazzle did not miss a beat in replying "yeah, and your friend too."

Good times.

Saturday

I got up late Saturday, which was a tad annoying because I had lots to do. Nevertheless, I got it done! And what did I have to do? Why, wrap Christmas presents of course! Holy crap, I was a wrapping maniac - I think I might've even wrapped a couple of things I shouldn't have, like the kettle, the TV remote, and some cushions, but I'm sure they'll turn up at some point; hell, I can have a Christmas practice run by opening them up! Anyway, yes the wrapping went very well, aside from a few awkwardly-shaped presents but I compensated for screwing those up a bit by using more tape than was strictly necessary to cover all the gaps.

In the afternoon I braved the Christmas shoppers and atrocious weather (it was pissing down something chronic) to go pick up a few last bits in Kingston. Actually, the traffic on the way there was virtually non-existent, which was an unexpected Brucie-bonus, but the shops themselves were heaving. Still, I got what I needed, including a tin of chocolates in the soon to close Woolworths (I wonder if my plastic carrier bag will be worth anything when they do close?), and then it was back off home to wrap-up (heh) the wrapping.

Sunday

I was late getting up today as well. Whoops, because I had an appointment in Reading to drive a Mini Clubman Cooper D (that's diesel). How late was I? well, my appointment was at 12, and I didn't leave home until, um, 11:50… and I've never been to Reading before so I actually didn't really have a clue where I was going. Ahem. Anyway, I actually got to Reading itself in about half an hour; good times, I thought. Unfortunately, I then spent another hour faffing around trying to find the Mini dealership. The directions I'd printed off were next to useless, so thank the baby Jeebus for the marvels of the iPhone - Google maps eventually had me heading in the right direction. I found the dealers an hour and 10 minutes after I should've got there, at which point the salesman told me that he didn't think I was coming so he'd put the car away. 

Luckily, he was more than happy to go get it out again.

I then enjoyed a half hour drive in the Clubman diesel, and very nice it was too. The one I drove is the manager's car, which they're looking to shift because he's getting another one soon. It's only three months old and it's got all the bells and whistles on it (more than I would spec on one if I was buying new). It's also got that funky stop/start function on it that cuts off the engine if you're sitting in traffic or not moving for any other reason - or, as I like to call it, the idiot function because I kept thinking I'd stalled it, so kept muttering "shit" under my breath. Anyway, my love of Clubmans (Clubmen?) and Minis in general is well-documented, so I won't rattle on about it too much. Just need to decide if I want to buy it now…

Oh, and I got a bit lost on the drive home too. Stupid Reading.

By the time I did get home, it was too late to have any lunch, so I satisfied my hunger by having another go at making the world's best milkshake. This attempt was much, much better than my last go, in so much as I actually blended the biscuits up good and proper this time, so it was a lot smoother and not as much like drinking lovely tasting vomit.

And now? Hmmm… 2.5 working days until Christmas break. Bring it!

Junk

Sparky Ma and Sparky Pa went shopping to Uxbridge the other day, and while there they were given a free Christmassy gift.

Aside from sounding vaguely threatening, all this says to me is that if you go to Uxbridge you have slightly less chance of being mugged than if you go somewhere else. 

Which quite frankly I'm not sure I agree with…

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I was in Richmond the other day, and while walking along a normally quiet street I heard a god-awful scream followed by intense howls and tears. It was a little kid, about five, who was evidently being taught to ride his bike without stabilisers (good grief, don't they start them early these days - I'm pretty sure I had mine until about the age of 14…). Anyway, it seems that his mum had let go of his bike and he'd had a little wobble, but had not, mind, fallen off. 

As I approached, the mum was apologising profusely, and through his tears the little kid came out with a choice quote that I shan't forget for a while: "YOU LET GOOOOOOO … I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!!"

Genius.

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An aside:

So, um, British Olympic swimmer Rebecca Adlington…

Yeah…

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So, my initial smugness at doing so well with my Christmas shopping has given way to utter horror at my complete lack of motivation in doing anything remotely Christmassy since. I've bought all my presents, but I haven't wrapped any. I've bought my cards, but I haven't written any; I have some decorations, but I haven't put them up (although I might do that the moment I hit 'Publish Post'…).

I did decorate the Christmas tree at work today though! Well, when I say "I did decorate the Christmas tree at work' I actually mean  that I initially made a bit of a pig's ear of it, so I stepped back and barked instructions at two colleagues who subsequently carried out my orders to the letter did a better job. It actually looks OK now, even if some of our decorations, such as the Santas with what appear to be club feet and present-shaped peg-legs, are a tad disturbing.

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I know I've ranted in the past about the fact that people in the street appear to be inherently retarded, but really, today just took the biscuit. I'm walking back from Secret Starbucks, and about four gazillion people almost bashed into me because they were concentrating more on their phone/iPod/PDA than they were on how they were navigating a busy street at lunchtime. Seriously, I think it should be law that if someone's heading towards you at ramming speed you should be fully entitled to punch them in the throat barge them out of the way. 

Kudos to the dude I saw this evening though, who stepped off the pavement by Westfield, got clipped by a bus, and carried on walking as if nothing happened.

Excited much?

It's only hit me this week that Christmas is looming big-time. It was around Tuesday that I actually realised I could count the amount of working days I have left this year using just my hands (which is a good thing because the office gets chilly and I don't want to have to use my toes as well); my last day is actually a half-day, but I'm not going to chop off a finger to make it properly representative.

It's also around this point of the year that people start mumbling the words "Christmas cards" to one another, and lo and behold about 1000 were dumped on my desk yesterday morning. Usually I look at them with disdain for an hour or so, and consider sweeping them into my bin while no-one's looking; unfortunately I know they'd be discovered at some point, so I begrudgingly just start signing. Yesterday, however, I was all fired-up and started signing almost immediately. 

It helps that I have a short name, but even then it ends up getting quite painful for me, and rather cryptic for the recipients of the cards. First of all, because I'm left-handed I end up curling my hand around the words so I don't smudge my signature or anyone elses. This, combined with the sheer number of cards that need to be signed, means that I eventually end up with horrific festive crip-hand, and a signature that begins looking quite normal, but ultimately ends up looking like it says either 'Tin' or 'TM.' Maybe I should just be a trademark?

In related matters, I've always been tempted, rather than just writing my name, to add something ridiculous like "love you!" or "cheeky cheeky! ;D" to a random card, safe in the knowledge that I'd never know to whom it would be sent. Sadly, I don't want to be fired have the guts, and fortunately by the time I've thought about it I'm well on the way to the aforementioned crip-hand and inability to write anything comprised of more than three letters.

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An aside:

I received an unexpected response to the aside in my previous post about Gail from Coronation Street looking like a hamster. The ever-awesome iPandah emailed me to say that she's always thought her sister's dog, Sugar, looks like Gail, and I can't help but agree with her.

She is a seven year-old Maltese, normally looks cute (just not on this occasion), and likes swimming in canals and chasing ducks.

Oh, and apparently so does Sugar.

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After work on Thursday I decided to head out for some late-night Christmas shopping - in Kingston, I hasten to add, not Westfield; my reason for this was that I actually wanted to do some Christmas shopping rather than just wander around an immense shopping mall cooing "look at the pretty lights!"

The best laid plans, though… 

It took me well over an hour to get there, which is frankly ridiculous, because it seems like everyone else had decided to do their Christmas shopping that night as well. The place was *heaving.* I eventually parked, and kicked off with a couple of spectacular FAILS trying to get some bits for Sparky Ma. Things picked up after that, though, as I hit-up a couple of stores, got a bit flirtrageous with some of the lady assistants, and ended up being given two bags of freebies (I can't say what as it'll give away what one of the presents I bought was) and a fun-size Mars bar.

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An aside:

BRING ON THE WALL!

This totally couldn't have happened to a nicer person. And, my, isn't silver lycra a good look for her?

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With shopping done (ish) I headed to Borders, where I used a 40% off voucher to buy a copy of I Love You, Beth Cooper, which I've been intrigued by since Dinah wrote about it a while back. While paying for the book I took the opportunity to complain to the guy at the till about the music they were playing instore - Take That's Greatest Hits. He wearily agreed with me, suggesting that it wasn't actually his choice and he would've preferred some Metallica or something.

Having paid, I headed upstairs to Starbucks, where I grabbed a Grande Misto and a comfy chair, and began reading. Sitting in Borders with a new book and a cup of coffee is one of my favourite chill-out pastimes, but I have to admit this time I wasn't quite feeling the vibe. There were a couple of middle-aged guys to my left loudly talking about secondhand cars, some scrummy-mummies squawking away behind me, and a slightly weird woman in front of me who looked like the sort of person who'd pick her own skin and eat it. And to top it all off Take That started looping round again.

As 'Relight my Fire' began, I slipped my receipt into my copy of I Love You, Beth Cooper, dug out my phone, and texted-up Best Mate Jo, who was a hardcore Take That fan back in the day.

I am in Borders in Kingston and they are playing Take That's greatest hits on rotation. I have already voiced my disgust to one member of staff, and I now feel compelled to leave because f**king Lulu is about to kick off.

That done I stuck my phone in my pocket, grabbed my bag, and legged it out of the store. Just as I got outside I felt a vibration, not in the Force, but in my pocket. It was Jo:

U gotta b strong enuff 2 walk on thro the nite… Yeah!

And so I walked off through the night, with that god-awful song playing in my head for the next hour.

I hate Lulu.

I like it when people put nice things in my ears

For a variety of different reasons I've found myself 'headphoning-up' (as Yazzle Dazzle and I refer to it) at work a fair amount recently. The Brucie-bonus of this is that a) I get to listen to the George Lamb show on 6Music in the morning without straining to hear over inter-office chit-chat or noisy printers mangling pieces of paper or the occasional hand, and b) I get to listen to whatever the hell I want in the afternoon.

'Whatever the hell I want' generally consists, as you'd expect, of some of my favourite artists - The Walkmen, Patrick Watson, Cold War Kids, The Rolling Stones, and the recently-announced "we're taking a break" hopefully-in-a-Ross-and-Rachel-fashion/splitting-up/on hiatus Phantom Planet (the news of which I greeted by balling my hands into fists, sinking to my knees, and screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" towards the heavens). More than any other, though, I've found myself turning to Sufjan Stevens - there's something about his music that lends itself particularly well to the colder months of the year, I find - and one song in particular.

I found this while pootling around YouTube, and I'm pretty sure I've generated a significant proportion of the 207,122 views it's had at the time of writing.

I know I've babbled on about Sufjan loads in the past, but really, he's an exceptionally talented chap. I'd never heard his speaking voice before watching this video, and to hear him segue from what sounds like a normal, everyday voice into the angelic tones of his singing voice is kind of bizarrely magical and a little bit unearthly. And how the hell does one man generate such an awesomely intricate sound from a banjo!? It makes me want to learn banjo! The worst thing about this clip, though, is that this is a cover version of a song by The Innocence Mission and you can't buy Sufjan's version *anywhere!*

First Phantom Planet breaking up, now not being able to buy an astonishing song for love nor money! ARRRRGH!

*relax*

In a related matter, I had the opportunity to go see him in concert a few years back but I already had tickets to a different gig on the same night. The fact that I can't remember who the other performers were and am still kicking myself over not going kind of suggests that I made the wrong decision. I'm hoping I get the chance to rectify that mistake sometime soon.

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An aside:

Please allow me to introduce another in my occasional series 'famous people who look like something else.'

Number 2: Gail Platt from Coronation Street and a hamster.

Well I'm damned if I can tell which is which.

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I heard the best joke EVAH today. Brace yourselves:

Q: How do you find Will Smith in the snow?

A: Look for the fresh prints!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! That is *never* going to stop me from creasing up.

Shake it, shake it real good

When I moved into Sparky Towers lots of wonderful people bought me lots of wonderful things to make sure I could continue to live in the manner to which I was accustomed. And no that does not mean that Sparky Pa offered to send round Sparky Ma three days a week to do the dusting and hoovering. No, what it meant was that, for example, Big Bro bought me a super little heater that blasts volcanic heat throughout the house and keeps me warm in the chilly depths of winter (a good thing, because the guy next door bought the heaters installed in my house from the bitch who owned it previously just prior to her moving out), and a microwave in which I can cook Oats-so-Simple and nuke my undercrackers so they're nice and toasty on a cold morning.

In addition to this, based on an offhand comment made just before I moved that I would like to make my own smoothies, Yazzle Dazzle bought me a blender so that I could, well, make my own smoothies. I was chuffed to bits with it because it's chrome and awesome; so chuffed, in fact, that I stashed it under my breakfast bar and didn't take it out of the box for three years. 

In my defense it really is so much easier just to buy smoothies in the supermarket.

After sampling the delights of the biscuit/chocolate/anything-you-like-so-long-as-it-can-be-blended-based milkshakes on sale in Westfield, however, I decided yesterday that it was high-time to haul out the blender from beneath a pile of boxes, screw the smoothies, and make the milkshake to end all milkshakes!

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An aside:

I sneezed four times in a row at work today, prompting a colleague to say that a sneeze is apparently equivalent to one-tenth of an orgasm.

Depending on how you look at it, then, I either had a lucky escape or was cruelly robbed.

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In a rather fortuitous turn of events, I'd somehow already purchased the necessary ingredients to make the monster milkshake, and it was really just a matter of understanding how the blender worked that stood between me and a 4000-calorie beverage that could give an elephant an intense sugar-rush. Unfortunately, I'm a typical bloke and rather than just read the instructions beforehand in a calm and orderly fashion I decided instead that I could get by just by looking at the pictures and making the rest up as I went along. 

This ultimately ended up with milk and ice cream leaking out the bottom of the jug, down the chromey-side of the blender, and all over the work surface. This is why there are no pictures of the creation of the ultimate milkshake - my hands were covered in a sticky and somewhat unholy mixture of milk and ice cream. After tipping it all into a bowl and working out exactly how the various elements of the jug and blender went together without causing a sticky leak, however, everything turned out smashing.

Like Hannibal from The A-Team, I love it when a plan comes together.

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An aside:

I've already come to hate my little Nike+ Mini dude over there on the right. I did a truly awful run last night, and he's all like, "nothing comes between me and my running!" and "running gives me more energy than I know what to do with!" Patronising little bastard.

And I just know that I'm going to feel all guilty when he starts going "ooo, ready when you are!" if I don't do a run every couple of days or so.

I hate him more than you could ever know. I wonder if I can get one that just encourages me to sit on the sofa in my pants watching DVD boxsets?

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So, I expect you're wondering exactly how to make such an awe-inspiring, vomit-inducing beverage for yourself? It's pretty simple - here's how:

• Fill a glass approximately three-quarters full with milk. Any milk will do; I used semi-skimmed, but I'm betting full-fat would be the dog's danglies. 

Empty the milk into your blender.

• Dump two and a bit scoops of ice cream into the blender. I used a violently yellow type of vanilla here. Don't be shy - make them big scoops. This is, after all, the sort of thing that kids and old people are going to gasp in wonder at.

• Chuck three biscuits in. I used Cadbury Shortcakes, but I figure whatever takes your fancy, really. Tim Tams might be quite nice. Use something with raisins in if you want to go for the healthy option and include one of your five-a-day portions of fruit and veg.

• BLEND IT UNTIL IT WILL BLEND NO MORE!

• Pour it into a glass and enjoy. Maybe while close to a toilet or sink just in case you feel the urge to vomit. 

In conclusion, I must say my initial attempt was a valiant one, although perhaps not quite as great as it could have been. The reasons for this are threefold:

1. I didn't blend it quite enough and there were a few lumpy bits that gave it the consistency, in places, of sick. In future I will blend it a bit longer.

2. I think chocolate ice cream would've complemented the chocolate on the biscuits better than the vanilla did. It wasn't so much the flavour that was at fault, but rather the colour; it looked liked I'd rung the bile out of someone's liver into it. And then blended up Big Bird for good measure.

3. The half an hour it took to unpack and understand the workings of the blender far outweighed the 30 seconds of reasonable pleasure I received in drinking the finished product. As did the 10 minutes I had to spend washing the work-surface down and cleaning the blender. I anticipate these times will be slashed in the course of future attempts.

In summation, then, I'd give this first milkshake 7.5/10: a worthy, if somewhat flawed, attempt.

The great t-shirt debacle PLUS: the hat story

As long-time readers, and even those poor souls who strayed off the beaten path and found themselves stranded here might recall, a few weeks back I was unable to decide which of three awesome t-shirts I should buy, so I threw it open to a vote.

There was not a flurry of activity on the voting front, and eventually a winner was not so much announced, but certainly selected. That winner, I can reveal here for the first time, was the Cookie Monster t-shirt, with first-of-the-loosers second place going to Superman, and a craptacular third place going to the Joker.

This was good, because fortunately that's the order I preferred them in. *Phew*

Unfortunately, our little democratic poll fell to pieces after that, because basically they seem to have disappeared from every Topman store within range. First of all, in my week off (when I'd planned on sealing the deal), Kingston failed massively by not having any of them in stock, and a subsequent trip to Westfield proved little better; they only had Supes and the Joker in stock, and while I was happy to buy the runner-up, they only had them in super-tiny extra-small or voluminous large, and I really didn't want to look like I'd a) squeezed into what looks like something an eight year-old would struggle to put on, or b) like Homer in his mumu. It also suggests that I'm completely average in body size.

Things looked up however, when I had an email exchange with Marcosy in which he offered to buy them all for me because he didn't have a clue what to get me for my birthday. This was a full-on Brucey Bonus because not only would I not have to buy them myself, but it would save me from having to hunt them down - and he works near the world's biggest Topman store. Good times.

Unfortunately, Marcosy soon reported back that the world's biggest Topman store also didn't have them in stock, which suggests that I'm not the only guy infatuated with t-shirts bearing Muppets and comic book characters. On the plus side, he totally went of and picked me up a couple of awesome substitutes, one of which bears a distressed Superman logo which, when worn layered under another top makes me feel like I should run down Hammersmith high street while ripping my shirt open Superman-stylee. We all know, however, that that would only end with me tripping over a loose paving slab and face-planting onto the street or being happy-slapped by a brazen chav rather than flying heroically off into the sky.

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An aside:

How's this for a back-handed complement: I was chatting to a lady who lives across the street the other day and mid-conversation she said "you look well - have you lost weight?"

Bearing in mind the arse has completely dropped out of my running schedule recently, I'd been thinking, if anything, that I was looking a bit chunkier than usual at the moment. Being a polite young chap, though, I replied "um, thank-you. But no."

The outcome of this is, though, that I now think a) that she thought I was big-boned to begin with, and b) if I apparently look trimmer when I've been sitting on my backside watching DVD boxsets I should probably just jack the whole exercise thing in, grab a family-size bag of Doritos and crack on with the fourth season of Boston Legal.

I'm so confused.

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Despite the utter failure of the t-short vote (I blame Florida), I remain undeterred, and that's where the hat story comes into play. 

As you may know, I do love my beanie hats. When winter strikes they offer warmth, comfort, and style - much like Linus' blanket in Peanuts. And when it all gets too much I can just pull them down over my eyes in an attempt to block out the outside world (sometimes it actually works, especially if I sing "la la la" to myself).

What I have recently realized, however, is that I don't actually wear hats just because I simply want to wear a hat. I only wear them for practical reasons. In addition to my many and varied beanies, I also own a couple of baseball caps, which look pretty awesome on, but I very rarely wear them. And by 'very rarely' I actually mean 'never.' And in addition to the baseball caps I also own a kind of cadet cap that looked awesome when I bought it because I had longer hair at the time which padded it out; one short cut later and it leaves me looking like this. 

*Shudder*

Anyway, recently I've gotten to thinking that I should rock the hat look more often. On a trip to Westfield the other week I saw what looked like a really wicked cap. I was very tempted to try it on, but it was actually being worn by some dude who was shopping with his girlfriend and I don't think he would've appreciated me plucking his hat off his head, popping it on my own, and checking out my reflection in a shop window.

A few days later, however, while out shopping with Marcosy, I had the good fortune to actually find one - for sale - in a shop. I tried it on, along with another hat which Marcosy said made me look like Kryton from Red Dwarf, so the less said about that the better. Anyway, the cap looked pretty darn cool, I think, but I hesitated nevertheless. Why? I dunno. On one hand I know that flat caps for dashing young gents like myself are totally on-trend this season (how metrosexual did that sound?), on the other hand it all goes back to the whole 'would I ever wear it?' thing. 

Marcosy said "buy it!" but he always says that to me so his word is pretty much worthless. Best Mate Jo, on the other hand, turned her nose up at it a bit when I showed her a picture (though she does approve of the flat cap style in general). I also emailed a picture to Yazzle Dazzle and she keeps saying "BUY IT!" too, but that could be because I keep spending a significant portion of our lunchtime coffee meet-ups procrastinating about whether to buy it or not and she just wants me to shut the hell up. 

So, here's the thing: to buy, or not to buy - that is the question.

I am going late-night shopping on Thursday so you have until then to cast your votes. And seriously, this time I actually plan on going through with it.

The slutty Terminator

Two hours spent wondering the streets of Hammersmith and Westfield shopping centre and all I have to show for it is this.

Now, I'm not a scientist, but isn't it nature's way that woman by their very, um, nature have a low sperm count?

Having failed to win any further film roles after Terminator 2: Judgment Day, the T-1000 is reduced to whoring itself as a slutty underwear model* in West London.

*BTW, could I have felt any more self-conscious when taking that photo? Standing outside an underwear shop taking photos? I'd probably have been less conspicuous if I had a hand jammed down my trousers and was drooling out the corner of my mouth…

Cheeky tramp

As usual, Yazzle Dazzle and I rocked up to Secret Starbucks at lunchtime today. What was not usual was the diminutive Peaches Geldof look-alike, with disheveled hair, trampy tracksuit bottoms, and a school blazer, who blatently pushed in in front of us in the queue. After a few seconds of standing there, and perhaps as a consequence of the laser vision boring into the back of her head courtesy of Yazzle and I, she turned round and in a posh-kid-pretending-to-be-street manner gushed "oh sorry, were you here?"

Yazzle glared at her and said "don't worry, you go first. Life's too short."

The wench turned round, picked up a juice drink, and waved it in the face of lovely barista lady.

"I'm just having this," she shouted in a 'DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH' stylee. 

"That'll be £1.85," said lovely barista lady.

The wench rifled through her purse, eventually pulling out a 10 pound note, a 20 pound note, and a handful of change.

"I only have £1.50 in change, and I don't want to break into these notes. Will you take that?"

Lovely barista lady stared at her, then glanced over at me. I burst out laughing. Yazzle tutted audibly. 

"No," said lovely barista lady. "It's £1.85."

The wench tutted, and handed over the tenner. 

After taking her change and walking off in a huff, lovely barista lady turned to Yazzle and I. 

"Bloody cheek," said Yazzle. "I hope she's planning to break that tenner on a hairbrush. God knows she needs it."

We all laughed. And then I pointed out that the little troll was actually sitting down just behind us. We laughed again, and she got up and left.

Good times. 

Weighing in on matters of galactic importance

On Friday night Best Mate Jo and I went to see Kevin Smith's latest movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno. I thought it was a wonderful little movie; great performances, likeable characters, some terrific jokes. The ending felt a bit rushed, but on the whole I enjoyed it immensely. On the way home, however, I turned, as I often do, to the subject of Star Trek. Now, Jo and I have been friends for … well over 15 years, I'd guess. And in that time she's never - not once - expressed an interest in anything remotely to do with Star Trek. She's tolerated my obsession, as all friends do with this sort of thing (right back at you with the Robbie Williams obsession, Jo), but I know never to call her up and say "why don't you come-on over and we can watch Wrath of Khan, Search for Spock, and The Voyage Home back-to-back?" No point, not gonna happen, never in a million years.

On Friday, though, I handed her my iPhone, and said "watch this."

Last Monday, as many of you will know, a new trailer for the new Star Trek movie came out, and over the course of the last week I've had many people ask me my thoughts on it. Now, obviously Star Trek is very important to me; I've been a fan for as long as I can remember, and it pays my bills.

Before we go any further, if you haven't already seen it, here it is.

So yeah, a fair few people have been asking me about it, so here's my two-pence worth.

Really, when it comes down to it, I'm a classic Trek fan. Yes, I love TNG, DS9, Voyager, and even the other one Enterprise, but at the end of the day Star Trek is, for me, all about Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. I've said before that I've got a lot of faith in J.J. Abrams to produce a vision of Star Trek that's worthy of standing alongside the classic episodes and films such as The Wrath of Khan, and from where I'm sitting the new trailer does nothing to dispel that notion. If anything, from what I can see in those two-and-a-bit minutes J.J. has gone way beyond what I had hoped we'd see. 

How do I know that? Well, my Star Trek equivalent of spidey-sense was a-tingling. And I haven't had that since the last time I saw Captain Kirk in a Star Trek trailer, waaaaaaay back in 1994 when Star Trek Generations was looming. Let me repeat that: when I saw Captain Kirk. As I said, I love all of Star Trek's incarnations, but while I was always excited to see trailers for the TNG films, they never quite elicited the same response as seeing those for the original cast movies. First Contact was a brilliant film, but it was no Wrath of Khan; Insurrection … Insurrection, I've always felt, was possibly the most Roddenberry-esque concept for a Star Trek movie, but somehow I think it would've served the original cast better; and Nemesis? I actually like Nemesis. Sure, it's not amazing, but there are some nice bits in it, and by the time it came out it was pretty obvious that the TNG franchise was winding down so I kind of felt a little more emotional towards seeing Picard and his crew again - almost like I was saying goodbye. But still, Kirk and co they were not.

The chief complaints I've heard against the new movie are all based around the fact that it's a new cast taking on the characters, the set designs and the exterior of the Enterprise itself look different, and it seems like the all-important continuity is being violated all over the place.

Now look here: nothing would please me more than to see William Shatner back on the silver screen as James T. Kirk, but the last time we saw the character was in a movie in which he was killed. I really don't want the latest film to spend two hours explaining away his resurrection using some god-awful sci-fi cliche. And honestly, how much longer could he go on playing the role? Shatner himself seems reasonably comfortable with his character passing to a new actor, so if it's good enough for the mighty Shat, it's good enough for me. As long as the character is being served well I'll be a happy fan, and Chris Pine looks to be doing a wonderful job.

As for the rest of the cast, they all seem to be great too. Zachery Quinto as Spock? Wonderful. Karl Urban as Bones? Good god, from just the one line he has in the trailer I'd say he's nailed that role to utter perfection. Zoe Saldana? Beautiful. Sulu, Chekov? Great! Perhaps the only cast member I've been unsure about is Simon Pegg as Scotty, simply because Simon Pegg is … well, rather well known as Simon Pegg. Whereas the other actors are relatively unknown to me, I look at Scotty as Simon Pegg playing Scotty. On the plus side, from reading interviews in which he talks about the role it's clear that he is a Star Trek fan, and he's approached it with the sensibility that he knows it's more than just a normal acting gig: it comes with a degree of responsibility - to the fans and to James Doohan. So after my initial uncertainty, I'm happy to say that I think Scotty's in good hands.

Now… the look of the Enterprise. More than anything else, the appearance of the Enterprise, both inside and out, is iconic - but we'd be foolish if we thought this movie, with its immense budget, would replicate to the nearest millimetre, the exact same sets that appeared in a 43 year-old television series. Of course they won't. But what they have clearly done for the interiors is to take inspiration, from the general layout and vibrancy of the old sets, and apply it to a new design - which, quite possibly, is what Matt Jefferies would've created back in the sixties if he'd had the time, budget, and technology that today's production designers have.

As for the exterior of the Enterprise, well, I'll be honest: the first time I saw a shot of the new ship I kinda went "oh wow, that's … uh." And I looked at it some more, turned my head this way and that, then I closed down my web browser and stared at the image of the Enterprise-A that I have as my desktop background. It was not the same, and I didn't like it. Over the course of a couple of days, though, I kept going back to the single image of the new ship, and in that short time I looked at it and I began to think that I really should practice what I preach: were they really going to stick so closely to the old design? No. Does it have the necessary parts? A saucer section, two warp nacelles, an engineering hull? Yes. Are they all in the right place? Yes. And since then it's grown on me quite a lot, which is an impressive feat because I've had to put aside god-knows-how-many-years of love for the original design. Hell, even Shatner's happy with it!

Finally, there's the whole issue of cannon violation. Ooo, there's Romulans in a pre-TOS setting when they actually shouldn't be seen until the episode 'Balance of Terror,' and there's the whole thing about Kirk serving alongside Pike when in 'The Menagerie' he says he's only met him once, and - ooo, ooo - Kirk can't drive in 'A Piece of the Action,' but he's seen in the trailer driving a Corvette! To this last one, I say this: I've been driving for 14 years now, and I'm pretty sure I'd have a bit of difficulty driving a car from the 1920s. And anyway, wasn't that car built by the Sigma Iotians from something described in a book? Who knows what technology was powering it! 

As for the other two points, well, let's not get our knickers in a knot unnecessarily. The film's writers say everything will be explained in the movie, and from everything I've read those guys seem to have done their homework. Obviously I've not seen the new film yet, so I'm quite happy to wait until it's released before moaning about violating this, and violating that. 

(Of course if those issues aren't addressed in the movie we can all jump online and bitch to our heart's content. That is, after all, what the internet was created for)

Oh, and as for Best Mate Jo, she who does not do Star Trek, after two minutes watching that trailer in silence, she handed me back my iPhone and said with utter sincerity "that looks f*cking amazing."

I've got my tingle back, people; May 8th, 2009 really can't come soon enough.

Short cuts

My journey into work at the moment is a bit of a nightmare because they're doing some essential gas works just off Kew Bridge (either that or they're waging a secret war against the massive man-eating spiders). What makes it more ridiculous, though, is the fact that the roadworks are actually on the other side of the road and shouldn't really have any effect on my journey - the queues are basically formed by people slowing down to look in the massive hole in the road. I've never quite understood the whole slowing down to stare in a hole thing. It's just weird.

Anyway, that, believe it or not, is not the worst thing about it. The worst thing about it is that there's a big sign by the massive hole in the road that everyone slows down to look in that says 'DANGER: DEEP EXCAVATION!' And every time I see that, the horrendous East 17 song 'Deep' starts playing in my head and I CAN'T MAKE IT STOP!!!

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The chip shop near the office, never known for its stunning grasp of the English language, has a new listing on its menu:

Chicken Nugget

I know there's a credit crunch on and everything, but couldn't they at least stretch to two?

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I received an email today from a friend and former colleague (whose name I shall not reveal, although Marcosy, Watch*Paint*Dry, and Willowc will know who it is the moment they read it) that said:

How's things going? I was just thinking about you the other day (not while I was w*nking, honest!).

-----

We were having an interesting discussion in the office the other day about whether prostitution should be legalised. The general consensus was that it would probably make sense because a) it would mean better and safer working conditions for those involved, and b) the government could tax it. This got me thinking about how you would go about establishing and promoting a legitimate prostitution business (I didn't have much work to do that day, clearly).

I always think it's important for businesses to have a good name - something that sounds classy and instills a sense of trust in customers, which led me to devise the following two names for a brothels:

• Whore D'oeuvre (definitely classy, I think you'll agree)

• Starf*cks

I believe the latter has better potential, especially for franchising. Imagine this: a Starf*cks on every corner! If you're in the mood, just pop in and choose from tall or grande, with or without cream, and for a small additional fee you can have an extra shot. Hell, they'll even grind your beans.

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I've just been to Westfield, the massive new shopping centre in Shepherds Bush, again, and it's quite clearly festive action stations a-go-go! There're loads of Christmas trees around, and twinkly lights everywhere. In other news, I'm convinced they keep moving the shops around just to confuse me.

Look at the pretty lights!

What's also quite impressive is the fact that Superman's Fortress of Solitude appears to have plonked itself down in the middle of the centre.

Kal-El's house of capes and tights, inc.

So, the burning question of the day is: on this, my third visit to the biggest inner-city shopping centre in Europe, did I finally spend some money?! It was a question I was pondering myself while I bought a chocolate hob-nob milkshake at Shakebout. Good god their shakes are awesome. I'm beginning to think everything tastes better blended up. I wonder if I could blend a roast dinner…

Anyway, did I spend? Damn right I did! And what did I buy? Eight pints of milk, some chunky chips and some sea salt and black pepper chicken. Hmmm. Not exactly an auspicious start to my Westfield shopping history, but a man needs to eat. On the downside, the chicken did look a bit like something you'd feed a dog, but on the plus side it tasted great.

Hopefully next time I'll start buying clothes, books, and other quality shit I don't need.

The three zip challenge

You may recall a few weeks back that I met up with Marcosy in town so that he could be forced to buy a shirt and I could try on a Superdry jacket that I wanted for my birthday to make sure I could demand request the correct size. Well, lo and behold I got the jacket (a Superdry Blacklabel Technical Windcheater, to be precise) for my birthday, and it's every bit as awesome as I thought it would be.

Well, actually, I'm assuming it's every bit as awesome as I thought it would be, because I actually haven't worn it outside yet. Just as when I get a new pair of shoes (ooo, got some boots for my birthday too, very nice) and I wear them around the house like a pair of expensive slippers for a few weeks, the jacket has effectively become a waterproof, windproof smoking jacket (which again makes me think that I should invest in a cravat).  

Marcosy, however thinks there's another reason for me not wearing it out yet: he thinks I've developed some kind of zip-based phobia due to the fact that when I tried on the jacket, as detailed in the aforementioned post, I got stuck in it. I insist that this was actually a result of one of the zips on the one I tried on being busticated, whereas he thinks it's more to do with the fact that the jacket, which has three layers of zips for extra protection from wind (not that kind, dirty), confuses my tiny mind.

And to settle this, he has challenged me!

OK, not a dual with pistols or anything like that (though I'm pretty sure I could totally take him out if that were the case), but rather a challenge to see if I can do the zips up within a set period of time. Marcosy reckons I (and by 'I' he means 'a normal grown-up') should be able to get them all done up within 45 seconds - and ideally within 30 seconds (based on the fact that anyone putting on a coat to go out with friends in a typical social setting shouldn't really keep everyone waiting for minutes on end while they do their jacket up like a speshul).

I, of course, am rising to the challenge (stop being dirty).

Now, here's the rules agreed by me:

• I will not practice the zipping action beforehand. The action in the following video clip is my first and only attempt. If I win: hurrah! If I lose: my head will be hung in shame.

• I will begin the challenge with the jacket on. My ability to put items of clothing on in the correct manner is not in question, else Sparky Ma would've hauled me up for wearing my pants on my head many years ago. Only the zipping action is being tested.

• I shall record the time using the stopwatch function on my iphone, which will be placed in my direct line of sight.

Are you ready? Can you contain your excitement? Let's do it!!

Gladiators… READY!

PSYCHE!! I am victorious! I have defended my honour and my masculinity!

I shall now be spending the rest of the evening safely ensconced in my jacket watching today's episode of Gilmore Girls.

Um, and some Battlestar Galactica!

The secrets of the secret party revealed!

As regular readers will know, last Wednesday I was invited to the "launch of a new social networking device." Intrigue abounded as to what it could actually be, with various ideas such as a Facebook rival, a new mobile phone, and a, um, wi-fi-enabled 'lady-toy' being bounced around with friends.

The only clues I had were the innovative invite, and a somewhat cryptic website. And by 'somewhat' I mean 'very.'

Everything was revealed on Thursday evening, however. Having promised Sparky Ma that I'd flee the venue in the event that someone tried to touch me in my bathing suite region, I met-up with my plus-one for the evening, fellow blogger Willowc, and we jumped on a tube bound for Shoreditch in East Londinium. Although technically I didn't really 'jump' so much as 'step gingerly,' seeing as I was wearing devil shoes (formerly known as posh shoes) for the first time since they ripped my feet to bloody shreds.

En route we continued speculating what the event could be for, and Willowc, using a pinch of lateral thinking and a smattering of intelligence that obviously escapes me, suggested that the website name 'driedonpaper' would seem to indicate ink because it … well, it dries on paper, dunnit? Backing up her theory was the whole rubber-stamp invite thingy.

Curiouser and curiouser…

We jumped stepped carefully off the tube at Liverpool Street station, at which point we looked around liked bewildered tourists while trying to get our bearings in relation to the map I'd printed out. Despite holding the map in front of us and trying to visualize ourselves within it, I eventually decided that a better way of working out where to go was to hit-up the Google Maps feature on my iPhone. If I haven't said it enough times before: God, I love you, iPhone. We were soon on our way in the right direction, me holding my iPhone out in front of me like a tricorder, while Willowc complained that the rain would make her furry coat look like a damp dog.

After walking for a while, by which time Willowc was wondering if I was leading us totally astray, we came across a sign. Not from God, but a sign that we were on the right track.

Not so secret anymore, eh?

And the sign had the 3 logo on. 3, as the Brits among you may know, but the Johnny Foreigners may not, is a mobile phone network - meaning I was pretty damn close with my aforementioned guess of a mobile phone, and, thankfully, way-off with my fear of uninvited and inappropriate touching.

From there we could see another sign, and another sign, and another sign - I think you get the idea. Anyway, they all had arrows on so we followed them. Like the sheep we are. Eventually we found ourselves approaching a small passageway guarded by two ladies holding umbrellas, who pointed us to a doorway a little bit further along where we met another two ladies, one of whom had a clipboard.

"Are you a blogger or a journalist?" she asked.

"A blogger," I replied. She then looked for my name, ticked us off, and issued us with red wristbands.

 

Red band = blogger

Then we hit-up the par-taaaaaaaay.

The venue was pretty darn nice. It was kind of like an old arches workshop under a railway bridge, but transformed for a splendid shindig. The first room was full of big tellies, artwork, retro phones, globes, and small replicas of the Eiffel Tower. From they you passed under an archway, grabbed a free bevvy off one of two ladies, and then moved on into what I'm going to call the disco room, where some DJs were playing out some bangin' tunes. There were a few sofas scattered around here (one of which was made of cardboard, which I totally wanted because I figured it would be handy if loads of people came round, but could be flattened when it wasn't needed) so you could chill out or bust some moves with out having to stand up.

The DJs in the disco room pump out some bangin' tunes.

Another view of the disco room.

After hanging about in the d-i-s-c-o room for a while we headed back to the first room to admire the art and the retro phones, and, quite frankly, to find out exactly what the hell the whole thing was about. There were a few people in jumpers with INQ (INQ - ink, dried on paper, geddit?) written on them walking around holding pretty slick little mobiles. It turns out that 3 are launching a new phone called the INQ which, without going into too much detail because we all know I get confused pretty easily, is permanently linked to Facebook, includes Skype VOIP, and instant messenger. And to top it all off, both the handset and the monthly fee are both pretty-damn reasonably priced. OK, it ain't going to tear me away from my iPhone (which, I don't know if I've told you this, I love), but for some people, especially the teenage market I'd guess, the INQ could be a very enticing prospect.

Having worked all that out we turned our attention to seven interesting posters on the wall, which had apparently been specially created as something to do with the INQ launch. I couldn't quite work out what, exactly, but on the whole they were very nice. I particularly liked the ones by Sara Varon and Wayne Snooze.

This is the poster I liked (by Wayne Snooze)…

…And this is the one Willowc liked (and the one we got free in our gift-tubes)

It was after admiring the art that I may have made something of a faux pas. Having knocked back a glass of coke I began looking for somewhere to plonk down the empty glass. Everyone else seemed to be putting them wherever the hell they felt like it, so I put mine on a bookcase. Within seconds some official looking woman swooped in, scooped it up, gave me a dirty look, and stepped back, which left me wondering if what I'd put it down on was actually another piece of art…

So, what else was there? Well, despite Willowc's protests that she didn't want to appear in any mobile phone propaganda, a photographer dude persuaded us to let him take a couple of pictures of us. We also got chatting to one of the guys who helped set up the driedonpaper website, who was a top chap and told us that they invited blogger folk because they wanted to involve their "type of people" rather than just the press who turn up to these sort of things bored off their tits and looking to get utterly wasted on free booze. Good times.

And do you know what else was good? There was a massive stack of cardboard tubes positioned by the door, and on the way out you got to take one. Within was a t-shirt (in a size and colour of your choice, which makes a nice change to the "no, it only comes in large puce" that you usually get with a free t-shirt), a USB memory stick, and a poster of one of the artworks which, luckily for Willowc, was exactly the same one that she pointed out as her favourite.

All in all, then, an evening very well spent. That being the case, if anyone else would like to invite me to any secret free events, please don't hesitate to drop me an email.

My gift-tube!

My free t-shirt and USB stick!

Oh, and devil shoes? Didn't hurt me one bit - good times!

Utter nutter

OK, this is just a quick one (tee-hee) because I'm dog-tired and I've got that party tomorrow night so I want to have a reasonably early night tonight.

I had a dream last night. No, not like Martin Luther King, but rather one that was so utterly amazing that I woke up completely startled, desperately wanting to pull the duvet over my head and try to go back to sleep so I could find out what happened next.

The gist of it was this: it was night, and the Cylons from Battlestar Galactica were attacking Earth. There were fires everywhere, and Cylon Raiders kept swooping out of the sky and blowing people up. Except for me and Lorelai and Rory Gilmore, because we were hiding in a sweet shop. Of course. Anyway, after a couple of minutes hiding behind the counter, a Cylon Raider managed to shoot the sweet shop, and we were all, like, uh-oh, the roof's gonna cave in and we're all gonna die. Fortunately, that's when the Summer Glau lady Terminator from The Sarah Conner Chronicles turned up and saved us.

It was as we were scurrying away with our heavily-armed Terminator saviour that I woke up.

Now, I can see that a dream analyst might look at this and suggest that the Cylon Raiders represent my fear of the future, that Lorelai and Rory represent a love for family, and that lady Terminator represents my love of sassy young woman who can handle a pump-action shotgun need to feel safe and protected, but what I really think it comes down to is the fact that I watch far too much tellybox, or that yoghurt I had last night was seriously out of date.

Either way, I'm off to chow down on a lump of chedder in the hopes that the cliffhanger ending is resolved tonight.

DIY invite

As I revealed in my last post, I've been invited to a secret squirrel party later this week to mark the launch of a new 'device,' and on Saturday I received a mystery box containing the components required to fashion my own invite. Which I've just done. And seeing as this is officially, without any shadow of a doubt, the coolest invite I've ever received (EVAH) I thought I'd record it in the form of those newfangled photomagraphs, and share it with you … lot.

Bear witness to the construction of my invite!

Stage 1: The box! Concealed within are unfathomable mysteries beyond compare!

Stage 2: And by 'unfathomable mysteries' I mean 'party invite components.'

Stage 3: The elements arrayed for your viewing pleasure!

Stage 4: Inking up the stamp. Push down firmly, but not so firmly that you fear your breakfast bar might collapse.

Stage 5: Push down firmly on the yellow card! Again, not so firmly that you risk destroying a vital element in the kitchen/living room divide.

Stage 6: Ta-daaaa! Well, 'ta-daaaa the second,' actually, because it seems I didn't press down hard enough the first time so I had to do it again on the back of the card.

Anyway, as I think you'll agree the whole 'make-your-own-invite' thing is a pretty cool idea, and certainly a very novel way of piquing my interest (consider it, without a doubt, piqued). And I doubt it was terribly cheap to send a load of these out to people (unless I'm the only person going), which makes me think there's a lot of expense going into this thing. This is turn intrigues me even more … Only two days until I find out what it's all about!

The big question is - what on Earth shall I wear? Casual? Smart casual? Top hat 'n tails?

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For reasons that escape me, there's an unwritten rule at work that you have to buy doughnuts/cakes/biscuits for everyone on your birthday. Don't ask me why; quite frankly I think it's ridiculous, but I dutifully popped out over the weekend to buy enough biscuits and chocolate nibbles to knock a herd of elephants into a sugar-frenzy from which they'd never recover. Come Monday morning, however, I was shocked to discover that one of the tubs of sweet treats I bought - Marks and Spencer's coconut bites no less - was … well, somewhat lacking in content. And by that I mean, after unsealing the tub and taking the lid off, I discovered it was less than half full (or more than half empty, depending on your point of view), and instead of around 25 coconut bites there were just eight. 

Yes, you read that correctly: Eight. Coconut. Bites.

This tub is most definitely NOT half full.

A little bit disgusted and feeling a tad ripped off, I decided to take them back, and prepared myself for a battle with a customer services representative who would no doubt be under the impression that I was some sort of tramp who'd downed half the tub and was simply trying to wangle another one for free. 

Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to find the nice customer services lady treating me like I'd been massively wronged, telling me to get a replacement (they'd run out of coconut bites so I went for mini Belgium chocolate meringues instead), letting me keep the tub of eight sad little coconut bites, and inexplicably giving me a random handful of small change. Slightly bewildered I took everything she offered and fled before she changed her mind.