A load of pants

While engaged in riveting conversation with Marcosy the other day we somehow got on to the subject of a survey recently conducted by Debenhams which exposed the mystery behind the undercracker buying habits of the typical British male. Both of us had read the results, and so were well-informed to digest and discuss the outcome.

The key fact of note is that we chaps apparently only buy our own undercrackers within a 17 year window of our lives. No, that does not mean we hoard them until we hit our late teens then coast along in the same old pair of skiddy-strewn Superman pants we've had since we first bid adieu to nappies; what it actually means is that we tend to buy our own between the ages of 19 to 36, but rely on our mums, and later our wives, to pick us out a cracking pair of dashing undies in the periods bookending that magical window of our pant purchasing prime.

This means I have less than five years in which to find myself a woman before I'm left high and dry and and utterly pantless on the shelf.

Although this was the key fact determined by the survey, it was not, however, the most fascinating; no, because that was reserved for this gem:

Underwear buying peaks among males at 23, when they will buy up to 31 pairs annually.

Yes, underwear buyi- wait a minute! Exsqueeze me - what was that!?

Underwear buying peaks among males at 23, when they will buy up to 31 pairs annually.

Thirty-one pairs a year? THIRTY-ONE PAIRS OF PANTS. PER. YEAR?! Believe me, when I first read that fact my eyes popped out on stalks in total amazement like I was Tom tied to a train track watching Jerry pilot a fast-moving locomotive towards me. Thirty-one! Geez. Let's do something I rarely, if ever, do here (or indeed anywhere else if I can help it): some maths.

There are 52 weeks in a year. If I purchased 31 pairs of pants per year, that would equate to one pair just over every one and half weeks. Really? I'm sure I had better things to be doing when I was 23 than perusing the underwear department of the local fashion emporium for the latest pair of Calvin Kleins with a popping neon waistband. Shouldn't they all be out getting hammered and shagging girls?

Not only that, but think of the cost! I'm guessing CKs are the ones most chaps go for (I shan't be conducting a random pant appraisal in the middle of Westfield, funnily enough), and they don't come cheap. OK, let's say they're 15 quid a pop. That's … *furiously counts on fingers and toes* … £465 a year!

(Geez, maths twice in one post. I might need to go lie down in a minute)

Four hundred and sixty five pounds a year. On pants! Outrageous! Shouldn't they be paying of their student debts?! Or, I dunno, saving for their future? It's all very well having some nice supportive boxer briefs when you're 23, but what happens in years to come? The gusset will go and you'll be old, penniless, and with your balls by your ankles before you know it, that's what. You'd have to dispatch your wife to buy you some new ones from Matalan, providing you successfully ensnared one in your youth.

So, 31 pairs a year at a cost of just under £500. I think I've bought four pairs in the last year, and that's only because some of my others outlived their usefulness and went a bit saggy. I would've bid farewell to them with a Viking-style funeral if I hadn't had a nagging feeling that they might explode when I tried to light them. Can't say I didn't get my moneys worth out of them though; forwards, backwards, turn inside out and repeat.

That's over half a week's wear right there. Kids today have got more money than sense, clearly.

Birthday week

This last week has been a rather busy one with a somewhat unexpected turn just past the halfway point. Sufficiently intrigued? Let me walk you through it.

As usually happens around this time of year, I had a week off work which just so happened to coincide with my - shhhhh! - birthday. Handy, eh? That being the case, I had a very chilled out Saturday after finishing work on the Friday. Sunday was another matter, though, as I planned an early yoga class followed by my traditional week-off house cleaning frenzy.

Unfortunately, these darker mornings apparently aren't too conducive to getting up on a Sunday morning just after seven, and so I actually found myself waking up around 11 am feeling like a naughty school boy. Still, I did get up and clean Sparky Towers from top to bottom, including - eeeeeeww - cleaning out the plughole in the bath. As the day progressed, however, I felt myself feeling increasingly guilty at not having gone to yoga, resulting in me doing something totally unexpected and spontaneous and going to the day's final class at five pm.

What with all the cleaning and the guilt-yoga I was well knacked come the evening.

Monday's sole objective was a haircut, which I was almost late for thanks to some stupid roadworks just outside Kingston. Fortunately, my regular lady wasn't too busy and actually laughed at me as I ran into the shop huffing and puffing after running all the way from the car park looking, I imagine, for all the world like I'd shoplifted something from HMV and was hot-footing it from a portly security guard who was in lukewarm pursuit.

The haircut, needless to say, was awesome; I've gone for something a little bit different this time around, and have abandoned my regular short and spiky look for something that looks a smidgeon like Brad Pitt's 'do in Inglorious Basterds, just without the severe side-parting. I'm guessing this will be a bit more high maintenance than my usual cut, and I'll probably be moaning about it in about three weeks, but for now I'm well happy.

Tuesday was, of course, my birthday (thank you for all the lovely birthday messages, by the way). Rather than lounge around in my pants watching Trisha and This Morning, though, I decided to do something I wouldn't normally even think about doing on my birthday: I went to yoga. The reasons for this were actually three-fold: reason the first was the aforementioned 'do something different on your birthday' idea; reason the second was that the class is understandably a bit emptier if you go during the day when everyone else is at work; and reason the third is that one of my favourite teachers teaches on Tuesday mornings.

So, I got up early, jumped in Clubbie with plenty of time to spare and … promptly got stuck in a massive traffic jam. At several points along the way I seriously thought about turning round and going home as I didn't think there was any way I'd make it to the studio on time, but I persevered because quite frankly I couldn't think of a good way of filling the time having got up so early. Anyway, I parked up with about 15 minutes to spare and legged it to the studio, arriving with eight minutes left before class started and looking for all the world like I'd shoplifted something fro- oh, you get the idea.

In the few minutes before class started I somehow managed to get my regular spot in one of the slightly cooler parts of the room, and was pleasantly surprised when the teacher came over and told me that my class was free because I was attending on my birthday. BONUS. I then quizzed her on how she knew it was my birthday, basically accusing her of having psychic powers before she said I'd given them my date of birth when I first signed up and they kept it on record. Ah … of course…

Anyway, class began and the teacher, bless her, singled me out and told everyone that it was my birthday. I think she might've done this to show everyone how dedicated I was to my yoga training, because she then said "so Tim, why have you come to class on your birthday?"

I shrugged my shoulders and replied "because I've got a week off."

She looked at me a bit sternly and said "I'll ask again: why have you come to class on your birthday?"

I don't know whether she was expecting some sort of profound existentialist statement from me, but what she ultimately got was "because I've got nothing better to do."

This seemed to please her, and after the entire class turned to wish me happy birthday (there was MUCH LOVE in the studio, let me tell you; I was *well* touched), we began with our Pranayama breathing. The birthday comments continued throughout class, mainly when I was flagging a bit and the teacher shouted over to me to put a bit more effort in, referring to me as 'birthday boy' rather than by name.

The rest of the day was spent over with my family where I was given lots of lovely presents, but only after I successfully managed to get out of my road after a big truck parked across the top, thus preventing anyone from getting in or out. Rude.

At precisely 19:46 that evening, however, I noticed a little tickle in my throat. It couldn't be … could it?

Wednesday was scheduled in as my usual Christmas shopping trip with Sparky Ma, and yes, it could: I woke up with a sore throat. Nothing - and I mean NOTHING - stops our shopping expeditions, though, and I powered through under the influence of lots of coffee and a big Nandos for lunch.

Didn't buy any Christmas presents, though.

Thursday pretty much sucked. I felt so ridiculously rough that I sat at home and watched a full two-thirds of the latest Family Guy boxset. I didn't move in about seven hours.

I awoke on Friday feeling pretty much equally crap, and seriously considered a last-minute cancellation of my birthday party that was scheduled for that evening. I didn't, though, and actually felt a hell of a lot better being in the company of my pals. I'm not quite sure if the excruciatingly painful nipple twisting inflicted upon me by El Deano helped in any way, but I've sure felt better since the evening as a whole, and a wonderful time was had (by me at least).

Since then, it's all been pretty chilled out; I'm still a bit snotty and phlegm-y, but I think I'm over the worst of it. Sadly, it has meant no yoga this weekend, but on the other hand I did watch the entire second season of Flight of the Conchords. I also went food shopping in a branch of M&S Simply Food (tres posh), and in addition to buying two of their coffee sponge rolls (*orgasmic*) I thought I'd give their new alcohol-free soft drinks for grown-ups a whirl.

If anyone else was considering this, might I suggest you don't? It tastes like booze (which to a tee-totaller like me is pretty gross), but you don't get the awesomeness of being tipsy - where the hell is the fun in that!? I'm going to be so angry if I wake up tomorrow with a hangover!

Avoid.

The C-word

Mention the C-word to me at the moment - and by that I mean Chr***mas; get your mind out of the gutter - and there's a good chance that I might take you down with a roundhouse kick. As far as I'm concerned, it's way to early to be dealing with Chr***mas stuff at the moment; I mean, I haven't even had my birthday yet (hint, hint).

As far as I'm concerned, Chr***mas - and that includes all decorations, advertising, and general frou-frou - should be outlawed until December 1st.

Still, as with most things, there is an exception to the rule. And in this instance it's a caffeine-based exception to the rule.

Towards the end of October I was informed by the manager of Secret Starbucks that head office had decreed that Chr***mas would begin in every branch of Starbucks on November 4th. That meant decorations, Chr***mas music, and the traditional Chr***mas beverages. I can, however, forgive them for the former solely for the arrival of the latter. It should also be noted that as he told me this he rolled his eyes and said that he was considering telling them that the CD of Christmas songs had gotten lost in the recent postal strikes that have plagued the UK; in fact, his general demeanour was like that of Michel from Gilmore Girls, which I highly approve of.

At any rate, my normal fury at the mere mention of any impending festivities was placated by him handing me a bunch of vouchers for free Chr***mas drinks: BONUS.

So, on Wednesday November 4th I strutted down to Secret Starbucks (I actually did - it's all a result of me following the instructions of my yoga teacher and being conscious of my posture at all times, although the music I was listening to probably helped too; my iTunes recently listened to list informs me it was the Rolling Stones), and ordered a venti gingerbread latte.

For none-Starbucks aficionados, 'venti' means an effing big one.

(And is it bad that I originally, subconsciously wrote 'addicts' instead of 'aficionados'?)

Then I settled back in a comfy chair and watched an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on my iPhone (Mac and Dennis: Manhunters - thanks again, iTunes recently played list!). GOOD TIMES.

They actually gave me a spoon to eat the cream.

But it didn't end there! In the evening I strolled down to Westfield where, after buying a piece of soap and being given the most ridiculously immense bag in which to carry it, I treated myself to a dark cherry mocha.

Knowing how sweet the dark cherry mocha can be, I wisely went for a tall (i.e. small) so as not to overpower myself and fall over.

All in all, then, while I am incensed that Chr***mas is kicking off so early, I'm pretty happy about the holiday beverages coming back. And I'm sure I'll be getting better acquainted with them this coming week as I'm off work - ready to start my Chr***mas shopping…

Facebook Scrabble is misleading, libelous

I present the following evidence to back up my accusation:

I do not! Outrageous!

The greatness of post-its

When I'm struggling for inspiration at work I do what many other office workers do and doodle. But I'm very particular about what what I doodle with, and what I doodle on. I have to use a specific black felt-tip pen, and I have to have a post-it note to draw on. And by post-it note I mean the regular yellow, square post-it notes - proper post-it notes, I mean, not some cheap knock-off.

Over the years I've come to regard the post-it note as the perfect canvas for quick illustrations. It's perfectly sized for a quick BAM-BAM sketch that takes no more than a minute or two to bash out. And usually when I've finished a doodle I'll roll the post-it note into a long thin tube, crush it, and chuck it in the bin.

(Though I did once keep hold of a load of these tubes, and over the course of several months attached about 20 of them together to form a long, thin stick with the intention of using it to poke other members of staff without having to leave the comfort of my chair. Sadly the uber stick was somewhat lacking in structural integrity and collapsed under the weight of its own greatness during the course of the inaugural prodding)

Anyway, over the last couple of weeks I've found myself unable - or rather unwilling - to bin some of the doodles I've created, and not really knowing what else to do with them I thought I'd share them here with you.

So here you are.

Fun with post-it notes begins with a pretty obvious Dingbat that I directed towards a colleague in jest.

A really quite crappy sketch of the Enterprise. Notice the blue deflector dish; I generally don't use colour in my doodles, but I thought this lifted it a smidgeon.

Odo from Deep Space Nine. I'm rather proud of this one - I like the way he's offset to the right of frame, and he's got a particularly melancholy look on his face that I find strangely appropriate. Obviously the whole Star Trek theme is something of an occupational hazard.

The Joker. I didn't actually intend to draw the Joker, but I started with a particularly demonic pair of eyes enshrouded in shadow, which kind of lent themselves to him. Again, I used a little bit of colour for effect.

----------------------------------------

An aside:

I'm really hoping it starts dropping down cold soon because I rather fancy the idea of wrapping myself up in an old vintage muff.

----------------------------------------

Actually, I've always rather liked the idea of organising an exhibition where you just get loads of people to draw whatever the hell they want on a normal post-it note then show them in a gallery. I'm sure it's been done, but I'm strangely drawn to the idea of several walls just lined with hundreds and hundreds of unique post-it illustrations. And really, who doesn't have the time to scrawl something on a small yellow square?

Oh, but wait! That's not all they're good for - why this very afternoon I also fashioned one into a tiny hockey stick.

Actually, this is a reasonably poor facsimile of the original which proved necessary after an ill-timed combination of iPhoto crashing moments after I'd clicked the 'delete originals' option, wiping about five photos I'd taken today. Take my word for it when I say the original was *awesome*.

Meet Fred

Longtime readers will know that I do love a trip to IKEA; easy to assemble furniture, cheap and colourful teeny tiny tables, chairs pulled straight out of the Seven Dwarves' house, and the opportunity to arrange stuffed toys in filthy poses - quite frankly it's like I died and went to Sweden.

And just the other week I seized the opportunity to go again - good times!

So, the reasoning here, like I EVER need a reason to go to IKEA, was that I wanted a new LACK table. No, before you even think about suggesting it, I have not worn the little red LACK out through too much LACK love - although now they've knocked it down to a bargain £4.99, I was sorely tempted to get a couple more (a bit like Pokemon, maybe I 'gotta have 'em all'); instead, I wanted one of the classy new wood effect ones for my bedroom.

Since I started living at Sparky Towers y'see (actually four years ago last week since I bought the place!) I've been using a comics long box as a bedside table. I left my books on it. I left my alarm clock on it. I left my iPhone on it, and it was one horrifically early morning when I failed to reach over to turn my iPhone alarm off and it vibrated across the box and onto the (fortunately carpeted) floor that I decided I really should invest in a proper bedside table.

And so IKEA called to me, and I called to Best Mate Jo to accompany me.

To be honest, I totally picked the wrong night to go because it was Divali and Wembley was jam-packed with people celebrating. It took ages to get to IKEA, and then when we got there we were dismayed to find that loads of people were parking in the car park then wandering off to celebrate somewhere. Eventually we got a space, though, and the IKEA-fest could begin.

The first thing I saw was a limited edition bookshelf that looked like it had been graffiti'd with quotes from Shakespeare.

It was only 39 quid, and I desperately wanted one. Unfortunately, I couldn't for the life of me think of anywhere in Sparky Towers where I could actually put it, so just looked at it longingly, before Jo managed to tear me away.

Next, I got a little bit obsessed with a plush shark from IKEA's range of terrifying children's toys, but Jo made me put that back as well.

Elsewhere, it looked like IKEA was branching out into publishing with a book that, without actually taking a look inside, I can only guess is a guide to auto-erotic asphyxiation.

Antique-stained Bumerangs? ACK! TOO. MANY. JOKES.

I really liked this light, but again I didn't have a clue where I might actually put it. There was something slightly hypnotic about it, and I'm pretty sure I stood there staring at it for about 10 minutes before Jo managed to tempt me away with the promise of some terrifying plush shark action. It looked like a visual effect from Star Trek (the light, not the shark).

All in all, then, it was a pretty good expedition. I got my new LACK, which is great even if the wood-effect ones are still priced at £7.99 (outrageous), as well as three tiny cacti which have replaced the ones that I killed died in my little Mexican-themed earthenware pots.

Purchase of the night, though, has to have been Fred, a large houseplant I decided to buy. I don't know why I ended up calling it Fred, but the name has stuck, so Fred it is.

Although in hindsight, it does look quite a lot like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons. Anyone care for a wager as to how long it'll take Fred to drop dead under my care?

Inappropriate

I've noticed two things recently. One is that there appears to be an inordinately high number of short people around at the moment, and the other is that I think I'm developing some sort of variation of Tourette's Syndrome where I feel compelled to tell people the truth. At lunchtime today these two things collided in what could've been a very nasty incident.

Because I saw a short woman smoking and I had an overwhelming desire to tell her that it would stunt her growth.

Fortunately I managed to bite my tongue at the last second, because not only would it have been a smidgeon rude, but also because short people fight dirty. I mean really dirty. They go for the groin, mostly, because it's about the right height and generally the most vulnerable area. Anyway, I digress, because this little almost-incident reminded me of something that happened last week when I genuinely did put my foot in it.

As per my usual lunchtime routine, early last week I popped down to Secret Starbucks for a coffee. Because I know the baristas in there by name I usually stand around at the end of the bar chatting to them for a few minutes before going and grabbing a seat. And it was while I was here waiting for my grande misto and generally engaging in some inane banter, that an old lady walked up to collect her drink. I believe it was a tall caramel macchiato, and she looked a bit like Dame Maggie Smith if that helps you build an accurate mental image.

So, anyway the barista pops her drink on the counter and she wraps both hands around it, smiles with the expectation of that first sip, and lifts it to her lips. She takes a short drink from it, closes her eyes, and lets out a deep "aaaaah" and – well, you know how sometimes you MEAN to say one thing, but a visual stimulus kind of unconsciously MAKES you say something completely different? Well, I MEANT to say "you *sound* like you need that," but it was as I looked at her that I noticed she had a mad wonky-eye and I … well, I actually said:

"You *look* like you need that."

In kind of an alarmed tone.

She looked at me. Well, I think she looked at. It's conceivable that she was looking at me and the menu board that was positioned at a 90 degree angle to her, but the gist of it is that she knew I'd made something of a faux pas. She didn't say anything, though, and just went and took a seat - the comfy seat by the door, I should add; the one I'd wanted. I bet she did it in revenge. Bitch.

Anyway, I blame Yazzle Dazzle for all this because she's not been lunching with me recently, and as pathetic as it sounds, she's the nearest thing I've got to a moral compass - mainly because she jumps in and talks over me whenever it looks like I'm about to say something inappropriate (which, to be honest, happens with alarming regularity these days). That being the case, I went and grabbed a table by the window and hurriedly tapped out a text to her explaining what I'd done. She replied instantly and told me I was a rude doofus, which I guess I pretty much asked for. While I pondered a reply I looked over to the comfy seats only to see Dame Maggie glaring back at me.

Well, I think she was glaring at me - quite frankly she could've been staring at the muffin display behind her.

-----

So *ahem* apologies for the fact I've been a bit distant recently. It's not you, honest; it's me. Really. I've had some … stuff going on. I'd love to quote my new hero Bronson Pinchot and say I've been off f**king "until the skin came off my dick" (I kid you not, check out the brutally frank interview HERE where he also massively slags off Tom Cruise - bless you, Balki!), but the truth of the matter is that I've been working.

And not work working. I've been doing some stuff outside of work - proofreading a book, to be specific. It's not really my place - well, actually it's not my place at all - to tell you who the author is or what it's about, but I thoroughly enjoyed contributing to it in some small way and I can't wait to see the end product. All will be revealed in due course, and when it's available I'll no doubt be screaming it from the rooftops, even if it's not my book.

Up yours!

So, Up's a good movie, innit? But has anyone noticed how young Mr Fredrickson looks a bit like Hollywood golden boy J.J. Abrams…

…And old Mr Fredrickson looks a bit like Martin Scorsese?

Just, y'know, sayin'…

Because Tara demanded it

Apparently my horrific foot was putting her off visiting my blog, so she requested a kitten to replace it.

This is Blister Kitty. Blister Kitty says hello.

Sorry for the lack of updates recently - in true IDV-stylee I'm going to lay the blame squarely at the feet of life, which has somewhat disturbingly gotten in the way of things a bit recently - in a good way, I should add (fortunately no retina-searingly horrific hot-tub nudity, though).

With a bit of luck I'll have some time over the weekend to let you all know about my recent shenanigans.

Yes, there has been shenanigans.

Behold - the dark lord!

Is it just me, or has the massive blister on my foot started to look like the Eye of Sauron from Lord of the Rings?

The Eye of Sauron.

A blister.

At this rate I'll have a zit in the shape of Darth Vader sometime around the end of next week…

Blaze of glory

So what's the betting that title made you think of THIS?

*Ahem*

When I go to yoga during the week I always try to get there really early, because unlike the weekends where you pick up a mat and plonk it down anywhere that takes your fancy, at peak times the staff put the mats down in advance and it's a first-come, first-served sort of thing. Basically that means if you get there a little bit late you get stuck under the heating vent where you're left to recreate the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark with you in the role of the melting Nazi.

I don't know who the surfer dude is here, but you can't deny he doesn't add a certain something to proceedings.

Anyway, so I get to yoga nice and early tonight, and I get a good spot so as to avoid a repeat of Saturday's pins and needles IN THE FACE debacle. Usually I lay there with my eyes shut while I wait for class to begin, but for some reason today I thought I might nod off, so I decided I'd look at the ceiling for a while.

The ceiling, it must be said, is exceedingly dull. But something nevertheless caught my eye. Just above me and a little to the left was a moth. A freakin' huge moth. Seriously, I've seen birds that are smaller (I mean of the winged variety, not diminutive ladies); this thing could've given a sparrow some serious grief.

So I watch this thing for a while, hoping that for some reason it's not going to take a fancy to me and land on my face or something because I genuinely would've screamed and run around shouting "GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!!", but it's pretty static and doesn't appear to be in the mood to do anything exciting, so I start looking around to see if I can find something else of interest because I've been a bit listless recently and seem to have developed the attention span of a labrador puppy. In the meantime, though, someone comes in the studio and cranks the heating up to full blast (we're nudging the start of class by this time). This gets the moth all jittery, and it starts walking around and flexing it's wings like it's looking for a fight.

Then, just as the instructor is reaching up to pull a small window shut, it makes its move.

Have you ever heard the noise a VW Beetle engine makes when it starts up (an original one, not the new one)? Well this is exactly the noise this moth's wings made as it leapt off the wall and headed straight for the window. I'm not entirely sure, but think it made it; certainly if it hadn't it could've just body-slammed the window, shattered the glass and got out that way.

What really made me giggle like a special, though, was that as it zoomed past my head, I thought it would be really cool if the extreme heat made the moth burst into flames or something. It would've been like the destruction of the Enterprise at the end of Star Trek III - y'know, when Kirk and the crew are standing on the mountaintop watching the burning hulk of their ship plunge through the atmosphere.

It would've been epic. I totally would've stood up and saluted that little fiery bastard in front of the entire class.

Trauma

Lordy, it's been a week of highs and lows. Let's review some of them, shall we?

LOW!

After the wild and reckless dancing at the ceilidh on Friday evening, I fully intended to skip yoga on Saturday morning. Unfortunately, something decided to take advantage of the brief respite in my exercise schedule, and I woke up with a niggly sore throat. Harumph! As the day wore on, though, I felt better, which was good because I wanted to go to a party being held by my local comic shop which, after 22 years, is changing hands. Unfortunately, in the evening I developed a temperature, so instead of partying with boozy comics-types I ended up retiring to the welcoming bosom of my sofa and in finest teenage girl stylee watched multiple episodes of Gilmore Girls.

HIGH!

Still not feeling 100% awesome on Sunday, I skipped yoga again and decided to head off to the cinema with the equally not-quite-feeling-100% Best Mate Jo. We saw the new Sam Mendes movie Away We Go, which was written by one of my favourite authors, Dave Eggers. It was a great little movie - understated, rich in story and characterisation, and featuring some great performances; just the sort of thing I've been into recently, and waaaaaaay better than the vast majority of this year's awful summer blockbusters. So if you couldn't guess already, I highly recommend it.

LOW!

Continued to feel like crap throughout the week, so skipped both my usual run and yoga.

Not. Good.

HIGH!

Saw (500) Days of Summer at the cinema for the third time in two weeks. Seriously, I love this movie BIG TIME. It makes me smile, and each time I've left the cinema I've pretty much skipped back to my car while humming 'You Make My Dreams' by Hall and Oates. I think one of the reasons I've enjoyed this film so much is the fact that I can relate to the main character a little too much, which probably means that if anyone reading this now goes and sees it you're more than likely going to leave a comment recommending some sort of therapy.

OHMYGODZ I'M BROKEN GOODS!

In related matters, check out this music video featuring the star of (500) Days of Summer, and directed by its, er, director!

HIGH!

Two highs in a row? Is that allowed? Outrageous. Anyhoo, feeling a little bit bored on Thursday evening I decided to play around with my computer and Apple TV a bit by trying out the digital copy of the Rolling Stones concert movie Shine a Light. Digital copy, for anyone who doesn't know, is something some film companies have been trying out with new DVD releases - basically you get a second disc with the DVD that allows you to put a copy of the DVD on your computer. In the case of Apple stuff, you basically pop the disc in your computer, enter a code, then, as far as I can see, it just downloads you a free copy from the iTunes store. And it's a one-time thing only, so don't go emailing me asking for the code, you cheeky monkey.

Anyway, so I downloaded the digital copy of Shine a Light, zipped it across to my Apple TV, then enjoyed the sight of Mick Jagger dry-humping Christina Aguilera on my big telly while I did the washing up. Nice.

And, BONUS: I popped Shine a Light on my iPhone too; now I've got a little Jagger in my pocket everywhere I go, and even better - the Apple TV tells my iPhone where I last watched up to, so I can start watching from the point I left off.

LOW!

I got some really awesome looking boots last year. Unfortunately, though, they've recently taken to trying to annihilate my feet. I wore them a few weeks back and ended up with a MA-hoosive blister on the heel of my left foot. Seriously, it was like a water bed or something. And because I'm a boy and we do such things, I picked at it until it burst. I reckon at least two litres of fluid came out.

Anyway, I decided to wear them again on Friday because they can't just sit around the house looking pretty; like a wild horse, they need to be broken in. By midday I was in something approaching agony, and ended up spending the afternoon padding around the office in my socks, fending off a veritable raft of cheese jokes from sympathetic colleagues.

I'd arranged to meet Yazzle Dazzle for a coffee after work, though, and while there are many things I'll do with my socks on, walking down the Goldhawk Road isn't one of them. And so the boots went on again … and let's just say about an hour later I was walking back to my car in a most bizarre fashion.

Still, Round 3 to me: I remembered I've got some wicked-comfy innersoles at home, so I slipped them in the boots and they are my bitches now. This will be confirmed in about two weeks when the epic blisters I have on both heels have sufficiently diminished in size to allow me to actually get my feet in the boots again.

And finally … the TRAUMA.

So this morning, I decided I'd head on back to yoga after not having done any exercise for about 10 days. It all started rather well - aside from the posture where you have to reach around and hold your heels from behind, because that just *killed* my blisters - and I was even doing well when we got to Full Locust Pose and the teacher announced to the class that I always excel at this posture because I imagine myself as being Jennifer Gray in Dirty Dancing (although I maybe didn't do it so well this time because I was laughing so much). Towards the end of the class, though, it all started to fall apart a bit.

And by 'a bit' I mean 'a lot.'

It all started with me getting a bit light-headed. Next thing I know I was feeling a bit nauseous (I did not want to be the first person to spew on the new flooring they had put down last month), and getting pins and needles. In my face. Seriously - in my FACE! What's that all about?! So anyway, I chilled out during the last 10 minutes of class, and then for another 10 afterwards, and after that I was OK. It was kind of like how I felt after my first class back in June, but worse I guess because of having been a bit ill, not having done any exercise for a while, and thinking that I could just jump back into it where I left off in the last class.

I plan on going tomorrow morning just to help me get used to it again, but I'll be taking it a bit easier. Still, if I haven't posted anything by the end of next week, you can pretty much assume it finished me off. You're very welcome to send flowers or donations.

Movie whore week contines

What's the betting I photoshopped myself in under Batman's mask too?

All narcissistic tendencies aside, I've always wanted to dye my hair green. And if this is any indication, I actually think it would suit me.

Where The Wild Tims Are

As if I'm not a ridiculous enough person as it is…

And it's criminal - CRIMINAL I TELLS YA! - that us Britlanders have to wait until December for this movie when it opens next month in the Americas. Not *this* movie, because this is a figment of my warped imagination and tiny, tiny brain; I mean the real Where The Wild Things Are.

If anyone wants me, I'll be in a huff until December.

Huff!

Ceilidh!

And no, I don't mean the Marillion song.

A few weeks ago I got an email from Glittering Lee that said:

"I'm thinking of going to this - interested?"

The 'This' was a Ceilidh, and not having any idea what a Ceilidh was, I said yes.

----------------------------------------

An aside:

After the car accident back in April, I came to the realisation that I was saying no to a lot of things. Would you like to do this, Tim? No. We're thinking about going along to this, want to come? No, not really. We should catch up! Um, another time, maybe?

This, I later found out, is actually one of the symptoms of whiplash. Strange, eh? Anyway, upon finding this out, I decided that I really needed to get over it, and in an almost Danny Wallace style I decided I'd say yes to everything. Well, maybe not *everything* but definitely most things.

Especially things that didn't involve people crashing into me.

----------------------------------------

Soon after saying yes I decided I'd better find out exactly what it was I'd said yes to. So I hit up Google, and about five seconds after that I'm pretty sure my neighbours would've heard an almighty "Ooooooooh noooooooooo…" emanating from Sparky Towers.

Because a Ceilidh is like some sort of Celtic medieval rave.

After hyperventilating into a paper bag for a few minutes, I considered trying to get out it. But then I realised that would totally go against my newfound 'be positive, say yes' attitude. Plus, any opportunity to hang out with Lee is always welcome; he did, after all, make me burst out laughing at a rather inopportune moment during the second Lord of the Rings film, thus making it far more memorable than it would otherwise have been.

On the plus side I do have something of a track record in this kind of thing. For some inexplicable reason we used to do Celtic dancing as some variation of P.E. at my infants school when I was about seven or eight years old. Lord knows why; maybe because the teacher couldn't be bothered to get a football out? So yes, every now and then they'd get out this ridiculously old radio-thing that looked like it hadn't been used since 1934, pop on a vinyl album of Celtic music, crank up the volume, and make us kids dance up and down the school hall like we were having the time of our young lives. Of course, we all hated it. At the age of seven I was more interested in being a Transformer than learning how to dance, and it also meant we had to be in close proximity to girls, who, as any seven year-old boy will tell you, are smelly and horrible and all kinds of eeeeuuuu.

Another thing that made me think I shouldn't try to weasel my way out of the Ceilidh was that I've recently seen the movie (500) Days of Summer, and OHMYGOD it's the best movie of the year so far (as long as you don't count Star Trek, of course). In fact, I've seen it twice now, and it was every bit as good the second time around. Where was I? Oh yes. About halfway through (500) Days of Summer there's an awesome and totally unexpected dance sequence that made me wish that sort of thing happened in real life.

Of course they don't, so you have to pay to go to organised events if you want to do a big group dance thingy.

Unfortunately, the day before the Ceilidh I made a textbook schoolboy error. I went to Youtube and typed in 'Ceilidh.' The ensuing videos, which I shall not repost here because the mere thought of them continues to strike the fear of God into me, were full of middle-aged people in kilts twirling around. They were almost enough to make me start coming up with excuses as to why I shouldn't go - no, make that *couldn't* go! Things like: my iPhone needs charging; and: I need to put the washing machine on.

Then the next thing I know it's five o'clock on Friday afternoon and I have a text from Lee asking if I'm coming out to play. Um, I s'pose so?

An hour or so later and we've met up with The Boy and the delightful Ness, and are at Vinopolis in central London, getting ready to throw ourselves into some crazy Celtic dancing. Now, one thing that had really confused me about the whole Ceilidh thing was what to wear? The ticket said 'comfortable clothes/shoes' which wasn't very helpful because I always try to wear comfortable clothes and shoes. I eventually went for the classic jeans and black shirt combo, with a light grey knitted jumper and black shoes, which I thought would cover me for any eventuality - comfortable enough to dance in, warm enough for the journey home if it dropped down a bit chilly.

Stupid, stupid me. It was like Bikram Yoga in dance form.

Within about 10 minutes I was drenched in sweat. I ditched the jumper soon after it became apparent that moisture was seeping through in a rather unattractive series of patches, and went with the 'just looked like I showered in my shirt' look. We took a breather outside about halfway through just so we could dry out.

Sweating aside, it was a bloody great evening, though. There was a live band who not only played brilliantly but taught you the dance moves before the dance kicked off. Sadly, nothing the singer said initially made any sense in my mind and she just ended up sounding like the teacher in a Charlie Brown cartoon, so the first few minutes of every dance were a little bit chaotic on my part. I did eventually get to grips with them, though, and thoroughly enjoyed swinging a number of delightful ladies around and stamping my feet like a loon. About the only downside was when we got roped into dancing with a couple of hardcore Ceilidh types who frowned out us if we botched a move and then started freestyling their own moves just to confuse us. I knew they were going to be trouble when I saw the guy was wearing a kilt and the woman had deeply unfashionable sandals on.

Any-hoo, it was the most fun I've had in a long time and I seriously can't wait till the next one. If you're in London in November, you will be coming along - although I advise you not to wear a knitted jumper, or keep your travelcard in your pocket; they tend not to go through the ticket barriers when they're in paper-mache form.

It's in the washing machine right now.

RUDE!

After a particularly arduous yoga class on Saturday morning, I returned to my car, which I'd parked in a nearby side street, only to find that it had been interfered with in my absence.

Let's get this straight right away: I do not like people attaching things to my car - y'know, flyers under windscreen wipers, that sort of thing. Mostly because it either a) rains and they turn to mush on my windscreen, or b) I don't realise they're there until I'm driving, and then they just irritate me. Plus, I don't like strangers touching Clubbie.

Anyway, on this pleasant Saturday morning I returned to Clubbie to find this attached to the driver's side window with a small rubber sucker.

As a bit of a car buff, I know that the new MiTo is Alfa Romeo's Mini competitor, albeit one that looks a little bit like a surprised frog. I detached the offending item with an admittedly satisfying and somewhat comical popping sound, initially believing that Clubbie had been targeted purely because it's a Mini; upon glancing around, however, I noticed that all the cars in the road had been MiTo'd.

I opened up the card to see what it was exactly that Alfa Romeo thought I 'might need.'

And subsequently fell about laughing, because if they think I'm going to sell my Mini Clubman for something based on a Vauxhall Corsa that looks like it once guest-starred on Sesame Street they've got another thing coming.

I feel that they need to know this, as well. The inside of the card has the address of the dealer who distributed this card, so I'm going to return it to them anonymously.

Why? Because I have too many stamps and nothing better to do, that's why.

The Apple TV story

For a while now I've been thinking about buying an Apple TV. And before you ask, no it's not actually a TV - it's a little box that sits under your TV and does marvellous things. A bit like an iPod for your telly. My reasons for wanting one basically come down to the fact that I've bought pretty much every other Apple product on the market I came to the conclusion a few months back that the vast majority of DVDs I buy I tend to watch once before sticking them on the shelf where they eventually gather a rather impressive layer of dust, and it would make more sense - both financially and shelf-space wise - to rent those films I missed at the cinema but still wanted to see. The Apple TV would let me do this via the iTunes store and watch them on my big telly while sprawled out on my comfy sofa, rather than rent them off iTunes and sit in my office chair in front of my computer.

I've never actually been one for renting movies, mainly because I can't be bothered to go through the mental anguish of perusing the battered shelves of the local Blockbuster, rent a DVD that's so scratched it looks like it's seen more action than the average soldier in a war zone, and then have to return the damned thing the next day. Plus, I don't really like using things that other people have used a thousand times before. They tend to be sticky.

So, a few months back I decided I'd go the Apple TV route, because I like Apple products, I trust Apple products, it's as aesthetically pleasing as all Apple products, and I like the fact you get Apple stickers with Apple products. I actually surprised myself by not rushing out and buying one when the thought first entered my mind, and rather unusually for me I actually spent quite a lot of time reading up on the whole Apple TV situation. It seems a lot of people love their Apple TVs, but there are also a lot of people who think their Apple TVs should do more - like act as a hard-drive recorder, or have a Blu-ray drive in them. So I bided my time for a while to see whether there would be a hardware revision or something. I set my cut-off date as Wednesday, the day when Apple had their big key note to introduce the latest iPods. I figured if they introduced something new with Apple TV, great; if they didn't, I decided I'd just go buy one because I'd come to the conclusion it does what I want it to do as it is.

So, when nothing new was announced for the Apple TV on Wednesday, I finally decided the time was right to treat myself. And on Friday lunchtime, I did.

I was accompanied on the jaunt down to the Apple Store in Westfield by Scanner, who I think doubted my conviction to actually buy one and wanted to see me go through with it. For my part, I was hoping to goad him into buying one as well, because he's intrigued by it and is similarly addicted to anything with an Apple logo on it.

Within a couple of minutes of entering the store I had an Apple TV box in my clammy mitts, and was wandering around with a goofy expression on my face looking for an iDude from whom I could purchase it. I found one by the door, and the following, somewhat bizarre exchange then took place:

"Hi, could I get this please?"

"Of course. Cash or card?"

"Card, ta."

"OK. This is the 160gb version - right?"

"Yep."

"Hmmm! Do you own any other Apple products?"

"Oh, you don't know the half of it - in fact, I just bought an iPhone 3GS last week."

"Ooo, nice - 16 or 32gb?"

"Aw, it had to be the 32!"

"I thought so. You look like a 32gb man to me."

"Um, thanks…"

"Do you have an Apple computer?"

"Yeah - an iMac."

"Twenty or 24 inch?"

"Twenty four."

"I suspected as much."

He then proceeded to take my email address, ostensibly so he could email me my receipt, although I seriously wondered if he was taking it for personal reasons, before smiling at me and skipping off to get me a bag. He returned holding the bag out by the strings, and inviting me to slip my arm through to sling it over my shoulder.

Half an hour later I returned to the office, at which point Lovely Boss Lady looked at the Apple bag on my shoulder and said "that's a very girly-looking bag you've got there."

-----

Excitement obviously reigned in the Sparky household on Friday as I tore the cellophane off the box, ready to set up my Apple TV, although I wasn't so delirious with excitement that I didn't think to document the entire procedure.

The pretty, pretty box.

The traditional Apple legend!

The Apple TV on the left, and the Apple remote on the right. I love how Apple products are so cleanly and simply packaged. That's just packaging facts.

It's mine - ALL MINE!

It was so unbelievably, stupidly easy to set up. One end of an HDMI cable in the back of the telly, the other in the back of the Apple TV. A power cable from the Apple TV to the plug. Boom - we have lift off. After that it was just a matter of inputting my wiffy network password, and another code that linked the Apple TV to my iTunes library, then my Apple TV and my computer were chatting away with each other like two old buddies. In fact, the only problem I had was when I paired the remote for the Apple TV to my computer - but that was just me being stupid, and was easily rectified.

After that I sat back and watched an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia that I bought off iTunes last week that lives on my computer but which synced quickly and easily to the Apple TV, followed by a bit of youtube browsing and a quick glance at some HD movie trailers. It's brilliant.

Right now, I'm in the middle of downloading a rented HD version of the movie Charlie Bartlett (starring new Chekov!), and streaming music to my telly. Good times ahoy - I might never leave the house again!

Where we last left off, and the Richmond to Windsor bike ride 2009

Sorry for my brief absence there - I was off doing holiday things and generally enjoying myself. It won't happen again, I promise.

So where were we? Ah yes! I'd been to Kingston, had an awesome haircut, bought disgruntled kitteh Snow Leopard for my iMac, and utterly failed in my attempts to purchase an iPhone 3GS. Harumph? Harumph indeed. And so we move on to Wednesday…

I returned to Kingston on Wednesday because I had an appointment with my financial advisor. Unfortunately, as I was to discover, this was not the financial advisor I'd been dealing with for the last few years, who was quite frankly a dude, not only for offering sound financial advise, but also because we spent at least half the time we should've been talking about how my money could be working for me by talking about music, books, and whether I should blow all my cash on a Ferrari just as I'm about to hit retirement age. But we'll come to that in due course.

Soon after I arrived in Kingston I found myself at a crossing. Some workmen have been digging up part of the Kingston one-way system, and so someone in their infinite wisdom had decided to assign three police officers to the crossing (I say three - two of them were those community support officers - y'know, the ones that get the uniform but none of the official powers; a bit like when I sit at home dressed as Superman). As I stepped up to the threshold of the crossing one of the officers turned to face me and said, with a totally straight face I might add: "Good morning, we are here to help you cross the road."

Now, because they've blocked off one of the lanes of the one-way system, that leaves about a three-metre distance to cross. And I'd like to think that of all the things I've learnt in my life, crossing the road is one of the things I've pretty much nailed. I was tempted to say something like "what - do I look like I'm 80 or something!?" but I ended up doing what quite simply came naturally.

I laughed at her.

And then, as a rather considerable gap appeared in the traffic, I strolled across to the other side. I was sorely tempted to whistle and put a jaunty step in my stride, but seeing as the police officer on the other side of the road was actually holding people back from crossing, ever-conscious of the fact that there was a car about 20 seconds away, I thought I might be pushing my luck a bit.

Anyway, the financial advisor. Aside from the fact that he blatantly glazed over if I dared mentioned anything that didn't directly relate to a question he asked (unlike the previous guy who actively encouraged my banal conversational habits), it was all going reasonably well - until he popped a most unexpected question:

"What would you do [i.e. how would you generate an income] if you had a terminal illness?"

My gut answers were "probably cry a bit" and "not really give a shit about where the money's coming from." He didn't like those, though, and instead tried to peddle me an outrageously expensive form of insurance to cover me (I swear, they offer you insurance for everything these days; I'm waiting for someone to offer me insurance to cover my insurance). Countering swifty, I made my excuses and left.

Definitely ain't keen on this guy.

On my way back to the car park, I again tried to buy an iPhone 3GS, and again FAILED.

-----

I got up Thursday morning and immediately started calling around O2 stores to see if I could hunt down an iPhone 3GS. Unfortunately, over the course of an hour and a half, none of them bothered to pick up, which as Marcosy pointed out, is somewhat ironic for a company that's trying to sell you a phone. By midday I was bored and a bit fed-up. I decided to take myself off to the cinema to see an early afternoon showing of (500) Days of Summer.

Half an later I was in Kingston again. Being a bit early, I thought I'd swing by the O2 store in person. I needn't have bothered.

"Have you got any iPh-"

"No."

"Oh."

"Is it an upgrade or pay-as-you-go?"

Ah-ha! This sounded promising.

"An upgrade."

"Oh. I was going to say you could try the Apple Store, but they only sell pay-as-you-go."

I harumphed, and walked out. But something niggled … and I decided to try the Apple Store anyway. Upon entering, I helpfully bumped into the chappy who sold me my first iPhone in February last year.

"Have you got any iPhones?"

"Yes, but only the 32gb o-"

I almost grabbed hold of him and started jumping up and down like a special.

"THAT'S WHAT I WANT! Wait a sec, though - it's an upgrade. Do you do upgrades?"

"Yes, why wouldn't we? Get in line behind that guy over there and my colleague will sort you out [editor's note: not like *that* you filthy-minded filthbags]."

I got in line and waited to be sorted out.

A few minutes later I was merrily perched on a stool while a genial genius in a light-blue t-shirt went about his business of sorting me out with a 32gb iPhone 3GS. Amusingly, he was mightily impressed with the condition of my old iPhone, claiming that he'd never seen one in such good condition and that it looked brand new. He even called a colleague over to see how pristine it was. They were rather taken by it. So I offered to sell it to them. They declined, though I could tell they were tempted for a moment.

Anyway, the upshot of it all was that while I missed the movie, I finally got my iPhone 3GS. And it's soooo pretty!

Oh, and I told the Apple guy that O2 were trying to do them out of business - HA!

-----

Friday was spent back in Kingston, albeit this time on one of my traditional all-day shopping extravaganzas with Sparky Ma. It was well cool, as usual. And, unbelievably, the next time we go we'll be Christmas shopping - how mental is that!?

Saturday morning I went to sweaty yoga, where the teacher congratumalated me on my toe stands (which I only started doing because he forced me to a couple of months back), and then went to see District 9 with Big Bro at the cinema. Highly recommended, people, highly recommended (that's the film, although hanging out with Big Bro is always a plus too!), if only because we spent the rest of the day shouting "get away from me, filthy prawn!" in appalling South African accents.

Oh, and I made a new friend in the evening.

I love the iPhone 3GS' video capabilities!

-----

And finally, today I did the annual Richmond to Windsor bike ride! Like last year, I was flying solo, but unlike last year (fortunately) it wasn't bucketing it down the entire day. It was a bit chilly in places, admittedly, but on the whole I can't complain. I won't go into too much detail, because nothing terribly exciting happened, but I accomplished the 39 mile route in 3 hours 38 minutes, arriving at the finish line at 12:58 which is pretty respectable bearing in mind I stopped a few times along the way to give my arse a rest from my saddle. I will admit that I struggled a bit en route, which I put down to only having been out once since last year's ride, but bizarrely I coped with the infamous Callow Hill so much better than I ever have before! Go figure. On the plus side, it was nice to see so many people taking part - last year's event felt like it was on a much smaller scale than previous years, due in part, I expect, to the atrocious weather, so it was nice to see a return to form this year.

Aside from that, I got chatting to a guy who looked remarkably like Tron Man, although his lycra was rather more colourful, albeit equally hauntingly taut, and his bike unfortunately lacked the ability to turn 90 degree corners in the blink of an eye, once more heard the wit and wisdom of the Shatner-esque compare, and for the first time ever on the bike ride I got a medal!

I'm now an award-winning cyclist, runner, and go-kart driver! Multi-talented you say?

I was home by quarter to three, upon which time I soaked in a nice warm bath before plonking myself down in front of the telly. All in all then, it was a rather good day - aside from the fact my arse *really* hurts. Anyone got any ice?

I went to Westfield and all I bought was a lousy milkshake

Actually, it was a really nice milkshake made using chocolate Hob Nobs, but we'll come to that in due course.

Exciting stuff, people: I'm on holiday!

Hurrah!

And by 'holiday' regular readers will know that I actually mean I'm sitting around at home dividing my time between a DVD boxset and Scrabble on Facebook.

Actually, it's not quite been so laid back this time around…

Holiday time started on Friday evening with a jaunt to Westfield with Marcosy and a promise that I'd make his trip to Shepherds Bush worthwhile by actually buying something (usually when we go shopping I make all these grand declarations of things I want to get, but never end up buying anything because more often than not they don't have my size). This time, though, I had a number of things I *really* wanted - like a shirt and a hoody in Hollister (the shop that looks like a Mexican brothel) and Snow Leopard for my iMac.

----------------------------------------

An aside:

Is it weird that I'm genuinely excited about a new operating system? What's that all about?!

----------------------------------------

Unfortunately - for both my Snow Leopard lust and Marcosy's pleasure at seeing me hand over cold hard cash - Scanner, the company IT guru, had told me it would probably be best to hold off upgrading straight away just in case there was a conflict with any of the software I use. So, while I did go into the Apple Store, pick up a copy of Snow Leopard, and stare at it like it was Autumn Reeser on the box rather than a disgruntled looking Leopard (we'll come back to this), I ultimately put it back - despite Marcosy pointing at some random dude and shouting "HE'S BUYING IT, WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU?!"

To make matters worse, Hollister (the Mexican brothel) turned into an epic FAIL as well; the shirt was waaaaaay too big, despite the fact I tried on a small, and the hoody, while lovely, was … well, it was 60 quid, and I wasn't convinced I wanted to spend 60 quid on it.

Ultimately, then, I made do with the aforementioned milkshake, which was all sorts of lovely and felt a bit like an entire meal in a cup; I had to stop halfway back to my car to rest my hands on my knees and take a deep breath.

-----

Saturday, sweaty yoga aside, was a reasonably chilled out day. Sunday, however, was another matter.

I started the day with another session of sweaty yoga; as I said to the teacher on my way into the studio, I'm very good at maintaining a regular schedule for this - not, I think, because I know it's good for me, but rather because I know it's cost me a fair amount of money so I should really get my money's worth out of it. I didn't tell him this, of course, because I want to give the impression I'm a dedicated student. I do wonder, however, what they'd do if I happened to fall asleep in the 20 minutes or so before class where I just lie back on the mat and shut my eyes (it's almost happened on at least two occasions). I'd like to think they'd just leave me be, but the reality is that they'd probably point and laugh before nudging me awake with their feet.

Anyway, after yoga I headed home to trim the neighbour's bush. Ahem. I mean the bush that overhangs my parking space. It's been leaning perilously close to Clubbie recently, and seeing as summer's pretty much done and dusted I thought I'd butcher it trim it back so it doesn't shed its scummy leaves all over my bonnet. Job done, I took the cuttings down the tip, then headed home to shower and grab some lunch (not at the same time, mind), before zooming off to meet Best Mate Jo.

Best Mate Jo and I haven't caught up in ages, so we decided to go see The Final Destination in THREE-DIMENSIONS (sorry, I always feel the need to suggest that 3D films are some sort of schlocky 1950s B-movie or something) at the cinema. To enjoy it in all its THREE-DIMENSIONAL glory we had to wear some stupid glasses.

The fact that they're illuminated by the flash here doesn't quite highlight how ridiculous these glasses are. I look like Roy Orbison.

The film was OK, but not as good as the previous Final Destination films. The THREE-DIMENSIONAL effect was without a doubt the best I've see, though, even if it did give me a headache; unfortunately, the glasses couldn't do anything to enhance the acting abilities of the film's stars - they were all universally terrible.

----------------------------------------

An aside:

Do you know how many pairs of 3D glasses I own now? Three. That's three; one for the 3D episode of Chuck that was on telly last week, and the other two from cinema trips. They're all on my kitchen counter, because I don't quite know what to do with them. And get this: you're not allowed to take your own when you go to Vue Cinemas - they make you buy new ones every time, the cheeky bastards.

----------------------------------------

Clubbie's been looking a bit dirty recently, so I excepted an offer from Big Bro to help me wash 'er on Monday afternoon. What I failed to remember is that Big Bro has, this year, transformed into something of a car washing nazi wizard. He researched it on the internet and everything. Gone are the days of squirting some random detergent in a bucket and chucking it over the bonnet, oh no. There are stages; many, many stages. My ridiculously short attention span was kept in check during the early stages because I was put on hose duty (dirty) and there's nothing I like more than wielding my hose with a purpose (dirtier), but by the polishing stage my mind was wandering and I almost went running off up the road after a cat. Plus, the polishing stage is really hard work; first you've got to go round the entire car dabbing blobs of polish on, then when it's dried you've got to go round again and buff it off in a wax on, wax off stylee.

On the plus side, after two and a half hours Clubbie looked awesome, and I've got biceps to die for.

-----

I decided to take advantage of my holiday time today by going to an early yoga class. I've never done a morning class in the week, and as I'd hoped the class was considerably emptier than it is in the evening. Good times. Even better, the class was being taken by one of my favourite instructors, a hilarious lady who keeps you smiling through the anguish of standing head to knee pose (that's Dandayamana Janushirasana to you and me); in fact, I laughed so much I fell out of the posture. Anyway, she also did this remarkable thing to realign me in one of the postures where, I think, she basically jabbed me in the ribs and I straightened up. She didn't literally jab me in the ribs, but she sorted me out so I wasn't slouching before tottering off down the studio to make a rude comment about one of the women at the front of the class.

All in all, it was a cracking class.

In the afternoon I headed over to Kingston for a haircut (awesome, and much needed), and a failed attempt to buy an iPhone 3GS. Can you believe they're sold out *everywhere*!? Well, the 32gb black versions, at least; and I can't be doing with a 16gb one (my current one is 16gb and it's almost full - I need storage, dammit!) or one in pimpy white. Several shop assistants laughed when I said "have you got any 32gb iPh-". I almost bought an Apple TV in desperation because I want one and I was really geared up for giving Apple some money today. I resisted only because there are rumours of an Apple TV update coming soon…

Anyway, I did give Apple some money, just not as much as I'd planned. I bought Snow Leopard (Scanner emailed me over the weekend to let me know he'd installed it without any problems so it should be OK for a simpleton like me to do it).

And back home I did indeed install it without any problems whatsoever. Good times. I do, however, keep looking at the box and thinking that that looks like one seriously pissed off Leopard on the front. Who at Apple drew the short straw of lobbing a snowball at it and snapping a picture before getting mauled?

All in all, then, it's been a rather busy, but very enjoyable few days off work so far. And I have high hopes for those still to come, despite the fact that I expect much of them will be devoted to hunting down a black, 32gb iPhone 3GS…

-----

Oh, and my DVD boxset of choice this week? Gilmore Girls Season One. It's *awesome*.